An Irish Country Wedding Read Free Page B

suggested a loop of bowel was trapped there, was being compressed, and causing pain every time a wave of peristalsis, the normal muscle contractions of the digestive tract, ran along the gut. He blew out his breath against partially closed lips. It was a logical explanation, but the other potential causes of obstruction were legion.
    She groaned and used the basin. “Dear Lord,” she said, and gasped. “Please can you make it go away, Doctor Laverty? Please. The pain does try a body, so.” There was no strength in her voice.
    “I’m sorry, Kinky,” he said, rising to take the full basin away. I only wish I could, he thought, but what I think you need is beyond the capabilities of a country GP. He poured the contents into the sink. He didn’t gag. All those years in the teaching hospital had inured him to many sights and smells. Before he turned on the tap to rinse the mess away he studied it. There was the greenish tinge of bile. That and the onset of pain immediately accompanied by vomiting, which by his guess was happening every three or four minutes, was typical of compression of the small intestine, probably the jejunem, that section of the small bowel immediately between the duodenum and the ileum. He was narrowing the list of possibilities. “I’ll just be a sec,” he called to Kinky as he rinsed the bowl. Blockage lower down the bowel, he thought, usually produced pain that lasted for quite some time before the vomiting started.
    Barry brought the basin back and squatted beside her. “Kinky,” he said, “if you were anybody else I’d have to ask you a lot of personal questions, then examine you thoroughly. Last year Doctor O’Reilly taught me only to do the minimum to make a diagnosis if it spares the patient pain or embarrassment. He said when he was a student he’d learnt that from a surgeon in Dublin.”
    “Thank you.” Her words caught in her throat. “But if you need to examine me, you fire away, sir. I’d not be any more ashamed than I already am for being so weak.”
    He felt a prickling behind his eyelids. “Kinky,” he said. “Kinky, you mustn’t be ashamed. You didn’t bring this on.” He stood. “Please, you just lie there. I’ll be right back, but I have to make a phone call.”
    “Go ahead. I’ll be grand if you leave me the basin. I’d not want to make any more mess on the floor.” Her breathing came in gasps. “But don’t be too long.” Her voice dropped to a whisper and she looked him straight in the eye. “I’m mortal afraid, sir.”
    He pursed his lips and squeezed her hand. “We’ll get you well soon. Don’t be afraid. I’ll be straight back. I promise.” He rose, went to the hall phone, called the Royal Victoria Hospital switchboard, and waited for an answer.
    As he did, drumming his fingers on the wall, he couldn’t help thinking how it was this having to refer difficult cases to specialists that made him question whether he was really cut out to be a rural GP.
    “Royal Victoria Hospital.”
    “Doctor Laverty here. Can you get me Doctor Jack Mills please. It’s urgent.” Again Barry waited. Stop being so bloody selfish, he thought. You’ve more important things to worry about than whether you’ve made the right choice to go and try obstetrics and gynaecology. Important things like Kinky Kincaid being sick.
    “Barry?” Jack’s Antrim accent was clear. “What’s up?”
    “It’s Kinky.”
    Jack laughed. “Hey bye, I like the sound of that, but what is? Ursula Andress in a white bikini in Doctor No? Or maybe Honor Blackman as Pussy Galore in Goldfinger . Remember when we used to watch her in The Avengers on telly in the students’ mess? All dressed in that black leath — ”
    “Jack. Jack, be serious.” Despite his concerns, Barry found himself smiling at his old friend. “I’m talking about our housekeeper, Mrs. Kincaid.”
    “Oh. That Kinky? Och, I am sorry. Is she sick?”
    “Violent abdominal pain, and I do mean violent, of recent