An Irish Country Courtship

  “Gamble, sir. Shooey Gamble.”

  Barry had lived in Ulster long enough to recognise that Shooey meant Hughey. In fact, there was a popular children’s riddle about the name.

  What do you call the window cleaner’s son?

  Wee shammy [instead of Sammy, for the chamois leather used to wash panes].

  And the cobbler’s son?

  Wee Shooey.

  “And what can I do for you, Mr. Gamble?” Barry asked.

  Shooey unbuttoned a long raincoat, rolled up his right trouser leg, and pointed to his knee. “I’ve been getting a ferocious stoon in her, so I have.”

  “Pain? For how long?” More rheumatism. All right, he told himself, get on with it.

  “Do you mean how long does it last, or when did it start, like?”

  “Both.”

  The old gentleman thrust out his lower jaw. Barry saw one single fang sticking up into the hairs of Shooey’s upper lip.

  “It started coming on, I don’t know, about three years ago, just after I turned eighty-five, and it’s there pretty much all of the time now, so it is. Gets worser after I walk a bit, especially on a bucketing-down day like today.”

  “Do you a lot of walking, Mr. Gamble?”

  “Och, I did. I used to be a shepherd. I’d go for miles, so I would.” He shook his head. “It’s all I can do today to get to Bangor and back, and it seizes up something fierce when I sit down for a wee minute.”

  Barry whistled. That was a round-trip of twelve miles, far enough for a youngster, never mind an old man whose symptoms, responsitivity to low pressure, and postexercise seizing-up, sounded very like osteoarthritis.

  “And it’s just the one knee?”

  “Aye.” He pointed. “That’s the boy there.”

  Gout could afflict a single joint, often a small one, but usually came on at night and was excruciatingly painful. Rheumatoid arthritis was unlikely. It afflicted many more women than men and usually appeared before age fifty-five.

  Psoriasis could cause single-joint arthritis, and dull as the man’s case was, Barry was not going to treat it lightly. “You’ve not had any rashes?”

  “Aye, I did.”

  Barry leant forward. Psoriatic arthritis was a rare condition. “Where?”

  “Where? Here in Ballybucklebo. I’ve lived here near all my life.”

  Barry had to chuckle. “No, I meant where on your body?”

  “All over. I’d the chicken pox when I was six and the German measles when I was twelve. Oh, aye, and I had trench foot in 1916.”

  That would account for the old soldier’s moustache. “Nineteen sixteen? You were at the Somme?” Barry was impressed—and interested. The bloodiest battle of World War One. He did a quick subtraction. “But you’d have been nearly forty then.”

  “Aye.” Shooey leant forward and lowered his voice. “I was with the Thirty-sixth Ulster Division at Thiepval Wood. I lied about my age to get in, so I did.” He winked and Barry saw the arcus senilis, the pale rim of age, around the pupils of a pair of startlingly blue eyes. “We couldn’t let that Kaiser Bill bugger get away with what he did in Belgium, you know, or with what he did to Nurse Cavell. He should never have shot her for a spy.”

  Barry heard the intensity in the old man’s voice. Barry shook his head. It was hard to believe he was sitting here with a survivor of the Great War, a man who’d been born in 1876, the year the first telephone call had been made, the year of Custer’s Last Stand at Little Bighorn. Shooey’d been nine when General Gordon was killed at Khartoum, and probably could remember hearing about it.

  Barry wished he could afford to spend more time with Shooey Gamble to hear more of his story. It was all fascinating—but it wasn’t going to help with the diagnosis.

  “Mr. Gamble, you know I sometimes have to ask personal questions.”

  “Fire away.”

  “You were in the army. Did you ever have a … a dose?” Both gonorrhoea and syphilis could cause joint damage.

  “Nah. I never did.” He took a deep breath and stared at the carpet. “I was married. She was a lovely wee girl. I met her when I was sixteen. I never looked at another woman. Not in sixty-three years.” His voice softened and he looked at Barry. Shooey had the sagging lower eyelids of the old. They glistened, brimmed, and tears rolled. He dashed a hand across his eyes. “Sorry about that, Doc,” he said, “but I still get a bit choked up. My Dora’s gone nine years in June. I miss her yet.” He hauled in a very deep breath.

  “I’m sorry,” Barry said. “I really am.” And even if it is only a few weeks for me, I know how you feel, he thought. Or perhaps I don’t. Your generation, much more than mine, was raised not to show emotion in public. And yet Shooey could openly shed a tear. “Don’t worry about the odd tear,” Barry said. “It’s good to let things out.” I only wish I could, he thought. He rose, abruptly facing the window before turning back to his patient.

  “Thanks for that. I get a bit embarrassed, like, but you being a doctor and all, you understand. I know that.” He smiled at Barry. “I’m sorry for your troubles, too, Doctor Laverty. When we were sitting in the waiting room earlier today, Cissie Sloan told me you’d lost your wee girl. I don’t mean to be too personal, like”—Shooey cocked his head—“but I hear tell being there, feeling things yourself that your patients suffer, like, makes a fellah a better doctor. Maybe that’s why you just said what you did? Here I’ve just met you, and I’m telling you about Dora. You’re an easy man to talk to, Doctor Laverty.”

  “Thank you. That means a lot.” Barry turned back, cleared his throat, and tried to make light of things. “Mind you, if you’re right about feeling things your patients feel, I’d better work out how a man can have a baby.”

  Shooey smiled. “True on you, sir.”

  “Can you come over to the couch, Mr. Gamble?”

  “Och, Doctor, it’s Shooey, so it is. Everybody calls me that, sir.”

  Barry completed a thorough examination of both knees. The left one seemed to function perfectly; the right, although cool to the touch, moved stiffly. He’d been able to feel a grating under his fingers.

  “Let me help you down.” Barry took his seat. “Shooey, my best bet is that you have osteoarthritis. It’s a wear-and-tear thing.”

  “Is it?”

  “It is.”

  “And what would bring that on?”

  Barry tried to be tactful. Older folks could be sensitive. “Age, I’m afraid.” He was surprised when Shooey burst out laughing.

  “Do you know about the Vikings, sir?”

  “I know they gave Ireland a terrible time until Brian Boru beat them at Clontarf in 1014.”

  “Aye. And they gave me my name.”

  “Shooey?”

  “Not at all. Gamble. It’s from the Norwegian, Gamball.”

  Barry waited.

  Shooey chuckled. “It means old, so I’m old Shooey Old—and I am eighty-eight.”

  “Fair enough, but it doesn’t mean you just have to put up with it.”

  “Can you do something, sir?”

  For such an interesting man Barry wished he could work a miracle, but he had to say, “I can’t cure eighty-eight years of wear and tear, but I can try to make it a bit easier for you.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll arrange for you to see a physiotherapist, who’ll give you some exercises. We’ll get you a heat pad for the cold days, and you can buy a liniment at the chemist. Deep Heat’s pretty good. Maybe a walking stick?” Barry looked straight at his patient. “I know folks have lost faith in it, but aspirin really does help.”

  “I believe you, Doctor.” Shooey’s grin exposed the tooth again. “Mind you, I’m sure thousands wouldn’t.”

  Barry had to smile at the old Ulsterism.

  “Boys-a-dear,” Shooey said, “I thought I was just going to have to thole it, but you say we can do things? That’s grand, so it is. Sticking out a mile. You’re not going to have to shoot me like a sick horse?”

  “Not y
et, Shooey.” The resilence of the country patients. It was humbling. “And if it gets really bad, there is an operation.” Giving steroids, Barry knew, while useful for rheumatoid arthritis, didn’t help osteo.

  “Aye. I’m sure there is, you know, but I think we’ll cross that bridge when we come ’til it, sir.”

  “All right, but I will get a note off to the physiotherapy department in Bangor Hospital. They’ll send for you. And if you just hang on—” Barry scribbled a note. “Take that round to the chemist’s and they’ll give you the heat pad.”

  “Thanks, Doc. Thanks a million.” Shooey headed for the door, then turned. “I’ve one more wee question, like.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You said it’s all because of eighty-eight years of wear and tear.” Shooey chuckled. “D’you know, Doc, I’ve had the other bloody knee for eighty-eight years too. Why doesn’t it hurt?”

  And Barry Laverty couldn’t help join in with the guffaws of Shooey Gamble, whose surname meant “old” and who had a wit sharp as a tack. O’Reilly had a point. The work could take your mind off quite a lot.

  13

  And Green-Ey’d Jealousy

  “So,” asked O’Reilly, “how was the work this morning? ‘The daily round, the common task.’”

  “‘Should furnish all we ought to ask.’ I know, Fingal.” Barry took his usual place at the dining room table. “I know the hymn and I know I should be satisfied with my work. I should be.”

  “And are you not?” O’Reilly looked closely at his assistant.

  Barry shrugged. “It was pretty run of the mill this morning.”

  “You get days like that,” O’Reilly said, hoping this wasn’t the first symptom of the young man falling out of love with rural general practice. “Not one single interesting customer in the whole lot?”

  “The patient before the last. Hughey Gamble.”

  “What’s wrong with old Hughey? I hardly see him from one year to the next. He’s tough as an old boot.”

  “His knee’s not. He’s got osteoarthritis.”

  “Hardly a diagnostic conundrum to baffle the late great Sir William Osler,” O’Reilly said.

  “It wasn’t. It was the man himself who interested me.”

  O’Reilly was going to ask Barry to elaborate, but Kinky’s arrival interrupted. “I’ve lentil-and-ham soup here,” she said, setting her tray on the sideboard. “Made from the hambone. There’s butter. I used to churn the milk myself when I was a girl but, och …” She shrugged. “That’s my own wheaten bread, a wedge of Cheddar, and a wedge of Cheshire.” She handed a plate to O’Reilly. “I know, sir, ’tis something more substantial you’d be wanting, but the festive season is gone by and loss of a bit of—” She glowered at his waist.

  “It’s all right, Kinky,” O’Reilly said. “I understand. When Kitty was here she explained. She said it’s because … because Kitty thinks I should lose a bit too.” O’Reilly realised that if he said Kinky was watching his weight because she was very fond of him, he might embarrass the undemonstrative Corkwoman.

  “Does she now? There’s a thingeen.” Kinky folded her arms and pursed her lips. O’Reilly could practically hear what Kinky was thinking. And it’s my job to look after you, not hers. He knew that the addition of the suffix “een” in Irish made something into “a little something” and was pejoratively diminutive. He said quickly, “And she told me to thank you for looking after me. Says she doesn’t know how I’d get on without you.”

  Kinky’s lips relaxed, but she did not smile.

  “She’ll tell you herself next time she’s down.” Kinky had mentioned nothing more about Kitty being in her kitchen, and as Kitty had been gone these past three weeks, O’Reilly had thought the matter was closed. Apparently he’d been wrong. “She’s coming on Saturday.”

  “And will she be cooking, sir?”

  “No, she’ll not.” O’Reilly shook his head. “It’s the marquis’ pheasant shoot. Barry’ll be covering here. Kitty’ll get her breakfast before she comes down, and His Lordship will give us lunch,” O’Reilly said.

  “And dinner?” Kinky asked. “Will Miss O’Hallorhan be wanting to cook dinner?”

  “Not at all. I’m taking her out,” O’Reilly said and waited, hoping to God Kinky wasn’t going to ask if her cooking wasn’t good enough.

  “So I’ll have Doctor Laverty?”

  “Aye.”

  “Grand, so. I’ll see he doesn’t starve.” Kinky left, saying, “I’ll bring you coffee later.”

  “What was that all about, Fingal?” Barry asked.

  O’Reilly served the soup. “Help yourself to bread and cheese,” he said.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  O’Reilly swallowed a mouthful of soup. “A couple of years back a fellah, Robert Ardrey, wrote a book called African Genesis. He reckons humans are primates and have all the primate behaviours. One is establishing pecking orders; another is protecting their territory. I think Kinky’s feeling her territory is threatened by Kitty.”

  “Oops,” Barry said. “What are you going to do?”

  O’Reilly lifted his soup spoon. “I don’t know. Step one will be to keep Kitty out of Kinky’s kitchen.”

  “Makes sense. And step two?”

  “I think,” said O’Reilly, attacking the Cheddar, “Kitty might have an answer; she’s a woman after all. But as for me? That’s a bridge we’ll cross when we come to it.”

  Barry nodded. “That’s exactly what Shooey said when I told him if his knee didn’t respond to simple measures we could think about an operation.”

  “What did you make of him?”

  “I think he’s absolutely amazing.”

  O’Reilly finished his soup. “He always was. He once rowed a boat from here to Portpatrick in Scotland and back—for a bet.”

  “Good Lord. That’s at least fifteen miles one way.”

  O’Reilly nodded. “And did you know he was in the army?”

  “He told me.”

  O’Reilly buttered another slice of bread. “I’ll bet he didn’t tell you he won the M.M.”

  “The Military Medal. For bravery?”

  “Aye. If the hand grenade under the steel helmet he was lying on to protect the rest of his platoon had gone off, he’d have been awarded the Victoria Cross—posthumously.”

  Barry whistled.

  “And do you know, en passant,” said O’Reilly, “only three men have won the V.C. twice, and two of them were army doctors?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Men called Chavasse and Martin-Leake.” O’Reilly finished his soup and refilled his bowl. “His Lordship collected a D.S.O. during the Arnhem battles at the Meuse-Escaut Canal. He’s like Shooey; he never mentions it.”

  Barry cocked his head. “Fingal, did you win any medals?”

  O’Reilly cleared his throat. He had been awarded a Distinguished Service Cross at the Battle of Crete when his ship was badly damaged by German Stukas. He’d carried on treating the wounded despite fires raging outside his sick bay. He too never spoke of it. The medal was collecting dust at the bottom of his sock drawer.

  O’Reilly shook his head and changed the subject. “I’m very fond of John,” he said, using the marquis’ Christian name. “I’m looking forward to Saturday at the estate and not just for seeing him and a bit of shooting. I need to get a chance to have a word with Donal Donnelly. He’ll be beating.” O’Reilly saw Barry smile. “No. It’s not because he’s on the fiddle. This time Donal’s getting conned, and I promised to help.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  “I thought you’d enough on your plate.” O’Reilly spent some minutes explaining Bertie’s shares-in-a-horse scam. “What baffles me is that Bertie seems to have set up a scheme that is costing him money.”

  “If I understand what you’ve just told me,” Barry said, “when she fails to win, Donal and his mates forfeit a piece of their share in the horse to Bishop.”

  “You’ve hit the na
il on the head, Barry. That’s exactly right,” O’Reilly said. “Donal and his mates can’t afford to be swindled out of that much money. You’re a doctor and it would take you three months to earn a hundred pounds. Imagine how long a carpenter would have to toil.” He popped the bread and cheese into his mouth. “I’ve got to stop Bertie,” O’Reilly said. He looked at Barry from under knitted brows. “I’m not sure how, but I’ll work on it.”

  “If you like, Fingal, I’ll help if I can.”

  “Will you?” O’Reilly had expected no less from the young man, and it suited Fingal to keep Barry involved in every aspect of the practice.

  “Of course, and I’ve had a half-notion.” Barry put both forearms on the table and leant forward toward O’Reilly. “Who do we know who really knows horses?”

  O’Reilly thought. “The marquis, me, Donal—”

  “And Fergus Finnegan. The jockey who had—”

  “Acute ophthalmitis that you fixed. Laverty, you’re a genius. I might even see him at the shoot. He often beats for His Lordship.”

  “He might have heard of this kind of swindle before. Maybe he’ll have some suggestions.”

  O’Reilly frowned. “I promised Donal I’d not tell anybody.”

  “Come on, Fingal. You don’t have to. Tell Fergus it’s me who’s in trouble. Everybody here knows I wouldn’t know a cannon bone from a crupper.”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  Barry laughed. “If it lets us put one over Bertie, I’d be delighted.”

  “You’re on, Barry—if I need to,” O’Reilly said. “It’ll be interesting to see how this works out.”

  “It will indeed.” Barry laughed.

  O’Reilly was delighted.

  “You know, Fingal, it wouldn’t be Ballybucklebo if you weren’t up to your neck sorting out Bertie Bishop.”

  “With your help, lad. With your help.”

  Barry shrugged.

  O’Reilly heard the phone ring. He waited. Kinky stuck her head around the door. “It does be Aggie Arbuthnot. Could she have a word?”

  “Coming.” O’Reilly rose. “I hoped I’d finished the calls this morning. I was going to put my feet up this afternoon.” He headed for the door.