An Irish Country Practice

by Patrick Taylor

  And as O’Reilly closed the front door behind him he hoped to God she was right.

  * * *

  “Hey on out.” O’Reilly had let the dogs out of the car at the end of a bridle path at the bottom of the Ballybucklebo Hills. Both sat at his feet without being told. Now, on command, Arthur put his nose to the ground and began quartering, tail waving like a flag. Kenny, who for the last two weeks had watched Arthur, had soon started to imitate his big friend. He was clearly in no doubt about what to do today.

  He’d let them both work off a bit of steam first then give Kenny another lesson in retrieving. There was a dummy, a length of wood wrapped in old carpet, in the boot. He watched the dogs. Kenny had overtaken Arthur. They were having fun, but no doubt about it, old Arthur wasn’t as young as he used to be. Andrew Marvell had been right about “time’s wingèd chariot drawing near” and O’Reilly thought again of Anne Galvin. He hoped he was wrong and that she’d still get her full span.

  He looked around the small grassy field and inhaled the piney scent from the trees and the almond aroma of the yellow whin flowers. The only sounds were the pattering of the dogs’ paws, the burbling of a couple of woodpigeons, and—he strained to hear. Yes. Yes. Faint, but distinct:

  “Cuckoo. Cuckoo.”

  The birds had returned from wintering in Central Africa on a migration that included a nonstop flight over the Sahara Desert and the Med. He remembered one in early 1940, perhaps more exhausted than the rest, seeking respite on the top of Warspite’s gun turret. The bird had renewed its resources and flown off just as he was doing now, getting away from the practice for a few minutes, trying to let his interest in his dogs give him a break from worrying about Anne Galvin. Worrying would change nothing.

  The dogs were approaching the edge of the pine wood. “Come in. Come in.” And both stopped in their tracks, turned, and galloped back. Kenny beat Arthur by a nose.

  He’d used this spot years ago when he’d been training Arthur. It was one of those places that folks out for a walk didn’t seem to use much, and so having his educational efforts interrupted by other dogs had been unlikely. It still was.

  O’Reilly fished out his briar and lit up. “Sit.”

  Both dogs did.

  “Good. Now. Stay.” He walked over to the car, opened the boot, and took out the dummy and Kenny’s leash.

  Both dogs watched his every move but stayed where they were. “Good. Now, young Kenny, after being spoiled rotten by Anne, you are going to work for your keep.” O’Reilly bent and clipped on Kenny’s leash. “Kenny. Stay.”

  The pup looked at O’Reilly. The adoration in the young dog’s eyes would have softened Pharaoh’s hard heart. It melted O’Reilly’s. No wonder he’d had such a soothing effect on Anne Galvin. He repeated, “Kenny. Stay,” and hurled the dummy overhand to the edge of the clearing.

  Arthur leant forward, his breath coming in shorter pants.

  “Kenny. Stay. Arthur. Hi lost.”

  Arthur bounded off.

  Kenny lifted his backside as if to follow.

  “Stay.”

  Bottom hit grass.

  “Good dog. Good dog.” O’Reilly slipped Kenny a piece of puppy chow as Arthur arrived, dummy in mouth, and sat at O’Reilly’s feet.

  Before he could accept the dummy, O’Reilly heard a hail of, “Hello, Fingal,” from behind him and turned to see John MacNeill, Marquis of Ballybucklebo, sitting astride Ruby, Myrna’s mare. “Hello, John. Come on over.” O’Reilly took the dummy from Arthur. “Good. You take a breather, Arthur Guinness. Lie down.” The big Lab flopped onto the grass and put his head on his outstretched front legs.

  Ruby and the marquis ambled slowly over to join O’Reilly and the dogs. “So, this is the pup I’ve been hearing about?” said the marquis.

  “Yes, this indeed is Kenny, but if you’ll excuse me for a moment? Kenny. Stay.” O’Reilly hurled again, bent, and undid the leash. “Good. Now, Kenny, hi lost.”

  The pup took off like a rocket.

  “Sorry about that, but Kenny got ‘stay’ right for the first time ever and I didn’t want to stretch his patience.”

  “I completely understand. Please don’t let me interrupt. Lovely afternoon. Did you hear the cuckoo?”

  “I did.”

  “Sure sign summer’s on the way.” The marquis leaned over and patted the mare’s cheek. “I’ve recently discovered the cuckoo is from the same family as the American roadrunner.”

  O’Reilly chuckled. “Ours don’t go ‘meep-meep,’ like their Yankee cousin in that cartoon.”

  “And ours don’t have to worry about coyotes either.” John laughed and shifted in the saddle. “I was just out giving old Ruby a bit of exercise. We come here quite often. Myrna’s job at Queens keeps her pretty busy during the term weeks and she’s in Dublin this weekend. Some chemistry convention at Trinity.” He laughed. “Can’t have Ruby here getting fat like one of Thelwell’s ponies.”

  O’Reilly knew his friend was alluding to Norman Thelwell, an immensely popular British cartoonist who drew chubby little girls astride even chubbier ponies, which often peered through long fringes of mane.

  Kenny arrived back, and far from tussling over the dummy as he had over a rubber ball two weeks ago, sat and presented it to O’Reilly. “Good.” He patted Kenny’s head.

  He sent the pup out on another retrieve. “I’ve not spoken to Lars recently. Is he in Dublin with her?”

  “No. I think originally he was meant to be.” The marquis shook his head. “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on there. None of my business, really. I don’t see nearly as much of your brother now he’s got the paperwork for the transfer of the estate to the National Trust all sewn up.” He frowned and shook his head again.

  O’Reilly accepted the dummy from a now-panting Kenny and sent him out again. “John, are you hinting that all isn’t well between them?” The last time he’d seen Myrna and his brother they’d had a falling-out at the car races. Hardly much of a reason for a major split, but in his years in practice, O’Reilly had seen affairs founder over less. “I hope not,” he said. “I thought things were going swimmingly when they got back from Villefranche.”

  “I’m sure it’ll all blow over,” John said. “Now, I really must be getting back. Meeting with the National Trust folks this afternoon at Ballybucklebo House. You remember the day we met you and Kitty at the Transport and Folk Museum?”

  “At the horse-shoeing?”

  “That’s it. We were meeting with the museum people. They agreed to accept two of my eighteenth-century labourers’ cottages. We need to sort out the details of getting them from my estate to the museum grounds.” He started to turn Ruby’s head, then half turned in the saddle. “And please do give my regards to Kitty. Hope to see you both soon, Fingal. I’m going over to London tomorrow, but I’ll be back by lunchtime on Wednesday. Wednesday evening?”

  “I’ll need to ask Kitty, but I’ll let your staff know.”

  “Grand.” And without further ado, the marquis put his mount into a smart trot and was disappearing round a bend in the path when a panting Kenny came back.

  “Good,” said O’Reilly, accepting the dummy. “Right, you two. Very well done, but it’s time to head home. See if Kitty’s got any more work for me.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping his worries about Anne, and his brother and Myrna, would dissolve into the pine-scented air. Then he let the two dogs into the backseat and closed the door.

  16

  Vesti la Giubba. Put on Your Costume

  Barry and Sue bought their tickets and waited in the short queue behind Sonny and the Lindsay children. The two youngest were standing quietly, trying to see into the tent, but Sammy, who had demolished his candy floss, was now biting great chunks out of his toffee apple and chewing with his mouth open. His face was sticky with bits of apple and confectioner’s sugar.

  Barry hadn’t been fazed for years by the often unpleasant sights of medicine, but he still had an aversion to s
eeing what was in people’s mouths as they ate. He shuddered and half turned away from Sammy. He knew the paediatric developmental milestones: when a baby crawled, said its first words, walked. But he hadn’t a clue how long this unpleasant phase that Sammy Lindsay was exhibiting would have to be tolerated by parents.

  Donal Donnelly and Julie were queuing up behind. “It’s a great show, you know, Doc,” Donal said. “There’s a trained sea lion. The first time I seen him he played ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ on bicycle horns. You know, them ones with the rubber bulbs? He squeezed them with his mouth. I near laughed my leg off, so I did.” Donal’s eyes twinkled.

  “Little amuses the innocent,” Julie said, but she was smiling and Barry heard the affection in her voice and knew she was teasing Donal.

  “Ooof.” Julie grabbed her tummy. “If you’re right, Donal Donnelly, your wee boy’s going til be a centre forward. Thon was a powerful kick.”

  “We’ll find out in July,” Barry said, and watched as Sue regarded Julie with wonder and longing.

  The queue had moved and Sonny was giving in his tickets.

  Sammy dropped the stick and the core of his toffee apple on the ground and immediately hauled out his packet of clove rock. The peppery smell mingled with the animal odours coming from inside the tent.

  Barry wondered if there was some way he and Sue could sit with Donal and Julie, but as Barry showed their tickets to the ringmaster, Sonny said, “Just follow the usherette, Doctor. We need to stick together.”

  A heavily made-up young woman in silver soft shoes, fishnet tights, and a high-cut silver leotard was leading Sonny and the children.

  “I recognise her,” said Barry. “I’ve seen her picture on a poster. She’s the flyer, the acrobat who performs between two catchers on flying trapezes.”

  Sue glanced up. “I’m glad to see there’s a safety net.”

  “Me too. I don’t want to be giving first aid today.”

  Barry and Sue arrived at their seats. He was not overjoyed to discover he was sitting beside Sammy Lindsay, who was shoving another piece of clove rock into his mouth.

  Sonny waved from near the far end of the row.

  Barry waved back.

  Sammy offered the packet. “Want a sweetie, Doctor?”

  “No thank you, Sammy.”

  “Och, go on, go on. Have one.”

  “No-thank-you.” Barry made each word distinct. He shook his head and turned to Sue. “Comfy enough?”

  “Just fine, although these seats are a little hard on the derrière.”

  Barry whispered in her ear, “If it gets too sore, I’ll make it better after the show, back at your flat.”

  Sue’s chuckle was throaty. “I’ll hold you to that,” she said, and winked.

  Barry grinned. Finally, his day off was beginning to head in the right direction. He was alone, after a fashion, with Sue and the show was about to begin.

  “I’m going to enjoy this.” Sue nodded at the red raised circle surrounding the ring. “You really can smell the sawdust.” She loosened the top two buttons of her blouse. “Boy, it’s muggy in here.”

  “It is,” Barry said as he undid his tie and glanced at a hint of cleavage.

  Sammy was nudging Barry. He had no choice but to turn. He forced a smile. Allowances had to be made for children. “Yes, Sammy?”

  “Mister Houston says would you and Miss Nolan like an ice cream? See over thonder?”

  Barry looked to where a young woman stood in an aisle between tiers of benches. She wore a red short-skirted tunic and a striped pageboy hat cocked to one side of a blond bouffant hairdo. A tray in front of her waist, attached to a strap around her neck, contained wrapped ice creams, ice lollipops, and the popular fruit drink Kia-Ora.

  “I’m going to have a Walls chokky ice, so I am.”

  The thought of the ice cream’s oily texture did not appeal, but Barry turned to Sue. “Sonny’s offering to buy us an ice cream?”

  She shook her head. “Not for me, thanks. Got to think of my figure.”

  “No,” Barry said, “that’s my job, and I think a great deal about it.” He turned back to Sammy. “Please thank Mister Houston, but no thanks.”

  A sudden beating on the side drum heralded the band, which broke enthusiastically into that classic of all classic circus tunes, “Entry of the Gladiators,” a screamer march intended to whip the audience up. Even Barry, who was a little tone deaf, could appreciate the enthusiasm of the musicians. He tried not to smile when the music developed into a race between the trombonist and the rest of the ensemble to finish first. The trombonist won, the band came second, and the bass drummer a reluctant third, hitting two extra beats after everyone else had finished.

  Sammy started cheering in a series of high-pitched “Yoooooooo”s.

  Barry sighed. Perhaps the lad would settle down soon.

  A curtain rose at the far side and a single white-faced clown entered the ring. Under a white conical dunce’s cap, his alabaster makeup was highlighted by huge crimson lips and ebony eyebrows. His white Pierrot suit was covered with sparkling sequins. The jacket was short, the trousers swollen at the hip and tapering to cuffless ends halfway down his calves. He bore a shining brass trumpet and put it to his lips.

  Barry thrilled to the pure, clipped but soaring notes of Verdi’s “Triumphal March” from Aida. He slid a bit closer to Sue because Sammy just wouldn’t sit still.

  The clown led a stately procession round the ring. He was followed by an Indian elephant with the trapeze flyer, who moments ago had been the usherette, sitting like a mahout on its neck. The great beast curled its trunk upward and drowned out the music with an ear-piercing trumpeting while simultaneously depositing a heap of elephant apples, much to the great amusement of the children and a loud raspberry from Sammy. A man and a woman, each wearing tall red top hats and bright green tailcoats and trousers, strode in on ten-foot-high stilts.

  Four French poodles, all wearing tutus, followed. Each on command from their tutu-clad trainer rose on its hind legs and pirouetted before jumping through a ring held by the young woman.

  Three ponies, each with plumes on their heads, were led round by another ballerina. A cheer went up as the sea lion galumphed into view and began to honk raucously and clap its front flippers.

  “That’ll make Donal Donnelly happy,” Barry said.

  “I think a lot of things make Donal happy. I like that man’s philosophy of life,” said Sue.

  Barry thought he heard something in her tone and turned sharply to look at her face, but it was relaxed and smiling, enjoying the spectacle before them. A troupe of clowns was pushing each other, tripping, falling, doing handsprings. One was trying to juggle four coloured balls and kept dropping them, then chasing them across the sawdust and knocking his companions down.

  Sammy was up on his feet, dipping and swaying, mimicking the movements of the clowns. Barry overheard him say to Willie, “Say ‘thank you very much’ til Mister Houston.” There was a sound of paper being torn. The ice cream, no doubt.

  Then with a final deafening flourish, the trumpet solo finished and, strutting with all the pride of a Roman emperor, the scarlet-coated ringmaster made his entrance smiling widely and cracking his long horsewhip.

  The show was about to begin and Barry, trying hard not to let Sammy annoy him, settled back to enjoy the performance. He felt a small hand tug at his sleeve.

  “Doctor, I don’t feel so good.”

  “Watch the clowns, Sammy.”

  “No, Doc, I’m really peely-wally.” Then, without further ado, young Sammy Lindsay threw up in Barry’s lap.

  Barry leaped to his feet and before he could control himself yelled, “Och, Jaysus.” He could feel the warm creep of the vomit seeping through to his skin. “Why anybody, anybody in their right mind, would have a brood of bloody rug rats is utterly beyond me.”

  17

  Laugh, Clown, at Your Broken Love

  “Come on, Sue.” Barry was on his feet. His crotch
and upper thighs were damp and the stink of puke overpowered even the smells of animals and sawdust in the big top. He glanced over at Sammy, who was hunched over and clutching his tummy. “Sonny’ll have to see to him. He’s not ill. He’s just greedy and ate too much, and I can’t stay here like this.” And not just because he had to get cleaned up. After his last remark about people being out of their minds if they had kids, he had some fences to mend with Sue too.

  Barry followed Sue along the row, apologising to the folks who had to stand to let him pass. The ring was being rapidly cleared of the performers who had been part of the opening procession.

  In stentorian tones, the ringmaster announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, pray welcome our first act. Madame Barishnikova from deepest Kazakhstan…”

  More likely her name’s Mabel Thompson and she’s from the backstreets of Belfast, Barry thought. He was not in the mood to be entertained. Not now.

  “… and the world’s leading contortionist. Her act will have you, but mostly her, in knots. Ladies and gentlemen, if you please, a very warm welcome to…”

  The crowd applauded. There were catcalls and whistles.

  Still following Sue, Barry was ignoring the events in the ring, but his head turned instinctively when the entire audience went “oooooh.”

  Somehow the performer was supporting herself with her palms on the ground. Her arms had passed through the angle between shin and thigh caused by both ankles being locked behind her neck. The sequins of her leotard sparkled in the spotlights’ glare.

  As Barry turned away, the ringmaster bellowed, “And how, ladies and gentlemen, is Madame Barishnikova going to get out of that, I ask you?”

  She’s not the only one facing that difficulty, Barry thought, following Sue out into the clean air.

  “So what do you suggest we do about you?” Sue’s voice was flat. Not entirely controlled.

  “My clothes or—?”

  “Your clothes. I don’t want to talk about the other just now. I imagine you want to go home. Get cleaned up—” She took a deep breath. “—and change.”