An Irish Country Love Story (26 page)

Nonie looked up at him, blinking and rubbing her eyes. “Thanks, Barry. I don't know what came over me.” Her voice was normal, but shaky. “It's a damn good thing I wasn't in the middle of giving an injection or lancing an abscess.”

“You had a wee turn,” he said, trying to sound reassuring, but the same image of Nonie falling asleep with a scalpel or a needle in her hand had flashed through his mind more than once since he'd come into the surgery. “But I think you're coming out of it.” Guilt like a cold stone lodged in the pit of his stomach. All along he'd been, if not actively disliking Nonie Stevenson, not able to warm to her. But what if much of her behaviour was due to an illness?

So far he hadn't done much about making a firm diagnosis. Things had been happening too fast, and while they were, he'd been concentrating on making sure no life-saving measures would be necessary. Now the sudden event was over, he should treat her as he would anyone who was sick, although as colleague to colleague it would be necessary to be perhaps a little more circumspect. “Nonie,” he said, “I'd like to ask you some questions.”

“Go right ahead.”

He sat on one of the patients' chairs. “Have you always had this need to nap?”

She frowned. “No. Not until about … about four years ago when we were housemen. I thought it was because of the terrible hours we kept.”

Narcolepsy usually started in the late teens or early twenties.

“I thought the same when I was training in obstetrics. I couldn't seem to get enough sleep at night.” She forced a smile. “Even now I don't. I keep waking up, never get a whole night right through, and, boy, do I have dreams! I'm always tired.”

All of which, Barry thought, was also typical of narcolepsy. Now what should he do? Was he completely sure of his diagnosis? To his knowledge there were no special tests that would confirm or refute his idea, nor any cut-and-dried physical findings, so really no point in doing a thorough physical examination, because he'd have no idea what he was looking for. It was a job for a specialist and one he had no qualms about turning over. And Nonie wasn't an ordinary patient. How would she as a doctor respond if he told her what he was thinking? Had she not suspected something like this herself, or was she like so many physicians who believed that disease was what happened to other people and that doctors were somehow immune? He pursed his lips. What would he want if the positions were reversed? No question. He'd want to know. “Nonie,” he said, keeping his voice level, “do you know what I think about what just happened, your broken nights, your always being sleepy?”

“Tell me.”

He inhaled, then said, “I've never seen a case, but I think you may have narcolepsy.”

“Narcolepsy?” She frowned. “Narcolepsy? Do you really think so?” She took a deep breath and shook her head. “I suppose I've always wondered about it myself. The sleepiness, the vivid dreams.” Her laugh was brittle. “But narcolepsy?” She frowned. “I've always thought that was kind of a joke. Like something you see in slapstick comedies. People falling asleep in the middle of conversations. But this is no joke. Barry, I think I've been avoiding the whole thing, hoping it would go away. Do you really think that's what I've got?”

He nodded, grateful for her willingness to consider the diagnosis. Many people—and doctors, contrary to the beliefs of many members of the profession, were just that, people—denied bad news. Refused even to consider it. Now she clearly recognised that. “I do,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” he said, “but if I were in your shoes I'd not take the word of a country GP, and that's not false modesty. I'd want to have a word with a specialist neurologist.”

“Me too. I've got to get to the bottom of this. I know sweet Fanny Adams about narcolepsy, but I remember that passing out like that might be due to some kind of epilepsy or,” she shuddered, “perish the thought, a brain tumour. I think I should see Doctor Millar at the Royal.”

“I agree,” he said. “But it's not exactly an emergency. You didn't pass out, precisely, according to Willie. You quite deliberately put your head down and fell asleep. But you should be seen as soon as possible. Would you like me to make an appointment for you?”

“Yes, please,” she said in a low voice. “I wasn't very good at neurology. Can they do anything about it?”

“I'm not sure. I believe so, but Doctor Millar can advise you better. I have a hazy memory of reading an article several years ago that said small doses of amphetamine are used, but I've never had to prescribe them.”

“It's scary,” she said. “Unless he can do something, I don't see how I can manage. God, what if I fell asleep behind the wheel while driving?”

Barry hesitated. The answer was obvious, but he was in no rush to blurt it out. Instead he said, “I've seen you in the middle of an episode twice, but never at the very start. How quickly does it happen?”

She shook her head. “Usually I get warning. I know I'm going to have to sleep very soon, but once in a while I go out like a light, just as if I was lying in bed.”

He remembered Willie's description. She'd had no warning this morning. “I told you I'm no expert, but I reckon for the time being you shouldn't be driving, until Doctor Millar gives you the go-ahead.”

“God, that's awful.” She took a deep breath, managed a weak smile, and said, “But of course I shouldn't.” She sat back in her chair. “Barry Laverty, you are a good man. Thank you. I needed someone to make me face up to what was going on. Thank you.”

Barry shrugged.

“And,” she said, “I'm sorry I came on to you, but you are a most attractive man…”

He blushed, looked at his dressing gown and slippers, hardly the attire in which to be discussing these kinds of things. He smoothed his tuft.

“I apologise. I'm sorry I've been a bitch about not swapping call. Fingal was right to tick me off. If I have got narcolepsy, it may explain some of that, but even if it doesn't, I do enjoy my work here. I'll try to improve. I promise.”

“I know you will, Nonie,” Barry said, “and the first step is for me to ring ward 22, the neurology unit. Get you seen.”

“You are a pet, you know,” she said, “and a fine physician. Thank you.”

He smiled. “You have a rest,” he said. “I'll see to Willie. Send him home. Then I'll call the ward.” He laughed. “And then I'd better get washed, shaved, and dressed.”

“Thank you, Barry. At least Willie was my last patient. He needs forms filled in so we can check his uric acid levels. I'm going upstairs to lie down for a while.”

“I'll look after the forms. You stay there until I'm ready, then I'll run you home to Belfast. Will you be okay taking the bus to see the specialist?” he asked, and saw her nod.

“All right, then once you've seen Doctor Millar, we'll have to talk to Fingal about how this will affect your work in the practice.”

She took a deep breath. “I understand. Thanks, Barry. Thanks for everything.”

He wrote up Willie's lab requisition, then headed for the door, feeling a sense of pride at his diagnostic achievement and a little ashamed for having misjudged her. But now they had a dilemma. Certainly it was a kind of relief to know that Nonie's difficulties probably stemmed from a physical disorder, but if it could not be treated, should she be allowed to work with patients? Or even drive a car? That was certainly something to discuss with Fingal.

The scent of toasted barmbrack was mouth-watering when Barry entered the kitchen, and he realised he hadn't eaten since last night. Kinky said nothing. She'd understand the need for confidentiality.

“Everything okay, Doc?” Willie wanted to know.

“Fine,” said Barry. “Doctor Stevenson just had a wee faint. No need to worry.”

“Right enough,” Willie said, “it could happen to a lady bishop—except there are no lady bishops. I don't mind telling you it scared the living daylights out of me. I hope she'll be all right, so I do. She's a very nice wee lady.”

“I'm sure everything will be fine. Here,” Barry handed over the requisition, “and do me a favour, Willie. Mum's the word.”

Willie chuckled. “Doc, if I told you all the things a barman hears they'd blister the paint off the walls. Of course I'll keep my trap shut.”

“You are a sound man, Willie Dunleavy,” Kinky said.

“And I'll be running along,” Willie said, rising. “I'll see myself out.”

“Thanks for seeing to Willie,” Barry said. “Things were a bit fraught for a while there.”

Kinky tutted. “And did the doctor have a fit?”

“Not exactly,” Barry said, “but Doctor Stevenson's not well.”

“The poor wee dote.”

“I'm a bit worried about her. I think she's got a thing called narcolepsy.” Kinky was a trusted member of the practice with a mouth like a steel trap. Anything Barry told Kinky would stay with Kinky.

“I never did hear of that.”

“It's pretty rare, but I hope we're going to get it sorted out.” He half turned. “And if we are, I've a phone call to make.”

“You trot along, Doctor, dear,” Kinky said.

Barry went to the hall phone. As he waited during the inevitable delays of getting through to the switchboard and then being connected to Doctor Millar's secretary, he noticed a buff envelope from the laboratory on the hall table. It was addressed to him.

A voice on the other end said, “Doctor Laverty?”

It took only a few moments to arrange an appointment for Nonie, and as a doctor she was paid the professional courtesy of a ten o'clock appointment the following day.

“Thank you very much,” Barry said, and replaced the receiver. He opened the envelope and grinned. Sonny's results. And they were what Barry had been hoping for.

Right. He'd take care of his ablutions, get a quick bite to eat, ask Kinky to tell Nonie he'd had to nip out to the Houstons', but that he'd not be too long and then he'd take her to Belfast.

 

22

Thou Migh's't Him Yet Recover

Once in a while, an early February day in Ulster can feel like spring. Barry parked outside the Houstons' house, grabbed his bag, and left the car. He needed no overcoat as the early afternoon sun beamed down from a blue sky. The roadside elms were still bare, but each twig had the beginnings of a bud. From somewhere high in one of the trees came the loud, clear trilling of a song thrush, each phrase repeated thrice. To Barry's delight he heard an accurate imitation of a telephone's ring. The birds were noted for their mimicry.

I grew up in Bangor, he thought, looking up into the sky. A small place where he'd learned to love sailing and the countryside. I've never been one much for huntin' and shootin', but I do enjoy a day's fishing. He was sure John MacNeill would give permission for a day on the Bucklebo River soon. No matter what cares might bedevil Barry's everyday life, the quiet of the riverbank, broken only by the chuckling of the waters over rocks or the splashing of moorhens in the shallows, was balm for the soul. It was so easy to become lost in the fluid actions of cast and retrieve, cast and retrieve, until satisfied by its position, he let the fly drift onto the water upstream from the rings left by a rising trout. No matter that on that try the fish ignored the bait. Just repeat, cast and retrieve, cast and retrieve in harmony with the rhythm of the rippling river.

But that, of course, was to come.

Sonny Houston was sitting reading at a white wrought-iron table in his garden. As Barry approached the gate, the dogs, Jasper included, came bounding across the lawn, yipping, barking, tails thrashing, jostling each other. “Can I come in, Sonny?”

“Doctor, of course. Give me a minute.” Sonny rose and walked to the gate, his steps even and assured. “Come to me, dogs,” he said. “To me.”

They clustered round him.

Sonny opened the gate. “They'll not bother you.”

Barry let himself in. Each dog in turn came to him, sniffed him, and bounded off.

Sonny grabbed Jasper by the collar. “Here's old Jasper. He's put on a bit of beef in the last ten days. We're very grateful to you, and especially to Colin Brown.”

“Everyone's delighted,” Barry said, running a hand over the dog's soft, sun-warmed head. “Off you trot, Jasper. Go and play with your pals.” Sonny let the dog go.

Barry walked with Sonny along the path, noticing that the man's complexion had returned to normal and that he was breathing without difficulty.

“Isn't it a wonderful day?” Sonny said. “I just couldn't bear being cooped up, so the dogs and I came and sat outside.” He pointed to one of the chairs. “Please have a seat.”

Barry did. The metal of the chair was warm under his backside. He put his bag on the tabletop.

“Maggie'll be sorry she missed you,” Sonny said as he sat. “She was so excited by the prospect of spring she decided she had to go into Ballybucklebo and buy a new hat. Alice Moloney will be thrilled. She's been tempting my dear wife with new hats for at least a year now.”

“Give Maggie my regards.” Sonny had been reading what must be an ancient tome. The fading brown leather covers were scuffed and a lengthy title was picked out in gold leaf.

“It's by Heinrich Schliemann,” Sonny said. “He published it in 1881. It's all about his excavation of Troy.”

“Have you been there?”

“Oh, yes, many times. The site was in Hisarlik in northwestern Turkey. Schliemann's methods were, shall we say, a tad unorthodox. He used dynamite instead of proper dig methods to excavate the early levels.” Sonny shook his head with an indulgent smile. “Some feel the man was little more than a treasure hunter. But it's interesting reading all the same.”

“Sue's fascinated by all that,” Barry said. Only six more days.