ISABELLA SAT ALONE eating her usual breakfast. The morning newspaper, which had just been delivered, lay beside Frederick’s place at the breakfast table. She finished her porridge and was helping herself to a slice of soda bread and marmalade, trying not to be irked by his tardiness. She had left him dressing in their bedroom and preceded him downstairs. Their daily routine usually involved her husband’s reading aloud of the newspaper’s headlines and a discussion of such over a pot of tea. She was tempted to open the paper herself, but knew how much Frederick enjoyed reading it before he left for the office. Likely there would be an obituary for Dr Francis Heuston. She had attended the respected surgeon’s funeral only last week. His poor wife was insistent that he had died of a broken heart following the death of one of their twin sons, Fred, at Gallipoli. Isabella and Frederick both understood such grief.
‘Madam, will I hold the breakfast for the Governor?’ asked Julia.
Concerned, Isabella left the table and went upstairs.
As she entered their large bedroom she immediately saw him slumped near the side of the bed.
‘Frederick, what is it?’ She rushed over, leaning down beside him. He seemed to be having a problem speaking and there was a strange twist to his mouth. She managed to lay him against the pillows and bring his feet up on to the bed before calling for help from Julia and her daughters.
Nellie quickly came in and took charge.
‘Father, can you hear us? Are you in pain? What is it?’
Frederick tried to say something, but despite his efforts could not get the words out properly. He closed his eyes as if he had not the energy to respond.
‘I’ll run and see if Dr Mitchell is still at home,’ offered Grace.
‘Go quickly!’ urged Isabella, trying to suppress her mounting sense of panic.
Fortunately Grace was in time and the doctor came immediately to Temple Villas.
‘Isabella, you were lucky to catch me before I left for the hospital,’ James Mitchell said as he approached Frederick, who seemed barely able to speak or respond.
‘Well, Frederick old fellow, what seems to be the matter? Bit of a turn, I believe.’
She watched as the doctor tested his arms and hands, took his blood pressure and listened to his heart. She could see concern written on their neighbour’s face.
‘Frederick, to my mind you have had a stroke. Your speech and swallow and movement down one side have, I’m afraid, been affected. I know it is alarming for you, but you must rest so we can see how things develop.’
Fear flooded Frederick’s now twisted, distorted face, with one drooping eye from which a tear escaped. Isabella felt dizzy and weak herself with the shock of it all.
‘Lie back, Frederick, while I have a word with your good wife,’ Dr Mitchell said reassuringly as he led her out of the bedroom to the landing.
‘Will he die?’ she burst out tearfully.
‘It is a possibility, for strokes are difficult to treat, and they can recur. We cannot tell if there will be another worse event in the brain which Frederick would not be able to survive,’ he replied frankly. ‘He may have problems with his breathing and I suspect will not be able to manage to drink or eat properly without risk of choking – that is a common occurrence.’
‘What am I to do? Should he go to hospital?’
‘Moving Frederick may make the situation worse. My advice is to arrange full nursing care for your husband here at home and I will visit him regularly. But I think you should inform the family and perhaps arrange for them to visit their father.’
Isabella reached for her handkerchief, trying not to cry.
She sent Julia with a message for Muriel and Grace sent a telegram to Kate, informing both of them of their father’s illness. This evening she would write to Ada and Sidney in America and to all of the boys to tell them about Frederick’s condition.
A sturdily built young woman appeared. She was an experienced nurse from Sir Patrick Dun’s and she took charge at once, settling Frederick in bed in a position that was more comfortable for him and made it easier to breathe.
Muriel arrived immediately, having left Mary to mind the children.
‘What has happened to Father?’ she asked tearfully as she raced upstairs.
Kate was there two hours later and was in a state as she sat by his bed.
Frederick seemed to be sleeping heavily, saliva running from one side of his twisted mouth which the nurse wiped away.
MacDonagh came and Isabella could see her son-in-law was upset. He and Frederick enjoyed a close friendship and he went in and sat beside the bed to talk to him.
‘Has Frederick had the last rites?’ he asked her.
‘I will ask our rector to come to see Frederick.’
‘I mean the priest,’ MacDonagh persisted. ‘Has he had the priest to anoint him?’
‘No,’ she replied tersely.
‘Frederick would want the priest,’ he said firmly. ‘The priest from the church he attends in Rathmines.’
‘Mother, if Father could talk I’m sure he would want his own priest, not the rector,’ agreed Grace. ‘He is Catholic, after all.’
Isabella could feel a strange tightness and tension in her head.
‘I will not have a priest under my roof,’ she insisted fiercely.
‘This is Father’s roof too,’ Kate reminded her gently. ‘It is his faith.’
‘Grace is right,’ continued MacDonagh. ‘Frederick should have the priest come to the house to give him the rites. The man is entitled to that.’
‘I forbid it!’ she found herself shouting. ‘I will not have it.’
She could see MacDonagh flush with annoyance and a look of disappointment in her daughters’ faces. A few minutes afterwards her son-in-law said his goodbyes to Frederick and left the house angrily.
An hour later a priest came to the door enquiring for Frederick and Julia showed him upstairs. Isabella was about to despatch him back to his parish church, but on seeing Frederick the priest immediately greeted him warmly and stepped over near the bed. Grace and Kate were clearly daring her to interfere as the priest began his prayers in Latin and Frederick opened his eyes in recognition.
She could not bear to watch and went downstairs. Nellie brought her a soothing cup of tea in the drawing room from where she refused to budge until she saw the priest leave her house. Muriel went home and a night nurse arrived to take over from her colleague.
Frederick appeared calmer, more relaxed.
‘He’s holding his own,’ the nurse informed her.
The following two weeks were exhausting, but Frederick clung tenaciously to life. Every time he took a small sip of water or tried to swallow a spoon of clear broth Isabella was sure it would be his end.
MacDonagh had not returned to Temple Villas and she hated the coolness that now existed between her and Muriel. Christmas would soon be here. She wanted her daughters and her grandchildren around: this might be the last Christmas they would all share together.
Burying her pride, Isabella took out her pen and wrote to MacDonagh, asking for his forgiveness and inviting him, Muriel and the children to join them at Temple Villas for Christmas dinner.