An Irish Country Love Story

An Irish Country Love Story by Patrick Taylor Read Free Book Online

Book: An Irish Country Love Story by Patrick Taylor Read Free Book Online
Authors: Patrick Taylor
She replaced the bag on the table.
    â€œAnd here you are,” said O’Reilly, who was well used to the solidarity shown by Ulster country folk when one of their own was threatened. “And you’re going to tell me about Sonny.”
    She swallowed. “He’s not well and I’m dead afeared.”
    â€œDon’t be scared, Maggie. You’ve done the right thing, coming to us,” O’Reilly said. “Now, what do you think’s wrong with him?” He immediately regretted his phrasing. Maggie Houston folded her arms across her chest and snapped, “If I knew that I’d be a doctor myself now, wouldn’t I? Finding out’s your job, so it is.”
    O’Reilly smiled. He’d not made that elementary mistake with the literal-minded Ulster folks for years. “True. Let’s put it this way. What seems to be troubling him?”
    â€œIt’s hard to say.” She frowned. “You’d need for til ask him. But he won’t see a doctor. Says he doesn’t need one.”
    Which, O’Reilly thought, could make things tricky. He hid a smile. Good history-taking was supposed to avoid asking leading questions, but so far he’d learned nothing of use beyond the well-known fact that Sonny Houston was a stubborn man. “Is he in pain?”
    She shook her head.
    O’Reilly waited. He guessed if Sonny had been bleeding, Maggie would have asked for a home visit at once or dialled 999 for emergency services, so that probably wasn’t the cause.
    She stared at the carpet.
    â€œMaggie, I really want to help you, but you have to try to help me.” Just about what he’d said to Andy Jackson last Saturday.
    â€œI don’t know what ails him. He’s just, just, och dear, he’s just not at himself, so he’s not.”
    â€œCan you describe in what way?” O’Reilly knew the sixty-one-year-old Sonny suffered from arthritis of his hands and mild congestive heart failure that was usually controlled by low doses of digitalis and a hydrochlorothiazide diuretic.
    â€œHe gets awful tired, short of breath and…” She started to wring her hands.
    Typical of heart failure, O’Reilly thought. Sounds pretty straightforward. Perhaps he needs an increase in dosage.
    â€œI’m ashamed, so I am, til tell yiz the rest.” She stared at her boots.
    â€œCome on, Maggie,” O’Reilly said, speaking softly, but feeling the rising impatience in his shoulders and neck. “You can do it.”
    She sniffed, pursed her lips, and screwed up her eyes. “Except for til discipline his dogs,” she looked down accusingly at Jasper, now sound asleep and snoring gently, “Sonny Houston’s never raised his voice in anger til a living soul. Except maybe that great glipe Bertie Bishop over the roof business.” She looked down at her hands, which were gripped tightly together in her lap, then looked O’Reilly in the eye. The words came out in a rush. “This morning I spilled milk when I was putting it on his cornflakes. He—He—” She shook her head. Silence.
    O’Reilly leant forward, put a hand on her arm. “Come on, Maggie,” he said, “you can spit it out if you try.”
    She inhaled, paused, and said, “He shouted at me. Called me a clumsy oaf. A stupid old woman. He was fit to be tied. Yelling at me. Spittle flying.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He put the fear of God intil me, so he did, and that’s not the first time lately, neither. That’s why I come here. He’s not my old Sonny.”
    O’Reilly sat back. “That doesn’t sound like Sonny,” he said, while trying to recall what, if anything, he knew about the significance of sudden and completely out-of-character changes in behaviour. They sounded more like some psychiatric disorder. Whatever it was, it needed sorting out, and soon. “I know that’s

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