An Irish Country Doctor (32 page)

O'Reilly eyes were wide. "Now there's a thing." Barry was not quite sure what O'Reilly might be hinting at, and trying to find out who the baby's father was seemed to be more important. "Do you happen to know, Kinky, if Julie has a boyfriend?" 

Kinky frowned. "I did ask."

"And?"

"Mrs. Bishop didn't know, but once or twice a fellow with ginger hair had come round to the servants' quarters at night." 

"Did she know who it was?"

Kinky shook her head. "She only caught a glimpse of him." 

"Damn."

"Don't let that bother you, Barry." O'Reilly was rubbing his hands with, Barry thought, the enthusiasm of Ebenezer Scrooge surveying a heap of gold sovereigns.  Thanks a million Kinky.You're a better spy than your man James Bond, and he can't cook."

"Go on wit' you, Doctor dear." Kinky chuckled. "I went to see one of those 007 fillums." She lowered her voice and much to Barry's surprise, said, "I'd not mind having that Sean Connery's slippers under my bed, so."

"You're a powerful woman, Kinky Kincaid," said O'Reilly.

"And you're full of blarney for a man with work to do."

"How much?"

"Not too much. Half a dozen of the regulars. Julie MacAteer will be in later." Kinky's brow furrowed. "And Cissie Sloane's here, and it's not her tonic day."

Kinky was right. The waiting room was half empty. As Barry and O'Reilly peeped through the barely ajar door, Barry whispered, "That must have been a better perfomance yesterday than you thought Finegal. They haven't all come back."

"They will," said O'Reilly. "Like the sainted self should've said, 'the poor and the weary walking wounded are always with us.' "

"Actually, it's 'for the poor always ye have with you.' St. John 12:8. At least it is in the King James version."

"I stand corrected," said O'Reilly. He then threw the door open and yelled, "Right! Who's first?"

Cissie Sloane rose.

"Sorry Cissie," O'Reilly said. "You're results won't be in for another half hour.I'll come and get you as soon as they're here" She sat ponderously. 

"Anyone else?"

"Me, sir." Barry followed O'Reilly and the patient to the surgery.  He was a lugubrious-looking middle aged man, dressed in a black three piece suit.  His dark hair was sleek, oiled, and split by a centre parting of such precision that Barry thought the man must have used callipers to find the exact meridian. Either that or the man had simply painted his cranium with black enamel.

His cheeks, sunken beneath high cheekbones, would have given his face the characteristics of a skull had it not been for his nose. Its last two inches had blossomed into a craggy and pitted tomato. Barry recognized the condition--rhinophyma--the result of a blockage of oil glands; the buildup of their secretions caused the skin to swell and become distended.

The unfortunate man could have passed for Chuckles the Clown wearing only one piece of his stage makeup, or a skinny W. C. Fields on a particularly well-lubricated day. "Sit down, Mr. Coffin," O'Reilly said, taking the swivel chair. "What seems to be the trouble?"

"Ah'm no at myself." His voice was as gloomy as his demeanour. Barry knew that Mr. Coffin meant that he just felt generally unwell. Had no specific symptoms.

"Still?" O'Reilly asked.

"Aye." The word was spoken slowly, weightily, and only after much deep thought. It sounded like "aaaaaaaye," its pitch gradually rising.

"And you've seen the two specialists I sent you to?" 

"Aye." As ponderous as the first.

"Neither one could find anything wrong with you?" 

"Aye." The same tonal inflection.

Some countrymen could be a tad on the reticent side, but Barry thought, this Mr. Coffin could represent Ulster if there ever was an international competition for taciturnity. O'Reilly asked several more questions. All were answered with polysyllabic "aaaaaaayes." Finally O'Reilly said, "I think we're at a bit of a loss, Mr. Coffin." 

The patient, frowned, looked at the ceiling, took a deep breath, started to speak, reconsidered, and then to Barry's amazement, said one word. His "ayes" had climbed the scale. This time he slid down it in a baleful glissando, in keeping with the descent of his narrow bottom along the seat of the forward-tilting chair. "Nooooo."

Barry had great difficulty keeping a straight face. "Well," said O'Reilly, rising, "all I can suggest is get lots of fresh air, eat a healthy diet, and get plenty of sleep." 

"Aye?" Plaintive.

O'Reilly sighed. "I suppose you could try something my grandmother used for folks that were a bit low."

"Aye?" This time there was a hint of interest. "You collect up a wheen of Saint John's wort, chop it up, and make a tea to drink."

"Aye?"

"Aye," said O'Reilly.

It's catching, Barry thought, as O'Reilly ushered Mr. Coffin to the door.

"Give the wort a try, but come back and see us if you're still worried," O'Reilly offered.

"Aye," moaned Mr. Coffin as he left.

"Poor old bugger," said O'Reilly after he had closed the door. "Bet you can't guess what he does for a living." Barry shook his head.

"It's no wonder that the waiting room was half empty. The locals are scared stiff of him. Think he's bad luck," said O'Reilly. "Mr. Coffin is our undertaker."

"He's not."

"He is, and did you see his nose? Talk about having a cross to bear. Nothing will persuade the locals that a big red nose isn't the mark of a boozer . . . and poor old Coffin is actually the head Pioneer in Ballybucklebo."

"Pioneer?"

"They're a temperance organization. They take the pledge at thirteen. Avoid the demon drink like the plague." O'Reilly shuddered.

"Oh."

"It's no wonder he's 'no at himself.' Would you be with a job and a nose like his . . . and not even the solace of a jar once in a while?"

"It must be a bit tough."

"We can't fix his nose. He can't afford to give up his job." O'Reilly sighed. "All we can do is sit and listen. Who knows, maybe my granny's herbal tea will work."

"Aye," said Barry.

"Lord," said O'Reilly, "don't you start. Go and see if the post has arrived. If you're right, there will be something we can do for Cissie."

Two reports in the buff envelope: Cissie's and Julie MacAteer's. Barry read both. His sharp pleasure when he saw that the radioactive iodine uptake test had indeed confirmed his diagnosis was dulled by one word on the second piece of paper: "Positive." He tried to smile at Julie, who sat in the waiting room. "Just be a minute, Julie." He avoided meeting her gaze. "Will you come in, Mrs. Sloan?"

Cissie followed him to the surgery, rolling along in his wake like a battleship following a tugboat.

"Morning, Cissie." O'Reilly raised a questioning eyebrow, and Barry nodded. "Here," said O'Reilly, standing. "You sit here." He vacated the swivel chair.

I see, Barry thought, if you are actually ill you don't have to sit on the tilted one. He watched O'Reilly's placatory gesture nearly going astray as Cissie struggled to cram her bulk between the arms of the chair.

"So, Doctor Laverty?" O'Reilly held out his hand. Barry handed him the pink laboratory form. O'Reilly rummaged in his breast pocket, pulled out his half-moons, and set them firmly on the bridge of his nose. He peered at the form, then gave it to Barry. "You'll have to tell me what this newfangled stuff means." Was O'Reilly serious? Could he not interpret the results? Barry cleared his throat, and although he then spoke to Cissie, he kept his eyes on O'Reilly's face. "Mrs. Sloan, I'll not blind you with science. In a nutshell, a gland in your neck isn't making enough of a little thingy it releases into your bloodstream." O'Reilly's face was deadpan.

"The little thingy's supposed to help you feel full of get-up-and go, so it's no wonder you've been feeling frazzled." A slight smile from O'Reilly at that. She'd understand "frazzled" better than "run down."

"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-"