An Irish Country Doctor (24 page)

By Friday the thirteenth the thunderstorm had passed and bright sunlight streamed in through one dining-room window. The day before, an apologetic Seamus Galvin had patched the other with plywood.

"Big day for the pair of us," said O'Reilly, finishing his breakfast. 

"I know," said Barry, trying not to think too hard of his evening to come with Patricia. "You're going to the dogs." 

"I'd hardly put it that way, but yes, I want to see how Donal's Bluebird runs."

"On water? That's what Donal said."

"Dry tonight." O'Reilly grinned. "The dog will be. I won't. I'm meeting an old friend."

"Not by any chance the one that might buy Seamus Galvin's rocking ducks?"

"The very fellah, and serious business always goes better with a bit of social lubrication," said O'Reilly. He rose. "But the dirt has to come before the brush. How'd you like to run the surgery this morning?"

"Me? Seriously?"

"Aye. I've been watching you, son. You did a grand job with Maureen's delivery, put in those stitches last night as well as I could." 

"Honestly?" Barry felt a flush start under his collar. 

"Time for you to fly solo. Well, dual control for a start. I'll keep you company, but you do the work. I'll not interfere." Barry straightened his tie, smoothed the tuft of hair on his crown, rose, and said, "If you really think so, we'd better get at it." He started toward the waiting room.

O'Reilly stopped him. "I'll fetch the customers. Explain to them who's in charge today. There'll be the odd one will bugger off when they hear."

"Oh." Barry frowned.

"Don't take it personally. If the sainted Jesus Christ Himself was working here, some of the older ones would still rather see me." 

"I understand." Barry realized that of course O'Reilly was right. No need for hurt pride.

"And you," said O'Reilly, grabbing Lady Macbeth, who was trying to get into the surgery, "can bugger off. Doctor Laverty will not be in need of your advice today. Into the kitchen. We'll have a word with Kinky. She was going to find out about Julie MacAteer. Julie should be in later today to get her results." 

"That's right," said Barry. "How do we get them? Phone the lab?" 

O'Reilly shook his head. "They'll be in the nine-thirty post." He headed for the kitchen, stuffing a protesting Lady Macbeth under his arm like a rugby football. "I'll bring the first customer back with me."

With each case Barry's confidence grew. True to his word, O'Reilly offered no advice unless asked, and sat quietly on the examining couch. The morning passed quickly and, as far as Barry was concerned, enjoyably.

Just before lunchtime, O'Reilly brought in Maureen Galvin, carrying baby Barry Fingal wrapped in a blue shawl.

"Good morning, Maureen," Barry said. "It's a bit early for your post-natal visit. Is everything all right?" 

"Doctor Laverty, I'm worried about Barry Fingal's wee willy." 

"We'd better have a look. Can you put him on the table?" Maureen laid the little lad on the table, unwrapped his shawl, and unpinned a bulky towelling nappy. She smiled at him and he cooed gently. "At least he's clean," she said. 

"What has you worried?" Barry asked.

"It's under here," she said, gently retracting the foreskin. "It doesn't look right."

Barry bent over to get a better look at the boy's tiny penis. "Ah," he said, smiling. "Nothing there to be upset about." He could see that Maureen looked dubious. "That's what we call a hypospadias. It's quite common."

Maureen frowned. "Hypo . . . ?"

"Spadias. The urethral meatus, the little hole the pee comes through, is just a bit underneath the glans instead of in the centre. Won't make a bit of difference. It's to do with the way a baby develops in your uterus."

"You mean I did something wrong when I was pregnant?" Maureen let the foreskin slip back into place.

"No. Of course not." Barry glanced at O'Reilly, then ploughed on. "The urethra--that's the tube that brings the urine from the bladder--is formed in the fetus from different tissue than the rest of the penis. Sometimes the tube doesn't quite make it all the way to the tip."

"I don't know," she said, repinning the nappy. "I don't think it's right."

"Are you worried, Maureen?" O'Reilly asked. Barry watched as the big man put a hand on her shoulder, and she looked into his eyes and nodded.

"You'll be a damn sight more worried in sixteen years when he's after anything in California that wears a skirt." She smiled.

"He'll be knocking rings round him. Up and down like a whore on hinges."

Barry flinched. There was no need to be quite so crude. "Thank you, Doctor O'Reilly," said Maureen, her smile widening. She lifted Barry Fingal from the couch and cradled him. "You'll just be a randy wee goat, won't you?" 

"He will that," said O'Reilly. "He'll be banging away like a buck rabbit." Fingal! Barry thought, but then he saw Maureen's clearly satisfied expression. O'Reilly had set her fears to rest, which was half of what being a good doctor was all about. Barry was annoyed that he hadn't understood the real nature of her concern: how the boy would be able to function sexually when he grew up. She'd be too embarrassed to blurt it straight out. But O'Reilly had gone right to the heart of the matter, and in a language she clearly understood. No wonder he himself had baffled her, using words like "hypospadias."

Maureen laughed. "That's all I need to know." 

"Good," said O'Reilly, "but I should have spotted it the day he was born."

"Och, we're none of us perfect," said Maureen. "There's no harm done."

"Thank you," said O'Reilly. "I appreciate that." So do I, thought Barry. It takes an honest man to admit that he can make mistakes.

"Barry Fingal and me'd better be getting on, Doctor," said Maureen.

"Right. How's Seamus by the way?"

"He said he'll pop round later with the glass for your window, and he's dreadful sorry he broke it, so he is." 

"Tell him not to worry. Accidents happen."

"He's very busy. Him and his rocking ducks." Her green eyes sparkled. "He says we're going to make a mint. That you've fixed it up for him to sell the whole lot of them to a firm in Belfast." 

"Umm," said O'Reilly. "Maybe."

"I know it'll all work out, Doctor. Me and him and wee Barry Fingal out there in all that sunshine."

"I hope so," said O'Reilly, taking her by the arm and leading her to the door. "We'll see you in five weeks."

"If we're still here," she said, and as she left, Barry heard her in the hall singing to Barry Fingal. "California here we come, right back where we started from . . ."

O'Reilly closed the surgery door. "I hope to God she's right. I'll just have to put the screws on my friend tonight, or think of something else." He folded his arms and stroked his chin with his left hand. "And we're going to have to sort out Julie MacAteer. She's next."

"What did the test say?"

O'Reilly grunted. "Bloody typical." He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. "Look at that."

Barry read the results of an Aschheim-Zondek pregnancy test. "'Urine toxic. The mice died.' Oh, great." 

"Right, and Mrs. Kincaid's no further on finding out about the mystery woman of Ballybucklebo." He blew out his cheeks. "I'll go and get her."

He returned moments later and offered Julie MacAteer a seat. She sat, knees together, feet flat on the carpet, hands folded in the lap of her tartan skirt. "Am I?" she asked, her voice steady. "We don't know. The test didn't work. I'm really very sorry," Barry said.

"My period's not come."

Barry swallowed. "Julie, we can do another test. It'll only take a few days."

"I know I'm pregnant," she said flatly.

"You may be right," Barry said, "but let's make sure." "I suppose so. Mind you, if I just wait another few months I'll know for certain, won't I?" She sniffed and used the heel of one hand to dry her eyes.

O'Reilly spoke quietly. "That's true."

She spun in the chair to face him. "What'll I do?" 

"Doctor Laverty's right. We'll repeat the test. But in the meantime we've made arrangements for you to go to Liverpool. Just in case." 

"Liverpool?" She sat back in the chair. "In England?" 

O'Reilly nodded. "They'll take good care of you there. No one here need know."

"I'd have to have the baby. Give it up?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Jesus." Her tears flowed, smearing her mascara. 

"It'll be hard on you," O'Reilly said. "I know that." Barry watched her shoulders shake. She took two deep breaths. "I've no choice, have I?"

"I'm sorry," O'Reilly said gently, "unless--" 

"Unless?"

"Unless you can tell us who the father is."

She shook her head, tossing her corn-silk hair. "No." Barry, shifting in the swivel chair, was about to speak when he caught O'Reilly's glance. Barry realized that if he interfered it would seem to the young woman that they were ganging up on her. "I can't do that," she said. "I just can't." 

"That's all right," said O'Reilly. "I understand." 

"No, you don't. Nobody does." She gave two more deep sobs and stiffened her shoulders. "Can I bring in a specimen this afternoon?" 

"Yes," said O'Reilly. "Go on home now. Give it to Mrs. Kincaid when you come back."

"All right."

"She'll make you a cup of tea. Would you like that?"

Julie nodded. "Liverpool. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." She sniffed deeply.

Barry offered her his handkerchief.

She took it, blew her nose, and returned it with a small smile. "Here."

He stuffed it in his pocket.

She stood. "I just knew I'd have to go away. I just knew. I've already given my notice."

"Oh?" said O'Reilly. "And who's your boss?"

"I'm not telling."

"Fair enough." O'Reilly held out his hands, shoulders high, palms out. "None of my business."

"I'd better be going." She rose. "Can I wash my face, please?" 

"Of course."

Barry watched as she tidied herself up.

"I'll tell Mrs. Kincaid to expect you," O'Reilly said, as he opened the door. "You'll like her."

"Liverpool" was the last thing Barry heard Julie MacAteer say as she left.

"Four o'clock. Time I was going," said O'Reilly, leaning against the mantel in the lounge, his briar belching.

Barry shifted in his armchair, coughed, and wondered if the captain of HMS Warspite had ever asked Surgeon Commander O'Reilly to lay down a smoke screen for the entire Mediterranean Fleet. "Aren't you leaving a bit early?"

"I've to pick up Donal and Bluebird and drive them up to Dunmore Park; then I'll take a run-race over to the Royal. See how Sonny's getting on."

"He should be on the mend by now."

"I hope so, but what we're going to do with him when he gets out of hospital is beyond me. He can't go on living in his car." 

"Maybe he'll be so grateful to Maggie for taking care of his dogs that he'll fix his roof and ask her to marry him . . . and she'll say yes . . . and let him move in with her until his place is fixed up."

"Aye. And Councillor Bishop will buy all of Seamus Galvin's rocking ducks and use the lumber to do the job at Sonny's. The father of Julie MacAteer's wee bastard will turn out to be Sean Connery, who'll whisk her off to Hollywood and make her his leading lady in the next James Bond film ..." O'Reilly knocked the dottle of his pipe into the fire-place. "And the Reverend Ian Paisley will enter a Jesuit novitiate."

Barry laughed.

"I don't think the pair of us are going to unravel the riddles of the universe today." O'Reilly stuffed his pipe into his jacket pocket. "You just keep an eye on the shop until it's time for you to go out yourself." 

"I'll do my best."

"I know that," said O'Reilly, looking Barry in the eye. "I told you I've been watching you, son. You've the makings of a damn good GP." 

"Thanks, Fingal." Barry knew he was grinning, but why not? Praise from O'Reilly was praise indeed. "I will do my best." 

"God," said O'Reilly, "you sound like a fornicating Boy Scout. Well, you stay here and do your good deed for the day, Baden Powell. I'm off, and you have fun tonight. You've earned it." Barry sat back in his chair. O'Reilly had been right. There was a great deal of satisfaction to be gained from the routine of a busy general practice, and it was gratifying, very gratifying, that O'Reilly was pleased with Barry's work and trusted him sufficiently to leave him in charge. Still, being left alone was a little unnerving. He stood and walked to the window just in time to see the black Rover roar off along the Belfast Road.

He heard the front door close and looked down. Julie MacAteer walked down the front path. She must have brought her urine specimen. Poor lass. It was a hell of a thing for her to be pregnant by a-- what was O'Reilly's word?--a gobshite who refused to take responsibility. And all the secrecy. Why wouldn't she tell her physicians who she worked for? Something worried away at the back of Barry's consciousness. Something that somebody had said about a maid giving her notice. An Antrim girl.

He hadn't heard Mrs. Kincaid come in, and he jumped when she said, "Would you like some tea, Doctor Laverty?" 

"Please."

"It's a bit stewed." Mrs. Kincaid set a tray on the sideboard. "I made it for that nice MacAteer girl, the wee lamb." 

"How is she, Mrs. Kincaid?"

"She puts up a brave front, so. Very private. Himself asked me to try to find out about her." She handed him a cup. "Milk's in it, the way you like it."

"Thanks." Barry took the cup. "And what have you discovered?" 

"Not much. No one in the village seems to know her. But she works somewhere here, or out in the country a ways. Her hands are soft, so she'll not be working on a farm."

"So what could she be doing?"

"Maybe she's in service. Lord Ballybucklebo still has a gamekeeper and a couple of maids."

And then Barry remembered that it was Councillor Bishop who'd said his wife was fit to be tied because their maid had given her notice.

"Mrs. Kincaid?"

"Doctor Laverty, I'd be very pleased if you'd call me Kinky, like himself."

Barry felt flattered. "All right, Kinky."