An Irish Country Doctor (29 page)

A clattering of wings startled him when a pair of mallard strained to gain height as they leapt from a patch of bulrushes, chased out by a now soaking Arthur Guinness. The dog trotted back to Barry and looked at him as if to ask, "Why didn't you shoot?" "Heel, Arthur." Barry did not want the dog to disturb the water. Trout, he knew from long experience, were easily scared. To his surprise Arthur obeyed instantly and followed, tucked in behind Barry's leg as he covered the last few yards to the riverbank. "Sit." Down went Arthur's backside. His pink tongue quivered as he panted. I'm not surprised, Barry thought. Galloping about the way the dog had in the afternoon's bright sunlight would be warm work.

He stood and studied the water. The current flowed gently from his left to his right. Upstream a wide curve swirled with the current, and sunlight dappled, extended from the far bank to the centre stream. There might be a fish at the tail of the ripple. Across on the far side--Barry had no doubt that he could reach there with a cast--he saw the still, dark waters of what must be a deep pool shaded by the branches of a willow. Trout would lurk there, waiting hungrily for any insects unlucky enough to fall from the tree.

"Come on, Arthur." Barry walked slowly upstream. O'Reilly was right. Something was soothing about the solitude of a riverbank. Was it the gurgling of the water, the distant lowing of a herd of Aberdeen Angus grazing on the far bank, the susurration of a slight breeze in the leaves of the willows? Perhaps it was simply the knowledge that no one could call him there, nothing could force him to make any decision more important than which artificial fly to choose. Whatever it was, the riverbank--he thought of Moley and Ratty in The Wind in the Willows--was a place for reflection. It was a haven where Barry could look into his thoughts and decide whether O'Reilly was right about learning from a mistake and about moving on. Or whether the calamity, as Barry saw it, of Major Fotheringham was a clear indication that general practice was the wrong choice, that perhaps pathology or radiology, specialities with little or no contact with patients, might suit his temperament better.

He was close to the run at the curve of the river. Barry unslung his creel, propped his rod against a willow, and sat on the grass beneath, back against the tree's bole. Arthur flopped down beside him. And what about Patricia? O'Reilly was wrong on that account. As far as Barry was concerned, despite their short acquaintance--a train journey, a walk, and a disastrous dinner--he knew with complete certainty that while there might be more fish in the sea (or in the Bucklebo River), for him there could never be another Patricia. Bloody typical. He could make up his mind about the only part of his life over which he had no control, but he still was confused about the professional part, the part that was his to do with as he saw fit.

He sensed movement on the river's surface. A series of concentric rings had appeared and were spreading outward, exactly where he had anticipated that a fish might be lying. He saw why. The river's surface was dappled with tiny spots, each marking the place where an insect, newly released from its larval stage, had struggled to the surface, to rest there to dry its diaphanous wings and then take flight. If he was going to catch a trout, this was the time. They would feed, rising again and again to take the mayfly. He would have to make sure that his artificial fly matched the natural ones exactly. He rose, ignored Arthur's gruff aarf?, and went to the water's edge. Time to concentrate now, time to stop thinking about careers and women.

He smiled, recognizing that he enjoyed being enmeshed in the day-to-day life of Ballybucklebo. Even so, Sonny's housing difficulties, Seamus Galvin's rocking ducks, Julie MacAteer's pregnancy, and Cissie Sloan's thyroid could wait. The mayfly were hatching.

He bent and scooped up a handful of cold water. He let it dribble away between his fingers until he could see, resting in the palm of his hand, a single mayfly. He studied it closely and knew he had several well-tied imitations. He opened a small aluminium box, took out a fly, and tied it to the tip of his line.

"How did you make out?" O'Reilly asked when Barry walked into the kitchen.

Barry grinned, parked his rod, opened the creel, produced two shining brown trout, and dumped them into the sink. "Not bad," said O'Reilly. He opened a drawer, took out a knife, and handed it to Barry. "You caught 'em. You gut 'em."

"Fair enough." Barry turned on the cold tap, took the first fish, and expertly slit it open, dragging the guts out with the fingers of one hand. A steady stream of bloodstained water ran through the fish's belly cavity and drained down the plughole. "That was slick," said O'Reilly. "Ever consider a career in surgery?" Barry shook his head. "No, but I did think over what you said." Barry laid the cleaned fish aside and reached for the other. "I didn't do all I could have for Fotheringham, but you're right. I will try to put it behind me."

"Good lad.'To err is human.'"

'"To forgive, divine.'" Barry sliced into the second fish. "Alexander Pope."

"And you'll be pleased to hear that the Divinity must have been keeping an eye on you."

"What do you mean?"

"Fotheringham had a small aneurysm. The neurosurgeon reckons he got it tied off all right and that the major should make a reasonable recovery."

Barry's fingers stopped moving. He turned and saw that O'Reilly was smiling.

"Honestly?"

"Honestly." O'Reilly darted forward and flapped a big hand at the counter where Lady Macbeth, who had appeared from nowhere, sat eyeing the two trout. "Get to hell out of that." She sprang lightly to the floor and began to weave around Barry's legs.

"Bah," said O'Reilly. "Cupboard love." He handed Barry a plate. "We'd better stick the fish in the fridge before Her Ladyship gets at them."

"Right." Barry put the fish onto the plate. "Now," said O'Reilly, "tomorrow's Sunday. No surgery. I'd like to nip up to Belfast . . . see if I can't do something about those damn rocking ducks. Think you could manage on your own?" Barry hesitated.

"Best thing you could do. Just like falling off a horse. Most riders--and I exclude Bertie Bishop from that category--think it's a good idea to get back into the saddle as soon as possible." He turned. "I'm off upstairs. Come and have a jar when you've cleaned yourself up."

Barry stood holding the plate of fish, feeling the insistent pressure of the cat against his legs, grateful to O'Reilly for his understanding earlier in the day. Barry sensed that the business of O'Reilly's going to Belfast tomorrow might simply be an excuse so that he would have to cope single-handedly.

He opened the door of the Electrolux fridge, took a deep breath, and looked up to the ceiling. He'd put religion behind him years ago, had not been able to reconcile the suffering he had seen as a student and houseman with the concept of a merciful deity, but today just in case he was wrong, he muttered a silent thank-you, unsure whether the thanks were for Major Fotheringham's good fortune or for his own second chance.

Sunday Morning Coming Down

Barry stood in the recess of the bay window. It was pouring outside, the rain lashing down in stair-rods, blackening the tiles of the steeple opposite, and drenching those members of the congregation who scurried to their cars. Most hurried away on foot, looking from his vantage point like umbrellas with legs. He saw Kinky cross the road and felt the door slam as she let herself in. He heard the phone jangle below. The ringing stopped. Kinky must have taken the call. If someone needed him, he hoped it would be a simple case. O'Reilly had left an hour ago.

"Doctor Laverty."

He walked to the door.

"There's some foreign gentleman says he has to speak with you, so."

"Right." Downstairs. He took the receiver. "Doctor Laverty." 

"Crikey. Is it being the great, healing sahib?" The man's muffled voice had the singsong cadence of what was known as Bombay Welsh. "I am very much tinking that I am wishing to consult the man of medicine, Doctor Lavatory."

"It's Laverty."

"That is what I am saying, Lavatory, and I am knowing it is yourself, Sahib. All the time I am saying to myself, I am wondering how the bringer of hygiene and healing to the untouchables of Ballybucklebo is faring."

Barry started to laugh. "Stop buggering about, Mills. You're not Peter Sellers."

"But I am tinking it is a pretty damn good impression of his Mr. Banerjee, isn't it?"

"Jack. Stop it."

"All right, mate. How the hell are you?" 

"Pretty fair."

"What are you up to today?"

"I'm on call."

"I'm not. . . for once. I thought I'd take a run-race down and see you."

"That'd be great. Hang on." He turned. "Kinky, could you manage lunch for two?"

"Aye, so."

"Come and have lunch."

"Great. How do I get there?"

Barry gave the directions.

"Fair enough. I'll see you in about an hour." 

"I am on call, so if I'm not here, Mrs. Kincaid, the housekeeper, will let you in."

"I'll wait for you." He slipped again into Bombay Welsh. "I must be running away and driving like a fleet he-goat running over the Hindu Kush Mountains, isn't it? Namaste, Sahib." The phone went dead. 

Barry chuckled and said to Mrs. Kincaid, "Jack Mills is an old friend of mine. He'll be here in about an hour. Look after him, will you, Kinky, if I have to go out?" 

"I will, so." She bustled off to her kitchen, pausing only to ask, 'Would you like them fishes for your lunch?" 

"Yes, please." Barry went back upstairs. He lifted the Sunday Telegraph from the coffee table, found the cryptic crossword puzzle, and sat down, brow furrowed, and stared at the first clue. One across: "Rag's made very tatty underwear--it's most serious! (7)" Stupid way to pass the time, he thought, but he'd been addicted to trying to solve the things since his mother had introduced him to them years ago. And that was something else he'd better do. He really did owe his folks a letter. Perhaps he'd write tonight after Jack had gone. He settled into the chair and welcomed Lady Macbeth when she jumped into his lap. Rag's made very tatty? So he had to use a combination of the letters of "rag." Arg? Gra? Underwear. Knickers? Singlet? Vest? G-r-a-vest? 'Most serious? Gravest. Bingo! He wrote the word into the squares, only mildly hampered by the cat who wanted to play with his propelling pencil.

He put the paper aside. Except for six down, "Refuse to boast about how old you are," he had managed to finish the cryptic. "Go on, cat." He stood and let Lady Macbeth slip to the floor. Outside, the rain had become a steady mizzle. Ballybucklebo lay grey and gloomy under its damp shroud. It certainly looked better when the sun shone but, and he was damned if he could remember who'd said it, "Into every life a little rain must fall." No sign of Jack Mills yet.

Barry hunted through O'Reilly's record collection. Beethoven, Beatles, Bix Beiderbecke, Glenn Miller,
II Nozze di Figaro
, Frank Sinatra. He thought about putting This Is Sinatra on the Black Box, but realized that Ol' Blue Eyes crooning, "The Gal That Got Away" would be too close to home, and certainly "I've Got the World on a String" hardly described how he felt about Patricia. U Nozze di Figaro--surely that was the opera she'd been playing on Friday night? He lifted the sleeve and read the table of contents, looking for "
Voi che
something or other." There it was. He put the record on the turntable and swung the needle over the wider groove that separated the tracks.

The notes filled the room, bittersweet, matching his mood. Perhaps he'd phone her tonight.

"If that one would stop standing on the cat's tail, maybe it would stop howling."

Barry turned to see Jack Mills standing in the doorway. "Your housekeeper let me in. Jesus, what a miserable day." Jack shook his head, scattering droplets from his dark hair. He ran his fingers through his mop, sat in a chair, crossed his legs, pulled out a cigarette, and lit up. "Good to see you, mate." 

"And you."

"Could you turn that thing off?"

"Sure." Barry pushed the button. The aria died. "It's a pretty piece."

"Sounded like a sick cat to me."

Barry laughed. "You've no culture, Mills."

"Yes, I do . . . but it's agriculture." Jack glanced over to the sideboard. "Any chance of a jar?"

"What would you like?"

"That John Jameson's looks good."

Barry poured. "Here."

"You not having one?"

Barry shook his head. "The customers take a dim view if you show up smelling of booze."

"Just like back home in Cullybackey," Jack said, sipping his drink. "One whiff and they think you're a piss artist." He gazed round the room. "Looks like your boss knows how to look after himself." 

"He's a decent man. Damn good doctor."

"That's the word at the Royal. The drill-the-dome boys reckon he was pretty quick off the mark getting that aneurysm in the other morning. Another couple of hours and . . ."Jack drew one finger across his throat.

Barry pursed his lips. "Actually it was my fault. I misdiagnosed Major Fotheringham."

"Who?"