An Irish Country Practice

by Patrick Taylor

  George smiled. “You’re not only a first-class physician, Fingal O’Reilly, whether you like to be told it or not, you are a thoughtful man, and I like the way you think. I believe you will be a valuable asset, so let me explain how the training will work.”

  “Fire away. Convince me.”

  “The course will last for one year and will be a combination of approaches. Formal instruction will be given here at the Royal until we get our own facility away from the teaching hospital. Much of what today’s student sees there is not germane to what we actually do in our work. We also want to attach students to working general practices, and not only in the city. We do understand that rural practice differs in many ways.”

  O’Reilly sipped his coffee and leant forward. “What exactly do you expect the trainee to do during the attachment?”

  “Initially follow the principal, sit in on surgeries, make home visits. Everything under supervision during the working weekday and availability for call when you are on call. We’ll leave it up to the trainer to decide when the trainee is fit to be left to work unsupervised.”

  The man was describing exactly how O’Reilly had worked with Barry back in ’64. “That doesn’t sound too difficult,” he said, but he remembered the reaction of some of his patients who had demanded to see “the real doctor.” “The odd country patient can be picky about which doctor they see, though. What if one says, ‘I don’t want a learner near me’?”

  “Patients are not given a choice in the teaching hospitals. And medical students are also used as cheap labour, admitting patients, taking blood samples, setting up drips, suturing. We think your patients should be given a choice, asked if they mind seeing a younger doctor in training. If they refuse…”

  The implication was obvious. “Makes sense to me,” O’Reilly said. He smiled. It had been fun working closely with Barry. The idea of another apprentice really was appealing.

  “It should eventually lighten your workload when the trainee starts working independently.”

  More chances to spend time with Kitty and his friends. Give Barry and Nonie Stevenson and Ronald Fitzpatrick less night and weekend work too. He frowned, but on the other hand a five-doctor on-call rota? It would certainly dilute the personal approach he and more recently he and Barry used to have with the customers.

  “I’m afraid there are one or two snags,” George said. “I’m working on them. That was one reason for my meeting with the dean earlier, but the faculty of medicine budget is very tight. I’m afraid there’s no title or stipend attached to the position of trainer.”

  O’Reilly shrugged, then laughed. “To me, ‘Professor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly’ would be about as incongruous as ‘His Lordship Donal Donnelly, Earl of Ballybucklebo.’”

  George Irwin looked puzzled.

  “One of my friends in the village. Carpenter, pheasant poacher, fixer of greyhound races, and abstract expressionist decorator of bicycles.”

  George laughed. “Colourful place, this village of yours.”

  “It is that.” O’Reilly’s smile faded. His voice became serious. “George, I have to tell you I am interested and I also feel I have an obligation. About two and a half thousand years ago, on the Greek island of Cos, a physician named Hippocrates included in his oath, ‘I will teach my art without reward or agreement; and I will impart all my acquirement, instructions, and whatever I know, to my master’s children, as to my own; and likewise to all my pupils.’ Money’s not important to me, but passing on what I’ve learned over the past wheen of years is.”

  George Irwin sat back in his chair. “I’m glad. I remember that oath too. It’s part of the reason I’m sitting in this chair today, so thank you, Fingal. Now, I know how you feel about paperwork, but we will want regular written reports on the trainee’s progress.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “And you’re the bloke who said you folks formed a college in part because of unreasonable administrative pressure?”

  George laughed. “Touché. We will keep it to a minimum, I promise.”

  “All right. I’m going to hold you to that.”

  “Fair enough. More coffee?” George said, pouring himself a cup.

  “No thanks,” said O’Reilly, “but I will have another bikky.” He laughed. “George. I think I might well like to participate.”

  “I hope you will.”

  “But the decision isn’t entirely mine to make. I have a partner, an assistant, and an associate. I’ll have to talk to them first.”

  “Of course.”

  “And there’s the matter of accommodation,” O’Reilly said, remembering Kitty saying she’d rather not have a permanent resident. “I have a spare room where the learner can sleep when on call, but—”

  “You’d rather not be a landlord as well as a mentor?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The man I’m thinking of can easily drive down from Dundonald, where he has a flat.”

  “Grand. I’ll discuss all of this with the interested parties”—there would be a bit more work for Kinky too—“and if they say yes, when would you send us our first trainee?”

  “As soon as possible. I have a most interesting candidate. Doctor Connor Nelson. He’s a bit older than the usual graduate. He finished his houseman’s year last year and has been doing locums. Naturally I’ll expect you to approve of him before you accept him.”

  “Thank you. You can tell me more and give me his phone number if and when my lot decide to go ahead,” O’Reilly said, rising. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, George. I’ll give you a ring by the middle of next week. How’s that?”

  George rose and offered his hand, which O’Reilly shook. “Splendid. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

  As O’Reilly walked along the hospital road past the Clinical Sciences Building, he pictured Arthur Guinness taking Kenny under his wing. It made him chuckle. In his day, student learners had been known as pupils, “pups” for short. He sighed. He’d never had his own child to teach. The war had seen to that. Fingal O’Reilly had made his peace with that loss. And now here was another chance to teach a young “pup.” And at least, he thought, he’d not have to house-train the fellow.

  8

  Let Age Approve of Youth

  O’Reilly collected a walking stick from the hall stand and headed for the back garden. The April sunshine warmed him. Overhead, fluffy clouds meandered over the Ballybucklebo Hills, casting shadows to dapple the coppices where wood pigeons’ liquid cooing mellowed the harsh cawing of rooks. Somewhere in the distance a donkey’s bray, loud and discordant, split the evening. Donal had been round earlier to mow the lawn, a bargain at ten shillings a cut, and the air was redolent of freshly cut grass. O’Reilly took a deep draught of the sweet-smelling air and sighed.

  The meeting just now had gone very well. Barry, Nonie Stevenson, and Ronald Fitzpatrick had unanimously agreed to take on the trainee, Connor Nelson, in May. O’Reilly was particularly pleased that the money questions, the rocks upon which many otherwise amicable medical arrangements foundered, had been answered satisfactorily. O’Reilly would phone this Connor Nelson tomorrow and see when he could meet with himself as principal and Barry as a partner. Somewhere pleasant. Maybe the Crawfordsburn for dinner?

  O’Reilly smiled. Nonie had left in a rush and in a cloud of Je Reviens. She had a date in Belfast at six. She’d been wearing more makeup than usual, including the now-popular false eyelashes, and sporting a neatly tailored powder blue jacket over a white silky blouse, a miniskirt, dark hose, and heels. Some new fellow was taking her to see Georgy Girl starring Lynn Redgrave and James Mason. Och well, O’Reilly thought, gather ye rosebuds while ye may.

  Barry was deep in conversation with Ronald and would join O’Reilly later for a quick pint in the Duck. Kitty wouldn’t be home for at least an hour, but last night she’d said the GP in training, as long as he would not be a permanent resident, would be welcome, and Kinky had brushed aside any concerns about her having extra work to do. The wo
man thrived on looking after people.

  O’Reilly was sure he was going to enjoy helping the younger colleague, but now he had other teaching to do. He’d time to give Kenny another lesson. He’d been working with the pup twice a day since bringing him home last Sunday.

  Lars had already done a good job of teaching the vital foundation to all training: respect for the human who had become the pup’s pack leader. Kenny had been housebroken, and had learned simple rules like not jumping up on people. He also recognised two critical words: “no” and “good.”

  “Come,” O’Reilly called.

  Arthur piled out of his doghouse and, with Kenny at his shoulder, trotted across the lawn toward where O’Reilly stood.

  “Sit,” O’Reilly said. Down went Arthur’s backside.

  Kenny hesitated, looked at O’Reilly, back at Arthur, and kept trotting until he reached his master.

  O’Reilly bent, clipped a leash to Kenny’s collar, then, repeating “sit” with exactly the same tone, pushed down on the pup’s rump. “Sit.”

  Down it went.

  “Good,” said O’Reilly. “Good.”

  Kenny wagged his tail.

  “Heel,” he said, then gave a gentle tug on Kenny’s leash and strode toward the far end of the garden, collecting Arthur from where he sat. The three of them went through the gate and into the back lane.

  Arthur tucked in on O’Reilly’s right. Kenny tried to run ahead, but sharp tugs on the leash and a tiny tap with the walking stick on his nose kept him in position.

  “Heel,” said O’Reilly, removing the stick.

  Kenny stayed put.

  “Good,” said O’Reilly, and headed for the traffic light, stopping only to wish Alice Moloney, the dressmaker, a good evening and answering her polite but eager inquiries after the health of one Doctor Ronald Fitzpatrick, who she’d met last month at the party at Number One Main. O’Reilly would take the two dogs down to the beach to give Kenny ten minutes more training then let both dogs play for a while before heading to the Duck to show off his newest protégé.

  * * *

  “Evening, Doctor. Usual for you and Arthur?” Willie Dunleavy greeted O’Reilly as he entered the Duck, breathing in the fumes of tobacco smoke and beer. Willie’s welcome was echoed by the other patrons.

  “Evening all,” O’Reilly called, “and yes, please, Willie.”

  “How’s about ye, Doc,” said Donal Donnelly, wandering over from where he sat with Gerry Shanks, “and who’d this be?” He bent and patted Kenny.

  “Carlow Charger of Kilkenny,” O’Reilly said, “Kenny for short.”

  “Handsome wee fellow, right enough. Going til be big when he grows intil his ears and his feet. Are him and ould Arthur mates, like?”

  “They are, just like your Bluebird and Colin Brown’s Murphy.” O’Reilly remembered the last time he’d seen Donal’s greyhound and grinned. “And by the way, thanks for the, ahem, gift.”

  Donal winked, ran a finger alongside his nose, and lowered his voice. “There’s a brave wheen more where that one came from.” He frowned. “And it’s not just the sport now. The oul do-re-mi’s a bit tight. My Julie’s hair’s gone a bit tatty now she’s in the family way, so that photographer fellow’s not using her as a model. But I’ll say no more.”

  He didn’t get the chance anyway. Willie set O’Reilly’s pint on a nearby empty table and a bowl of Smithwick’s beneath. “There y’are, sir. That’ll be five bob.”

  O’Reilly paid, ushered Arthur and Kenny under the table, and took a chair. “Sit,” he said. Both dogs obeyed, but O’Reilly kept ahold of Kenny’s leash. “Good.” He peered under. Arthur had lowered his head and had started lapping. Kenny cocked his head to one side and watched. His eyebrows twitched. He lowered his muzzle, sniffed, jerked back, and made a snorting noise. Smithwick’s, it seemed, was not to the pup’s taste. “Have you water, Willie?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Right away.”

  O’Reilly took a pull on his pint of Guinness and looked round. All the regulars. There was the usual hum of conversation, but no bursts of laughter punctuated the chat. Somehow the good old Duck seemed subdued this evening.

  Bertie Bishop sat alone at a table next to O’Reilly. “Evening, Doctor. New pup?”

  “Aye. My brother gave him to me.”

  “The solicitor?”

  “That’s right.”

  Bertie sighed. “Does he take people til court, like?”

  Willie appeared and put a small bowl beside Arthur’s.

  Kenny began to drink.

  “I should think so too,” said Willie, gazing down at Kenny. “Yiz is far too young to be drinking beer.” He laughed. “No charge for that, sir.” He left.

  “Sorry, Bertie,” O’Reilly said. “No, Lars doesn’t. He prefers conveyancing, wills, that kind of stuff. You need a lawyer?”

  Bertie pursed his lips. “I might.” He sighed. “You mind the council’s going til bypass the village til the south?”

  “I certainly do. And your company is part of the consortium that should be doing it.”

  Bertie’s shoulders slumped. He sighed. “Should’s right, but…” He glanced round the room. “Just between you and me and the wall, we were meant til start next month, but there’s a delay in the sale of the land, and I had til turn down two other jobs so we were all set to go. But now?”

  O’Reilly felt for Bertie. It had been years now, but O’Reilly still remembered his first months back in 1946 when he’d been trying to establish his practice. That sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach when the money that was coming in wasn’t enough to cover what was going out. “And I hear from Barry you’re giving all your workers next week off. With pay. That’s generous.” O’Reilly drank.

  “Och, not really. They all get paid holidays in July anyway. I’ve just moved them up. I hope I can keep them all on, they’re good lads, but if we don’t get started on the bypass soon…” Bertie’s sigh was vast. He finished his pint. He stood. “Anyroad,” he said, “I have til be running along. Say hello to Mrs. O’Reilly.”

  “And to Flo.” O’Reilly took another pull and watched the retreating councillor’s back. Perhaps the prospect of imminent unemployment for some men in here had something to do with the relative quiet. It would hit Donal Donnelly hard now with another mouth soon to feed. For a moment O’Reilly wondered whether Donal’s or perhaps Bertie’s impending financial difficulties might be the “desperate need for four hundred pounds” that Kinky had foreseen?

  O’Reilly was still ruminating when the batwing doors reopened and in walked Barry accompanied by—wonder of wonders—Ronald Fitzpatrick. “Over here.” He waved.

  Both men came and sat.

  Kenny tried to put his paws on Barry’s knees.

  “No,” said O’Reilly. “Sit.”

  Kenny obeyed.

  “Good.” O’Reilly turned to his colleagues. “My shout. What’ll it be?”

  “Pint, please,” Barry said.

  “Me too,” Ronald said. “I had one the other night. I could get a taste for the stuff.”

  “You could do worse,” O’Reilly said, pointing at his nearly empty glass and holding up three fingers.

  Willie nodded and started to pour.

  “I hear,” said Barry, “that champagne has been in order too.” He laughed. “Cissie Sloan told me.”

  “Honestly. That woman. We hardly need the BBC news,” Ronald Fitzpatrick said with a lot more lightness than was customary for the lugubrious man. “And yes, I did have a glass or two of bubbly. I really did quite well on Foinavon.” He laughed his hoarse cackle.

  As O’Reilly laughed too, he remembered Ronald admitting to having difficulties gambling as a young man. Could a big win have shoved him off the straight and narrow? O’Reilly pursed his lips but then relaxed. Nah, not likely. “Ronald,” O’Reilly said, “I lost twenty quid. Do you mind me asking how much you won?”

  Ronald Fitzpatrick laughed. “Quite a bit,” he said. “I bet on the tote.”
>
  O’Reilly was familiar with the totaliser, a form of pari-mutuel betting. The bettor’s stake was not put on the horse at odds the bookies were offering. Winners received a percentage of the total amount wagered by all the losing bettors, minus the tote’s cut, divided by the number of people who had bet on the winning horse. Often the payout was higher if few people had done so. In this case, Foinavon, regarded as having no chance, had attracted few bets, so a large sum was available for the animal’s backers.

  “It paid off at four hundred and forty-four to one. And I’d ten pounds on,” Ronald Fitzpatrick said.

  “What?” O’Reilly’s mind whirred doing the calculation. Holy Mother of God. “You won four thousand, four hundred and forty pounds?” O’Reilly’s voice rose. “Four thousand, four hundred and forty pounds? Holy Moses, that’s about twice what I make in a year—and yours is tax free.”

  “I’d rather not appear smug, Fingal, but … yes. Yes, I did.”

  O’Reilly whistled. And he’d thought Kinky and Archie had done well. Remembering how Ronald Fitzpatrick had bristled last year when the O’Reillys had been genuinely concerned for the man’s health, O’Reilly hesitated, but he’d known enough compulsive gamblers to want to stop Ronald heading down that road if he could. “Now don’t get cross,” he said, “but I hope—”

  “Of course not.” Fitzpatrick’s reply was friendly, if a little speedy. “Once bitten, twice shy.”

  O’Reilly was distracted by a high-pitched “yip” and a throaty “grrrr” coming from under the table. He peered beneath.

  Mary Dunleavy’s Chihuahua, Brian Boru, had tried to scare Kenny, and big protective Arthur, even though he and Brian were friends, was having none of it.

  Willie, like Aladdin’s genie coming out of his bottle, appeared at the table. He grabbed Brian and tucked the little dog under his arm. “You be nice to my guests, boy, or I’ll send you back to Mexico.” Willie vanished through the door behind the bar that led to the Dunleavys’ living quarters. He was back sans dog in no time. “Sorry about that. Here you are, gents,” he said, depositing three black pints with their creamy heads. “Seven and six, please.”