The Barracks by John McGahern Page A

long like this, not more than days now; in the desperation she took her courage in both hands.
    â€œWould you call at the doctor’s and ask him what would be a good time to see him tomorrow?” she asked quietly. “I think I’d better go for a check-up.”
    The asking brought a dramatic silence that she shrank from, even the children turned quiet to fix her with their attention. She was drooped and deathly pale.
    â€œYou don’t look well,” he said with unthinking cruelty. “You’ve not been yourself since Christmas.”
    â€œI don’t think it’s anything,” she protested. “It’s only to make sure.”
    She was haggard.
    â€œI’ll tell him to come out,” he said.
    â€œNo, no. It’d cost too much.”
    â€œCost,” he derided angrily. “We’re not paupers.”
    â€œNo. There’d be no sense in him coming. I’m well able to cycle. And I’d like the day in town.”
    She tried to brush it off as nothing. With all her will she rose from the chair. She lifted off the boiling kettle, put on a saucepan.
    â€œIt’s nothing at all,” she smiled casually with every muscle in her face. “It’s only to be sure.”
    She stood still, making a pretence of tending the fire. She could hear her heart beating. She regretted having ever spoken.
    She saw Reegan rise to change into his best boots, the ones Una had polished. He sheathed the razor and put his shaving things back in the box to take out the button brush and the brass stick and tin of Silvo. There began the scrupulous brushing of his tunic and greatcoat and cap, the buttons drawn together in a row on the brass stick and coated with Silvo, the letting it dry and then the shining, even the medallionson the collar and cap, the whistle chain that went across the tunic to the breast pocket, were polished till they shone like brightnesses. And last of all the black baton sheath was shone; the baton—a short vicious stick of polished hickory filled with lead, the grooved surface taperingto where a leather thong hung from the handle for securing it about the wrist in action—was placed in the sheath and hung from the belt of the tunic. He squared himself before the sideboard mirror, shaved and handsome, stuffing the fresh hankie she handed him up his sleeve.
    He turned his back for their inspection. There wasn’t a speck on the uniform.
    â€œHe’ll not be able to find much fault today,” he said.
    No one could, he was shining.
    â€œWill I leave your bike round at the dayroom door?” Willie wanted to know.
    â€œDo, and see if the tyres are pumped,” he was told.
    Down in the dayroom the window was lifted up and the key taken from the sill, it was Brennan, for the next minute Casey appeared through the archway. The time was exactly nine. Reegan had to go down to them to sign and call the roll. He’d not return to the kitchen unless he’d forgotten something, but leave with the others from the dayroom.
    â€œAre you sure you don’t want the doctor out?” he asked Elizabeth as he kissed her good-bye.
    â€œNo. I’ll go in tomorrow.”
    â€œAre you sure?” he repeated. He was worried. She hadn’t been a day ill in bed since they were married. Her haggard appearance, her wanting to see the doctor, disturbed him with the memory of his first wife who had died in childbirth. Elizabeth could not die, he told himself; it was impossible that two could die; it would be ludicrous.
    â€œAre you sure?” he pressed her.
    â€œI am quite certain,” she said.
    He kissed her and went, she’d have to see the children ready for school, Casey and Brennan were waiting for him in the dayroom. He called the roll and marked Mullins present in his absence, who didn’t come till twenty past, and when he’d done the signings connected with his completed b.o. duty they left. They wheeled their bicycles