An Irish Country Doctor (33 page)

"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." 

"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?"

"It's a new test," said Barry.

"I'd not heard of it," said O'Reilly, "but modern science is a wonderful thing."

"I never laid a finger on her."

"It's not your finger that did the damage." O'Reilly stared at Councillor Bishop's crotch, then at his pudgy hands. "Mind you, I'm sure your fingers are bigger than your willy." 

"You bastard."

"No," said O'Reilly. "It's your bastard. The one that Julie's carrying. Tell him, Doctor Laverty."

Barry shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and intoned, "This may be difficult for a layman to understand, Councillor, but if you take a blood sample from a pregnant woman and mix it with pus, even old dried-up pus, from the putative father, there can be an anaphylactoid progression of the polylobed acidophilic granulocytes." Barry knew he was spouting gibberish, but it was what O'Reilly wanted. "Blind the councillor with science," he'd said. "A what?"

"Pay attention," said O'Reilly.

It's absolutely . . . pathognomonic." Barry stumbled over the last word. It came hard to lie to a patient or about a patient to a third party.

" 'Pathognomonic' means that it's money in the bank," O'Reilly said helpfully. "You're the daddy all right, and to tell you the truth, Councillor, I'm proud of you. I wouldn't have thought a wizened up, miserable gobshite like you would have had it in him." 

"There's got to be some mistake." Bishop fiddled with one finger under the knot of his tie. "I never . . ." He took a deep breath. "Your stupid test's wrong. I can prove it. . . ."