“Yes. I was on the teams that beat Oxford in the Varsity Match in ’62 and ’63.”
“Good for you.” There was more to this young man than had been apparent at the interview. There was another sport hotly contested by the two universities. “Did you by any chance row?”
“Gosh. This is quite the inquisition, but if you must know, at number six for my college and for Cambridge against Oxford for three years: ’62 to ’64.”
“I never miss watching the Grand National or the Boat Race when they’re on the telly in April. Your lot won in ’62 and ’64.”
“Well. Um. Yes, actually.”
“I never did row. Well done, Sebastian. Now”—O’Reilly fished out his half-moon spectacles and put them on—“more about the way we work. The waiting room is down the hall next to the kitchen and it’s first come first served, with any acute emergency taking precedence.”
“That makes sense.”
“I do try to.” But O’Reilly was smiling. “We simply walk along the hall, look into the waiting room and ask, ‘Who’s next?’ Bring them here, sort them out, and they leave by the front door. Stops them swapping symptoms or telling other patients what we’ve prescribed and suggesting it might work for them too. It still happens, but at least not here.”
“Sounds practical.”
“It’s worked for me since 1946.” He glanced at his watch. “Two minutes to nine.” He rose. “I gave you some advice about Kinky earlier, now I’m going to give you some more. It was given to me when I was in my first year as a GP. A Doctor Phelim Corrigan in Dublin, my senior, said it was his first law of general practice. ‘Never, never, never let the patient get the upper hand.’” O’Reilly had to wait until Sebastian had stopped laughing. “Now, come on. Let’s get this show on the road. Oh, and you might be surprised by the decor in the waiting room.”
O’Reilly headed there with Sebastian at his heels.
“The decor, Fingal?”
Both men stood at the doorway as Sebastian took in the wall of brightly coloured roses painted from floor to ceiling behind the row of chairs.
Sebastian appeared to be trying not to laugh. “Well, it’s not the Sistine Chapel, but it makes a change from hospital green.”
“It does that. Courtesy one Donal Donnelly, carpenter by trade. Morning, all,” O’Reilly said. Only half of the chairs were taken. There was a chorus of, “Morning, Doctor O’Reilly.”
He recognised Sonny Houston and Maggie Houston née MacCorkle. Maggie grinned. It was a formal occasion, because she was wearing her false teeth. Colin Brown, hand wrapped in a bloody towel, sat beside Mister Coffin, the undertaker. The publican Willie Dunleavy’s daughter, Mary, sat in the corner reading a dog-eared copy of Woman’s Own. He did not recognise the young woman seated two seats away from her. Ballybucklebo had grown somewhat in the last year. He guessed she was a newcomer. It was early in the day. More folks would show up as the morning progressed.
“Good morning, all. Let me introduce you to Doctor Sebastian Carson. He is a graduate of Cambridge University and trained at Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital in London. He just finished more training at our City Hospital and he’ll be working here for a year.”
“He’s quare and young looking,” said Maggie, “but if he’s under your wing, sir, he’ll do rightly, so he will.”
There was an assenting muttering.
“Thank you. Right,” said O’Reilly, “who’s first?”
Colin Brown said, “I cut my hand, but it’s only a wee cut and it’s stopped bleeding. Mister and Mrs. Houston were here first. I can wait.”
“Thank you, Colin,” Maggie said. “Come on, Sonny.” They rose and followed O’Reilly and Sebastian back to the surgery.
O’Reilly took the swivel chair as Sonny and Maggie sat on the wooden chairs.
“Doctor Carson, this is Mister and Mrs. Houston. Don’t sit down yet, Doctor. You’ll find their records,” he pointed, “in that filing cabinet.”
“Good morning, Mister and Mrs. Houston, just give me a minute to get your file and then tell me what I can do for you today?” Sebastian opened the filing cabinet, rifled through, removed the file, and sat again in the upholstered armchair beside the desk.
“What can you do, Doctor? You can’t do nothing for me,” Maggie said, “but Sonny says he can see nothing out of his left eye.” She nudged her husband. “You tell them, you ould goat.”
O’Reilly, who had known the Houstons since 1946 and knew Maggie’s “ould goat” was simple affection, watched to see how Sebastian would respond. His eyes widened but he said nothing.
Sonny said, “I’m not getting any younger. Doctors O’Reilly and Laverty have me on pills for my mild heart failure—”
“Digitalis and a diuretic,” O’Reilly added to speed up the consultation.
“Aye, and aspirin for these”—Sonny held out his hands to display how arthritis had gnarled his fingers—“but I’m here today because my eyesight’s going in my left eye. If I close my right one I really can’t see very much at all.”
“I see. And for how long has this been going on?”
“Och, I’m not quite sure. Mebbe a year or more, but it’s got worse in the last three months. It started by making things a bit blurred, I could see halos round streetlights, colours didn’t seem so bright if I only used my left eye.”
O’Reilly had made a diagnosis already from what were classical symptoms. He waited to see how Sebastian would proceed.
“And is this the first time you’ve mentioned it to a doctor?”
Maggie sighed. “He’d not be here today if I hadn’t twisted his arm.”
“Doctors are busy people,” Sonny mumbled. “I don’t like to take up their time.”
“Goat.” Maggie sniffed.
“Have you any other complaints, Mister Houston?”
Sonny shook his head.
“No headaches, dizzy spells, weakness?”
Good lad, O’Reilly thought. Some lesions inside the skull, a tumour or a bleeding aneurysm like the one from which Dapper Frew was making a remarkable recovery, could produce loss of vision in one eye. With those conditions, the loss of vision was usually much more rapid.
“Sonny wouldn’t tell you even if he had, he’s that nervous of you medical highheejins. But I can tell you he’s not had any of those things. He can’t hide nothing from me.” The words sounded harsh but the look she gave her husband was not.
“I see. Well, jolly good then—I-I think. Let’s have a look, shall we?” Sebastian said, and crouched in front of Sonny. “I’ll tell Doctor O’Reilly what I’m finding as we go along and I’ll explain to you both once I’ve finished.”
O’Reilly thought, That’s it, Sebastian.
“Go right ahead, sir,” Sonny said.
“Right. Both eyes are of equal size, as are the pupils. I’m going to forego checking the eye movements because I believe the diagnosis is clear. And there are more patients in the waiting room.”
That wasn’t very tactful.
“The right pupil could be clearer but the left is white and opaque. Will you come and look, Doctor O’Reilly?” Sebastian stood.
O’Reilly stood, crouched, and said, “I agree.”
“Mister Houston, you have cataracts. They are very common in old people.”
Hmm, O’Reilly thought as he sat down again. He could have said something like “As we age.”
“The lens in the eye is a protein like the white of an egg. You know what happens when you boil an egg?”
“Aye. It solidifies.”
“And that’s what has happened. The one in your right eye is very early, but the left one is what the eye specialists call ‘ripe.’ It can be fixed.”
“See,” Maggie said. “Didn’t I say to come and see the doctor. It can be fixed, you buck eejit.”
When Sonny spoke, there was a tremor in his voice. “Thank you, Doctor Carson, but will I have to go to hospital?”
O’Reilly remembered how Barry had treated Sonny’s pernicious anaemia
without submitting him to admission for a more detailed workup. Sonny Houston was deathly afraid of hospitals.
“I’m afraid so, Mister Houston; first the eye doctor’s outpatient clinic to see the eye specialist, Mister Cowan, for a more thorough eye examination—”
“And sure won’t I come with you?” Maggie patted the back of Sonny’s hand.
He gulped in a deep breath.
“Then some time later, you will have to be admitted for the surgery, which is really quite simple, although the eye doctors do use a microscopical technique nowadays. The surgeon will remove the damaged lens and afterwards you’ll be given spectacles with a strong convex left lens. It’s a simple operation.”
Perhaps simple if you’re a doctor. Sonny Houston may hold a PhD, but O’Reilly knew he was terrified.
Sonny exhaled. His arthritic hands were trembling. “Very well. If I must, I must.” He pushed himself back up his chair.
“Now,” said Sebastian, retaking his seat and scribbling on Sonny’s file, “I’ll write the letter today and they’ll send for you soon. Have you any more questions for me?”
“No. Thank you, Doctors. We musn’t take up any more of your time.” Sonny rose. “Come on, dear. We’ll go home now.”
O’Reilly said, “Try not to be scared, Sonny. Doctor Carson’s right. It is pretty much a routine procedure. I promise.”
Sonny nodded. “Thank you, Doctor O’Reilly.” He and Maggie headed for the surgery door.
Sebastian preceded them and held the surgery door open. “Good-bye, Mister and Mrs. Houston.” He closed the door.
O’Reilly said, “You got the diagnosis right, but do try to remember that no matter what the disease, it’s affecting a human being, and human beings have feelings too.”
“I thought I was extraordinarily polite.”
“You were, but you’re a young fellah. One day you’ll be old and things will start to deteriorate.” Like my bloody hearing. “You’ll not like being told you’re ‘an old person.’ You could have phrased that more gently.”
“Um. I see.” He pursed his lips and held his clenched fist against them.
“We’ll say no more, and we have to keep moving. Seeing you’re on your feet, be a good lad, nip out to the waiting room and bring the youngster with the cut hand in next. His name’s Colin, by the way.”
“Yes, Doctor O’Reilly.”
As Sebastian disappeared, O’Reilly shook his head. The sudden return to formality, the “Doctor O’Reilly,” had not been lost on him. For all his airs and graces, it seemed Sebastian Carson did not take criticism well. Not yet. But O’Reilly had a year to work with him, and that was going to change.
13
Around the Ancient Track Marched
“Now, you’re sure you’ve got everything you need, Sue?”
Barry looked at his wife sitting in an armchair with her feet up on a circular pouffe, a rug over her knees and Tigger on her lap. She smiled at him.
“You’re mollycoddling me, Barry. I’ve been home for five days, five days without any cramps or bleeding—”
“I am not mollycoddling you, just making sure you do what your doctor ordered. And he specifically said for you to rest after lunch.” He bent and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “I love you. I want this baby as much as you do. And if I remember our marriage lines, there was a bit about ‘in sickness and in health.’”
Sue laughed. “I love you too, eejit, but I’m not sick. Having a baby is a natural part of life.”
When everything goes smoothly, he thought as he tucked the rug more securely around her knees.
“Barry, I’m fine. It’s August the first. I am in no danger of catching a chill.” She picked up a book. “Now, you’ve left me a glass of water, tissues. Tigger is fast sleep, and I’m just getting into A Small Town in Germany by John le Carré, so off you trot. Knowing Fingal, he’s probably still at his lunch, regaling his young colleagues with his encyclopedic knowledge of the world. I know you want to welcome this new Doctor Carson on his first day.”
“I do. I’ll go straight to Number One and straight home when I’m finished, so you’ll know where to find me if you need me. Good thing no one called me last night and I’m off today.” Barry pecked the top of her head again, smiled at Sue, began to leave, and then turned back. “Are you absolutely sure you have everything you need?”
“Actually…”
“Yes, anything, darling.”
“Could you get me some vanilla ice cream from Luchi’s in Bangor on your way home? They still make the best ice cream. I’d die for a dish.”
* * *
Barry let himself in through the front door of Number One Main Street, crossed the hall, and turned right into the dining room. Sue had been right. Fingal, Sebastian Carson, and Emer McCarthy, last year’s trainee and, as of today, assistant with a view to partnership, were seated at the big bog oak table. Fingal, as usual, was at its head, and today he was puffing on his briar. “Come in, Barry,” he said. “Park yourself. Coffee?”
Barry sat beside Emer. “Please.” He turned to Emer and Sebastian. “Afternoon, Emer. Welcome to the practice, Sebastian.”
“Afternoon, Barry,” Emer said.
Sebastian inclined his head.
As O’Reilly poured, Barry, who had grown used to the young woman long ago, still noticed her trim figure, cornflower-blue eyes, and shiny close-cut blond hair. She was wearing a knee-length sleeveless dress the colour of Kinky’s wheaten bread and cream low-heeled lace-up shoes.
“Give that to Barry.” O’Reilly handed the cup to Emer, who passed it over, saying, “How was your night, and how’s Sue?”
“Both quiet. Sue’s resting, but we’ve no cause for concern—now.” He looked at Sebastian. “My wife, Sue, threatened to miscarry our first ten days ago, but it’s settled down.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sebastian said. “I do hope everything will turn out well. It does more often than not.”
“Thank you.” Barry hardly needed to be told that by a man who was just starting as a trainee. That extra time of obstetrics and gynaecology in Ballymena’s Waveney Hospital had acquainted Barry with all the many things that could go wrong, and he still hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of dread. He quickly changed the subject. “So, Sebastian, how did your first surgery here go?”
“Actually, some of it was not very different from the kind of stuff I saw at Bart’s. Old chap—” He paused and looked at O’Reilly. “A gentleman called Sonny Houston came in with his wife Maggie. Man’s got a cataract, so we’ve arranged for him to be seen at the Royal. Saw plenty of them at ophthalmic outpatients. Pretty straightforward stuff.”
O’Reilly took a puff from his briar. “Sebastian’s a good diagnostician.” He looked the young man in the eye. “We need to help him a bit with his bedside manner, but I imagine a lot of Bart’s graduates these days are more scientifically inclined.”
Sebastian lowered his gaze.
“Some of our patients will take getting used to,” Barry said. “Took me a while. Maggie MacCorkle, as she was then, was one of my first patients. She was complaining of headaches two inches above the crown of her head.”
“Good Lord. A bit doolally tap, was she?” There was silence around the table.
Sebastian laughed, somewhat self-consciously, Barry thought. “I don’t actually know what that means,” said Sebastian. “But I like the sound of it.”
“Doolally,” O’Reilly said. “It’s a corruption of Deolali, a British army transit camp in India where it was said you could go mad from boredom.”
“Well, I never.” Sebastian crossed his eyes. “Stark raving bonkers.”
Emer giggled.
Barry smiled. “That’s what I thought, but Maggie has all her marbles.” He inclined his head to indicate O’Reilly. “The walking Encyclopaedia Britannica there sorted her out in jig time. Gave her some vitamin pills,” he paused for effect, “to be taken exactly half an hour before the headache started—and
the damn things worked.”
Sebastian’s eyes widened and he sat back in his chair. His laugh must have started at ankle level and its booming filled the dining room. “Crumbs,” he finally managed. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”
Barry chuckled. “And the rest of the morning?”
“A young woman, apparently her dad owns the local pub, has a skin rash that Fingal thinks is contact dermatitis due to washing-up fluid—”
“Mary Dunleavy. She has a feisty wee Chihuahua named Brian Boru who’s fast friends with Kenny,” Barry said.
“And a young man who seems to be accident prone had cut himself again. Chatted about his dog Murphy while I put in a couple of stitches—”
“Colin Brown,” Emer said. “He wants to be a vet.”
“Right. And a gentleman with an external haemorrhoid, the aptly named Mister Coffin—”
“The undertaker,” Emer said. “The poor man has a large rhinophyma; his red nose does not suit his occupation. You must have noticed.”
“Hard to miss.”
“But he is a soft-hearted soul. Never married but dotes on his two nieces.”
“Gosh, you two. I wasn’t surprised when you, Fingal, seemed to know just about everybody except a young woman who moved here recently from Belfast. You’ve been here for years, but do all GPs get to know their patients quite so personally?”
O’Reilly let go a blast of tobacco smoke. “If they want to. I think it’s the mark of a good country practitioner to become part of the community.”
“I see,” Sebastian said. “Thank you.” He looked thoughtful. “I can see that for you folks who are full time here, but I’ll be moving on when my time’s up. I’ll try to fit in, but I’m sure it’ll take a while.”
“That’s true,” Barry said, “and it’s been worth it for me. I don’t want to harp on about the sectarian rubbish that’s been bubbling over in Ulster since last year and flared up again over the Twelfth. But I do want to tell you, Sebastian, about how those things work here.”
“Anything that can help me do my job better.”
“I think this will. You know that in 1941, the Luftwaffe blitzed Belfast over three days in Easter and then again in May.”
An Irish Country Welcome Page 13