It Shouldn't Happen to a Midwife! (20 page)

Based on my previous life as a ward maid, we'd bonded in a mutual dislike of people walking on newly washed floors.

Leaning on a mop, Sally had said, ‘I can't believe you told Dr O'Reilly to mind where he was going, and even if Sister MacNutt thought you were a bit bold, I've told her I've been dying to do that for years.'

She was full of admiration but I was indignant. ‘The least O'Reilly could do was wait till it was dry. You're a key member of the team, Sally, and you work really hard. You keep this place like a palace.'

Seonaid and Colette, however, weren't seeking harmony.

‘Would you take that stupid hat off, Seonaid? Nobody's ever going to give us a lift with you wearing that thing.' She glared at the homeknitted hat, without which Seonaid obviously felt incomplete.

Unlike her sister, Colette was tall. Elegant and organised, she tucked a strand of blonde hair back into its orderly chignon, with fingers so white Sally might even have traded her trolley for them. She frowned at her watch. ‘I'm going to give it another ten minutes, then I'm off. Would you stop swirling that hat of yours now. You look like a helicopter!' She grabbed the knitted pigtails.

Seonaid hopped easily out of reach. ‘Ach, get your leg and thumb out and stop complaining. If you weren't so thrifty, we'd be in a bus and sure, what else would you be doing, stuck in your bed-sit an' all?' Apparently Colette's typing job didn't give her the Rolls-Royce accommodation of Bostock House.

Still, she fought her corner. ‘I'd not be waiting chilled to the bone and worrying what all this might cost.' She stuck out a lip, thumb and a rather shapely leg. There was an immediate result as a shooting brake creaked to a halt alongside.

Though gratifying, it was slightly marred by both it and the driver's age. Then, too, the amount of slurry smearing the windscreen made it amazing he'd even seen us.

The car hugged the ground. There were straw garnished sacks cramming the boot area whilst a huge bag took up the front passenger's seat.

‘Hop in out of the rain! Can you squeeze in the back? This sack's too heavy to move.' There was a leather strap acting as a door hinge. It wasn't very effective but, as he opened the door, the driver seemed impervious to the noise it made scraping on the pavement.

‘Now where would youse girls be off to?' In an otherwise toothless mouth a gold-filled one lit up his weather-lined face.

‘Monaghan.' Colette, taking in the transport livery, was swift. ‘We've family there and they'll be looking for us.' She glanced at her watch. ‘Before midnight.'

Judging by Seonaid's surreptitious elbow jabbing, this was news to her as well. ‘At least we're heading in the right direction. It's halfway to Galway,' she whispered.

The driver laughed. ‘Ah sure, I'll see what I can do and at least I'm going that way.' Then he cranked up and set the wheels in motion, eventually moving from the steady roar of first gear into a second he seemed reluctant to change.

Colette had buried her face in a handkerchief, affected by the car's atmosphere suggesting that McGinty's pig had either left or was about to return. As far as I was concerned it wasn't unpleasant. In the dark it combined with the rhythm of windscreen wipers and labouring car engine in a way that was reminiscent of a ride in the farm tractor at home. Still, conversation was impossible. Eventually, however, a cyclist passed. After a ‘What's the hurry?' we moved into third gear and chat.

I said I was looking forward to some sight seeing. I hadn't seen much of Ireland yet but what I had was beautiful.

He was gracious with the compliment. ‘Ah, they say Scotland's great too. My wife's been there. Went with the Ulsterbus last summer. She'd a grand time, so she had. I couldn't go because of the farm but I told her to make sure she found out if it was true Scotsmen wore nothing under their kilts.'

Seonaid and Colette leant forward, intrigued. ‘And did she?'

The old man chuckled, slapping his hands on the steering wheel, then yanked it to pull away from the verge that was suddenly and frighteningly close. ‘Well, she sent me a postcard with a picture of a piper on the front. On the back, all she'd written was F.O.!'

‘That was quite a message,' I mused.

‘I couldn't wait to get her back home and ask what she meant.'

As if the memory had jolted him into action, the roadside hedges and trees began to pass quicker. Even though it felt as if the car were running on tyre rims, fourth gear began to look achievable.

‘She'll not be going back there herself. I'll guarantee that.'

‘I'm not surprised,' said Seonaid. ‘That postcard must have had you curious.'

His gold tooth brightened the rear-view mirror as he chuckled. ‘Well at least hers was satisfied because she now knows about pipers because, what she meant was, she'd
Found Out
! '

As if in glee, he accelerated, but in an engine roar, cloud of black smoke and smell of burning rubber, the car ground to a halt.

Raymond and his car had plainly made Seonaid confident in all manner of mechanical problems. ‘That's a flat tyre.' Getting out, she'd pointed to a rear wheel.

Heaving himself out after her, the old farmer inspected it then went to the front. ‘No. Look! It's this one.' He kicked a tyre, which by comparison was only marginally flatter.

He was philosophical as, tightening the string round his old raincoat , he readied for action. ‘It's a good thing I've a spare and we're near town. See!' He waved in the direction of a collection of lights. ‘That's Monaghan. It's an easy enough walk to the centre.'

Despite Colette putting away her powder puff, joining in our combined wish to help and producing a nail file, he was clear that was as surplus as we'd all become. ‘Your relations will be looking for you. You can catch up with them at a phone box near Kelly's Bar. It's in the middle of town. And may the saints look after ye.'

With a last twinkle of gold he turned to more important matters.

From a slow traipse into town lightly interspersed with Irish drizzle and sisterly skirmishes we were about to be jerked into a world of music and laughter. It might be getting late but, judging by the light and noise spilling from Kelly's Bar, time was irrelevant. We must be over the border.

Despite Southern Ireland's reputed leisurely approach to time I glanced at my watch. ‘I doubt we'll get much further tonight. Galway will have to wait until tomorrow. I wonder if they've rooms here. Let's ask.'

Colette was scandalised. ‘Are you mad? Don't even think about it. You must've forgotten me saying we've relatives near here. We'll just stay with them.'

Seonaid looked dubious. ‘I know, but we haven't seen them for over five years. And then there's Benny …' Her voice trailed off.

Colette's confidence was awesome – maybe it was her blonde hair or top job in the typing pool. ‘All the more reason they'll be pleased to see us. Now, have you change for the phone? I haven't any loose Irish money.'

‘Ach! Colette – d'you ever spend money of your own?' Seonaid asked, banging coins into her sister's hand and opening the pub's door. ‘We'll be where the action is. Look, there's your man's telephone kiosk,' she said, pointing to a booth nearby. Even in the dark, it was visibly a startling green. ‘Use that. Say we're just passing but we'd love to catch up with them and is there any chance of a lift, we've forgotten where they actually stay.'

I figured it might be as hard for them to find us. Kelly's was so smokefilled and crowded it made visibility eye-stingingly poor. Still, there was no problem locating the music. The place was alive and throbbing with sound.

There was a small stage with a group of young men in leather waistcoats on it. Accompanied by flutes, whistles and fiddles they were giving soul and heart to ‘The Rocky Road To Dublin'
.
Unable to keep up with the words, the audience foot-stamped and handclapped with a sound so exuberant, had there been room, we should all have been dancing. As it was, Seonaid did her best. The floor rocked, lamps swung in the swirling smoke and flying barmen crashed full glasses over the bar counter. Guinness contents foamed, brown and creamy, their colours matching the walls.

‘Whack follol de rahl!' The group ended the song with a flourish – a pity since a shout of ‘Three orange juices' was heard clearly in the lull following the performance.

‘A Scot! Can ye sing as well?'

‘No. Not unless you want your bar emptied,' I said, carefully reversing from the counter.

‘If she won't I will. I know the words of “I Belong to Glasgow”,' an old woman cried and, jutting a formidable chin and patting her curls in place, stood up.

‘No! Molly—'

Her partner caught at her raincoat, but too late – Molly had escaped. Using finely-honed elbows she cut through the crowd, climbed onto the stage, grabbed the microphone and after a few sepulchral coughs, was off.

She was certainly confident. Then, after delivering a few massacred notes, she meandered towards a higher octave. As if to help her reach it a waggish barman stole behind her and made a cranking gesture.

The crowd erupted but, oblivious, Molly ground on, ‘Glasgow' getting further away by the minute and Harry Lauder probably turning in his grave.

Seonaid said, ‘You can tell her heart's in it.'

‘If not her voice.' Colette had joined us. ‘Bet you could do better than that, Jane. She's terrible. Go on! I dare you.'

I saw the conspiratorial look exchanged between the sisters and felt uneasy.

‘Not likely and I mean
not
likely.'

At last, Molly ground to a halt and to tumultuous applause was helped off and back to her chair.

One of the barmen looked around. ‘Now where's the Scots lass? I'm sure she's something to sing about too. Her friends tell me she's a great wee voice.'

Suddenly made aware that the loneliest place in the world can be somewhere crowded, I cast around for an escape route.

‘Come on, Scotty!'

The only place worse was the spot so recently vacated by Molly and which the expectant crowd was now bent on my filling.

Benny might have looked like a shy, middle-aged farmer, but actually he was a hero with impeccable timing. He'd arrived just as I'd crumbled under the pressure of the crowd's good-natured insistence.

‘Come on, girl! Just a wee tune now! Sure you can do it. Don't tell us you've come all the way from Scotland not to sing a wee tune?' The stamping of feet and genuine enthusiasm was overwhelming.

I only knew the words of ‘The Northern Lights of Old Aberdeen'
.
Had my city's abortion centre, typhoid-harbouring image crossed the border? Certainly its song, produced in a voice that would have given Molly diva status, made an impending disaster inevitable. Yet the crowd persisted. Slowly I headed towards centre stage.

Then came Benny's voice. Even if it was as soft and gentle as the west wind, it carried. ‘I've come to collect three girls, but I'm in a hurry. One of my pigs is farrowing.' He advanced towards the bar counter then drummed enormous fingers on it. ‘And I'll take some beer home with me. Seven cans please.'

With the urgency a midwifery team would have accorded a prolapsed cord, the crowd backed off. Maybe the rich aroma coming from Benny's farm boots played a part, but nobody stopped us leaving.

We hurried after the enormous can-clinking figure heading towards a ramshackle pickup van.

‘You keep Benny company in the front and we'll just pile in the back,' urged Colette, shoving Seonaid before her. A wind had risen, chasing away the rain and, as the door slammed behind her, causing us to lose what might have been an animated reply. The hat's pigtails went into the blur you get when something's shaken vigorously enough.

‘At least she can see out,' I said, cut off from the front by a metal partition and climbing into a space resembling a sardine tin. ‘Have we far to go?'

‘No. I don't think it's far from here.' Colette was breezy. ‘But it'll give Seonaid a chance to catch up with Benny.'

‘You seem anxious she should,' I said. ‘You're not trying to hook her up with him are you? Even if he's a saviour with great timing, look at that beer he's bought. He might be a bit of a drinker and anyway, he must be your cousin.'

But Colette just laughed and wouldn't say anything until we arrived at the farm and then it was just to make the introductions to Cousin Bridgit whose bright welcome chased away all our tiredness.

‘And you'll be staying the night, of course. I've made up beds for you.' She'd the kindly way of a bossy big sister. ‘Now you just make yourselves at home.'

She'd hardly finished speaking before Colette and Seonaid were sitting, already slippered, before a peat fire Bridgit had coaxed into action. Confronted by flames flickering gentle shadows on the quiet walls and a sofa's sagging comfort I was tempted to join them.

Instead, intrigued by the old farmhouse with its long mysteriouslooking corridor, pitch pine-panelled walls and plain furniture sitting sturdy on stone floors, I followed Bridgit and offered help.

She bustled about the kitchen, clattering dishes with a chef's expertise. Benny was lucky. Bridgit, with her bright eyes and managing way, must be a great asset to any place, not to mention this one. I said so.

‘If only Benny'd find a wife,' she sighed, ‘then I could find out. But where in the wide world's he going to find one?'

‘What would you do?'

‘I'd go to England.' Her eyes shone as if she were talking about the end of a rainbow. ‘I'd join the rest of the family. They've all done well over there.'

‘We've crofter bachelors at home,' I said, ‘and they seem to manage fine, and if they don't, they buy help.' Bridgit looked thoughtful, as if it was a radical concept. I reckoned Benny would think so too, but he'd sped off into the night saying Verity needed his help.