An Irish Country Village

by Patrick Taylor

  Barry’s fingers curled. He glanced at O’Reilly, but the big man’s face was impassive, a poker face. And poker hands could be won if a bluff was courageous enough.

  “Councillor Bishop, I was there, and so was Doctor O’Reilly when His Lordship said he’d fight you to the limit of his resources. The very limit.”

  Bishop’s brow wrinkled. He looked at O’Reilly and back to Barry. “Did he say that? Honest to God?”

  Barry nodded. He watched the play of emotions on Bishop’s face. The man must be calculating how much potential profit he’d be losing against the costs of a lawsuit. His mind must be working, Barry thought, with the speed of one of those new IBM computers.

  “You’re not having me on?” There was a catch in his voice. “The limit?”

  “Mr. Bishop,” Barry said, with all the dignity he could muster. “I’m a doctor. What the hell would I have to gain by lying to you?” This victory, the Duck, Willy’s and Mary’s futures, and the preservation of O’Reilly’s reputation, that’s what. Barry held his breath.

  The rotund little man flopped back down onto his chair. “Jesus. That buggers it.” He scowled at Barry. “I’d go bust.” His head drooped.

  Barry exhaled. He’d won and the feeling was grand.

  “It’s all that ould goat Sonny’s fault. I should never have let you two talk me into fixing his bloody roof.”

  “Actually,” Barry said, “you’re not.”

  “Now what are you on about? I’ve had Seamus and Donal out there working for the last ten days.”

  Barry shook his head. “Since last night Donal has had a work crew from the village hard at it . . .”

  “And,” O’Reilly added, “apart from the materials it’s not costing you a penny, Bertie.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “That’s right. You’re getting the labour for free now.”

  “Free? Nobody does nothing for free. What are they after?”

  “I think,” Barry said, “the whole village would like you to leave the Duck as it is.”

  “I don’t have much choice about that, do I?” Barry thought the fat little man was going to spit.

  “No,” said O’Reilly, slipping down from the examining table, “you don’t, but you could turn it to your advantage.”

  Barry watched Bishop’s eyes narrow and a furrow appear between his eyebrows. “My advantage?”

  “Well,” said O’Reilly, “your stock went up last month when you agreed to fix Sonny’s roof.”

  “I’d not have if you two hadn’t . . .” He bit off the rest of the sentence. “But nobody knows about that except us, do they?”

  O’Reilly nodded. “And nobody need know about the deeds. You just tell the village you’ve changed your mind. It’s your civic duty as a councillor.”

  Mrs. Bishop chipped in, “I think you should, Bertie. I really do, and everybody would be all pleased, and . . .”

  “Jesus, Flo, when I want your opinion I’ll tell you what it is. I’m talking to the doctors. Now houl’ your wheest. Go on, Doctor O’Reilly.”

  The use of his senior colleague’s title was not lost on Barry.

  “I think, Bertie . . . you and Flo’ll be at the wedding, won’t you?”

  “Aye.”

  “And there’ll be lots of speechifying?”

  “Aye.”

  “You’re an important man round here. You could say a word or two.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And,” said O’Reilly, “far be it from me to put the words in your mouth, but it would be a grand time to make the announcement.”

  “It would, wouldn’t it?”

  “You could say something else too, Bertie.” Mrs. Bishop wagged her finger at her husband.

  “I told you to houl’—”

  “I won’t. I’ve something important to say.” She turned to Barry. “I’m sorry, Doctor Laverty, but some folks round here have been saying you don’t know your job.”

  “Don’t let the gossip worry you, Flo.” At that moment, still savouring his defeat of the councillor and knowing that O’Reilly would be delighted, Barry could afford not to be upset by her comment.

  “But I think you done a miracle for me.”

  “Hardly a miracle,” he said.

  “Well, I think it was, and I know . . . didn’t you just tell me you couldn’t discuss Cissie Sloan with anybody?” The words rattled out. “So you can’t go round blowing your own trumpet about fixing me up. Can you?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “But you could, Bertie. When you’re up on your hind legs, blowing on about what a Christian you are, it wouldn’t hurt to say a word or two about Doctor Laverty and me, and . . .”

  “All right, Flo. All right.” The councillor sighed and set his bowler on his head. “I’ll say the words on Saturday, but youse doctors won’t say nothing about the deeds?”

  “Not a word,” said O’Reilly. “We know it’s important for you to look like the white knight.”

  “In that case,” said Bishop, turning towards the door, “come on, Flo. I’ll take you to Bangor.”

  “There’s only one more thing, Bertie,” O’Reilly said.

  “What?” Bishop swung back.

  “I think . . . now I could be wrong . . . it would be appreciated by the lads working at Sonny’s if somebody went round to the Duck and bought a couple of barrels of stout and took them out to Sonny’s. Fixing roofs is thirsty work.”

  Bishop clenched his teeth. “Jesus, between you and Laverty you’ll have me ruined. I won’t. They can buy their own booze.”

  “If you don’t, it’s just possible the word could slip out about the marquis and the lease, and what an opportunist you really are.” Barry heard the steel in O’Reilly’s voice.

  “All right, O’Reilly.”

  “No,” O’Reilly said. “No. No. To you, Bertie, it’s Doctor O’Reilly and Doctor Laverty. Do try to remember.”

  Bishop took a deep breath, used both hands to pull on the brim of his bowler, and muttered, “All right, Doctor O’Reilly.” He grabbed his wife by the hand. “Come on, Flo.”

  “No,” she said, standing her ground, “not until you’ve said thank-you to Doctor Laverty.”

  Barry could see and hear Mrs. Brown telling her son Colin to say thank-you to the nice doctor for stitching up his hand.

  “Thank you, Doctor Laverty,” said Councillor Bishop.

  “Now,” said Mrs. Bishop, pulling the councillor’s hand, “you can take me to Bangor and . . .” The couple left. The last thing Barry heard as the front door was closing behind the couple was, “and . . .”

  O’Reilly leant against the couch, pulled out his briar, lit up, and chuckled. “Well done, Barry.” He belched smoke.

  “It is nice to be right once in a while,” Barry said.

  “It is, and you’ve been right more than once in the last couple of weeks.”

  Barry inclined his head. “Thank you for rowing into the discussion, Fingal.”

  “I hardly needed to. You did just what I expected. I was watching your face. I know you don’t like bending the truth, but the way you told Bishop about the marquis going to the limit . . .”

  “That was your line to Willy, Fingal.”

  “And what’s wrong with using one of my lines?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s just like when I was boxing. Nothing beats the old one-two punch.”

  Barry grinned. “You fixed the councillor again, Fingal.”

  “No.” O’Reilly jabbed his pipe stem at Barry. “You fixed him, Barry. I just gave the last nail in his coffin lid a wee tap. We’re a good team.” He shoved the pipe back in his mouth. “Right. Willy knows, and Sonny and the marquis, and Kinky, of course, but we should say no more about this. We can let Bertie’s moment of glory come as a surprise to the locals.”

  “Fair enough.”

  O’Reilly’s grin was wide. “And once he’s made the public announcement . . .”

  “He’ll not be able t
o retract.”

  “Game, set, and match,” said O’Reilly. He started to the door. “Right. We’ve two home visits to make, a quick trip into the Duck to tell Willy that he’s really safe, then home . . .”—his stomach rumbled—“home for tea.”

  How Glorious He Has

  Restored the Roof

  “It’ll be easier when the kiddies go back to school next month,” O’Reilly remarked from where he sat on the couch. Thursday morning’s surgery had seemed to Barry like a paediatric outpatients clinic. Summer colds, hay fever, one case of severe sunburn, and one little boy with a glass marble stuck in his left nostril. The case had reminded Barry of his old professor of otorhynolaryngology’s dictum: “Never stick anything in your nose or your ear smaller than your elbow.”

  O’Reilly had let Barry do the consulting, barely offering a word or a nod of encouragement, never questioning Barry’s judgment. Just as well he made me work, Barry thought, while O’Reilly went to fetch the next patient. His prescription for keeping me too busy to dwell on unpleasant matters was working—up to a point.

  O’Reilly held the surgery door wider. “Go on in, Helen,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He closed the door.

  Barry rose. “Hello, Helen. Have a seat.” He noticed she wasn’t wearing gloves or a long-sleeved blouse. The sun’s rays soaring in through the bow window put highlights in her chestnut hair. She used both hands to arrange her ankle-length skirt underneath her. Then she sat and crossed her legs.

  “How are you this morning?”

  He saw the laughter in her eyes. “Better,” she said, “much better.” She held out her arms to him. “See?”

  The angry, red, scaly rashes in the folds of her wrists and elbows had faded to a barely noticeable pink. “That’s very good,” he said. “How about behind your knees?”

  Helen stood, turned, and hitched up her skirt.

  Damn. The skin behind her knees was no better. “That’s not so good.”

  She dropped her skirt. “It’s not as bad as it was.” She sat. “It’s not nearly as itchy, and it’ll really start to improve by tonight.”

  Barry was puzzled. He parked himself in the swivel chair, leant forward, and steepled his fingers. He realized he needed only half-moon glasses to be a living replica of his mentor. “Why this evening, Helen?”

  She crossed her legs. “I’ll be handing in my cards after work today.”

  Barry heard the door open, looked up, and saw O’Reilly enter. “It’s only me. Pay no heed,” he said.

  Barry turned his attention back to the patient. “You’ll be giving your notice, Helen?”

  “Oh, aye. Now that wee Mary’s going to be all right, so she is.”

  Barry glanced at O’Reilly, who stood in the background, arms folded, one eyebrow raised.

  “Mary’s da’s able to find more work for her,” Helen said. “Don’t ask me how, with that man Bishop going to take over the Duck.” Her lip curled.

  “I’m not sure . . .” Barry bit off the words, “how Mr. Dunleavy can do that, under the circumstances.” They hadn’t taught him at medical school just how important hiding the truth could be in the day-to-day running of a practice. “I’m sure Willy knows what he’s doing.”

  “He’s a sound man, Willy Dunleavy,” O’Reilly added, with a wink to Barry.

  “Anyhow,” Helen said, “Mary’ll be all done tonight. She’s only part-time so she can go any time. I’ll be gone then too.”

  “I thought you’d have to give at least a week’s notice, and Miss Moloney’s going to need help. In the next couple of days she’ll be selling all those hats for the wedding.” He saw a light, deep in Helen’s emerald eyes, a light that burned fiercely—and it wasn’t simply reflected sunlight.

  “Maybe she will and maybe she won’t,” said Helen. “We’ll just have to see.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  She tossed her hair. “Do you know, Doctor Laverty? Least said, soonest mended.”

  He was being told to mind his own business. “Fair enough.” He took one of her hands, turned it over, and inspected the healing rash. “More to the point, it really does look as if the eczema’s clearing up.”

  “It is.”

  “To be honest, Helen, I don’t know if it’s the treatment or the fact you’ll be leaving Miss Moloney’s that’s doing the trick, but I think you should keep on using the ointment for a while longer.” He released her hand.

  “I’ll do that, Doctor Laverty. I just thought I’d pop in today to let you know I was getting better. It never hurts for anyone to be told they’re doing their job right. If only that ould heifer Moloney knew that.”

  “Thanks, Helen.” Barry rose. “I think you’re a better psychologist than me.”

  “Divil the bit of that,” she said, with a shake of her head. “And you’re a good doctor.” She rose. “Only once in a while, the Lord helps those that help themselves. And leaving Miss Moloney is up to me. Not you.”

  “True.”

  “So,” she said, “I’ll maybe see you both on Saturday?”

  “You will that,” O’Reilly said.

  “Good, and I’ll let you know then how I got on with Miss Moloney.”

  “Good,” said Barry, showing her to the door. “I’ll be interested to hear.”

  “You’ll hear all right. I’ve a wee going-away present for her.”

  Once more he saw the fires burning in her eyes. Even though he hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about, he was somehow grateful, that the going-away present was meant for someone other than him.

  Barry closed the surgery door and faced O’Reilly. “I wonder what she means by that?”

  “Did you see the look in her eyes?”

  “I did.”

  “ ‘Nor hell a fury like a woman scorn’d,’ ” O’Reilly said.

  “Congreve. The Old Bachelor,” Barry said, without thinking. Then he looked at O’Reilly, himself a fifty-six-year-old widower thanks to Hitler’s Luftwaffe in 1941. O’Reilly was grinning, clearly not one bit upset to be reminded of his loss, a loss Barry knew had come after only six months of marriage.

  “Well done, Barry. A couple of days ago you wouldn’t have bothered even trying to give me the source, but you’re right. It was William Congreve. Sixteen ninety-three, and if memory serves that was only three years after the Battle of the Boyne.”

  “Of glorious and immortal memory,” said Barry. He went over to the desk, asking as he did, “Who’s next?”

  O’Reilly’s answer was the scraping of a match against the sandpaper side of a matchbox, followed by a gout of tobacco smoke. “Helen was the last for the morning. But I’ve a bit of news for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye. I went out a minute ago to make a call.”

  Barry tensed. Could O’Reilly somehow have contacted Harry Sloan?

  “I had a wee word with Charley Greer.”

  Barry’s shoulders slumped.

  “He saw Declan last night. He’s sorry he didn’t phone us then, but there was a car crash and he was in the operating theatre half the night, sorting out a depressed skull fracture. Anyway he was waiting until he had the results of some tests before he phoned.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Charley reckons Declan’s a good candidate for surgery. His cerebral angiogram’s just finished, and Charley’s had a look at the plates. He says the X-rays of the arteries show only a tad of atherosclerosis. He can’t cure that, but at least he’s pretty sure he can give the old boy a bit of relief from his Parkinson’s symptoms.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. His wife will be pleased.”

  “She’s not the only one. I’ve known Declan and Mélanie since I came here. They’re a lovely couple. It’s been miserable watching the poor old fellah go downhill.” O’Reilly tapped his pipe mouthpiece against his lower teeth and said, almost to himself, “I wonder should I have sent him up to see Charley sooner?”

  Barry wasn’t sure what to say. E
ver since the major’s cerebral bleed last month, Barry had found himself in quiet moments asking, What if? What if he’d been more thorough in his examination? What if the guardian angel of doctors had been on duty that night and had nudged Barry to wonder whether there might be something more at stake than a simple stiff neck? He knew he was young and inexperienced, was bound to have doubts, but he had never suspected that O’Reilly was troubled by those kinds of questions.

  “It’s always a bugger,” O’Reilly said quietly, “trying to decide when to hold back and when to act. Declan and Mélanie won’t have that many years left together. Maybe if I’d sent Declan for surgery sooner, the years would have been better.” O’Reilly shoved his briar back into his mouth, shrugged, and said, “I did ask Charley and he didn’t think he would have done anything back then. He isn’t too keen to operate unless the symptoms are seriously advanced.”

  “And they are now. Declan’s tremors are much more pronounced. He can hardly take more than a few steps, and the poor man’s incontinent. He wasn’t as bad the first time I saw him with you, and that was only a few weeks ago.”

  “You’re right.” O’Reilly stared out through the surgery window before turning back to Barry. “What Charley’s doing is pretty new, and it’s very much a last-ditch effort. To tell you the truth I’m not entirely sure what the nutcrackers do now. Back when I was a student, if only one side of the patient’s body was affected they cut nerve tracts in the spinal cord in the neck. The tremors stopped but the patient could be left paralysed down that side.”

  “I had to scrub for a case last year,” Barry said. “It’s pretty eerie. It’s all done under local anaesthesia.”

  “Really?”

  Barry nodded. “The idea is to destroy the diseased part of the brain, either the globus pallidus or the thalamus, that causes the trembling. The surgeons freeze the scalp, make tiny holes in the skull, and use a device clamped to the skull to guide a needle down through the brain into the target.”

  “And the patient’s awake?”

  “They have to be. I’ll never forget the surgeon watching the man’s hand. As the tissue was destroyed the trembling got less and less. It was quite remarkable. Every once in a while the surgeon would ask the patient to wiggle his fingers. As soon as he had the slightest difficulty the needle was removed. It’s a pretty narrow margin between improvement and making things worse.”