An Irish Country Practice

by Patrick Taylor

  Barry accepted the notes. “That, Donal,” he said, “is very generous. But that would have been your only profit.”

  Donal shrugged. “Do you know, sir, ‘Money is the root of all wuh—’” He frowned. “I was going to say ‘weevil,’ but that’s not right.”

  Barry chuckled and said, “But close enough. Donal, on behalf of the Galvins, thank you. Now…” He finished his whiskey. “We have to be heading for home.” He rose.

  “Right,” said Donal. “Run you two away on. And me and the Ballybucklebo Highlanders pipe band will see youse on your wedding day, July the seventh. Dapper Frew’s got Mister Bishop til lay on a bus til run us til Broughshane.”

  “Thank you, Donal,” Barry said, wishing Dapper Frew could lay on a house for the newlyweds, but as he closed the front door and walked to his parked car, he found himself singing a madrigal—off-key, of course—from The Mikado,

  Brightly dawns our wedding day

  Joyous hour we give thee greeting

  Before he got into the car, Sue snuggled up to him and said, “Thank you for bringing me, Barry. It was great learning about your work, amazing that Julie would name the baby for me, and, oh boy, when I picked up that wee mite,” she gave a shudder of pleasure, “I came all over broody.”

  “I know. I saw the look on your face when you were cuddling Susan Brigit.” He kissed her. “And I know just what a great mother you’ll be.”

  “In time,” she said, “in time,” and kissed him right back.

  40

  End My Days in a Tavern

  “So I’ll see you and Archie on Friday, Kinky,” Barry said. “Two days from now. Eleven o’clock sharp. Broughshane First Presbyterian Church on Raceview Street. Just past the Ballymena golf course.”

  “We’ll be there, sir,” Kinky said. “Doctor and Mrs. O’Reilly will give us a lift, so. It does be a bit far for Archie’s electric milk float.” She dusted flour off her hands—she’d been making the pastry crust of a rhubarb pie, and soon Barry was enveloped in an enormous hug fragrant with the perfume of Kinky’s kingdom. She gripped him tightly, let him go, and stood back looking at him. “I do ask you to forgive my taking that liberty, sir, but along with himself and Kitty tying the knot, and me and my Archie getting wed, the thought of you and that lovely Miss Nolan going to be man and wife. Och achara”—she used the back of her right hand to brush away a tear—“it does be the happiest thought of all.” She sniffed. “I’ve never been a ma, more’s the pity, but you’ve been like a son to me these last three years and I hope it won’t be long until I can be like a granny to your wee ones, bye.”

  “Thank you, Kinky,” Barry said. “I’d—that is, Sue and I’d like that very much, but you’ll have to be patient.” He was now fully reconciled to the idea of, and indeed looking forward to, parenthood, but he was also looking forward to having Sue all to himself for a while.

  “Don’t I know that, sir?” She went back to her work, pushing a rolling pin with long, steady strokes. “But remember, a baby brings light to the house, warmth to the heart, and joy to the soul, so.”

  “I will remember, Kinky,” he said as he opened the back door. “See you on Friday.” He was officially off duty from now until July the twenty-fourth. The tickets were booked to London, where the newlyweds would spend Friday night in the Ariel Hotel at Heathrow Airport before flying the next day to L’Aeroport Côte d’Azure west of Nice and only thirteen kilometres from Villefranche.

  Kenny appeared, looking hopeful. “Not today, pup. Sue’s Max will be enough dog for one afternoon.”

  He piled into Brunhilde and headed for Holywood. He’d already put the clothes and toiletries he would need in France in a case in the boot. Later this evening he was heading to Ballyholme to spend the night with his folks before heading to Ballymena tomorrow for a night in the Ballymena Arms, where Jack Mills would also be staying. Barry might not be a superstitious man, but there was no way he was risking his future happiness by seeing his bride-to-be the night before the wedding on Friday.

  As he drove through Ballybucklebo, past the familiar sights of the maypole, the Mucky Duck, and the tall-spired Catholic chapel, he could feel himself relaxing. So much to look forward to and no medical worries for two and a half weeks. The schools had broken up for the summer holidays last Friday, but Sue had stayed on to clear out her classroom so painters could come in next week. He had promised to drop by her flat this afternoon and give her a hand loading her car, mostly wedding presents from her fellow teachers, for the forty-five-minute run to her parents’ farm in Broughshane. It was traditional for the immediate family to view the wedding presents displayed in the bride’s family home the night before the big day. Silly, he thought. They’d just have to be lugged back to her flat after their return from their honeymoon.

  Barry made a left turn onto Church Road. Dapper Frew had done his very best, but no suitable house had turned up. It was a real pity about losing the Millers’ bungalow, but at times like this he found himself remembering the little homilies Fingal was so fond of. If a thing couldn’t be cured it had to be endured. Don’t cross your bridges until you came to them. Sound advice on both counts.

  Barry parked outside Sue’s flat. Let’s get Sue organised and on her way, he thought, then he was meeting Fingal, Connor Nelson, and Jack Mills in the Duck for a send-off drink. While Barry and his best man, Jack, would have a quiet dinner tomorrow night, they had agreed to forgo the pleasures of a traditional stag night. Neither wanted to stand at the altar the next day bleary-eyed, muddle-headed, and stinking of stale alcohol.

  He rang Sue’s bell and braced himself for a Max attack. If the bloody dog could fly, he would have made a fine kamikaze pilot the way he hurled himself at people.

  “Darling.” Sue grabbed him, pulled him into the hall, and kissed him long and hard. No Max.

  “Love you too,” he said when he got his breath back after they parted.

  “The brute is in the kitchen,” she said.

  A series of yaps and barks from that direction confirmed her words.

  Thank the Lord for small mercies, he thought.

  “And I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she said. And in truth Sue was not at her most elegant. Her copper hair was bundled up under a scarf; a blue, dust-stained, sleeveless cotton sweater was half tucked into a pair of jeans which were torn over the right knee. “I’ve been packing like billy-oh.”

  “You’re still a vision of loveliness to me.”

  “Thank you, eejit,” she said, and kissed him again before continuing, “flatterer. Now, we’ve work to do. All I need now is a hand carrying things to the cars.”

  “Cars?”

  “Yes. I’ve got my trousseau in two suitcases. I thought if we put them into your car now, they’d be ready for when we leave after the reception.” She raised one eyebrow. “I do hope you like black silk negligees and sheer stockings.”

  Barry swallowed as erotic pictures of things to come flashed through his mind. Memories of their first love-making in Marseille. He cleared his throat.

  “Oh, good,” she said, and winked. “I have a separate case for my going-away outfit too, but I’ll take that with me today.”

  “Good idea,” he said, trying to banish thoughts of Sue in a black silk negligee and get on with the job in hand. “So what have I to carry?”

  “The boxes in the sitting room go in my boot, the cases in your car, and after you’ve gone, I’ll put Max in my backseat.”

  “Right,” he said, heading for the lounge, “Bob at your service.”

  “Bob?” She frowned.

  He lifted a parcel. “Also known as B. O. B. Beast of burden,” he said, and headed for the car still hearing Sue’s contralto laughter.

  Half an hour later, both cars were loaded. Barry stood beside her in the hall. “That’s it, then,” he said. “Next time I see you, I’ll be wearing a morning suit and you’ll be in white.” He moved closer to her, feeling the warmth of her breath. He took her hands in his and looked into
the depths of her green eyes. “Sue Nolan,” he said, “thank you. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for forgiving my uncertainty about children. Thank you for agreeing to be the wife of a country GP in Ballybucklebo.” He kissed her, long, hard, insistently. “Thank you for being you, you wonderful woman whom I shall love to my roots—now and forever.”

  * * *

  Barry entered the Duck and immediately through the tobacco smoke haze saw O’Reilly, Connor Nelson, and Jack Mills sitting at a table for four. O’Reilly’s briar was doing its best to make the place look like a scene from an old Sherlock Holmes film.

  Regulars called “Evening, Doc,” or “Bout ye, sir,” and Barry replied in kind. There was a wonderfully familiar comfort in this bastion of the male side of his Ballybucklebo family. Glasses clinked and the conversational buzz punctuated by laughter filled the room.

  O’Reilly pointed to the empty chair.

  Before Barry took it he peered under the table. Arthur Guinness was asleep and snoring, but Kenny and Brian Boru, Mary Dunleavy’s Chihuahua, were tucking into a bowl that could only contain Smithwick’s.

  All three men were drinking pints and, judging by O’Reilly’s, with only two white tide marks above the creamy head, they had not been here long. “Yours is on the pour, Barry,” O’Reilly said. “Willie’ll bring it over. And your money’s no good this evening.”

  “Thank you, Fingal,” Barry said. “It was good of Nonie to agree to take call while we’re here. And thank you all for coming to have a jar with me before Sue and I tie the knot.”

  Connor Nelson nodded his ginger head. “Nonie said since you weren’t having a stag, you still needed a bit of a boys’ night out, before the big day. We all wish you every happiness, don’t we?”

  Two heads nodded in agreement. In Ulster, congratulations were not offered to one about to be married.

  Connor said, “And it truly has been my pleasure to have been taught by you, Fingal, and worked in harness with you and Nonie, Barry.”

  “Happy to have you, Connor,” O’Reilly said.

  “Thank you. And I’m flattered you’ve the confidence to let me run Doctor Fitzpatrick’s practice unsupervised. I couldn’t wish for better colleagues or a better place to work. It’s made those three years trying to get into medical school all the more worthwhile.”

  “You’ve earned it, Connor,” O’Reilly said. “And as far as I’m concerned you can stay as long as possible.”

  “Hear him,” Barry said. He raised his glass. “To you, Connor, and to colleagues, and to Ballybucklebo.”

  They drank.

  Barry gave a thought to Ronald Fitzpatrick in his monastery in Nepal. Yesterday Fingal had had another cheerful letter. Apparently, Ronald was hinting that he might like to stay there permanently. Barry glanced at Connor. Might he take over Ronald’s practice? From what Barry had seen of Doctor Nelson, they could do a lot worse than having him in their rota.

  “All set for the big day, Barry?” said Jack.

  “Pretty much.” Barry rummaged in his pocket. He handed his oldest friend a small, grey, velvet-covered box with a domed lid. “Here,” he said, giving Jack the box. “Don’t forget this.”

  “Aye,” said Jack, his Cullybackey accent thick as Kinky’s champ. Jack’s hometown was only fifteen minutes from Broughshane. “I’ll no’, and just between the three of you, I hope you’ll be doing the same for me, Barry, once Helen’s qualified.”

  “Do you mean?” Barry said.

  “No’ yet, hey.” Jack’s country face split into a grin. “I’ll have to wait until she’s closer til she’s finished at Queens.”

  Barry grabbed his friend’s hand. “You’ll not regret it, Jack. Helen’s a lovely girl.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said O’Reilly and, with Barry and Connor, did.

  Jack frowned. “I only hope her being Catholic and me a Prod won’t be a problem.”

  Oh-oh, Barry thought. Alan Hewitt was a staunch Catholic with Republican leanings and Jack Mills’ family was Presbyterian. There might be choppy waters ahead. Maybe Sue with her involvement with the Civil Rights folks might have some suggestions—but later. Not tonight.

  Barry felt a presence at his shoulder and turned to see Bertie Bishop. “Good evening, Doctor,” Bertie said, handing Barry a parcel. “Just a wee something from Flo and me for you and Miss Nolan. I was going til drop it off on my way home.”

  Barry rose. “Thank you, Bertie. And please thank Flo too. We will be writing proper thank-you letters once we get home and settled in.”

  “Och, never you rush yourself, Doctor Laverty. Now sit you down. I’m going til finish my pint, then head for home.” He wandered off to, Barry was surprised, a table where Donal Donnelly was sitting, also enjoying a pint. Barry supposed that as Bertie’s permanent foreman, Donal had, in Bertie’s opinion, climbed the social scale.

  Willie arrived. “Your pint, sir, and it’s on the house.”

  “Thanks, Willie,” Barry said, then lifted his glass and said, “Cheers,” before taking a mouthful.

  “Cheers,” was echoed three times and then a fourth as Donal approached the table.

  “I reckoned you’d be in the night, Doc,” he said. “It’s a week now since the wee twins was born, and your Doctor Stevenson called round this morning. She’s a dead-on wee lady doctor so she is. She says the weans are coming on a treat and my Julie? See my Julie? Never stops grinning. I just wanted til say thanks a million and”—he proffered a box—“we all know you’re getting wed, sir, but that’s not a wedding present. That there’s a wheen of flies—black butchers, renegades, mayfly, William’s favourites, woolly buggers. It’s just a thank-you from the Donnellys—all five of us.” He touched the brim of his duncher.

  “Thank you very much, Donal,” Barry said. Three years ago, at Seamus Galvin’s leaving party, Seamus had given Barry a box of hand-tied flies for the same reason, the birth of Seamus’s baby boy, Barry Fingal Galvin. Later that afternoon, Donal had asked Barry how he liked Ballybucklebo and he’d replied, “I don’t think ‘like’ is the right word. I love it here.” And three years later he saw no reason to change his mind.

  “Maybe one day you’ll be teaching a wee lad til fish,” Donal said, “and them flies’ll remind you of a pair of Donnelly twins.”

  “Indeed I might,” Barry said, and relished the thought, “and they will, and”—he lowered his voice—“they’ll also remind me of a damn fine sportsman who paid up twice on his birthday lottery. I heard Colin Brown’s invested part of his ten pounds in a tortoise.”

  “I see the lad’s still crazy for animals. And him going til Bangor Grammar this September, I’ll bet—”

  “Donal,” Barry said, “you’d bet on anything.”

  Donal laughed. “A pound says he’ll go on til be a vet.”

  Barry cocked his head. “Right,” he said, offering a hand. “Right, you’re on. And I hope you win.”

  Donal grinned and shook. Then said, “And this business about me being a sportsman for paying up? Och, Doctor, no harm til ye, but away off and chase yourself, sir. I done what’s right, that’s all.”

  The swing doors made their familiar boing as the springs swung them shut. Dapper Frew came in beaming, made a beeline for Barry’s table, but stopped when he saw Donal. “How’s about ye, oul hand?”

  “Rightly, and so’s Julie and the twins.”

  Dapper said with a smile, “Well done, you great bollix. It’s hard enough to shoot one bird, but to get one with each barrel? A right and left? Must be powerful cartridges you’re shooting.”

  Barry laughed.

  Donal’s skinny chest swelled with pride. He grinned and shook his hands above his head like a victorious prizefighter. “I must be quare nor puerile.” Chuckling, Donal added, “I’m away off til finish my pint, Dapper. Are you coming over?”

  Dapper shook his head. “Later. I need a wee word with the doctor first.”

  “Which one?” came a chorus from a nearby table, and then laughter.
<
br />   “Doctor Barry Laverty, if you please.” Dapper grabbed an empty chair, swung it round, and parked himself beside Barry. “Please excuse the intrusion, Doctors,” he said, “but I asked Mrs. Auchinleck where I’d find Doctor Laverty. I’ve something really dead on til tell him and it won’t keep.”

  Barry held his breath.

  “You mind the day we seen the house on Shore Road. With”—he chuckled—“what you called our furry friend?”

  Barry shuddered. “I do.”

  “And I said, ‘You never know, we may have a bit better luck soon’?”

  Barry leant forward, drink ignored. “Yes.” He had wondered about that remark.

  “We’ve had it. I’ve been keeping in touch with Gracie Miller, and—”

  “Go on.” Barry felt his nails digging into his palms.

  “It’s been a little over three months since she went til her daughter Joy in Portrush. She phoned me this morning. Says she’s loving it there. She’s still sad that Lewis is gone, but she wants a new start with her family. She’s changed her mind about selling, wants time to collect some of her memories, like her pictures and bits and bobs like the coronation mugs, but if you want the house, Doctor…”

  Barry’s immediate feeling was relief that Gracie was picking up the pieces, but perhaps selfishly greater relief that he was going to get the bungalow after all. “If I want it? Good God, man, you know we do.”

  “She’ll let you have it for four thousand, nine hundred…”

  Barry frowned. “That’s more than you originally thought.”

  “Aye,” Dapper said, “it is, but there’s a bonus, like. For that you get the house and contents, lock stock and barrel. Gracie says they bought some new furniture when the grandkids started coming over, new beds and dressers for the bedrooms and such, and there’s some nice Victorian pieces in there, a good bog oak sideboard and dining table. You could move straight in whenever you like once you’re back home and not have to furnish it nor nothing.”