An Irish Country Practice

by Patrick Taylor

  The clerk asked Donal to take a seat in what Barry reckoned would be the dock, to the side of and half-facing the magistrate. Constable Mulligan and Barry and O’Reilly were seated in the front row where, to Barry’s surprise, he saw John MacNeill, Marquis of Ballybucklebo. Now, what the hell was the marquis doing here? It wasn’t his land Donal had been on.

  The magistrate banged a gavel and the clerk of the court said, “Please rise.”

  Everyone did.

  “Hear ye. Hear ye. To all interested persons here today, be it known that this is case six, Regina versus Donnelly, before His Honour Mister Michael Carson LL.B. Q.C., Barrister at Law. God save the Queen. Be seated.”

  QC? Queen’s Counsel. Barry had been taught about ranks of lawyers in his medico-legal course. This man was a barrister, the most highly qualified type of attorney. He had, in legal jargon, “taken silk,” because in a more senior court he would wear a silk gown and horsehair wig.

  There was a rattling of chairs.

  The magistrate turned to Donal. “Please state your name and address.”

  Donal beamed at the little audience. “Sure everyone knows I’m Don—”

  “Stand up when you address the bench,” John Hoey snapped.

  “Right enough.” Donal stood. “I’m very sorry, your worship.”

  “Address the magistrate as ‘Your Honour’ or ‘sir.’”

  Donal’s blush clashed with his carrotty hair. He bobbed his head. “Your Honour, I’m Donal Donnelly of Dun Bwee cottage in the townland of Ballybucklebo off a wee lane off the main Belfast to Bangor Road. Me, and Julie, and wee Tori live there, so we do, and—”

  “That will be sufficient, Mister Donnelly,” Mister Carson said.

  Barry wondered if Donal had been taking advice from Cissie Sloan.

  “Have you any counsel, Mister Donnelly?”

  “Yes, Your Honour. We do. Mister Bishop and Miss Moloney’s on it, but I don’t see what the borough council has til do with this.”

  Barry had difficulty smothering a grin.

  The magistrate whipped off a heavy set of tortoiseshell-framed spectacles to reveal a pair of hard blue eyes beneath a set of bushy eyebrows. The corners were bereft of any crow’s-feet or laugh lines, but his forehead was the possessor of three deeply etched frown lines. “This is a serious matter. Counsel. A lawyer. Do you have one?”

  “No, sir.”

  O’Reilly whispered to Barry, “I hear he’s a tough one. A real hanging judge.”

  The magistrate read from a sheet of paper. “Mister Donnelly, you have been summoned to answer to two charges under the Northern Ireland Game Preservation Act of 1928 that on the early-morning hours of Sunday, April twenty-third, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and sixty-seven, you did knowingly trespass on the property of one Thomas Bowe, and you did take by unlawful means, out of season, two of his pheasants.” He set down the paper. “I have read Constable Mulligan’s statement, duly signed by you, in which you admit to these offences. You are lucky he did not confiscate your means of transport.”

  Donal sent a smile of gratitude to PC Mulligan, who kept his face deadpan.

  The magistrate said, “I see here in court the good Doctor O’Reilly,” he inclined his head in Fingal’s direction, “who, if necessary, under oath will attest to having sewn up a cut in your hand that morning and having witnessed your properly performed arrest by Constable Mulligan and the corpses of the unfortunate birds in question.”

  Donal Donnelly said, “Yes, Your Honour. And,” he held up his left hand, “the doctor made a right good job of my hand, so he did.”

  The magistrate cleared his throat. Frowned so his eyebrows tried to meet. “Donal Donnelly, how do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?”

  “Och, Your Honour, sure didn’t Malcolm catch me red-handed? I’m guilty as sin, so I am.”

  “And just exactly how guilty is sin, Mister Donnelly?”

  Donal’s brows knitted. He pursed his lips and scratched in one ear with a fingertip.

  “Never mind. Your plea is accepted. Under section eight of the act, I pronounce you guilty of trespass and taking game birds out of season. You are also responsible for reimbursing Mister Bowe for the value of his property, the two pheasants, at fair market price. Both offences carry level-two penalties on the standard scale of fines not to exceed ten pounds, and in addition I can impose a jail sentence of up to three months for the taking out of season.”

  Donal’s eyes flew wide. “Jail? Och, you wouldn’t, sir. My Julie’s going til have a wee boy next month and—”

  “Be quiet, Mister Donnelly, or I’ll find you in contempt of court.”

  Donal Donnelly clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Have you anything more to say before sentence is passed?”

  Barry saw the marquis rise. “If it please the court, may I be permitted to give evidence as to the character of the defendant?”

  Mister Carson sat back, peered at the marquis. It was possible that this was the first time the magistrate had had a peer of the realm in his courtroom. “It’s irregular, but yes, my lord, please continue; but first,” he inclined his head to where the clerk sat, “you must be sworn in. And you may be seated, Mister Donnelly.”

  After providing his name and address to the clerk, and with the Bible held in his right hand, the marquis intoned the words ending in “… and nothing but the truth,” and relinquished the Bible. “Your Honour, I have known Mister Donnelly for nearly twenty years. He is a hard-working, highly skilled carpenter by trade. He is involved in all aspects of life here in Ballybucklebo, never failing to volunteer in any times of need. He is a devoted family man and as you heard is expecting to increase his family very soon. But lately he and his workmates have fallen on hard times. The Bishop Building Company, for whom he has recently earned the job of foreman, has been unable to provide work for its crew. Men have been unemployed for several weeks, and I believe Donal Donnelly took those birds, in essence birds of mine which had strayed onto a neighbour’s land, he took those birds to provide for his family. I have already told the doctor that had Donal taken them on the Ballybucklebo Estate, I would not have required recompense, not have pressed the trespassing charge, and fully recognising that he is in contravention of an act for which penalties must be applied, would remind the court he surrendered peacefully to Constable Mulligan, admitted his offence, and has today pleaded guilty. A jail sentence would be a terrible blot on his character, and as Mister Donnelly is just beginning to recover financially, I would ask the court’s leniency in levying fines. If it please the court. That is all.” The marquis returned to his seat.

  “Eloquent, my lord,” Mister Carson said. “Eloquent.” He managed a small smile. “You must have taken a lesson from Portia in A Merchant of Venice.” He turned to Donal. “I still must ask if you have anything to say before I pass sentence.”

  Donal bounced to his feet. “No, Your Honour.”

  “Very well. Donal Donnelly of Dun Bwee of the townland of Ballybucklebo, I find you guilty as charged on both counts. You are ordered to pay the sum of six pounds, fair market value for two pheasants, as well as five pounds on the charge of trespassing and five pounds for taking game birds out of season. The clerk of the court will accept payment of the money.”

  Barry whistled and received such a gimlet eye from Magistrate Carson that he could feel his face reddening.

  Barry looked over at Donal, who hung his head and whispered, “Yes, sir.” It could have been much worse, but sixteen pounds for a man like Donal was more than three weeks’ wages.

  “You may step down, Mister Donnelly. Case adjourned.” The magistrate rose and left.

  Donal went straight to the marquis.

  Barry had no trouble overhearing the conversation.

  “Thank you very, very much, my lord. That was quare nor decent of you, sir, so it was.”

  John MacNeill smiled. “Sorry I couldn’t do more. Doctor O’Reilly had mentioned your troubles, so I kept an eye on the
court diary in the County Down Spectator. But from now on, Donal”—he looked Donal straight in the eye—“from now on, keep coming and beating for me during our shoots and you shall have plenty of game for your table, but leave the rest alone. Now please forgive me, but I must be running. Bye, Doctor Laverty, and say my good-byes to Doctor O’Reilly.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Barry turned to see O’Reilly bending over John Hoey’s desk, straightening up, and replacing something in an inside pocket. He turned and walked back to where Barry stood with Donal. O’Reilly grinned. “No,” he said, “I am not one of the Sisters of Charity. I am not Santa Claus come early. I am lots of things, but I am not a philanthropist.”

  Oh no? Barry thought.

  “You, Donal Donnelly, owe me sixteen pounds. And I hope your lottery is fully subscribed. I’ll wait until you announce the winner. But not a day longer. Now, are you here on your bike or would you like a lift home?”

  36

  The Future’s Not Ours to See

  O’Reilly sat in the upstairs lounge waiting for Kitty to join him. Lady Macbeth was curled up in front of the unlit fire, her fur a dazzling white in a sunbeam that poured itself through one of the bay windows.

  Kitty came in dressed for walking, light blue cardigan over a high-collared white blouse, knee-length tartan skirt, and low-heeled brogues. “You know, Fingal, I really am getting used to having more free time with you.”

  And one day soon, he hoped, when he had persuaded her to work part time, she’d have even more.

  “I didn’t like it when Ronald left for Nepal in mid-May and you were back to working one in three nights and weekends.”

  “It wasn’t so bad, and that didn’t last for long.” He stood. “Come on. It’s a lovely day. Let’s go and get the dogs.”

  Kitty picked up the little netsuke Budai figurine that Ronald had given them as a present after his operation last November. “I’m glad Ronald has found some solace for his troubles, even if he did have to go all the way to Nepal to get it. I have to say, when he came here to say good-bye, it was a bit fraught. He came very close to tears.”

  “I reckon that man has carried an unspoken torch for you since we were students.”

  “Don’t be silly, Fingal,” Kitty said. “I think he’s one of those men who is just not really cut out to be happy round women.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “I don’t think that’s going to be much of a problem in a monastery in Nepal. And his last letter was pretty cheerful.” He chuckled. “Ronald Fitzpatrick with a shaven head? Doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  Kitty giggled. “Golly. You’re right. Ronald, a baldy-nut?”

  They walked down the hall into the kitchen. “Just a tick,” Kitty said. “I want to leave out that salmon steak John MacNeill gave us to have for our dinner tonight.” She fussed round the fridge and then with a covered plate so her ladyship would be deterred from getting at their dinner. “I wonder if we’ll ever see him back?”

  “He’s holding on to his house for six months until he’s certain, but if he does decide to stay he asked me before he left if I would ask Dapper to handle the sale. I simply don’t know what’ll happen. Time will tell, but from the purely practical point of view, Professor George Irwin was very decent agreeing to let Connor Nelson work independent of supervision after the first of this month. That young man is turning out very well. Very well indeed. He’s doing four surgeries a week in the Kinnegar. It spares Ronald’s old patients that need to be seen in a surgery the trouble of coming here and doesn’t clog up our waiting room. Ronald’s calls out of hours are routed here for whoever’s on call.”

  “And,” she gave him a less-than-chaste kiss, “means you are working only one in four again. I do like that.”

  He returned the kiss, then said, “Definitely a fortnight in Paris for us, Mrs. O’Reilly, once Barry and Sue are back from Villefranche.” He took down Kenny’s leash from its hook and opened the back door.

  The morning sun of the mid-June Saturday was warming the sea-salted air. Donal Donnelly had been round earlier and had cut the grass, and the scent of its new-mownness filled O’Reilly’s nostrils. The broad seven-fingered leaves of the big horse chestnut tree in the garden had turned from the lime of spring to the shamrock of early summer. The white candle flowers were gone and sticky buds were forming in their places.

  The pair were greeted by Kenny, who charged over and without bidding sat at his master’s feet.

  “Good,” said O’Reilly.

  Kitty knelt and petted the pup. “Who’s a good boy?” Kenny wagged his tail. “Who’s a big boy?”

  “Come on,” said O’Reilly, “heel.”

  The six-month-old pup, who now weighed close to fifty pounds, tucked in like a prize entry at a dog show.

  Old Arthur Guinness lay outside his doghouse. He grinned, raised his head, and cocked it to one side, but did not get up.

  O’Reilly said to Kitty, “I think my loyal friend’s saying, ‘Will you and the youngster please go on, boss? I’ve taught him all I can and it’s so restful lying here in the sun.’”

  “I think you’re right,” she said.

  He knelt by Arthur’s side and patted the big dog’s square head, seeing how grey his muzzle was, how cloudy his eyes. O’Reilly recalled a line from Kipling’s His Apologies, “Master, pity Thy Servant! He is deaf and three parts blind.” O’Reilly said, “Your years are passing, my friend. You take your ease, big fellah. You’ve earned it.”

  Arthur sighed and lowered his head onto his paws.

  O’Reilly was convinced he could feel the dog’s gaze follow them to the garden’s back gate. Old age, he was sure, had very little to recommend it, and he knew his own was approaching.

  “Heel.” He clipped the leash to Kenny’s collar. “Now’s the time in a pup’s development when, like human adolescents, they want to widen their horizons, exert their independence. Kenny might appear to be perfectly trained in the quiet of his own garden, but it could be a different matter round other people, other dogs. The last thing I want is for him to rush out into the cars on our way to the shore.”

  He moved to walk between Kitty and the traffic and set a steady pace. “I wonder how Barry and Sue are getting on? Dapper Frew’s taking them to look at a house right now.”

  “I hope they find something soon,” Kitty said. “It’s only three weeks until their wedding.”

  “Morning, Alice,” O’Reilly said as they approached Miss Moloney. “Lovely day.”

  “It is, indeed.” She stopped abruptly. “Doctor O’Reilly?”

  “Yes, Alice.”

  She blushed. “I wonder if you’ve heard from that nice Doctor Fitzpatrick?”

  “As a matter of fact I have. I got a letter last week. He says he’s settling in very well and the monastic life is suiting him to a T.”

  “I am happy for him,” she said, but her face was sad. “He seemed such an interesting man. I did enjoy talking with him about the East.” She sighed. “Thank you for telling me. Now I must be running along.” And away she went with short little steps.

  “I can’t help but feel sorry for Alice,” he said to Kitty. “Losing her first love”—he took Kitty’s hand—“and not lucky enough, like me, to find it again, the way I found you.”

  “You are sweet,” she said. “Old bear.”

  O’Reilly grinned and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “I wonder how the whip-round Alice and Flo Bishop organised to raise money for the Galvins is going? I saw Flo yesterday. They stop accepting donations at noon today. Then they’re going to pop round to give me the money to give to the Galvins so they can start working on getting their son Seamus home from Palm Desert.”

  “That would be wonderful for them,” Kitty said.

  They crossed Main Street at the traffic light. “Oh, my,” said Kitty, “speak of the devil and he’s sure to turn up.”

  O’Reilly recognised the couple approaching. Guffer Galvin’s bald pate was half hidden under a tweed duncher.
He was walking slowly along the Shore Road toward the O’Reillys. Anne leant on his arm. Her pale grey-blond hair was tucked under a head scarf. Despite the warmth of the day, she wore an overcoat. Her National Health Service wire-rimmed granny glasses covered her pale blue eyes. Her cheeks were sunken. Barry and the district nurse Colleen Brennan had been keeping an eye on her since her discharge from hospital seven weeks ago.

  “How’s about youse,” Guffer asked, raising his cap in the presence of a lady.

  O’Reilly and Kitty stopped and Kenny sat. “We’re fine, thank you,” Kitty said. “How are you, Anne?”

  O’Reilly heard the genuine concern in his wife’s voice. Truly caring for her patients and about her patients was one of the things that made her such a fine nurse.

  “I’m doing bravely, so I am,” Anne Galvin said. “My wound’s healed rightly and the pain’s all gone.” She paused and took her time breathing deeply. “I get short of puff, but sure that’s til be expected with only one lung.” She managed a small laugh. “Good thing I play the uileann pipes. They have bellows. The Brian Boru ones, and those great Highland ones you have til blow into. Still,” she said, “Guffer and me goes for a walk every sunny day, and I can go a wee bit farther each time.” Her last words were defiant. “I’m mending, so I am. Mending rightly.”

  But for how long? O’Reilly wondered. The outlook with oat cell lung cancer was grim.

  Guffer said, “She’s a brave warrior, so she is, my Annie, and, Doctor and Mrs.”—he lowered his voice—“she kept things til herself until she was certain sure, but then she told me and the whole family, indeed when Cissie Sloan asked Anne why she’d been in hospital…”

  O’Reilly knew what was coming next.