Free An Irish Country Love Story by Patrick Taylor Page B

miscarriages happen.”
    â€œThat’s a relief,” she said. “I’d not want to lose another one.”
    â€œNot likely now,” Barry said, “and your due date’s July the twelfth.”
    â€œWheeker,” said Donal with a broad grin. “The anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne. If the wee lad arrives on time, we’ll call him William after King Billy of glorious and immortal memory, so we will.”
    â€œDonal,” Julie said. “It might be another wee girl.”
    â€œWill it be a boy or a girl, I wonder.” A frowning Donal looked at Barry as if he might know the answer to the question.
    â€œYes, it will,” said Barry. “I can promise you that.”
    He could see by the way Donal’s face screwed up that the truth of the statement was taking a moment to sink in. Then he chuckled and said, “No harm ti yiz, sir, but you’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself, so you will, Doctor Laverty.”
    Barry laughed, and said, “Exactly, Donal. I’m a doctor, not a fortune-teller.” He rose. “Come on, Julie, let’s get a good look at you.”
    She stood and handed him a small bottle containing amber fluid. “I brung my specimen,” she said.
    â€œThank you. I’ll test it while you’re getting ready.” He pulled back the screens round a new examining couch that Nonie had suggested was needed the day she’d been interviewed last year. Barry smiled. Fingal was a good man and he could not have asked for a better partner, but when it came to spending money, the man would wrestle a bear for a halfpenny, as they said in Ballymena. But he had been persuaded to make the purchase when Nonie had pointed out that the costs could be a deduction from his income tax.
    â€œJust be a minute.” Barry worked over the sink. The reagent-impregnated cardboard sticks were a great advance over having to mix stinking chemicals with the urine. He was happy to see that none of the Dipsticks had changed colour. “Urine’s clear,” he said, rinsing out the bottle. He went in behind the screens.
    A complete physical examination confirmed that Julie’s uterus was of the correct size and its top had already risen into the abdomen. It was too early to listen for a foetal heart. He had detected no unusual signs except that her systolic blood pressure, the pressure in the arteries at that point in the heart’s cycle known as systole, when the great pump contracted to push the blood round the body, was 130. It should be 120, but it was a well-known phenomenon that the stress of merely visiting a doctor could affect the systolic pressure. Of more import was her diastolic pressure, that which occurred when the heart relaxed to fill up with returned blood. It was only 80, and with a pregnant woman the doctor’s alarm bells should only start to ring if the level was 85 or higher. But he made a note on the chart. It would bear keeping an eye on at subsequent antenatal visits. Julie finished dressing and together they went back from behind the screens.
    â€œI’m pleased to say that everything seems to be spot on.” Not entirely true, but concerning her now about what was probably a finding of no consequence would serve no useful purpose. “I just need to give you the lab forms to take to Bangor hospital.” He kept some already filled in for routine antenatal care and simply had to add her personal details. Work of but a few moments. He gave her the requisitions.
    So far progress was essentially normal, but of course that was the thing about obstetrics. No pregnancy was low risk until the bairn was in the crib and the mother doing well. “Everything looks fine. No reason you can’t have the wean at home. Off you trot now, and come back in three weeks or if anything worries you,” Barry said.
    â€œThank you, Doctor Laverty,” she said.
    Barry walked with them to the door of the surgery.