An Irish Country Doctor Page 13
"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 . . . ?"
"MacAteer. Julie MacAteer."
"Is that Mc or Mac?"
"Mac."
He entered the name. "How old are you?"
"Twenty." There was a catch in her voice. "Next week."
"And what brings you to see us?"
A single tear fell from her left eye. She opened her handbag and brought out a handkerchief.
"That's all right. Take your time."
She dabbed at her eyes. Her shoulders shook. Barry leant forward and took her hand. "I'd like to help, Julie."
She looked into his eyes, and in her own he saw sadness. "I'm late," she whispered.
"How late?"
"Three whole weeks. And I'm always on time."
Barry swallowed. The next question had to be asked. "Do you think you could be--?"
"I know I am." Her eyes flashed. "I've thrown up every morning for the last week, and I'm main sore here." She put her free hand to her breast.
"It could be something else. Hormones are funny things. It's not unusual for young women to miss a period if they're worried about something."
"Worried? I'm worried sick. What am I going to do?" She closed her eyes and tilted her head back.
Barry heard O'Reilly enter. He looked over to see the big man put a finger to his lips.
"Have you told anyone?" Barry asked her.
"Who could I tell? Da would kill me, so he would."
"Julie, you could be wrong. You could be worrying for nothing."
"I'm not wrong. I know I'm . . . pregnant. . . and I don't know what to do."
"I think we should find out for sure. Did you bring a urine sample?"
She pulled a small glass bottle from her bag. "Here."
Barry took the bottle. "I'll have to send it to Belfast for a test." From the corner of his eye he saw O'Reilly hold up a thumb. "We'll know for sure on . . . ?" Barry realized he didn't know how long it would take to get the results.
"Friday," said O'Reilly.
She swung and stared at him.
"This is Julie MacAteer," Barry said.
"It's all right, Julie. I'm Doctor O'Reilly." She turned back to Barry and tried to smile.
"I'll just have to wait then. Keep my fingers crossed?"
"I'm sorry," Barry said.
She lowered her head, clenched her fists, took a deep breath. "All right."
"Will you be going back to Rasharkin today?" Barry asked.
"No. I'm stopping here."
"Where?" Barry realized he had forgotten to take her address. She tugged at the handkerchief.
"I'm not telling."
"But-"
"It's not important." O'Reilly put a hand on her shoulder. "Doctor Laverty only needs it for the records. Just put 'local' on the card."
"Right."
"Doctor O'Reilly?" She straightened her shoulders and stared up into his face. "If I am . . . you know ... I can't keep it."
"You'll not have to," said O'Reilly. "I promise." Barry sat bolt upright. He could understand why a single woman would not want to consult a physician in her own small community, and he had assumed that was why she had travelled to Ballybucklebo. But was O'Reilly an abortionist?
"Do you mean it?" she asked.
"I do," said O'Reilly. "I promise."
She stood and hugged the big man.
"Get away with you, Julie," he said gently. "Everything'll be fine." Good God. Barry could not believe what he was hearing.
Abortions were illegal. The words came out before he could think about what he was saying. "Doctor O'Reilly, I won't--"
"Hold your horses, Barry. It's not what you think." Barry spluttered.
"So, Julie," said O'Reilly, stepping back. "I tell you what. Wash your face at the sink there, and put on a bit of makeup. You'll not want people to know you've been crying."
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Och, for what? Take your time."
Barry, unable to trust himself not to say something he might regret, left the surgery, trying to ignore the young woman's words of grati
tude. How the hell could O'Reilly tell her that everything would be rosy when the odds were that she was pregnant and there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it?
He almost bumped into Mrs. Kincaid as she let the two children out through the front door.
"Sorry," he snapped. "I wasn't looking where I was going."
"No matter."
The surgery door opened, and O'Reilly, holding Julie's arm, took her to the front door. Barry saw Mrs. Kincaid peer at the young woman's face, and a look of puzzlement cross her own. "Huh," she grunted.
Barry heard O'Reilly say, "Come back on Friday, and try not to worry. We'll take care of it, I promise." The front door shut. "Kinky. Lunch," O'Reilly said. "We've a lot of calls this afternoon." Barry went into the dining room. He'd be damned if he was going to have a row with O'Reilly in front of Mrs. Kincaid. O'Reilly came in and sat at the table.
"You promise, do you, Fingal?" Barry could barely stop his hands from trembling. "How can you promise her?" He leant forward, supporting himself on hands splayed on the tablecloth. "Do you do abortions here? In the surgery? Is that why she's come all the way from Rasharkin?" Barry remembered the human wreckage that flooded the gynaecology wards every Friday night when the men were paid and the women had the cash to make clandestine visits to backstreets somewhere off Shankill Road or Sandy Row. The unlucky ones came in in agony, haemorrhaging, raddled with infections that spread like wildfire. Some would never have to worry about falling pregnant again. The scarring and destruction of their Fallopian tubes saw to that. Some died, and all because they couldn't face another pregnancy and had no recourse but a filthy harridan who rammed a knitting needle or a bent coat hanger into the life they were carrying.
O'Reilly sucked in his cheeks, folded his arms, and looked levelly at Barry.
"Are you one of the charlatans who take money from the well-to do ladies of Malone Road or Cherryvalley and make sure they can get rid of their little inconveniences?"
"At least," said O'Reilly mildly, "those fellows use a sterile technique."
'And you think that sterility's justification for what they do?"
"It's better than the backstreets."
"Christ." Barry stood straight. "I won't be party to it."
"You won't have to be."
"I suppose not. You've obviously managed quite well without me before."
"Yes," O'Reilly said, "I have."
Barry swallowed. He saw clearly that although he was now enjoying working in Ballybucklebo, he wouldn't, he couldn't, stay here. He could lose his licence. More to the point, he'd never be able to look himself in the eye. He half turned, fully intending to leave, when he heard O'Reilly say clearly and distinctly, "I don't do abortions."
Barry spun back. "What?"
"I said I don't do abortions. Mind you, I'm not sure they shouldn't be legal. I'd not want to be single and up the spout, would you?"
"No." Barry frowned. "But if you don't. . . how could you promise Julie she'd not have to keep it?"
"I didn't say she wouldn't have to have the baby."
"Come on, Fingal." Barry had been so sure a moment ago that he had been in the right. "How could a single woman go on living in a place like Rasharkin, or here in Ballybucklebo? The shame would kill her."
"Why don't you take a deep breath, count to ten, and sit down?" An edge of command laced O'Reilly's last few words. Barry sat, slowly.
"If she's pregnant, and she probably is, I'll arrange for her to go to Liverpool."
"Liverpool?"
"Aye. There's a charity there. A home for the Piffys."
"Piffys?"
"PFIs. Pregnant from Ireland. Piffys. The people there will look after her until the baby's born and then arrange an adoption. The folks in Rasharkin can suspect, but they can't be sure that she's had a wee bastard."
"Oh." Barry could not meet O'Reilly's gaze. "Fingal?"
"Yes?"
"Look. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions."
"No. You shouldn't..."
Barry flinched.
"But I'll say one thing. I admire a man who has the courage to speak his mind."
Barry looked up and saw a soft smile on O'Reilly's face. "So we'll say no more. Mind you, it would make life a lot easier all round if the babby's daddy would make an honest woman of her."
"Do you think that's likely?" Barry wanted to get off the subject of abortion.
"I don't think so. If he'd been going to, she wouldn't have come here in the first place."
"I wonder why she's here? In Ballybucklebo? I thought that she'd heard that you ..." Barry bit back his words.
"Haven't a clue." O'Reilly ignored the implied question and looked over Barry's head to where Mrs. Kincaid stood holding two steaming plates. "What do you think, Kinky?"
"About what?"
"About why a pregnant young woman would come here from Rasharkin to see me?"
"So, the wee one's in trouble?" Mrs. Kincaid set the plates on the table.
" 'Fraid so." O'Reilly grabbed his knife and fork and set to. "I'll need to ask about," said Mrs. Kincaid, frowning, "but I've seen that girl before."
"You do that, Kinky. I want to know by Friday." O'Reilly skewered a sausage.
"I will." Mrs. Kincaid handed over a piece of paper. "And here's your afternoon list. Now eat up. After lunch the pair of you will be healing more sick than the sainted Lord Jesus himself."
The General Comes Up to Scratch
Down the hall, through the kitchen, and into the garden. Barry looked for Arthur Guinness. The dog lay in his kennel, big head on his front paws, eyes shut.
"Arthur!" O'Reilly roared. "Wake up, you idle lummox." Arthur opened bloodshot eyes, muttered a feeble aaarrgh, and went back to sleep.
"Serves you right, you drunken piss artist," O'Reilly said. Piss artist in more ways than one, Barry thought, steering well away from the dog.
"Who've we to visit today, Fingal?" he asked, as they climbed into the car.
O'Reilly consulted his list. "Old Archie Campbell's arthritis is playing up, Katy Corrigan's bronchitis is getting worse, Mrs. Mallon thinks her Jimmy's broken his ankle . . . I doubt it, but we'd better drop by . . . and . . . that's very handy."
"What is?"
"The Mallons live near Maggie's place. We'll make our last call with her and see if she has any suggestions for what to do with Lady Macbeth."
The actual consultations hadn't taken long. Most of the time was consumed driving from place to place, and Barry now understood why O'Reilly had explained on the first day--was it really a week ago?--that it was important to know the geography of the place so that time wasn't wasted backtracking.
At their first stop O'Reilly examined Archie Campbell's twisted hands and knuckles, red and inflamed. He told the old man to keep soaking them in salt and warm water and to double his dose of aspirin. In the car, O'Reilly wondered aloud if perhaps it wasn't time to start giving the octogenarian cortisone, the wonder drug. Katy Corrigan, lying in her bed, wheezing like a broken-down cart horse, agreed to inhale the fumes of Friar's Balsam three times daily, sent her eldest boy on his bicycle to the chemist's shop to collect a new prescription for penicillin V, and in no uncertain terms, assured O'Reilly that she had not the slightest intention of giving up her cigarettes.
Jimmy Mallon's ankle had made a remarkable recovery. When O'Reilly asked to see the patient, the mother said she'd have to call young Jimmy in from where he was playing soccer. Barry expected O'Reilly to blow a fuse, but the big man simply shrugged. He gave Mrs. Mallon a short lecture on how busy doctors were and asked could she please be certain in the future that a call was necessary.
"You have to make allowances," he remarked, as he pulled the Rover away from the Mallons'. "She's got eight kids and a husband who spends even more time in the Mucky Duck than Seamus Galvin. What we need is some decent kind of contraception . . . like this pill thingy."
"It's been available with a doctor's prescription in England for the last year."
"Julie MacAteer?"
"That's right." How the hell did he remember all their names?
"And us," said O'Reilly, "if that's what you're thinking."
"I said-"
"You were sorry, and I said we'd say no more about it. So, Barry, let the hare sit. We've more important things to think about."
"Like getting her fixed up in Liverpool?"
"No, you goat. That's easy. We've to hope to God that Maggie has the answer to what to do with Lady Macbeth."
"Oh," said Barry, realizing that this was O'Reilly's way of changing the subject. If Barry's outburst was a thing of the past, Barry was happy to go along.
"We're here," said O'Reilly, pulling the car to the roadside outside Maggie's cottage. "Come on."
"Hello, Doctors dear," said Maggie, trowel in one hand, as she turned from a window box. "Grand day."
It was. Out past her cottage, far out on the whitecapped lough, Barry could see a fleet of yachts running down the wind. In the sunlight their multihued spinnakers billowed like fairies' parachutes. I'd like to be out there with them, he thought. "How are you, Maggie?" O'Reilly asked.
"Grand, so I am." She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. Barry noticed that the geraniums in her hatband had been replaced with marigolds. "I'm glad you dropped by. I need a wee favour."
"All in good time, Maggie. We've come to ask advice."
"Oh? What about?"
"Cats," said O'Reilly. "I've just got a new one."
"Good. It'll be better company for you than that great lummox of an Arthur Guinness." Maggie looked gently at the big man. Barry wondered just how accurate Mrs. Kincaid had been when she'd assured him they were the only ones to know of O'Reilly's loss.
"I'm having trouble training her."