An Irish Country Doctor (17 page)

"Had a good evening?"

Barry savoured his memories of the slow walk back through the moth-fluttering gloaming, stopping to watch bats swoop and dive, laughing together at the bats' squeaks. Stopping to kiss her lips, her hair. The drive to Patricia's flat, her invitation in, and his polite refusal. He'd known from the minute he'd seen her that she was different, special, and after her flare of temper in the glen he'd sensed that if he were too hasty he would be rebuffed. Better to let things percolate than try to rush them to the boil.

"I presume by your dewy-eyed silence that the answer is yes." O'Reilly fondled the cat's head.

"It was wonderful."

"Huh. Women."

Barry glanced at O'Reilly, expecting from his tone to see distaste written on the big man's face, but instead Barry saw only sadness in his brown eyes.

"Come on, Fingal. You don't mean that."

"Don't I, by God?" O'Reilly rose. Lady Macbeth slipped to the carpet. O'Reilly paced to the window and stood, hands clasped behind his back, staring out. "Women? Nothing but grief." O'Reilly turned, and for a second Barry thought he could see moisture in O'Reilly's eyes.

"Jesus Christ, would you stop it?" O'Reilly swore at Lady Macbeth, who had happily returned to reducing the furniture to tatters. "Give over."

Lady Macbeth haggled one last strand loose, jumped onto O'Reilly's chair, and crouched, back humped, tail waving. Barry was relieved that the animal had distracted them. Whatever was troubling O'Reilly was none of Barry's business. 

"Maybe Kinky's right. We should ask Maggie what to do about Her Ladyship." 

"It's not Maggie we need. It's a bloody exorcist."

"What are you talking about?"

"I think she's possessed."

Barry laughed. "Go on."

"She doesn't like Stravinsky," O'Reilly said, perhaps pleased like Barry to have something else to talk about. "How do you know that?"

"Watch." O'Reilly went to the pile of records and put a disk on the Black Box. The chords of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony filled the room. Barry thought of the piney Glen and the sweetness of Patricia.

Lady Macbeth sat upright, whiskers pointing forwards, jumped to the floor, and tail erect, pushed herself against Barry's legs, weaving and thrusting.

"Looks like a happy cat to me."

"She is. She likes old Ludwig, but watch this." O'Reilly changed records.

Barry listened to the unfamiliar cadences that he thought bordered on the cacophonous.

Lady Macbeth's weaving stopped. Dead. Her pupils became so large that all Barry could see in her eyes was blackness. She growled. She spat. She waved her tail in circles and without further warning launched herself at him and bit his shin. "Gerroff." He pushed her away and hauled up the leg of his borrowed pants. At least the skin wasn't broken. O'Reilly lifted the gramophone's arm, and the music stopped. Lady Macbeth sat and started to wash.

"So much for The Rite of Spring. And if you think that's a fluke . . ." O'Reilly dropped the tonearm.

Lady Macbeth charged O'Reilly. She crossed the floor diagonally in a series of sideways hops, legs rigid, back arched, Barry thought, like a laterally leaping kangaroo, but a kangaroo with murderous intent.

"See?" O'Reilly stopped the music. "Possessed. Maybe Father O'Toole could do the rites."

"I've never seen anything like it." Barry stared at the now docile animal. "I wonder how she'd like the Rolling Stones?"

"Who?"

"The Rolling Stones. They're a rock band." 

"Probably have a fit," said O'Reilly. He yawned. "Anyway. I'm off to bed. We'll be busy for the next few days." 

"How come?"

"Thursday's the Twelfth of July, of 'glorious and immortal memory.' Unless someone's at death's door they'll not want to miss the parade, so anyone with blepharitis, a blister, a bunion, bursitis, or a badly broken heart will be bellyaching in the waiting room first thing tomorrow, Tuesday, and Wednesday." 

"Oh."

"So you'll have to wait for a few days to go back and see the light of your life."

"Well, I-"

"Don't worry," said O'Reilly, as he left, "you can have Friday night off."

"Thanks, Fingal," Barry said to the departing back. He sat down. It was too soon to go to bed. He knew he'd not sleep. He'd too much to think about.

Patricia. Soft, warm, delicious, and with spirit. Patricia Spence. She was twenty-one now. He made a rapid calculation. That meant she'd have been eight when she'd had polio. Lots of kids--he'd seen them as patients--had lapsed into self-pity, used their handicap to their own advantage to garner sympathy. She hadn't. It was impressive that she was studying civil engineering. He'd phone her tomorrow and hope to hell she was free on Friday. Perhaps he could afford to take her to dinner.

Lady Macbeth jumped into his lap and startled him, broke his train of thought. Jesus, what a household. A killer cat, a Labrador with the canine equivalent of satyriasis and a touch of dipsomania to boot, and a senior colleague who for his own obscure reasons did not seem to think much of the opposite sex. Did Barry really want to join this menagerie?

"Excuse me, Doctor Laverty, but I've a pair of pants dry and pressed for you, so." He hadn't heard Mrs. Kincaid coming in. 

"Thank you." He stood.

"You can get out of himself's bags now. You don't seem to fill them too well."

"I know." And, Barry thought, I don't think I'm ready to fill the big fellow's shoes either.

"You should be in bed, Mrs. Kincaid."

"I'm on my way. Was there anything else you'd want before I go?" It was all a bit feudal. 

"No thanks. But..." Barry hesitated. "Mrs. Kincaid, would you mind if I asked a question?" 

"You can ask."

"It's about Doctor O'Reilly."

He saw her stiffen, her lips narrow.

"I'm a bit worried about him."

She relaxed almost imperceptibly. "How so?" 

"He gets very upset when I mention a young woman I've started seeing."

"Does he now?"

"I know it's silly, but earlier--now please don't laugh--I thought he was going to weep."

"Did you?" Her eyes softened, and she rocked gently on her heels. "Sometimes I wish to God he would." Barry knew that it was not the time to interrupt. "Can I sit down, sir?"

"Please."

She stuffed her bulk into an armchair, glanced at the closed door, lowered her voice, and said, "You'll keep what I'm going to tell you to yourself?"

"Of course."

"He doesn't know I know. He's a very private man, so."

Barry waited.

"Old Doctor Flanagan told me. In 1941, April, Easter Tuesday, them Germans, the bad bashtoons, dropped bombs on Belfast, aye, and Bangor." Her eyes hardened. She clenched her fists. "A young nurse was killed. They'd been married six months. He'd courted her hard for three years. He worshipped that girl, so." 

"My God."

"Himself was away on that big ship. He didn't get told until June that she was dead." She looked up into his face. "It hurt him sore, Doctor Laverty."

"It still does," Barry whispered.

"Aye, so." She rose and stood before him. "I know he's happy for you and your girl, but I think he worries that you'll get hurt like him. He's taken quite a shine to you, Doctor. I can tell." 

"Mrs. Kincaid, I thank you for telling me this." 

"Not a word now, but. . ." She smiled at Barry. "There's only you and me to look after the big buck eejit."

"I understand."

"I hope you do, for I'll not see him let down again." Mrs. Kincaid stood like a guardsman, her three chins thrust out, eyes hot. 

"Don't you worry, Mrs. Kincaid."

"Aye, so. Well, trot off to your bed. The pair of you'll be running round like bees on a hot brick for the next few days, and himself's not getting any younger." She put a hand in the small of her back. "I'm no spring chicken myself anymore."

She crossed the room and turned. "It's not my place to say it, Doctor Laverty, but I'd take it kindly if you'd think of shtaying on here. Permanently."

Barry rose. "I will think about it, Mrs. Kincaid. I promise." 

"Well, you think hard," she said. "For he's a good man and he needs you here."

For Marriage Is an Honourable Estate

Although Monday morning's surgery started slowly, with three men waiting for tonic injections, their departure opened the floodgates. It seemed to Barry that every case in Ballybucklebo of back strain, sniffles, cough, hay fever, and hangovers following the welcoming of Barry Fingal Galvin poured through the place. Several of the hangover sufferers had also needed attention for blackened eyes and skinned knuckles.

As the last of what he called the Mucky Duck Militia left, O'Reilly said with a grin, "Ah, agree by all means, boys . . . but fighting's more fun. Jesus, the natives haven't changed since the "
Scél Mucci Mic Dathó
", or the tale of Mac Dathó's pig, was written." 

"Pardon?"

"It's one of the old sagas. There's a Celtic feast described in it: 'A good drinking bout broke out in the courtyard, with everyone striking his neighbour.' All good clean fun, I suppose. I just hope we don't get a rematch on the Twelfth, or we'll be here half the night stitching up the walking wounded." He stretched. "Never mind Thursday. Are there many more left today?" 

"Two children and a young woman. I think that's it for the morning."

"Get them, would you?"

Barry brought them from the waiting room. He had assumed, incorrectly, that the woman was the mother of the two children. The boy, who Barry guessed was five or six, wore short tweed trousers and a grey shirt. One of his woollen stockings was held at the knee by an elastic garter; the other had slipped down his shin and lay crumpled round his ankle like the newly shed skin of a snake. He stood, one foot turned in, his left thumb firmly in his mouth. The blonde girl's pale blue pinafore dress matched solemn eyes that never left O'Reilly's face. She was probably a year older than her companion. "Good morning, Colin Brown. Good morning, Susan MacAfee, and what can I do for the pair of you?" O'Reilly peered over his half-moons.

"Mr. Brown and I want to get married."

Barry watched O'Reilly's face to see how he would react. "Indeed," said O'Reilly, without a flicker of expression. "Married?" This, thought Barry, should be interesting.

"And how do you feel about it, Mr. Brown?"

The little boy looked down and tugged at the front of his pants. "I see," said O'Reilly. "Well, marriage is an honourable estate not to be entered into lightly."

"Yes, Doctor O'Reilly," said the little blue-eyed girl. She twisted the hair of her bangs round one finger. "We know that, don't we, Mr. Brown?"

"Uh-huh," said Mr. Brown. He shifted from foot to foot. I wonder, thought Barry, what O'Reilly's going to say when he gets to the bit about "the union of the flesh"? 

"We've saved up," said the little girl.

"And how much have you got?"

"A whole shilling," she said.

"And sixpence." Mr. Brown squeezed his thighs together and pulled at his pant front.

"You know," said O'Reilly, "maybe you're a bit young to be getting married."

Mr. Brown nodded, yanked the girl's hand, and whispered into her ear.

"You'll just have to wait," she said.

"Before you see the minister?" O'Reilly asked, a smile beginning. Mr. Brown hauled so hard on her hand that she had to take a step toward him. 

"I said, you'll have to wait. What. . . ?" She bent to him. "Oh," she said when she straightened up. "Doctor O'Reilly, we'll have to be running along."

"Fine," said O'Reilly. "So you are going to wait?" 

"No," she said, putting a hand on her hip and pouting at the little boy. "Mr. Brown here . . ." The little boy hung his head. "Mr. Brown here's just wet himself."

"Oh, well," said O'Reilly, "perhaps Mrs. Kincaid can help. Come on." He rose and took the girl's hand. "I think she's in the kitchen." O'Reilly turned to Barry. "Get the last one in, will you? Start taking her history."

"Right," said Barry, not moving. He waited until O'Reilly and his charges had left before he surrendered to the laughter that had been trying to overwhelm him. He was still chuckling when he reached the waiting room. "Will you come with me, please?" he asked a young woman who sat all alone staring at the floor. She wore a white raincoat and black high-heeled shoes. She clasped a patent-leather handbag with both hands. Her corn-silk hair was held in place by an Alice band, and when she looked up her eyes were dull and red-rimmed, and by the look of the shadows beneath, she must have been short of sleep. Whatever ailed her, this was no time for frivolity. She stood. "Doctor O'Reilly?"

No one from Ballybucklebo would have mistaken him for Fingal. "No," he said, "Laverty. But Doctor O'Reilly'll be along in a minute."

She said nothing, even when she was seated in the patients' chair. "Now," said Barry, spinning the swivel chair and reaching into one of the desk drawers to pull out a blank patient-record card. "I'll just get a few details. You're not from round here, are you?" 

She shook her head. "Rasharkin."

"County Antrim?" Barry heard the lengthening of the vowels and the slight sibilance that marks the speech of the Antrim country folk, and Rasharkin was an even smaller place than Ballybucklebo. "You're a long way from home." He glanced at her left hand. No ring . . . "Miss . . . ?"