An Irish Country Doctor

by Patrick Taylor

  "Well, I-"

  "Of course not. And not living up to your own personal standards last night may seem like the end of the world to you. It's not. You'll make mistakes. Even when you've done absolutely everything right, you'll still ask yourself questions when somebody falls off the perch in spite of you. But none of us is the Pope in Rome speaking ex cathedra."

  "What?"

  "Ex cathedra. That's when your man's being infallible. You're beating the holy bejasus out of yourself because you think you should be infallible. That's why I'm disappointed. You should know better than that." O'Reilly released Barry's shoulder and stepped back. "Let up, boy. Go easy on yourself." Barry looked up at the big man. The hint of a smile was at the corner of his lips as he said, "How long have you been here?"

  "Two weeks."

  "That's long enough for me. I've told you, Laverty, you've the makings of a damn good GP. But you'll never last if you insist on taking everything to heart."

  "I still think I could've done a better job."

  "Yes," said O'Reilly levelly, "you could, but you recognize it and that's to your credit. What happened can't be helped. Learn from it, and put it behind you."

  Barry could not honestly say that he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, but somehow the pressure seemed to be less.

  A huge grin erupted on O'Reilly's face, and Barry had to smile back.

  "Good man, Barry." O'Reilly finished his whiskey. "Do you know what I do when this bloody place gets to be like the seventh circle of Dante's Inferno?" He crossed to the sideboard and refilled his glass. Barry resisted the temptation to say, "get pissed."

  "I don't know."

  "I take old Arthur down to Strangford Lough."

  "To go wildfowling?"

  "That's the excuse, but the ducks don't really matter. Nothing like a day in the open air, away from whatever the hell you do for a living to give you a chance to get your mind straightened out."

  "I used to go fishing."

  O'Reilly looked at his watch. "It's only two o'clock. Why don't you grab your rod and head down to His Lordship's? There'll probably be a good trout rise this evening. And there's still the odd salmon in the Bucklebo River."

  "I'd like that, Fingal."

  "So finish your whiskey. Kinky'll make you some sandwiches. Off you go. Forget about Fotheringham. Forget about your broken heart. Girls are like buses. There's always another one along soon."

  "Do you believe that?"

  "No," said O'Reilly, "but there's no reason you shouldn't."

  "I see."

  "I'll look after the shop, and Barry, would you do me a favour?"

  "Of course."

  "Take Arthur Guinness with you. He loves a day down at the river."

  Barry, rod in hand, wicker creel half-full of Kinky's ham sandwiches slung over his shoulder, and hip waders buckled to his belt, let himself out through the back door. At least if the dog had a go at Barry's leg, this time he was well dressed for the occasion. "Here, Arthur."

  The big dog, tail going at thirteen to the dozen, lolloped from his doghouse, poised ready to mount Barry's leg, hesitated, sniffed the rubber boots, and turned away with a look of disdain. "Heel."

  Arthur looked at Barry, seemed to be having some difficulty making up his mind, and sat.

  "Don't sit. Heel. Heel, you great lummox." That's what O'Reilly called his dog. To Barry's surprise the big Labrador rose and stood behind Barry's left leg. He kept his muzzle there as Barry walked the length of the garden and into the lane. Barry opened Brunhilde's back door. "Get in."

  "Aarff," said Arthur, obeying immediately. Barry shut the door, climbed in, and drove off. He followed O'Reilly's instructions. Out of Ballybucklebo and along the shore road. He was just about to pass Maggie's cottage when he saw her, sitting in a canvas-and wood deck chair surrounded by Sonny's dogs. He braked and wound down the window.

  "How are you today, Miss MacCorkle?" He noticed she had fresh snap-dragons in her hatband.

  "Is it yourself, Doctor dear?"

  "Doctor O'Reilly saw Sonny last night. He's on the mend." Maggie said, "I should hope so. Then he can come and take these flea-ridden beasts away." But her words were out of place with the way she fondled a dog's head and grinned toothlessly. "How does General Montgomery like having the dogs about the place?"

  She cackled. "You'd not believe it. The ould General's made up with Sonny's spaniel. They're best friends just like David and Jonathan now, so they are." She rose and strolled over to the car. "Is that Arthur you have in there?"

  "It is."

  "Keep him in. The General's got used to having Sonny's ones here, but I don't think he'd take too kindly to Doctor O'Reilly's big lad."

  "I'll be running on anyway. Just wanted to let you know about Sonny."

  "Huh." She scratched her cheek. "He's on the mend?"

  "Very much so."

  "I suppose we should be grateful."

  "I am." At least, Barry thought, some of them do recover. "I wonder did the pneumonia cure his stubborn streak?"

  "Now that I couldn't tell, Miss MacCorkle."

  "If it did, it would be like the day Himself turned the water into wine. An honest-to-God miracle."

  Barry laughed. "We'll have to wait and see."

  "Is that a rod in the motorcar?"

  "It is."

  "Well, if you're going fishing, go on with you, and thanks for dropping by."

  "My pleasure." Barry put the Volkswagen into gear and pulled away.

  He drove past a red-brick gatehouse that stood guard over two high wrought-iron gates, each bearing the crest of the marquis of Ballybucklebo. A long drive led to the Big House with its Georgian facade and ornate planters ablaze with nasturtiums and pansies. At the head of an immaculately manicured lawn, the topiarist's work on five evergreens was clearly visible, although Barry had some difficulty determining whether one was meant to be a horse, a rabbit, or a ruptured duck.

  O'Reilly had said that the first fork to the right led to the river-- a rutted lane that disappeared beneath huge elms. The car jolted along. Arthur gave voice to a series of excited yips. Tree branches scraped the windows until, leaving the small wood behind, Barry found himself in a broad meadow. The path crossed the field and led to what must be the banks of the Bucklebo, where willows, some drooping silvered foliage, others polled and knobby-headed, wandered in a meandering line, presumably, Barry thought, following the curves of the stream.

  The lane petered out. Barry parked and lifted his gear from the car. Arthur leapt out and began to quarter the ground ahead of Barry, running to the left, then to the right, nose to the ground, tail thrashing. Barry followed the dog through knee-high grass until he could see up ahead the waters of the Bucklebo. He lengthened his stride, clumsy in the waders.

  A clattering of wings startled him when a pair of mallard strained to gain height as they leapt from a patch of bulrushes, chased out by a now soaking Arthur Guinness. The dog trotted back to Barry and looked at him as if to ask, "Why didn't you shoot?" "Heel, Arthur." Barry did not want the dog to disturb the water. Trout, he knew from long experience, were easily scared. To his surprise Arthur obeyed instantly and followed, tucked in behind Barry's leg as he covered the last few yards to the riverbank. "Sit." Down went Arthur's backside. His pink tongue quivered as he panted. I'm not surprised, Barry thought. Galloping about the way the dog had in the afternoon's bright sunlight would be warm work.

  He stood and studied the water. The current flowed gently from his left to his right. Upstream a wide curve swirled with the current, and sunlight dappled, extended from the far bank to the centre stream. There might be a fish at the tail of the ripple. Across on the far side--Barry had no doubt that he could reach there with a cast--he saw the still, dark waters of what must be a deep pool shaded by the branches of a willow. Trout would lurk there, waiting hungrily for any insects unlucky enough to fall from the tree.

  "Come on, Arthur." Barry walked slowly upstream. O'Reilly was right. S
omething was soothing about the solitude of a riverbank. Was it the gurgling of the water, the distant lowing of a herd of Aberdeen Angus grazing on the far bank, the susurration of a slight breeze in the leaves of the willows? Perhaps it was simply the knowledge that no one could call him there, nothing could force him to make any decision more important than which artificial fly to choose. Whatever it was, the riverbank--he thought of Moley and Ratty in The Wind in the Willows--was a place for reflection. It was a haven where Barry could look into his thoughts and decide whether O'Reilly was right about learning from a mistake and about moving on. Or whether the calamity, as Barry saw it, of Major Fotheringham was a clear indication that general practice was the wrong choice, that perhaps pathology or radiology, specialities with little or no contact with patients, might suit his temperament better.

  He was close to the run at the curve of the river. Barry unslung his creel, propped his rod against a willow, and sat on the grass beneath, back against the tree's bole. Arthur flopped down beside him. And what about Patricia? O'Reilly was wrong on that account. As far as Barry was concerned, despite their short acquaintance--a train journey, a walk, and a disastrous dinner--he knew with complete certainty that while there might be more fish in the sea (or in the Bucklebo River), for him there could never be another Patricia. Bloody typical. He could make up his mind about the only part of his life over which he had no control, but he still was confused about the professional part, the part that was his to do with as he saw fit.

  He sensed movement on the river's surface. A series of concentric rings had appeared and were spreading outward, exactly where he had anticipated that a fish might be lying. He saw why. The river's surface was dappled with tiny spots, each marking the place where an insect, newly released from its larval stage, had struggled to the surface, to rest there to dry its diaphanous wings and then take flight. If he was going to catch a trout, this was the time. They would feed, rising again and again to take the mayfly. He would have to make sure that his artificial fly matched the natural ones exactly. He rose, ignored Arthur's gruff aarf?, and went to the water's edge. Time to concentrate now, time to stop thinking about careers and women.

  He smiled, recognizing that he enjoyed being enmeshed in the day-to-day life of Ballybucklebo. Even so, Sonny's housing difficulties, Seamus Galvin's rocking ducks, Julie MacAteer's pregnancy, and Cissie Sloan's thyroid could wait. The mayfly were hatching.

  He bent and scooped up a handful of cold water. He let it dribble away between his fingers until he could see, resting in the palm of his hand, a single mayfly. He studied it closely and knew he had several well-tied imitations. He opened a small aluminium box, took out a fly, and tied it to the tip of his line.

  "How did you make out?" O'Reilly asked when Barry walked into the kitchen.

  Barry grinned, parked his rod, opened the creel, produced two shining brown trout, and dumped them into the sink. "Not bad," said O'Reilly. He opened a drawer, took out a knife, and handed it to Barry. "You caught 'em. You gut 'em."

  "Fair enough." Barry turned on the cold tap, took the first fish, and expertly slit it open, dragging the guts out with the fingers of one hand. A steady stream of bloodstained water ran through the fish's belly cavity and drained down the plughole. "That was slick," said O'Reilly. "Ever consider a career in surgery?" Barry shook his head. "No, but I did think over what you said." Barry laid the cleaned fish aside and reached for the other. "I didn't do all I could have for Fotheringham, but you're right. I will try to put it behind me."

  "Good lad.'To err is human.'"

  '"To forgive, divine.'" Barry sliced into the second fish. "Alexander Pope."

  "And you'll be pleased to hear that the Divinity must have been keeping an eye on you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Fotheringham had a small aneurysm. The neurosurgeon reckons he got it tied off all right and that the major should make a reasonable recovery."

  Barry's fingers stopped moving. He turned and saw that O'Reilly was smiling.

  "Honestly?"

  "Honestly." O'Reilly darted forward and flapped a big hand at the counter where Lady Macbeth, who had appeared from nowhere, sat eyeing the two trout. "Get to hell out of that." She sprang lightly to the floor and began to weave around Barry's legs.

  "Bah," said O'Reilly. "Cupboard love." He handed Barry a plate. "We'd better stick the fish in the fridge before Her Ladyship gets at them."

  "Right." Barry put the fish onto the plate. "Now," said O'Reilly, "tomorrow's Sunday. No surgery. I'd like to nip up to Belfast . . . see if I can't do something about those damn rocking ducks. Think you could manage on your own?" Barry hesitated.

  "Best thing you could do. Just like falling off a horse. Most riders--and I exclude Bertie Bishop from that category--think it's a good idea to get back into the saddle as soon as possible." He turned. "I'm off upstairs. Come and have a jar when you've cleaned yourself up."

  Barry stood holding the plate of fish, feeling the insistent pressure of the cat against his legs, grateful to O'Reilly for his understanding earlier in the day. Barry sensed that the business of O'Reilly's going to Belfast tomorrow might simply be an excuse so that he would have to cope single-handedly.

  He opened the door of the Electrolux fridge, took a deep breath, and looked up to the ceiling. He'd put religion behind him years ago, had not been able to reconcile the suffering he had seen as a student and houseman with the concept of a merciful deity, but today just in case he was wrong, he muttered a silent thank-you, unsure whether the thanks were for Major Fotheringham's good fortune or for his own second chance.

  Sunday Morning Coming Down

  Barry stood in the recess of the bay window. It was pouring outside, the rain lashing down in stair-rods, blackening the tiles of the steeple opposite, and drenching those members of the congregation who scurried to their cars. Most hurried away on foot, looking from his vantage point like umbrellas with legs. He saw Kinky cross the road and felt the door slam as she let herself in. He heard the phone jangle below. The ringing stopped. Kinky must have taken the call. If someone needed him, he hoped it would be a simple case. O'Reilly had left an hour ago.

  "Doctor Laverty."

  He walked to the door.

  "There's some foreign gentleman says he has to speak with you, so."

  "Right." Downstairs. He took the receiver. "Doctor Laverty."

  "Crikey. Is it being the great, healing sahib?" The man's muffled voice had the singsong cadence of what was known as Bombay Welsh. "I am very much tinking that I am wishing to consult the man of medicine, Doctor Lavatory."

  "It's Laverty."

  "That is what I am saying, Lavatory, and I am knowing it is yourself, Sahib. All the time I am saying to myself, I am wondering how the bringer of hygiene and healing to the untouchables of Ballybucklebo is faring."

  Barry started to laugh. "Stop buggering about, Mills. You're not Peter Sellers."

  "But I am tinking it is a pretty damn good impression of his Mr. Banerjee, isn't it?"

  "Jack. Stop it."

  "All right, mate. How the hell are you?"

  "Pretty fair."

  "What are you up to today?"

  "I'm on call."

  "I'm not. . . for once. I thought I'd take a run-race down and see you."

  "That'd be great. Hang on." He turned. "Kinky, could you manage lunch for two?"

  "Aye, so."

  "Come and have lunch."

  "Great. How do I get there?"

  Barry gave the directions.

  "Fair enough. I'll see you in about an hour."

  "I am on call, so if I'm not here, Mrs. Kincaid, the housekeeper, will let you in."

  "I'll wait for you." He slipped again into Bombay Welsh. "I must be running away and driving like a fleet he-goat running over the Hindu Kush Mountains, isn't it? Namaste, Sahib." The phone went dead.

  Barry chuckled and said to Mrs. Kincaid, "Jack Mills is an old friend of mine. He'll be here in about an hour. Look after him, will you,
Kinky, if I have to go out?"

  "I will, so." She bustled off to her kitchen, pausing only to ask, 'Would you like them fishes for your lunch?"

  "Yes, please." Barry went back upstairs. He lifted the Sunday Telegraph from the coffee table, found the cryptic crossword puzzle, and sat down, brow furrowed, and stared at the first clue. One across: "Rag's made very tatty underwear--it's most serious! (7)" Stupid way to pass the time, he thought, but he'd been addicted to trying to solve the things since his mother had introduced him to them years ago. And that was something else he'd better do. He really did owe his folks a letter. Perhaps he'd write tonight after Jack had gone. He settled into the chair and welcomed Lady Macbeth when she jumped into his lap. Rag's made very tatty? So he had to use a combination of the letters of "rag." Arg? Gra? Underwear. Knickers? Singlet? Vest? G-r-a-vest? 'Most serious? Gravest. Bingo! He wrote the word into the squares, only mildly hampered by the cat who wanted to play with his propelling pencil.

  He put the paper aside. Except for six down, "Refuse to boast about how old you are," he had managed to finish the cryptic. "Go on, cat." He stood and let Lady Macbeth slip to the floor. Outside, the rain had become a steady mizzle. Ballybucklebo lay grey and gloomy under its damp shroud. It certainly looked better when the sun shone but, and he was damned if he could remember who'd said it, "Into every life a little rain must fall." No sign of Jack Mills yet.

  Barry hunted through O'Reilly's record collection. Beethoven, Beatles, Bix Beiderbecke, Glenn Miller, II Nozze di Figaro, Frank Sinatra. He thought about putting This Is Sinatra on the Black Box, but realized that Ol' Blue Eyes crooning, "The Gal That Got Away" would be too close to home, and certainly "I've Got the World on a String" hardly described how he felt about Patricia. U Nozze di Figaro--surely that was the opera she'd been playing on Friday night? He lifted the sleeve and read the table of contents, looking for "Voi che something or other." There it was. He put the record on the turntable and swung the needle over the wider groove that separated the tracks.