An Irish Country Courtship
“True on you, Donal,” O’Reilly said. “True on you.”
“I’ll be off,” said Donal, but he hesitated to leave. “See youse two doctors?” Donal spread his arms wide. “See youse? Me and the lads don’t know how to thank youse enough. You’re the soundest two men in all the Wee North, so yiz are. Because of youse we was dead jammy today.”
“That’s what it was,” O’Reilly said. “Pure luck.” He ignored Barry’s disbelieving look. “Go home, Donal, give our love to Julie, and we’ll see you later.”
As Donal headed off, Fingal opened the boot and started to pull out the picnic hamper.
“Doctor O’Reilly sir,” Kinky said. “If you eat that Scotch egg now you’ll spoil your appetite for your dinner, and I’ve four of the loveliest lobsters waiting to be poached.”
“Four?” asked O’Reilly. He could feel the saliva start. “Why four?”
“I’d imagine locum doctors eat too,” Kinky said, “and more than one meal a day like Arthur. I left her tomato soup, Melton Mobray pie, and a nice salad for her lunch, so.”
“Well done,” O’Reilly said. “And lobsters for dinner. Begod.” He shoved the hamper aside and pulled out the cooler. “If I’d known that, I’d have kept this”—he produced a bottle of champagne—“until then, but I brought it so we could celebrate the wee filly’s win right away.” He tried hard not to look at Kitty, who had already been told what he was going to do. If he saw her, he might give the game away before their glasses were charged. “There are champagne flutes in the hamper, Barry.”
As Barry set the four glasses on the boot lid, O’Reilly popped the cork of the first bottle. He looked around to see that the field, which moments ago had been full of moving cars, was now practically empty. There were only a couple of Land Rovers nearby, each with a horse box attached. A man was accompanying a young woman, who led a horse toward the nearest Rover.
“Now,” he said, “to business.” He poured the bubbly liquid and handed a glass to everyone. He had to say, “No excuses, Kinky Kincaid,” when she tried to demur.
He raised his glass high. “To Flo’s Fancy. May she go on winning and be sold for a bundle.”
“Flo’s Fancy,” Barry and Kitty repeated.
Kinky sneezed and tutted, then said, “Those bubbles do get up a body’s nose, so.” Her eyes widened. “But it’s got a lovely taste.”
“Good for you, Kinky,” O’Reilly said. He took a very deep swallow. God, he thought, I’d imagined this was going to be easy. His hand holding the flute was trembling. Go on you lily-livered gurrier, he told himself. He moved beside Kitty and slipped his arm around her waist. He exhaled and forced his shoulders back. “I’ve another toast,” he said, “and I want you two to drink deeply to it.”
O’Reilly could see the questions in the eyes of Barry Laverty and Kinky Kincaid.
He took one deep breath, then announced, “Last night after a delightful dinner I asked Miss Kitty O’Hallorhan … I asked her”—the words tumbled out—“if she would do me the honour of becoming Mrs. Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly.” His grin was vast. “I’m pleased to tell you she has accepted. We wanted you two to be the very first to know, and drink to our health.” O’Reilly bent and kissed Kitty firmly and with all the love in him. “I’ll be buying her the ring on Monday.”
Other than Kitty’s quiet “Thank you, Fingal,” there was a stunned silence. O’Reilly looked up. Barry stood there with both legs the same length and his mouth open. It took him several more moments to regain his composure. Then, grinning as he spoke, he said, “I’m so bloody delighted for you both. It’s wonderful news.” He lifted his glass. “Come on, Kinky. To Fingal and Kitty. Long life and every happiness.” He and Kinky drank. She was crying as she did so. Great tears coursed through her smile.
As if to indicate their approval, the herd of Friesians in the adjoining field began frantically lowing.
This is a moment, O’Reilly thought, warmth running through him, this is a moment I’ll put into my lifetime book of memories.
When the beasts had settled down, Kinky said, “Doctor O’Reilly, sir … Miss Kitty … I’m so very happy for you both.” She rummaged in her new bag for a hanky.
“Thank you, Kinky,” Kitty said. “Thank you very much.” She reached out and touched Kinky’s arm.
“And Kinky,” O’Reilly said, “it’s going to make you extra busy. Kitty has a very demanding full-time job. You’ll still be running Number 1. You’ll be cooking and washing and tidying up after three people now, not two.” O’Reilly continued: “So I’ll be putting up your wages by four pounds a month.”
Kinky dabbed her eyes. “Doctor dear” was all she could manage.
“I think you’re worth every penny,” Kitty said and was rewarded with a damp smile.
O’Reilly still held Kitty, who put an arm round the big housekeeper’s shoulder. He looked at Barry and hoped he didn’t feel left out. “Begod,” said O’Reilly, “if you’d just come and stand by Kitty, Barry, we could have a class photo taken of the whole Number 1, Main Street, team.” It was a team O’Reilly hoped would be facing a long future together.
Barry shook his head and looked at his shoes, then back up to O’Reilly. “Fingal,” he said, “this is your moment, yours and Kitty’s. I don’t want to intrude but …” He hesitated, then said firmly, “I think you both might want a bit of room at Number 1.” He paused. “I’ve been havering over this ever since you told me about the job in Ballymena.”
O’Reilly frowned and cocked his head. “If you’re going to say what I think you are, Barry, the job in Ballybucklebo’ll still be yours next January, if you want it.” But, he thought, you’re making the right choice, boy, and I wish you every success in finding your true path.
“Thank you. I do know that, and I’m very grateful, so on Monday, first thing, I’m going to phone Professor Dunseath and tell him I’d like to take up his offer.”
“Good lad,” O’Reilly said loudly. He offered Barry his hand. “Well done, Barry. I know deciding’s not been easy, and I know you’ll enjoy the experience.” He sipped more champagne. “And you tell Paddy Dunseath from me, that he’ll not get any more rugby tickets unless he gives you July third and fourth off.”
“Why? I’ll only just have started my new job.”
“Because”—he tightened his arm’s embrace around Kitty and looked into her eyes—“the third is the day we’re getting married, I want you as my best man, and if you do the job right you’ll need the next day off to get over it.”
“Me?” Barry moved his glass closer to his chest. “Fingal … Kitty … I’d be honoured. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. I am truly delighted for you both.”
O’Reilly heard a tiny catch in Barry’s voice. Despite his own recent loss, Barry was a big enough man to rejoice in a friend’s happiness. Fair play to you, boy, O’Reilly thought.
Barry continued: “I’d love to be the first—it is the best man’s job to propose the toast to the bride and groom—the first to officially call you Doctor and Mrs. O’Reilly.”
“Hear that, Kitty? Mrs. O’Reilly. It has a very nice ring to it.”
“It has,” said Barry wistfully, “and maybe one day I’ll get you to do the honours for me, Fingal.”
O’Reilly laughed. “Anytime, lad. Anytime.” He finished his champagne, and as he turned to put his glass in the hamper, a movement caught his eye. O’Reilly looked up and recognised the young woman with the copper-coloured hair and the bright head scarf, who was closing the door of a horse trailer.
“Huh,” said O’Reilly with a grin, “the school summer holidays are July and August, aren’t they?”
“That’s right,” Barry said, following the direction of O’Reilly’s gaze and smiling. “And before you ask, Fingal, it’s only four miles from Ballymena to Broughshane. I’ve looked at the map.”
YOUR QUESTIONS ANSWERED
The Past Is a Foreign Country: They Do Things Differently There
I promised you i
n the author’s note on page 10 that I would answer my readers’ questions. What is Ulster, and how is it related to Northern Ireland and the Irish republic? How were the doctors paid? How did the way of life in rural Ireland and the practice of medicine forty years ago differ from the way things are today? Where exactly is Ballybucklebo, and who was Doctor O’Reilly? And could I explain some of the vagaries of English as it is spoken in Ulster?
The answers follow.
The island of Ireland is divided into four provinces: Ulster, Munster, Leinster, and Connacht, subdivided into a total of thirty-two counties. The old province of Ulster was made up of nine counties. For centuries, all of Ireland was governed by the United Kingdom. When the island was partitioned in 1922, three of Ulster’s nine counties—Monaghan, Cavan, and Donegal—became part of the new Irish Free State, which later became the independent Republic of Ireland. But they still remained in the province of Ulster. Six of the Ulster counties—Antrim, Armagh, Derry, Down, Fermanagh, and Tyrone—remained part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Those six pieces of real estate, collectively called Northern Ireland (frequently pronounced “Nor’n Ir’n”), are often loosely and incorrectly referred to as Ulster—or affectionately as the Six Counties or the Wee North. The terms are used interchangeably in these pages as they are in real life.
I do hope that’s clear because it’s time to move on to the question of how GPs made their living. Until 1948, payment was fee-for-service. Doctor O’Reilly and many of his kind operated on the Robin Hood principle of taking from the rich and giving to the poor. The wealthy and their families often paid more than the service was worth, but the child of a poor farm labourer would have been treated for free. Often payment was in kind: a couple of chickens, a brace of lobsters, a load of peat.
Northern Ireland was and is an integral part of the United Kingdom. In 1948, the British Labour government introduced the National Health Service (NHS). All citizens paid a weekly national insurance premium, “the stamp,” to which a contribution was also made by their employer. These funds provided the entire population with unemployment and sickness benefits, and covered the costs of illness. Each citizen was issued a card and a National Insurance number, like a Social Security number. Citizens were free to pick a GP of their choice, with whom they lodged their card.
A flat annual capitation fee was paid to the doctor for every card held by the practice. About 2,500 were required for a GP to make a comfortable living (hence, in An Irish Country Christmas, Barry’s concern when a new doctor moves into the district and starts to poach patients). In return, the doctor was obliged to provide medical services at any time, day or night, 365 days a year. This free health care, as it was perceived, led to abuses, and Doctor O’Reilly was not the only Ulster GP who had as his first rule of practice, “Never let the customers get the upper hand.” However, in my own experience rural patients tended to be most considerate of their doctor’s time.
O’Reilly, as the principal doctor in the practice, would have been paid by the Ministry of Health, and from those monies he would have given Barry Laverty his salary, as together they provided care to the people of Ballybucklebo.
And that leads to the next question: Where is Ballybucklebo, and who was O’Reilly?
Irish names are musical, and every one of them means something. Eight miles from where I live is the village of Drumshanbo, “the ridge (drum) of the old (shan) cow (bo).” Ballybucklebo is literally “the townland of the boy’s cow.” I made up the name, and it and the surrounding countryside are fictitious, but that has not prevented my friends from Northern Ireland insisting they know exactly where it is. For the very last time, Ballybucklebo is not Helen’s Bay nor Holywood, although both are in County Down. The same applies to the characters. Although I am medically qualified, I am not Barry Laverty. A friend who had read An Irish Country Village suggested to me on the very morning I was penning this that Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly is my late father, Doctor James Taylor, God rest him. Sorry, Fingal and Jimmy are not one and the same.
So now you know that the centre of this book’s universe comes from my imagination; even so, I have done everything in my power to recreate the rest of rural Ireland—its geography, its way of life, and the practice of medicine—exactly as it was in 1964–1965.
The chasm that yawns between then and now is vast. Then was a simpler place, a simpler time. Towns and villages were smaller. Roads were twisty and narrow. There were fewer cars. For many people transport was a donkey, shank’s pony, the bicycle, and a rural bus service. This last halted not only at official bus stops. Drivers were likely to pull over for you between stops.
City folk might lock their houses. Countrypeople never bothered. The shops had a half day on Thursday in my hometown of Bangor, “the place of pointed hills.” The day of this closure varied from town to town, but if you were stuck for milk or a packet of cigarettes you could try knocking on the door. Most proprietors lived on the premises and might well open up for a friend in need. They closed early on Saturday and, except for sweetie shops and newsagents/tobacconists that sold the Sunday papers, were closed all day Sunday, as were the pubs. Attendance at mass or church service was practically compulsory.
Learning was held in great respect. In any rural community the doctor, teacher, priest, and minister outranked the village constable, undertaker, and chemist (pharmacist). All were lower down than the gentry and the aristocracy. The Marquis of Dufferin and Ava had his seat at Clandeboye, not four miles from where I grew up. As a boy I acted as a beater at many of his pheasant shoots, an Irish country custom also practiced by the Marquis of Ballybucklebo.
Everybody knew everybody, their business, and their genealogies. Some folks had never travelled more than a few miles from the home in which they had been born and raised. They brought their new wife there, reared their family, mourned their parents, and could pass away confident that the neighbours would visit for the laying up and removal, and for the meal after the service and interment. Funerals were functions of great importance, as much for their bringing together of the community and the socializing with neighbours as for the paying of last respects.
Amusement was much more do-it-yourself than it is now. No iPods, BlackBerries, Internet, Xboxes. Television was a state-run, one-channel universe until 1955, when a commercial channel was added. Not until 1964 did a second commercial-free station, BBC2, start broadcasting. These stations did not operate twenty-four hours a day and were in black and white until 1967.
For villagers, trips to the cinema in a neighbouring larger town were frequent, except on Sundays. Although the cinemas in Belfast might give a major film a run of several weeks, smaller picture houses still offered two different programs: a B movie, travelogue, cartoon, the Pathé News, and the “big picture” every week, and a matinee on Saturday afternoons. Only a few years prior to the period of the Irish Country books, rural cinemas still ran children’s matinees on Saturday mornings, with admission of threepence or a two-pound (907-gram) empty jam jar.
And of course there was the public house, with its opening time of 10 A.M., and closing time of 10 P.M., with an extra ten minutes’ legal drinking-up time—a bit longer for locals once the doors were shut. These locals frequently included the long arm of the law himself, a reasonable guarantee that prosecution for staying open too long was most unlikely.
The pub was the social hub of village life. In it, deals were done, gossip repeated, local news discussed, and there was, and still is, the craic (“crack”), that indefinable, fuelled-by-a-few-jars, Irish mixture of conversation, humour, and good-natured banter, where insults are freely traded but with no malice. As opposed to the rest of Ireland, where many pubs still advertise Craic agus Ceol (fun and music), in the Six Counties live music in pubs was illegal. A rebel or loyalist song in the wrong place could lead to a booze-fuelled donnybrook. An ounce of prevention, it was believed, was better than a pound of cure.
It was different, of course, at private so
cial gatherings, weddings, birthdays, and parties. Everybody was expected to perform their party piece, be it a song, a story, a tune, a well-told joke, or a recitation. I have the words by heart to “The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck,” “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” and “The Green Eye of the Yellow God”—and I didn’t learn them in school.
If rural life was simpler, so was medicine. Doctor Cyril Morrison was the first to use a cumbersome early ultrasound machine in Belfast in the mid-1970s. The prototype CAT scanner was not developed until 1971. Diagnosis relied heavily on clinical acumen, X-rays, ECGs (called EKGs in the U.S. and Canada), rudimentary blood and urine tests, examination of other body fluids, biopsies, and bacteriological culture and microscopic examination.
We saw diseases that are now happily things of the past. Smallpox was all but gone forever. Tuberculosis was on the way out, thanks to an effective vaccine. Better understanding of nutrition and the provision of free milk in the schools were wiping out rickets. Mandatory testing and treatment with penicillin when indicated had nearly eradicated congenital syphilis. Nevertheless the odd cases of all these conditions still showed up. Poliomyelitis was vanishing, thanks to the Salk vaccine introduced in 1953, but doctors in 1964–1965 were still dealing with the aftermath of the 1951 pandemic. I myself failed to escape that one and was lucky to survive with no residual damage. I suspect my three months in the fever hospital may have influenced my decision to study medicine.
We didn’t see some of the more recent ills to afflict the human race. The first methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA) was detected in 1961, but it seemed to have little importance at a time when new and effective antibiotics were coming into use on a regular basis. AIDS was not reported until 1981. Radiation sickness was mentioned in our training. We were in the post-Hiroshima nuclear age, and the Cold War was very much in evidence. We did not have to deal with the aftermath of Chernobyl.
When it came to treatment, the first kidney transplant in the British Isles was performed between identical twins in 1960, and it was not until 1964 that immunosuppressive drugs were introduced and cadaveric transplants became a reality. Doctor Henry Jay Heimlich introduced his lifesaving manoeuvre in 1974.