An Irish Country Welcome

by Patrick Taylor

  Guffer Galvin had aged in the months since Anne’s death, and O’Reilly felt for the almost completely bald man who answered the door in a collarless shirt under a V-necked sleeveless pullover. “Doctor O’Reilly? What’s up? I never sent for you.”

  “I know that, Guffer, but I was passing and thought I’d pop in and see how you are.”

  “That’s dead decent of you, Doctor. Come in. And who’s this young fella with you?”

  “Guffer Galvin, this is our new trainee, Doctor Carson.”

  “Pleased til meet you, sir.”

  “How do you do, Mister Galvin?” Sebastian said.

  Guffer led the way into his cramped lounge, where three ceramic mallard, garishly painted and decreasing in size, flew up at an angle on the whitewashed chimney breast. “Please sit down.” He switched off the TV and sat on the sofa. “I only had it on for a bit of company.”

  O’Reilly and Sebastian took an armchair apiece. O’Reilly noticed some unwashed lunch plates on a table beside the sofa. They’d not have been left there for several hours while Anne was alive. “So,” he asked, “how are you getting on?”

  “Och.” Guffer shrugged. “Anne’s gone two months now. Our youngest, Seamus, went back to Palm Desert two weeks after the funeral, as you know, sir. He’s a business to run, after all. And our older boy, Pat, he’s back in Dublin. They both phone me and that helps, but—” He looked O’Reilly in the eye, sighed. “I miss Annie sore.” A single tear glistened. “It’s took me a while to accept she’s gone. I’d think she was in the kitchen and call out to her. Silly of me.”

  “Nothing silly about it,” O’Reilly said. “Grieving takes time.”

  “It certainly does,” said Sebastian. “Perhaps your friends come to call?”

  “Och aye. They’ve been great. And the minister, Mister Robinson, pops in often too.” He looked from one man to the other. “And here’s me forgetting my manners. Annie would have had me off to the kitchen by now to put the kettle on. Can I get the pair of youse a wee cup of tea in your hand?”

  They had one more call to make and O’Reilly was torn between keeping Guffer company for longer or getting to their next call. He noticed Sebastian taking a quick glance at his watch. At least he hadn’t done it while Guffer was looking. The lad was learning. “Not today, thanks, Guffer. We’ve another patient to see, but I’ll drop in on you again over the next few weeks, and if you really feel low and want to talk about it, give us a call and one of us’ll come ’round.”

  “I will. Thanks, Doctor.” He smiled. “It’s great just til know you and the other doctors are there when we need you. Doctor Emer brought your Kenny round the other day for a bit of a visit. My Annie was daft about that dog, so she was. And she was very fond of Doctor Emer.”

  “We all are,” O’Reilly said, rising, “and now we’d better be off. Take care of yourself, Guffer. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  * * *

  “Oh my, this is rather grand,” Sebastian said as O’Reilly drove up the long, curved drive to Ballybucklebo House and parked near the front steps. The polite request for a home visit had come from John MacNeill after lunchtime. “Nothing urgent, Fingal,” he’d said, “but would you mind calling in later today?”

  “Lord of the manor’s place,” O’Reilly said. “Marquis of Ballybucklebo. He sounded fine on the phone. We shall see.” He grabbed his bag. “Come on.”

  “I rather suspect that a peer of the realm can’t be expected to sit in the waiting room with the hoi polloi,” said Sebastian as they climbed the steps.

  The butler/valet met them at the door. “Surgeon Commander and—?”

  “Doctor Carson,” O’Reilly said to his old Warspite shipmate, gunnery Chief Petty Officer Thompson.

  “Please come in out of the rain. His lordship’s waiting for you in the study. If you’ll follow me, sir.” Thompson led them along a parquet-floored, high-arched, cathedral-ceilinged hall where oils of earlier marquises and marchionesses hung. When O’Reilly had first brought Kitty here, she had remarked that one of the paintings had been done by Sir Joshua Reynolds in the mid-1700s.

  Thompson held open a door. “Your doctors, my lord.”

  Lord John MacNeill, wearing a red velvet smoking jacket, sat on a black leather ottoman in front of a small fire. A family portrait of Lord MacNeill, his late wife, Laura, and their son, Sean, now a major in the Irish Guards, hung above the fireplace. “Fingal. Forgive me if I don’t get up. I’m feeling a bit under the weather. Thank you for coming.” He looked at Sebastian. “And young Carson. What a pleasant surprise. How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you, sir. I’m a trainee with Doctor O’Reilly this year.”

  O’Reilly frowned. He had not realised Sebastian Carson was acquainted with his lordship.

  John pointed to a couple of balloon-backed Victorian dining chairs. “Will you both please have a seat?”

  “Thank you,” O’Reilly said, and sat, as did Sebastian.

  “I was very sorry to hear about your father. My condolences. I can’t say I knew him well, but I do remember how proud he was when you won that scholarship at Harrow. I often saw him at various horse-racing events. He liked a bit of a flutter.”

  A sad look came into Sebastian’s eyes. “Well, perhaps more than a bit of a flutter, sir.” There was disdain in the young man’s voice. “But thank you, your lordship.”

  What was this business about his late father’s liking for a bit of a flutter?

  “How’s your mother?” John MacNeill asked.

  “Trying to bear up, sir. It’s hard on her.”

  John glanced at the family portrait. “I do understand.”

  So did O’Reilly, who had lost his first wife, Deirdre, in 1941 after only six months of marriage.

  “Now, John,” said O’Reilly, “what seems to be troubling you?”

  He pointed to the lower part of his breastbone. “For the past several weeks I have been progressively more troubled by discomfort behind here. It’s hard to describe, but it comes on suddenly and this morning it made me catch my breath. I thought I should ask you to take a look.”

  “I see.” Typical marquis. Too polite to inconvenience his physician. Nothing urgent? Central chest pain in a sixty-plus man was always very worrying. O’Reilly immediately suspected angina pectoris, pain brought on by partially clogged coronary arteries, depriving the heart muscle of blood, and usually the precursor to a myocardial infarction. But it could be other things too. “Does anything in particular bring it on?” If John said exercise he was going straight to the Royal for an electrocardiogram and possible admission.

  “Well, yes. When I lie down or if I bend over after a meal.”

  O’Reilly relaxed. He stood and said, “I’m just going to look under your eyelids and, if you don’t mind, I’d like Doctor Carson to have a look too.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  O’Reilly crouched in front of John MacNeill. With a thumb beneath each lower lid he pulled them down to expose the conjunctiva, the transparent membrane that lines the eyelids and covers the front of the eyeball. That permitted him to see colour given by the blood vessels under the membrane. “Your opinion, please, Sebastian.”

  “Pretty pale.”

  “I agree.” O’Reilly stood. “I’d just like to take your pulse and blood pressure.” O’Reilly did, and reported, “Pulse regular, eighty-eight per minute. Blood pressure one hundred and forty over eighty. Not bad considering none of us are getting any younger.” He took his seat. “Your opinion so far, please, Sebastian.”

  Sebastian swallowed, took a breath, then said, “When you said you had central chest pain, sir, I immediately thought you were having attacks of angina. Do you understand what that is?”

  “I do. My own father suffered from it. I wasn’t really worried that I might be on the way to having a heart attack like him, but I knew enough to seek your advice.”

  The more psychologically inclined physician might call that denial, O’Reilly thought.

>   “Um, even with you having a family history, one is fairly certain you’re not. Your history of lying down and bending over after food is very typical of peptic oesophagitis, and the paleness under your eyelids suggests you may be a little anaemic, because the other effect of the condition is bleeding leading to anaemia.” Inclining his head, he looked over at Fingal.

  “I concur,” O’Reilly said. “And your suggestions for treatment?”

  “I’ll, um, get to that in a moment after I’ve explained. You see, sir, your oesophagus—the tube or gullet from your mouth to your stomach—is not designed to withstand the effects of the acidic gastric juices. In some people, the juices do flow back from the stomach and cause ulceration, which hurts and may bleed. That is often associated with hiatus hernia, when the upper part of the stomach has made its way through the diaphragm, a big sheet of muscle that separates the chest cavity from the abdominal cavity.”

  “I see. Thank you for explaining, Doctor,” John MacNeill said. “So, what’s next?”

  “For a start you should avoid stooping after food and try sleeping propped up on pillows. Eat small and frequent meals, avoid spicy and fatty foods, keep your coffee consumption down, and, if Doctor O’Reilly approves, I’m going to give you a prescription for some milk-alkali tablets, Prodexin, to be sucked between meals. That’s to try to make you comfortable until we can get you an appointment to see Mister Willoughby Wilson, a surgeon at the Royal, who will order a special X-ray—a barium meal. He may also want to perform an oesophagoscopy, pop an illuminated tube into your gullet. He’ll take a blood sample to determine if you are anaemic and prescribe accordingly. Doctor O’Reilly?”

  “You’re spot on. And don’t think you’ve been shortchanged, John, because we didn’t examine you. There will be no other physical findings of note. I do have a couple of other questions, though.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Do you have any difficulty in swallowing, and have you been losing weight?”

  “No to both.”

  “Good.” Those were the primary symptoms of carcinoma of the oesophagus, a disease with a grim prognosis regardless of how early it was diagnosed, and if he and Sebastian were wrong and had missed that diagnosis, it would show up on the X-ray. He saw no reason to add that burden of worry to his friend’s concerns.

  “Thank you both,” said John MacNeill. “It’s a relief to understand what’s happening. Young Sebastian has explained things admirably. I imagine the hospital will contact me about my appointment and tests?”

  “They will,” said O’Reilly.

  “Good. Now, would I by any chance be your last home visit this afternoon?”

  “You would,” said O’Reilly, who had deliberately made it so because he knew what would happen next.

  “In that case, may I offer you a small libation?”

  “Splendid,” said O’Reilly. “Small Jameson.”

  “Sebastian?”

  Sebastian sighed, glanced at his watch. “Dry sherry, please, your lordship.”

  The phone rang.

  “Sorry, Doctors, but I must get this. Won’t be a moment.”

  Sebastian leaned over and whispered to O’Reilly, “Fingal, I’d very much appreciate it if we don’t stay too long. I don’t mean to be impolite, but I have plans.”

  “What kind of plans? A spot of fun?”

  “No. Not at all, just—” He paused. “—plans. Personal plans.”

  Just when he was getting ready to praise Sebastian Carson for his masterly explanation to John MacNeill of the findings, here he was trying to rush away again. What did the eejit boy mean by “personal plans” on a workday? Well, personal they may be, but if they affected his ability to do his job, then Fingal O’Reilly reserved the right to try to get to the bottom of the mystery.

  16

  Endure the Toothache

  Barry watched as Kinky set O’Reilly’s brace of grilled kippers on the table in front of him. “There does be your breakfast, sir. I’m sorry you overslept. Mrs. O’Reilly left for her work well before you got up.” Kinky looked out the dining room window. “And it does be a fine Wednesday morning, so. Doctor Emer’s already started the surgery.”

  O’Reilly growled and rubbed his left lower jaw.

  Barry and Sebastian, both drinking tea, had come by Number One Main Street before nine. Barry had paperwork to catch up on and Sebastian would be making home visits with O’Reilly.

  Barry noted the bags under his senior partner’s eyes. “Not like you to be late for your breakfast, Fingal.”

  “Not like me to have a bloody toothache either. Didn’t drop off until two this morning. Had to get up to find a couple of Panadol. At least they helped me sleep, but the damn thing’s throbbing like bug—Sorry, Kinky.”

  “A man with a toothache can be forgiven for being a little bit grumpy, so. Would you like something easier to chew, like scrambled eggs?”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “No, thank you. I’ll just make do with tea.” He pushed his plate away.

  Kinky tutted but lifted the plate. “Very well, sir. I’ll take them away.” Her disdainful sniff was strong enough, as she herself might have said, “To draw the walls inward.”

  “Good gracious,” said Sebastian. “I think someone’s nose is out of joint.”

  O’Reilly glared at him. “Kinky Auchinleck has been my housekeeper since 1946. She is entirely within her rights to show her displeasure with me. And I know I’m short-tempered today. My tooth hurts, I’m concerned we’re in for another bout of civil unrest, and I’m worried Kitty’s in Belfast very near a district that could become violent if trouble breaks out in the city.”

  “Sue’s very concerned—”

  O’Reilly snapped, “No, Barry. No, I don’t want to talk about it. I’ll have to call Mister Drew, the dentist in Bangor, see if he can fit me in today. In the meantime, more Panadol to cut the pain. Excuse me. I’ve got some in the surgery. Emer won’t mind me butting in.” He rose and, still holding his jaw, left.

  The two sipped their tea, the quiet descending as O’Reilly’s heavy footsteps receded. Barry said to Sebastian, “I’m no dentist but it sounds like Fingal’s got a dental abscess.”

  “I agree. Poor old chap.”

  O’Reilly reappeared. “The dentist’s surgery should be open in a couple of minutes. Barry, I was going to take Sebastian with me to make home visits this morning, but could you do them, please?”

  “I was planning to catch up on my paperwork—” Barry saw O’Reilly’s nose tip start to blanch. “—but, of course, the government form-filling can wait. Who have we to see?”

  “I haven’t heard the phone ringing, so I don’t think there’s been any new calls, but there are follow-ups. I sent Stanley Kearney to the children’s hospital three weeks ago with suspected acute glomerulonephritis. I’m happy to say I was wrong, but make sure he’s doing well. Your patient, young Tony Bradshaw, was discharged after repair of his intussusception on July thirtieth, and it’s only eleven days since you and I, Sebastian, saw the marquis. He has private health insurance and saw Mister Willoughby Wilson on Monday at the Musgrave and Clark Clinic. Nip over to Ballybucklebo House. Make sure he’s all right, and then the pair of you pop back here to see if Kinky has any new calls.”

  O’Reilly was almost through the door by the time Barry said, “Will do, Fingal.”

  “Ow. Bugger this bloody tooth.”

  Barry smiled and finished his tea. “Come on, Sebastian.” They headed for the hall.

  O’Reilly was speaking into the phone as they passed. “One thirty? I’ll be there. Thank you.” He replaced the receiver. “Looks like I’ll be a tooth short by this afternoon.”

  “The best of British luck, Fingal,” Sebastian said. “I, for one, hate going to the dentist.”

  O’Reilly managed a smile. “You’re not alone, but it can’t be helped. At least the Panadol’s starting to work. And speaking of work, off the pair of you trot. I’ll be fine.”

  “Right,” said
Barry, heading out the door. “We’ll see young Kearney first. He lives up on the estate. Tony Bradshaw next, and then the marquis. Save us backtracking.”

  As Barry drove off, Sebastian said, “Fingal’s right to be worried about Mrs. O’Reilly. From what I heard on the nine o’clock news last night, the Apprentice Boys’ march—and there were fifteen thousand of them marching—nearly passed off quietly, but then trouble started late in the day and things had got pretty much out of hand in the Bogside district of Londonderry by last night.”

  Barry sighed. “My wife Sue’s been very active in the civil rights movement, NICRA, but she’s been concerned it’s being taken over by extreme nationalists who keep stirring the pot. I missed the news this morning. I hope to God the police are back in control.”

  He pulled over to the kerb in the housing estate. “We’ll not solve Ulster’s problems today. Come on, let’s see to our first customer.”

  “Come in, Doctor Laverty.” Alma Kearney, a fit-looking auburn-haired young woman, held her front door open.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kearney,” Barry said, “and this is Doctor Carson.”

  “Pleased til meet you, sir.”

  “Doctor O’Reilly asked us to pop in to see how young Stanley’s doing.”

  She laughed. “Well, I’m dead relieved, I’ll tell you. Three weeks ago, your Doctor O’Reilly had my heart in my mouth. He said some kiddies who get a certain kind of sore throat Stanley had could develop kidney damage later. And that the only way the doctors could tell was by doing a blood test and daily urine tests, keeping him in hospital for bed rest and a special diet. He also said nearly all made a complete recovery. And thon Doctor O’Reilly, being a very honest man, said he could be wrong.”

  Barry glanced at Sebastian. The man’s eyes had widened.