Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor

  Bob slowed at the intersection where Leeson Street merged with Sussex Road to form Morehampton Road. “At the moment it’s frustrating as all bedamned.”

  “Oh,” said Fingal. “Why? You seemed to be excited about your work with red prontosil the last time I saw you.”

  “I’m excited enough,” said Bob, “but I get irritated too. For me to move ahead professionally I have to put papers into research journals, and Prof Bigger doesn’t believe in publishing what he calls ‘negative data.’”

  “Negative what?” Charlie asked.

  “Look,” Bob said, “let’s say I suggest treating earache with, I don’t know, garlic oil, and I use it on ten of twenty patients and not on the other ten. And let’s say only the treated ones get better. Those would be positive data, a hoped-for result. That report would be accepted by a research journal. But if the garlic oil didn’t work? Not worth reporting and no help in a young fellah’s career.” He sighed and changed down to avoid ramming a large Foden lorry that belched diesel fumes and was creeping along the road ahead. “We can’t get the ruddy stuff to work in the lab. The bacteria positively thrive on it.”

  “Negative data,” said Fingal. “Not much use.”

  “But it’s been known since 1931 to work against Streptococcus in mice,” Bob said. “I don’t know what the hell we’re doing wrong.” The lorry had turned onto Auburn Avenue so Bob sped up for the last lap to the rugby pitch.

  Fingal frowned. “Isn’t that the same stuff Doctor Davidson is trying to treat puerperal sepsis with at the Rotunda? Streptococcus causes childbed fever. He reckoned if Prontosil worked in mice it might cure those women too. There’d been quite an outbreak last year.”

  “There was,” said Bob. “Fourteen cases and four women died because, according to Doctor Davidson, they were getting infected by bacteria he cultured from the noses and throats of the staff. That was the first step in understanding what caused the disease. That’s why we had to wear face masks, remember, in the delivery rooms. The next step is to try to kill the bacteria if prevention fails and a woman gets the fever. He’s just started the trial. Too early for results yet.”

  “I hope the Prontosil works,” Fingal said. “My God, can you imagine having a drug that cured infections?”

  Bob swung through the gates of the rugby club. “It would be an incredible finding, but it should be working in the lab right now, and quite simply it’s not. I’m going back to the library next week to see if I can find anything in the world literature that might explain what’s going on.” He hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. “Och well, I’m not in the lab today. I’ll worry about it on Monday.” He parked. “Come on, Fingal, you said you were going to put work behind you and enjoy today. Stop imagining wonder drugs. Get out there and put your mind to playing the best game of your life. I hear that a couple of Irish selectors, Mister Collopy and Mister Hogan, might be here. They have to find a replacement for Willie Gibson on the Irish team.”

  A consideration that quite banished from Fingal’s mind any thoughts of jobs for John-Joe, being happy at his work, or what his profs had called “magic bullets”—compounds that would selectively target and destroy bacteria. He did remember promising Phelim to get an Irish cap or bust and, by all that’s holy, he was going to try.

  28

  In That Case What Is the Question?

  “It’s all a matter of priorities, Barry,” O’Reilly said, approaching the bat-wing doors of the Mucky Duck, Arthur Guinness walking to heel. “First we’ll get our pints on the pour, then seeing that it’s been two months since the four of us had that great meal in Ballymena, you and I can have a grand old blether about how the world’s abusing you out in darkest County Antrim at the Waveney Hospital.”

  O’Reilly pushed open the doors and yelled, “Two pints and a Smithwicks for Arthur, Willie.”

  “Right, Doctor,” Willie Dunleavy said, and started to pour. “’Bout ye, Doctor Laverty.”

  Barry waved at Willie and said to O’Reilly, “Lord, I’ve missed this old place.” He sniffed the air the way Arthur did at Strangford Lough. “There are lots of pubs in Ballymena, but it’s tricky getting to know the locals the way I did here.”

  O’Reilly surveyed the familar low-ceilinged room with its dark oak-beamed ceiling, breathing in tobacco smoke fug and the smell of beer. Men in cloth caps, dungarees or waistcoats, and collarless shirts, one or two in suits, were drinking pints of Guinness leaning on the bar. A few sat at tables. There was a chorus of “Evening, Doctors.”

  “Evening all.” He beamed round the room. One regular wasn’t here. Archie Auchinleck had last been seen ten minutes ago in Kinky’s kitchen drinking tea with her, but most of the usual suspects were; Mister Coffin the undertaker having a jar at the bar with Constable Mulligan, who must be off duty. Fergus Finnegan, the jockey, relaxing with Thompson, the marquis’s valet-butler. Dapper Frew, the estate agent, sitting with Father O’Toole. I really, O’Reilly thought, ought to pop in here more often. He’d not darkened the doorstep since before his wedding back in July even though the Duck and its patrons had been part of his life since he’d come to work in Ballybucklebo in 1946. He missed the craic. Kitty’d not mind if he nipped in occasionally from now on.

  “Sit youse here, Doctors,” said Gerry Shanks, the Linfield fan, who rose and motioned to his friend and rival soccer team supporter Jeremy Dunne to get to his feet. “Youse can have our table. We was just finishing up, you know.” He smiled when he saw Barry. “Nice til see you, sir. Down for a visit, like?”

  “I am.”

  “I’ll tell the missus I seen you. She’ll be that sorry to have missed you, so she will.”

  “Please give Mairead my regards, and Siobhan and Angus,” Barry said, and sat.

  “Under the table,” said O’Reilly, and the big Labrador obeyed.

  O’Reilly sat and lit up his briar. “So,” he said, emitting a blue cloud to rise and seek the company of others of its kind, “you’ve been driving up from Ballymena every second Saturday?”

  “I have. I’m on a one-in-two call rota. It’s a sixty-mile round trip for me, but—”

  “That’s a fair stretch of the legs, all those narrow, winding roads, and through the heart of Belfast, but I know it’s not to see me. A certain schoolmistress is back teaching at MacNeill Memorial Primary.”

  Arthur gave a sharp bark, but O’Reilly couldn’t see what had disturbed the big dog. “Quiet,” he said.

  Barry blushed and laughed. “Sue’s back living in her flat in Holywood.”

  ’Nuff said, O’Reilly thought, and nodded. Barry and Sue had popped in unannounced today and once Kitty had made sure it was all right with Kinky, they’d agreed to stay for dinner.

  “You’re looking well, Barry. So’s Sue.” While it was a pleasure to be sitting in the Duck chatting with his young friend and colleague, O’Reilly had an ulterior motive: to find out how Barry was making out after three months of speciality training and whether or not he was ready to make a career choice. But O’Reilly was not going to rush headlong at the question. Somewhere between now and the end of the next pint, the opportunity must arise for the subject to flow naturally into their conversation. “She still working with her Campaign for Social Justice?”

  “She certainly is, but we’ve settled our differences over that. She’s happy enough to let me get on with my work, and I don’t interfere with her civil rights endeavours.” He laughed. “She even sent her apologies to a meeting they were having this evening so she could see me. It’s been two weeks since we were out together. It was easier seeing her when she was home in Broughshane for the holidays. I’ve really been looking forward to today.” For a moment he gazed into the middle distance with a contented smile on his face.

  This boy’s smitten, O’Reilly thought, and if she’d not seen him tonight it would be another two before she could see him again. She was willing to forgo something O’Reilly knew was of enormous importance to her to spend time with Barry, so it sound
s as if she’s falling too. Good for them. Ain’t love grand? And I should know. And, he thought, I should also know how duty rotas can play havoc with romances. He said, “I had a one-in-three call system for a while when I started in practice. Busy enough. One in two can be tiring, but you’re young.” Here was a logical entrée to ask the question. “And you’re still enjoying—?”

  “Here youse are, Doctors.” A sweating Willie Dunleavy set a tray on the table, unloaded two pints, and bent to put Arthur’s bowl of Smithwicks under the table.

  “My shout,” O’Reilly said, and paid the four shillings and tuppence. “Bring a couple more when you see these getting down, please, Willie.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Sláinte,” O’Reilly said, and took a long pull. “Mother’s milk.” He grinned.

  “Sláinte mHaith,” Barry said, and drank.

  “So, Barry,” said O’Reilly. “You’re still enjoying—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Willie said, “but is your Arthur good with other dogs?”

  “As gold,” O’Reilly said, tamping down his pipe and his impatience. “Why?”

  “My Mary’s got a new puppy, and I let the wee lad wander around the bar. The customers enjoy seeing him.”

  “He’ll be fine with Arthur. Never worry.”

  “Thanks, sir. Just thought I’d ask.” Willie headed back to his post at the bar.

  “Wonder what kind of beast the pup is?” Barry said.

  O’Reilly was more interested in asking his question again without being interrupted but someone was hovering by their table. He looked up. “Alan Hewitt,” he said. “How are you? And how’s Helen? I saw her a couple of weeks ago. She seemed to be enjoying her work.” Pity Kitty had had no word from Cromie yet about a possible position in Newtownards Hospital for Helen next summer.

  “Evening, Doctors,” Alan said. “Helen’s bravely, so she is. She says her first-year courses at thon medical school are wee buns, and she’s had time to join something called the Literific Society as well. She’s happy as a pig in you know what. I’ll tell her I seen you, Doctor Laverty, so I will.” He touched his cap and went to the bar.

  “She must be even brighter than you thought, Fingal. First-year courses easy? I had to re-sit organic chemistry,” Barry said, “and the Literific? That’s the interdisciplinary debating society. Been around since the mid-1800s. Very venerable and a bunch of extremely bright sparks in it. Good for her.” He took another mouthful.

  “I’ve no doubt that Helen will be able to hold her own,” said O’Reilly, then drank, leaving, halfway down his glass, a second white tidemark. “Knowing you’ve been able to help someone, like finding out about that scholarship she was awarded, is a lot of what rural practice is about. It’s not just the medical.” All right, so perhaps he wasn’t going to let the subject come up naturally in the conversation. He knew he was putting in a not-so-subtle plug for being a country G.P., but the sooner he could let Jenny Bradley know Barry’s decision, the better. “Come to think of it, it was the same in city slum practice too—”

  “Good evening, sir. I hope I’m not interrupting. Just wanted til say hello til Doctor Laverty.” Donal Donnelly stood at the table clutching his duncher in one hand and grinning his moon-calf grin.

  “Evening, Donal,” Barry said. “Please thank Julie for sending me the birth announcement, and congratulations.”

  “And thank you, sir, for that blue teddy bear you sent. Wee Victoria Margaret, we call her Tori for short, she never lets it out of her sight. She’s growing like a weed. She’s cooing and gurgling like a full pigeon loft and she rolls over a lot, so she does.”

  “Does she? At three months? She’s early to be rolling over. Quick developer by the sound of it,” Barry said. “Wonderful.”

  Donal’s grin widened. “That’s our girl. Takes after her ma.”

  O’Reilly noticed Donal didn’t have a drink, didn’t really want to have anyone else at the table until he’d had a chance to find out about Barry’s plans, but felt that noblesse oblige. “Can I get you a pint, Donal?”

  Donal shook his head. “No thanks, sir. Julie says I’m off them. I’ve til work it out at saving two bob a pint for every one I don’t have and that includes ones I’m offered. I’ve til save up the five pounds by not spending it, if you see what I mean? It’s the money I lost on”—he lowered his voice to an almost inaudible whisper—“Buttercup.” He brightened and said in his usual tones, “It’s been thirty-five days since the race. I’ve not drunk enough to have four pound ten in credit, three more days and it’s all paid off, and then, by God, I’ll be your man, so I will, sir. My tongue’s hanging out, so it is.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “Good for you.”

  “Aye,” said Donal, frowning and lowering his voice again. “Pity about young Colin. They’d suss him out now if he showed up with another dog, but there’s a bright wee lad called Art O’—”

  “I don’t want to know,” O’Reilly said loudly. From the corner of his eye he noticed a small brown dog, wandering between the tables. Must be Mary’s pup.

  “Fair enough,” Donal said, “but just so you understand, sir, nobody’s come within a beagle’s gowl of tracing the mystery dog from Kirkistown. There’s a track in County Cavan—”

  “Donal,” O’Reilly said. “Enough.”

  “Aye,” said Donal. “You’re right. Least said soonest mended. I’ll be off, sir. I see Dapper Frew over thonder and I need to have a natter with him about Ballybucklebo Highlanders pipe band business.”

  “Good evening, Donal,” Barry said to the man’s departing back. “And what was that all about?”

  O’Reilly finished his pint, said, “Drink up,” to Barry, and waved to Willie. While they waited for the fresh drinks O’Reilly, sotto voce, told Barry the saga of Buttercup, the dog with the coat of many colours.

  Barry rubbed the back of his hand over one eye. “No more, Fingal,” he said, gasping for breath. “The tears are tripping me. Oh Lord. I’ve been missing that kind of craic. I can’t stop laughing.”

  “Neither could I,” O’Reilly said. “He’s quite the sprinter, our Donal. And by the way young Colin Brown covered the ground, that infected foot in August was well mended.” It reminded O’Reilly of a youngster with an infected foot back in the Liberties, and that memory sobered him.

  Barry managed to control himself and said seriously, “I hadn’t realised how much I’ve been missing the Ballybucklebo folks and how much a part of the place I was becoming. Maybe I’ve been working too hard. I can understand why you’ve always seemed so contented here. I’ve been thinking—”

  “Your pints, sirs. I didn’t bring one for Arthur,” Willie said. “His bowl’s still half full.” He glanced over his shoulder and smiled as he said, “That there’s Mary’s pup.”

  O’Reilly looked over reluctantly to where Alan Hewitt was bending over to pat the smallest head of the smallest dog O’Reilly’d ever seen. Alan was feeding it a potato crisp.

  “It’s one of them Mexican hairless,” said Willie. “The customers spoil her, so they do. I don’t know what the girl was thinking, calling the wee thing Brian Boru.”

  “Brian Boru?” Barry chuckled. “Ireland’s last Ard Rí, High King? Took on the Leinstermen and the Dublin Vikings and beat them at Clontarf in 1014. Hell of a fighter. Might be a name better suited to an Irish wolfhound than a chihuahua.”

  “He’s a scrappy wee lad, so he is,” Willie said. “Now, if youse don’t mind, that’ll be—”

  “My round,” Barry said, and fumbled for the money. This time, O’Reilly thought, he wasn’t going to be distracted by another interruption. This time he was going to see if Barry was close to making up his mind. He waited until Willie had been paid and had left. “Cheers.” O’Reilly took a mouthful. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve never regretted my move back here after the war, but I’ll tell you, Barry, when I was at your stage I had real second thoughts about general practice.”

  “Honestly? I never kne
w.”

  O’Reilly heard the swing doors open and shut and sent up a silent prayer it wasn’t someone they knew. “That,” said he, “is because I never told you. I wanted you to make up your own—”

  “O’Reilly.”

  No mistaking those grating tones. O’Reilly looked up to see Councillor Bishop, bowler hat firmly on his head, standing beside the table, legs apart, one hand clutching the lapel of his jacket.

  “Laverty.”

  O’Reilly noted the dropping of the honorific “Doctor.” “What can we do for you, Bertie?” he asked.

  Bishop leant his head to one side and regarded Barry, but spoke to O’Reilly as if Barry had no corporeal existence. “Young Laverty thinking of coming back here, is he?”

  “That,” said O’Reilly, “is very much up to him.”

  “Aye,” said Bishop. “Well, if you do, Laverty, we’d not want for til stand in your way, so we’d not.”

  Barry quickly sat back in his chair. His eyes widened.

  Nice use of the royal “we,” O’Reilly thought.

  Bertie looked O’Reilly in the eye. “And you knows exactly what I mean by that.”

  Lip service only was being paid to the qualifications of a certain “lady doctor,” despite the words O’Reilly had had with Bertie on that matter. “How’s your chest, Bertie?” O’Reilly asked, changing the subject.

  “Grand. No more pains, but see that bloody diet? Jasus.” With that he turned on his heel and walked to a table at the back of the bar where a man who O’Reilly knew was the Worshipful Master of a nearby Orange Lodge waited. On his way he passed Mary’s pup. “Get away to hell out of that,” he snarled. But the little quivering dog held its place.