The Wily O'Reilly: Irish Country Stories (Irish Country Books)

by Taylor, Patrick

  “Grand,” said O’Reilly. “Good to see you in town.”

  Angus nodded.

  I remembered. Today was Friday. It was Angus’s day to walk the ten miles from his cottage to visit Ballybucklebo. I’d only once made the mistake of offering him a lift. Angus MacKay would be beholden to no one.

  “You walk in every Friday, don’t you, Angus?” I asked.

  “Chust so.”

  “Indeed,” said O’Reilly, waving his now-empty glass in the general direction of Osbaldiston, who’d been hovering at our end of the bar like a waiting peregrine falcon and who now stooped on the glass at roughly the same speed as the world’s fastest bird. Parenthetically, for those who think I should have written “swooped” instead of “stooped,” the action of a diving peregrine is a “stoop.” But to continue.

  “Bit of a walk on a day like today,” O’Reilly mused. “Ten miles there and ten miles back. Be careful not to catch your death of cold.”

  “I will, sir. I have my medicine.”

  “Medicine?” asked O’Reilly, looking at me questioningly.

  I shook my head to answer his unasked question.

  “So, who has been prescribing for you, Angus?”

  The Scot’s eyes twinkled. “Doctor Osbaldiston here.”

  “Who?” asked O’Reilly incredulously.

  “Himself there,” said Angus, nodding to the landlord who’d set O’Reilly’s refilled glass on the counter.

  “Arthur? Doctor Arthur?” O’Reilly was clearly baffled.

  “Could I trouble you for my parcel?” Angus asked Arthur, who reached beneath the countertop and produced a brown bag.

  “Thank you, Mister Osbaldiston.” Angus accepted the bag and handed over two pound notes. “My medicine,” he remarked, opening the neck of the bag and showing the contents to O’Reilly.

  O’Reilly laughed. “Whisky. Is that your medicine, Angus?”

  The Scot became very serious. “Chust so, Doctor, chust so. But if you examine the label, sir, this is real whisky—from the highlands.”

  “So you don’t think much of Irish?” O’Reilly inquired, lowering the contents of his glass by a good half.

  “It will do very well for the cooking with,” Angus allowed, “but should only be drunk by a chentleman in moments of great stress.”

  I thought O’Reilly might take offence, but he clapped the little Scot on the shoulder. “Would you have an Irish with me, Angus?” he asked, signalling to Arthur to refill his glass.

  “Thank you, no, sir,” said Angus, “but it’s a handsome offer.” He took his change from Arthur, who’d also given O’Reilly his third double whiskey. “I must be getting along now, for it’s a fair tramp.”

  “Hold on,” said O’Reilly. “Do you walk twenty miles every Friday to buy one bottle of whisky, Angus?”

  Angus nodded. “Chust so.”

  “But,” said O’Reilly, knocking back most of his third double, “why not buy half a dozen bottles and save yourself the long weekly walk?”

  “Because,” said Angus solemnly, eyeing O’Reilly’s nearly empty glass, “as you no doubt will have observed, Doctor O’Reilly, when the whisky is close at hand, it’s like butter in summer.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because when it’s close by”—Angus nodded at O’Reilly’s glass—“it does nae keep very well.”

  FEBRUARY 2001

  What’s in a Name?

  Ye banks and braes of bonnie Ballybucklebo

  Ballybucklebo, home of Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly and an assorted cast of characters whose intellects on their communal best days would make the inmates of the old Bedlam Asylum look like a collection of dons from a Cambridge college. Ballybucklebo, site of my introduction to the art and craft of medicine—if not the science. Ballybucklebo, a name to conjure with and a name that has led my loyal reader to inquire, just what the hell does it mean?

  In truth, Irish place names can be a mite confusing to the foreigner. There’s a plethora of Kil-something-or-others, Drum-whatchamacallums, and Bally-this-that-and-the-other-things. A smattering of knowledge of the origins of the prefixes can cast a little light on the matter. And as those of you who have accompanied me through the darker reaches of Ballybucklebo well know, illumination of anything pertaining to that particularly peculiar place can only be to our mutual advantage.

  T. S. Eliot, who may very well have had Ballybucklebo in mind when he wrote The Waste Land, was quite particular in his instructions for The Naming of Cats. I, in my turn, will now dilate further on the naming of Irish locales.

  “Kil” simply means “the church of,” so Kiltoom is the church of the burial mound. “Drum” is “ridge,” “bo” is “cow.” Drumbo: cow ridge. “Bally” is the “townland”—an old feudal method of establishing the boundaries of the countryside surrounding a particular geographical feature. “Bally” was also used as a polite euphemism for “bloody,” leading to a popular verbal play on real place names: “If you hadn’t been so Ballymena with your Ballymoney, you’d have a Ballycastle for your Ballyholme.” But I digress.

  What about Ballybucklebo? All right. Bally, “townland,” buckle (or in Irish, buachaill), “boy,” bo—those with retentive memories will already have learned that “bo” means “cow.” Ballybucklebo: the townland of the boy’s cow. Quite simple, really.

  Well, actually it’s not, and I’m sure that comes as no surprise. In fact, the village had grown up on the banks of the River Bucklebo, where legend had it a great calamity had befallen an invading English army, a calamity precipitated by a wandering cow that had magically distracted the Sassenach troops at a crucial point during the statutory clashing of halberds, swords, axes, maces, and other macabre methods of mediaeval mayhem. The date of the awful affray is lost in the mists of Celtic twilight, but in Ireland history has a habit of repeating itself, and it was on the banks of that very Bucklebo that I witnessed the downfall of another English invader—not at the hands of the Irish but from the actions of one Angus MacKay, Scot, shepherd, piper extraordinaire, and Highland gentleman.

  I’ll tell you about it.

  * * *

  O’Reilly had gone to Belfast, ostensibly to attend a postgraduate course. Knowing him as you do, you’ll no doubt have surmised already that while his cerebrum might be mildly stimulated, his tonsils would undoubtedly receive a thorough inundation and his liver a workout of gargantuan proportions. While my mentor was off besporting himself, I’d been left in charge of the practice and, Lord help them, the health of the local citizenry. I stuck my head into the waiting room expecting to summon Angus MacKay. I’d noticed him coming in some time ago and by my reckoning he should have been my last patient of the afternoon.

  Instead I was greeted by a stranger who addressed me in the plummy accents of an English public school.

  “You must be the local quack, what?”

  “I’m Doctor Taylor,” I replied, noting his three-piece suit, old school tie, watery eyes, and distinct lack of chin.

  “Taylor? Oh. His lordship—I’m Cholmondely, guest of the Fitzgurgles, you know—his lordship said I should consult a Doctor O’Reilly.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Doctor O’Reilly has gone to Belfast. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Blast! Can’t wait ’til then.” He grimaced. “Oh well, I’ll just have to make do. Beggars can’t be choosers, what?”

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said as civilly as I could, “but Mister MacKay”—I nodded at Angus, who’d been sitting quietly, and clearly observing the exchange—“has been here for rather a long time. If you’d care to wait, I’ll…”

  “Wait? Don’t be ridiculous. This fellow won’t mind hanging on, will you, my good man?”

  “Chust so,” said Angus quietly, but knowing him as I did I could tell he was remembering Bannockburn, the battle where King Robert of Scotland took the gold, silver, and bronze, and left King Edward of England holding nothing but a few splinters from the wooden spoon. It’s generally re
commended that blunt sticks not be forcibly inserted into the orbits of rabid dogs, but perhaps the newcomer hadn’t learned the parallel between such activities and the act of patronizing a Scot from the Western Isles.

  “Come along, Doctor,” the newcomer said, then he turned to Angus. “Won’t take a jiffy, old boy.”

  I stole a glance at Angus, who nodded.

  So Cholmondely accompanied me into the surgery, where I dealt with his medical difficulties. I have no doubt that Hippocrates wouldn’t have approved of my secret delight when I discovered that the man had a case of inflamed haemorrhoids.

  “Here you are,” I said, handing him a prescription for an anti-inflammatory cream.

  He did have the courtesy to thank me. He rose. “One more thing,” he said. “Did I by any chance hear you refer to that chappie next door as MacKay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Small world. He must be the laddie his lordship mentioned. I’m over for the fishing, d’you see?”

  I did see. Lord Fitzgurgle owned the fishing rights to a large stretch of the Bucklebo, and Angus, when not occupied with his sheep, worked as a ghillie, tending to the waters, the salmon therein, and guiding his lordship’s guests.

  “Better have a word with him,” the Englishman said, heading for the waiting room. I followed. The upcoming conversation could be interesting.

  To be continued next month.

  MARCH 2001

  What’s in a Name? (Part 2)

  Scotland 1, England 0

  Last month, Doctor Taylor treated the inflamed haemorrhoids of a visiting Englishman named Cholmondely, who was less than courteous to Angus MacKay in the waiting room. That was before Cholmondely learned that Angus worked as a ghillie, looking after Lord Fitzgurgle’s waters and salmon …

  “So, MacKay,” said Cholmondely. “Hear you’re a very fine ghillie.”

  “Aye.” Angus’s mien was as expressionless as a Highland tarn in a flat calm.

  “Excellent. His lordship says you’ll take me on the water tomorrow—at nine.”

  “Chust so,” said Angus, “if that is what the chentleman wants. But the Bucklebo’s in spate chust now.”

  “My good man, I’m here to fish and fish I will. I’ll expect you on the bank at nine. Clear?”

  “Aye,” said Angus. He hesitated. “Doctor, sir, is tomorrow your day off?”

  “Yes, Angus.”

  A twinkle flashed into the steely eyes of the little Scot, an unholy twinkle that would have dimmed the fires of hell.

  “You’d not mind, sir, if Doctor Taylor came with us? He enjoys the riverbank.”

  “Bring who you like,” said Cholmondely, “but remember one thing. I’m a very expert fisherman and I do not like being advised unless I ask for information. Is that clear?”

  “Och aye, sir,” said Angus. “Och aye.”

  Angus and I arrived at the banks of the Bucklebo promptly at 8:55 A.M. There was no sign of Mister Cholmondely.

  “Would you look at that, sir?” Angus pointed at the river. Judging by the way the brown waters tossed and roiled, somewhere upstream there was a large gopher-wood vessel, inhabited by pairs of animals and skippered by an older, bearded gentleman in long flowing robes—a gentleman who’d decided that despite the return of a dove with an olive branch he’d better wait until the very last of the deluge had dissipated down the course of the Bucklebo.

  Angus’s mien was utterly devoid of gruntle. “He’ll no take a fish in yon.”

  My muttered agreement was interrupted by the arrival of Mister Cholmondely, dressed as I could only suppose he imagined an expert fisherman should be. His tweed deerstalker was so festooned with flies that it had the appearance of an exotic tropical parrot having a bad feather day in a high wind. His tweed suit—hacking jacket and plus-four pants—was complemented by a pair of tartan socks that could only have been knitted by someone from the very-post-impressionist school. Over his shoulder was slung a wicker creel and he carried a rod with the dimensions of one of those old-growth Canadian pines. “Morning,” he said, hefting his rod. “Should do well today.”

  I watched Angus. I could tell he was wrestling with his conscience. His duty as a ghillie was to do his utmost to provide the guest with the best day’s fishing possible. His instructions were not to proffer advice. His ethics won.

  “Sir, you see the water. Maybe, at the edge, with the wee rod”—Angus offered a slim fly rod—“you might take a trout or two.”

  Cholmondely bristled. “When I want your advice, MacKay, I’ll ask for it. This”—he struggled to wave his own rod—“this is a double-handed Spey rod.”

  “Aye,” said Angus, “I ken that.”

  “Just you watch.” At that, Cholmondely, grasping his angle in a two-handed grip, began hurling casts at the swollen waters. He thrashed at the river with the enthusiasm of a Nelsonic bos’n laying on the cat-o’-nine-tails. His face reddened. Rivulets of sweat coursed from under his deerstalker. His back casts fouled in trees, rushes, and just missed an inquisitive cow that had wandered down to observe.

  Angus dutifully untangled the line and kept his counsel—for an hour. Then he ventured, “Perhaps, sir, if you tried this wee fly rod…”

  “MacKay. I do not … not … need advice from you.”

  Then his rod tip flickered. Had he hooked a fish after all?

  Cholmondely began to reel in. The rod was definitely under some tension. I looked sympathetically at Angus but was rewarded with a tiny smile and an inclination of the little man’s head, which said, more loudly than any words, “Wait and see.”

  Finally, after much reeling in, a fish broke the surface close to the bank. It was a salmon parr, an immature fish the size of an over-developed minnow. Its ordinarily puny ability to put up a fight had been boosted by the force of the water.

  Cholmondely cranked on until all the line was in and the tiddler flapped weakly at the rod tip, some fifteen feet above the breathless Cholmondely’s head. “Now, my good man,” he huffed, “what shall I do?”

  Angus bent slowly, picked up a fair-sized stone from the bank of the Bucklebo, handed it to Cholmondely, and said in dulcet tones, “If I was you, sir, I’d shinny up yon great rod and beat the wee thing to death with this.”

  APRIL 2001

  Whiskey in a Jar

  O’Reilly goes fishing

  “And what do you think of that?” asked O’Reilly. He stood in the doorway of the surgery, beaming from ear to ear. He held a rod in his right hand and struggled with his left to hold aloft a salmon that was probably, as the horsey set would say, “by Moby Dick out of Leviathan.” It was a superlative specimen of the spectacular species Salmo salar.

  “That’s quite a fish,” I acknowledged testily. If my words were a little clipped it was because he should have been working that afternoon. It was supposed to have been my half day. Mrs. Kincaid had collared me just as I was about to drive away and had regretfully informed me that himself was nowhere to be found and the waiting room was chockablock. I’d been left with no choice but to cancel my arrangements and see the sufferers, rather to the chagrin of one of the tiny number of members of the opposite sex who would agree to share my company—and she had the most alluring brown eyes. At least, I’d assumed, some medical emergency had delayed him. I hadn’t for a moment thought that he’d have gone fishing.

  “Sorry it kept you away from the surgery,” I said. “You missed some absolutely fascinating head colds.”

  O’Reilly, like a small boy caught with pockets stuffed with apples in someone else’s orchard, hung his head for a brief second and then said, sotto voce, “Sorry.”

  I started. It was the one word I’d never thought to hear from him. If Beëlzebub himself had appeared in the room, enunciating the Lord’s Prayer and gargling with holy water, I couldn’t have been more surprised.

  “No, really. I should have been here. Thanks for holding the fort.”

  Old Nick had graduated from gargling with holy water to bathing in the stuff. If the fi
lms of the time were to be believed, such activities would have led to a considerable degree of dolour on the part of the Devil’s disciple.

  O’Reilly’s look of childish content belied any suggestion that he was truly remorseful, but as he wiggled the fish and said, “Just look at this beauty,” I couldn’t find it in me to begrudge him his contentment, particularly when he continued, “I’ll make it up to you, Pat. How about I take the calls this Saturday night?”

  “Well…” There was a dance in Belfast I would enjoy if a certain ebony-eyed nurse happened to be free. “Well…”

  “All right, and Sunday too.”

  He who hesitates is lost? Not always. Sometimes he improves his bargaining position. For once I had the upper hand and decided that I might as well use it. “All right, Fingal.”

  “Great.”

  “But there’s one more condition.”

  “Oh?” His eyes narrowed. When it came to bargaining, O’Reilly’s techniques were of such effectiveness that Romany horse traders had been known to ask him to take their animals away—and accept a small fee for doing so.

  “And what’s that then?” he asked, smile now replaced by his patented poker face.

  I laughed. “I’m finished for the day. Go and get rid of the fish and then you can take me to the Mucky Duck, tell me the story of how you caught that salmon, and…”

  “Right.” He turned to go. You, dear reader, may have forgotten the night in the Duck when he’d been so involved in a discussion with Angus MacKay that I’d been stuck with the cost of the drinks. I had not.

  “… and, Fingal?”

  “What?”

  “You’re paying.”

  * * *

  The Duck was almost deserted. O’Reilly paid Arthur Osbaldiston, turned from the bar, and carried his own large John Jameson’s and my small sherry to our table. “Here,” he said, handing me my drink and lowering his bulk into a chair. “Slainte.” He sipped his whiskey. “Grand drop,” he announced, “and a potion with remarkable powers.”