An Irish Country Love Story (35 page)

Sue nodded and said, “Thank you. That is good to know…”

He saw her lips start to say, “Doctor.” Good. He was sure she was reassured.

Moving to her side, he folded her into a gentle hug. “Your mum will be home later, and your dad should be discharged reasonably soon. And if it helps, I'm here.”

“I know.” She nodded. “And it does help. A lot.” She took his hand and started to walk to the door. “But I'd really like to get a breath of fresh air. We seem to have been cooped up in planes and cars and”—she shuddered—“hospitals forever.”

Barry understood. He unlatched the door. “Where to?”

“Let's go down to the river. It's always peaceful there.”

They crossed the dry mud farmyard where brown hens pecked among scatterings of straw. A white rooster with scarlet comb and wattles was perched on a fencepost lording it over his harem by crowing loudly. At the far side was a row of thatched, single-storey outbuildings with green-painted doors. A faint smell of cow clap came from what must be a byre, and beyond were small fields, either pastureland lying fallow awaiting the spring ploughing or brown with stubble where a crop had been harvested last autumn.

“We're a mixed farm: poultry, barley, pasture for a couple of horses, and a small dairy herd. Twenty Friesians.” She stopped and bent to pick up a heavy work glove. She tutted. “Dad's always dropping them. Careless man. Just be a tick.”

Barry waited until she'd trotted over to one of the sheds and come back empty-handed.

“I was telling you about our farm. It's a family business, passed on from father to eldest son. My brother, Michael, and I pitched in from when we were each about six. That's when Mum taught me to gather up the eggs every day. I've been hooking up cows to milking machines since I was ten.”

They passed a corrugated iron shed with open double doors. Barry could see a red Massey-Ferguson tractor inside. Assorted farm implements, none of which he recognised, hung from the walls. The upper half-door of a smaller building was open, the lower shut. A frantic barking began from within.

Sue shook her head. “Poor Max.” Barry knew the Nolans had been charged with the unenviable task of looking after Sue's unruly springer spaniel while she was away. “I love him dearly, but I simply never got the hang of training him. You'd think I'd be better at it, seeing as I'm a teacher.” Barry watched as Sue shook her head and the ghost of a sweet smile brushed her lips. He loved that she could smile at herself, even today. “You stay, Max. We'll go for a walk soon,” she said. “He'll be fine. Fred Alexander, the neighbour who's looking after the animals, fed him when he milked the cows. And Max and I had a lovely nap together this morning.”

Sue and Max had napped on her old single bed while Barry had bunked out on the Nolans' sofa. As Barry had dropped off to sleep he had envied Max.

“Right now I just want to be with you,” she said.

“Fine by me,” Barry said.

“Here.” She opened a gate in a hedge at the bottom of the yard, let Barry through, followed, and closed the gate. They walked round the edge of a field full of stubble from where last season's corn had been reaped. Barry could imagine it three months from now with the long dark furrows and the scent of freshly turned earth filling the air.

“Thank you, Barry, for being here. You are a great comfort, you know.”

Barry shrugged. “I love you, and sometimes being a doctor comes in handy for those closest to you. I believe there's a line in the wedding ceremony, to love and to cherish in sickness and in health. You're heartsick right now.” He knew he didn't have to explain any further.

She stopped and kissed him before they walked on.

Overhead the sky was studded with slowly drifting fluffy clouds that cast shadows over the low hills. A small flock of cawing rooks flapped past, heading toward a row of pollarded willows that Barry guessed marked a riverbank. The Nolans' farm lay to the south of the Braid River. A blackbird in the hedge gave its low-pitched fluted warble, which changed to an alarm call of
pook-pook-pook
as the humans approached.

“And speaking of weddings, I know our plan had been for you to finish your term in France on the twenty-third of March when the schools break up the day before Good Friday, then wait until Easter's over and get married on the twenty-eighth—”

“So we could have a ten-day honeymoon on Easter break before I'm back to work at MacNeill Elementary. But Dad has to get better first. I know.”

“Most patients are back at light work within three months,” Barry said, “and that takes us into May. How about we postpone the ceremony until your summer holidays in July?” He stepped over a clod the plough's blade had dumped last year onto the pathway skirting the field. He stopped, faced her, and put a hand on each of her shoulders. “I don't really need a wedding. As far as I'm concerned, after our night together in Marseille I feel completely married anyway and it will be ‘til death do us part,' ceremony or no ceremony.”

She smiled. “You're right, darling. We are man and wife, now and forever.” Her eyes shone. “I don't need a minister to make it true, but it would kill Mum and Dad if we ‘lived in sin' without the church's blessing.” She kissed him. “When term starts again in Ballybucklebo and I'm back in my flat in Holywood, you can come and…” She grinned at him, cleared her throat and said, “visit me.” The implied promise was clear.

Barry took her in his arms. “I know,” he said, “and it will be wonderful.” Inside him his heart sang. He took her hand and they walked on, finally coming to the end of the field. “Over here,” Sue said, indicating a stile in a low dry stone wall.

Barry clambered over and gave Sue a hand. He turned and saw a horse at the far end of the field.

“Look, there's Róisín. Rosebud. She's what's called an Irish Sport Horse. She's tough but as gentle as a kitten.” Sue laughed and beckoned to the horse, who came cantering toward them, her mahogany coat glossy, her tail, mane, and ear edges shiny black.

The horse slowed her pace as she drew abreast, lowered her head, and nuzzled Sue. Barry looked into great liquid brown eyes and smelled the tangy, earthy scent of horse. Sue took something from her pocket and, keeping her hand flat, offered it to the horse, which rolled back her big lips and took the sugar lumps. Sue stroked the animal's cheek. “Dad taught me to ride on Jessie's mum, Kyran. She was black and her name means ‘small dark one,'” she said. She lowered her voice. “It didn't matter how busy the farm was, even at harvest time, Dad always found time to give me a jumping lesson. I loved it. Still do. You know I'm a member of the North Down Pony Club. Michael tried it, but didn't like it, and Dad never forced him. He's a very understanding man, my father.”

Barry heard a daughter's love in those words. “You'll be riding with him again soon enough,” he said, and was pleased by her comforted smile. He wondered what kind of a father Barry Laverty might make when or if they started a family.

“Go on,” Sue said, slapping the animal's rump, “off you trot, Róisín.”

The bay galloped to the far side of the field, kicked up her heels, and whinnied.

“Full of the joys of spring, that one,” Sue said with a little grin. “I remember her as a foal, all spindly legs and a big head. Young animals are darlings.”

“They are.” He hesitated, then, “Sue,” he said, “perhaps this isn't the right time to discuss this, but, you know, we've never actually talked about whether we're going to have a family or not.”

She frowned. “Och, Barry. You must know I love kids. That's why I'm a teacher. And you did that training in obstetrics. I just assumed we would. I thought it was one of the reasons people got married.” She touched his arm and looked into his eyes. “Barry?”

“I know you love kids and, well, I do too, but I sometimes wonder about this world we're in right now. The Cold War getting hot. We came so close to World War Three during the Cuban Missile Crisis five years ago. Maybe it would be, I don't know, selfish? Irresponsible? To start a family.” He realised it was the first time he'd ever acknowledged his niggling uncertainty.

Sue opened the gate they'd come to and let Barry through, joined him, and closed the gate.

They were now in a meadow bordering the Braid. Lime-green pussy-catkins hung from every branch of the row of willows. The river was in spate with brown rolling waves tumbling dead tree branches over the shallows and making a rushing noise.

“I had a wonderful childhood, you know, Barry. Dad didn't go to war. He was here, growing food for people. But Mum's told me how her friends were saying the same thing about having children in 1939 because there was going to be a war. I'm so glad my folks and yours paid no attention.”

“Me too,” he said. Life now without Sue Nolan would be unthinkable. “I know you'll make a marvellous mother.”

“Even with poor Max as an example?” Sue laughed and pulled a catkin from a willow tree, rolling it between her fingers.

He laughed. “Even with Max.” The laugh died. “But I'm not sure what kind of father I'll be. I was taught in medical school that we learn those skills very early in life from our own parents. I was five before I really met my dad. Mum kept telling me he'd got three weeks' home leave when I was nearly three, but…” He shrugged. “And I didn't have any brothers or sisters.”

“You, Barry Laverty, are going to be an amazing father. You're kind and funny and wise.” Sue wrapped her arms around him and kissed his neck. “Our love will see us through. I truly believe that, Barry. Now, you were telling me about that wonderful bungalow that might suit us. I'd like to see it before I go back to France—I've still got six weeks to do over there. Do you think one of the bedrooms would make a good nursery?”

It was abundantly clear how Sue felt.

They'd come to the riverbank. He cast a fisherman's eye on the water, not sure what to say next. Come May, with the river in its summer calm, there'd be big brown trout in a deep pool under those willows, waiting for insects to fall off the leaves. Would he someday come down to this river with a small child to watch a mayfly hatch on a soft evening, silent but for the gentle splash of rising fish sending concentric circles outward. He could feel the weight of the child in his arms, perhaps wriggling to be on the ground and saying, “Let me down, Daddy. I want to look at the fish.”

“This is a beautiful place, Sue,” he said.

“I know. I can see our children here, Barry. You're standing on that bank with a fishing rod in your hand casting, and a little blond boy with a cowlick is right beside you. I'm a country girl, and I always will be,” she kissed him, “and that's why I'll be happy to be a country doctor's wife and mother to his children.”

Barry swallowed, steeled himself, looked at the riverbank—and took a leap of faith. “And I will be happy to be your husband and father to our children and, yes, there would be room for a nursery in the bungalow.”

“Oh, Barry, I'm so glad. Thank you,” she said, and kissed him. “I think we should have at least two kids.”

“I agree, but maybe not right away?”

“Heavens no. I'd have to give up my job, and if we do buy a house we'll need my income for a while too.”

Barry nodded and felt a sense of relief. There was no hurry. They'd let the river of life flow on. Suddenly, having children with Sue felt like the most natural thing to do in the whole wide world.

“Thank you for coming for a walk and talking about … important things, Barry. It's helped me to stop worrying about Dad, if only for a little while. And I'm glad you had the courage to say what you said about starting a family.”

“Good, and I'm glad,” he said.

“But I think we should head back home now. Mum may be back and she might like a little company.”

“I'm sure she will, Sue, and now we've had this chat we can set her mind at rest about the wedding.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Nolan sat at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea.

“You're home, Mum. How's Dad?” Sue asked.

“He's awake, feeling better, and he was able to have a cup of tea. He remembers that you two were there today and sends his love. Sister says he's still not out of the woods, but he's on his way, they'll let us know if his condition changes, but she'd appreciate it if we kept the visits to regular hours now. His rest is an important part of his recovery. Officially he's ‘comfortable and improving.'”

Barry recognised the standard hospital euphemism taken from a list that included “critical,” “seriously ill, “condition guarded,” “improving,” and “much better.” The staff never divulged details. He was glad he could use his position, if necessary, to get more accurate information. “I think by ‘comfortable and improving' they mean he's over the worst part.”

Sue sent him a grateful smile.

“Thank you, Barry. That is a comfort,” Mrs. Nolan said, “and they told me he'll probably be home by mid-March.”

“I'll have to go back to France to finish my exchange, Mum, as soon as Dad's a bit better, but I'll be back the twenty-third or twenty-fourth of next month to help out here.”

“Good,” Mrs. Nolan said. She frowned. “And what about your wedding?”

“Barry and I have decided to postpone it until Dad's back on his feet. We'll pick a day in July.”

“I think that's very wise and generous of you both. Thank you. And Dad will be pleased. Now sit down, you two. Tea?”

“Not for me, thanks,” Barry said as he sat at the table, but Sue went to the dresser, brought a cup, and poured for herself before sitting.

“We really don't mind waiting to get married, Mum, until Dad's really at himself again. I want him to give me away.”