An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea

  In what seemed like next to no time both cars drew up outside Davy McMaster’s farmhouse just across a short bridge that spanned a narrow stream. Several other vehicles were drawn up by the roadside. A florid-faced man wearing a duncher, tweed jacket, binoculars round his neck, and old flannels tucked into Wellington boots, looked at the police car, shook his head, and continued crossing the road.

  O’Reilly told Arthur to stay, dismounted, and walked over to the police car.

  The sergeant wound down his window.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “Not at all, sir.” He lowered his voice. “But a wee word til the wise? I’ll not let you off a second time if you roar like a liltie with a supercharger through my patch again.”

  O’Reilly smiled. “You’ve my word, Sergeant.”

  “I’ll be running on then, sir,” the sergeant said, “but say hello to your brother for me. I think that there’s his motor coming this way.”

  As the police car made a U-turn, Lars pulled up in his maroon Hillman Minx and got out.

  “Morning, Finn. Glad you could make it.” Lars carried an attaché case in one hand.

  “Bloody nearly didn’t. Got stopped for speeding in Greyabbey, but the sergeant found out I was your brother.”

  Lars laughed and said, “Billy Dunlop’s a sound man, the kind of peeler who’ll give a kid a clip round the ear and a second chance rather than a criminal record. Wasn’t that him I just saw leaving?”

  “The same.”

  “But I thought he stopped you in Greyabbey.” He shook his head. “Never mind.” He chuckled and then grabbed Fingal’s elbow. “Come on, little brother,” he said. “Time for me to do that briefing.” He held open a door that led into a hall with a tiled floor. To the left was a vast kitchen where a turf-fired black cast-iron range kept the room toasty warm. On the right, a door led to what had been the McMasters’ parlour but now served as a small public bar. No one was drinking, although there was the usual tobacco haze, and when Lars followed O’Reilly into the room, seven men left their bar stools and three tables and stood. Two women remained seated. Conversation ceased.

  He recognised Jimmy Caulwell, the man to whom O’Reilly had entrusted Colin Brown’s pigeon-killing ferret, Butch, last year.

  “How are you, Jimmy?”

  “Rightly, sir.”

  Everyone was dressed for the outdoors and all carried binoculars.

  “Good afternoon, everybody,” Lars said. “Thank you all for coming out. Before I start on the business of the day, may I introduce my brother, Doctor Fingal O’Reilly from Ballybucklebo?”

  A chorus of, “Good day, Doctor,” and “How’s about ye?” filled the room.

  O’Reilly smiled and nodded.

  “Now,” said Lars, “I know eight of you—”

  Fingal listened as Lars mentioned all the names.

  “… were here last year and know what to do, but for the sake of Jimmy—it’s his first time—I’ll quickly go over the form.”

  O’Reilly watched as Lars opened his case and distributed sheets of paper. “Here you have sketch maps of the territory for which you are responsible, and the boundary between you and your neighbour’s. Our group covers from Gransha Point in the north to Castle Hill in the south. The count starts at twelve thirty exactly, slack ebb, and will finish at two thirty exactly on a rising tide.” He handed out new sheets. “These are your scorecards. Each species is indicated alphabetically, starting with ‘avocet,’ but I don’t believe one’s ever been seen on Strangford. Write in the numbers of each species that you see in your sector, and, for example, if a flock of ten mallard is on the mudflats when you start and they are joined by five more, the score is now fifteen. Pretty simple. And there is space provided to write in any birds not listed. Last year I was lucky enough to see a garganey teal.”

  Voices said “Boys-a-boys,” and “Dead on,” and “Lucky duck.” This latter O’Reilly knew did not refer to the little bird with the brown head and chest and broad white stripe over its eye, but to Lars’s good fortune in spotting a rare bird. Clearly the counters were experts.

  “They usually winter in Africa and Asia, so he must have been blown off course,” Lars said, then detailed each counter’s area of responsibility. “… And my brother and I will take the south bank of the stream here at Lisbane over to a line coming directly into the shore from the Big Craig Lee Island to the south. Any questions?”

  O’Reilly noticed that from courtesy the two women had been allocated the gentlest terrain.

  He paused. “Right. Off we go. Reconvene here when you’ve finished and I’ll collect up all your notes to give to the central committee. And don’t worry, Ruby and Joy. Sergeant Dunlop will be in Greyabbey today, perhaps catching more speeders.” Lars gave O’Reilly a penetrating look and the florid-faced man, whom O’Reilly had learned was Guffer Madden from Millisle, chuckled.

  “So that’s what that was all about, was it?” he said. “Guided you here, did he, to make sure you didn’t get into any more trouble? Our Sergeant Dunlop is a sound man, so he is.”

  “He is that, Guffer,” said Lars. “And he’ll not be a whit concerned that women aren’t allowed in public bars. Davy’ll be serving restoratives afterwards.”

  “Strictly for medicinal purposes, I’ll vouch for that,” O’Reilly said, and everyone laughed.

  The group left the pub, and as the other cars drove off, O’Reilly let Arthur out of the back of the Rover.

  The big dog ran over to a low, whitewashed wall, cocked a leg, and returned to sit at O’Reilly’s feet. O’Reilly opened the boot and took out a waterproof camouflaged gas cape, army surplus from World War I.

  “Heel,” O’Reilly said, and he and Arthur fell in at Lars’s shoulder.

  “How’s Kitty?” Lars said.

  “She’s well, and she sends her love. I wanted her to take the day off and join us, but she said they were too busy on the ward. I think she’s working too hard, but she loves the work and I’ll not stand in her way.”

  “Good for you, Finn. She’s doing something she believes in. We don’t all have that luxury.”

  O’Reilly waited until Lars had climbed a low stile, sent Arthur over, then followed. The path led them past a tilting Celtic cross covered in Ogham script and moss, past a small whitewashed church, and through a platoon of weathered headstones. Most were at least one hundred years old. Overhead a few clouds meandered in across a pale blue sky. Man and dog clambered over another stile in the far wall.

  “Jasus,” said O’Reilly, once again at Lars’s shoulder as they strode across springy turf where russet patches of sere ben weeds rustled in a faint breeze. “I’ve a powerful soft spot for this wee place.”

  Arthur looked up questioningly at the sound of his master’s voice, clearly hoping to be sent out hunting, but today the object was not to disturb the birds.

  “Heel, sir,” O’Reilly said. “You’ll get your run later.”

  To O’Reilly’s right, the grass sloped down to where a stream meandered in its narrow channel past muddy banks. The far side rose to a low, gorse-covered escarpment. Boulders and patches of seawrack were scattered here and there by the sides of the stream.

  “Look,” Lars said, and pointed.

  O’Reilly followed the line of his brother’s outstretched arm and saw a little creature—small, high-set ears, blunt nose and whiffling whiskers, ebony eyes, brown glistening fur over a humped back, and a long broad tail.

  “River otter,” Lars said as they watched the animal run to where the edge of the field curved away to the left.

  Arthur stared up at O’Reilly, who muttered, “Stay.”

  When the otter had gone about its business, they stepped down onto a narrow shingle strand with a tideline of dead seaweed that gave the air its salty tang. Before them, a wide expanse of wet mud was dotted with water stars glistening and reflecting the sunlight.

  Lars stopped. “Fifteen minutes to slack ebb, when the count starts.” He strode out over t
he mud and O’Reilly and Arthur followed, boots squelching and leaving footprints that rapidly filled with water. From time to time they noticed spent and barnacle-encrusted brass bullet cases. The skies above Strangford Lough had been used as a practice range for air gunners during the war.

  They arrived at a waist-high semicircular wall of boulders and seawrack, a hide thrown up years ago by an earlier generation of wildfowlers. Ahead of it the mud stretched all the way to a tidal island and the waters of Strangford Lough, today living up to its old Irish name, Loch Cuan, the peaceful lough.

  “Give me a hand, Finn,” Lars said, and together they piled fresh layers of bladder wrack to heighten the rampart that would hide them from any passing birds.

  O’Reilly spread the gas cape on the stony floor. “Lie down.” It would keep Arthur reasonably dry. O’Reilly unslung his game bag, sat beside his brother, and took out his binoculars. The sun sparkled off the drying mudflats, and for November the day was remarkably mild. “What do you reckon the count will be this year?”

  Lars shrugged. “Last year they reckoned, to the nearest round number, Strangford Lough in the winter was home to twenty-five thousand wildfowl—that’s ducks, geese, mergansers, snipe. The whole population of light-bellied brent geese winters over. Fifty thousand waders like oystercatchers, dunlin, green and golden plover, and curlew were counted. It’s the mud flats. The birds love the marine worms, crustaceans, and the eel grass.” He smiled. “I’m glad I joined the Royal Society for Protection of Birds.”

  “You’ll be talking me out of my shooting soon enough,” O’Reilly said.

  “Huh. I didn’t join to try to convert people,” said Lars. “But it’s good work. As I get older I find I’m not quite as interested in the law as I used to be. But protecting Ireland’s natural heritage? That seems like something worth working for. I’ve become a member of the National Trust as well. Makes sense to preserve the old buildings too.” Lars looked at his watch. “It’s nearly counting time.”

  Lars took out his count sheet and a propelling pencil and stared ahead. “Two shelduck,” he said. “Tadorna tadorna.”

  As the birds waddled along the water’s edge, O’Reilly admired their pink bills, black heads, white breasts, an upper chestnut bar and chestnut wingtips.

  “See that ball of pale-bellied brent over to the left? How many do you reckon, Finn? I make it sixty-two.”

  As O’Reilly started his count there was a honking and a cackling overhead and, wings set and paddles outstretched, a second small flock joined the first.

  O’Reilly concentrated, muttered, “Stop moving about, birds,” and finally said, “Hundred and ten, give or take.”

  “Close enough,” Lars said. “The count is an estimate, but it lets the powers that be set the season’s limits, designate bird sanctuaries.”

  “Interesting,” O’Reilly said, and looked out across the lough, past Big Craig Lee Island where a circular stone pen for holding and drying seaweed used to make fertilizer always made him think of a submarine with a central conning tower. He gazed past its familiar shape to the wishbone-shaped Long Island nestled under Castle Hill and on out to the lough’s far shore, where the Mourne Mountains bulked purple against a still blue sky. He smiled, thinking of Kinky and Archie on their honeymoon climbing Slieve Donard, the tallest.

  A flash of wings caught his eye. A single snipe jinked across his line of sight. “Did you see that snipe, Lars?”

  “No. Good for you.” He made an entry. “Isn’t it true that two heads are better than one?” he said.

  “Unless they’re both on the same neck, and then you end up in a bottle of formalin in the pathology museum,” O’Reilly said, and they both laughed.

  “Fancy a sandwich?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Sure. I’ve noted all the sitting birds. There’ll be a bit of a lull in the count now until more fly in.” Lars accepted a ham and cheese, but refused a bottle of beer.

  O’Reilly munched and drank happily, glad to be out in the open with his dog and big brother in the one place in Ireland that O’Reilly loved the best. He let his mind wander and was struck by two of today’s events. Something the police sergeant had said about Lars and the appearance moments ago of the little snipe reminded him of his day out with John MacNeill, snipe shooting at the Kearneys’ farm.

  “Lars, I don’t often ask you for legal advice, but I don’t suppose you’d know anything about estate taxes—on big estates?”

  “Actually—” Lars said, then, “Hang on a minute. There’s a pair of mute swans.”

  And the majestic white birds rode the sky’s highway so close overhead that O’Reilly could hear the air displaced by their slowly beating wings.

  “Noted,” Lars said. “Estate taxes? Actually I do. The local squire fell off the perch a few years ago and nobody seemed to know much of the law. It’s pretty clear on small estates, but quite convoluted for big ones. I really had to do my homework.”

  O’Reilly took another pull on his Harp. This was promising.

  “It worked out rather well for me,” Lars said. “One way to escape crushing duties is to give your estate to the National Trust. That’s what the squire’s family decided to do.”

  “Give? Give away your estate? Sounds a bit drastic to me.”

  “I suppose it does when you consider the land had been in the family since the sixteenth century. But you and your heirs can hold on to things like fishing rights and shooting rights, and live in private apartments, provided the place is open to the public for a certain number of days every year. Better than having the place fall down around your ears. I’ve been doing a fair bit of pro bono work for the Trust recently.”

  “Have you, by God?”

  “Why?” Lars chuckled. “I don’t think a country GP’s estate is going to give the taxman much of a haul, and Number One Main Street is hardly a stately home.”

  “True,” O’Reilly said, and noticed that the hide was now a tiny island as the tide came in, rolling quickly over the wide low mudflats. He stood. “Time to move inland,” he said, and gathered up his game bag and gas cape. “Heel, Arthur.”

  Lars stood. “We’ll head for the pit hide at the edge of the field,” he said, and as the brothers and dog moved away from the mud, O’Reilly said, “I’m not worried, but the marquis of Ballybucklebo is getting heartburn about his.”

  Lars stopped. “And you think he might need some advising? Surely the estate retains a legal firm? These old families stick with the same firm for generations, Finn.”

  “Well, that’s as may be. All I know is John doesn’t seem to be filled with a great deal of confidence and security. I’m sure he would appreciate your help, and not pro bono either. He may be worried for the future, but he’s not destitute. He can afford your fees.”

  “Fair enough. I’d have to meet his estate manager, look at all the land titles, books, have a word with his solicitor.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “You’ll enjoy old Simon O’Hally. He’s been advising the family since before I came to Ballybucklebo. Still wears wing collars and a tall bowler hat. He’d be perfectly at home in Bleak House.”

  “Jarndyce versus Jarndyce. We both had to read it at school, as I recollect,” Lars said. “Put me right off Dickens. Damn near put me off the law.”

  They laughed together, then O’Reilly said, “I’ll give John a ring. If he’s interested, you can stay with us while you’re working if you need to.”

  “Love to,” Lars said as they crossed the shingle onto the springy turf of the field that ran from the beach to the back of Davy McMasters’s farmyard. Lars looked at his watch. “Where did the time go? It’s quarter to three. Count’s over. Let’s head on up to the pub.”

  “Grand,” said O’Reilly, and to Arthur, “Now is your big moment. Hey on out, boy.”

  And as the big Labrador tore along quartering the field, nose to the ground, tail thrashing, O’Reilly thought, there’s one happy dog. And with the prospect of one drink with Lars and his team, a leisu
rely drive home, a pint or two with Barry, whom he hoped had cheered up a bit, and the ray of light for his oldest friend in Ballybucklebo, he was damn nearly as happy as his dog. And why should I not be? His laugh seemed to surprise Lars.

  30

  All Seems Infected

  “I’d like you to have a look at Leading Seaman Henson, sir,” Sister Blenkinsop said.

  “Something the matter?” Fingal said. He’d just finished his eight-to-four stint in the operating theatre and had popped onto Admiral Collingwood Ward to collect his overcoat from where he’d left it that morning. “For a man two days postop, he seemed to be doing well when we made rounds this morning. His fingers were healing nicely.”

  “He’s running a fever now of one hundred and his pulse is one hundred and ten.”

  “Oh, oh.”

  “The VAD’s just made the four o’clock observations. I was going to send for the duty doctor but seeing you’re here and I know he’s special to you…”

  “He is special. Lead on.”

  Fingal followed Sister and a VAD pushing a wound dressing trolley onto the ward. He immediately called, “As you were.” Bloody naval nonsense, he thought, all this lying at attention just because an officer was on deck. They went straight to Henson’s bed.

  “How are you feeling, Henson?” Fingal asked.

  Henson’s voice was slurred. He was still being given morphine. “Sir, stumps … stumps thumping. Dunno what’s wrong. Getting worse.” The pleading in the man’s eyes told Fingal that Alf Henson was less afraid of losing his physical life than of being crippled and losing his future. “Do something,” he whispered. “Please, sir. Please.”

  Fingal put his hand on the sailor’s shoulder. “We will. You are going to get better, but I’ll have to take a look first.” He turned to Sister Blenkinsop. The light shone on her iron-grey hair as she bent her tall frame to look Henson in the eye and murmur, “You’ll be all right. You will be all right.”

  “Can you take his dressing off, please?”

  She busied herself with scissors and disinfectant, removing the Gamgee and bandages that together seemed to Fingal to be about the size of one of the sixteen-ounce boxing gloves he and his pal Charlie Greer used when sparring as medical students.