An Irish Country Practice Read online

  O’Reilly waited, then prompted, “But?”

  Ronald dropped into an armchair facing O’Reilly. “You remember Bob Beresford, Fingal?”

  “A close friend when we were students,” O’Reilly explained for Barry’s benefit. “He died in Singapore during the Japanese occupation.” O’Reilly missed him yet. “I remember him very well,” he said.

  “Bob loved going to the horse races. I was bored one day.” He blew his nose again and managed a small smile. “You remember how unutterably dull social medicine was. Well, on a whim I cut class and went to Leopardstown with Bob, and God help me, I bet on a horse … and it won.” His eyes lit up. “I’d never known such excitement. Never. I bet again. And won again. It was wonderful. Wonderful. All that afternoon, all I could think of was my next bet, and the intense elation that I’d experienced lasted well into that night. I felt happy for the first time in years. From then on I found I couldn’t stop going to the horses. The dog racing.” Ronald Fitzpatrick stared out the window, but O’Reilly could tell that the man wasn’t seeing the view.

  “But, Ronald, you told me you”—an American phrase from a movie came into O’Reilly’s head—“kicked the habit back then.”

  Ronald Fitzpatrick nodded. “I did. I did.” He hung his head and inhaled deeply. “Until recently. Now it’s worse than ever, and nothing I do is working this time.”

  Barry said, “Why not?”

  Ronald Fitzpatrick swallowed. “I don’t know. I’ve been finding life very flat ever since my neck surgery last November.” He sighed. “You’d think I’d be happy I came through it so well, thanks to you, Fingal. And yet, I can’t seem to…” He shook his head. “I never, never should have bet on the Grand National last month. I’ve thought about nothing else ever since and I’ve been trying to increase my four thousand, four hundred and forty pounds. I don’t need the money. God help me, I think I need the excitement.” He closed his eyes and clicked three more beads before saying, “And now all I’ve done is lose money since. Then I feel terribly guilty about it. Going betting again comforts me for a while, takes away the guilt, but the feeling doesn’t last. Sometimes, dear Lord, I’ve thought—I’ve thought of—That it’s not worth going on.” He shook his head violently. His face screwed up in pain.

  “I’m trying to understand,” O’Reilly said, “and it’s not a medical condition that doctors can deal with, but I’ve seen enough gamblers lose their jobs, their families, everything they owned, and still not be able to quit.”

  Fitzpatrick’s voice trembled. “I know. I know.” Then he yelled, “Tell me something I don’t know, O’Reilly.”

  “Steady, Ronald. Yelling at me isn’t going to help.”

  “Neither is mouthing platitudes. I need help. I can’t cope.” The man’s eyes moistened.

  O’Reilly stifled his irritation. A man as disturbed as Ronald Fitzpatrick had to be given a fool’s pardon if he lost control. “Barry?” O’Reilly said. “We’ve got to help Ronald. Any ideas?”

  “I—” Barry took a surreptitious look at Ronald and then shook his head. “None, I’m afraid.”

  The lad looked taken aback by Ronald’s outburst. This was not the Ronald Fitzpatrick Barry had known for these past two years. O’Reilly wondered what he could offer in the way of comfort. “I didn’t tell you, Ronald, and I should have, how proud of you I felt when you told us you’d quit once before. Are you sure you can’t again? All your friends in Ballybucklebo will help, you know.”

  Ronald Fitzpatrick shook his head from side to side. “I can’t. I can’t. Not on my own. I’ve tried.”

  “Then tell us exactly how you quit the last time? Maybe it could work again?”

  Fitzpatrick closed his eyes. His lips moved silently. Every few seconds a bead would click and be shifted along the string. He opened his eyes, looked straight at O’Reilly, stopped moving the beads, and said, “I got my strength from the East by—” He lapsed into silence.

  This was a critical moment. O’Reilly leant forward to show he was paying attention. “Please tell us how you got your strength.”

  “The Buddha, the awakened one, taught that his followers could end suffering by eliminating ignorance and perhaps, more importantly, cravings, by following his teachings.” He looked to O’Reilly, who nodded encouragement. “I succeeded in eliminating my craving as a student and I recognized it for what it was this time and tried to use the same principles. Lord knows how I tried.” He sniffed. “I’ve failed. I need help. I keep telling you, I can’t do it on my own.”

  That remark about needing help pleased O’Reilly. If compulsive gambling was anything like alcoholism, the first step was for the victim to recognize they had a problem and needed help. “Whatever we can do, Ronald,” he said, but he recognized that medicine had no answers.

  Barry said, “There’s an organization for drinkers called Alcoholics Anonymous. They support each other. It seems to work quite well for some people.”

  Fitzpatrick leapt from his chair and said with vehemence, “I am not a bloody alcoholic, you idiot.”

  Barry kept his voice calm. “I know you’re not. I just wondered if there was a similar group for people who gamble.”

  O’Reilly admired Barry’s self-control.

  “In America,” Fitzpatrick said, “but not here.”

  “Would you—” Barry said, “I know it sounds a bit daft, but would you consider going to America for help?”

  “I—I’ve looked into it. I believe it might work for me, but…” He shook his head like a punched prizefighter. “Who’d look after my patients here?”

  The pleading in his voice made O’Reilly think of a small child begging to be excused from a visit to the dentist.

  Barry said, “You’re willing to put your patients before your own needs?”

  Fitzpatrick’s reply was halfway between a snarl and a groan. “I don’t have any choice, and how much help I am to them when I’m all at sixes and sevens myself I’m not sure, but what else can I do?”

  “Bravo,” O’Reilly said. “I’m proud of you, man, for recognizing that, and you’re right. We have to get you back on your feet.” He frowned, rubbed the web of his hand over his upper lip. “So, you were able to control the gambling as a student using Buddhism. Please tell Barry and me exactly how. And why not sit down.”

  Fitzpatrick lowered his lanky frame into a chair. He swallowed. “Very well. I’ll try.” He held up his rosary. “This is a Tibetan mala. We use it like a rosary. There are one hundred and eight beads. We use them to count our mantras. It’s very soothing. These beads are made from the wood of a bodhi tree.” By merely talking about his interest, Ronald Fitzpatrick seemed to be calming down. “I used to chant to myself in my rooms at Trinity every time I got the urge to gamble. It’s a form of meditation. It worked.” His face cracked. “But it’s not working now.”

  He rose again and started pacing, clicking his beads with metronomic regularity. “I even built myself a shrine to try to get closer to the Buddha’s teachings. Would you like to see it?”

  O’Reilly looked at Barry, who nodded and said, “Please.”

  “Follow me.” Fitzpatrick went up a flight of stairs to a small room. The smell of incense hung on the air. The walls were painted in a soothing light pink. A single sash window gave a view across Belfast Lough to the Antrim Hills and the Knockagh monument. There were no paintings. No furniture. A soft beige carpet covered the floor.

  Fitzpatrick pointed to the far end of the room to a structure consisting of three wooden shelves arranged one above the other. Objects had been placed on each. Fitzpatrick explained, “The top shelf has a statue of the Buddha. No other images may be displayed higher. The second shelf has a little Budai…”

  O’Reilly recognized a pot-bellied laughing figure similar to the one Ronald Fitzpatrick had presented to Fingal and Kitty.

  “And three stones are arranged to resemble a stūpa, a kind of pagoda. The lowest shelf has offerings.”

  O’Reilly saw a small
bowl of water, two sticks of incense, and some fresh flowers.

  To O’Reilly’s amazement, Fitzpatrick dropped to the floor and sat facing his shrine. The man’s back was straight but relaxed; his long skinny legs were twisted into a pretzel shape, his right foot placed on his left thigh, left foot on right. Each hand lay palm up on his knee.

  “This is the lotus position,” Fitzpatrick said. “It was hard to learn at first, but now I find it very relaxing.” He intoned, “Om mani padme hum,” and clicked a bead of his mala. As suddenly as he had assumed the position, the only word O’Reilly could think of to describe it was that Ronald Fitzpatrick had unwound. He stood, pince-nez askew, facing O’Reilly. “I just want you to try to understand.”

  O’Reilly’s heart went out to this strange man. “Please go on, Ronald,” he said.

  Fitzpatrick adjusted his spectacles and said, “There are two main branches of Buddhism…”

  I hope they’re not at each other’s throats like our two main branches of Christianity have been and could be again, O’Reilly thought.

  “Theravada, which seeks Nirvana by following the eightfold path, and Mahayana, whose adherents seek enlightenment by the cycle of reincarnation. In the last few years I have been investigating another branch, Vajrayana, which is practiced in Tibet and Nepal.” He smiled. “I do tend to run on,” he said. “I don’t want to be a bore, but—”

  “No, no, I’m intrigued,” O’Reilly said. “This is all new to me. Go on.”

  “Vajrayana puts a lot of stock in the Triple Gem: The Buddha himself, Dharma, which is teaching, and Sangha or community.”

  O’Reilly hesitated to interrupt, but he’d seen a glimmer of hope.

  Barry must have seen it too. He asked, “Is there one in Ireland? A Buddhist community, I mean?”

  Ronald shook his head. “Not that I’ve been able to find.”

  “Is there some way Kitty and Barry and I could make something like one for you?”

  For the first time Ronald Fitzpatrick managed a smile. “That is very considerate, Fingal, and Kitty would be most welcome. There are Buddhist nuns, but I just don’t see you, my friends, wearing saffron robes, turning prayer wheels, and chanting mantras to transform an impure body into a pure one.”

  The picture of himself with a shaved head amused O’Reilly, but he kept a straight face. “This may sound crazy, but you said you’d made enquiries about Gamblers Anonymous in America. Have you ever thought of going to a Buddhist community in the East for a while?”

  Ronald Fitzpatrick said softly, “You mean join a community of lamas?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. I’ll bet you’d find it hard to locate turf accountants in—in Tibet, for example.”

  Barry began to laugh, but when he saw the look on Fitzpatrick’s face, he turned to the shrine and began studying the statues there.

  “Why, I wouldn’t be able to gamble in a monastery, would I, and they could support me so I could work toward annihilating my craving.” He sounded embarrassed, yet O’Reilly heard longing in the man’s voice. “I believe that would work for me. In fact, I think it could be wonderful.” His face crumpled. “But the question remains. Who’d look after my patients here? I can’t abandon them.”

  O’Reilly reached out a hand to his friend’s shoulder. “I think I may be starting to see a way to help you. Look.” As he spoke he counted off points on his other hand. “One. You keep on gambling. Two. Practising Buddhism helped you once before…”

  Fitzpatrick nodded.

  “And three. The solitary efforts aren’t working. You need the help of a community. But, the stumbling block is you’re tied to your practice.” He turned to his young partner. “Any ideas, Barry?”

  “I do. A very simple one. Yours isn’t the biggest practice in the world, Ronald. Fingal, I reckon if you and Nonie and Connor agree, we could cope for a while, but we’d have to ask them.”

  “I’ve no objection,” O’Reilly said.

  “Do you mean it?” Ronald Fitzpatrick’s eyes moistened.

  O’Reilly leant forward and now put both hands on Fitzpatrick’s shoulders. “Yes, Ronald. We do. We want you to get better.”

  Fitzpatrick heaved a shuddering sob before saying in a low voice, “In all my fifty-nine years I’ve never had friends like you two. I don’t know how to thank you.” He offered a hand, which O’Reilly shook and, humbled by the man’s sincerity, inclined his head.

  “We’ll ask the others first thing on Monday. Let you know.”

  “I’ve dreamed of going to visit the Haeinsa monastery in Seoul. They say it’s one of the most beautiful of all the Buddhist monasteries, but I’ve also had some correspondence with the abbot of Tengboche Monastery in the Khumbu region of Nepal. As soon as you find out, Fingal, I’ll write to him again.”

  “Tengboche? I’ve heard of that,” said O’Reilly. “It’s in Sherpa country. Near Mount Everest. Sir John Hunt had his base camp there for his 1953 expedition.”

  “And,” Fitzpatrick said, “it has links to the mother monastery in Tibet where Tenzing Norgay, one of the first two men up Everest, was given his name. I’d have liked to go there, but Tibet’s been part of Communist China since 1951.”

  “You’ve done your homework,” O’Reilly said.

  Ronald closed his eyes and clicked three more beads before saying, with the tiniest bit of pride mingled with enthusiasm in his voice, “I haven’t lost all my money. I have some invested and I won’t touch it, and I probably have enough left to fly to Nepal, spend six months to a year there if I lived very simply, make a donation to the lamas to defray their costs in having me, and fly home when I feel I’m ready.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said O’Reilly. “It takes a very big man, Ronald Fitzpatrick, to admit to his faults, and a bigger one to work on plans to overcome them.”

  “Thank you both. The Buddha said in the Dhammapada, ‘Virtuous deeds are a shelter,’ and may your shelters, Fingal and Barry, be strong. You are good men.”

  O’Reilly cleared his throat, tried not to blush, then said, “Thank you, Ronald. We’re only trying to help.” And, he thought, perhaps there might be a way I could help more. “There’s something else,” he said. “I’ll need to talk to a colleague in Belfast, but I see an even more efficient solution to running your practice.” He looked at Ronald Fitzpatrick. “I think your practical problem here can be solved. I’m sure your way of beating your devils will be of great help too. Even getting it off your chest and explaining about Buddhism has made you look a lot calmer, my friend.”

  “Thank you both very much,” Fitzpatrick said. “I am already feeling better.”

  “Good,” said O’Reilly. He squeezed Fitzpatrick’s hand, smiled, and said, “Now, would you like to come to us for dinner tonight? You could even sleep at Number One. I don’t think we should be leaving you on your own.”

  “That’s very generous, but I’d rather…” He lifted his mala and inclined his head to his shrine. To O’Reilly’s surprise Ronald Fitzpatrick chuckled his rustling-dry-leaves laugh and said, “And you needn’t worry about me tonight. It’s Sunday and all the bookies are shut.”

  34

  Reconciles Discordant Elements

  Barry knew he was behaving like a sixteen-year-old on his first date. He had bathed after work, shaved for the second time today. He had outgrown the teenager’s propensity for using Old Spice aftershave, but he had brushed his teeth before putting on his best, indeed his only, suit of charcoal-grey worsted over a clean white shirt. His Old Campbellian tie, black with two thin diagonal stripes of green and one of white, was done in a neat half-Windsor. Kinky herself had starched the collar.

  “Someone looks like they’re going courting,” she had said as he left his quarters. “I thought, sir, you had already secured the young lady.” She smiled a knowing smile and cocked her head, her double chins wagging. “Still, it never hurts to treat your muirnín, your darling girl. There’ll be a dozen red roses waiting for you at the flower shop, I’ll
wager, so,” she said.

  “And you’d win, Kinky,” he said, “and I’d better run on. The last thing I want to do is be late.”

  Now he was in Holywood after a nervous drive over and was glancing in the rearview mirror, straightening the knot of his tie and using his right hand to try to flatten the tuft in his fair hair. Barry took a deep breath, lifted from the passenger seat the dozen red roses Kinky had guessed about, and got out.

  He inhaled, rehearsing again what he was going to say, but other words intruded. “Why anybody, anybody in their right mind, would have a brood of bloody rug rats is utterly beyond me.”

  He sighed and shook his head. They’d been long, these last sixteen days. When his mind wasn’t occupied by his work he’d thought of precious little else but that one sentence and its aftermath. A tight-lipped Sue saying, “I love you, Barry, but I couldn’t face a childless future.”

  Sue had kept her promise to phone today, Monday, and had suggested he come to her flat at six. Now it was two minutes to six, make-or-break time. He stood on the pavement plucking up his courage, steeling himself for possible disappointment. God, it was like staring at an envelope containing dreaded examination results. The outcome was preordained, but as long as the envelope remained sealed he wouldn’t know if he had failed.

  As soon as he’d rung her front doorbell, he could hear Max, Sue’s lunatic springer spaniel, barking furiously. Barry raised the roses above his head and dropped his left hand in front of his crotch. He didn’t want a repeat of his last visit here. Max had damn nearly gelded him. Tonight was no time for slapstick comedy.

  The door opened.

  Dear God, but she was beautiful, and—and she smiled when he gave her the roses. How he had missed that smile.

  “How lovely. Thank you. Come in, Barry. I’ve locked Max in the kitchen.” She pecked his cheek as he passed her. “We’ll go into the sitting room.”