An Irish Country Practice

by Patrick Taylor

  “I’m so tired,” she said, burying her head in her arms on the tabletop. O’Reilly heard her gentle sobs. He moved to her. Put a hand on her shoulder. “Hester? It’s all right.”

  She looked up at him. “Doctor dear, I know you’re trying to help, but no. I’ll say nothing til nobody but you, sir. Just leave it be. Please.”

  As she spoke, a car pulled into the farmyard. “Oh, dear God,” she said. “It’s him. He’s early.”

  O’Reilly glanced at the door. “Hester, go you through to another room. Doctor Nelson and I need to talk to Hubert in private. And,” he stepped up to her, put a hand on each of her shoulders, and looked into her eyes, “I’ll not say a word about what we’ve discussed. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just here to see my patient, that’s all he need know about this. No one’s going to get hurt and he’s never going to hurt you again. Never. I promise.” This time he was so confident of his plan he did not cross his fingers. “Now be quick, and we’ll come and get you soon.”

  Hester left through the inner door without a word, closing it behind her.

  The other door swung open. “I was dead lucky. Second off the ferry—” Hubert Doran stood just inside his kitchen, setting a suitcase on the tiled floor. A short man, sallow complexion, oiled black hair with a centre parting. “What in God’s name are you doing here, O’Reilly, and where’s my wife? I should have known it was you as soon as I saw the beat-up old Rover.”

  “Shut the door, Doran, and—”

  “The hell I will,” he shouted. “Not until you and whoever that man is are off my property. Youse are trespassing, so youse bloody well are.”

  “I don’t think so, Hubert. Hester’s my patient and I’m making a home visit to make sure she is recovering. She is, I’m happy to say, and she’s in your sitting room. This, by the way,” he inclined his head to Connor, “is my colleague, Doctor Nelson.”

  “I don’t care if he’s physician to the bloody queen.” Spittle flecked the man’s lips. His face was flushed and he clenched one fist, but thrust an outstretched finger in O’Reilly’s direction. “If you’ve finished your visit, get out of here. This is my house and I’m not your patient. I see that Doctor Fitzpatrick. He’s as odd as two left feet, but a decent enough doctor for all that. But I will never set foot in your surgery again after what you done til me, O’Reilly.” He pointed at the open door. “Now get the hell out.”

  O’Reilly kept his voice level, low, and spoke slowly to Connor. “Mister Doran and I are not friends and,” he turned back to Doran, “I’ve recently discovered that not only does he thrash golden retrievers, he beats his wife too.”

  Doran spluttered. His eyes bulged. “It was my dog, so it was. You had no right to interfere, and as for the other, I’ve no idea what the hell you’re talking about.” He folded his arms across his chest.

  O’Reilly walked over, closed the door, and turned back to Hubert Doran. There was ice in O’Reilly’s voice. “Not only did Hester not stand on a rake on Monday, you punched her. Later that day, Sonny went over to drop off some groceries for her, knowing you’d taken the car and gone to Scotland. Sonny found she was hurt, brought her to his house. Doctor Nelson and I happened to be there seeing another patient—”

  “Dancing attendance on that Eileen Lindsay. Wee hussy couldn’t even keep her man.”

  O’Reilly decided to ignore that remark. “Your wife was in pain. We examined her. We both saw the bruise. A fist had made it. We’d both take our oaths on that.” O’Reilly let the unspoken threat of legal action sink in before saying, “You hit her. And not for the first time. I haven’t asked him, but Doctor Barry Laverty can attest to her broken wrist and black eye that you gave her.” O’Reilly strove to keep his voice level, to refrain from swearing, but inside he was boiling.

  Hubert Doran sneered. “But you can’t prove it. All you can do is give an opinion. That opinion would be open to ‘reasonable doubt.’ It’d never hold up in a court of law without witnesses. And Hester won’t testify. She’s too good a wife.” His fist unclenched and he was no longer shouting.

  “Who you reward by beating.” O’Reilly shook his head and curled his lip.

  “What happens between a man and his wife in their own home is nobody’s business but theirs, so away off and chase yourself, Doctors.” This last was sarcastic. “You don’t frighten me. Not one toty-wee bit.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Hubert Doran,” O’Reilly said, “but I don’t remember saying anything about going to court.”

  Doran frowned. “Are youse not threatening me with legal action?”

  “Not as you understand it,” O’Reilly said. He hardened his voice, moved over to stand very close to Hubert Doran, and towered over him.

  Doran backed away. Held up an arm in front of his face. “You lay a finger on me, O’Reilly, and it’ll be you in court for assault. I’m good at getting people intil court. Your man Donal Donnelly found that out.”

  O’Reilly ignored the remark about Donal, but said, “I’d not dirty my hands a second time. Doctor Nelson, will you please explain?”

  “Mister Doran,” Connor said, “doctors are t-trained in aspects of medical jurisprudence—”

  “What the hell’s that? I know youse doctors think youse can bamboozle people. Well, you’re not fooling me, so you’re not.”

  “Medical jurisprudence,” Connor said, “is the law as it is applied to matters medical.”

  Doran’s frown deepened. “I don’t understand.”

  “But you know where and what the ‘Burn’ is in Belfast?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Purdysburn Hospital off the Saintfield Road? The loony bin? Aye. What about it?” He cocked his head and slitted his eyes.

  “I think a more respectful term,” O’Reilly said, “is mental hospital, but that’s right. How would you like a holiday in there?”

  Doran took another step back. “What are you talking about? You need til be astray in the head til have til go in there, so you do.”

  “And you don’t think beating up your wife is a sign of a mental disorder?”

  Connor said, “The Mental Health Act of 1959 thinks so.”

  “What?” Doran’s voice rose an octave. “What’s he blethering on about?”

  “Under that act,” O’Reilly said, “if, in the opinion of a policeman, or if two doctors are of the opinion that an individual is at risk of injuring themselves or another person—like Hester—the individual can be involuntarily committed to a mental institution on their say-so.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  O’Reilly pulled a folded form from his inside pocket and gave it to Doran. “You’ll see that’s headed ‘For the Involuntary Commitment—’”

  “I can read. It’s got my name on it and youse two’s signatures.” His eyes widened. “Bejezzis, youse are serious.”

  “Never more so,” O’Reilly said. “All I have to do is pick up a phone, call Purdysburn, and they’ll send out an ambulance with two very large male psychiatric nurses who’ll be quite happy to put you in a straitjacket if you try to fight them.” He held out his hand. “May I have the form back, please.”

  Doran thrust it behind his back. “No. I won’t. I won’t give it back.”

  “All right,” said O’Reilly with a smile. “Keep it to remind you.” He produced an identical form from inside his jacket. “I have a spare.”

  “Oh, Jaysus.” Hubert Doran tottered to the chair Hester had so recently vacated and sat, head in hands.

  O’Reilly sat on a chair in front of the man. “Look at me, Hubert Doran. Look at me.”

  His head slowly rose.

  O’Reilly stared at the crumpled face. “You can avoid a trip there, you know. It won’t be hard.”

  “What happens between a man and his wife in their own home is their business.” This time the words came out slurred by quiet sobs. “It’s none of yours, O’Reilly.”

  “You’ve made it my business, Hugh Doran. Your wife’s health and welfare is my conce
rn. Now, what is it going to be? You can avoid a trip to the Burn. But you have to do what I say.”

  “What do I have to do?” The defiance was gone, his voice expressionless. He wiped his eyes and then looked at his hands.

  “One. The beating will stop. Right now. I know men like you often promise not to, but we’ll be watching you. Break that promise, even one small slip, and we’ll use our form. Understand?”

  The man grunted, but said nothing.

  “Do you understand, Hubert?”

  The words were muffled. “I do.”

  “I didn’t quite hear you, Hubert.”

  “Yes, Doctor, I do.”

  “Two. I’m not your doctor, but I often take call for Doctor Fitzpatrick, who is. I will make an appointment for you at the psychoneurotic unit at Newtownards Hospital. They may be able to help you. I’m told sometimes calming medication and counselling helps. You will keep that appointment and any others or—”

  Hubert Doran nodded. “Yes, Doctor.” He fished out a hanky and blew his nose.

  “Three. On Monday, you will go to your bank with Hester and change your existing accounts to joint accounts. At least if you do fall from grace, she’ll be all right financially and can clear out if she needs to. I don’t trust you, Doran. For the time being, I’ll take Hester’s word for it that it’s done, but as soon as they are printed, I want to see a void cheque with both your names on it.”

  “Ah, Jaysus, all right.”

  “And four, from now on, you will remember that I am not ‘O’Reilly’ to you. I am Doctor O’Reilly. And as a doctor, you have my and Doctor Nelson’s promise of confidentiality. Connor, would you go and get Mrs. Doran, please. She’s next door.”

  Connor left and returned with Hester in tow.

  “Please sit, Hester,” O’Reilly said. “Your husband and I have been having a little chat. I explained that Doctor Nelson diagnosed a punch bruise. Hubert hasn’t confessed directly, but since our little talk, he has promised to mend his ways, go for treatment, and change his existing accounts to joint accounts so you yourself’ll have a few bob if you need them. I want you to phone Kinky and confirm it’s been done. Isn’t that right, Hubert?”

  He looked at O’Reilly, Connor, and then to his wife. His face softened a little and then he looked away. “That’s right, Doctor O’Reilly,” Hubert Doran whispered, “and thank you, sir.”

  “Good,” said O’Reilly. A thought struck him. Had he and Connor helped Hester enough that Kinky’s money would have to be going to some other worthy cause? He wondered what that might be, then wondered if he and Connor were naïve to think they could leave now and trust Hubert Doran not to take what had just transpired out on Hester.

  “Hester, are you going to be all right? Are you sure you don’t want to come stay with the Houstons for a while?”

  “I’ll be all right, Doctor, thank you.” Her voice was quiet but he thought he heard a new strength there.

  “I’m delighted to hear it, Hester. Don’t be afraid to call me any time you need me. And Hubert? Do go to Newtownards. They’ll send me a letter when you’ve been, but follow up with Doctor Fitzpatrick.” He turned to Connor. “Now, Doctor, I think we’ve done all that needs doing here, so we’ll be off. Time to give the dogs a real run.” He looked back at Hubert Doran and said, “I’m getting better at bringing them to heel.”

  By the way Hubert Doran flinched, the words had not been lost on him.

  Nor was the look of compassion in the eyes of the man’s wife lost on O’Reilly. As he closed the door behind him, words from an old Buddy Holly song ran in O’Reilly’s head. “Love is strange.”

  33

  The Prisoners of Addiction

  O’Reilly hurried through the kitchen and knocked on the door to Barry’s quarters.

  “Come in.” Barry was smiling as he took off a binocular jeweller’s loupe mounted on a spectacle frame and put it on his worktable. An almost completely planked hull of the bluff-bowed HMS Victory was clamped to a modeller’s vice. “Hello, Fingal. What brings you in here on a sunny Sunday morning?”

  “Fitzpatrick.”

  “What now? He’s not stocious on a Sunday, is he?”

  “Nooo, I wouldn’t say that,” he said.

  “Is he sick?”

  “I’m not sure. Nonie’s just off the phone. She’s at his house. She says he’s very upset. He won’t tell her what it is, but he felt he couldn’t go on seeing patients today. He’s got her to take his call. She’s staying at his house so phones ringing won’t disturb us.”

  “That was decent of him. And at least,” Barry said, “he had the nous to make sure the patients are getting looked after.”

  “Nonie says he’s talking about feeling lost … at sea. Panicky. He needs a friend to talk to.”

  “So naturally you’re going round to see him.”

  “No—we’re going round to see him, if you don’t mind. We’re all in this. I want your opinion too. I want to get to the bottom of what the hell’s got into him.”

  “I understand, Fingal,” Barry said. “Of course. Let me get a jacket.”

  “Thanks, Barry.” O’Reilly took a deep breath. “It sounds like that man needs our help. I’m not sure what for, but he’s struggling.”

  Barry shrugged into a sports jacket.

  “Come on then.” O’Reilly headed for the back door. “We’ll take my car.”

  “Later, pups,” O’Reilly told Arthur Guinness and Kenny as they bounded across the grass.

  O’Reilly let the Rover find its way down to the Kinnegar, like an old horse that has travelled a road many times, while he tried to anticipate what was the matter with Doctor Ronald Fitzpatrick. His home was in the middle of a long terrace of slate-roofed, pebble-dashed, two-storey houses and seemed to be like the man himself—a bit grey, a bit gangly. All the houses faced low front-garden walls and with nothing between them and Belfast Lough but the street and the seawall, they would have uninterrupted views of the Antrim Hills and the water with its ever-changing moods.

  O’Reilly parked the Rover and, opening the garden gate, walked with Barry past a pocket-handkerchief lawn to the grey front door, which was offset to his left with a single sash window above and two large bow windows on each floor to his right.

  He rang the bell.

  An unshaven Ronald Fitzpatrick answered, wringing his hands as if he’d been waiting at the door. “Fingal. Thank you so much. And you’ve brought Barry. Good. Good. Please come in.” He rushed inside as if ashamed to be seen with his colleagues and slammed the door. “Doctor Stevenson is making a home visit. I’m rather glad. I would prefer to see you both and no one else.”

  O’Reilly took in the bags under the man’s bloodshot eyes, the frown lines on his narrow forehead, the gold-framed pince-nez perched on the bridge of his nose, and the repeated bobbing of his large Adam’s apple. He held something like a rosary in his right hand. “I need help,” he said. “Dear God, I need someone to talk to. I—”

  “But not in the hall,” O’Reilly said through pursed lips. He expected a colleague to have better self-control. He nearly said, “Pull yourself together, man.” Only years of training restrained him.

  “No. No. Of course not. Sorry. Sorry.”

  O’Reilly noticed long paper scrolls covered in oriental ideographs hanging on the wall. He peered at one.

  Fitzpatrick tried, and failed, to smile. “I’m afraid my calligraphy’s not very expert.” His hands were trembling and his voice was shaky, but he seemed to be making an attempt to control himself. He opened a door to the right and ushered O’Reilly and Barry into a well-furnished living room. Several examples of the netsuke he collected were arranged on a mahogany mantel beneath a wall-hung pen-and-India-ink rendering of what O’Reilly assumed to be the Yang-Tse Gorges.

  A musical instrument like a small grand piano sat in one corner. The varnished walnut lid was propped open.

  Fitzpatrick must have seen O’Reilly looking at it. “My harpsichord,” he said. “I�
��m particularly fond of the works of Byrd, Scarlatti, and J. S. Bach. I find their precision calming.”

  O’Reilly glanced at his long bony fingers and could imagine them flicking across the ivory keys as the strings were plucked. Another facet of this strange, shy man.

  “I-I’m forgetting my manners,” Fitzpatrick said. “Please sit down.”

  O’Reilly and Barry took armchairs as Ronald Fitzpatrick began to pace up and down. His voice cracked when he said, “I’m sorry to bother you, both, but I can’t go on.” A single tear trickled. “I just can’t.” His larynx jerked up and down. Click. He had moved a bead on his rosary.

  O’Reilly was immediately sympathetic and regretted his initial irritation. He would treat Ronald as he would any upset patient. “Tell us what’s bothering you, Ronald.”

  Fitzpatrick inhaled once, then said as if clinging to his last shred of self-respect, “I’ve kept one promise. I haven’t touched a drop of drink, not one since that evening nearly two weeks ago. And I won’t. Ever.”

  “Good man,” Barry said.

  Then it’s got to be the gambling, thought O’Reilly, but he didn’t want to ask leading questions. The man needed to spit it out without prompting.

  “I told you I’d wrestled with another weakness years ago.” He seemed to be having difficulty carrying on, but O’Reilly chose to wait.

  Click. Another bead was moved along the string. “Fingal, you know I lost my parents in China when the Japanese invaded in 1931?”

  “I do. It was hard for you.”

  “I didn’t know, Ronald,” Barry said, “but please accept my condolences.”

  “Thank you.” Fitzpatrick nodded. “I found it extraordinarily difficult to find solace. I-I felt it had been my fault. They’d sent me to Dublin to an aunt so I could go to Trinity.” He inhaled deeply. “I felt I’d abandoned them.” He stared at his scuffed shoes, shoes that usually gleamed, and, O’Reilly noted, the man needed a haircut. “Although my parents were Christian missionaries, my growing up in the East led me to an interest in Buddhism. Even back then when I really didn’t know much about it, some aspects could give me peace of mind.” He stopped pacing. “If only I could have stayed with it.” He stared into space; more tears trickled. He snatched out a hanky and dabbed his eyes, blew his nose.