An Irish Country Love Story Read Free

thought, that meant Donal was going to impart some secret.
    His left eyelid drooped. “Me and your man Dapper Frew are—”
    â€œNo,” said Barry. “Oh no, Donal.” Barry and O’Reilly had been involved in too many of Donal Donnelly’s harebrained get-rich-quick plots with dogs and racehorses. “Tell us when it’s over. Doctor O’Reilly and I are going to be busy.” Indeed they were only able to be out together today because the new assistant, Doctor Nonie Stevenson, who had taken over from Jennifer Bradley, was holding the medical fort. It was going to be interesting to see how she worked out in the months ahead. Barry had been in her year at medical school and had some reservations about her suitability, but she’d been fine so far.
    â€œFair enough, sir,” Donal said. “What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over, if youse get my meaning.”
    Barry nodded and couldn’t hide a smile. Donal was incorrigible, but in local parlance he had a heart of corn.
    â€œAnd how’s the family?” O’Reilly asked, clearly, like Barry, not wanting to become involved in another of Donal’s ploys.
    â€œJulie’s got some more work modelling for that Belfast photographer man and wee Tori’s growing at a rate of knots. And,” he glanced at Sue, “I hope you don’t mind, Miss Nolan, but I’d like to tell my doctors that me and Julie think we’re…” He hesitated then the words tumbled out. “… up the builder’s again.” His blush was nearly as red as his hair.
    â€œWonderful,” Sue said. “Congratulations.”
    Barry wondered at the numerous Irish euphemisms for pregnancy.
    â€œGreat news,” said O’Reilly. “Now you tell her, Donal, that we’d like to see her before the end of her third month. Get her care organised.”
    â€œI’ll do that right enough, and this time it will be a wee lad because—”
    The calm of the day was interrupted by shouting. People were rushing to the water’s edge, gesticulating, pointing out to sea. Barry stared. Andy Jackson had managed to capsize his dinghy, and Shearwater lay on her side, sails in the water. Andy, in yellow oilskins, was trying to clamber onto the keel, obviously hoping to right the boat. Trying and failing. He fell off with a great splashing and thrashing. Andy Jackson had never learned to swim.
    Barry turned to Donal. “Donal, run like blazes round to the harbour. See if any of the fishermen can get a motorboat round here quick.”
    â€œRight.” Donal took off with Bluebird at his heels.
    Out at sea, Andy had stopped floundering and was clinging on to the keel.
    â€œHang on,” bellowed O’Reilly, waving furiously, “we’re getting help.”
    Barry, his eyes fixed on Andy’s boat, sent up a silent prayer for his friend. “Hypothermia was common on the North Atlantic convoys during the war,” said O’Reilly. “At fifty degrees Fahrenheit, a man develops it pretty quickly and just might stay alive for an hour. Near freezing, people die in fifteen minutes. That’s about how long the swimmers from Titanic survived.” He pursed his lips. “This time of the year the water’s going to be close to fifty degrees. It could take nearly an hour before Donal finds someone and gets them here. I’m going to go look for that kayaker. See if he can help.”
    â€œThe nearest lifeboat’s at Donaghadee away down the coast,” said Sue. “They wouldn’t make it in time. I can help, though.” She shrugged out of her sheepskin coat, unwrapped Barry’s long scarf, and tossed them higher up the beach on the dry sand. “Barry, give me a hand.” She headed toward the beached kayak. “I’ll take the bows. You take the stern.” She was very much in charge.
    â€œSue,” he said, “what in