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for something that probably wasn’t going to give the patient trouble.
    They had decided that discretion was the better part of valour, to say nothing, and simply keep her under observation. Which was why Barry had reexamined her and had happily, as expected, found no change. O’Reilly knew that about 20 percent of women had been found to have fibroids of which they had been blissfully unaware. He had been convinced they were not putting Irene at any risk and saw no reason to worry her by telling her about it as long as it was asymptomatic and her doctors kept a regular eye on her.
    â€œDon’t mind me,” he said, grabbed the other patients’ chair, swung it round, and sat legs astraddle, arms draped over its back. He waited while Jenny completed the standard social history concerning her age, twenty-eight; occupation, housewife; and religious persuasion.
    Jenny went on to ask about illnesses in the patient’s family, previous illnesses, had O’Reilly’s information about her tonsils confirmed, and rightly sought details of the two normal pregnancies.
    â€œLast thing, Mrs. Beggs.” Jenny swung in the swivel chair to face the patient. “I need to know about your periods.”
    â€œThe monthlies? You could set your watch by them, so you could. Every twenty-eight days, a few cramps on the first day or two and they last for five days.”
    â€œAnd,” said Jenny, “when was your last one?”
    Irene frowned and started to count on her fingers, then she smiled. “It was four days after them Frenchmen fired one of them statamelites intil outer space.”
    O’Reilly kept a straight face. Ulster folks were prone to producing pronunciations of their very own, like “bisticks” or “biscakes,” both of which meant “biscuits.” “That was on the seventeenth. So your last was the twenty-first of February?” he asked.
    â€œAye.” She smiled. “I’m pretty sure I’m up the spout. See my Davy? See him?” She lowered her voice. “He only has to hang his britches at the end of the bed and I’m in the family way again. I was going til ask about it while I was here, but I wanted a smear too.”
    Jenny must have been doing the necessary calculations while Mrs. Beggs rambled on about her ease in falling pregnant. “That means you are eight weeks pregnant now and due on November the twenty-eighth,” Jenny said.
    â€œAye. I guessed it would be about then.” She smiled. “We’re looking forward to it. Davy and me loves weans, so we do.”
    O’Reilly was trying to decide whether knowing the woman had a fibroid should force them to examine her now. Probably not unless it was causing pain, and she hadn’t complained of any. “Now we know you’re pregnant you’ll need more than a Pap smear, Irene, but doing a full antenatal checkup for you now would take too long. I know Doctor Bradley doesn’t want to keep her other patients waiting.” He looked at Jenny, who nodded.
    â€œCould you come back in four weeks and we’ll arrange for you to have both at once? I’m sure we can get Doctor Laverty to see you for the pregnancy, and Doctor Bradley, if you’d not mind…” Young doctors could be touchy about their spheres of influence. “I’m sure he’s learned to do smears and could save you the trouble.”
    Irene frowned. “Right enough, you could kill two birds with one stone, like.”
    â€œWe could,” O’Reilly said. He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You come and see us or send for us before that if you’re worried about anything.”
    â€œI will,” she said, “and thanks very much.” Irene rose. “Bye for now,” and let herself out.
    He watched her go and as she did the sun as it moved around the firmament began blazing in through the bow windows.
    He heard Jenny cough, turned, and