An Irish Country Doctor (38 page)

"There you are, Doctor Laverty," she said as she arrived. "Here." She thrust the cat into his arms. "This wee one doesn't like the crowds. You should take her inside."

"All right, Maggie," Barry said.

"Now," she said, waving her bundle, "I'll just go and put this plum cake on the food table." She scanned the crowd. "Someone said that out' goat Sonny was here. Have you noticed him about the place?" 

"He's sitting under that apple tree," Barry said, distracted by a squirming Lady Macbeth.

"Right," said Maggie, "and would you for God's sake get that wee scared moggie away to hell out of here. This is a Ballybucklebo ta-ta-ta-ra, and it's not hardly even got started yet."

Multitudes, Multitudes

O'Reilly, pint glass in hand, beamed down to where Jeannie Kennedy was playing on the grass with the pants-wetting Colin Brown and his bride-to-be, Susan MacAfee. "How are you, Jeannie?" O'Reilly asked. 

Her smile widened. "Grand," he said, turning to Jack. "See how your appendix abscess made out, Doctor Mills?" 

"I hardly recognized her," said Jack.

O'Reilly patted Jeannie on the head. "Come on," he said to Barry, "I want to hear what's happening with Maggie and Sonny." O'Reilly winked at Barry and sidled across the lawn. Barry followed. They stood behind the chestnut tree, unashamedly eavesdropping. "I have to thank you for looking after my dogs, Miss MacCorkle." 

"It was no bother. I'll keep then 'til you get home, so I will." 

"That would be most generous."

Barry noticed that neither Maggie nor Sonny would look each other in the eye. Sonny cleared his throat. "Are you sure you're all right, Sonny?" Maggie asked, the concern in her voice plain to hear.

"Just a little tickle. A frog in my throat."

"I hope so. No wonder you near caught your death, living in that old car."

Sonny sat stiffly. "It suits me, and I'll not pay that despicable man, Bishop."

Maggie's toothless grin was as radiant as the sunlight that streamed through the tree's leaves.

"And what's so amusing, Miss MacCorkle?"

Maggie chuckled. "You'll not need to. Pay him, that is." Sonny frowned. "Why not?"

"Because, and don't ask me how it happened, Councillor Bishop started fixing the roof yesterday."

Sonny's eyes widened. "I'll not pay. Not a penny." 

O'Reilly stepped forward. "You'll not have to, Sonny." 

"Doctor O'Reilly, I don't understand." Sonny tried to rise. 

"Sit where you are."

"But. . ."

"The worm," said O'Reilly, "has turned. Bertie Bishop came to see me a few days ago. Said he'd had a change of heart, he was sorry you were so sick, and he'd fix your roof for free." 

"I don't know what to say." Sonny looked from O'Reilly to Maggie and back to O'Reilly.

"I do," said Maggie, leaning over and planting a great wet kiss on Sonny's forehead. "And if you'd ask me as nicely as you did all those years ago . . . I'll say 'I do' properly when the reverend asks the question, so I will."

Sonny took Maggie's hand in his arthritic grip and raised it to his lips. He smiled up at O'Reilly, who turned to Barry and said, "This calls for a jar. Come on." He lowered his voice. "I think that pair of turtledoves would like to be left alone." 

"Right," said Barry, nodding to Jack.

"What was that all about?" Jack asked, as the trio made its way back toward the tent.

Barry smiled. "The Lord and Doctor Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly both move in mysterious ways their wonders to perform. It's a long story. . . ."

His explanation was interrupted by a ferocious wailing. Barry swung round to see Seamus Galvin, bag under his arm, drones over his shoulder, cheeks puffed, foot tapping in time to the lively notes of "
The Rakes of Mallow
." Arthur Guinness sat at Seamus's feet. The dog had his head thrown back at an impossible angle. His eyes were tightly shut, and his ululations quavered and rose and fell. In the space at the house end of the lawn, men now coatless and women with their Sunday hats cast aside had formed a set and were dancing a reel.

"Jesus," said O'Reilly, "it's like '
The Galway Races.
'" He sang in a surprisingly melodious baritone. '"
And it's there you'll see the pipers and the fiddlers competing; the nimble-footed dancers and they trippin' on the daisies.'
" As O'Reilly sang, Constable Mulligan, perhaps less nimble than the rest, managed to get his boots entangled and went down in a heap. "Must have been a big daisy," said O'Reilly with a grin. He finished his pint. "Who needs another one?" 

"Me," said Jack. Barry shook his head.

"Come on then, Mills," said O'Reilly. He glanced at the yodelling dog. "Arthur'll be thirsty with all that singing. I'll see if Willy the barman has a can of Smithwicks."

Barry stood and watched the dancers.

"Doctor, sir."

Barry turned to see the bucktoothed, ginger-topped Donal Donnelly grinning like a mooncalf. "Could I have a wee word, Doctor sir?" He had to shout to be heard over the row of the pipes, the bellowing of the dog.

"Certainly." Barry's mouth fell open. Donal was holding tightly to Julie MacAteer's hand.

"Julie and me here wanted to say thank you to you and Doctor O'Reilly for being so decent."

"Don't tell me . . . ," Barry started.

Donal blushed to the roots of his ginger hair. "We couldn't afford to get wed," he said, scuffing his boots on the grass, "and Julie wouldn't tell nobody I was the daddy."

"So what happened to change things?"

Donal swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his scrawny throat. "I won a wheen of money on Bluebird."

"So did Doctor O'Reilly, but that was a couple of weeks ago." 

"It wasn't enough, but Julie here got a parcel of cash for severance from Councillor Bishop."

"I'm sure," she said with a wry smile, as she looked deeply into Barry's eyes, "I'm sure the doctors don't know anything about that."

"Not a thing," Barry said, wondering if he was blushing. He glanced away.

"Anyroad," said Donal, "I've a new job now. I'm labouring on Sonny's house for the councillor."

"So you're getting married," Barry said. "I'm delighted. And Doctor O'Reilly will be delighted too. There he is. You should go and tell him." Sometimes, he thought, the ends do justify the means. Sonny and Maggie. Julie and--hard to believe as it was--the bucktoothed Donal Donnelly. Neither pair would be together if O'Reilly, with Barry's complicity, hadn't broken the rules of confidentiality. Indeed, there wouldn't be a reason for this party at all if O'Reilly hadn't forced Councillor Bishop to buy Seamus Galvin's rocking ducks.

Barry watched Donal and Julie, still hand in hand, walk over to O'Reilly, who clapped Donal on the shoulder and whose cheerful "Bloody marvellous!" boomed over the end of the music. Barry was pleased for the young couple, pleased for Maggie and Sonny. A Frank Sinatra song buzzed in his head: "
Everybody's hand in hand, swingin' down the lane.
" He looked at his empty sherry glass. Damn it, it was a beautiful day. Everyone was having a hell of a time. He'd make the most of it.

He wandered back to the tent, acknowledging the greetings of the partygoers. It was a pleasant feeling to know he was becoming accepted in the village. A fiddle started to play. Someone had a pennywhistle. A large man rattled out the percussion on a 
bodhrán
 the Irish drum of parchment stretched over a circular frame. Barry recognized the tune, "
Planxty Gordon
." He hummed a few off-key notes as he waited for the queue to reach the bar table. 

"Another sherry, Doctor?" Willy asked.

"No. I'll have a pint."

"Good man, my da," said Willy, building the Guinness. 

"Get you round that. It'll put hairs on your chest, so it will." He handed Barry the straight glass. "One and six for your water please, sir," Willy said, with a wink. He handed Barry a can of Smithwick's. "Would you see to Arthur, sir?"

Barry paid, took the can, sipped the bitter stout, and made his way back into the sunlight.

Seamus Galvin had taken the 
bodhrán
 
from its owner and was beating out a fierce tattoo. The buzz of conversation died. "Ladies and gentlemen," he yelled. "Ladies and gennlemen." He wobbled and grinned. "I'd like to call upon our senior medical man, Doctor Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly, for a song."

Cheers and yells of "Go on, Doctor!" rang out as Barry stooped over Arthur's bowl and poured the beer. Arthur eyed Barry's pants but must have decided that as the day was warm he'd settle for his second drink.

Barry looked up to see O'Reilly, standing, one leg before him, hands gripping the lapels of his tweed jacket, head thrown back. "
I'm a freeborn man of the travelling people. Got no fixed abode, with nomads I am numbered. Country lanes and byways were always my ways. Never fancied being lumbered . . .
" And who in their right mind, Barry thought, would try to lumber you, Fingal O'Reilly, with anything?

Seamus Galvin was at his elbow. "You're up next, Doc." 

"Oh, no," Barry said, trying to back away. "Not me." 

"Yes, you. You'll have to do your party piece." 

"But I can't sing."

"Doesn't matter. We like a good recimatation, so we do. You're a learned man. I'll bet you do '
The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck
' or maybe '
The Man from God Knows Where.'
"

"Well, I-"

"Great," said Seamus. "Your man's near done."

"
. . . Your rambling days are over
." O'Reilly finished to a chorus of cheers and whistles.

As soon as the row quieted down, Seamus marched Barry to the centre of the cleared space. "Silence for our other doctor. Young Doctor Barry Laverty."

Barry looked round the circle of expectant faces. Cissie Sloan smiled at him and said, mopping her brow with a hanky, "Warm today, Doctor." If she was no longer feeling cold, her thyroid medication must be starting to work. Barry didn't recognize a blonde with Jack, but his hand rested on her hip at a level just slightly below the polite. He squeezed and she giggled.

"Get on with it, Doctor Laverty," Jack yelled and raised his glass. Barry glanced helplessly at O'Reilly, who stood there, face more florid than usual, pipe belching smoke.

Someone started to sing "
Why are we waiting? Why-hy are we waiting?
" And other voices took up the refrain. Barry held up both hands. "All right. All right." The singing died.

He cleared his throat. "'
The Charge of the Light Brigade,'
" he announced, and to his amazement, hardly stumbling at all, he recited the poem.

When he'd finished, applause swelled, and he accepted a series of good-natured slaps on his back. Someone thrust a fresh pint into his hand.

"You," said O'Reilly, "in the immortal but hardly grammatical words of my old boss, Doctor Flanagan, 'done very good, son. Very good indeed.'"

And Barry let himself bask in the glow. He was just about to put his pint to his lips when Kinky, whom he hadn't noticed approaching, whispered, "Would you come into the house, Doctor Laverty? There's someone wants to see you, so."

"Could they not wait?"

"Ah, no. I can tell that this one is an urgent case. And they particularly asked for yourself."

"Very well." He handed his glass to a grinning Jack Mills. "Look after that for me. I've a case to see."

Jack's accent was pure American midwest. "Neither sleet, nor rain, nor heat of sun . . . not even a pint of stout going flat. . . can keep them from their appointed rounds."

"Bugger off," said Barry with a smile, as he followed Kinky.

"In the surgery, sir."

Barry grunted, walked down the hall, opened the surgery door--and stopped dead.

"Hello, Barry," Patricia said. "I thought you were going to phone me."

Barry's mouth hung wide open. He remembered a line he'd read somewhere: "If you find a jaw on the carpet--it's mine." 

"You did, you know." Her voice was deep, just as he remembered. "You said you'd call."

"I know," he said, trying to collect himself, wondering if he was shocked because she was there or because her presence gave the proof to Kinky's claim of being fey. Whatever it was, he was delighted to see her. "I thought you were being polite . . . letting me down gently." She shook her head, dark hair swinging, almond eyes laughing. "No. I meant exactly what I said. I wasn't sure that I was ready to get deeply involved."

"Oh."

"And," she said levelly, "before you start getting any notions, I'm still not sure."

"Then why are you here?" Barry felt his fists clench. Dear God, but she was lovely.

"Because . . ." She limped close to him and looked into his eyes. "There's something about you, Barry Laverty, and don't ask me what it is, that I think I'd like to get to know better." 

"Really?" His grip relaxed. "Do you mean it?"

"I'd not be here if I didn't. And it just seemed that if you wouldn't phone me, then I should come and see you." 

He took her hand. "I'm so glad you did." Jack had been right, Barry thought a bit smugly. He determined not to rush things now, much as he wanted to take her away, to have her all to himself. He said, "And you picked the right day. There's a bit of a party going on."