An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea

by Patrick Taylor

O’Reilly made a mental note of that. “But you wouldn’t mind taking some call?” he said. “We’d expect you to cover one in four, and the same at weekends.”

  “I’m single so I’m perfectly happy to help out with call, and live in if you have room.”

  “There’s a bedroom in the attic.”

  “Suits me, and GP call is usually a lot less onerous. Frankly, one in four will be a luxury.” He heard the depth of feeling in her voice. “I’ve been used to one in three.”

  “I’m sure,” Barry said, “you could get an even better rota in a big group practice in Belfast. Why Ballybucklebo?”

  “I’m a country girl, Barry,” she said, “from Rasharkin. I like to think I understand country patients. Jenny told me about the well-woman clinic here. I discussed it with Doctor Harley. He advised me to consider that field. It’s even more nine to five. He arranged for me to work in that area. So I’d have a good on-call schedule, be doing something I think I’m good at, with patients I can work with.”

  “So,” said O’Reilly, “you’ve extra training like Jenny?”

  “Not as much, but yes.”

  She seemed personable enough, O’Reilly thought, wants to come for some of the right reasons.

  Barry rose. “Fingal, I don’t have any more questions. Thank you, Nonie. I’d better get the surgery going.” He headed for the door.

  “Nice seeing you, Barry,” she said to his back.

  Barry closed the door behind him.

  O’Reilly sat back in his chair. That hadn’t gone quite as he had hoped. And yet she had all the right requirements. He liked her. Perhaps she would bring the lad around. “So,” he said, “I think I understand why you want to come. You’ve been honest. I like that. Finish your coffee,” he said, “and let me show you round. We’ll talk more while you get the conducted tour.”

  “Lead on, Doctor.”

  “Waiting room,” he said a minute later, and was greeted by a chorus from inside of “Good morning, Doctors.”

  “Now there’s something you don’t see every day,” she said, pointing to the mural of roses on the far wall. “I like it.”

  “A young woman with taste.” He warmed to that.

  “But how does everyone know I’m a doctor too?”

  “Excuse me, miss,” Cissie Sloan said, “but this here’s Ballybucklebo. That nice Doctor Bradley telt Aggie Arbuthnot, her with the six toes, that Doctor O’Reilly was going til get a new lady assistant. Aggie telt Jeannie Jingles, and Jeannie telt Flo Bishop, and Flo…”

  “All right, Cissie. Thank you,” O’Reilly said. “We get the message.” He turned to Nonie. “News travels here.”

  “It’s like Rasharkin. Telegraph, telephone, television, or tell, I believe you said, Aggie Arbuthnot?”

  “You’re dead on, Doctor,” said Cissie. She giggled and everybody else joined in.

  “Now settle down,” O’Reilly said, noting that Nonie was quick off the mark and clearly had a sense of humour. “Doctor Laverty won’t be long.”

  He led Nonie along the hall, knocked on the surgery door, and heard Barry’s “Come in.”

  O’Reilly said, “Hello, Irene. I hope you don’t mind—”

  “Hello, Doctor O’Reilly, sir, and hello, Doctor Stevenson.” Irene Beggs was sitting on one chair while Barry examined her newborn son. The fibroid that had complicated her pregnancy had had no effect on the child. Little Eric was thriving.

  “Nice for til see you again. And thanks for looking after me at the RMH.”

  “I delivered Mrs. Beggs,” the young doctor said, “two weeks ago. How’s the bairn?”

  “Wee Eric’s doing rightly, so he is. Me and Davy’s tickled pink.”

  “Great,” said Nonie.

  “Och,” O’Reilly said, “a baby brings its own welcome. Now, I’m sure Doctor Laverty would like to get on, so we’ll be off.”

  “The surgery’s well set up,” Nonie said once they were in the hall.

  “It is.”

  “I could certainly run a clinic there, but it badly needs a new examining couch.”

  In his mind’s eye, O’Reilly pictured the battered couch. How long had it had that tuft of stuffing sticking out from the top left corner? “We could probably stretch to that. I inherited it from Doctor Flanagan, who’d been in practice here since before the war,” said O’Reilly. He was beginning to wonder who was interviewing whom. On the other hand, she had a point.

  He and Nonie left the surgery, only to meet Lars coming downstairs.

  “Morning, Finn.”

  O’Reilly made the introductions. Lars had arrived last night. Tonight he, O’Reilly, and Kitty would be having a get-to-know-you dinner with the marquis, and tomorrow Lars would begin working on the legal aspects of the marquis’s estate planning.

  “Don’t let me interrupt, Finn,” he said. “I’m nipping up to Belfast.”

  “Drive carefully,” O’Reilly said as they headed along the corridor.

  “This,” he said, as they entered the big warm kitchen with its wonderful cooking smells, “this is the nerve centre, and this is Mrs. Kinky Auchinleck, the brains of the outfit, and that,” he pointed, “is Arthur Guinness, the sleepiest lummox in all Ulster.”

  “What a lovely dog,” the young woman said, bending to pat Arthur’s head. “My father runs Labradors too. Wonderful breed.” That put up her stock with O’Reilly. “Kinky, meet Doctor Nonie Stevenson, who may be coming to take over from Jenny.”

  “I do be very pleased to meet you, so, Doctor.”

  “Mrs. Auchinleck.”

  “The clinic may not be your cup of tea, but I warn you, Nonie, tasting one of Kinky’s meals will keep you coming back for the rest of your life.” He laughed. “It’s definitely not canteen grub.”

  “Will you run away on, Doctor O’Reilly, sir, and not tease a poor Corkwoman? I have an orange sponge in the oven that needs my attention, so. If you’ll go into the dining room, sir. I need to hoover the upstairs lounge and I don’t want you underfoot. I’ll bring you both coffee and a slice of the new cake in a shmall-little minute.”

  “Don’t say you’ve already had coffee,” O’Reilly said. “No one should miss out on Kinky’s sponge cakes.”

  Nonie laughed and said, “I’m easy to convince.”

  As they returned to the dining room, he said, “I assume you are seriously interested in the position. Taking over from Jenny, running the well-woman clinic, helping out with call, taking the occasional surgery?”

  “I am,” she said. “Doctor Harley and Jenny have already explained the way the clinic runs. Terms of service. Salary. I’ve learnt all the techniques I’ll need.”

  O’Reilly pulled out a chair. “Shoo, Lady Macbeth.” The little cat sprang to the floor and promptly made herself comfortable on another chair. “Have a pew,” O’Reilly said. He waited until Nonie was seated and took a chair opposite. “But you don’t like working nights?”

  She inhaled deeply.

  Was she going to bridle? He didn’t give her a chance. “Not everybody’s a night owl. Brave of you to face it and confess rather than get stuck doing a job you’re not cut out for.”

  She exhaled. “Thank you.”

  “And it sounds as if your training fits the bill.” What he’d seen, he liked, particularly her easy way with Cissie Sloan, and it was imperative to fill Jenny’s position. If Barry had had severe reservations, Fingal was sure he’d not have kept them to himself. “I must discuss this with Barry,” O’Reilly said, but was happy enough with the prospect of hiring her. “I’ll have to wait until the surgery’s over, and it’s already running late, but can I reach you by phone in RMH after lunch?”

  “Call the switchboard. They’ll page me.”

  “If we do offer you the job, it’ll be the usual three months’ notice of termination by either side?”

  “I was going to ask about that, but three months is fine, and I hope it won’t be invoked by either side.”

  “When could you start?”

 
“I know Jenny would like to get away as soon as possible, so Monday, January the second would be fine,” she said. “I’m seeing the new year in with Mum and Dad and my big brother and his wife at the family home in Rasharkin.”

  No havering. Quick, clean decision. Good. “I’ll phone you after lunch.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “That’s settled,” he said.

  “There is one thing,” she said. “Charlie Whitfield knew I was coming down. He asked me to tell you that your patient Lorna Kearney was delivered on Friday. The baby had a bit of jaundice, but is doing well. You’ll get a letter with all the details. They are expecting to discharge mother and baby on Thursday, so he asks could you make a home visit next Friday? Check up on it?”

  O’Reilly didn’t like the “it,” but understood that hospital specialists, even trainees, grew to be impersonal about their patients. “It’ll be a pleasure,” he said. “She’s Barry’s patient so we’ll probably drop in together.”

  Nonie smiled. “Her husband visited her and the baby the next day. Brought Lorna flowers and the wee one a New Testament.”

  “We’re early readers in County Down,” O’Reilly said, and they both laughed.

  The aroma of coffee and freshly baked orange cake preceded Kinky into the dining room. She set cups before the doctors, and the sliced cake.

  “Kinky, Doctor Stevenson may be joining us,” O’Reilly said.

  “And you’ll be as welcome as spring flowers if you do, so,” Kinky said, beaming and pouring coffee. “And do you take milk or sugar?”

  “Milk, please.”

  Kinky handed over the cup. “It’s hot, and please help yourself to a slice of cake. Now I must run.”

  “You were right about Mrs. Auchinleck’s baking, Fingal. Delicious.”

  “I warned you,” he said. “Now enjoy it.” He snaffled a second piece of cake as the two lapsed into a comfortable silence and he tried to picture Doctor Nonie Stevenson around the Number One dining table.

  Well trained? Yes. Sense of humour? Yes. Makes quick decisions? Yes. Approves of rose murals and Labrador dogs? Definitely yes. Hmmm. Doesn’t like night call? Gets Bolshie when tired? Barry not overly enthusiastic? Not so good. They’d need to discuss her, but as O’Reilly contemplated another half piece of Kinky’s orange sponge, the balance tipped in Nonie Stevenson’s favour.

  * * *

  “So. What do you reckon, Barry?” O’Reilly asked from where he sat at the head of the dining table. Surgery was over. “I think she’s well trained. Could be a bit thorny.”

  “I did notice her ‘And I’ll have questions of my own.’”

  “Well, she’s honest. Can we work with her? She’d been on call last night and she seemed fine.” O’Reilly had already decided he could.

  Barry frowned. “I never saw it when we were students, but she had a bit of a reputation of being difficult to get along with, particularly when it came to swapping on-call nights, and you know how important that is for us if something personal comes up.”

  “Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

  “Didn’t want to give a dog a bad name before you’d had a chance to make your own impressions. And honestly, with four of us, even if she doesn’t want to change a night, one of the other two will.”

  O’Reilly frowned. “We have the three-month clause.” He pursed his lips. “Right,” he said. “Let’s give her a try, shall we? She can start in January.”

  “Okay by me,” Barry said, “and Jenny will be pleased. I’ll miss her.”

  “Me too.” O’Reilly rose. “I’ll call Nonie right now.” He laughed. “And don’t let my lunch get cold. I’ve to phone the switchboard at RMH and you know how long that can take.” He was still chuckling as he dialled the number.

  * * *

  “Thank you, Thompson. Please tell Cook we’ll dine in half an hour.” Now that Thompson had served drinks, the marquis dismissed his valet/butler, a man who had been with O’Reilly on Warspite before taking service here. “Is everyone’s drink all right?”

  There was a chorus of assent from the other four people, Kitty, O’Reilly, Lars, and Myrna Ferguson, née MacNeill, the marquis’s widowed sister, all sitting in high wing-backed armchairs around a log fire. One of his lordship’s Irish setters lay in front of the grate. Above the mantel hung a portrait of a much younger Captain Lord John MacNeill, smart in his Irish Guards uniform, standing beside his late wife, Lady Laura. It was a decent portrait but it didn’t capture the striking woman O’Reilly remembered meeting before a Boxing Day fox hunt just before the war. She’d been gracious and full of life and the marquis had been gutted when she died.

  Two adjoining walls were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stuffed with shelf upon shelf of tomes. Each sat behind a moveable ladder with wheels on a rail above.

  “Those are dangerous-looking spears,” Kitty said, inclining her head to a display hung on another wall.

  “The spears are called assegais and those clubs beside them knobkerries. In African tribal warfare, the assegais were probably the equivalent of the longbow at Crecy and Agincourt. They and that zebra hide shield have hung above that desk,” the marquis said, “since great-grandFather fought in the Zulu war of 1879 at Ishandlwana. He brought the weapons back as souvenirs. Regrettably he neglected to bring back his right hand.”

  Kitty shuddered visibly. “Bloodthirsty lot, the Zulus,” she said.

  “Can hardly blame them,” Lars said. “Victoria’s empire was pinching their lands.”

  “A bit like bloody Harold Wilson’s Labour Government is trying to pinch ours,” Myrna said.

  “And that’s why I’m so grateful to you, Lars, for coming here to advise us,” the marquis said. “I do hope you will be able to sort things out.”

  “I’ll do my very best, my lord,” Lars said.

  “Please, it’s John,” the marquis said. “We don’t stand on ceremony here. Isn’t that right, Fingal?”

  “It is indeed,” O’Reilly said, marvelling as always at the peer’s innate ability to put folks at their ease.

  “And,” the marquis said, indicating neat piles of files and ledgers on his desk, “my sister’s been getting things ready for you.”

  “I have,” Myrna said, pointing to the desktop. “Books, accounts. Mister Simon O’Hally, the family solicitor, will be joining us tomorrow afternoon, Mister O’Reilly.”

  Lars used an index finger to stroke one side of his slim moustache. “Please,” he said, “it’s Lars, and may I—”

  “Good gracious, yes. Myrna, please.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Good,” she said, and favoured him with the kind of smile O’Reilly had last seen on her face the day she’d taken a right and left of woodcock.

  Lars seemed to be on the verge of blushing. O’Reilly’s big brother had never been comfortable with women, not since he’d been jilted by a judge’s daughter on a Christmas Eve back in Dublin.

  “And I must say I’m fully confident,” she said, “you will succeed in sorting things out for John and help us hang on to the grouse moor and the shooting on the estate.”

  “Myrna’s a crack shot,” O’Reilly said. “Lars used to shoot, but he’s with the RSPB now. Does a lot of conservation.”

  “I don’t have much time for that,” Myrna said, “at least not for the idiotic folk that get all bitter and twisted about us shooting preserved game birds. The stocks are never allowed to dwindle. The species aren’t at risk. The same people don’t flinch from eating a steak. Do you know there’s even talk about a movement to ban fox hunting? It’ll be our shooting and fishing next, mark my words.”

  “I believe,” Kitty said gently, “you’ve had a couple of tragedies in the field.”

  “Well, yes, I have,” Myrna said. “Lost my husband of twenty years in a hunting accident seven years ago. Bust my own femur jumping last year.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Myrna,” Lars said.

  She shrugged. “Thank you. I’m over
it all now, and life must go on. Foxes must be controlled. The Celts were hunting them before the Romans arrived in Britain. And the MacNeills have supported the hunt since before the United Irishmen rose in 1798.” She made a guttural noise in her throat and shook her head several times. “There’s too many bally self-important busybodies around these days trying to tell other folks what to do.”

  She paused but was warming to her thesis when Lars spoke. He frowned and stiffened his shoulders. While he could be quite loquacious with those close to him, he tended to be shy with strangers. “I don’t mean to contradict you, Mrs. Ferguson”—the return to formality was not lost on Fingal—“but many species do need our help.” He was emphatic in stressing the “do.”

  “Until the war, the wild pale-bellied brent geese population on Strangford was being decimated, almost driven to extinction. They represent the only members of the species on the planet. Our efforts are bringing them back. The nene, the Hawaiian goose, was only saved by the efforts of Peter Scott, Scott of the Antarctic’s son, and his people at Slimbridge. I’m sorry, but conservation is needed.”

  Myrna said, “I can perhaps agree there, but keep your hands off our grouse and pheasants, I—”

  Thompson appeared, coughed discreetly, and said, “Dinner will be served in ten minutes, my lord.”

  “Thank you. Everyone drink up,” the marquis said, “and we’ll head through to the dining room.”

  Kitty glanced at O’Reilly and he noticed a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. He’d been a fool to mention Lars’s conservation work. He’d forgotten how outspoken Myrna could be. “Tell me, Myrna,” Kitty said, “how are things at Queen’s these days?”

  Good lass, Fingal thought.

  Not giving her a chance to answer, Kitty went on, “Myrna is actually Doctor Ferguson, Lars. She has a D.Sc. in physical chemistry and is a reader, one step down from a professor, at Queens.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Lars. “Do you know Professor Henbest?”

  “He’s organic chemistry,” she said, “so only slightly.” She hesitated. “And,” Myrna said with an impish grin, “such a learnèd woman should have better manners than to get up on her high horse with a guest on a matter which might well be of great interest to her but is trivial in the great scheme of things. Lars, I apologise; indeed I apologise to the company.”