An Irish Country Village

  To Spare Those Who Have Submitted

  and Subdue the Arrogant

  O’Reilly had gone straight into the surgery. Barry went to call the first of Friday morning’s patients. Thursday’s work had been light, which as far as he was concerned, was fine. He’d been sleepy when he got out of bed. Nighttime midwifery cases were always tiring, but the successful delivery of Jenny Murphy on Wednesday night had left him feeling just a little smug and, more importantly, able to face the Thursday patients with increased confidence.

  Today would be different. He’d be seeing cases he’d treated earlier in the week, and he was eager, and a little anxious, to find out how his patients had fared.

  He opened the waiting room door. Only nine or ten people were inside. Barry was surprised not to see Councillor and Mrs. Bishop. He frowned. Had they decided not to come back?

  “Morning, Doc.” Fergus Finnegan rose, snatched off his cap, and walked to the door. “Me first,” he said.

  “Go ahead, Fergus. Colin and me’s in no rush.” Mrs. Brown sat beside young Colin, who waved at Barry.

  “Be with you in a minute, Mrs. Brown,” Barry said, turning to follow Fergus. The little man’s bowleggedness seemed to be accentuated this morning, yet he had a spring in his step. “Grand stuff that golden ointment,” he said, as he turned into the surgery. “Morning, Doctor O’Reilly.”

  “Fergus, how are you?”

  “Right as rain. Your man here, Doctor Laverty, has done me a power of good, so he has.” He smiled.

  So did Barry as he closed the door. “Eye’s all better?” he asked. “Let’s have a look.” Barry led Fergus over to the bow window. “The light’s not hurting?”

  “Not at all.”

  Barry used one finger on the lower eyelid and one on the upper to pull them apart. The conjunctiva was clean and shining. The infection had been cleared up by the penicillin. “Looks like it’s done the trick,” he said.

  “Och, aye.”

  O’Reilly coughed. “In that case I believe, Fergus, you owe me a quid.”

  “Right enough, sir.” Still smiling, Fergus stuck his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a note. “Here y’are. Cheap at half the price to get my eye fixed.”

  Barry had quite forgotten about the bet. Now his pleasure at seeing the man’s healthy eye was doubled by the realization that he’d promised to cover the ten pounds O’Reilly would have owed if the cure hadn’t worked. Ten pounds out of his thirty-five pounds a week would have put a hole in his resources.

  “Thank you, Fergus.” O’Reilly took the pound.

  Barry saw the little man wink. “I’ve more than that for you the pair of you, sirs,” he said. “Are you for the races the morrow?”

  “Indeed,” said O’Reilly. “Wouldn’t miss them.”

  “Pop you round to the paddock before the third. I’ll give you the nod. I’m riding in that one myself, so I am.”

  “I’ll see you then,” said O’Reilly. “Now off you trot.”

  Fergus turned to Barry. “Thanks a lot, Doc. You done rightly for me, so you did. I’ll not forget.”

  Barry opened the door. “My pleasure,” he said, and he meant it.

  He heard the front door close as the jockey left. He walked down the hall and came back with Mrs. Brown and Colin. The little lad wore a grey shirt, V-necked sweater, and a pair of shorts. His left sock was held up to just below his scabbed knee; his right lay in a crumpled tube round his ankle.

  “Pull up your sock, son,” Mrs. Brown said.

  Barry was surprised to find O’Reilly was not in the surgery. He closed the door.

  “So, Colin,” he said, “how’s your paw?”

  “Show it to the nice doctor.”

  The little lad glanced down at his shoes and scuffed one on the carpet. He held out his right hand.

  “Is it sore?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “He’s shy, doctor, so he is.”

  And he’s scared I’m going to hurt him, Barry thought. “Come on,” he said, “hop up there.” He lifted Colin and sat him on the wooden chair. He took the boy’s hand in his own. The Elastoplast dressing was faded and grubby and a thin margin of black grime clung to its edges, but the rest of the palm was cool and not swollen. It was unlikely the wound had become infected. “Now,” said Barry, walking over to get the instrument trolley, “I’m going to see if the stitches can come out.” He poured Savlon into a metal basin. “Can you stick your hand in there, Colin?”

  The child hesitated, glanced at his mother, and then slowly put his hand into the solution. He stared at Barry, who had laid out swabs, fine-nosed forceps, and a pair of scissors.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s get the Elastoplast off.” He lifted Colin’s hand, and using the forceps started to tease the adhesive strip off. It came away cleanly. Colin didn’t flinch. Barry dropped the soiled adhesive bandage into a Sani-Can and looked at the hand. Where the dressing had been, the skin was pallid and wrinkled, but the wound edges were clean and healing well. It was time to take out the four black silk sutures. Barry picked up the forceps, and Colin pulled his hand away. “No,” he said. “Jimmy Hanrahan says it hurts like buggery.”

  “Colin.” Mrs. Brown held a hand in front of her mouth. “Where in God’s name did you hear a word like that?”

  “Jimmy Hanrahan says it. I told you.” Colin said defiantly.

  “Wait ’til I tell your da.”

  Barry had to work to keep his smile hidden. “It’s all right, Mrs. Brown,” he said. “Colin’s just a bit frightened. Aren’t you, son?”

  The little lad nodded.

  “Give me your hand,” said Barry, “and if it hurts, I’ll stop.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  The hand was slowly offered.

  “Lay it on the towel there.”

  The boy did as he was told. Barry seized the end of one of the sutures with the forceps, lifted it gently so the loop gaped, slipped one blade of the scissors under the loop, snipped, and pulled. The stitch slid out. “That wasn’t too bad. Was it?”

  “No.” The little boy’s eyes were wide.

  “Right,” said Barry, “let’s do the rest.” The other three stitches slid out easily. “All done,” he said. “You can take him home, Mrs. Brown.”

  “Thanks very much, Doctor Laverty.” She grabbed Colin’s left hand and started to pull him towards the door, but the little lad resisted, turned to Barry, and said, “That was wee buns, so it was. That Jimmy’s full of shite . . .”

  “Colin.” She hustled him to the door. “I’m sorry. God knows where he hears this stuff.”

  Barry knew he shouldn’t, but this time he couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t be too hard on him, Mrs. Brown.”

  “Aye,” said O’Reilly, who had appeared in the doorway. “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” He tousled Colin’s hair.

  “Luke twenty-three, thirty-four,” Barry remarked. Then turning to Mrs. Brown, he said, “Kids learn from their friends, and all kids like to try to shock.”

  She looked doubtful, but said, “If you say so, Doctor.” She glared at Colin, “But if I hear you using words like that again, you wee glipe . . . I’ll wash your mouth out with soap, so I will.”

  Barry had no doubt she meant it.

  “Feisty little tyke,” said O’Reilly. “And there’s another word for you like ‘feague.’ ”

  “Feisty? It’s usually applied to something small and spirited, belligerent, like a Jack Russell terrier.”

  “Indeed,” said O’Reilly, “but do you know its root?”

  “No.” Barry dumped the suture-removing kit into the little sterilizer, closed the lid, and turned on the steam. “But no doubt you’re going to tell me.”

  “Either Anglo-Saxon or Middle English from the verb ‘feis,’ which being literally translated means ‘to fart soundlessly.’ ” He grinned.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Suit yourself,” said
O’Reilly. “Sorry I had to nip out, but Kinky needed me to have a word on the phone with Bertie Bishop.”

  “Oh?”

  “Seems he and the missus are much too busy to come in this morning . . .”

  Barry was disappointed. He really wanted to run the test.

  “I said it could wait until Monday.”

  “Damn.” Barry was impatient to know if his diagnosis was right.

  “ ‘Could I not see them after lunch?’ demands Bishop, and him about as charming as a colour sergeant to a new recruit,” said O’Reilly.

  Barry waited. If O’Reilly had agreed, he’d have broken his first law of practice by letting Bishop get the upper hand.

  “I told him to be here at one-thirty.” O’Reilly slumped into his swivel chair. “And before you think I’m going soft in my old age, it suits me fine. I’m as curious as you are to see what happens.”

  Are you, Barry wondered, or are you bending your own rules to give me a chance to be right?

  “But,” said O’Reilly, “that’s after lunch. Nip along . . .”

  Barry came back with a stranger. He was tall and thin, with bushy but immaculately brushed silver hair, watery grey eyes, a sharp nose, a clipped silver moustache, and a receding chin. He wore highly polished black shoes, an expensive three-piece suit, handkerchief neatly folded in the breast pocket, and a striped tie Barry was pretty sure was that of a Guards regiment.

  “O’Weilly?” the man asked. “I’m Captain O’Bwien-Kelly.” His accent was rich, drawling. His replacement of the letter “r” with a “w” marked him as one of a group of upper-class Englishmen who still affected a pronunciation left over from Regency days.

  “Indeed,” said O’Reilly.

  “M’yes. Gwenadier Guards ectually.”

  Barry had a mental picture of Elmer Fudd talking about a weally wascally wabbit.

  “Guards, is it? Now there’s a regiment. And a captain to boot?”

  “Wather.” The captain puffed out his chest.

  O’Reilly didn’t rise or offer to shake the newcomer’s hand. “Doctor O’Reilly.” He paused. “Surgeon commander, Her Majesty’s Royal Navy . . . and I seem to remember, the Royal Navy’s senior service.”

  O’Reilly fifteen. Captain O’Brien-Kelly love, Barry thought.

  “Quite, but I didn’t come to discuss the awmed fawces. I shall be here for some time. Guest of His Lawdship, the Mawquis. His son, the Honouwable, is a subaltewn with me.”

  “Comfy are you in the big house?” O’Reilly enquired.

  “Living in his gate lodge, ectually. Quite cosy. I’m having a few days at his pheasants, on his wivver . . .”

  Barry fondly remembered the afternoon he’d spent trout fishing on the Bucklebo.

  “I may need medical attention duwing my sojourn. His Lordship assures me you’re quite well qualified.”

  “Nothing special,” said O’Reilly. “Just a country gnáthdhochtúir.

  “A countwy what?”

  “GP. Like my colleague Doctor Laverty here.”

  “Yes. Quite. I usually see a man on Hawley Street in London.”

  “This is Main Street,” O’Reilly said. “Number one. In Ballybucklebo.”

  “On occasions, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “I’ve heard the rumour,” O’Reilly said, a tiny hint of pallor appearing in his nose tip. He consulted his watch. “Now, Captain, far be it from me to rush you, but you may have noticed the waiting room’s rather full.”

  “Local peasantwy, what?” He laughed shrilly. “Pwobably used to waiting.”

  “Some of them,” said O’Reilly levelly, “are quite ill.”

  “Pity.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you start telling me what’s bothering you.”

  “Not a sausage.” The captain laughed again—or as Barry heard it, he whinnied. “Me? Fit as a flea.”

  “Mmm,” said O’Reilly, pulling his half-moon spectacles down his nose.

  “Just wanted to make contact. Just in case. One never knows.”

  “No, indeed,” said O’Reilly, rising. “Will that be all?” He started to walk to the door.

  “Indeed. Should be twotting along. Pleasant to meet you, young man,” he said to Barry.

  O’Reilly held the door open. Just before the captain left, O’Reilly asked, “Are you by any chance a sporting man?”

  “The horses? Sport of kings? Yes, indeed. Woyal Ascot every year. Derby. Cheltenham Gold Cup. Wouldn’t miss ’em. Your Iwish animal Awkle’s doing vewy well.”

  “Himself? Oh, indeed,” said O’Reilly. “It occurred to me that as a sporting man you might like to take a run-race down to the local meet here tomorrow.”

  “The gee-gees, by Jove? Imagine it could be wather fun . . . for a wustic affair.”

  O’Reilly nodded.

  “Civil of you to tell me. Yes. I’ll see if I can pop down.”

  Why, Barry wondered, was O’Reilly being so polite to this arrogant man?

  “Do,” said O’Reilly. “Maybe Doctor Laverty and me’ll see you.”

  “Jolly good. See, O’Weilly, I knew I was wight to pop in and meet you for a sec. I can see we’re going to get on swimmingly.”

  “Swimmingly,” said O’Reilly, smiling.

  Barry could see the infernal gleam deep in O’Reilly’s brown eyes.

  “Cheewio.”

  “Mmm. And pip-pip,” said O’Reilly to the departing back. He glanced at his watch. “That fellah’s a waste of good space,” he said, “and of our time.”

  Before Barry could comment, O’Reilly said, “We’re running late now, and we’ve still the surgery to finish, lunch, the Bishops, anything Kinky has for us for this afternoon, and Myrtle McVeigh to see.”

  “I’ll go and get the next one,” Barry said. “But a quick question. Why were you so polite to him? Inviting him to the races?”

  “Ah,” said O’Reilly, “I’m sure he’ll have a lovely day there.” The light deep in his eyes burned more fiercely. “And I’m positive he’s just the kind of man who could benefit from meeting one of the local peasantry.”

  “You don’t mean—”

  “Indeed I do. The captain should get along famously with Donal Donnelly. After all, they’re both great fans of Arkle.”

  You Have Got to Be a Queen to Get Away

  with a Hat Like That

  O’Reilly looked balefully at the bowl of salad Mrs. Kincaid set on the dining room table. “Is that it?” he asked.

  “It is, so,” she said. “It’s full of vitamins, and it’s very, very filling.” Barry could see her eyeing O’Reilly’s belly. “It’ll do you a power of good, and it’ll keep you regular.”

  “Mrs. Kincaid,” O’Reilly growled. “I don’t think my bowel habits are in your bailiwick.”

  Barry saw her purse her lips. But she ignored O’Reilly’s remark. Turning to Barry, she said, “When you’re done, Doctor Laverty, come out to the kitchen. I’ve your corduroy pants mended. That was a ferocious rip you’d in them.”

  “Thanks, Kinky.”

  “Say no more and eat up.” She glared at him before turning to O’Reilly. “You’ve to see Myrtle this afternoon.”

  “And that’s all?” O’Reilly asked.

  “No,” she said. “I was saving half a dozen more as a surprise, so.”

  “Come on, Kinky,” O’Reilly said. “The salad’s grand.”

  “Huh.” She turned and left.

  Barry was surprised that there were so few requests for home visits. Did it mean that, as he had feared, the practice was losing patients?

  O’Reilly speared a piece of lettuce. “Bloody rabbit food,” he grumbled. “I think, to quote P. G. Wodehouse, Kinky is showing a distinct lack of gruntle today.”

  Barry sliced into a hard-boiled egg. “I don’t think she appreciated being told to mind her own business, Fingal. She worries about you, you know . . .”

  “Mmmh.”

  “And I think she may be a little cross with me.”

&nb
sp; “Why?”

  “Something I said on Sunday about the Beatles being more popular than Jesus.”

  “Oops. Kinky doesn’t make a fuss, she’s not one of the evangelical types, but she is devout.”

  “I know.”

  O’Reilly shoved another lettuce leaf round his plate, regarding it with the enthusiasm of an offending sailor for the cat-o’-nine-tails. “Maybe we should make a peace offering?”

  Barry had had the notion on Sunday, but his concerns of the past few days had banished it. O’Reilly was right. “She’ll be going to Maggie’s wedding?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I wonder if she’d like a new hat.”

  “Now there’s a thought.” O’Reilly shoved his hard-boiled egg in whole.

  “We could pop in to Miss Moloney’s, take a look at her stock . . . and see how Helen’s getting on.”

  “Good idea. Maybe we could fit that in later. The Bishops’ll take a while, but Myrtle should be quick.” O’Reilly concentrated on finishing off his salad. He stared hopefully at the sideboard. “Nothing but bloody oranges,” he said, rising, grabbing one, and peeling it. “I suppose this’ll keep me regular too.”

  “Well, at least you’ll not get scurvy,” Barry said.

  “No,” said O’Reilly as the front doorbell jangled, “and hanging round here blethering won’t get the baby a new coat.” He glanced at his watch. “That’ll be the Bishops.” He strode to the door, held it open, and said. “Your patients. I’ll watch.”

  “Right.” Barry rose, left the dining room, crossed the hall, and went into the surgery to find Councillor and Mrs. Bishop firmly ensconced in the wooden chairs. “Afternoon,” he said. “How are you, Florence?”

  “How the hell would she be?” Bishop demanded. “You’ve not done nothing for her.”

  “Not quite true, Mr. Bishop. I have consulted with my colleague. He thinks I may be right.”

  “Maybe. Did you fix it up for us to see a proper doctor?”

  “If necessary,” Barry said, refusing to let himself get flustered. He sensed O’Reilly fidgeting on the examining table, where he had parked himself. “Could you stand up please, Florence?”

  She rose heavily.

  “Now,” said Barry, “I’d like you to raise your arm as often as you can. Just like the last time.”