An Irish Country Doctor (21 page)

"Would you?"

"Next time I see him."

"I'd love a day on a good trout stream."

"I'll see to it." O'Reilly rose. "But sitting here blethering won't get the baby a new coat. Come on."

At least, Barry thought, as he closed the green front door, going out this way avoids having to run the gauntlet past the canine world's answer to Casanova. "It's a great day, Fingal." 

"It's too muggy. There could be a bit of thunder about," said O'Reilly, as he strode along the footpath, elbowing his way through knots of passersby. "Afternoon, Aggie. Afternoon, Cecil." Barry kept pace, nodding at those who greeted him. The town was busy. Shoppers and children on their school holidays filled the narrow footpaths and spilled into the roadway to jostle with a farmer and the small herd of Aberdeen Angus bullocks he was driving along Main Street, seemingly oblivious to the horns of the cars stalled behind them.

A gang of men bent to their work, painting the kerbstones in bands of glistening red, white, and blue. The maypole had been touched up in the same Loyalist colours, and from its peak, drifting lazily in a sea breeze, hung a large flag: the Red Hand of Ulster centred on the red cross of Saint George set against a white background. It kept company with its smaller brothers and the Union Jacks that dangled from upstairs windows.

Other men struggled to erect an arch across the road. "Would you look at that?" said O'Reilly.

Barry gazed at the structure. Plywood-covered posts supported a slim, quarter circle of the same material that curved across the street. In its centre was a picture of a man in seventeenth-century costume, feather drooping from his cocked hat, riding boots black and polished. He was mounted on a rearing white horse. One hand held the reins; the other waved a sabre over the rider's head. "Pity," said O'Reilly, "that William of Orange's charger has a squint."

Barry looked more closely. O'Reilly was right. The artist had managed to have each glaring eye focus at a spot just in front of its flaring nostrils.

"Derry, Aughrim, Enniskillen, and the Boyne." O'Reilly read the names of battles that were lettered on painted scrolls on either side of the mounted man. "In 1690 or thereabouts. Old battles that should be forgotten, but the way some of the locals go on, you'd think they'd been fought yesterday."

"You said it was all sweetness and light between the Protestants and the Catholics in Ballybucklebo."

"There's nothing overt. Not like the taunting and ranting and roaring that go on in Belfast. But I don't like it," said O'Reilly. "I saw a newsreel once. Alabama or Mississippi. Bunch of eejits in pointy hoods and white robes burning a cross, just to remind the blacks that they are second-class citizens. It gave me the shivers." 

"Surely a bit of decoration, a few flags, and a parade aren't the same as a Ku Klux Klan rally?"

"I was a boy during the Troubles . . . the Black and Tans and the Civil War . . . back in the nineteen twenties. I'd hate to see the Troubles come back, and when you keep on rubbing folks' noses in it with flags and parades . . ."

"I'm sure there'll never be anything like the Troubles again. Not here."

"I hope you're right," said O'Reilly thoughtfully, "but long memories are the curse of Ireland. The Twelfth's just a holiday to most folks, but there's a bunch of bigots that do go on stirring the pot, keeping the old hatred alive . . . like our worthy councillor. When he can spare the time from trying to drive a decent old man off his property, he'd be happy to string up the odd Fenian from a lamp-post."

"He really is a miserable man, isn't he?"

"He's a pure and unadulterated gobshite," said O'Reilly. "I don't know about you, but I'm no closer to sorting out how we can help Sonny, and now I have to find a way to get Maureen Galvin's money back for her."

"I thought you knew a company in Belfast that would buy the rocking ducks."

"I can phone a fellow I played rugby with, but would you want to try to sell the things?"

Barry shook his head.

O'Reilly started to cross the road. "Something will turn up," he said, stepping back up onto the footpath. "Just what the dickens do you think this is all about?"

Barry saw the ginger-haired Donal Donnelly waving at them as he forced his way across the street past the cow clap-splattered rump of one of the bullocks. He was accompanied by a grey dog. He and his companion stepped up onto the footpath. "Doctor. Doctor O'Reilly, sir. Could I have a wee word?" Donal's buckteeth trembled against his long lower lip. 

"Of course."

"This here's Bluebird." He tugged on a thin piece of rope. The dog raised its narrow muzzle and fixed Donal with a look of pure adoration from its liquid brown eyes. 

"Bluebird?" 

"Yes, sir. After your man's speedboat." Barry looked more closely at the beast. It had long thin legs, and carried its skinny tail in an arc curved in underneath its belly. Every rib was as visible as the bones of an anatomic display specimen. 

"Donald Campbell?" 

"Himself. The very fellah." 

"He's in Australia," said Barry. "He's going to have a go at the world water-speed record later this month." 

"Races, does she?" O'Reilly asked, bending and examining the dog's flanks.

"She does, sir, but she hasn't won yet."

"So if she's slow, why do you call her Bluebird?" O'Reilly's brow wrinkled.

"Because, sir"--Donal's left upper eyelid drooped in a slow wink--"she runs on water."

O'Reilly started. "Water?"

Barry was baffled.

"But on Friday at Dunmore Park she'll be running dry." 

"Will she, by God?" O'Reilly's eyes widened. What the hell were they talking about?

'I thought you'd like to know, sir." Donal peered furtively around. "Not a word now."

"A wink's as good as a nod to a blind horse. Thanks, Donal. I'll keep it in mind. I might just take a trip up to Dunmore. Doctor Laverty could look after the practice."

Barry flinched. Oh, no. Friday was to be his night off. "We'll be running on," said Donal, tugging at the rope. "Got to get you fit, girl."

"Fingal," said Barry. All his questions about the recent strange conversation had been driven away by the thought that he might not be able to see Patricia after all. "Fingal, you said I could have Friday night off."

"Did I?"

"Yes."

"Must have forgotten."

Barry steeled himself. "Look, Fingal--"

"Don't worry. We'll both get away. You just hold the fort 'til it's time for you to go."

"But who'll look after things when we're both out?" 

"Kinky. I don't do it very often, but if no one's baby's due and the shop seems reasonably quiet, Kinky takes the calls. Either she asks the customer to wait until the morning, or if she thinks it is urgent, she arranges for an ambulance to take the patient up to the Royal."

"Oh."

"So you can see the light of your life, and I can have a bit of fun myself." O'Reilly chuckled. "The Lord might just move in a mysterious way his wonders to perform."

"You've utterly lost me."

"I do that sometimes," said O'Reilly, "and I've no time to explain now. We're running behind. Come on and we'll get Declan Finnegan looked at."

Declan Finnegan was a man in his fifties. He was sorely afflicted with Parkinson's disease. The diagnosis was instantly apparent the moment Barry walked into the small flat above the grocer's shop. The man's face was a mask, expressionless, immobile. A string of spittle hung from the corner of his mouth. His eyes held no questions for the doctors. Any hope he might have treasured of a cure must have been long gone. He held out one hand in greeting, and Barry saw the telltale rubbing of thumb against fingers, the uncontrollable pill-rolling movements.

His wife, a worried-looking woman who bore herself like a Victorian dowager, wore her hair, glossy as black Italian marble, pulled back into a severe bun in the style favoured by Spanish duennas. "
Bonjour, monsieur le docteur
."

"
Bonjour, Madame Finnegan. Comme il faut aujourd'hui
? O'Reilly replied in barely accented French. "
Je crois qu'il est encore plus mal. C'est tres triste,ça.
" Barry saw sadness in her eyes. He listened and watched, his schoolboy French barely sufficient to allow him to follow the questions and answers. It would appear that indeed the man's condition had worsened since O'Reilly's last visit. The pill rolling was increasing, and when O'Reilly asked Declan to walk for a few paces, he did so in tiny shuffling steps.

O'Reilly offered what little comfort he could, agreed that, yes, it would be a good thing to keep the appointment that had been made for several weeks hence with a neurosurgeon at the Royal. Perhaps indeed it might be time for stereotactic surgery to destroy the part of the brain with a mind of its own that caused the muscles to rebel. "
Au revoir, Madame. Nous vous verrions un jour pendant la semaine prochaine,
" O'Reilly said as they left.

"I didn't know you spoke French," Barry said, as they walked back to the house to collect the car.

"Oh, aye," said O'Reilly, "and I used to have a bit of Italian. I picked them up when I was in the Med. On the Warspite. Comes in handy once in a while. Mind you, she's the only Frenchwoman I know of in Ballybucklebo. Declan was in the Tank Regiment. Met her somewhere in Normandy in forty-four."

"Poor bugger. It's a horrible disease."

"There are some really sick ones here. It's not all cuts and bruises. I just wish to Christ there was more we could do for folks like Declan." His voice had an edge like a new scalpel. Barry had no chance to reply as O'Reilly put his head down, lengthened his stride, and ploughed like an angry bull through the pedestrians.

In local parlance O'Reilly went through Tuesday's afternoon calls--and most of the patients who had come to the surgery on Wednesday morning--like grease through a duckling. Barry could barely keep pace. He was glad of the respite when Mrs. Kincaid set his lunch plate on the table.

"Your list, Doctor. It's not too bad." She handed O'Reilly the sheet of paper.

"Thanks, Kinky." O'Reilly consulted it quickly. "Not bad at all. I don't know about you, Barry, but I'm feeling a bit ragged." 

"Umh," Barry muttered through a mouthful of lamb chop. 

"Kinky?" O'Reilly asked. "Any luck with finding out about Julie MacAteer?"

"I'm not getting very far. The wee girl is living somewhere here, but nobody knows where."

"Keep at it, will you?"

"I will-"

Her reply was interrupted by the jangling of the front doorbell. "I'll see who it is, so." She left, and when she returned her colour was high, her black eyes flashing. "It's the wee Hider man. His exalted excellence, Councillor Bishop. The Great Panjandrum says he 'doesn't give a . . ." She hesitated. "Well, he's not concerned that it's your lunchtime, and he wants to be seen now. Will I tell him to wait?" 

"No," said O'Reilly, pushing his plate aside. "Pop these in the oven, Kinky. Come on, Barry."

"Right."

Councillor Bishop stood in the hall, legs astraddle, arms folded, eyes narrowed.

"You took your time."

"Ach," said O'Reilly mildly, "if the knitter is weary, the baby will have no new bonnet."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

'Doctor Laverty and myself have been just a tiny bit busy for the last couple of days. We were at our lunch," said O'Reilly. "Could you not have come during surgery hours?"

"And wait forever with the unwashed? Don't be stupid." Barry saw a spark deep in O'Reilly's brown eyes, a spark that reflected the fires of hell. The consultation should be interesting, he thought.

"Come into the surgery," said O'Reilly, crossing the hall and opening the door. He sat at the desk and waited for Councillor 'Bishop to take the patients' chair. "What can I do for you?" As Barry made himself comfortable on the examining table, (Councillor Bishop thrust his bandaged finger under O'Reilly's pose. "I told you on Sunday. I need this better for tomorrow." 

"Right," said O'Reilly as he went to a tray of instruments and picked up a pair of scissors and a set of fine-nosed forceps. "I'd forgotten that the Duck doubles up as my consulting room. Nothing like giving medical advice when you're having a quiet pint." 

"What?"

O'Reilly sat. "Show me your finger."

Bishop gave his hand to O'Reilly, who picked up the bottom end of the bandage with the forceps, slid one blade of the scissors beneath the gauze, and began to snip. When the dressing was divided from finger base to fingertip, O'Reilly grabbed one edge between the forceps blades and used his free hand to immobilize Councillor Bishop's wrist. O'Reilly gave a ferocious yank with the forceps.

Barry was sure he would have been able to hear the rending of material as it parted from the freshly healed flesh beneath had it not been for a deafening roar.

"Sorry about that, Councillor," O'Reilly said. "I could have soaked it in Savlon for fifteen minutes and softened the old blood, but I know you're always in a rush."

Barry was glad that he was seated behind the councillor so that the grin that ran from ear to ear was not obvious.

"Go and rinse it in the sink," said O'Reilly.

The councillor obeyed.

"All set for the big day tomorrow?" O'Reilly enquired. 

"Don't talk to me about big days. The sooner it's over, the better." Councillor Bishop held his finger under the stream of water. "I've bigger fish to fry."

"Oh?" said O'Reilly. He glanced at Barry.

"Sonny's in hospital and that parcel of land--"

"You wouldn't," said O'Reilly. "Och, no."

"I will," said the councillor.

Barry needed to hear no more. He slipped off the couch. '"I think that's the meanest thing--"

"Nobody asked you to think," O'Reilly snapped. He shook his head. Barry bit back his words. He felt heat in his cheeks. His breathing quickened.

Councillor Bishop turned off the tap and glowered at his fingertip. "Doesn't look too bad," he allowed. "Does it need another bandage?" 

He stumped over to O'Reilly, who peered at the digit. "Looks fine to me."

"Good. I'll be off then. I've work to do."