O’Reilly nodded. “Local?”
“Please.”
Barry stood so his body blocked Colin’s view of the hypodermic. He drew back the plunger, drawing air into the barrel.
“Here,” said O’Reilly. He held a bottle of Xylocaine in one hand, wiped its rubber top with a swab soaked in methylated spirit, inverted the bottle, and waited as Barry thrust the needle through the rubber cap and injected air. The pressure forced the local anaesthetic out of the bottle and into the syringe. Barry set the hypodermic on the sterile towel.
Barry held out a small metal cup. “Could you pour a bit of local in there?” This was the technique that moments earlier he had hoped might work.
Barry saw O’Reilly’s brows knit as he poured. He’d bet the older man hadn’t seen this trick. Barry’d learnt it a year before from a senior registrar in the Casualty Department. Not speaking, he lifted the cup, turned, and poured a trickle of the solution directly into the wound.
Colin whimpered and tried to pull his hand away, but his mother had taken a firm grip on the boy’s forearm. “It’ll only be a wee minute, son. Only a wee minute more.”
“I’ll be damned,” said O’Reilly. “I wonder why we didn’t think of that. I suppose the local’s absorbed directly?”
“Aye, and the wee one won’t feel the Dettol or the . . . ,” Barry mouthed the word “needle.”
“Weird and wonderful are the workings of a wheelbarrow,” said O’Reilly, with a vast grin. “Do you know,” he remarked, turning to Mrs. Brown, “it’s a grand day for Ballybucklebo since Doctor Laverty came.”
Barry felt himself blush. “Now, Colin,” he said, hoping he’d let enough time elapse for the local to have done its job. “I’m going to paint the cut brown.”
Barry used forceps to soak a cotton-wool ball in Dettol. He hesitated, then dabbed experimentally, steeling himself for a shriek. Dettol in an open wound usually burned like the blazes. Not a squeak. The local was working. He swabbed the cut liberally with antiseptic, the brown stain shining in the light from the window.
“Now, Colin, your mammy’s going to keep holding on.” Barry dropped the forceps on the table and, still blocking the child’s view, lifted the syringe. He used forceps to lift one lip of the wound, exposing the yellow fat under the dermis, the red strands of muscle below. There was some blood in the wound—that was to be expected—but no severed artery pumped and spurted. Good.
“You may feel me pushing a bit, Colin.” Barry drove the needle in under the fat at one end of the wound and steadily advanced its tip until it was close to the other end. Then he slowly withdrew it, squeezing on the plunger as he did. The edge swelled and blanched as the local anaesthetic solution was forced into the tissues. He pulled out the needle. Now for the other side.
“Right,” he said when he’d finished. “We’ll give that a minute or two to work.”
Barry dragged the back of one forearm across his brow. It was warm in the surgery and he’d started to sweat, but he wasn’t perspiring simply because of the heat.
“You all right, Colin?” Barry asked
“Yes, sir.” He’d stopped crying.
Barry smiled at the boy’s mother and was gratified when she smiled back. “Right,” he said, loading a curved needle, to which was attached a black silk suture, into the jaws of a needle holder. The instrument was like a pair of scissors but with short, deep, blunt-nosed jaws, which could be locked by a ratchet between the handles.
He lifted one wound edge with forceps and used the needle holder to push the suture through all the layers until he could see the tip shining in the depths of the wound. Then he transferred the forceps to the other lip, lifted it, and with the same wrist-twisting action he’d used to show O’Reilly the boy needed stitches, flicked the needle through the tissue. When its sharp tip appeared above the skin, he grabbed it with the forceps and pulled it through.
Now there was a length of black silk suture through the wound. Barry grabbed the loose end with the forceps and wound a loop round the tip of the needle holder. Then he used the forceps to place the end of the silk in the jaws of the needle holder, closed them, and pulled it and the silk through the loop. Gentle traction on both ends of the silk tightened the first throw of the knot. He repeated the process. A tight reef knot lay over the wound, and the lower part was snugly shut. He used a pair of scissors to clip the ends short, but not too short—the stitches would have to be removed in a few days, and there had to be enough of each stitch left to lift it so the loop could be cut. “Nearly done,” he said.
In less than five minutes Barry had placed four neat stitches, the wound was shut, and there was no more bleeding. “Finished.” He dropped the instruments and smiled at Colin.
“I never felt nothin’,” the wee lad said, eyes wide as he stared at his hand. “Wait ’til I tell Jimmy Hanrahan and them others at Sunday school this afternoon that I got stitches.”
Barry could hear the pride in the boy’s voice, knew how his injury was going to put up his stock with the other boys, and marvelled at the resilience of children.
“Thanks very much indeed, Doctor Laverty sir; and you on your day off too.” Mrs. Brown tutted. “We don’t want to keep you. We’ll be running along, so we will.”
Barry smiled. “Not so fast. I have to dress it.” He rummaged under the trolley for a box of Elastoplast adhesive strips, selected one, and stuck it over the wound. “You might want to give Colin an aspirin every six hours for the next couple of days. It’s going to sting a bit when the local wears off.”
The mother nodded sagely. “I will, so I will.”
“Bring him back on Friday to have the stitches out.” Barry pushed the trolley over to the sink and started putting in the dirty instruments.
“Friday? Right enough, we’ll be here, won’t we, Colin?”
“Yes, Mammy. Can I get down now?”
Barry heard the gentle thump of the boy’s feet hitting the floor.
“Say thank-you to the nice doctor, Colin.”
“Thank you, Doctor Laverty,” the boy piped. “Do you know what? When I grow up, I’m going to be a doctor too.”
“Away on with you,” Barry said, grinning from ear to ear, knowing it wasn’t only the thirty-five pounds a week O’Reilly paid him that made him want to stay in Ballybucklebo. “And don’t cut yourself again.”
As soon as Mrs. Brown and Colin left, Barry turned to O’Reilly, half expecting him to say it had been a neatly done job, but the big man’s face was expressionless. Why, Barry asked himself, should I be looking for praise for a routine job? If I’m going to take my share of the work, stitching up a cut is no more than I’ll be expected to do. O’Reilly’s lack of comment pleased Barry.
He finished tidying up, dropping the soiled cotton-wool swabs in a pedal-operated Sani Bin.
O’Reilly had parked himself in his office chair and turned to look out the window. “Leave the rest for Kinky,” he said, rising. “I need to have a word with you, Barry.” There was an edge in O’Reilly’s voice. “Let’s go up to the lounge.”
Barry felt a sinking feeling in his stomach and turned towards the door. “What about?”
“The emergency I’d to go to.” There wasn’t the faintest glimmer of a smile on O’Reilly’s face.
Had it been someone Barry had seen recently? Had he made a mistake? Before he had time to ask, he heard O’Reilly’s growl, then realized it wasn’t directed at him.
“What the hell are you doing here, Donal Donnelly, and how did you get in without ringing the doorbell?”
A Horse of a Different Colour
Barry turned to see Donal Donnelly, a gangly youth with a shock of carrot red hair and buckteeth, filling the surgery door frame. He was obviously dumbstruck by O’Reilly. He held his cloth cap in both hands. Barry knew that he was the betrothed of Julie MacAteer, and a good thing too. Julie was pregnant, and Donal, the father-to-be, was soon going to make an honest woman of her. Pregnancy out of wedlock was more than frowned upon
in some circles in rural Ulster in 1964.
“I’m waiting, but I’m not waiting much longer, Donal Donnelly,” O’Reilly bellowed.
Donal swallowed. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m not sick nor nothing. I just came to ask a wee question. I slipped in when Mrs. Brown was going out.”
“Well, you can bloody well slip out again. I’ve not had my lunch, and I’ve important things to discuss with Doctor Laverty.”
Barry felt O’Reilly brush past. Look out, rosebushes, he thought. If Donal wasn’t careful, he’d be on his way into them just like Seamus Galvin. Watching O’Reilly hurl Seamus out bodily had been Barry’s introduction to his senior colleague. He wished Donal would go away. Barry didn’t want O’Reilly to be made angry. Not now. Not when he’d something—God alone knew what—to discuss.
“I’m not sick, sir,” Donal squeaked. He took a step backwards, holding his cap in front of him. “I’ve come about a racehorse.” His tones rose a full octave. “I could make a few bob for Julie and the baby.”
O’Reilly halted. “A horse?” Barry heard an interested edge in his voice. “A horse is it? Which horse?”
“Arkle, sir,” Donal whispered.
Barry had vaguely heard of the animal. He paid little attention to the world of horse racing. He knew Donal had a racing greyhound called Bluebird. O’Reilly had won four hundred pounds betting on her, but what did Donal have to do with a racehorse?
“Arkle? Away off and feel your head, Donal. You might be able to rig a race with a dog, but you’ll have as much chance of getting near Himself as you would trying to whistle and chew meat.”
“Excuse me,” Barry said. “Excuse me. Who’s Himself?”
He was surprised when both Donal and O’Reilly laughed. O’Reilly explained. “Arkle’s a steeplechaser, the best animal ever to come out of Ireland. He’s owned by Anne, duchess of Westminster. He’s so well known in this country that we just refer to him as Himself.”
Now Barry understood. “Isn’t that the horse that won the Cheltenham Gold Cup on Paddy’s Day this year?”
“Aye,” said Donal, “and the Irish Grand National thirteen days later.”
“All right, Donal,” O’Reilly growled. “You’ve got my attention. What’s this all about?”
“Can I come in, sir?”
O’Reilly stepped aside. Donal sidled into the surgery and shut the door behind him. He glanced round and lowered his voice. “I’ve a wee notion how to make a few quid with Arkle, so I have. For me and Julie, like.”
“Go on.”
Barry watched Donal rummage in his pants pocket. He produced a silver coin. “See that there, sir?” He handed it to O’Reilly. “That’s a half crown from the Republic, so it is.”
Barry knew the coins well. One side bore the image of a harp; the reverse showed the horse known as the Irish hunter.
“I reckon when I go to the races I could sell them to the English punters for a pound a piece, so I could.”
O’Reilly laughed. “How in the blazes could you do that?”
Barry saw Donal’s eyes narrow. “I’d tell them they’d pay two pounds for one in Dublin. Folks’ll always bite if they think they’re getting a bargain, and they love putting one over on a daft Ulsterman.”
Certainly, Barry thought, and Donal would have no difficulty looking the part.
“But why would anyone pay twenty shillings for something that’s only worth two shillings and sixpence?” O’Reilly demanded.
“Because, sir, the writing on the coins is in Irish. An Englishman couldn’t read that, but he would see the horse.” Barry saw Donal’s skinny chest swell. “You see, sir, I’d tell them the florins were specially coined Arkle medallions. I’ve a pal at the Ulster Bank. He can get me fresh minted ones straight from the Bank of Ireland.”
“You’d say they were what?” O’Reilly’s eyebrows rose.
“Arkle medallions, sir.”
Barry watched the big man’s sides shake, his eyes water. “Oh, dear,” he finally managed to gasp. “Oh, dear me.” He rummaged in the pocket of his tweed pants, pulled out a handkerchief, took off his half-moons, and wiped his eyes. “That’s bloody ingenious. That’s nearly a five hundred percent markup, less the two and six face value of the half crown. You’d be making seventeen shillings and sixpence per sale. Oh dear, oh dear.”
“Aye. I know that, sir, but what I don’t know, and that’s what I want to ask . . .”
O’Reilly was still chuckling. “Go on.”
“Do you think it would be legal, sir?”
O’Reilly shoved his half-moon spectacles back on his nose and stared over them at Donal.
Barry asked, “Why are you asking us, Donal?”
Donal shuffled his feet. “You’re the only ones I can trust to keep it a secret. You know what gossip’s like here, sir.”
Barry did indeed.
“And,” Donal winked and held one finger beside his nose, “youse doctors have to keep anything a patient tells you in the surgery to yourselves. I know that, so I do, and amn’t I a patient and amn’t I in your surgery?”
“Indeed you are,” said O’Reilly, with a glance at Barry.
“So, like I asked, would it be legal?”
O’Reilly shook his head. “Probably not, Donal . . .”
“Oh.” Donal’s shoulders sagged.
“. . . but I’m damned if I know what you could be charged with if you got caught.”
Donal straightened up, and Barry watched as a hint of a smile played on his lips. How could O’Reilly be so utterly irresponsible? He was as good as encouraging Donal to commit fraud. “Fingal,” he said, “are you sure it’s a good idea?”
“No,” said O’Reilly, “but it has the makings of an amazing joke. I wish I’d thought of it.” He turned to Donal and adopted a more serious tone. “Doctor Laverty’s right, Donal. I can’t encourage you to go ahead.” Barry noticed how O’Reilly’s left upper eyelid drooped in a slow wink.
“Thanks very much, sir,” Donal said, smiling. “I’ll be running along, so I will.”
“Off you trot,” said O’Reilly, “and close the front door after you.”
“Och,” said O’Reilly, head cocked to one side, smiling gently. “I wonder if I would do a thing like that to a poor unsuspecting Englishman?”
“I should hope not,” Barry said, immediately recognizing how prim he must have sounded. “But I’m damn certain Donal’ll be off like a whippet to the next race meeting to sell his memorial medallions.”
“And why do you think that is?” There was a hint of seriousness in the question.
“Because Donal’s moral compass is a bit out of line with magnetic north?”
“That,” said O’Reilly, “is a given, but he’s only a degree or two off. If he was a really bad bashtoon, he’d not have asked our say-so. He’d have simply up and done it. Why do you think he wanted our opinion?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Barry had earlier taken the query as a token of Donal Donnelly’s trust but hesitated to say so. Somehow that might seem a bit conceited.
“Because Donal’s a simple chap, but he respects learning. All the locals do.” O’Reilly leant forward. “And I reckon he thinks he can trust you, and that, above all, is what you’ll need to make a go of it here. I’ve watched you for the last month, and I’ll tell you what I think . . .”
“Go on.”
“You’re well on your way, son.” He smiled, a little sadly, Barry thought.
Barry felt as though he’d just been presented with a gold medal, perhaps even a specially minted Arkle medallion. “Thank you, Fingal,” he said quietly.
“But you’ve a ways to go yet . . . I still need to have that word with you, Barry.” The edge had returned to O’Reilly’s voice.
Barry took a deep breath. The little bit of drama with Donal’s scheme had temporarily made him forget. O’Reilly clearly hadn’t.
“I’ve been out to see an old patient of ours. His wife phoned in a panic. She couldn’t reach h
er own doctor . . . Doctor Bowman from the Kinnegar.”
“The Fotheringhams?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Major and Mrs. Fotheringham were a pair of aging Anglo-Irish gentry whose hypochondria had caused O’Reilly many a late-night emergency call.
Barry vividly remembered going alone to see the man when he was complaining of a stiff neck. Barry had been in a hurry to see Patricia, assumed the stiffness was yet another of Major Fotheringham’s imagined ailments, and had rushed the examination.
“They’re not our patients anymore,” Barry said, immediately regretting it. O’Reilly would no more refuse to see anyone who was sick than the tide would refuse to flood. Still, Barry wished Fingal hadn’t gone. Barry had failed to diagnose that Major Fotheringham was bleeding into his brain from a ruptured, thin-walled artery and was having a subarachnoid haemorrhage. The mistake had almost cost the man his life. No wonder the major and his wife had transferred to the care of another physician. He said, hoping it were true, “I suppose poor Mrs. Fotheringham was having another one of her attacks of the vapours.”
“No,” said O’Reilly, “she wasn’t. Sit down, Barry.” He indicated his swivel chair.
Barry sat looking up at O’Reilly and trying to read the expression on his face.
“She phoned to say she couldn’t wake him up.” O’Reilly paused. “When I got there, he was dead.”
“He was dead?”
“As mutton. I’m sorry.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Aye,” said O’Reilly. “I think the pair of us need to have a chat about this . . . about what it’s going to mean for you going on working here with me. You heard what Donal said about how rumours spread here.”
Barry couldn’t tell from O’Reilly’s voice what that meant. Was he going to withdraw his offer? He hung his head and waited.
“Come on,” said O’Reilly, “you could probably use a drink. I could, so we’ll finish this upstairs.” He turned and left.
Barry stood and followed, feeling like a fourth-form pupil at Campbell College, his old boarding school, a pupil who has been summoned to the headmaster’s study for a caning.
An Irish Country Village Page 3