An Irish Country Village Page 5

  He’s being Moses again, Barry thought.

  Finnegan bowed his head. “No, Doctor.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said O’Reilly. “Treatment, Doctor Laverty?”

  “Penicillin ointment every two hours for the infection, dark glasses so the light won’t hurt, and . . .”—Barry remembered how country patients put great faith in potions—one percent yellow mercuric oxide ointment.” He knew it was only a weak antiseptic and would have little if any real effect. It was the penicillin that would clear up the infection. “The last stuff’s called golden eye ointment,” he said, stressing the word “golden.” “It’s an awful colour, but it’s very strong. I’ll write you a script.”

  “Boys-a-dear,” said Finnegan. “Strong?”

  “As a horse, Fergus,” said O’Reilly with a tiny wink to Barry. “And speaking of horses, never mind Doctor Laverty’s hundred to one on; I’ll give you ten to one the eye’ll be better by Friday.”

  “Ten to one? For a pound?” Finnegan scratched his chin, sucked air between his teeth, and said, “I’m your man, Doctor.” He held out his hand, and O’Reilly shook it to seal the bet.

  Barry handed the man the prescription. “Take that round to the chemist.”

  “Come back on Friday,” O’Reilly said. “And Fergus, don’t forget the pound note. Now just let yourself out, and close the door behind you.”

  Finnegan crammed his cap on and turned to leave.

  “I beg your pardon?” said O’Reilly.

  “I never said nothing, so I didn’t.”

  “Strange. I could have sworn I heard you say, ‘Thank you, Doctor Laverty.’ ”

  “Aye. Thanks.”

  When the door was closed, O’Reilly rose, put a hand on Barry’s shoulder, and grinned. “You done good, son, particularly with the golden ointment.”

  “Thanks, Fingal,” Barry said. “And thanks for the support. But if all the patients are going to treat me like that, do you not think I was right last night?”

  “About what?”

  “About leaving.” Barry’s voice was flat.

  “I don’t know,” O’Reilly said, “but you’d better be right about the penicillin. If he’s got one of those new penicillin-resistant bugs, I’ll be out ten quid on Friday.”

  You haven’t answered my question, Barry thought, and if I am wrong about the treatment I’ll have another black mark against me. He said, “I’ll pay the ten pounds if that’s all you’re worried about.”

  “Indeed,” said O’Reilly, as if he could not care less. He nodded his head towards the door. “Now be a good lad—”

  “And nip along and see who’s next.” Barry left and walked to the waiting room. What was the point of staying here if all the patients were going to treat him with suspicion? “Next, please,” he said, hardly paying attention to who it would be.

  “That’s me, Doctor Laverty.” Julie MacAteer rose.

  He noticed she was wearing a loose blue dress and sandals. Her corn-silk hair was tied with an Alice band, and her blue eyes smiled at him. He noticed the flush in her cheeks and wondered why women in early pregnancy all seemed to glow. “Good morning, Julie.” At least Julie still trusts me, he thought.

  He led her along the hall. “How’s Donal?”

  “He’s up to something. He was so full of himself when he came home yesterday . . .”

  The Arkle caper, Barry thought.

  “But he’s very busy too, Doctor. He’s on the roofing job at Sonny’s old place.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “I don’t think Councillor Bishop’s too happy.”

  Barry stood aside to let her precede him into the surgery.

  O’Reilly rose. “Did I hear you say Bertie Bishop’s not happy? What a pity.” O’Reilly chuckled. “I don’t know what got into him to agree to fix Sonny’s roof for free . . .”

  The hell you don’t, Barry thought. We blackmailed the councillor into doing it and into settling five hundred pounds on Julie when she left her job as the Bishops’ housemaid. No wonder he growled at me yesterday.

  “. . . But sure it’s a fine Christian thing he’s doing. It might even be ready when Sonny gets out of the convalescent home, I hear.”

  Julie smiled. “You know me and Donal are getting married?” She dropped a hand to her tummy and coughed. “Have to actually.”

  “And that’s why you’re here?” O’Reilly asked.

  “The last time I was here you gave me the laboratory forms to take to Bangor this afternoon, so I thought I’d kill two birds and come in for my first checkup before I go down there. My last period was ten weeks ago, on May twenty-third. I brought a sample.” She handed O’Reilly a small bottle. “I’d like Doctor Laverty to examine me,” she said. “He was very kind when I first came here.”

  Barry smiled at her. He pulled a folding screen in front of the couch. “Nip in there, Julie,” he said. “Lift up your dress and take off your panties. There’s a sheet to pull over yourself. I’ll be in in a minute.”

  When he went behind the screen, Julie lay with her lower abdomen and legs partly hidden under the sheet. He quickly ran through the routine prenatal questions. “Blood pressure,” he said, wrapping the cuff round her arm and sticking his stethoscope in his ears. “Fine.” He deflated the cuff and put on a pair of rubber gloves. “I’m going to have to examine you. Can you draw up your knees?”

  Between one hand on her abdomen and two fingers in her vagina, he could feel the uterus, tilted forward and enlarged. It seemed to be about the right size for ten weeks, the time elapsed from her last period, but as he knew, estimating uterine size in the first three months was inaccurate at best. Was the organ softer than it should be? He wasn’t sure but there was no point worrying Julie unnecessarily.

  He pulled the sheet up to cover her. “Everything looks fine, Julie. You’ll be due on . . .”—he added nine months to the date of her last period and subtracted one week—“on February thirteenth.”

  “If I’m a day late it’ll be Saint Valentine’s Day.” She sat up. “Thank you, Doctor, and thanks for being kind. It’s my first and I suppose all women get a bit antsy about it,” she said, twisting a corner of the sheet in one hand.

  “Of course they do.”

  “Aye, but you make it easy, so you do. I hear you did a great job for Maureen Galvin.” She put a hand on his arm. “Will you deliver the baby?”

  Barry smiled. The jungle telegraph might be efficient, but at least it was a two-way street. “If you like,” he said. Then he thought, If I’m still here. “But we’ll have to get you seen at the Royal Maternity first.”

  She frowned. “Why? Is there something wrong?”

  He shook his head. “It’s routine. First babies are usually fine, but the specialists like to see every first pregnancy once to make sure it’s safe to deliver you at home.”

  “I’ll be quite safe with you, Doctor Laverty. I know that.” Her blue eyes sparkled. She lowered her voice. “Don’t you pay no heed to what some of the folks are saying.”

  “Thanks, Julie.” A few more patients like her and he might change his mind. “Now get yourself dressed.” Not all the folks in Ballybucklebo thought he was useless, and it was good to know.

  “Urine’s fine,” O’Reilly said.

  “Good,” Barry said, and sat down at the rolltop desk to fill in the necessary referral forms.

  Julie came out from behind the screen.

  “The folks at the Royal Maternity will send for you, and I’d like to see you in a month.” He’d deliberately not said, “We’d like to see you.” He glanced at O’Reilly, who said nothing.

  “I’ll be running on,” she said. “See you in a month, Doctor Laverty and . . .” She hesitated. “Donal and me hope to see you both at the wedding.”

  “We’ll be there,” said O’Reilly. “Give our best to Donal.”

  “Nice girl,” he said when she’d left.

  “And don’t worry about the ten quid. If you’ve fixed Fergu
s Finnegan’s eye, he’ll owe me a pound, and if he’s properly grateful he’ll look after you too.”

  “Look after me?”

  “There’s a horse race at the Ballybucklebo course in a week. If Fergus can’t tip you the wink, nobody can.”

  “We’ll see,” said Barry, less interested in making a winning bet than having been right about the jockey’s eye.

  “We will indeed,” said O’Reilly, “but we have to finish this morning’s surgery first.”

  “Right,” said Barry, wondering how the rest of the surgery would go.

  The only patient who stood out in Barry’s mind among all the routine ones was a woman with a case of scabies, caused by the female of the mite Sarcoptes scabiei hominis, which burrowed under skin folds and laid her eggs to set up a violent itch and inflammation. As he examined the patient, Barry felt himself itching.

  “Jesus Christ,” O’Reilly said, after the woman left. “No bloody wonder she’s infected with a parasite that flourishes in dirty bed linen.” His nose tip was ashen. “Can you guess where that one lives?”

  “The housing estate?” Barry had made several home visits to the rows of jerry-built terrace houses on the far side of the village. He knew that the dwellings had been thrown up as cheaply as possible, and with as much profit as possible to the builder, by none other than Councillor Bertie Bishop.

  “Give the boy a prize.” O’Reilly ground his teeth. “How the hell is anyone meant to keep sheets clean when there’s hardly enough hot water to wash their faces?”

  “I don’t know, Fingal.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that place,” he said, as Barry scrubbed his hands thoroughly, “that a bit of the fire that consumed Sodom and Gomorrah wouldn’t cure.”

  Barry dried his hands. “Do you want Mrs. Bishop turned into a pillar of salt too?”

  “I do not,” said O’Reilly. “Flo’s a decent woman. And that family doesn’t need any more humans turned into anything.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Bertie Bishop’s already the biggest pile of horseshite in the village,” he said, but Barry noticed the big man’s nose had returned to its usual colour. Perhaps, he thought, still trying to understand O’Reilly, the man’s ranting and raving is like a safety valve on a steam engine. Interesting idea.

  “Och, bugger it,” said O’Reilly. “There’s no point you and me taking the head staggers over something we can’t fix. Come on. Grub, and then we’ll see what Kinky has for us for home visits after our lunch.”

  Barry’s stomach rumbled and he realized he’d eaten very little breakfast. He was hungry, and the prospect of food combined with the satisfaction of having survived this morning’s surgery made him feel less anxious about making the home visits with O’Reilly.

  Be Fruitful and Multiply

  O’Reilly shoved his now empty plate aside. “All right,” he said, from his seat at the dining room table. “Let’s see what Kinky has for us today.” He picked up a piece of paper on which Barry knew Mrs. Kincaid had written a list of patients who had requested home visits. “Just one,” he said. “Myrtle MacVeigh. She says her kidneys are acting up again, but Kinky doesn’t think it’s too serious.”

  “Then why didn’t she come to the surgery and save us a trip?”

  O’Reilly laughed. “You’ll see when we get there.” He stood up and stretched. “And anyway, she lives out near Sonny’s place. Do you fancy dropping by to see how the work on his roof’s coming along? Make sure Councillor Bertie Bishop’s kept his word?”

  “Why not?”

  “So we’ll see Myrtle first, then pop in at Sonny’s.”

  “Is your car in the garage or out in front?”

  “The garage.”

  “Thought so.” Barry glanced down at his corduroy pants and wondered how they would fare when he crossed the back garden to O’Reilly’s dilapidated garage and had to run the gauntlet of Arthur Guinness’s inevitable amorous advances. Every time O’Reilly’s black Labrador spotted Barry, he’d make a beeline for him and wrap Barry’s leg in a fond embrace, usually to the ruination of his trousers.

  “We haven’t all day,” said O’Reilly, striding past the table. “And get your coat. It’s raining out.”

  Barry nipped into the surgery, and picked up his black bag. Then he grabbed his raincoat and went into the kitchen.

  Mrs. Kincaid was hoisting a loaded clothes-drying device, three parallel wooden bars suspended from the ceiling by a rope and pulley. “It’s too wet to put the clothes out for a good blow,” she said. “Monday’s washing day.” She pointed at Barry’s corduroys. “Try to keep those clean like a good lad.”

  “I will, if Doctor O’Reilly can keep Arthur away.”

  O’Reilly had already opened the kitchen door. “Can I trouble you to join me?”

  “Coming.”

  The moment Barry set foot in the garden he heard a series of delighted yips and saw Arthur Guinness charging across the lawn, tail going nineteen to the dozen. Not again. Maybe the skirts of his raincoat would protect him.

  O’Reilly stuck two fingers in his mouth and produced a whistle that sounded like a cross between a shipyard siren and a steam engine.

  Arthur skidded to O’Reilly’s side, halted on the wet grass, slammed his backside on the ground, and tongue lolling, stared up at O’Reilly.

  O’Reilly sniffed. “Jesus, Arthur, you stink. Back in your kennel and keep dry, you buck eejit.”

  The dog obeyed.

  Barry’s pants were safe. He caught up with O’Reilly at the back gate.

  “Come on,” said O’Reilly, turning up the collar of his raincoat, “we’re getting soaked ourselves.” He crossed the lane and opened the garage door. “Hang on. I’ll get the car out.”

  Barry waited as the engine of the old long-bonnetted Rover caught; then the car backfired and was reversed into the lane. He climbed into the passenger seat and immediately was thrust backwards like an astronaut in an acceleration sled as O’Reilly took off.

  Barry had to brace his arms on the dashboard as O’Reilly slammed to a halt where the lane joined the main road. While O’Reilly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, waited for a tractor towing a cartload of manure to go by, Barry stared up at the lopsided steeple of the Ballybucklebo Presbyterian Church. The slates, ebony black from the drizzle, were punctuated with colons and commas of dark green moss. Looking ahead, he could see over a low stone wall and into the churchyard filled with the headstones of generations of villagers.

  The family markers, Barry thought, brought continuity to the seasons of Ballybucklebo. There were worse places to spend a lifetime and finally settle in with your friends and neighbours.

  “Right.” O’Reilly roared off down the road.

  Barry wondered why he hadn’t yelled, “Charge.”

  The car bounced over potholes and listed as O’Reilly took the bends. Barry hardly dared to look ahead and instead distracted himself by staring out the window. Across a narrow strip of sea pink–spotted dune grass lay a shingle beach. Beyond, the battleship grey waters of Belfast Lough were sullen under curtains of drizzle.

  He recognized Maggie MacCorkle’s seaside cottage as they approached and wondered if the “toty-wee headache” above her head had improved since yesterday. She hadn’t been to the surgery for some time. “Should we call on Maggie, Fingal?”

  “She’ll be out,” O’Reilly said. “Down in Bangor visiting Sonny. She’s daft about the old goat. We’ll drop in on her next week . . . but it was a good suggestion.”

  Barry knew that O’Reilly didn’t only visit the sick on his rounds. He made it a practice of keeping an avuncular eye on his older patients as well.

  O’Reilly slowed, indicated for a right turn, and started to drive inland. Accelerating, he took a shallow curve with the wheels of the car well over the centre line. Coming off the crown of the bend, he narrowly missed a cyclist stolidly pedalling in the same direction. Barry glanced back in time to see the unfortunate rider hurl himself and
his bicycle into the ditch. He recognized Donal Donnelly, but the bicycle, which had been black and covered in rust patches the first time Barry had encountered Donal, had been transformed. Barry tried to see how many different colours adorned the machine, but O’Reilly was already well into another bend.

  “You nearly hit Donal, Fingal.”

  “I never pay any attention to cyclists. They know my car. They get out of the way.”

  Which, Barry thought, was true enough. How many times had he seen one take to the ditch like Donal? O’Reilly’s total disregard for the other occupants of the road was a price that simply had to be paid for having O’Reilly in Ballybucklebo. In Barry’s opinion it was a fair trade, even if Donal Donnelly might not think so. He glanced behind to see Donal clamber out of the ditch and remount.

  “Good Lord,” Barry said. “Donal’s painted his bike. It looks like a wheeled version of Joseph’s coat of many colours. I wonder why?”

  “Sounds like Donal,” O’Reilly said. “No doubt we’ll find out, all in good time.” O’Reilly slowed and turned left onto a farm lane, then stopped in a farmyard. “We’re here. Out.”

  Barry grabbed his black bag, heaved himself out of the car, avoided the border collie that seemed to be standard equipment for all Ulster farms, and walked to the farmhouse, a two-storey, grey stone building with brown trim on the frames of its sash windows. Like Maggie’s cottage, the windowsills were adorned with flower boxes, the bright petals softening the drabness of the building. To one side, turf was piled against the gable end, drying under a corrugated iron roof. He could smell cow manure.

  O’Reilly knocked on the door.

  It was opened by a child of about four. “Ma. The doctor’s here.”

  O’Reilly tousled the girl’s hair and said, “How are you, Lucy?”

  “Ma’s sick again,” she said. “Come on in.”

  Barry followed O’Reilly into a high-ceilinged kitchen. A turf-fired Aga range radiated a pleasant warmth and the country scent of burning peat. Children’s toys were littered around a tiled floor: an eyeless teddy bear half buried under a pile of Leggos; two tricycles; a discarded cowboy suit with a pair of six-shooters; four dollies, one with an arm missing; a doll’s pram.