An Irish Country Christmas

  “And it’s a foul one.” Fitzpatrick wagged a finger at O’Reilly. “Foul.”

  “Och, well,” said O’Reilly calmly. “We all have some strange habits. Even you, Ronald, I’d be prepared to bet.”

  Fitzpatrick lifted his pince-nez from his nose. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Bet, Ronald. Bet. A wager between gentlemen. You’ve a very funny way of dealing with yours.”

  Barry had to admire how O’Reilly had taken that one word, “bet,” to give himself the opportunity to begin to manoeuver. He waited to see how Fingal would develop the gambit and start putting Fitzpatrick on the defensive.

  Fitzpatrick sat rigidly. “Are you perchance referring to our ten-pound interest in the outcome of the rugby match?”

  “The very ticket,” said O’Reilly calmly. “I waited for you for quite a while after my side had won the game, but you didn’t show up.”

  “That was a matter of little import. I fail to see why a gentleman would be concerned.” Fitzpatrick, sounding as though he was lecturing a dim pupil, slipped his glasses back on and lolled in his chair.

  At the world “gentleman,” Barry noticed O’Reilly’s eyes narrow for a split second, but he gave no other indication of irritation.

  “I saw no need to bother. Our side would have won, and I would have won but for your wretched dog. No rational person would have considered any bet still active after that.”

  There was another almost imperceptible eye narrowing, but O’Reilly’s tones were honeyed, reasonable, when he said, “I grant you that. It was a bit naughty of Arthur. I’d have agreed with you and forgiven you the debt if you’d asked me . . . but it would have been polite to talk to me about it. Think about that, Ronald.” O’Reilly leant back and waited.

  So, Barry thought, Fingal’s not going to blackmail Fitzpatrick by threatening to reveal that he had welshed on a bet, not yet anyway. But by the look on Fitzpatrick’s face, he was worried about such a prospect.

  O’Reilly leant forward and put his face close to Fitzpatrick’s. With ice in his voice, he said, “But then, Ronald, manners never were your strong suit.”

  Barry sucked in a small breath through pursed lips and controlled his desire to smile. This was going to be worth the price of admission. Fitzpatrick was going to feel as if he had been put through a mangle by the time O’Reilly had finished with him, and Barry had a ringside seat.

  Fitzpatrick jolted back in his chair. “What?” His voice rose by at least an octave. “How dare you, an oaf like you, O’Reilly . . . how dare you question my manners?”

  “Because, Ronald, your manners, both social and bedside, badly need to be questioned.” O’Reilly drew back an accusatory finger and levelled it at Fitzpatrick’s breastbone. Barry thought Fingal was going to poke Fitzpatrick in the chest. Indeed, when O’Reilly repeated, “Your . . . manners,” he jerked the finger forward and seemed only to stop its forward progress by an immense effort of will.

  Fitzpatrick must have thought he was going to get prodded, for he rose and scuttled behind his chair.

  “Sit down,” said O’Reilly. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He waited until Fitzpatrick had taken his seat and then said very quietly, “But I will, Ronald . . . I will if you ever ever again treat Mrs. Kincaid the way you did last week.”

  Barry had thought O’Reilly’s voice was icy. Now it was as cold as solid carbon dioxide, and his nose tip was of the same ivory hue.

  “Perhaps I was a little terse with the woman.” Fitzpatrick’s hectoring tone remained.

  “No,” said O’Reilly, “you were boorish, and bullying, and a right bashtoon. You will not treat Mrs. Kincaid like that again, or by God . . .”

  Barry remembered O’Reilly saying he would gut Fitzpatrick like a herring. Now from the look in the big man’s eyes he was sharpening the knife, and—Barry glanced at Fitzpatrick—the fellow knew it. Fitzpatrick turned one shoulder, raised it, and tucked his head down, then held his hands in front of his face, palms out, as if he feared O’Reilly might strike him. Barry had to strain to hear Fitzpatrick whisper, “I’ll be nice to her in future. I promise. I promise.”

  “You’d better be,” said O’Reilly, as he rose and stood towering over the man, “because Kinky is a human being. She deserves to be treated like one, with as much respect for her feelings, her dignity, as a duchess, maybe more. Kinky works for her living.”

  “I . . . I said I’m sorry.” Fitzpatrick’s voice quavered.

  Barry had expected O’Reilly to cow the man but had not anticipated that his collapse would come so soon. And remembering the other matters O’Reilly intended to raise, he knew his senior colleague was just warming up. Despite Fitzpatrick’s nature and his questionable medical practices, Barry felt a twinge of pity for the man. Being in the way when O’Reilly was on the warpath was a very unpleasant place to be.

  “And while you’re in the mood for feeling sorry, I’d suggest you start being nice to Miss Hagerty too.”

  “The midwife?”

  “No. The wife and consort of Brian Boru, last Ard Rí—that’s high king—of Ireland.” O’Reilly shook his head. “Of course she’s the bloody midwife. She’s one of the very best midwives, and if you hadn’t dismissed her from the care of Gertie Gorman—”

  Barry watched as Fitzpatrick summoned enough spirit to fight back. He dropped his hands and shoulder and pointed his chin at O’Reilly. Fitzpatrick raised his voice. “She was challenging my care in front of the patient. She contradicted me. Me.” He stabbed his narrow chest with his own finger. “I won’t have that. I won’t.” His Adam’s apple sank beneath the rim of his wing-tip collar.

  Barry thought the man’s larynx would never reappear.

  O’Reilly’s nose went from ivory to alabaster. His fists clenched and unclenched. He took several deep breaths, and started to jab with his finger, but clenched his fist at the last minute and pulled it back. “She was probably trying to save your bacon, to stop you making a bigger ass of yourself than you already are.”

  Barry could have sworn the man actually gobbled like a turkey. Certainly the wattles of his neck shuddered. “I won’t stand for—”

  “You will, Ronald. You will.” Until now, Barry had never heard anyone speak so sharply as to make him suddenly visualize a naked stiletto. “Because of you, I had to deliver an undiagnosed breech in the patient’s home. You were nowhere to be found. The baby could have died, and you know that as well as I do. The mother could have too.

  “Bugger Hippocrates and his oath,” he continued. “It’s unnecessary. You’re a doctor, man. Your responsibility is to your patients first, last, and everywhere in between. You don’t need some mumbo jumbo about ‘swearing by Apollo, Asclepius, Hygieia, and Panacea’ to tell you what you should do, and if you don’t recognize that, you should be in some other trade.” The steel in O’Reilly’s voice was razor sharp.

  And he was right, Barry thought. The day he’d started seeing patients as a student, he had learned from his seniors exactly where his responsibilities lay.

  Fitzpatrick’s shoulders were heaving, but O’Reilly bored ahead. “You weren’t even professional enough to phone me to enquire how your patient was. And, Lord preserve us, I doubt if you as much as considered saying thank you to Miss Hagerty for getting hold of me.” O’Reilly shook his head slowly.

  Barry had expected O’Reilly to finish with a line like, “And you call yourself a doctor?” but now the look on O’Reilly’s craggy face was one more of pity than anger.

  Fitzpatrick hung his head. His momentary counterattack had shriveled to nothing, and Barry thought the man himself had shrunk. “You’re right, Fingal,” he said. “I’m sorry. I am sorry.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I am very sorry.” He sniffled, produced a large handkerchief, and blew his nose with a high-pitched honk.

  O’Reilly smiled, planted his backside on the desk’s corner, folded his arms across his chest, and said in his normal voice, “Well done, Ronald. Well done.”

  Barry
was amazed at O’Reilly’s sudden change from a frontal attack.

  “It takes a big man to admit he’s wrong, wouldn’t you agree, Doctor Laverty?”

  “I certainly would.” Barry caught Fitzpatrick’s look of thanks and smiled back.

  “You know, Ronald,” O’Reilly continued, “I don’t know what made you such a bitter man, but I suspect there is a half-decent side to you. I’m quite proud of you for admitting you were wrong, and even a little sorry for you.”

  And although the remark could have been pure sarcasm, Barry could detect nothing but honesty in O’Reilly’s words or the way he now sat, leaning back on one outstretched arm and idly swinging one booted foot.

  Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, Barry thought, you could somehow have summoned up some sympathy for Adolf Hitler. It was one of the qualities that made O’Reilly such a fine physician. Fingal would not have taken an instant dislike to Miss Moloney without finding out what had made her the way she appeared to be. O’Reilly might be quite proud of Fitzpatrick, but Barry Laverty was filled to bursting with pride in his senior colleague, and a little ashamed of himself for eagerly anticipating the destruction of Fitzpatrick. The man was more to be pitied.

  When Fitzpatrick looked up at O’Reilly, Barry was sure he could detect gratitude in the man’s eyes. “Thank you, Fingal.”

  O’Reilly rose and stepped down from the podium. “No thanks needed. Just see to it that you keep those promises. Remember why you practice medicine.”

  “I will, Fingal. I will try.”

  “Oh, yes,” O’Reilly said. “One other wee thing while we’re on about doctoring. Where the hell did a man like yourself, trained at a reputable medical school—the same one I was trained at—where in the name of Baby Jesus in velvet trousers did you come up with some of your quack remedies?”

  To Barry it looked as if Fitzpatrick was going to protest, but after a ferocious scowl had crossed his face and faded, he asked meekly, “Such as?”

  “Gunpowder for infertility. Honestly.” O’Reilly shook his big head. “Gunpowder. Do you know, Ronald, when I heard about this remedy, I had a terrible urge to put out the word that your patient had died.”

  “But you couldn’t. It’s not true. It would have been libel.” Fitzpatrick’s eyes bulged.

  “Not if I’d told everyone that they’d tried to cremate him . . . and they were still looking for the back wall of the crematorium.” He guffawed. “They’d have seen I was only joking.”

  Barry, who was caught completely off guard, burst out laughing. He was surprised to hear a dry wheezing chuckle coming from Fitzpatrick. “You haven’t changed, Fingal,” Fitzpatrick said. “You could always make a joke out of anything.”

  “Maybe,” said O’Reilly, deadpan now, a hint of metal once again in his tones, “but I’ll not find it funny if you don’t keep your promises.”

  “I will,” said Fitzpatrick.

  “All right,” said O’Reilly, climbing back up on the platform. He offered his hand. “See you do.”

  Fitzpatrick shook the hand.

  Barry could tell by the way Fitzpatrick gritted his teeth that he was the recipient of one of O’Reilly’s paw-crushing shakes.

  “And now,” said O’Reilly, still holding on to the hand, “before Doctor Laverty and I head off, in the spirit of the season we’ll wish you an early merry Christmas and a happy New Year.” He let go the hand, and Fitzpatrick immediately massaged it with the other. “And if you have any difficulty keeping your New Year’s resolutions, I’m sure Barry and I can help you, Ronald.”

  He turned to Barry. “Come along, Barry. Don’t trouble yourself to get up, Ronald. We’ll show ourselves out.”

  When they left the house and headed back to the car, the light was already fading. It was, after all, Barry knew, only a few days short of the solstice, and then the days would start to lengthen. Even though today was calm, he’d not be sorry to see the gentler spring days arrive.

  “That was amazing, Fingal,” Barry said, as they passed the army facility. “You really brought him to heel.”

  “He is a bit of a cur,” O’Reilly said, “and at heel is where he belongs. I just hope he’ll stay there.”

  “Don’t you think you were a bit lenient? I thought you were going to threaten him with exposure because he’d not paid up on his bet.”

  “Och,” said O’Reilly, stopping to light his pipe. “I didn’t need to. He caved in more easily than I’d anticipated.”

  “And you’re sure he’ll behave in future?”

  “No,” said O’Reilly, “he’ll bear keeping an eye on.” He opened the car door. “Hop in.”

  Barry did.

  The car lurched as O’Reilly climbed aboard and started the engine. Before he drove away, he remarked, “Not saying I’ll tell the world he welshed, but him knowing full well I could, means that for a few weeks at least we still have a shot in our locker if we need one.”

  “Clever. I hadn’t thought of that.” Barry wound his window down as O’Reilly let go a cloud of smoke.

  “Ah, well,” said O’Reilly, “we can’t always think of everything.” He drove off.

  Barry stretched and yawned.

  “Tired?”

  “A bit.”

  “I hope it’s a quiet night for you tonight, Barry.”

  Barry laughed. “It will be. I’m absolutely certain.”

  “Good Lord.” O’Reilly turned and peered at Barry. “Are you getting the gift like Kinky? How can you be so sure?”

  “Because, Doctor O’Reilly, because I’m not on call tonight. You are.”

  “So I am,” said O’Reilly, looking ahead. “Having a go at your man back there must have made me forget. It was a bit like getting prepared for a boxing match . . .”

  “When was the last time you fought, Fingal?” Barry asked, remembering full well his colleague had boxed at Trinity and when he was in the navy.

  “In the ring? Gibraltar in nineteen forty-five. I lost on points.” He put the car in gear and drove off. “Otherwise about ten minutes ago with Fitzpatrick.”

  “I’d say you won that one.”

  “True, but I’d got myself primed to go ten rounds. When he threw in the towel early, it was a bit of a letdown . . .”

  Barry realized something he’d suspected for a long time. O’Reilly actually enjoyed a good scrap, be it with Doctor Fitzpatrick or Councillor Bishop.

  “And I was feeling so pleased with myself for such an easy win that I completely forgot who was doing what in the practice. I’m on call tonight, and I’ll be doing the surgery tomorrow.” He let go another huge cloud of smoke.

  “When I was going on to Fitzpatrick about the gunpowder, I should have remembered that Gerry Shanks and his missus are coming in tomorrow. I wish I’d made Ronald confess that the treatment is useless. I could have told Mairead that he’d said so.”

  “So what will you tell her?”

  “If it’ll bring her to her senses so she’ll let poor Gerry stop taking the stuff, I’ll say Fitzpatrick agreed it was useless.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  O’Reilly let go another cloud and laughed. “True, Barry, true . . . but a white lie’s in a good cause, and what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.”

  For They Shall Be Comforted

  “I wanna sweetie. I wanna sweetie. I wanna sweetie.” The continuous chanting was high-pitched and grating.

  At least, O’Reilly thought, not having been called out last night had given him a good night’s sleep. He was able to face this morning’s surgery, but it did seem as if the room had suddenly shrunk. The parents of the child yelling “I wanna sweetie”—Gerry and Mairead Shanks—showed no interest in controlling either of their two children. O’Reilly had noticed Donal Donnelly in the waiting room. Donal would be bringing news about the raffle, and while O’Reilly would give the Shankses their fair share of time, he did not want their consultation to be unnecessarily prolonged.

  Four-year-old Siobhan stood b
eside her mother. Her face was scarlet, her scowl ferocious. “I waaaana sweeteeeee.”

  The doctor ignored her and rose to intercept five-year-old Angus’s assault on the trolley. “Here,” O’Reilly said, pulling out his key ring. “Play with this.” He gave it to the child, grabbed the boy’s wrist, pulled him away from the collection of sharp steel instruments, and guided him back to his father. “Hang onto him, Gerry.”

  “Right, Doctor.”

  “I . . . want . . . a . . . sweetie.”

  O’Reilly stifled his urge to say, “No, you want a good clip round the ear.” He did understand how difficult it could be for parents, particularly newcomers like the Shankses, to find babysitters. “I’ll be back,” he said, as he left the surgery.

  He went to the kitchen, and said, “Kinky, could you nanny a couple of chisellers? I want to finish on time so I can get up to Belfast today to do my Christmas shopping.”

  “Bless you, Doctor dear, I will indeed. Just let me pop your lunch to one side.”

  He saw a plate of wheaten bread, butter, and cheese. Bloody diet.

  “Will we go now, sir?”

  He headed back to the surgery with Kinky at his heels. “Children, this is Mrs. Kincaid.”

  Kinky, big and comforting, beamed at them and held out her arms.

  “I’d like you to go with her, and she’ll give you some treats,” O’Reilly said.

  Siobhan’s chant stopped. She moved across to where Kinky stood. Angus followed. As the boy passed, O’Reilly caught his shoulder. “My keys?”

  Angus thrust them at O’Reilly and raced after Kinky and his sister, yelling, “Wait for me. Wait for me.”

  O’Reilly put the keys in his pocket and took his usual seat.

  “I’m awful sorry about that, Doctor,” Mairead said, “but you know what kiddies are like.” She smiled fondly. “I dote on them, so I do.”

  “Och,” he said, “to the raven her own chick is white.” Which was the closest he could bring himself to saying, she could dote, but he’d just tolerate. He gave her a moment to think about what he had said.