An Irish Country Doctor

  "And it's there to help you use the food you eat. You know when you light a fire but you keep the damper closed?"

  "I do," she said. Barry glanced at her. She was leaning forward as far as her girth would permit--looking into his face, clearly taking in every word.

  "When that happens you can pile on the coal, but it won't burn very quickly. Thyroxine . . . that's what the little thingy's called. . . ." He deliberately avoided using the word "hormone," knowing that its mere mention would scare the living bejesus out of any country patient. "Not having enough thyroxine's like having the damper shut all the time."

  She put two hands on her belly. "And this here's like half a hundredweight of nutty-slack?"

  "Exactly."

  "I'll be damned," she said, eyes wide. "Who'd of thought it?"

  "I told you," said O'Reilly, "he's full of the learning, our Doctor Laverty."

  "He is that. Just you wait 'til I tell my husband that I'm all clogged up with slack because me damper's shut." Her tone was absolutely serious.

  Barry looked at O'Reilly, who said, "Do you think some thyroid extract might do the trick, Doctor Laverty?"

  "Indeed. Will you write the prescription?"

  "I will," said O'Reilly, scribbling away.

  "I told you," said Barry, "Doctor O'Reilly's the expert on the treatment."

  "And amn't I the lucky one having the pair of you to look after me?'

  "Oh, I don't know. . . ." Barry began modestly.

  "This'll put that there Aggie in her box. She said you near killed that snooty Major Fotheringham."

  Barry flinched.

  "I told her a thing like that could've happened to a bishop. She said the last time she looked the pair of you weren't bishops. You were meant to be doctors. Says I to her, 'Nobody's perfect, Aggie.'" She looked directly at O'Reilly as she delivered those oblique words of forgiveness.

  He inclined his head.

  "Aggie . . . that's my cousin twice removed on the father's side . . . she's the one with the six toes. ..." Lord, she's off again, Barry thought, remembering the trouble he'd had on Friday when he'd tried to take her history. "She said the pair of you didn't know the difference between a corn plaster and an anenema."

  "A what?"

  "An anenema. You know. The thing you stick up your back passage when you're bound? God knows I tried enough of them things in the last six months."

  "This'll fix that too," said O'Reilly, handing her the scrip. "You'll be running round like a spring chicken, with a figure like a sylph."

  "Like a what?" she asked, looking puzzled.

  "Sorry, Cissie. A skinny minnie." He turned and winked at Barry. "Just what I've been trying to teach you, Doctor Laverty. Always use language the patients'll understand." You bugger, Barry thought, but returned the wink. "Now, Cissie . . ." He gave her instructions for using the medication, explained the most important symptoms of overdose that should be reported to her doctors at once, and accompanied her to the door. "I'll tell Aggie and the others we've a regular professor here in Ballybucklebo."

  "There's no need for that, Cissie," Barry said.

  "Is there not? That Aggie," she said, "she's the one that needs an anenema." Cissie lowered her voice but still managed to sneer. "She's always full of shite."

  "Well done," said O'Reilly when she'd left. "I mean it. That was a smart diagnosis, and you're getting the hang of explaining things. I liked the analogy about the damper and the fire. And thanks for that bit of professional courtesy, letting on that I know more about the treatment."

  "There's honour among thieves," Barry said, smiling.

  "Sure, 'All professions are conspiracies against the laity.'"

  Barry frowned. "Who said that?"

  "Fooled you that time. George Bernard Shaw in The Doctor's Dilemma."

  "One to you, Fingal. And speaking of dilemmas"--Barry handed O'Reilly Julie MacAteer's results--"she's next."

  "I'd like you to come in here, Julie," said O'Reilly, holding the door of the dining room open. "Have a seat." O'Reilly pulled a chair away from the table and waited until she was seated, facing the window. "Park yourself, Dr. Laverty."

  Barry closed the door and sat with his back to the window, facing a worried-looking young woman. O'Reilly lowered himself into a chair at the head of the table.

  "It's a bit cosier in here than in the surgery." Barry watched her closely as she folded her hands and rested her forearms on the tabletop. She showed no curiosity about her surroundings but merely looked down at her hands.

  "I'm sorry, Julie. . . ." O'Reilly began.

  "It's positive, isn't it?" She looked up.

  He nodded. "I'm afraid so."

  She squared her shoulders. "I knew it." She took a deep breath. "So that's me for Liverpool?"

  "Not for a while, but yes. Before you start to show . . . unless--"

  "Unless what?"

  "The father-?"

  "He can't."

  O'Reilly scratched his chin. "Do you mind me asking why he can't?"

  "I don't mind you asking, Doctor . . . but I'm not going to tell you." Barry saw a hint of a smile at the corner of her lips. She certainly had spirit.

  "Fair enough. I had to ask."

  "I know. Is that all?"

  "We should start your prenatal blood work. I'll go and get the laboratory forms," O'Reilly said. As he passed her chair, he put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently.

  She turned and looked up at him. "Thanks, Doctor O'Reilly." O'Reilly grunted and left.

  "So, Doctor Laverty," she said.

  Barry hesitated. Kinky had gone to the trouble of finding out about the young woman, and he suspected that there was a simple reason why the father could not marry her. He decided to take the bull by the horns. "Julie, do you enjoy working for the Bishops?"

  She jerked back in her chair. "How did you know where I work?"

  "It's a small village."

  "Just like Rasharkin. The sooner I'm out of here, the better."

  "Is Councillor Bishop the father?"

  "What? That lecher?" Her brow furrowed and her cheeks reddened. She rose and stood, hands on the table top, resting her weight on her forearms. "I've better taste than that."

  O'Reilly came back, pink laboratory forms held in one hand. He looked at Julie and then across to Barry, who shook his head. "If he is," Barry ploughed on, "we could at least make him pay for-"

  "Not him." Her lip curled.

  "Who's him?" O'Reilly enquired.

  "Councillor Bishop. I asked Julie if he could be the father."

  "And I told Doctor Laverty. ..." A single sob interrupted her words. "He tried to have a go at me. I'd not let him anywhere near me."

  "It's all right, Julie," O'Reilly said gently. "Doctor Laverty was only trying to help."

  "I know that." She dashed the tears away with the back of one hand. "But just thinking of that man gives me the creeps." Her green eyes flashed.

  "We'll say no more about it." O'Reilly waited.

  She twitched at the front of her skirt and held out her hand. "Give me them forms. Where've I to go to for the tests? Can I get them done here?"

  O'Reilly gave her the requisitions. "You could, but if you want to keep this to yourself maybe you'd be better to nip down to Bangor to the health clinic there."

  "I'll do that," she said, her chin firm, her eyes dry. "Would tomorrow be all right?"

  "Of course. We'll have the results by Friday."

  She shook her head. "I can't get any more time off this week. Could I come in on Monday?"

  "Of course, and we'll have all the information you'll need about Liverpool."

  She forced a smile. "I hear there's so many Paddies living there that it's really the capital of Ireland."

  "That's right," said O'Reilly.

  "Well," she said, "when it's all over, maybe my poor wee bastard'll find a good Irish home."

  "I'd hope so," said O'Reilly.

  She stuffed the forms into her handbag. "It'll not be too
bad. I'm not the first girl to get put in the family way . . . and I won't be the last." She held out her hand to O'Reilly, who hesitated. Barry was surprised. Women didn't usually offer men a handshake.

  O'Reilly smiled and shook her hand. "You'll be all right, Julie MacAteer." His arm encircled her shoulder, and he hugged her. "You will, you know."

  She looked up into his face and back to Barry. "I appreciate what you've both done for me." She swallowed, then turned back to O'Reilly. "If the wee bastard's a boy, I might call him Fingal." She stepped back. "I'd better be off. I'll be in on Monday."

  "She took it well, Fingal," Barry said, after she'd left. "I hope I didn't upset her too much, asking her about Bishop, but I did think-"

  "I know exactly what you thought, Barry," O'Reilly said. "I'd the same half-notion myself, but it's given me an idea. I'll need your help, and we'll have to bend a few rules, but . . ."

  Barry's eyes widened as O'Reilly unfolded his plan. It might just work--indeed the more he thought about it, the more he was sure it would work--and if bending a few rules would help, well. . . "Bend the rules, Fingal? I'll help you twist them so far out of shape they'll look like one of those German pretzels." He knew that if they could pull off O'Reilly's scheme, Councillor Bishop was in for a fall--a fall that hadn't been seen since "Joshua fit the battle of Jericho and the walls came tumbling down."

  The Stranded Fish Gaped Among Empty Tins

  As soon as the morning surgery was finished, O'Reilly began to make telephone calls. He drummed his fingers on the hall table. "Come on." The drumming grew faster. "Jesus, I'd hate to be bleeding to death and try to get through to a hospital switchboard. You'd need a transfusion just while you waited. It would be damn near as quick to drive up to Belfast." He switched the receiver to his other ear. "Will you come on?" He tapped his foot, whistled off-key, and finally growled, "Hello? Royal Victoria? I wanted to be sure. You took so long to answer I thought maybe I'd got through to the White House. No, not the ice-cream shop in Portrush. The place where the president of America lives. Put me through to Ward Six. Of course I'll hold on." He glanced at his watch. "Christ, you'd not need a watch to see how long you've to wait. You'd need a bloody calendar."

  "Maybe they're busy," Barry suggested.

  "Ward Six? Doctor O'Reilly here. Can I speak to Sister? Yes, I'll hold on."

  Barry noticed a hint of pallor in O'Reilly's nose tip. "I think Sister must be on holiday in the south of France and they've sent a boat to fetch . . . Hello? Sister Gordon? Fingal O'Reilly here. I'm grand. How's your bad knee?"

  Typical, Barry thought, how O'Reilly could switch from temper to cordiality in the blink of an eye.

  "I'm delighted it's on the mend. How's Sonny? My customer with the pneumonia and heart failure. I see . . . right. . . right another week? Fine. I think we can fix things up for him at this end, but it'll take a while . . . Has she? That's grand. Now you look after yourself." He hung up. "I learnt that when I was a student. The consultants like to think they're in charge, but you'd better be on the right side of the ward sister."

  "I know."

  "Anyway, Sonny's on the mend . . . they'll discharge him on Saturday. The almoner's been to see him . . . nice word 'Almoner' . . . some bloody bureaucrat wants to change it to 'medical social worker' . . . and she won't let him go back to his car. She's got a bed for him in the convalescent home in Bangor, and he'll be all right there until we get things sorted out. And to do that. . ." He opened the telephone directory, flipped through the pages, found the number he was looking for, and dialled. "Doctor O'Reilly here. I want to speak to Councillor Bishop." He winked at Barry. "Noooo. I was quite precise. I didn't say I'd like to speak to him; I didn't say I would consider it a privilege to be allowed to speak to him. I said"--his voice rose to a roar--"I want to speak to him . . . and I meant right now." He waited.

  "Councillor. Sorry to bother you." O'Reilly's voice oozed solicitousness. "Yes, I'm sure you must be frightfully busy. I won't keep you a minute. It's about Sonny's property. I know you want to acquire it. I think perhaps I can help." He held up one hand, finger and thumb forming a circle. "Not on the phone. Could you drop in about six? Splendid." The hellfires that Barry had seen once before in O'Reilly's brown eyes flared brightly. "I'll look forward to it." O'Reilly replaced the receiver. He cut a little caper on the carpet. " 'I gloat!'" he roared. " 'Hear me gloat!'"

  "Stalky and Co., Rudyard Kipling," Barry said. "So he's taken the bait?"

  "He's risen like a trout to a mayfly. All we have to do is play him a bit. . . I'm going to enjoy that. . . then we'll gaff the gobshite and land him."

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  "Now," said O'Reilly, "he'll be here in a minute or two. Just follow my lead. Agree with everything I say."

  "Like the first night we went to the Fotheringhams'?"

  "No. With enthusiasm. You tried to contradict me that night."

  "Sorry about that."

  The front doorbell rang. Barry looked at O'Reilly, who said, "Kinky knows to bring him up here."

  Barry heard footsteps on the stairs. Kinky showed Councillor Bishop into the upstairs lounge. "It's the councillor, so." She had a look on her face as though she had found something unpleasant on the sole of her shoe. She left.

  "Come in, Councillor," said O'Reilly, rising. "Have a seat. Would you like a wee . . . ?" He inclined his head towards the decanters on the sideboard.

  "I've no time for that. I'm here on business, so I am." Councillor Bishop lowered himself into O'Reilly's recently vacated chair. Barry sat opposite. O'Reilly, briar in mouth, leant against the mantelpiece. "How's your finger?"

  "What? It's fine."

  "Oh, good," said O'Reilly.

  "So," said the councillor, "is the old bugger going to die?" O'Reilly shook his head. "Sonny? He's very much on the mend."

  "Pity." Bishop crossed his short legs and began to swing the upper one up and down, up and down, in short jerky arcs. "Him and them scruffy dogs." O'Reilly glanced at Barry.

  "I tell you, O'Reilly, Ballybucklebo would be a damn sight better off if we could see the back of the lot of them." Little flecks of spittle appeared at the corners of the councillor's mouth. "You're probably right," said O'Reilly, "but I think old Sonny'll be around for a day or two yet."

  The frequency of Bishop's leg swinging increased. "All right. How much?"

  "How much for what?"

  "Sonny's place."

  "I'm only a country GP. I've no idea."

  Barry had difficulty believing that O'Reilly could assume a look of such total innocence.

  Bishop's eyes narrowed. He steepled his fingers. "I'm a fair man."

  "Oh, indeed," said O'Reilly, "everyone knows that."

  "Two thousand pounds."

  Barry's knowledge of land values was limited, but the figure seemed low.

  "I'm sure that would be very fair," said O'Reilly, "but we're not actually talking about selling Sonny's land."

  "Am I here on a wild goose chase? You said you could help me get the property."

  "Not exactly," said O'Reilly. "I said I knew you wanted to acquire the property and that perhaps I could help."

  "It's the same thing."

  "No. Not quite. I didn't say I could help you."

  "What the hell are you talking about, O'Reilly?"

  "I meant I thought I could help prevent you from getting within a beagle's gowl of the place."

  Barry smothered a smile. He'd always liked that expression, although why distance should be measured by the baying of a hound had never been quite clear to him.

  Councillor Bishop's face turned scarlet. His leg swinging stopped. "And you wasted my time, dragging me round here? Listen, you stupid country quack, there's not a fuckin' thing you can do to stop me. I'll have Sonny's place, lock, stock, and barrel by the end of next week, so I will. And there's not a damn thing you can do."

  "Oh, dear," said O'Reilly.

  "Two thousand pounds. Take it or leave it. I don't give a shite."

&nbs
p; "I think we'll leave it." O'Reilly blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

  "Right." Bishop stood. "I'm for home."

  "I hope Mrs. Bishop will be pleased to see you."

  "What are you on about?"

  "And little Julie MacAteer. She's up the pipe, you know." Barry clenched his teeth. This bending of the rules, this breach of a patient's confidentiality, bothered him a lot. "What's that wee guttersnipe being poulticed got to do with me?"

  "I thought you'd know," said O'Reilly, the first suggestion of an edge creeping into his voice.

  "Why the hell should I know? She's given her notice. Good riddance to bad rubbish."

  O'Reilly took a long three-count, then said softly, "She says you're the daddy."

  Barry winced. He knew O'Reilly was acting from the best of motives, but still. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick to agree to go along with this plan, but it was too late now. Councillor Bishop rocked back on his heels. "She what? The wee bitch. I'll kill her. I'll kill her dead, so I will."

  "I don't think so," said O'Reilly. "I don't think so at all." Councillor Bishop's face went from scarlet to puce. He gobbled like a turkey that had just been informed that tomorrow was Christmas Eve. He took a deep breath, clearly pulling himself together, secure in the knowledge that indeed he was not the father. "If she's a bun in the oven, it's no concern of mine. Mind you . . . I wouldn't have minded giving her a wee poke."

  "You did, Bertie."

  "Balls. Lying slut. She'll have no reference from me. She'll never get another job--"

  "Our tests don't lie." O'Reilly moved closer to the perspiring councillor.

  "What tests?" Bishop's narrow forehead wrinkled. "What tests?"

  "Pus," said O'Reilly cryptically. "You left some pus on a couple of swabs from the night I lanced your finger."

  "So what?"

  "You tell him, Doctor Laverty."

  Barry stood. "I think you'd better sit down, Councillor." Bishop looked from O'Reilly to Barry and back to O'Reilly. Then he slowly sat. "What about the pus?"