An Irish Country Courtship

  “Heavens, no,” she said. “Life would be very dull if you didn’t learn new things.”

  “Fair enough, and to answer your question, this boat’s one of a local class called Glens.”

  She smiled. “Like the ones near Broughshane?”

  “Exactly. This one’s Glendun.”

  She looked admiringly at the curve of the hull. “She’s a very graceful shape,” she said.

  And so are you, Sue Nolan, boilersuit notwithstanding. He remembered the glimpse of her thigh, the uptilt of her breasts under a black blouse when she’d picked up spilled exercise books the day he’d come to see the ringworm cases. He coughed. “I hear the places they’re named for are very beautiful too.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “I told you that before Christmas. The invitation to visit still stands.”

  “You coming, Barry?” John yelled from the road. “We need you to drive.”

  “I’ll take you up on that one day, Sue. I’d like to learn about that part of Ulster,” Barry said. He put his paintbrush in a jar of turpentine and wiped his hands clean. “Come on,” he said. “Lunch.”

  And as they walked together across the shipyard to join the others, Barry, for the first time in two months, felt a spark, a tiny glimmer of a kind of contentment he would have sworn he was never going to feel again.

  36

  Each to His Choice

  “I’m delighted with your progress, Hughey,” O’Reilly said, “and Doctor Laverty will be too.” O’Reilly left the swivel chair and helped Hugh Gamble, his final patient, to his feet. Monday morning surgery was over.

  “The knee’s a whole lot better, but I’ll not be running the hundred yards for a wee while yet,” Hughey said. “Thon Deep Heat’s great, and the physiotherapist at Bangor Hospital …” He winked slowly at O’Reilly. “She’s a wee cracker, so she is.”

  O’Reilly smiled. “I hope she’s helping your knee as well.”

  “She’s doing a powerful job but, Doc … if I was forty years younger and I’d never met my Dora …” Hughey leant his head slowly to one side, grinned, and clicked his tongue between his cheek and teeth.

  O’Reilly opened the door to the hall. “You’re a terrible man, Hughey Gamble. You love to take a hand out of folks. I know bloody well you never looked at another woman in your life.”

  “Och sure, Doc, a cat can look at a king, as long as he doesn’t mistake the monarch for a mouse.”

  “True,” said O’Reilly, and he chuckled. “Let yourself out, and come back and see us in a month.”

  As Hughey left, O’Reilly picked up the telephone and dialled the number for the Royal Maternity Hospital. Barry was out making home visits, and O’Reilly had a promise to keep. It was clear to him that Barry believed he had only two choices: leave Number 1 and train as a specialist, or stay, perhaps reluctantly, and become a partner in July. But there was a third option.

  “Professor Dunseath’s secretary, please.” He waited. “Jane? Fingal O’Reilly. How’s your tennis elbow?” He listened to her lengthy description. He’d known Jane for years. Early in his career, O’Reilly had learnt that it paid to be on good terms with specialists, and the way to have easy access to these busy people was to get to know their secretaries. “Aye, I know,” he said sympathetically. “Hydrocortisone injections can sting like bedamned. Did they help? … Great. You’ll be taking on Billie Jean King next.” He heard Jane laughing. “Now, any chance I could get a word with his eminence, your boss? Great. I’ll hold on.”

  Paddy Dunseath, M.D., F.R.C.S., F.R.C.O.G., professor of obstetrics and gynaecology at the Queen’s University of Belfast, was responsible for all the training positions in his discipline in Ulster. “Hello, Paddy … Fingal … I need a favour.”

  O’Reilly heard the County Roscommon man’s brogue accentuated by the phone. “What can I do for ye, Fingal?”

  “I’ve an assistant, Barry Laverty.”

  “Fair-haired chap? He was here in ’62. He’d a flair for obstetrics, as I remember.”

  “He still has. Will you have any junior positions open in the summer?”

  “Does he want to specialise?”

  “He doesn’t know, but I think he needs to test the waters. If he likes it, he’ll make a damn fine obstetrician.”

  “Hold on. I need to look in a file. Just a sec.”

  O’Reilly heard papers being shuffled.

  “I’ve nothing in Belfast, but I’m going to have a vacancy for a trainee at the Waveney Hospital in Ballymena in July.”

  “Terrific.”

  “You say he’s not really sure about wanting to specialise?”

  “That’s right. He needs to find out what suits him best. He’s a good lad, young Laverty. If he doesn’t want to stay with you, Paddy, I’ll have him back with pleasure.”

  “I’m a wee bit hesitant, Fingal. I prefer youngsters who have their hearts set on our speciality.”

  “But you said you’ll have a vacancy in July. Does that mean no one’s applied yet?”

  “It does.”

  O’Reilly waited. He knew Paddy of old, knew he was a man who made up his mind easily, but didn’t like to be pushed.

  “All right, Fingal. I know the boy’s good. I’ll give him a six-month job and make him sit his Diploma of the Royal College at the end of it. That way, if he does come back to you he’ll be better qualified, not only with more experience, but with a piece of paper to prove it.”

  Jasus. You don’t need a brain. You need a diploma, O’Reilly thought. L. Frank Baum had been right. “And if he doesn’t want to come back here?” he asked the professor.

  “As long as he gives me two months’ indication before his term is up, if he wants to stay on. And if he proves as good as you say, I’ll keep him for the full specialist training, and he’ll have the first six months under his belt.”

  “Terrific. And I promise you, Paddy, he is good.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “How soon do you need to know if he wants the position?”

  “He’s got two weeks to make up his mind.”

  “Fair enough. You’ll hear by then. Thanks, Paddy.”

  “No need to thank me, but if you could get me a couple of tickets for the next Ireland-England rugby international in Dublin—?”

  “Done.” As an ex-international player, O’Reilly could get tickets for himself. “I’ll post them to you.” Considering the favour the prof had just done, O’Reilly would give him his place with pleasure.

  “Thank you, and I’ll wait to hear from Laverty … What, Jane?” O’Reilly could make out the secretary’s voice in the background. “Sorry, Fingal,” Paddy said. “I’ve got to go.” The phone went dead.

  O’Reilly replaced the receiver as the front door opened and Barry came in. “More work for me this afternoon?” he asked.

  O’Reilly shook his head. “How did your morning go?” He headed for the dining room.

  Barry followed. “I took care of the phone calls you asked me to make. The Patton twins’ll be home tomorrow, and Alice Moloney’s being discharged on Wednesday.”

  O’Reilly took his seat. “Enemy nil, country GPs two—three if you count each twin individually. We do make a difference, you know.”

  Barry sat and smiled. “True enough,” he said. “But I wish I could make some headway with the ringworm.”

  “Oh?”

  “Miss Redmond chose to call me rather than send the patients over. Four more cases today.”

  “Four? How many’s that altogether?”

  “Eleven, counting Colin.” Barry sat beside O’Reilly. “I’m blowed if I know what the source is. I thought it might be Colin Brown’s white mouse, but with Colin safe at home effectively in quarantine, and the mouse with him, how are the others getting infected?”

  “I think I know,” said O’Reilly. “You said something that jogged my memory last week. I had an outbreak here in 1956. I probably should have acted on this one sooner, but we’ll go and see Colin af
ter lunch.”

  “What did I say last week?” Barry leaned forward. “And what happened in 1956?”

  “1956?” If O’Reilly was right in his guess about the ringworm, he wanted to surprise Barry. “1956? Arthur Miller married Marilyn Monroe, the Hungarians rebelled against the Russians, Britain and France invaded Suez—”

  “And Bertolt Brecht fell off the perch. I’m getting to know you, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly. You want to surprise me at Colin’s with your wisdom and experience. I can wait.”

  “Good lad. I do want to get out to the Browns. I hope we’ll not have to wait too long for our lunch.”

  “You will not, so,” Kinky said, bringing in a tray. “I’ve done toad in the hole today, with brussels sprouts and onion gravy.”

  “Wonderful,” O’Reilly said. He could smell the gravy. He looked at his plate. Six sprouts, a small lake of gravy, and a Cookstown sausage—Kinky would use no other kind—nestled in a wrapping of Yorkshire pudding. “Oh, lovely.” He glanced at Barry’s plate. Damn it, the boy had two sausages. O’Reilly glanced up at Kinky and had to look away. She clearly would brook no argument. “Just bloody lovely,” he muttered.

  “It does only be luncheon, sir, not a Celtic feast with a whole roast ox. Maybe you’ll like your dinner better. I’ve Guinness beef, carrots, mushrooms, and champ, with apple crumble to follow.”

  “I like the sound of that,” said O’Reilly.

  “And you might like the news I have from Cork,” she said.

  O’Reilly’s fork stopped half an inch short of a sprout. “Go on.”

  “He was a terrible man for the craythur, our Tiernan, when he was a youngster. Last night he had a few with Eugene Power, the jockey man. They’ve been friends through the road bowling. Tiernan reckons Eugene is one of the best jockeys riding these days; he made a slip a few years back, but ordinarily he rides to win. Now he’s in trouble.”

  “Trouble?” O’Reilly said.

  “Eugene told Tiernan he does not know what to do. He’s terrified he’ll lose his licence. He’s just got the word he’s to pull a horse at Downpatrick on the twenty-seventh; he doesn’t want to, but he’s being forced.”

  “Is he, by God? Is he? And no prizes for guessing who by.” O’Reilly ignored his lunch. “Barry, we’ll need to see Donal. If he’s got word about how Bertie’s betting and now this—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Kinky said, “but I saw Julie at the grocer’s this morning. She’s coming in tomorrow for an antenatal visit. I took the liberty of mentioning that it might be a good idea if Donal came with her. I did not say why, so.”

  “Kinky, you’re a genius,” O’Reilly said. He made a quick calculation. Julie’d been eight weeks when she was married in early December. This would be her twenty-week visit.

  “Have you been seeing her, Barry?”

  “I have and she’s doing fine.”

  “Any word on the photo contest?”

  “She’ll hear next week.”

  “I do hope the little lamb wins,” Kinky said. “She’s a darlin’ girl, so.” Kinky tutted. “And with all that blether, Doctor O’Reilly, you’ve let my toad go cold in its hole.” She whipped away his plate. “I’ll bring you another,” she said.

  “Any old chance of two?”

  Kinky sniffed—and left.

  “Oh, well,” said O’Reilly, “it was worth a try.” He sat back. “Good old Kinky. Trust her to ferret things out.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Now, Barry, you’ll be in the surgery tomorrow. Take Julie and Donal first so I can be with you before I start the home visits.”

  “Right.”

  “Then,” O’Reilly said, “if Donal has good news for us and we combine that with what we’ve just heard—”

  “We might just make a call on His Exaltedness, Councillor Bishop, in the afternoon?” Barry suggested.

  “Indeed we might.” O’Reilly watched Barry dig into his second sausage. “So Julie’s pregnancy is going smoothly?”

  “Very smoothly,” Barry said. “I’ve seen her at twelve and sixteen weeks. She’s been a bit anxious after what happened last time.”

  “Twenty weeks? She should be out of the woods now,” O’Reilly said, “but you never know with pregnancy.” He looked at Barry. “And while we’re on the subject of obstetrics, since our chat on Saturday I’ve had a word with the bloke I said I’d speak to.”

  Barry frowned, put both wrists on the table, and leaned forward. “Please go on.”

  “I know you are having second thoughts about general practice—” O’Reilly held up his hand. “Let me finish. You’re hurting about Patricia, this place is full of memories …” O’Reilly saw Barry nodding slowly. “You’re frustrated with the run-of-the-mill work and having to make referrals of so many interesting cases.”

  “I really enjoy feeling that I fit in here, am part of the community. I’ve always loved the country …” Barry stared at the tablecloth for long seconds before looking at O’Reilly. “But frustrated?” he asked quietly. He nodded.

  “You’re bloody good with pregnant patients. I think you should go and work in an obstetric unit for a while.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll hold your job here for six months.”

  “How? The practice has grown since I came, even with Doctor Fitzpatrick up in the Kinnegar. You’ll need help.”

  “Do you know about Barry Bramwell?”

  “Wasn’t he a trainee obstetrician?”

  “He was, but he started a thing called the Contactor’s Bureau. It’s not like the old days when I started. Single-handed GPs can get temporary locums from it, or someone to cover if they want a day or night off. For a fee, of course. I’m going to use them in a couple of weeks for the Downpatrick Races. You want to come, don’t you?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Ordinarily Kinky would hold the fort, but she likes a day at the horses. It’ll be a little break for her.”

  “That’s decent of you, Fingal.”

  “The hell it is. That woman’s worth her weight in gold ten times over.”

  “How much will a locum cost?”

  “I’m not sure. Why?”

  “I’d like to pay half. I’m getting a day off too.”

  Typical Barry. O’Reilly shook his head. “My treat.”

  “Thank you, Fingal, for paying for the day, but I don’t see why you should be out of pocket for me if you have to get a locum for six months.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “That’s decent of you, Barry, but I said I’d hold your job. I didn’t say I’d go on paying you and locums as well.”

  Barry took a deep breath.

  “Barry, it’ll give you a bit more time for getting over your girl, and it’ll let you see what obstetrics and gynaecology is all about. I know I liked the obstetrics very much, but gynae? I’m not so sure. Gynae surgery is certainly challenging, and infertility and endocrinology will stretch your mind, but outpatients?” O’Reilly grimaced.

  “I’ve done gynae outpatients, Fingal. Clinics full of patients for cervical smears, with vaginal itches, painful periods, asking for contraceptive advice. It could become pretty dull. None of it’s trivial to the patients, I know, but you don’t have the satisfaction of getting to know those patients as people. It’s conveyor-belt medicine because you’re always pushed for time. I’m sure it could get pretty routine, but I’d hope the sorting-out of the more difficult cases would make up for it. Every job has its dull bits.”

  “That’s why I think you going in at the deep end for six months will give you every chance to see if you really like the whole package, warts and all,” O’Reilly said.

  “Allegedly Oliver Cromwell’s instructions to Sir Peter Lely, who was to paint a portrait.”

  “True, but we’re not talking about your picture. We’re talking about your career, and I’m asking you to think about giving obs and gynae a try.”

  “Fingal, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then don’t say anything. There??
?s a job starting in July.”

  “July?”

  “That’s right, for six months. So if you want to come back, you could get experience, write the diploma, and be better qualified for here. If you want to stay on and specialise, you’ll have six months already done of the four-year training you’ll need.”

  “I really don’t know what to say.”

  O’Reilly saw how the boy’s eyes glistened. “Prof. Dunseath says he’ll hold the job for two weeks to give you time to decide. Only two weeks, so think hard about it.”

  “Fingal,” Barry rose. “Fingal, that’s the most generous, most considerate—”

  “Bollocks. It’s entirely selfish. I can’t lose. If you decide not to accept and to stay here, great. We’ll be partners in July. If you decide to go, I’ll either get a better-qualified partner back in time for next New Year’s or you’ll be doing what you want with your life.”

  “But you’ll be short an assistant.”

  “Holy thundering Mother of Jasus, I know you, Laverty. If you’re going to stay on specializing, you’ll tell me early. I’ll have no trouble finding an assistant among the locums. He won’t be Barry Laverty, but I’ll manage. Might even get a young woman doctor these days. You, take your time. Think about it. Be sure it’s what you want to do.”

  “And the job’s in the Royal Maternity?”

  O’Reilly laughed. “The Royal and the Jubilee in Belfast aren’t the only training centres. This job’s in the Waveney Hospital.”

  “In Ballymena?”

  O’Reilly nodded and wondered why Barry had a small smile when he said, “That’s only a few miles from Broughshane.”

  “And I’m sorry this has taken a few minutes longer than it should, sir,” Kinky said, bringing in O’Reilly’s plate. “Her Ladyship’s in disgrace. I didn’t think such a shmall little white cat could eat up so much Yorkshire pudding batter. I’d to make a fresh batch.”

  “It’s all right, Kinky,” O’Reilly said. “Better late than never. Thank you.” He sliced into the sausage. “Now, Barry Laverty,” he said, “you’ve two weeks to make up your mind about the prof’s offer.”

  “Thank you, Fingal.”