An Irish Country Practice

by Patrick Taylor

  “They are that,” Barry said, going into the surgery. “So what can I do for you?” He closed the door.

  “I came til tell you I’ve not had a smoke since I seen you last, and that was a week today, so it was. And I’m coughing even more…”

  “That’s to be expected. It’ll get better soon.”

  She put her hand in her pocket and produced a small paper bag. “It’s clove rock. When I really want a smoke, I gobble one of these sweeties. I’ve saved a pound already. I was doing my shopping today so I was in the village anyway and I wanted til spare you the trouble of coming out to see me. That’s all, sir.” She smiled. “We all know youse doctors are busy.”

  “Anne, that’s wonderful about the smoking. Wonderful. And very thoughtful of you to drop in,” Barry said. “Thank you. Now keep up the good work. It’ll get easier and easier as the days go by.”

  “I will, sir, and I’ll let myself out so you can see who’s next.” She headed for the door.

  A touched Barry Laverty shook his head. There were more benefits to being a GP here in Ballybucklebo than the salary he got from Fingal. He headed back to the waiting room.

  He could hear Kinky busily hoovering upstairs. Barry was just about to call for the next patient when O’Reilly rushed from the kitchen and into the hall. It was clearly urgent because without as much as a hello, O’Reilly went to the hall telephone. “Have to talk to my brother,” he said.

  And he was talking as Barry returned with his next patient, but then he put the receiver down—hard—and galloped off. Barry frowned. O’Reilly usually worked on the festina lente, or “make haste slowly,” principle. When dealing with patients, he only ran for severe pain or bleeding. His brother was forty minutes away in Portaferry. So what in the name of the wee man was going on? Barry shrugged. He’d just have to wait to find out.

  He looked at his watch. Eleven fifteen. It would be morning break time at the school. “Go on into the surgery, John,” he said. “I’ve a phone call to make. Only be a minute.” John Gallagher was one of Bertie Bishop’s crew and by the way he had a hand in the small of his back, he probably wanted a disability certificate so he could draw sickness benefit.

  “Right, sir.”

  Barry picked up the phone, dialled, and had the operator at the school connect him with the staff room. “Hello? Yes. It’s Doctor Laverty. Is Miss Nolan there, please?”

  “Hang on.”

  He could hear the hum of background conversation, then, “Barry?”

  He thought he’d had momentary cardiac arrest just from hearing her voice. Was she excited to hear from him? “Sue. I—”

  “You’ll have to speak up. There’s a terrible row in here.” Her tones were matter-of-fact. Of course she’d not want to let her feelings show in front of the other teachers.

  “I-I understand.” He raised his voice. “Look, it’s been eight days, Sue. I have to see you. I’m off tonight. Will you have dinner with me?” He realised if he didn’t relax his grip on the receiver he might crack the Bakelite. He waited, his breath caught in his upper chest.

  “I’m sorry, Barry. I can’t. I’ve a meeting. You remember my old Campaign for Social Justice?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s been replaced. On April the ninth we formed the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association. I’m on the steering committee. We have meetings all this week. This weekend, I have to go down to Broughshane to see how Dad is. And right now I have to get back to class. I’m sorry.”

  What could he say? He exhaled.

  “You still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Barry, I’ll call you next Monday. I promise.” And with that she hung up.

  Barry replaced the receiver. He was trembling and without thinking whispered, “But Sue, I love you.” He had to wait for five more silent minutes before he felt well enough collected to go and see John Gallagher and feign sympathy for what was probably a nonexistent condition that could not be refuted and would require a certificate of disability.

  28

  In Quietness and in Confidence

  O’Reilly, with no Kitty to restrain him, was driving with his old recklessness, narrowly missing a cyclist and roaring down the country lanes, eager to get back to Hester as quickly as possible. “I got through to my brother, Connor,” he said, “but he wants to look into it more, and there are some family matters he and I need to discuss too. We’ve got until Hester’s husband gets back from Scotland, so Kitty and me will go down there on Wednesday. I’ll get it straightened out then.” He turned to Connor.

  “You’re the b-boss, boss,” said Connor with a fleeting smile. “Y-you did see that cyclist, right?”

  “Of course I did,” roared O’Reilly. “Now, Lars says there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of legal protection for her, but he’ll find out what he can. I think it’s going to be up to us to do something.”

  “I agree,” Connor said.

  O’Reilly honked at a man trundling along on a motor-assisted bike, who pulled right over so O’Reilly could speed past. O’Reilly turned right on the road up to the Houstons’ house. “What do you reckon’s the best way to get the truth out of Hester, Connor? I’d like your advice. You say you’ve seen many wives who were beaten by their husbands.”

  There was sadness in the young man’s voice when he said, “Too bloody many.”

  What might go on behind the velvet curtains of exclusive places like Blackrock in Dublin or the Malone Road in Belfast? O’Reilly wondered. Come to think of it, he had from time to time seen a wife of one of the highheejins with bruises or a black eye, always blamed on an accident. And he’d always accepted the explanation. Upper-class boys, and he was one, were trained from childhood to believe that women were the weaker sex and should be treated with the utmost respect and protected. Any so-called “gentleman” who would raise his fist to a woman had forfeited the right to be called a man.

  “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this. Do you think if you saw Hester on your own, you’d be more likely to get the answers? Know the right questions to ask? Pick up the clues?”

  Connor frowned. “I probably do have a better notion what to look for, but…” He pursed his lips, inhaled, then shook his head. “No. I d-don’t think so. You’ve been her doctor for years, haven’t you?”

  O’Reilly nodded. “On and off. She and her husband left the practice after I decked Hubert over that dog business seven years ago. Hardly surprising. But what was surprising was that she rejoined last month on her own.”

  “If she’ll confide in anybody, it’ll be you.”

  “You know I can’t help but feel I’ve let her down. That I should have been aware of a pattern. She said herself she was accident-prone even as a little girl. I wonder if she took a lot of beatings at home. Country folk are big on ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child.’”

  “Aye,” said Connor, “and grew up believing getting thumped was the norm?”

  “You could be right.” The more O’Reilly saw of Connor Nelson, the more he appreciated the man’s depths. “These recent episodes aren’t the first ones I’ve treated for her. But she always had a good reason for it. A cow kicked her. Or one of the pigs shoved her. Farming is physical work.” He shook his head.

  “You had no reason to suspect what was going on,” Connor said gently. “You go on in, Fingal. And b-better you see her alone. Both of us there might give the impression the medical profession’s ganging up on her. I’ll wait in the car.” He smiled at O’Reilly. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you.” He parked outside the Houstons’. The hedge was glowing with the bright green of spring, and birds twittered in its leafy shelter. He left his bag in the car and headed for the house, to be greeted by Maggie. “Boys-a-dear,” she said over the usual canine chorus, “two visits in one day? That’s great, so it is. Sonny’ll be quare nor sorry til have missed you, sir. He’s just away off running Eileen home, but Hester’s still here.”

  “Good,” said O’Reilly. “There’s something
else I need to ask her.”

  Maggie grinned her toothless grin. “You can tear away, sir, and ask all you like. She seems to be feeling better. And you’re just in time for a wee cup of tea in your hand too. I made another pot for Hester and me just a few minutes ago and it’s rightly stewed now, so it is.”

  “Not today, thank you, Maggie,” he said. “Kinky’s making a special lunch.” Oh God, and he’d not left word that he and Connor might be late. He imagined he could hear the BBC weather forecaster on the kitchen radio saying, “North cones, an indication to sailors of the approach of stormy weather, have been hoisted over Ballybucklebo.” He hoped it was just meteorologically and not metaphorically.

  Maggie smiled. “And we all know how Kinky is if folks don’t finish the grub she’s made. She stepped aside. “Come on on in.”

  “Maggie,” O’Reilly said quickly, “I want you to leave me alone with Hester for a minute or two.”

  “Aye, certainly,” Maggie said.

  “Thank you.”

  She stopped outside the lounge door. “And is that nice young Doctor Nelson not coming in?”

  O’Reilly shook his head.

  “I’ll take him a cup out while you’re with Hester, have a bit of craic with the young doctor then.” She opened the lounge door. “Hester, see who’s come to see you again?”

  Hester looked up from where she sat on the same chair she’d been in when O’Reilly and Connor had left earlier. She smiled politely at O’Reilly, but behind the social smile O’Reilly thought he saw fear, perhaps even suspicion. “Hello, Doctor,” she said. “Thank you for coming earlier. I’m feeling much better now. I’m just finishing up my tea then I’m going to run away on home.”

  “Do you know what the nice young doctor takes in his tea?” Maggie poured a cup and put a slice of plum cake in the saucer. O’Reilly recalled the three spoons full of sugar in Connor’s coffee earlier this morning. “Three sugars,” he said, and hoped Connor had remembered his warning about Maggie’s cake as he watched her head for the front door.

  O’Reilly sat in the chair beside Hester. “Are you sure you’re feeling well enough to go home? You’ve got a nasty bruise.”

  “Och, aye,” she said. “It still pains a bit, but I’ve got a brave wheen of chores needing doing at the farm, but thanks for asking.”

  “Fair enough.” O’Reilly cleared his throat. “Hester,” he said, “just one more wee question. How long have you been my patient?”

  She frowned. “We come til your practice in 1946 just after you come back to Ballybucklebo from the war, and we stayed until 1961 when you and Hubert had thon falling out. I’m sorry about that,” she said, “but when he gets his mind made up, he’s like a terrier on a rat. He won’t let go.”

  “It must have taken a lot of courage for you to come back as a patient to my practice last month,” O’Reilly said. He looked her straight in the eye.

  She sniffed. “I never agreed with him about you, sir. Him saying bad things and all. You were always very kind til me when I was sick, so you were, and I trust you, so I do.”

  A humbled O’Reilly inhaled deeply, then exhaled past pursed lips. This wasn’t going the way he’d hoped. He did not want Hester to think he was trying to get information he could use to discomfit her husband. “Hester,” he said, “as far as I’m concerned, what’s between Hubert and me’s over and done with. I’m concerned about you. You’ve had a lot of accidents lately.”

  Her giggle was falsetto and, O’Reilly thought, forced. “Sure amn’t I just an awkward one? I was too when I was a wee girl.”

  This, assuming he was right, was exactly how Connor had predicted she would react. Deny everything. Shield her husband even before any accusations were made. O’Reilly decided to try to overawe her by using the great and actually unfounded belief of country folks that doctors knew very much more than they actually did. He kept his voice low and level. “Hester, when I examined you this morning I didn’t want to say anything in front of anyone but you. That’s why I came back, so it would be just between the two of us.” His fingers were firmly crossed behind his back. Such an action, it was believed in the country, would lessen the sin of a deliberate lie or negate the binding of a promise made under duress. “You did not walk onto a hay rake. Someone thumped you today. That’s what brought me back. Us doctors can easily tell the difference between a hit by a rake and a punch.” He was quite sure Hester Doran would not have the courage to ask how, which was a good thing, because in reality he had not known the difference. But Connor had. “I want to make sure you’re all right.” And that was the gospel truth.

  Her eyes flew wide. Her right hand went to her mouth. “Nobody never did.” Her voice rose. “Never did. I walked onto a rake. I did. I did.” Her shoulders started to shake. The tears flowed. She whispered, “I did.”

  O’Reilly’s instant instinct was to put his arms round her to comfort her, but he simply said, “No, Hester. Hubert punched you. And it’s not for the first time, is it?” He waited.

  She looked at him, her face as crumpled as a discarded paper bag. Her sobs were wracking, her tears a torrent. “God forgive me, it’s all…” sobbing, “it’s all my fault.”

  “The poor women think it’s their fault. That they’re to blame.” Connor’s words came back. He’d been spot on. But the question now was what to do for Hester.

  “I burnt his breakfast eggs. He was rushing to get to the ferry in Larne and he lost his temper, but he’s not like that … usually. He’s-he’s not.”

  She was pleading, but was she trying to convince O’Reilly—or herself?

  He said gently, “Another wee question, Hester. Did you get the strap a lot when you were wee?”

  “Och, sure, Doctor, don’t all kiddies? And I only got it when I’d been very bad. Da was a great one for a quick clip on the ear for wee things.”

  And grew up thinking getting thumped was the norm. O’Reilly nodded to himself before saying, “Tell me. Has it got worse since you came back to my practice?” Unless she said it only started at that time then either “yes” or “no” would confirm that this had been going on for a long time.

  “It’s no worser, sir. Honest. This is my doing. It’s my own fault.” She bit her lip and tried to wipe away the tears, but more took their place.

  It was all O’Reilly needed to know. Now he rose, squatted before her, and took one of her hands in both of his, looking her right in the eye. “It’s all right, Hester. It’s all right. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.”

  She looked into O’Reilly’s face. He saw the hope there.

  “It is not your fault,” he repeated.

  The sobbing was subsiding. She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with one of Maggie’s white linen tea napkins. “Thank you, sir. It-it helps to talk a bit about it,” she said shyly. “I’ve never told no one.”

  “I appreciate your honesty, Hester.” His voice was firm. “But it’s got to be stopped. No one’s ever going to thump you again.”

  She shook her head. “No, sir. I know what you’re thinking. But this is to stay between you and me. I’ll not shame myself and I’ll not have Hubert shamed. Let us be. It’s between a man and his wife. That’s all. Let it be. It’s to go no farther.”

  O’Reilly clenched his fists, but what could he do? What had Connor said about women not wanting “to let their husbands down in public,” women who “wouldn’t dream of going to the authorities.” Connor Nelson knew these painful truths from bitter experience. He’d have to. There was absolutely nothing in any medical texts that dealt with wife beating. “All right,” O’Reilly said, “but will you let me do one thing? And believe me, it’ll go no farther. My colleagues will have to be told.”

  “No,” she whispered. “Please, sir.”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “If I’d been treating you for…” He sought a good example and thought of Anne Galvin. “… acute bronchitis, my colleagues would have to know so that if they were on call and you needed them, they’d be
up to date with your history. That’s all.”

  “And they’ll keep it to themselves?”

  “They have to. It’s the law.” And, he thought, that same confidentiality existed between physicians and other professionals too, so in that sense Lars was a colleague. But O’Reilly’d not scare this poor creature any more by telling her that on Wednesday he was going to seek legal advice in Portaferry from Lars Porsena O’Reilly, his brother—and solicitor at law.

  “All right.” She sounded resigned.

  “And one more thing. How’d you feel about staying for a few days with the Houstons once Hubert comes home. Just for a little rest?”

  “Och no, sir. Leave the farm? I can’t. There’s too much to do. And besides, I’m happier in my own home.” She shook her head. “No, sir.”

  “Fair enough, Hester,” O’Reilly said. “But you call if you need us, and I’ll pop out on Saturday. See how you’re doing.” And, he thought, I’ll be armed with advice from my brother and have Connor Nelson along for support and as a witness. One way or another, this had been the last time a certain Hubert Doran would raise his fist to his wife.

  “I’ll be off. Look after yourself, Hester. Try to rest as much as you can.”

  “Thank you, sir—for everything.”

  “Hester. Hester.” O’Reilly’s knees creaked as he rose. “Doctoring’s not just about colds, and flus, and broken bones. It’s about looking after people. It’s our job.”

  There was gratitude in her eyes and a small smile on her face.

  He smiled and glanced at his watch. “Now I’d better run on. I might just get home in time for Kinky’s special lunch.”

  29

  Hence Horrible Shadow!

  Barry turned his Volkswagen onto the council estate road. He had not enjoyed the drive from Number One. He’d barely been able to think about his driving.

  Ten minutes ago he had been in his quarters affixing the first tiny mahogany outer plank to the completed under-hull of his HMS Victory model. Glue first, then tiny brass nails. Fiddly work. He was off duty this morning and the need for intense concentration on the delicate task kept his mind from worrying about next Monday, when he would hear from Sue again. He had been interrupted by a sharp knock on his door.