An Irish Country Practice

by Patrick Taylor

  Connor laughed. “Mister Greer played rugby too. I wasn’t able to, but despite my leg I was pretty good at table tennis. I don’t know too much about b-boxing.” There was a seriousness to his next question. “If a fighter stood facing his opponent and let go what I believe is called a straight right, and the defendant failed to b-block the punch, where would he get hit?”

  O’Reilly managed to get past the slow-moving dairy lorry. “He’d have a bloody great bruise round his left nipple.”

  “That’s what Hester has.”

  O’Reilly shook his head and smiled. “I don’t think the country women of the Ballybucklebo townland go in much for street fighting. They’re too busy trying to keep the farm going.”

  “I think a rake handle would make a much narrower bruise.” Connor cocked his head. “What about her husband? What kind of a man is he?”

  O’Reilly’s lip curled. “He’s a bully and an unmitigated bastard and he’d run faster than that hare I just missed before he’d put his fists up.” O’Reilly snorted. The very thought of Hubert Doran boxing? It would make a cat laugh.

  “I don’t mean that,” Connor said. “What if it was her husband who h-hit her today—and was the cause of her earlier injuries too? Do you think he’s that kind of a man?”

  O’Reilly could think of nothing to say. Connor’s words had hit him the way that rake had hit Hester. Or had it? He needed to think. Now. Did Connor Nelson, courtesy of his working-class background, have special knowledge O’Reilly himself lacked?

  He saw a lane a few hundred feet ahead, pulled into it, turned off the engine, and hauled out and lit up his pipe. Could Hubert Doran be beating his wife? “Six or seven years ago I was out on the Houstons’ property next door to the Dorans’. I heard a ferocious howling and there he was, the bastard, holding a golden retriever bitch by her ear—her ear—and beating the tar out of her with her own leash. He was screaming at her and he punched her. I ran over and, damn it all, I was furious. He set up to hit her again so I grabbed his arm and I decked him. He was out for about two minutes. When he came to, I told him if he ever—ever—laid hands on a dog like that again, I’d thrash the bejasus out of him.”

  “Sounds like the type,” Connor said. His gaze, which he fixed on O’Reilly, was wistful. Sad. “Friday nights on Rydalmere Street were,” the young man paused, “eventful. The men at the match factory got paid their wages at knocking-off time. Some went to the b-boozer, got pissed, and some of them came home and beat the living bejasus out of their wives. My mammy ran an amateur first-aid station—the women wouldn’t go to the hospital, swore b-blind they’d had a fall, bumped into something.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said O’Reilly. He found the whole idea of an Irishman raising his fist to a woman incomprehensible. He saw a crestfallen look on Connor’s face and realised it sounded as if he doubted the man’s veracity. “Sorry, Connor,” he said. “I’m not calling you a liar. You’re telling me that men in Belfast beat their wives. Their own wives? I never heard the like.”

  “Why would you, Fingal? You just said the people of the Liberties didn’t run to the doctor for bumps and bruises. And the men were usually smart enough to hit where it didn’t show.”

  O’Reilly eyes widened. “Like Hester’s bruise today?” He said quietly, “And it was wider than I expected.”

  “That’s right. I wanted to see how she’d react when I asked about her husband. Did you hear her voice?”

  “I did. It was…” He struggled for the right word. “Defiant? Defensive?” Connor was onto something here.

  “They always were like that on Friday nights at our house too. The poor women think they’re to b-blame, that it’s their fault. They’re ashamed of themselves, don’t want to let their husbands down in public, and wouldn’t dream of going to the authorities,” Connor said. “There’s even a song about it.

  When I was single I had a plaid shawl

  Now that I’m married I wear none at all

  But still I love him I’ll forgive him

  I’ll go with him wherever he goes.

  “‘I’ll forgive him,’ and they do. They do. Over and over. When you asked them outright, they’d deny it. My mammy knew, and she taught me that a man should never hit anybody, especially a woman.”

  O’Reilly shook his head, let go an enormous cloud of pipe smoke. If Connor’s right, he thought, something must be done. He started the Rover and backed out onto the road. “So how do we find out what’s going on?” he asked as he turned the wheel and headed for Number One Main.

  Connor shrugged. “We could ask Hester, b-but I don’t think she’ll tell tales. Even if she does, I’ve no notion about what to do next.”

  “Nor me,” O’Reilly said, “but,” he nodded to himself, “a few weeks back I had to treat my brother and remarked then that it’s useful to have a doctor in the family. Sometimes it may be useful to have a solicitor too. There’s got to be some legal recourse.” He puffed, blew out another blue cloud, and said, “Right. We’ll nip into Number One, let the dogs off. I’ll phone my brother and get advice, and head straight back to the Houstons’ before Hester goes back home. I want to put it to her—gently, of course. But I want to see if she’ll confide in her doctors at least. She’s safe for now. Doran’s at that farm thing in Scotland. But this can’t go on. And since Eileen and the chisslers are going home, perhaps Maggie and Sonny can put Hester up once Doran returns, just until we figure out what’s to be done.”

  “She probably won’t stay, but if she tries to, her husband will likely come and take her home anyway,” Connor said. “I’ve seen it happen.”

  O’Reilly indicated for the left turn into his back lane. He owed Connor an apology. “I was wrong, Connor Nelson.”

  “About what?”

  O’Reilly ignored the question. “Any time, lad, you think I’m making a mistake about one of the customers, don’t hesitate to say so. Not in front of them, mind. But tell me, just like you did today. You did very well.”

  Connor laughed. “Thank you.” His voice became more serious. “I’ve heard tell, Doctor O’Reilly, that you always put the patient—or should I say customer—first. That’s the kind of doctor I want to be too.”

  O’Reilly guffawed. “Good man-ma-da.” He parked. “Now, let’s do what we have to here and then get moving to see what we can do for Hester Doran.”

  Connor whispered, as if to himself, “If anything.”

  27

  He Would Bet You Which One Would Fly First

  “Morning everybody.” Barry opened the waiting room door and was greeted by a small chorus of “Good morning, Doctor Laverty.” Now that cold and flu season was well over, the room was half empty and Barry felt disappointed. He’d still had no word from Sue, and work might take his mind off that constant ache. Put it away, he told himself, and get on with your job.

  “Who’s first?”

  Donal and Julie Donnelly rose.

  “Morning, Donnellys. Come on, then.” Barry headed back toward the surgery. He’d last seen Julie in early April. She’d been twenty-seven weeks. Now, on Monday, May 1, she’d be one day short of thirty. He took them in and closed the door. “How are you doing, Julie?”

  “Can’t complain, sir. Usual aches and pains. Backache. Lots of kicking.”

  “When he grows up, the wee lad’ll be playing for Manchester United, just like Georgie Best,” Donal said, taking one of the wooden chairs. “I can’t wait til show him how til pass a football.” He pulled his duncher from his pocket, gesturing with it as if it were a ball and grinning.

  George Best, a Belfast native, was rated one of the world’s top players of all time. Donal Donnelly was still convinced his offspring was going to be a boy, and, Barry thought with a smile, a boy his father was clearly going to enjoy playing with.

  “One thing about kids. They keep folks young,” Julie said, and gave Donal an indulgent look and shook her head. “Here you are, sir.” Julie handed Barry a small plastic bottle.

 
“Thanks.” Barry took the bottle and set it on his desk. “Let’s get you weighed, Julie.” He helped her onto the scale. “You’ve put on eight pounds.” That was a couple of pounds more than Barry would have liked, but he wasn’t going to make a fuss if everything else was all right. He helped her up onto the examining couch. As she adjusted her clothes so Barry could examine her belly, he tested her urine. No albumin. No sugar. Good.

  Barry satisfied himself that all was going according to plan. Her blood pressure was holding at 130 over 85, up a tad but not enough to cause concern. No swelling of her ankles. Add that to a blood pressure that was only slightly elevated and no albumin, he could exclude pre-eclamptic toxaemia, a condition that threatened both mother and child.

  She was certainly carrying high, but he could detect no sign of an excess of amniotic fluid, a condition known as polyhydramnios. The foetal heart rate was normal and this time the baby’s head was at the lower end of the uterus. He smiled. “It looks A1 at Lloyd’s,” he said. “Please get dressed.”

  Julie sat up and tucked in her blouse. “And I went til the post office last week,” she said, “eleven weeks before my due date, just like you said to, Doctor, and collected my first maternity allowance. Three pound seven and six. And I’ll get the same this week. Every wee bit helps.” She sat up and Barry helped her down.

  “Aye, it does,” said Donal. “And I suppose you heard, Doc, that I got lifted?”

  “I did indeed, Donal. You told us last Monday in the pub. Remember?”

  Donal shook his carroty head. “D’y’h know, I’d clean forgot, so I had. I must be getting magnesia.”

  “Amnesia,” Barry said.

  “Aye. Right enough. Anyroad, it was just a bit of bad luck. That’s when I cut my hand, but it’s all better now.” He held it up, palm out. “See. Healed up a treat”—the new scar was clean and pink—“but I’m up in court on June the twelfth and I know I’ll get a fine. I just hope it’s after Mister Bishop gets us all back til work.”

  “Still no word on the road contract?”

  Donal shook his head. “Not a dicky bird, but him and me and the marquis were on the estate on Friday. There’s two cottages til be moved til the museum. The marquis asked Mister Bishop til tender for doing it. He brung me along for carpentry advice. If he gets the job, it’d keep us busy until we get going on the road building. Be a lifesaver, so it would.”

  “Any idea when you’ll hear?”

  Donal shook his head. “But I hope it’ll be soon. Mind you,” Donal looked wistful, “being off work’s got its advantages. I’ve all the time in the world to play with wee Tori. We took her up til Belfast last week, til the Templemore Avenue swimming baths. You should see her in the water. Like a wee seal, she is.” He turned and put a work-roughened hand on Julie’s. “Our own wee selkie.” They smiled at each other. “And the gurgles and chuckles of her? It made me laugh so hard I near drownded. But Julie came and saved me.” He grinned his buck-toothed grin.

  Barry tilted his head. “You enjoy being a daddy, Donal.”

  “I do, Doc. Even more than I thought. You’ll see for yourself one day,” Donal said. “There’s going til be another one after this wee lad.”

  Julie said, “That’s right.”

  “Good for you, but let’s get this one here first,” Barry said, and sat at the rolltop desk to fill in a form. “Now, I need you to get some routine blood work done just like in your last pregnancy, Julie, before I see you in two weeks. Nip down to Bangor Hospital.” He stood and handed her the form, indicating the consultation was over, but added, as he did with every patient, “Have you any questions for me?”

  Julie shook her head.

  Donal said, “I’ve a wee one, so I have.”

  “Fire away.” Hadn’t Donal remarked last Monday night about “a way til raise a bit of dosh,” and needing medical advice? What was coming?

  “You reckon Julie’s due on July the twelfth, isn’t that right, sir. Like I told you before, if the wee lad arrives dead on time he’ll get called William.”

  “For King William of Orange?” Barry smiled. “The twelfth’s the due date, all right.”

  “What are the odds she’ll have the wean on that day?”

  Barry frowned. “Odds? I’m not sure I understand.”

  Donal cocked his head. “Look, sir, out of a wheen of women who got pregnant on the same day, not counting them who miscarried like poor Julie did with our first”—he flashed her a look of deep sympathy—“of one hundred that kept going, how many would deliver exactly on time and how many wouldn’t?”

  “Uh-huh, I see. Well, you know that doctors count the length of a pregnancy in weeks?”

  “Aye. And Julie’s near thirty now, aren’t you, love?”

  “That’s right,” she said. “Not long to go.”

  Barry closed his eyes and summoned up the figures he’d learned years ago. “People who study these things have calculated that of your hundred women, approximately ten will deliver before thirty-seven weeks…”

  Donal had fished out a notebook and a pencil and was scribbling. “That leaves ninety.”

  “The rest will have the baby somewhere between the start of the thirty-seventh and the end of the forty-second weeks. Only five will hit the bull’s-eye, the exact day, and the specialists don’t like women to go more than ten days past it, so they induce labour in those women.” What the hell was Donal going to do with this information? Even he wouldn’t dare lay odds on his own wife’s due date, would he?

  “And that’s it, sir?”

  “Best as I can remember.”

  Donal’s facial expressions changed as rapidly as wind-driven cloud shadows dashing over a field, a sure sign he was indulging in a series of mental contortions. “So, if I’ve got this right, that’s six weeks or forty-two days, but the doctors don’t let a woman go more than ten days over? Forty-two take away four, that’s thirty-eight days when the wean can come, and nobody can tell exactly when that’ll be?”

  Barry nodded.

  Donal grinned and said to Julie, “Didn’t I tell you, love, that Doctor Laverty is a learnèd man and would know?”

  She smiled and nodded.

  “What you are saying, Doc, is that the due date is pretty inaccurate. Only five out of one hundred? That’s odds of twenty to one, so it is. I’d not back a horse at them.”

  Barry laughed. “It’s not exactly a horse race, you know.”

  Donal ignored the comment. “Dead on. Thanks a million, Doc.” He rose.

  “Not so fast, Donal Donnelly,” Barry said. “What’s all this about?” There were only a few patients to be seen. He’d all the time in the world to satisfy his curiosity.

  Donal blushed to the roots of his carroty hair. Frowned. “You’ll not tell nobody, sir? At least not until it’s out in the open?”

  “Donal, what a thing to ask,” Barry said. “Of course not.”

  “All right. I’m going til run a sweepstake.”

  Barry had quick flashbacks to a long line of Donal’s escapades that included a fixed raffle for a good Christmas cause, a disguised racing greyhound, and selling fragments of Brian Boru’s war club. He supposed betting on when Donal’s wife would give birth made a kind of Donnelly logic too.

  “I’ll start selling tickets when Julie reaches thirty-six weeks. Folks don’t like to wait too long for the results. Each day from the start of her week thirty-seven will be numbered from one til thirty-eight. That would be til forty weeks and ten days like you said, sir.”

  “And?” Barry was beginning to see how it would work.

  “A pound buys you a day, and no day’ll be sold to more than one punter, but anyone can buy as many days as they like.”

  “Sort of like the Irish Hospitals’ Sweepstakes and Julie here is the horse. So it is like a horse race.”

  “I suppose so, sir.” Donal eyed Barry. “Do you not think it’s a good idea? It’s not illegal, mind. And if I sell all thirty-eight days, that would be thirty-eight quid.”r />
  “I think it’s a fine idea. How much does the winner make?”

  “Whoever has the winning day gets ten pounds.”

  Barry whistled. “That’s a fair bit of money.”

  Donal winked. “Sure aren’t you a fisherman, sir?”

  “I am.”

  “Then you’d know that if you want til catch a fish, you have til use the right fly.”

  Barry nodded. If this worked out, Donal stood to make twenty-eight quid, there’d be one happy bettor, no one who lost would suffer drastically and, being Ballybucklebo, Barry was sure Donal would reach full subscription if only because he was a popular man and the villagers were renowned for their willingness to support each other. “You, Donal Donnelly,” Barry said, “missed your calling.” If he’d had the education, stockbroker might have been more Donal’s avocation.

  Julie said, “There’s no curing him, sir,” but her smile was gentle and loving. “Come on, love. Doctor Laverty’s a busy man, so he is. I’ll see yiz in two weeks, sir.” She rose and together they left.

  Barry chuckled. Incorrigible, but not a hair of harm in the man. Donal Donnelly was definitely one of a kind. And it was clear he doted on children. Barry was missing Sue as a man might miss his right arm. Damn it all. Enough. He’d call her today. If surgery finished soon enough, he might even catch her at morning break time at MacNeill Memorial Primary.

  He was smiling on his way back to the waiting room and laughed when he had to step aside for Lady Macbeth who, clearly beset by the demons that intermittently affect all felines, tore past him at full speed, cornered on two legs round the banisters’ newel post, and raced up the stairs.

  “Right,” he said, looking into the waiting room, “who’s next?” and was surprised when Anne Galvin stood up. Surely she must be the last one to have arrived? Yet there were no protests from any of the other patients. “Come along then,” he said, hoping her chest wasn’t playing up again.

  They started down the hall and she cleared her throat. “I told all the others I just wanted a wee question answered,” she said quickly. “I promised not to take up your time for more than a wee minute, sir. They said til go ahead. Decent folks.”