An Irish Country Doctor

by Patrick Taylor

  "I see," gasped O'Reilly, "that Donal's not dressed like a true Highlander. I wonder why he's wearing his Y-fronts back to front?"

  Collapsing pipes wailed as rank tangled with file. The drum section, which marched at the rear of the band, had enough time to avoid the melee. Seamus Galvin, trying to peer over a huge bass drum that hung from a shoulder harness and nearly covered a mangy-looking piece of synthetic leopard skin, pounded out the rhythm.

  "Now that's impressive," O'Reilly said. "Go, Seamus." Barry doubted if Seamus heard O'Reilly, but it was clear that he needed no further encouragement to keep up his display of drumming virtuosity. The woolly heads of his drumsticks flew in counter-rotating circles above his head. Seamus held both arms straight out from his shoulders and spun the drumsticks like the tail rotors of a strangely configured helicopter.

  He never missed a beat, now striking opposite sides of the drum's skin, then crossing his hands above its circumference to deliver a whack to its left side with his right stick, its right with his left. A crowd of spectators gathered, perhaps, Barry thought, uninterested in how the remainder of the stalled procession was faring. "Go, Seamus." O'Reilly did a little jig. "Christ, he's wailing away like Gene Krupa on something stimulatory, aye, and quite possibly illegal."

  The strap securing one stick to Seamus's wrist parted. The noise of shattering glass could have come only from O'Reilly's dining room window.

  "Shite," said O'Reilly, but his beaming grin did not fade. As if in celestial solidarity with the ructions below, the heavens joined in. Last night's skirmishers with their distant fire had been reinforced by batteries of artillery. Howitzers and cannons grumbled and crashed, hurling their bolts in glorious flashes of screaming yellow and sulphurous blue across the ramparts of the clouds. The deluge broke, lashing the participants and the spectators. Bandsmen scurried for shelter, the drummers trying to protect their drumheads from the rain. Pacamacs appeared as if from nowhere, and family groups shared the dubious protection of the transparent plastic held over their heads.

  "I'd call this a humdinger too," said O'Reilly, closing the sash window. "No point getting this room soaked."

  "What about downstairs?"

  "Seamus Galvin's a carpenter by trade. He'll--"

  The front doorbell rang.

  "That'll be him," said O'Reilly. "He'll have it patched up in no time." He strolled to the sideboard. "How about a sherry?" he asked, as he filled his Waterford glass. "Bushmills for me today. Seeing it's the Twelfth I'll have a drop that's made up here in Ulster." He savoured his drink. "I know the sun's not quite over the yardarm, but I don't think there'll be much business for us today."

  O'Reilly was almost right, but the first of the walking wounded appeared in the surgery at four o'clock.

  "That doesn't look too bad, Constable Mulligan." O'Reilly sponged blood from a short gash in the officer's right eyebrow. "What happened?"

  The officer, dark green uniform made darker by the rain that still hammered down outside, sat rigidly, polished boots firmly planted on the carpet. One hand rested on his holster, the other on the butt of his truncheon, a wicked-looking piece of ebony. He pursed his lips and seemed to believe that he was in court giving evidence. Barry fully expected the man to consult a notebook. "At three twenty-four on Thursday, July the twelfth, I was proceeding in an easterly direction, sir, acting on information received that a civil disturbance had broken out outside the licensed premises known as The Black Swan."

  "Indeed?" said O'Reilly, most civilly. "Do go on." Barry was surprised. Usually O'Reilly interrupted anyone who embarked on a rambling history.

  "Arriving at the said premises, I seen two male persons who was engaged in fisticuffs. . . ."

  "Is that a fact?" O'Reilly wandered over to the instrument trolley, bent, and retrieved an Elastoplast.

  "The first suspect was wearing nothing but a kilt and a flute bandsman's hat. The other was hatless but had on flute-band accoutrements."

  "Bit of friendly uniform swapping?"

  The constable snorted as O'Reilly stuck the dressing over the wound. "Suspect A had both fists raised in an aggressive manner. Suspect B had a bleeding nose. Several members of the public had gathered and were encouraging the belligerent parties. Suspect A said, 'See you, you couldn't knock the skin off a rice pudding.'"

  "Fighting words," said O'Reilly.

  The constable's naturally florid cheeks burnt scarlet as he muttered, "Suspect B said, 'Away off and fuck yourself.' I'm sorry, sir.'"

  "I've heard worse," said O'Reilly. "So did you arrest them for a breach of the peace?"

  "That was my intention, sir, but upon my stating these intentions the crowd surged forward." He pointed to his now blood-free eyebrow. "Some person or persons unknown threw a bottle."

  "I see," said O'Reilly. "Still it could have been worse."

  "In the resulting scuffle I was unable to apprehend the suspects. In accordance with regulations, I drew my truncheon." A steely gleam came into the officer's eyes. "I dispersed the crowd and came here, sir."

  "The pugilistic pair of them are probably having a jar together by now." O'Reilly re-examined the policeman's dressed wound. "I'd not worry too much about them. Go on home and have a cup of tea. I'll have a word with the sergeant if he has any questions."

  "Thank you, sir. I'm much obliged." Constable Mulligan rose and left. "Not your usual style, Fingal," Barry said. "I thought he was going to go on forever."

  "Bloody Arthur Guinness," O'Reilly rumbled. "I have to be extra civil to our local peace officer."

  "Why?"

  "Last year someone broke in here and stole a couple of bottles of whiskey. My Hound of the Baskervilles probably tried to beat them to death with his tail."

  "Or . . ." Barry bit back the words.

  "Arthur's protective instincts only went into full cry when Constable Mulligan arrived." He frowned. "I think his uniform upset the dog."

  "He didn't-?"

  "He bloody well did. Bit the arse out of Mulligan's trousers and got a fair chunk of the nether cheeks of the law as well."

  "Oh, dear."

  "I was lucky he didn't haul Arthur away, but Mulligan's a decent lad. I just have to be a bit careful."

  "I can see why."

  The front doorbell rang.

  Barry opened the door to find a stranger standing in the rain. He wore a bus conductor's outfit and carried a flute. Rivulets of blood ran through an elaborate, Brylcreemed pompadour that would have made Elvis Presley proud. "Come in." Barry took the man into the surgery, relieved him of his flute, and parked him in the patients' chair. "What's your name?"

  "Sammy Greer, from Cullybackey." The man's words were slurred.

  "Nasty cut you have there, Mr. Greer," Barry said, staring at the middle of the man's head. It was dead centre and shaped like a cross. It looked as if someone had given a ripe orange a solid whack. "It's going to need a stitch."

  "I don't give a shite. Get on with it."

  Barry glanced at O'Reilly. "Carry on, Doctor Laverty. I'll get the gear."

  "What happened?" Barry asked.

  Sammy Greer giggled. "I chucked a bottle at a fucking peeler, so I did. I got him too." Greer folded his arms. "Pity he got me back."

  So that's what Constable Mulligan's remark about drawing his truncheon and dispersing the crowd had meant.

  "Jesus Christ, would you hurry up? I've a couple of pints going flat back at the pub." He hawed and spat on the carpet. "Mind you, I don't think much of that place."

  "Charming," said O'Reilly, his nose tip ashen as he pushed the instrument trolley over beside the patient. "You scrub, Doctor Laverty. The instruments are ready."

  Barry scrubbed and then dried his hands, pleased that he was allowed to do the suturing.

  O'Reilly lifted a pair of scissors. "We'll have to clip off some of your hair."

  "You be bloody careful." Greer half focused bloodshot eyes on O'Reilly. "Took me fuckin' years to grow that."

  "All great achievements
take time," said O'Reilly, "but you'd not enjoy having hair sewn into the wound."

  "Indeed not," said Barry. He wondered how O'Reilly would I prevent this surly customer from getting the upper hand.

  "And I want it disinfected proper too. I know my rights, so I do."

  "I'm sure you do," said O'Reilly, deftly snipping through the greasy, blood-clotted hair. "I promise you'll have the best disinfecting job in all of County Down."

  "Fuckin' right."

  Barry filled a syringe with Xylocaine, laid it on the trolley top, and loaded a set of sponge forceps with gauze swabs. "Dettol please, Doctor O'Reilly."

  "No. That would sting too much. Use this." O'Reilly poured a dark liquid into a gallipot. Barry dipped the swabs, turned to the patient, and then hesitated. O'Reilly had certainly cleared the surgical field. He had shorn a patch right on the top of Greer's dome, a patch of the size and circular configuration of a monk's tonsure.

  Barry glanced at O'Reilly's face. It was perfectly expressionless. "Right," said Barry, "here we go." He used the soaked pads to paint the shorn patch. At the first stroke, when the man's scalp suddenly turned bright blue, Barry spun and stared at O'Reilly, who smiled gently and nodded. All right, Barry thought, and carried on. Greer sat stoically as the needle slipped into the skin of the wound edges. "Didn't feel a fuckin' thing."

  "You're one tough banana all right," said O'Reilly. "A real man."

  "You're fuckin' aye. Tough as fuckin' nails."

  And thick as two short planks, Barry thought, as he picked up a pair of forceps and a needle holder that O'Reilly had loaded with a curved needle armed with black silk.

  "I'll cut for you," said O'Reilly.

  Needle in one side, out the other, a rapid twirling of the thread round the forceps once and then repeated. The first knot was tied. "Good," said O'Reilly, as he clipped the thread. In what seemed to Barry like no time at all, the job was done. "Nice," said O'Reilly. "Really pretty."

  Barry wasn't sure if O'Reilly was referring to what were two tidily placed rows of black sutures in a wound that had now stopped bleeding. Perhaps he was alluding to his own unique contribution to the procedure.

  "Can I go now?" Sammy Greer asked.

  "Oh, indeed," said O'Reilly. "Don't forget your flute." Greer grabbed his instrument.

  "I'm sure your doctor in Cullybackey will be happy to take the stitches out for you next week. I don't suppose you'll want to come back here."

  Barry had great difficulty keeping a straight face. "Bloody right I won't."

  "Off you go then," said O'Reilly.

  As soon as the front door closed, O'Reilly began to laugh. "Oh dear, 'took me years to grow that.' It'll be weeks before the bald bit grows back."

  "And," Barry himself was almost helpless, "and 'I want it disinfected proper.'"

  "It was," said O'Reilly. "Oh, dear me. It was."

  "I know, Fingal, but did you have to give me gentian violet?"

  "Oh, yes. Oh, yes. And the beauty is that Sammy Greer can't see that the top of his head looks like a bright blue football with black cross lacing. And do you know what else?"

  "No."

  "The pair of us forgot to give him any painkillers, and oh boy, is he going to have a headache tomorrow."

  "Couldn't happen to a nicer man." Barry began to bring his laughter under control.

  "I do hope he's going back to Cullybackey tonight. I'd not want the poor lad to be travelling tomorrow."

  "Why not?"

  "Because tomorrow's the thirteenth. Friday the thirteenth."

  "So it is. You're off to the dogs tomorrow night, and I'm--"

  "Going to be left on your own here for a while. I think you're just about ready for that. You did a very good job of the suturing." Barry's pride in O'Reilly's praise was tempered by the knowledge that he was supposed to be taking Patricia out. "Don't look so worried, Barry. You'll get your dinner out tomorrow night. Friday the thirteenth? Pure superstition. Nothing's going to go wrong."

  The Best Laid Plans of Mice

  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."