An Irish Country Practice

by Patrick Taylor

  “Bit sore. Thanks for asking.”

  “I do hope it won’t be long until you are well mended. It is a good thing Doctor Fitzpatrick is on call tonight and you can rest up.”

  “Thanks, Kinky. I will once I’ve had a pint with Doctor O’Reilly.”

  “Himself left ten minutes ago with the dogs. Saving your presence, but the apple never falls far from the tree. You’re getting more like Doctor O’Reilly every day.”

  “I thought that saying applied to fathers and their children.” He glanced over at Kinky. What with Anne Galvin worried about her sons and Gracie’s talk of family, he’d thought of little else on the drive here. Perhaps his reservations were wrong. Of course, both Anne and Gracie had been giving the mother’s perspective. Maybe fathers felt differently?

  “It usually does.” She laughed and her chins wobbled. “But only if the fathers work at it. My own raised four of us near Beal na mBláth in County Cork on a shmall little farm. We did be poor farmers, but us children never went without, always had shoes on our feet. Da worked like a slave, but he always had time for the four of us. Taught my brother Tiernan road bowling. And I’ve watched Doctor O’Reilly work with you, sir, teaching you.”

  “Only if fathers worked at it,” she’d said. Was Barry willing to work? He shrugged. “I could do worse than Doctor O’Reilly. Mind you, my own dad’s not a bad example either.” Could he ask his father’s advice? The answer was of course no. Sue had said she would say nothing to anyone else and asked him to do the same. They were to let all their arrangements stand. He was duty-bound to respect that and indeed take some comfort from it. The hope was there that they could work it out and their wedding would proceed without anyone except Jack Mills and Fingal being any the wiser. He knew he was bending the rules talking to his friends, but he needed their counsel. Least said soonest mended.

  “He must have been, or you’d not have turned out so well.” Before waiting for a reply Kinky said, “We do be at the traffic light, and it’s in your favour. Trot along now. I’ll see you tomorrow, sir. Take care of yourself, bye.”

  “Night, Kinky. Safe home.” Barry crossed the road, and went in through the swing doors. This would not be a good place for Anne Galvin. The tobacco fug would have gagged a maggot. And yet the place did not seem to be as busy as usual. The hum of conversation was muted. Only an occasional burst of laughter.

  O’Reilly, briar belching, sat with Dapper Frew and Donal Donnelly, whose left hand was neatly swaddled in bandages. Arthur Guinness and a leashed Kenny lay under a table. Barry noticed the pup taking an experimental sip of Smithwick’s and wrinkling his nose. Arthur, as usual, was tucking right in.

  Barry joined the men. “Evening, everybody.”

  He was greeted in return.

  “How’s the rib?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Not too bad.” Barry looked over to Willie Dunleavy and nodded. Willie nodded back. He would bring over a pint of Guinness once it had been poured. “It’ll ache for a few weeks, but if I’m careful it’s tolerable. Could have been worse.”

  “Good.”

  “Quiet tonight,” Barry said. “Must be because it’s a Monday.”

  “No, sir,” Donal Donnelly said, surveying the room. “Take a look around. There’s Dapper here…”

  Barry decided this was neither the time nor place to tell the estate agent he’d probably lost a sale. It was unlikely the news of Lewis Miller’s death would be common knowledge in the village yet. Barry remembered Gracie’s eyes, full of longing and grief. He sighed and Kenny got up and put his head on Barry’s lap.

  “… and youse two doctors. But near everybody else is in farming or works for the Harland and Wolff shipyards. Lots of work there, so there is. They’re on schedule with the Myrina. She’s the first supertanker ever to be built in the U.K., and there’s an oil-drilling rig, Sea Quest, being put together on three separate slipways.”

  “Doctor Laverty.” Willie set down a pint.

  “Thanks, Willie.” Barry pulled out his wallet and Kenny returned to the floor to sniff suspiciously again at the Smithwick’s. “Cheers.” He took a pull and looked round. Many of the familiar faces were indeed missing. “So what’s going on?”

  “Mister Bishop’s men are pulling their horns in. We thought we’d be at work next month, but now we can only start in June.” He shrugged.

  “Any idea what’s causing the holdup?” Barry asked.

  “Och,” said Donal, “the ministry’s being slow producing the permits, that’s all. Just the usual oul’ load of red crêpe.”

  “Tape, Donal,” O’Reilly said.

  Despite his mood, Barry found it hard not to smile.

  “Right enough. Tape. They’re just a big bunch of bureaucratic bollixes. Couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. But it’s holding us up from earning our crust.”

  “And is that why you’re only drinking a half-pint?” O’Reilly said, indicating the slim glass.

  “I have til cut back on the spending until we do get back til work,” Donal said, “but I miss the craic so I like to pop in and see my pals. Anyroad, I suppose the timing’s good in a way, with this hand of mine. Doctor O’Reilly here stitched me up on Sunday morning. Got lifted for taking game out of season.”

  Dapper said, “It’s a pity Malcolm got close enough to pull off your balaclava. The Peelers can’t arrest you unless they’ve identified you properly.”

  Donal laughed. “You mean like the two fellows down from Belfast that Malcolm wanted to do for drunk and disorderly last year? Says he til one, ‘What’s your address?’ and your man says, ‘No fixed abode.’ So Malcolm turns til the other. “How about you? Where do you live?’ He staggers a bit then says, “Ossifer, I lives in your man’s first-floor flat, so I do.’”

  Barry had to cut his laugh short when his rib protested. But he was still full of admiration at Donal’s skills as a raconteur. Barry took a drink of the bittersweet stout as O’Reilly and Dapper joined in the mirth.

  “To be more serious,” Donal said, “I felt like a bit of cheering up, so Julie says I should come down here.”

  Wise move, Barry thought. He’d needed the same, and already his mood was lighter.

  “So I did. It was good to see Dapper. You’re a good head, Frew. He said he’d stand me a pint but,” Donal shrugged, “I asked Willie for a glass of water. He’s a sound man too. Heart of corn. Says he, ‘I’ll stand you a pint the night.’”

  “So, Donal, you wouldn’t accept a pint from a friend, but would take one from the publican? What’s the difference?” Barry asked.

  “Och,” said Donal, “a good publican like Willie buys all his regulars a drink once in a while. It’s like advertising to keep your trade, so you don’t feel obliged to him like you would to a friend.”

  “I see. That makes good sense.”

  “So then I asked him, could I please have a half-pint tonight and put the other half in the stable for next time I’m in.” He finished his glass. “That half-pint may have to do me til June when Mister Bishop hopes to get the road building under way.” He rose. “Anyway, I’m for home. Good til have seen youse, sirs.”

  “I hope you do get work soon, Donal,” O’Reilly said, and Barry saw the sincere concern in his senior partner’s face. And something else too.

  “If I don’t, I’ve a half notion of a way til raise a bit of dosh,” Donal said, “and I may need medical advice. But not the night, sir. Not the night.”

  Dapper stood and sank his drink. “I’ll give you a lift home, Donal. You can put your bike in the boot. Night, all.”

  O’Reilly shook his shaggy head. “Incorrigible, that Donal. What the hell’s he cooking up now?”

  “No idea,” Barry said, and took another pull, “but with Donal Donnelly, it’s bound to be a corker. I wonder why he might need medical advice?”

  “Beats me,” O’Reilly said. He frowned. Looked thoughtful. “Even though they get their unemployment benefit, maybe it’s Bertie’s crew of ten who are going to b
e needing Kinky’s four hundred pounds.”

  Barry had quite forgotten about Kinky’s winnings. “Maybe,” he said.

  O’Reilly’s pipe had gone out so he relit it. “So tell me, how was your afternoon?”

  Barry could feel his spirits lighten even more as he said, “Anne Galvin was so glad she’s not got cancer she’s going to try to quit smoking.” He looked hard at O’Reilly’s fuming pipe and was studiously ignored. “But I’m afraid poor old Lewis Miller died last night. Gracie’s daughter is there keeping her mum company. The funeral’s later this week.”

  “I’m sorry to hear he’s gone,” O’Reilly said. “Truly, but ‘Media vitae morte sumus.’”

  “‘In the midst of life we are in death.’ I know. We learned quite early in our clinical training that if us doctors-to-be were to break our hearts over every death, we’d not remain sane for long.”

  O’Reilly smiled. “True. But there’ll always be those that stick in your mind. I lost a man called Kevin Doherty when I was a student. Rheumatic heart failure. I still think about him now and then.” He took a deep pull from his pint. “We can’t do anything for them anymore when someone’s gone, but we must care for the bereaved, and we also have a duty to the living.”

  “I know.”

  “And I don’t just mean when they get sick. It’s getting a bit concerning that Bertie Bishop isn’t able to get started. I’m worried about both Bertie and his crew. I owe Bertie Bishop for all his help with that council business this spring.”

  Typical O’Reilly, Barry thought. Carries the whole village and townland on his broad shoulders.

  Kenny stuck his head out from under the table and O’Reilly patted it. “I was teaching the pup here to retrieve the other day and I met John MacNeill. I’ve remembered something he said that gave me an idea when we were talking to Donal. Maybe John can help. Kitty and I are invited for a meal. We’re going next Wednesday. I’ll ask him then.”

  The swing doors opened and Barry looked up to see who had come in. Good Lord. Doctor Ronald Fitzpatrick? What the hell was he doing here? He was meant to be on call. Maybe he’d come to seek advice about a patient.

  Fitzpatrick raised his arm in greeting and weaved over to their table, where he sat heavily, knocking his pince-nez askew. “My ’steemed—’steemed colleagues. A ver-very good ev’ning. How—how do you both do this f-fine ev’ning?”

  “God almighty,” O’Reilly said, leaning forward and sniffing the man’s breath. “Ronald, you’re full as a goat. What the hell have you been doing?”

  “I have come…” He swayed in his chair. “I have come seeking assistance. I have made anerrorin…” He blinked and shook his head. “I have made—an erreh in judgement, and am a little unwell.”

  “Unwell? Unwell?” O’Reilly spoke sotto voce. “You’re bloody well stocious.”

  Barry realised the room had gone quiet. Everyone was staring.

  “Fingal. We’ve got to get him out of here. He’s ruining his reputation.”

  “You’re right, and with a bust rib you’re in no condition to help oxtercog him. Can you bring the dogs home?”

  “I can.”

  “Lenny,” O’Reilly called to Colin Brown’s father. “Could you come over here, please.”

  Lenny, a plater at the shipyard, stood and moved toward the doctors’ table.

  O’Reilly raised his voice. “Doctor Fitzpatrick has taken a turn. I’m going to ask Lenny here to help get him to my surgery, so quit your rubbernecking.” He took off Ronald’s pince-nez and stuffed it in the man’s jacket pocket. “Having a turn could happen to a bishop.”

  An unidentified voice called, “Aye, a bishop that’s got at the communion wine.”

  There was general laughter.

  “What do you want me til do, sir?” Lenny asked.

  Barry left his pint unfinished, rose, and, taking Kenny’s leash, said, “Come.”

  Both dogs obeyed. He held open the swing door as O’Reilly and Lenny marched past with Ronald Fitzpatrick’s skinny arms draped over their shoulders. “I’ll see you at Number One,” Barry said and set off, the dogs obediently at heel. They were both, under O’Reilly’s tutelage, well behaved. Would it take the same, Barry wondered, for Ronald Fitzpatrick to behave himself?

  * * *

  Barry had left the dogs in the back garden, happily tucking into the remains of two deboned lamb chops. He opened the front door to Fingal, Lenny, and their burden.

  “Bring him into the surgery, Lenny.”

  “Right, Doc.”

  Barry followed.

  O’Reilly, with Lenny’s help, hoisted Ronald Fitzpatrick up onto the examining couch, where he lay reclining at an angle of forty-five degrees. “Thanks, Lenny.”

  Fitzpatrick muttered, “Thank you both.”

  “Can I do anything else, Doc?”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “We’ll look after him now. Can you let yourself out?”

  “Aye, certainly.”

  “And Lenny? Do me a favour. Could you make light of this incident back at the Duck? I’ve never in my life seen Doctor Fitzpatrick in this condition, he hardly touches the stuff, and I’ve known him since 1931.”

  “I believe you, Doctor. Sure anyone can get full once in a while.” He grinned. “And the Duck crowd aren’t the ones til be pointing fingers, so they’re not. I’ll do my best. Good night.”

  O’Reilly said to Barry, “Remember the night he came to the Duck a couple of weeks ago and said ‘I could get a taste for this stuff’? I think he has. Have you, Ronald?”

  “I am very—hic—sorry. Very sorry. I don’t t’ink—hic—I’ve a head for drink. I do—hic—apog—apog—apologise.”

  Barry shook his head. He couldn’t claim to know Ronald Fitzpatrick well, but this poor drunk was a far cry from the punctilious man he usually appeared to be.

  O’Reilly said, “Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

  Fitzpatrick’s hiccups had stopped. “Yes. And I am very,” he sighed, “very ashamed. I prom’sed I’d not start gambling ’gain, but…” He hung his head and gave O’Reilly the look of a chastised puppy. “I’ve been bad.”

  “Go on,” O’Reilly said.

  Barry heard the coolness in his senior partner’s voice.

  “I did rather well ’is af’noon at Ladbroke’s, the bookie’s. I’d no surgery. No home visits and I wasn’t s’posed to be on call here until five. I nipped into the Old Priory in Holywood to cebel—celebrate.” He hung his head. “I t’ink. No. No. I know, I had one over the eight.” He hung his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “And so you should be,” O’Reilly said. “Just how much and what did you have?”

  “A nice man helped me cebe—he—No, I bought them. We had what he called horses’ necks.”

  “That, Barry, if you don’t know,” O’Reilly said, “is a pint with a whiskey in it. The Yanks call it a boilermaker.”

  Ronald Fitzpatrick counted on his fingers. “I think I’d six.” Then to Barry’s horror, Doctor Ronald Fitzpatrick began to cry. Great heaving sobs. He stuttered. “I knew I c-c-c-couldn’t take call, no one answered your phone, s-s-so I took a taxi here to Number One.”

  “At least you’d the wit not to drive,” O’Reilly said.

  “There was no one in so I tried the Du-Du-Duck.”

  “I’m glad you did,” O’Reilly said. “If you’d tried to take care of a patient in your condition you could have killed somebody.”

  Barry was aware that O’Reilly’s nose tip had gone white. A sure sign his mentor was on the verge of exploding.

  O’Reilly said, his voice level, “As a colleague and a friend I’ll try to help you. Compulsive gambling’s a disease like any other. And you’re right. You’ve no head for drink, so stay away from it. No reason why you can’t. It takes practice to become an alcoholic and you’ve only been at it a couple of weeks.”

  Fitzpatrick’s sobbing increased in volume.

  Barry had no handkerchief so offered the man a small surgical to
wel to dry his tears.

  “Thank you. Never thought I’d use one of th-these as a hanky.”

  “Now. Barry here is suffering from a cracked rib and I wanted him to rest this evening. I’ll run you home to the Kinnegar, Ronald. And once I get back I’ll take over, but Barry, you’ll have to take call while I’m gone.”

  “I will,” Barry said, silently thanking Fingal.

  “Thank you both. And I’m sorry, Doctor Laverty.” Fitzpatrick honked into the towel.

  “Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick”—O’Reilly’s voice had dropped and Barry heard pure venom—“if you ever, ever come within a mile of putting any of our patients at risk because you’ve been drinking, you’re out of the rota and a letter will go to the General Medical Council, and your licence will be in jeopardy. Is that clear?”

  Fitzpatrick’s “Yes, Fingal” was practically inaudible.

  24

  Lords Have Their Pleasures

  The sculptured trees flanking the drive up to Ballybucklebo House, once the pride of the topiarist’s art, looked to O’Reilly, he could think of no other words, as if they needed a haircut. Leaves and branches straggled here and there. John MacNeill was having to cut back on staff. The gravel crunched under the Rover’s tyres as O’Reilly swerved to avoid hitting one of his lordship’s peacocks and the bird’s dowdy consort. He had to work hard to avoid skidding. “Stupid birds,” he yelled.

  The sapphire-cloaked, silver-winged, and fan-tailed cock heaped scorn on the insult by screeching at the top of his voice in tones that would have cut tin.

  O’Reilly laughed. “They usually only do that immediately before, during, or after copulation,” he said.

  Kitty solemnly asked, “Do you think, in the words of one of your old Dublin patients, the peacock was hinting that you should feck off?”

  O’Reilly guffawed. “Trust you, Kitty O’Reilly. That’s one of the very many reasons I love you. You are a thoroughly earthy woman.” He parked outside the broad sandstone steps up to the front door.