An Irish Country Village

by Patrick Taylor

  “Not now. Later. Once the exam is over. Once you’ve won the scholarship.” He said the words with all the conviction he could muster, hating them as he spoke, hating the thought of their being parted. “Now,” he said, “I’ll expect to hear from you tomorrow night. Hear how you got on.”

  “I’ll phone.”

  “And I want to hear the minute you get the results.”

  She pursed her lips. “I promise.”

  “Good.” He kissed her cheek and turned for the door. “One other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you going home to Newry, or will you still be here on Saturday?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Good, because I’d like you to come with me to a wedding. Two lovely old folks.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Great.” He opened the door to see that the drizzle had turned into a steady downpour. “Do your very best tomorrow. I’ll be thinking about you.”

  “I will.”

  “Now I have to run on and see what Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly has waiting for me.” He ducked his head and ran to Brunhilde, hearing the door to Patricia’s flat close behind him.

  He Maketh the Storm to Cease

  The kitchen was warm after the rawness of the day outside. During the short time Barry had been at Patricia’s, the wind from the northeast had freshened and the rain kept coming in heavy squalls. Barry shifted the bag he was carrying and closed the door behind him.

  The smell of brandy was overpowering. He wondered if Mrs. Kincaid was a secret tippler. She stood at the counter, vigorously stirring the contents of a bowl she held under one beefy arm. The bowl’s contents were grey, glutinous looking, and studded with dark nuggets. He noticed a half-empty bottle of brandy close by.

  “You’re back, so,” she said.

  “I am.” He moved closer and peered over her shoulder. The brandy fumes were stronger—much stronger. “What’s that, Kinky?”

  “It’s this year’s Christmas cake,” she said. “I like to get it done a few months ahead so it’s got time to mature. Here.” She held out the bowl and gave him the wooden spoon. “Give it a stir for luck.”

  Barry knew better than to refuse, and heaven knew he could use a bit of luck. He plunged the spoon into the batter, but it was like stirring half-set cement. He marvelled at how easily Kinky had worked it. “There,” he said, and he handed the bowl back.

  Mrs. Kincaid decanted the mixture into a baking tin lined with greaseproof paper, set the full tin on a metal sheet, and popped it in the oven. “It’ll not look like much when it’s first done, but by Christmas when I’ve seasoned it with more brandy, put on a layer of marzipan, covered that with royal icing, and stuck on a few sprigs of holly, it’ll be a thing of beauty, so.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” He wondered if he’d be here at Christmas to see it.

  “Himself is very fond of my cakes.” She closed the oven door.

  Barry wasn’t surprised, particularly because it was now clear to him where the brandy had been going. “Is Doctor O’Reilly back?”

  “He is, and he’s waiting for you. He asked me to send you up directly you came in, so.”

  Waiting to tell me what Mrs. Fotheringham said, Barry thought, and sighed. “Right.” He went along the hall and upstairs. He could only hope that O’Reilly had been more successful this afternoon with Mrs. Fotheringham than he himself had been with Harry Sloan.

  He paused on the landing and glanced at the photograph of HMS Warspite. Last week O’Reilly had used the ship’s history of being battered at Jutland yet still recovering to fight again as a parable. It had seemed reasonable—then. Barry’d taken the older man’s advice, and for a while it had been working. The patients were starting to trust him again. But now? If he landed up in court?

  He shook his head, tucked his bag under one arm, and went into the lounge. The lights were on.

  O’Reilly stood in front of the fireplace, holding a glass of whiskey in one hand, scratching the crown of his head with the other. He stared down at Lady Macbeth, who sat erectly on the carpet at his feet, front paws together, front legs stiff, tail swishing from side to side. She, in her turn, stared up at O’Reilly’s moving hand.

  The little white cat growled, and then as if propelled by a rocket booster, from a sitting start, she shot vertically and landed spread-eagled on the front of O’Reilly’s waistcoat. Then she hauled herself onto his shoulder and crouched there, using her right forepaw to maul O’Reilly’s fingers.

  “I’ll be damned,” said O’Reilly, setting his glass on the mantel and enfolding her body with his now unencumbered hand. “That’s bloody nearly six feet from a standing start.” He set her gently on the floor. “What the hell’s Kinky feeding you, Your Ladyship?”

  “Your hand’s bleeding, Fingal.”

  O’Reilly turned from the cat. “I didn’t hear you come in.” He pulled a hanky from his pants pocket and dabbed at his hand. “Only a scratch,” he said and grinned. “Did you see the lepp of her? A thing of wonder. Maybe she has springs in her legs.” He bent and scratched the cat’s head. She rose, arched her back, and started to weave back and forth, thrusting her side against the back of O’Reilly’s now motionless hand. He grinned at Barry. “I call this ‘going on autostroke.’ She seems to like it.”

  Barry could hear the animal purring.

  O’Reilly waved at the sideboard. “Help yourself; then come and sit down.” O’Reilly dumped himself in an armchair.

  Barry tried to read any hint of an inflection in O’Reilly’s voice, but it was flat. Matter-of-fact. He set his bag on the nearest chair, poured himself a sherry, and took the other armchair. He could hear the downpour battering against the bow windows, driven by what was now a fully fledged northeaster.

  “Dirty night,” said O’Reilly. “Heaven help the sailors.” He picked up his glass from the mantel. “ ‘No man will be a sailor who has contrivance enough to get himself into a jail.’ ”

  Barry thought O’Reilly was quoting Samuel Johnson, but he didn’t feel like playing their now familiar game. He sat silently fidgeting, then took a sip of his sherry. He’d seen O’Reilly like this before—making small talk, refusing to come to the point—when he had something difficult to say. “I saw Harry Sloan,” Barry said.

  “Your pathologist friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  Barry shrugged. “He still hasn’t got any results.”

  “Bugger.”

  “He’s going to try to hurry things up, but it’ll still take a day or two. He’ll phone me.”

  O’Reilly held his glass in one hand and tapped it with his index finger. He looked directly at Barry. “Will he deliver?”

  “I think so.”

  “He’d better.” O’Reilly rose, crossed the floor, and pulled the curtains. Their thick material muffled the sounds of the gale. “I saw the widow this afternoon,” he said over his shoulder.

  Barry felt his hand tighten round the stem of his glass.

  “She’s fit to be tied. I’ve not seen such naked anger for a very long time.”

  Barry swallowed. His palms had started to sweat.

  O’Reilly stood and went to lean against the mantel. “It’s normal, of course. When people lose somebody dear, they want to lash out.” He fished out his briar. “And the widows who suffer worst are the ones who don’t know why their husbands died. I saw it in the war. The folks at home could accept ‘killed in action,’ but ‘missing’ left them in ruins.” He lit his pipe. “It’s probably the most difficult thing people have to try to handle.”

  “What is?”

  “Uncertainty.”

  “I know. Believe me. I do know.”

  Perhaps O’Reilly wasn’t concerned for Barry’s worries. He frowned and said, “You’d have to feel sorry for Mrs. Fotheringham. She’s in a powerful state.”

  Barry tried to, but at that moment he felt a great deal sorrier for himself.

  O’Reilly relea
sed a stream of blue smoke. “I spent an hour with her.”

  “So what’s going to happen, Fingal?”

  “Hard to be sure. I think I managed to calm her down a bit, get her to understand why she was so mad at you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I still couldn’t make her understand that suing you won’t bring the major back, won’t make her feel any better if she wins the case.”

  “Could she? Win, I mean.”

  O’Reilly shrugged. “Who can predict what’ll happen in a court of law? It’s nothing to do with justice. Our legal colleagues seem to think a trial’s some kind of sporting event, and the best lawyer gets the cup.”

  Barry hung his head. “I suppose I should get hold of my malpractice insurance company?”

  “Maybe later, if you do hear from her lawyer,” O’Reilly said, “but there’s no need to cross your bridges ’til you come to them.”

  “It sounds like I’m going to.” Barry put his glass of sherry to one side. “Doesn’t it?”

  O’Reilly tapped his pipe stem against his lower teeth. “Not necessarily. I did get her to agree that if we can give her a satisfactory explanation, borne out by hard facts from the pathologists, she’ll drop it. But she’s an appointment with her solicitor next Monday.”

  “Monday?” Barry stared up into O’Reilly’s face.

  O’Reilly nodded. “I’m pretty sure she’ll wait until then, but I’m damn well sure of something else too.”

  “What?”

  “I told you. The longer people don’t know what’s going on, the longer they have to stew over things, the madder they get. There’ll be no stopping her if we haven’t come up with some results by the weekend.”

  “I wish to God Harry would get a move on.”

  “You told him why there’s such an all-fired rush?”

  “Of course, but I didn’t know she was seeing her solicitor on Monday.”

  “We’ve still until the weekend. Surely to God your friend’ll have phoned by then? It can’t take four whole days to look at a clatter of slides.” O’Reilly let go a blast of tobacco smoke and said levelly, “I think we should sit tight and wait.”

  Barry heard the ‘we’; it would have been so easy for O’Reilly to have said ‘you.’ “Harry’s pretty reliable. He called the head technician the minute I explained about a possible lawsuit. I was there when Harry phoned. The tech said it would be a couple of days before the slides were ready.”

  “Couple of days? That’s not too long. We could hear by Wednesday or Thursday.” O’Reilly sank half his whiskey. “We’ll let the hare sit.” He moved to where Barry had set his sherry, handed the glass to Barry, and said, “Get that into you, son.” He waited until Barry had taken a healthy swallow. “Now,” said O’Reilly, “you’ll get no sermons from me but you will get a bit of advice.”

  Barry looked up.

  “There’s not a bloody thing either one of us can do until your mate phones, so stewing over it’ll do neither one of us a bit of good. We’ll end up like a pot of Maggie’s tea.”

  “Bitter as gall?” Barry tried to force a smile, not because he knew O’Reilly’s advice was sound, not because he’d alluded to Maggie MacCorkle’s brew, but because without ever saying it openly the man had shown his allegiance, and it was comforting to know he was on Barry’s side. “Thanks, Fingal,” he said quietly.

  “What the hell for?’

  “The advice, and for going to see Mrs. Fotheringham today.”

  “Bollocks.” O’Reilly belched smoke. “Advice is cheap so you’re welcome to it, and I had to see the widow. When she phoned it wasn’t just to talk about lawyers. The woman was in tears.”

  “But she’s not your patient anymore.”

  “And what the hell has that got to do with the price of corn?”

  “I just thought . . . When we had our lectures on what to do if we were threatened legally, the law prof told us to say nothing to the claimant.”

  “Least said, soonest mended?”

  “Yes.”

  O’Reilly went to the sideboard and recharged his glass. “I leave that kind of thing to the legal eagles.”

  He didn’t need to say anymore. Barry already knew exactly where O’Reilly stood if he thought someone was in trouble, even if that someone was threatening to sue. He stared into his sherry.

  When O’Reilly harrumphed, Barry looked up. “All right,” O’Reilly said, “enough gloom and despondency. Seeing your pal wasn’t the only reason you went up to the Royal, was it?”

  “No.”

  “So, Doctor Laverty, despite all the foofaral with this current upheaval, you and I still have a practice to run. What else did you do?”

  Barry finished his sherry and wondered, was O’Reilly asking because he really wanted to know, or was he trying to get Barry’s mind off his worries?

  “Well?” He glanced at Barry’s empty glass. “Have another.”

  Barry rose and went to refill his glass. O’Reilly was right. They did have a practice to run. “I’d a bit of luck with a couple of other things,” he said.

  “And,” said O’Reilly, “are we going to play twenty questions, or are you going to let me in on the secret?”

  Despite himself, Barry smiled. “First off, the urology folks have a spot for Kieran O’Hagan. They’ll do his prostatectomy on Monday.”

  “Good.”

  “And I saw your friend Professor Greer.”

  “Charley? How is the old fart?”

  “He was very decent. He’ll see Declan Finnegan on Wednesday at six, after his clinic is finished.”

  “That’s Charley. Did you arrange for the ambulance to come and get Declan?”

  “Not yet, but I will. Your friend Charley talked to me about Major Fotheringham.” Barry saw one of O’Reilly’s eyebrows rise. “I know,” Barry said, “you wanted me to think about other things, but this is important. When I told Professor Greer what was happening—he did the major’s surgery—he said if I needed an expert witness, he’d be happy to testify.”

  “With a bit of luck it won’t come to that, but if it does it’ll be good to have Charley in our corner.” Barry glanced at O’Reilly’s cauliflower ears and remembered that he’d been a naval boxing champion. “He’s a bloody tough fighter,” O’Reilly said. “He damn nearly beat me in the Irish University Championship in thirty-eight.”

  “He showed me your photograph . . . the Irish rugby team.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “Boxing, rugby . . . it’s a bloody miracle I ever qualified from Trinity.”

  Trinity College, Dublin, the oldest university in Ireland. Barry remembered the odd look in the eyes of the neurosurgery ward sister when he’d mentioned he worked with a Doctor O’Reilly. “I met someone else from your university days, Fingal.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “A ward sister. Caitlin O’Hallorhan.” Barry watched to see how O’Reilly would take the news.

  O’Reilly’s glass stopped halfway to his lips. His eyes widened. “Who?”

  “Caitlin O’Hallorhan. She said to give you her regards.”

  “I’ll be damned. Kitty? I haven’t seen her for years. Kitty O’Hallorhan? Mother of God.” Barry heard a softness in O’Reilly’s voice. “I wonder what she’s been up to all these years,” he said quietly.

  “Why not give her a call?” Dear Lord. Was O’Reilly blushing?

  O’Reilly harrumphed, took a great swallow of his whiskey and growled, “Because I’m much too busy. Never mind the practice, I’ve still to try to sort out Bertie Bishop and the Duck. Because, all your concerns notwithstanding, we still need to see Mrs. Bishop and make sure your treatment’s working. Maybe you’ve forgotten, but Helen’s eczema’s not getting any better. We’ll be running round like bees on a hot brick for the rest of the week, and the first chance we’ll get for a bit of time off is next Saturday for Maggie and Sonny’s wedding.”

  “Oh.”

  “I told you. This isn’t a Butlins Holiday Camp.” />
  “I know. It’s just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  “Patricia writes her exams tomorrow.”

  “And you want time off to hold her hand?”

  “I told her she could phone me if she was worried, but you were right about phone calls being impersonal. I’d rather go and see her if I can.” Why was O’Reilly, who was usually so sympathetic when it came to Barry’s love life, sounding so irritated? Was there a hint of pallor in his nose?

  O’Reilly sighed. “All right. When you need time, ask.” Barry’d been wrong about the man’s schnozzle. It was its usual plum colour.

  “Thanks, Fingal.”

  “Just don’t ask for too much . . . because after all these years running this shop on my own, I’ve got used to having you about the place, Doctor Laverty.”

  Outside, the gale raged and howled against Number 1 Main Street like a wild beast tearing at the defences of a stockade. Inside, one of the curtains shuddered in the draught forced in through a crack in the window sash’s caulking. Barry heard O’Reilly’s words, looked up, and saw the affection in the big man’s brown eyes. He felt a tiny inner warmth and knew it wasn’t coming from his second glass of sherry.

  Work On, My Medicine, Work

  “Come on, Barry. Up.” Someone was shaking his shoulder.

  Barry muttered, “Go ’way.”

  “Get up, you idle skitter. Show a leg.”

  He recognized Surgeon Commander Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly’s quarterdeck bellow, sat up, and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, Fingal,” he muttered. He could see O’Reilly standing by the bedside. “I’ll be down in a minute,”

  “I should bloody well hope so.”

  Barry blinked in the sunlight as O’Reilly threw the attic bedroom curtains open and then stamped out. Barry listened to boots clattering down the stairs. He yawned, climbed out of bed, stumbled along to the bathroom, completed his ablutions, and dressed hurriedly. If he’d learnt nothing else during his houseman’s year, it was how to go from a deep sleep to full readiness in no time flat.

  He trotted down to the dining room, still knotting his Queens University graduates’ tie. Its diagonally blue and green stripes were separated by a thread of red.