An Irish Country Doctor

by Patrick Taylor

  The woman went up to the man and tapped him on the shoulder. He spun round and looked at O'Reilly.

  "How's about ye, Doctor O'Reilly?" The man's face, leathery brown but for several irregular white puckered scars, broke into a grin.

  "How are you, Hughey?"

  The man cupped a hand behind one ear. Barry noticed the tufts of hair sticking out from the auditory canal.

  "What?" Hughey frowned and shook his head. "Hit the bloody tray, Doreen."

  Barry jumped when Doreen belaboured the tray with the spoon. He glanced at O'Reilly and saw him put a hand to his head. The horrid clangour must have been working wonders for O'Reilly's hangover. It had certainly disturbed the equanimity of a pair of pigeons, which had taken flight from their perch on a chimney mounted television aerial.

  "I said, How are you, Hughey? Are you managing with your medicine?" O'Reilly was roaring at his patient.

  "I'm bravely. But them eardrops aren't worth a tinker's damn." Barry could hardly make out the man's words above the constant clanging. What was going on?

  "Sorry to hear that," O'Reilly yelled. "Maybe you'd better stop using them. Pity they didn't work."

  "Och, what can't be cure must be endured." Hughey gave Doreen a sideways glance. "At least I don't have to pay any heed to her craking on."

  "Away off and feel your head," she said and pecked his cheek. "I'll not bang this wee drum for you anymore." And mercifully she stopped. "So is that it, Doctor O'Reilly?"

  "I'm afraid so, Doreen. I asked the ear doctor in Belfast, and he says he's done the best he can. It's a shame that he can do no more."

  "It is. But I still have my man, the out' goat." Once again she started to bang away. "The doctor says he can do no more, Hughey."

  The man nodded. "Just like the old song. 'I'm too old to work, but I'm too young to die.'"

  "Away off and chase yourself. I'm puttin' a big fry on for your supper, and there's a couple of bottles of stout in the house. You'd not die before you got those into you, would you?" He shook his head.

  "I'll see the doctors out then. Away you, back to your flowers." He nodded and turned back to the little blooms as the sound of clanging and the last of the sunlight died.

  "He loves his wee flowers, so he does," she said, and Barry saw the moisture in her eyes.

  "I've never seen anything like that," Barry said, as he closed the Rover's door.

  "Bloody shipyards," said O'Reilly, driving away. "Hughey was a riveter. Did you see the scars on his face? You can't work with red hot metal all your life and not get a few burns."

  "But what was the business with the tin tray?"

  "Have you ever heard riveters at work?"

  "No."

  "I have. In Valletta Harbour in Malta during the war. They were fixing up the Ark Royal after she'd been bombed. A thousand men with rivet guns pounding away? It's like the proverbial hammers of hell. It's a wonder more men don't lose their hearing." He pulled the car to the side of Main Street, before the maypole and the traffic light. "Hughey's deaf as a post. Riveters' deafness."

  "But he can hear if someone hammers on a tin tray?"

  "Right. Don't ask me why, but it's true."

  "Amazing."

  "It is," said O'Reilly, opening the car door. "Now that's all the calls for today, and I need a wee cure."

  "A what?"

  "A hair of the dog. I wasn't quite abstemious last night."

  "Oh," said Barry tactfully.

  "I'll buy you a pint in the Duck."

  "Fine."

  "Just one, mind. The pair of us'll have to be in top form tomorrow. Half the ones I chased away this morning will show up, and you've to see Cissie Sloan about her thyroid. Her results should be back."

  "That's right."

  "And if the bloody mice haven't died again we should know for sure about the wee MacAteer girl's pregnancy."

  "We might even know more than that, Fingal. Kinky's going to the Women's Union tonight."

  "What has that to do with the price of corn?"

  "I forgot to tell you. Kinky thinks that Julie could be a housemaid at the Bishops', and she'll try to find out from Mrs. Bishop tonight."

  "Interesting," said O'Reilly, "but I'm drier than the bottom of an empty flour sack. You can tell me all about it in the Duck."

  All Professions Are Conspiracies Against the Laity

  Barry was disappointed that he'd not had a chance to speak to Kinky the previous night after her return from the Women's Union, but he and O'Reilly had been called out to attend another confinement. He grinned as he knotted his tie. If many more mothers expressed their gratitude by calling the baby after him, it would be tricky trying to decide which little Ballybucklebo Barry was which. He wasn't going to complain. It worked wonders for the morale to see a baby safely delivered by a grateful, healthy woman. It might not be as challenging as brain surgery, as intellectually stimulating as being a cardiologist or an endocrinologist, but--Barry was irritated that he could not express his own thoughts more coherently-- it felt right. And that was a good feeling. He headed for the dining room.

  "Morning, Fingal."

  "You look like the cat that got the cream." O'Reilly glanced up from a plate of devilled lambs' kidneys. "Feeling pleased with yourself?"

  "Well, I . . ."

  "So you should. You've a knack for midwifery." Barry helped himself to a small portion, inhaling the steam from another of Kinky's mysterious but inevitably delicious sauces. "I know," said O'Reilly. "You came down here to give general practice a try."

  Barry turned from the sideboard.

  "I'd not want to force you to stay." O'Reilly's gaze was level. "You might do better if you specialized in obstetrics and gynaecology." Barry wasn't sure what to say. He had wondered last night about that very possibility.

  "You have to do what's right for yourself, son."

  "That's generous of you, Fingal."

  "Balls."

  "It is."

  O'Reilly took a deep breath. "I wanted to be an obstetrician. Bloody war came along, so like a buck eejit I volunteered. After it was over, I was too old to spend another four years training. I'd to make a living. And it's not been so bad here."

  Barry remembered his dad saying that the casualties of war couldn't be counted only among the dead and wounded. "I didn't know."

  "Why would you?" O'Reilly's words were gruff.

  Barry shook his head. "No reason. I'm flattered that you would tell me.

  "Bollocks. I'm only telling you so you'll not think I'm being-- what did you say--generous?"

  Silly old bugger, Barry thought, you'd die of mortification if you let anyone suspect you'd a soft side. "Perhaps that was the wrong word. I meant you were being fair."

  O'Reilly seemed to be mollified. "It's up to you. Now eat and shut up. I've a lot I want to think about." O'Reilly hunched over his plate, shovelled in another mouthful, and chewed fiercely. Barry sat. He too had a lot to think about. Obstetrics and gynaecology had much to recommend it. He had no doubt that he'd enjoy obstetrics. Plenty of satisfied patients when things went well--and they usually did. The snag was gynaecology. Days in clinics dealing with women with vaginal discharges and heavy periods. Or having to break their hearts because they cannot conceive. The poor things had a pathetic belief that their doctors could help, but he knew that in most cases little or nothing of any proven value could be done. It was a damn good thing so many did conceive--usually despite their doctors. And then there were the cancer cases. He shuddered. Ovary. Cervix. He'd seen women die of both, despite heroic radical surgery, despite massive doses of horribly debilitating radiotherapy.

  "Your kidneys are getting cold," O'Reilly said. "Kinky'll kill you."

  "What?"

  "Shove those bloody things back in the chafing dish. Maybe she'll not notice."

  "Right." Barry rose and was scraping off the last of the congealed mess when Kinky strode in, took one look at what he was doing, and sniffed--a sniff of such force that, as she would say he
rself, might suck a small cat up a chimney.

  "And was there something the matter with the kidneys, so?" she asked, arms folded, chins wobbling.

  Barry scuttled for cover like a mouse scared by a flashlight. "Not at all. My eyes were bigger than my belly. I couldn't finish what I took."

  "Huh."

  "It's a fact," said O'Reilly. "Greedy bashtoon. Mind you, I can't say I blame him." He handed her his plate, which was so thoroughly cleaned that Barry thought O'Reilly had probably ingested some of the pattern as well. "They were heavenly." He forced a small belch. "Beg pardon."

  "Granted, so," she said, unfolding her arms and accepting the plate. She peered at the chafing dish. "There's the makings of a good-steak-and-kidney pie there if you'd not mind kidneys again for your supper."

  "That would be wonderful," said Barry. "Kinky?"

  "What?"

  "Did you get a word with Mrs. Bishop last night?" Kinky beamed.

  "Aye, and you were right. The wee Rasharkin lassie is a housemaid at the Bishops'. Only a poor wee skivvy, so." Barry smiled. The class distinctions among those in service were as rigid as the caste system of India. A housekeeper was as far above a housemaid--a skivvy--as a Brahmin was above a sweeper.

  "How long has she worked there?" O'Reilly asked. "Three months."

  O'Reilly counted on his fingers. "Interesting. And how does she get on with the Bishops?"

  "Mrs. Bishop's heartbroken that Julie's given her notice. The wee girl wouldn't give a reason for a while. Now she says she has a sick sister living in Liverpool."

  O'Reilly glanced at Barry.

  Kinky sniffed, more gently. "Mrs. Bishop's fit to be tied. She's crosser than a wet hen, so. She thinks that there's no such thing as a sister in England."

  "What does she think?"

  "That Bertie Bishop's always had an eye for the ladies. Mrs. Bishop can't be sure, but she thinks her husband maybe pinched the wee lass's bottom once too often."

  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."
<
br />   "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."