An Irish Country Village

by Patrick Taylor

  O’Reilly was already seated, tucking into his breakfast. “Help yourself.” He waved his fork to a silver chafing dish on the sideboard. “And get a move on.”

  The smell of kippers was overpowering. Barry lifted the lid, blinked through the cloud of steam, shoved a brace of kippers on a plate, and took his seat.

  “Here.” O’Reilly pushed a full cup of tea along the table. “Bad night?”

  Barry, who normally slept like a baby, nodded. Then he accepted the tea, and put in some milk.

  “Unh,” said O’Reilly, spitting out a large bone. “I’m not surprised. You’d a lot to think about.”

  Barry swallowed his first mouthful, savouring the oak-shaving smoked herring. “I know.” He remembered Professor Greer’s remark: “I suppose you’ve hardly slept since you heard?” It had been three o’clock before he’d finally dropped off.

  “Being sued hits doctors hellishly hard,” O’Reilly observed, helping himself to a triangular piece of toast from the rack and buttering the slice. He peered under his eyebrows at Barry. “All of us—some more than others, and we may not ever have recognized it—all of us went into medicine because we need folks to think well of us. Even me. Some doctors want all their patients to love them. Not every patient will, but the daft buggers who want it kill themselves bending over backwards to try to satisfy the whole bloody world.”

  Barry stopped chewing and looked at O’Reilly. The big man never before had confessed any of his own feelings. “I suppose so.”

  “I bloody well know so, and when some patient we automatically assume should be grateful threatens to go to a lawyer, it’s like a right, regal kick in the bollocks.”

  Crude, Barry thought, but he already knew only too well that what O’Reilly said was horribly true. “Have you ever been sued, Fingal?”

  “Me?” O’Reilly reached for the marmalade. “Great stuff this. None of your Robertson’s or Oxford brands.” He spread it liberally on the toast. “Kinky makes her own.”

  “Fingal, I asked—”

  “I heard you, and no, I haven’t. Not yet anyway.”

  “Then how do you know—?”

  “How do I know? Because you don’t personally have to give birth to appreciate how much it hurts. You only need to see labour once. My best friend from Trinity, and he was a bloody fine surgeon, ended up in court. He won, but he was never the same man. I saw what he went through.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I’ll be damned if I’ll let it happen to you.” To emphasize the point O’Reilly bit the slice of toast in half.

  “I don’t see how you can prevent it.”

  O’Reilly stopped chewing. “I bloody well do. One . . .” He stabbed at Barry with the toast. “Your mate may well come up with some answers.”

  It was suddenly clear to Barry that when O’Reilly had refused to sign the death certificate for Major Fotheringham, thus forcing the need for a postmortem, he had somehow foreseen what might happen. O’Reilly had immediately taken precautions to try to protect Barry—and of course the reputation of his own practice.

  “Two . . .” O’Reilly took another bite. “If I have to, I’ll go and see the widow again. She’s all on her own, frightened, angry. Who knows? I sowed the seeds yesterday. Maybe when they’ve had time to germinate she’ll have second thoughts about going to the law.”

  “Do you think that’s likely?”

  “I do not, but you like to fish, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I used to do a bit myself. I once asked an expert what kind of flies caught fish. Do you know what he said?”

  Barry shook his head.

  “He said, ‘Only the ones you put in the river.’ ” O’Reilly grinned. “If you don’t try, you’ll never get anywhere.”

  “If you believe it would help with Mrs. Fotheringham.” Barry knew he sounded doubtful.

  “I’ll think on it,” said O’Reilly, swallowing and taking another bite. “Where was I? . . . Aye right. And three, I’ll be buggered if I’ll let you stew over this until we know for certain what’s going to happen.”

  “It might be easier said than done.”

  “Oh,” said O’Reilly, cocking his shaggy head to one side. “Is that a fact?”

  “Fingal, it’s all very well to try to be cold and analytical, but sometimes . . .”

  “The heart rules the head?”

  “That’s right.”

  O’Reilly roared with laughter.

  “It’s not funny.”

  O’Reilly coughed and nodded. “You’re right. It’s not, but it is funny that you think there’s not a way to stop that too.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “There’s only one cure, and that’s to keep so busy working at something you love . . .” He fixed Barry with a cold glare. “You do love your work, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Q.E.D.,” said O’Reilly. “I’m going to keep you so damn busy until we hear the histology results that you’ll not have time to wonder what day of the week it is, never mind sit around getting your knickers in a twist about something that may not happen.”

  Barry could see the sense of the suggestion. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go along with that.”

  “Good,” said O’Reilly, polishing off the last of his toast and rising. “And one other thing.”

  “What?”

  “I know there’s another love in your life.”

  Dear Lord. Today was the day of Patricia’s examinations. He’d been so wrapped up in his own woes it had slipped his mind.

  “I’ll make sure you’ve time to attend to that too.”

  “Thanks, Fingal.”

  “Thanks, is it?” O’Reilly said, striding past the table. “The only thanks I want is for you to get that cup of tea and those kippers into you as quick as you can. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s time to start morning surgery.”

  Barry tried to push his half-eaten breakfast away, but O’Reilly held the plate. “Finish your grub. Nobody should have to face the world on an empty stomach. We’ll have a little division of labour. You eat. I’ll start seeing the victims.” He glanced at his watch. “But eat up quick. I want you in the trenches with me the minute you’ve finished.”

  A scowling woman he’d not seen before, dragging a snotty-nosed little boy behind her, stormed out of the surgery. Barry stood aside to let them pass. She ignored him. He went in.

  “Who was that, Fingal?”

  “Gertie Gilligan and her wee Tommy. He’s only got a summer cold, but the way she goes on about it you’d swear she thought he’d got myxomatosis.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a disease of rabbits. The bunnies get runny noses. Most of them die. Gertie wanted the newest wonder drug. She can want. Antibiotics never cured a viral infection.” O’Reilly rose from his swivel chair. “You have to do what’s right, not what some eejit’s read in Reader’s Digest and thinks you’re stealing their birthright if you don’t give it to them.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Do. Now sit here. You’re on the helm this morning.” He strode out through the door.

  Barry sat and idly read the boldfaced letters ranked in decreasing size on the Snellen eye-test chart that still hung askew on one wall.

  “Guess who?” said O’Reilly.

  He’d come back, pursued by Donal Donnelly, who sat in a chair and said, “Good morning, Doctor Laverty.”

  “Morning, Donal. Let’s have a look.”

  Donal proffered his hand. Barry could see that the finger cast was already grubby, but the exposed fingertip was pink. He put the back of his hand against the exposed skin and was pleased not to feel any great sensation of heat. The cast wasn’t too tight. “Looks grand to me, Donal.”

  “It’s still bloody sore. There’s more aches in it than in a small hospital.”

  “I warned you.”

  Donal nodded. “Aye, you did, sir. I’ll just have to thole it, won’t I?”

 
; Barry had often wondered why a word, which ordinarily described a wooden rowlock, had come into the Ulster dialect to mean “put up with.” “ ’Fraid so. You might want to take the odd aspirin for your finger.” Barry turned to the desk and scribbled on a form. “It’ll need to come off in six weeks.”

  “My finger, sir?” Donal peered at the digit in question.

  O’Reilly rumbled, “No, you goat. The cast.”

  “Oh.”

  Barry, for what seemed like the thousandth time since he’d come to Ballybucklebo, reminded himself of the literal-mindedness of the Ulster patient. He handed Donal the note. “There you are. That’s a certificate for the unemployment people. I imagine you could use the money now you’re not working.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I am working.”

  “What at?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Well, not for any money, sir.” Donal rapidly tucked the paper into a pocket. “But after I got back from seeing Julie in the Royal, I was in the Duck last night . . .”

  “You do surprise me,” said O’Reilly.

  “And Seamus and me’ve got a bunch of the boys lined up to come round to Sonny’s place in the evenings after their work. They want me to be gaffer, so they do. Supervise, like.”

  “Good for you, Donal,” Barry said.

  “Weeellll . . . Sonny’s a decent oul’ codger.” Donal wouldn’t meet Barry’s gaze. “And all I have to do is sit on my backside and give orders. I reckon one more week and the place’ll be as good as new.” Barry saw the same look appear on Donal’s face that had been there when he’d come to seek approval for the Arkle medallions scheme. “You’ll not say nothing to Sonny, will you, Doctors? We’d like for it to be a surprise.”

  “You’ve our word on it, Donal,” O’Reilly said, before turning to Barry. “Have you finished with the patient, Doctor Laverty? Because the waiting room’s like Paddy’s market.”

  “Scuse me, sir. There’s just one other wee thing.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Julie’s on the mend. She’s already got colour back in her cheeks . . .”

  “I’m pleased,” Barry said.

  “She reckons if you hadn’t been so quick off the mark she could’ve died.”

  “Not really.” Barry felt warmth in his cheeks.

  “And she’s heard a wheen of rumours that you don’t know your stuff . . .”

  Barry’s blush faded.

  Donal stuck his cast under Barry’s nose. “Her and me knows better, and she says for me to tell you now—and Julie’ll tell you herself at the wedding if she’s up to going—we’re lucky to have the pair of youse here, so we are.”

  It was quite a speech for Donal. “Thank you,” Barry said, “but it’s my pleasure.” Despite the niggling worry Barry knew how much Donal meant it.

  “Right,” said Donal. “I’ll be off.” He headed for the door. “See youse on Saturday.” Barry looked at O’Reilly, who raised one eyebrow but said nothing as he too strode to the door to go summon the next patient. You were right again, Fingal, Barry thought. It’s hard to dwell on what might be when you’re fully occupied.

  “Phew,” said O’Reilly, when the last patient left what had been a crammed surgery. Barry could barely remember all the complaints he’d been asked to treat, but he was pleased that he’d seen the three stable boys Fergus Finnegan had said would be coming in. Like Fergus, one of them had been suffering from acute conjunctivitis, and nothing, absolutely nothing, would satisfy him until he’d been given a prescription for the magical “golden eye ointment.”

  O’Reilly stood and stretched. “There’s not been as many customers looking for help since the Great Plague of London.”

  “Sixteen sixty-five,” Barry said. “Cleaned out by the Great Fire in sixteen sixty-six . . .”

  “That started in a baker’s shop in Pudding Lane.”

  God, O’Reilly, you always have to have the last word, Barry thought. “And I suppose you were there to help put it out?”

  O’Reilly chuckled. “You’re so sharp, one of these days you’ll cut yourself, Laverty.”

  Barry thought of the conventions of name use in Ulster. To call a man by his surname without any preceding title or Christian name was a subtle sign of either condescension or friendship, and he knew what O’Reilly had intended by calling him “Laverty.” Not that Barry would have the temerity to call his senior “O’Reilly.” He might think it, but it would be a long time before he’d feel comfortable using it to the man’s face.

  “Right,” O’Reilly said, heading for the dining room. “Food.”

  Kinky was waiting for them. “You’re late for your lunches, Doctors.”

  Barry wondered if Kinky was displeased. After all the years she’d worked for O’Reilly, she should be well aware that medical practices could not be run to a strict timetable. “Sorry,” he said, “but we were up to our necks all morning.”

  “Well,” she said, setting a plate in front of Barry and moving to give O’Reilly his, “it’s only a cold quiche lorraine, so it’s not spoiled.”

  Barry glanced at O’Reilly, who was regarding the yellow, pastry-crusted triangle on his plate with the enthusiasm of a dog fox for the Ballybucklebo hunt.

  “Eat that up, Doctor O’Reilly. It didn’t make itself.” She stood, arms folded, and looked down on him.

  He took a small mouthful and broke into a wide grin. “That’s delicious, Kinky.”

  He was right, Barry thought, tucking into his own.

  “Would it be otherwise?” she asked. Barry could see she was smiling.

  It occurred to him that Kinky must take as much pride in her cooking and in quietly keeping the household running smoothly, as he did in his work, and the odd word of praise did not go amiss for either of them. “You’re a marvel, Mrs. Kincaid.”

  “I’m no such thing, so.” But her smile widened. “Well,” she said, “maybe at the cooking . . .” Barry was about to agree when she added, “I’ve not done so well with Mrs. Bishop.”

  “Oh?” said O’Reilly in mid-chew.

  “I did what you asked, Doctor, tried to find out about the lease of the Black Swan, but I don’t think there’s much that she really knows. I didn’t get a chance to tell you before.” Kinky frowned. “Now I shouldn’t say this, for she’s a nice woman, but I don’t think Flo Bishop’s the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer.”

  Barry smiled.

  “So we’re no further on?” O’Reilly said.

  “Well, maybe a toty-wee bit, but I can’t make head nor tail of it. Maybe you can, sir? The one thing I did get her to say was that he’s told her that he’ll get the Duck as long as nobody finds out about the stream, and she’s not to mention it to anybody. Between the jigs and the reels of all else we blethered about—getting Flo to finish a sentence is like pulling teeth without an anaesthetic—I almost forgot she’d said it.”

  “Stream?” Barry asked. “What stream?”

  Kinky shook her head. “She didn’t know. Besides, if the place was a water mill I could understand, but what a stream’s got to do with a pub, I’m blessed if I know.”

  “Nor me,” said O’Reilly, “but I’ve a half-notion who might.”

  Barry listened attentively, but as was often the way O’Reilly did not expand on his thoughts. “Leave it with me” was all he said before asking, “Do you have the afternoon’s list?”

  “I do.” Kinky pulled a sheet of paper from her apron pocket. “Here.”

  O’Reilly scanned it rapidly. “Not too bad,” he said. “A couple of calls in the housing estate. We’ll need to nip in and tell Declan Finnegan about his appointment, and I’d like to finish up in the gate lodge.”

  “To make sure Sonny’s all right?”

  “Something like that,” O’Reilly said noncommittally. Before Barry could ask if there was another reason, O’Reilly added, “And we need to get back here by teatime.”

  “Another rugby game on the telly?”

  “No, you eejit. You’ve to phone your Mis
s Spence.”

  Life’s Too Short for Chess

  The bright colours of the doors of the terrace houses were the only variations in a row of otherwise identical, grey stucco facades. It was as if in the painting each tenant had tried to hang on to a shred of individuality. The Finnegans’ door was green. When Mrs. Declan Finnegan opened to O’Reilly’s knocking, Barry saw she looked even more haggard than she had the day before when he’d called to examine her husband.

  “Bonjour, Madame. Comment allez-vous aujourd’hui?” O’Reilly’s French, as far as Barry could tell, was accentless. “Et votre mari, comment va-t-il?”

  She shrugged. “Moi, je suis très fatiguée. N’importe.” She held her hand, palm down, and rocked it from side to side. “Mais mon pauvre, petit Declan . . .”

  Barry could see how she pursed her lips, saw the moisture in her eyes, a single tear trickling down her cheek. He stood back as O’Reilly used one finger to wipe away the tear, then enfolded the woman in a bear hug. “C’est dur. C’est dur. Je comprends,” O’Reilly said gently. He translated for Barry’s benefit. “She says she’s very tired, but it doesn’t matter . . . it’s Declan.”

  “And you told her it’s hard, but you understand.” Barry heard Mrs. Finnegan sniffle. He waited while O’Reilly produced a polka-dotted handkerchief and gave it to her.

  “Merci, Docteur O’Reilly.” She blew her nose and returned the hanky. “Entrez, s’il vous plait.” She stepped aside and indicated that they should go into the house.

  O’Reilly shook his head. “Merci, Mélanie, mais nous vous apportons simplement des bonnes nouvelles concernant Declan.”

  Barry saw the immediate interest in her gaze, which flickered from O’Reilly’s face to his own and then back to O’Reilly. “Des bonnes nouvelles? Dites-moi, la vérité, est-ce que vous pouvez faire quelque chose pour Declan?”

  “Can we help Declan? Barry?”

  Barry stumbled, trying to formulate the words before he spoke. “Hier j’ai visité . . .”

  “It’s all right, Doctor Laverty; I do understand Henglish.” She managed a weak smile. “But it is plaisant for me to speak my own language with Doctor O’Reilly.”