“All right,” she said, “and I’ll try not to worry. I promise.”
“Good lass.” He blew her a kiss. “I’ll be thinking of you.”
“I love you, Barry. I’ll see you on Saturday.” But before he could speak he heard the line go dead. He hung up and wondered what was keeping O’Reilly. Unless the man had serious prostatic trouble like Kieran O’Hagan, he shouldn’t be spending such a long time in the bathroom. Barry realized his senior colleague was being tactful.
Barry went into the dining room and sat at the table. He jumped when Lady Macbeth, apparently arriving from thin air, landed on his lap, butted at his tummy, and started to turn circles in his lap, lifting each paw high and putting it back down with considerable force, a series of actions O’Reilly called “twiddle and stamp.”
Barry idly fondled the cat’s head and was rewarded with a continuous, rumbling purr.
“There you are, Your Ladyship,” O’Reilly announced on his way to his seat at the head of the table. He sat. “Buggered if I understand it, Barry,” he said.
“Understand what?”
“Cats are meant to roam around, but Her Ladyship never leaves the place. Dogs are meant to be homebodies, but Arthur has wanderlust. The world’s turned upside down. Lord Cornwallis’s band played that,” said O’Reilly.
“Who?”
“General Cornwallis. “The World Turned Upside Down.” That’s the tune his regimental bands played when they marched to surrender to the American revolutionaries after Yorktown, the battle that lost George III the American colonies.”
“I didn’t know that, but I know some of the words of the song:
“If buttercups buzzed after the bee,
If boats were on land, churches on sea . . .”
“That’s it,” said O’Reilly, picking up a bread roll. “I wonder does Bertie Bishop know the tune?”
“Why?”
“Because tomorrow you’re seeing Flo Bishop to find out if your treatment’s working. No doubt the great panjandrum will be with her, and Yorktown be damned, that battle was really only a skirmish. Bertie Bishop has a date with a real donnybrook . . . his Waterloo.”
Yet I Shall Temper So
Justice with Mercy
“God,” said O’Reilly, taking his place at the head of the dining room table, “a surgery like this morning’s would give a man an appetite.”
Barry sat. There was some truth to his senior colleague’s words, but Wednesday morning had flown by for him, patient by patient. He’d had no time to dwell on anything else. He’d certainly not given any thought to his stomach.
“Any calls for this afternoon, Kinky?” O’Reilly asked, when Mrs. Kincaid came in.
“Two,” she said, “but neither’s urgent.” She handed the list to O’Reilly and set a willow-pattern tureen in the middle of the table.
“Just soup again?” O’Reilly was pouting.
“With all the dumplings you put inside you at dinner last night, you need something lighter for your lunch,” she said. “But there’s hot-buttered barmbrack for after. I’ve to run along and toast it.” She hesitated at the dining room doorway. “Maybe the raisins in the brack’ll sweeten you up, Doctor dear.”
Barry hid his smile as he lifted the tureen’s lid. “Fingal?”
“I suppose so.” O’Reilly sighed and passed his plate. “What’s Kinky given us this time?”
Barry inhaled a mixture of the scents of garlic, cloves, onion, and rich meat. “Smells like mock turtle to me.” Barry returned the full plate to O’Reilly, then helped himself.
“Huh.” O’Reilly sniffed, filled his spoon, and shoved it in his mouth. “It is,” he said, smiling. “And it’s bloody good.” He eyed the tureen. “Just a pity there’s not more of it. Galloping about half the night looking for Arthur Guinness, then having the surgery as full as it was, would make anybody ravenous.” He shovelled in another mouthful. “Now, hold your wheest,” he said, “and let me eat up. My grandfather used to say, ‘Eating time’s eating time, and talking time’s talking time’ . . . and he was right.”
Barry was happy to say nothing because he didn’t trust himself not to giggle. He’d conjured up a picture of a vole he’d learnt about in his first-year biology classes, an animal that ate twice its own weight every day. In his imagination, the little rodent had bushy eyebrows, cauliflower ears, and a bent nose, and it was ladling soup into itself as if it hadn’t eaten for weeks. Barry emptied his plate, glanced at the tureen, saw that it held about half a serving, and decided discretion was the better part of valour. “Do you want to eat that up, Fingal?”
“Shame to waste it.”
Barry heard the ladle scrape so hard against the tureen’s bottom that he feared O’Reilly had removed the blue pagodas and weeping willows fired into the china.
Someone rang the front doorbell, and Barry heard Kinky open the door. He was happy to let her deal with whoever it was. A month ago he’d have been out of his chair and into the hall to see what the patient was complaining of. Now he had complete faith in Kinky’s ability to tell emergencies from routine cases. O’Reilly had called her his Cerberus, the dog that guarded the entrance to the underworld. It was a fair description.
Barry thought he could hear Bertie Bishop’s voice. O’Reilly had arranged for the Bishops to be seen at one o’clock so he and Barry could take as much time as the consultation required. They’d not have to worry about the waiting room being full, and other patients unreasonably delayed.
“That was great, if a little on the stingy side,” said O’Reilly, pushing his plate away. The remnants had disappeared down O’Reilly’s throat in three swallows. He sat back, rubbed his waistcoat’s belly button, and announced, “To paraphrase the Reverend Dodgson, better known as Lewis Carroll, ‘Soup of the noontime, beau-ootiful soo-oop!’ ”
“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland? Or Through the Looking-Glass?” Barry asked. “I can’t remember.”
“Neither,” said O’Reilly, “can I.”
“It was Wonderland,” said Kinky, coming in with a plate of barmbrack and a pot of tea. “I read it when I was a little girl. And it was the Mock Turtle said it, so.” She put the plate and teapot on the table and lifted the empty tureen. “I’ve often wondered what real turtle soup tastes like, but those creatures are hard to come by in County Down.”
“Actually, it’s quite delicious,” O’Reilly remarked, “but it’s a bit hard on the poor old turtle. Stick to the mock stuff, Kinky. It’s grand.”
“Glad you enjoyed it,” she said. “Now don’t take too long over your tea. I’ve just let Bertie and Flo Bishop into the surgery. He’s as irritable as a dog with fleas, pacing up and down like a bullock in a gelding pen.”
“Och, sure, the exercise’ll do him good,” said O’Reilly, helping himself to a slice of barmbrack. He grinned at Kinky. “Doctor Laverty and I have a little surprise for him.”
Barry cleared his throat. It was all very well for O’Reilly to sound confident. His plan to discomfit the councillor was far from foolproof.
“Aye, so?” She cocked her head to one side.
Barry poured himself a cup of tea and lifted a piece of the speckled toast.
“Yes,” said O’Reilly, “and we’ve you to thank for it.”
“Me?”
“Indeed. You found out from Flo about the stream that runs under the Duck.”
“A stream under the Duck? Now there’s a thing.”
“Yes. And that stream, small as it is, is going to be Bertie Bishop’s downfall. He’ll not be able to do anything with the Duck.”
You hope it’s going to be his downfall, Barry thought. He expected Kinky to ask why the little waterway was so important, but she simply nodded and said, “If you say so, Doctor O’Reilly. I’ll take your word for it. Just don’t let him know who told me. He’s a vindictive little bashtoon, and I’d not want him to go after Flo.”
“Don’t worry about that, Kinky,” O’Reilly said. “Flo and her secret are safe with
us.” He grinned at Barry. “But Bertie Bishop isn’t, is he?”
“I hope not, Fingal.”
“That,” said Kinky, “is the best news I’ve had all week. You’re going to scuttle him, aren’t you?”
“We are,” said O’Reilly, with the confidence of a man placing a bet after the race was over and the results were known to him, but not to the bookie.
She smiled and bobbed her head slightly. “Sometimes Doctor O’Reilly, the pair of you are the great ones for the quoting, but if you sort out Bertie I’ve a thought for you.”
“Go on.”
“Do you know what King David said after Saul and Jonathan were killed?”
“I do,” said O’Reilly. “ ‘How are the mighty fallen’?”
“ ‘Tell it not in Gath,’ ” she said, chuckling, her chins wobbling, “ ‘. . . lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice.’ ”
“Good for you, Kinky,” O’Reilly said, “but this isn’t Gath, it’s Ballybucklebo, and the word’ll be out like a flash.”
And what will you say to Willy if Bishop calls your bluff? Barry thought.
O’Reilly rose and dusted barmbrack crumbs off his waistcoat. “Let’s wait until we’ve had a word with Bertie. I’ve a notion that with the right encouragement he might be persuaded to spread the word himself and do my young colleague a bit of good while he’s at it.”
Barry wondered what O’Reilly meant, but O’Reilly was out of the dining room and heading for the surgery before he had time to ask. “Come on, Doctor Laverty,” he called from the hall. “It’s a terrible shame to keep the Bishops waiting, and they’re your cases. Both of them. I want you to bring the tidings of comfort and joy to Bertie, but I’ll be there to help out if you need me to. Lead on, Macduff.”
Barry rose, eager to see how Mrs. Bishop was doing, but uncertain about how he should handle the councillor. This was O’Reilly’s scheme. He should see it through.
The councillor had stopped his pacing, and he and Mrs. Bishop were seated on the wooden chairs. Barry knew O’Reilly had shortened the chairs’ front legs years ago so that the patients would be uncomfortable and would not be tempted to stay too long. By the look on both the Bishops’ faces, the strategy was working.
Bertie Bishop was dressed in his black suit, holding his bowler hat by the brim, turning it between his fingers. Mrs. Bishop wore a simple blue dress and a little hat with a half-veil. Barry thought she looked brighter, less lethargic. The councillor half turned when Barry said, “Good afternoon.”
“About time, Laverty,” the councillor grumbled. “Where the hell’s O’Reilly?”
“And a very good afternoon to you too, Bertie,” O’Reilly said pleasantly, entering the room with a nod of his head to Barry. He hoisted himself on the examining couch out of Bishop’s line of sight.
Barry took the swivel chair. “Hello, Mrs. Bishop. How are you today?”
“Doctor Laverty.” She positively beamed at him. “It’s a miracle, so it is. I’ve been taking them wee pills . . . just like you said, and I’m running round like a bee on a hot brick, and sure wasn’t I telling Cissie Sloan this morning how grand I am? and I’ve all my energy back . . .”
“Too much if you ask me,” the councillor said. “A week ago she couldn’t finish a sentence. Now she never stops craking on . . .”
“And I can do all my housework, and I’m not one wee bit tired, and my bowels is great, and I’ve my appetite back, but I haven’t put on an ounce, and . . .”
“See what I mean? I can’t get a bloody word in edgewise.”
Barry glanced at O’Reilly and immediately had to look away. His senior colleague was grinning from ear to ear. It would not be appropriate for Barry to laugh. “I’m very glad to hear you’re feeling better. Very glad,” he said. “Now Flo, you remember the last time you were in I asked you to lift and lower your arm?”
She stood. “Like this?” Her arm went up and down effortlessly. “I could keep this up all day, and . . .”
“You . . . you can stop,” Barry said quickly. “That’s excellent, Flo. You can sit down.” He looked at O’Reilly, who held up one thumb. Barry nearly held up one of his own he was so delighted that his diagnosis and prescribed treatment had both been right. “You’re on the mend. I’m very pleased.”
“Not near as pleased as I am, Doctor Laverty, and . . .” She turned to her husband. “You said these two doctors were nothing but a couple of quacks, and I’d be better off seeing a vet, and that there was nothing wrong with me, and I was just bone idle, and . . .”
“Yes, dear,” the councillor said. He raised his eyes to the heavens, then looked at Barry. “I don’t suppose you could maybe cut the dose down a bit, Doctor?”
“I’m sorry,” Barry said, “but I don’t think so.”
“I don’t want you to,” she said, “and I want to ask you, Doctor, if you’ve any other pills?” She glanced shyly down at her ample girth. “I’d like to lose a bit of weight, and as far as I’m concerned I hardly eat enough to feed a sparrow, and Cissie Sloan says when she was all slowed down and her bowels bound up you give her tablets that fixed her thyroid, and she lost weight, and . . .”
“Hold on a minute, Flo,” Barry interrupted, glad that O’Reilly had had her come in the afternoon with lots of time to spare. He was beginning to feel a tiny tad of sympathy for the councillor. “I can’t discuss another patient with you.” He remembered Cissie Sloan very well. Pity she shared a surname with a pathologist about whom he’d rather not be reminded. Last month Barry’d diagnosed Cissie’s hypothyroidism, a diagnosis O’Reilly had missed. “The pills I gave her won’t do for you unless there’s something wrong with your thyroid gland.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Bishop looked crestfallen.
“Perhaps,” Barry said, “we should get it checked just in case.” That was a slice of luck. He’d forgotten to order the test last week even though he knew myasthenia gravis could be a sign of a thyroid disorder. Now he could send her off for the necessary testing without having to confess his sin of omission. A bit dishonest perhaps, but certainly the kind of opportunity O’Reilly would have seized, judging by the way he was holding up his thumb again. “I’ll write the forms,” Barry said, swivelling to the rolltop desk and scribbling a requisition.
“I suppose,” Mrs. Bishop said, “if my thyroid’s okay I’ll just have to go on a diet.”
“That’s right.”
“Have a word with Kinky about that,” said O’Reilly a little testily. “She’s very big on soups and salads.”
Barry smiled and handed the form to Mrs. Bishop. “They’ll do the blood tests down in Bangor. It’ll save you a trip up to Belfast.”
“Great. Bertie, you can run me down this afternoon, and I could do a bit of shopping, and I need a new hat for the wedding, and the hats in Bangor is far better than them ones in Miss Moloney’s, and . . .”
“I can do no such thing,” Councillor Bishop snapped. “I’ve to see Willy Dunleavy at two and get this thing with the Duck wrapped up.”
Barry hesitated.
O’Reilly leant his head to one side and offered both hands, palms up, arms outstretched to Barry, saying in mime, “It’s all yours, son.”
Barry clenched his right fist. If he was going to bluff Bertie Bishop, this would have to be handled with as much confidence and authority as he could muster. “That would be the matter of the lease, Mr. Bishop?”
“It’s none of your bloody business, Laverty, but yes. It is.”
“Mr. Bishop, when you were in here last, Doctor O’Reilly said a little bird had told him you were going to chuck Willy Dunleavy and Mary out, and you told us the little bird could go and pluck itself.”
“I did and I meant it, so I did.”
Barry took a deep breath. “Mr. Bishop, Doctor O’Reilly and I have been having a word with a much bigger bird. Much bigger.”
“What are you on about?” Bishop’s little eyes narrowed.
Barry fixed Bishop with a glare and said levelly,
“The marquis of Ballybucklebo owns the salmon rights to the stream that runs under the Black Swan.”
Bishop’s eyes widened. He sat back in his chair, then leapt to his feet. The colour drained from his face. He gobbled. The wattles of his neck quivered. His face turned puce.
Barry felt his clenched fist relax. “The salmon rights, Councillor.”
“Who the hell told you about the stream? Who the hell told you?”
He turned on his wife. “Jesus, Flo, have you been flapping your jaw when I told you not to?” His grip on his bowler tightened. His knuckles turned white. “Have you?”
She was reduced to silence, which Barry, although he knew he shouldn’t, found refreshing. “Mrs. Bishop, did you say anything to me or Doctor O’Reilly about this?”
“No, but . . .”
“There, Councillor. You can’t blame your wife.” Barry looked at her and rapidly shook his head. He had no intention of letting her say another word. They’d promised Kinky they’d protect her. “In fact, it came out in a conversation when His Lordship and Sonny were discussing Norman land titles. Sonny knew all about the stream.” He was bending the truth again, but it was in a very good cause. “His Lordship told us you can do nothing to the Duck without his permission.”
“We’ll see about that, so we will. I’m going to lose a fortune if I can’t go ahead.”
“But,” Barry said, “the marquis was very clear about the conditions of the deeds.”
“Deeds, is it? Deeds, by God? I’ll take him to court.” Bishop stood, eyes narrowing again. “I’ll get those bloody rights, so I will.”
The man’s response was exactly as O’Reilly had predicted. If Barry was going to checkmate him, he’d have to force Bishop to believe that a lawsuit wasn’t going to work.
“The marquis is quite prepared for you.”
“Prepared? How’s he prepared? I know for a fact all his money’s tied up in running the estate.” There was a more confident tone to the man’s voice.
An Irish Country Village Page 32
