An Irish Country Doctor (35 page)

"I'm delighted," said O'Reilly.

"You never saw such things in your life," said Maureen. "Not one of them looked like any duck I'd ever seen." 

"Must have been things of beauty to behold," said O'Reilly. "I'm sure they'll sell like hotcakes." 

Maureen pursed her lips. "I'm not so sure, but that's for the fellow that bought them to worry about."

"Oh, indeed," said Barry. If the rocking ducks were as odd as Maureen had said, he wondered, exactly what would Councillor Bishop do with his new acquisitions? 

"Anyway," said Maureen, "we got our money back and a bit of a profit. I don't know how you fixed it, Doctor, sir, but. . ." 

O'Reilly brushed her thanks aside. "So when are the three of you off to sunny California?"

"Just as soon as I can get the tickets bought. And . . ." She hesitated. "Would you do me a wee favour?"

"Ask away."

She handed him the money. "Would you take care of that?" 

O'Reilly took the notes.

"I'd be happier if Seamus--"

"Don't you worry your head about them," said O'Reilly, stuffing the notes in his trouser pocket. "They'll be safe as houses." 

She smiled at him, cocked her head to one side, and asked, "Would you be free on Saturday, Doctors?" Barry had hoped he might be allowed some time off. He wanted to see Patricia if she ever did phone, or perhaps he'd meet Jack if she didn't. He looked questioningly at O'Reilly. "We might," said O'Reilly.

"We're having a wee going-away party. We'd like for you both to come."

"What do you think, Doctor Laverty?"

"We'd have it here. In the afternoon," said Maureen. Barry could tell by the way she looked up into O'Reilly's face that the presence of her medical advisors was important. "I don't see why not," he said. He might still be able to get an hour or two off after the party.

"Grand," said Maureen.

O'Reilly glanced round the tiny parlour. "How many folks were you thinking of having?"

Maureen shrugged.

"I tell you what," said O'Reilly, "could you or Seamus get your hands on the marquee the Ballybucklebo Highlanders use at the Field on the Twelfth?"

"I'll ask Seamus."

"Just in case it rains," said O'Reilly. "There'd be a lot more room in my back garden."

Maureen beamed. "You wouldn't mind, sir?" 

"Not at all. You never know how many'll show up at a Ballybucklebo ceili." 

"Seamus'll get the big tent. He's not pipe major for nothing. We'll put it up on Saturday morning."

"Right," said O'Reilly. "Now, we'll need some grub. Mrs. Kincaid'll take care of that. I'll get a couple of barrels of stout over from the Duck."

"But that'll cost a fortune."

"No," said O'Reilly, "Willy the barman'll have to charge the guests. I'm not made of money."

Barry remembered the difficulties he and Jack had had when they wanted to throw a party in the students' mess. The Ulster licensing laws were a little on the confusing side. If anyone wanted to sell alcohol anywhere but in a registered public house they had to apply for a special permit. It usually took a week or two for one to be issued. "We'll not have time to get a permit," he said. "We'll not need one," said O'Reilly. "We'll not sell drink. . . we'll sell glasses of water."

"What?"

"Water," said O'Reilly with a huge grin. "Grand stuff. Works wonders for greyhounds, you don't need a permit to sell it, and there's nothing to stop you giving away a free drink with every glass of water sold."

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely."

"So you can change water into wine . . . well, beer." O'Reilly nodded. "And just to be on the safe side we'll invite Constable Mulligan. If there is a law being broken, and him at the hooley, he'd have to arrest himself."

Barry laughed and his laughter woke young Barry Fingal, who let the world know of his presence in no uncertain tones. "I'd better see to the wean," said Maureen. "Saturday it is, Doctors."

"Right," said O'Reilly. "Come on, Doctor Laverty. We've more calls to make."

To Barry's great relief the lane to the Kennedys' farmhouse was dry. He still lacked a pair of Wellington boots. For all he knew the pair he'd bought on the day he'd met Patricia were still rattling up and down on the train between Bangor and Belfast. Jeannie was playing in the farmyard, throwing a stick for her Border collie.

"Hello, Doctor O'Reilly." She took the stick from the dog, who immediately flopped to the ground, front paws stretched out before her, head between her legs, alert gaze never leaving the stick in her mistress's hand. "Stay, Tessie." The dog glanced once at the newcomers. "How are you, Jeannie?" O'Reilly walked over from the car. Barry followed.

"Much better now, thank you."

Barry could see that this was a different little girl from the one he'd met three weeks ago. She had colour in her cheeks, and her eyes were as bright as Tessie's porcelain blue ones. He thought she might have lost a little weight, but considering how sick she had been, that was to be expected.

"She's really on the mend." Mrs. Kennedy appeared in the doorway of the farmhouse. Her grey hair was neatly tied up in a bun. Her apron was clean. She walked to where Jeannie stood and put a protective hand on the girl's shoulder. "We were main worried about her for a while, but them doctors at Sick Children's were smashing, so they were." She looked into O'Reilly's eyes. "There was a young one, a Doctor Mills. He said if you and Doctor Laverty hadn't been so quick of the mark . . ." She swallowed. 

" 'All's well that ends well,'" said O'Reilly. "And don't bother to tell me that's William Shakespeare, Doctor Laverty. I know." Barry grinned and thought how critical he had been of his senior colleague's seemingly slapdash methods of diagnosis. He recognized that when O'Reilly said that sometimes country GPs could make a difference, he had been absolutely right.

O'Reilly said, "Lots of fresh air, plenty to eat, and she'll be fit as a flea in no time. Ready for school in September." Jeannie scowled. "I hate math."

"So did I when I was your age," said O'Reilly. "Go on. Show me how you can throw the stick."

Jeannie threw the small branch across the yard. Tessie, body pressed to the ground, gaze fixed on Jeannie's face, trembled but did not move one inch from where she had been told to lie down. "Smart dogs, collies," O'Reilly remarked.

"Fetch," Jeannie said, and the dog took off like a whippet. 

"You'll not be needing us again," O'Reilly said to Bridget Kennedy.

"Dermot'll be sorry he missed you, Doctor, but he's out combining." 

"A farmer's work's never done," said O'Reilly. "Just like a doctor's." He opened the car door. "If the three of you have nothing to do on Saturday afternoon, we're having a bit of a ta-ta-ta-ra in my back garden for Seamus and Maureen Galvin. They're off to America soon."

"I'll ask himself," said Bridget. "I'll bring some barmbrack." 

"Great," said O'Reilly. He lowered himself into the driver's seat. "Hop in."

Barry climbed aboard.

"We were lucky with that one," said O'Reilly, as the car jolted down the rutted lane. "It would have been the death of Bridget if the wee lass hadn't pulled through."

"Mrs. Kennedy must have been a fair age when Jeannie was born." O'Reilly pulled onto the main road and stamped on the accelerator. "Usual story. They couldn't afford to get married until old man Kennedy died and left his son the farm. I think Bridget was forty two then. Took her forever to get pregnant. That wee girl's the light of her life."

O'Reilly leant on the horn and swerved across the centre fine. "Bloody bicycles. Move over."

Barry's head swung round as he watched the unfortunate on the bike wobble, stop, and hurl himself and his conveyance into the ditch. "Have you ever hit one?" he asked.

O'Reilly shook his head. "Not yet. They all know the car." And they all know you very well, Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly, Barry thought, and at least some of them are getting to know me. His pleasure at that idea was shattered when O'Reilly took both hands off the steering wheel to light his pipe and said, "Fotheringhams', next stop."

"Would you like some tea and scones?" Mrs. Fotheringham asked when O'Reilly and Barry were seated in the antimacassar-draped armchairs. She wore her Heather Mixture two-piece and her pearls. Not a hair was out of place on her head.

"No, thank you," said O'Reilly. "We can stay for only a minute. Doctor Laverty has something to tell you."

She sat on the settee, knees together, hands clasped in an attitude of prayer resting on the lap made by her skirt. "Yes, Doctor?" she asked through thin lips.

Barry swallowed. "I've had a word with the hospital about the major. He's doing as well as can be expected."

"And how well would that be?"

"He's fully conscious. Weak on his left side. His speech is a bit slurred. He's never going to be quite right, I'm afraid, but the speech therapists and physiotherapists can work wonders . . . with time." 

"I see." Her face was expressionless. "Perhaps if he'd gone to the hospital sooner?"

Barry glanced at O'Reilly, who was examining his fingernails intently. No help would be forthcoming from that quarter. Barry inhaled. "Yes. He might be doing better if I'd recognized what was wrong when I came to see him on Friday." Barry wondered if someone at the hospital had sown these seeds of doubt in her mind. 'If only we'd seen him sooner' was a common complaint of the medical staff there. "What did they tell you at the Royal?" he asked. Her lips were so narrow they had almost disappeared. "They barely acknowledged my presence."

Barry wondered if there was anything more he could say in self defence and decided that nothing short of total honesty would do. "I didn't think he'd done more than sprain his neck." 

"But you were wrong, weren't you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Fotheringham. I was."

"I'm glad you admit it, young man."

Barry flinched.

"Ahem," O'Reilly grumbled. "You know, Mrs. Fotheringham, I don't think I would have done any better. There wasn't a lot to go on on Friday."

She sniffed haughtily. "Of course you medical men always stick together."

"You could say that," said O'Reilly levelly, "but what I've told you is the truth as I see it."

"I've had time to think this over," she said, rising, "and I have decided that my husband and I will be seeking our medical advice elsewhere in the future."

"That is of course your choice, Mrs. Fotheringham. I hear Dr. Bowman in Kinnegar is very good." O'Reilly's tone was measured. Barry clenched his teeth. She was perfectly within her rights to change doctors, but he had hoped that by his being completely honest she might have understood.

"In that case," she crossed the room and held the door open, "perhaps you would be good enough to transfer our records to him?" 

"With pleasure."

Barry, his head held low, walked slowly to the hall. "I'm sorry. . . ." 

" 'Sorry' won't give me back a healthy husband." Barry looked at O'Reilly, who shook his head and said, "You're right."

"I'm glad you admit that much," she said. "Now . . . ?" 

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Fotheringham," O'Reilly said from the front step. "I hope the major makes the best recovery possible." 

"Huh," she said and closed the door.

Barry walked slowly to the car. He felt the springs sag as O'Reilly joined him.

"Don't let her get to you," said O'Reilly, starting the engine. "She's upset, angry."

"And right," said Barry. "I might have--"

"Don't start that again." O'Reilly braked. "Open the gate." Barry obeyed, waited for the car to pass, and closed the gate. It was all very well for O'Reilly to be philosophical. He wasn't the one who'd missed the diagnosis.

"Get in," said O'Reilly, "and for God's sake, buck up." O'Reilly accelerated. "You were spot-on about Cissie Sloan; between the pair of us we sorted out Jeannie Kennedy, and we got old Sonny put to rights." He made a screeching left turn onto the shore road. "You have to take the good with the bad. For the last time, I agree perhaps you could have done better with the major, but Mrs. Fotheringham's not just angry . . . she's feeling guilty."

"What about?"

"She's intelligent enough to recognize that maybe if the pair of them hadn't cried wolf so often you might have taken his stiff neck more seriously."

"Yes. I might."

"And when people are guilty . . . they often need someone to lash out at... to blame instead. You came in handy. Perfect scapegoat."

Barry thought about that. Certainly there was some truth in what O'Reilly said.

"Just remember," O'Reilly continued, "'
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster/ And treat those two impostors just the same . . .'
"

"Rudyard Kipling's 'If.' My dad gave me a framed copy when I was at school. '
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; / If all men count with you, but none too much. . . .'
" 

"Precisely," said O'Reilly, "'
but none too much
.' And that's another rule of practice besides 'Never let the customers get the upper hand.'"

"Oh?"

"Abraham Lincoln said something about fooling all of the people some of the time but not fooling all of them all of the time. It's the same with patients. No matter what you do for some of them, you'll never satisfy them."

"I know," Barry said quietly.

"So," said O'Reilly, "the sooner you come to the parting of the ways from those ones, the better."

"Like Mrs. Fotheringham wanting to see Dr. Bowman in future?" 

"Exactly. She'll never trust us again. It's a pity, but that's the nature of the beast. But for every Mrs. Fotheringham, every Bertie Bishop, there are the Cissies and the Jeannies and the Maureen Galvins and . . . the Maggies that do make it all worthwhile." He pulled the car to the verge outside Maggie MacCorkle's cottage. "Come on. Let's tell Maggie about Sonny."

Dogs spilled out of Maggie's front door and clustered round the car, tails wagging, the air full of the sounds of their happy yapping. Maggie thrust her way past them. Barry noticed the fresh pansies in her hatband.

"You're just in time, Doctors dear. The kettle's boiled."