An Irish Country Welcome Read online

  As O’Reilly climbed into the Rover, he sucked in his breath. “Oh boy, but my back didn’t appreciate that heaving. I’m creaky. Must’ve pulled a muscle.”

  Barry, with mock sympathy in his voice, said, “‘You’re old, Father William, the young man said.’”

  O’Reilly settled in his seat. He couldn’t get cross with Barry. “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Chapter five—and my hair is definitely not turning to grey.” He started the engine. “Time we were off.”

  * * *

  “Has my guest, a Doctor Carson, arrived, Anne?” O’Reilly asked the receptionist at the inn’s front desk.

  “Sorry. Not yet, Doctor, but your table out in the back courtyard is ready.” She smiled down at the big chocolate Lab sitting at O’Reilly’s feet. “This must be Kenny. We don’t normally allow dogs other than guide dogs indoors, but seeing it’s yourself, just walk him through.”

  “Thanks, Anne, and when my guest arrives, please send him out.”

  “I’ll bring him myself, Doctor.”

  “Thanks, Anne.”

  O’Reilly and Barry turned left along a wood-panelled corridor and right along another leading to the back courtyard.

  A stranger leaving the gents’ remarked, “Handsome-looking fellow, your dog.”

  “Thank you,” O’Reilly said, but didn’t linger to chat; his back ached and he wanted to sit down. They were late because of the tractor accident and the candidate wasn’t here yet? First impressions are things you don’t get a second chance to make. I hope the man has a reasonable explanation.

  “I thought he was talking about you for a second, Fingal,” Barry said.

  “Less of your lip.” But O’Reilly was smiling.

  A waitress met them. “Nice to see youse again, Doctors.” She showed them to a circular cast-iron table with four cushioned cast-iron chairs.

  O’Reilly and Barry took their seats.

  “Under.”

  Kenny’s soft brown eyes looked at O’Reilly. The dog let his muzzle rest on the edge of the table.

  “Un-der.”

  Kenny sighed, went under the table, and lay down.

  Neil Diamond’s 1969 hit came from speakers mounted on the whitewashed back wall of the inn.

  “I wonder,” O’Reilly asked, “seeing we’re the only ones out here, if it would be possible to turn off the speakers?” He detested piped music in public places.

  “Certainly, Doctor O’Reilly.”

  “Thank you.”

  She put three menus on the table and said, “Can I get youse drinks?”

  O’Reilly looked at Barry, who nodded. “Two pints, please.”

  “Coming up.” She left.

  O’Reilly looked under the table. “Sorry, Kenny. You’ve missed your walk and we’re not in the Duck. No Smithwick’s today either.”

  The big Lab sighed.

  I swear to God he understands English, O’Reilly thought, and looked round. He was sitting with his back to the main building. The paved courtyard was flanked by three cottages. The largest was the honeymoon suite. Leafy sycamores at the far end of the yard towered above a small glen, from which came the tinkling of the burn running down to Belfast Lough. Overhead the sun beamed down. Barry’d been right. Kenny would have been baked in the car. Good thing O’Reilly had made the arrangements for him to be allowed out here.

  * * *

  The music was replaced by the twice-repeated notes of a song thrush.

  Barry said, “I’ve always enjoyed thrushes. Much better than loudspeakers.”

  “I agree.”

  Barry picked up his menu. “So, Fingal, what do you know about this Sebastian Carson?” He frowned. “I don’t think I know any Irish Sebastians.”

  “George Irwin usually sends me top-flight candidates. He says the man comes from a well-off family. Shipping, I believe. I think some of the highheejins look down on ‘Paddy’ and ‘Mick,’ and ‘Francis Xavier’ would definitely be a nonstarter. Some names definitely would not span the sectarian divide.”

  Barry chuckled.

  “Sebastian qualified in 1968. He’s finishing his houseman’s year at Belfast City Hospital.” O’Reilly looked at his watch. Twelve fifteen. “And apparently has no sense of punctuality.”

  “Here youse are.” The waitress set two pints of Guinness on the table.

  Anne, the receptionist, appeared. “Here’s your guest, Doctor O’Reilly.” She was accompanied by a fair-haired young man, five foot ten, O’Reilly guessed, pale grey eyes, clean-shaven. He wore a blazer with a crest featuring a lion rampant and the motto Stet Fortunus Domus on the pocket, and a navy blue background, narrow white-blue-white diagonally striped tie. O’Reilly did not recognise either.

  “Thank you both,” O’Reilly said.

  Anne left. The waitress asked, “Can I get you a drink, sir?”

  “It’s why you’re here.”

  O’Reilly flinched. The man sounded like a belted earl addressing a mere scullion.

  “Bristol Cream sherry.”

  No “please”? O’Reilly thought. The waitress left.

  O’Reilly said, “Doctor Carson?”

  “Indeed.” He thrust out a hand. “And you must be O’Reilly.”

  “I am.” He accepted a limp handshake. “Have a pew.” O’Reilly tried not to frown but thought, Although I don’t take my title seriously, medical etiquette calls for its use when introductions are made, and a handshake is offered by the senior to the junior, not the other way round.

  The man sat. “And you must be Laverty.”

  “We tend to be informal except in front of the customers,” Barry said. “Barry’s fine.”

  “Jolly good. I’m Sebastian.” They shook.

  “Your sherry, sir.” The glass was set on the table.

  No “thank you.” “So,” said O’Reilly, raising his glass, “cheers.”

  Barry and Sebastian toasted and drank.

  O’Reilly gestured to the young man’s jacket. “Stet Fortunus Domus. Let the fortune of the house stand?”

  “Harrow. Went there after Garth House.”

  O’Reilly thought, Garth’s a private preparatory school in Bangor. “I believe Harrow was one of the first seven original British public schools.”

  “Yes. We’re rather proud of that, and of some of our old boys. Seven PMs, including Winnie—”

  “Winnie?” Barry asked. O’Reilly knew his partner well enough to know that he was trying hard not to smile.

  “Winston Churchill. One met him in 1962. Splendid man. Absolutely splendid. Was introduced to him.”

  That must mean Sebastian Carson had been head boy or captain of a sporting team. No lesser pupil would be accorded such an honour.

  “Then we’ve had five foreign kings. Jawaharlal Nehru. Lord Byron. I could go on, you know, but I don’t think so doing will help my cause in this interview.” His smile was self-deprecating.

  O’Reilly picked up his menu. “We’ll start that in a few minutes, but I suggest we all have a look at the menu and order.” His tummy rumbled. Fingal O’Reilly had already decided that he was going to enjoy scampi and chips just like the afternoon when he, brother Lars, and Bertie Bishop had met here to talk about Bertie’s will. O’Reilly gave the other two more time, then asked, “Ready to order?”

  “Please,” Barry said.

  “I’ve always enjoyed their fish-and-chips. I know it’s a bit infra dig, but occasionally I do enjoy them.”

  O’Reilly signalled for the waitress and thought, Latin tags were still in use by some public schoolboys. Infra Dignitatem meant beneath one’s dignity. Huh. Fish-and-chips were not beneath his or Barry’s.

  Orders were placed.

  “Quick nonmedical question,” O’Reilly said. “Carson. Was Sir Edward a family member?”

  “As a matter of fact, he was. Great-great-uncle on the paternal side.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “We don’t mention it often. He was a man of his time. Clearly of high principles. You’l
l both know he was a bitter opponent of Home Rule for Ireland. Signed the Ulster Covenant, which pledged to resist it, ‘by all means necessary.’” Sebastian took a deep breath. “Here in Ulster we’re paying for his legacy to this day.”

  “We are, but it’s difficult to pick your ancestry. We’ll not hold it against you.”

  “Indeed not,” Barry said.

  “There’s one more thing you need to know about me now you know my lineage. I’ll have no truck with sectarianism. I believe a doctor has no right, none whatsoever, to care about any patient’s religion unless they require the attention of a priest or have doctrinal prohibitions like the Jehovah’s Witnesses against blood transfusion. All patients have the right to the best care possible.”

  “That is right and proper,” O’Reilly said. “I commend you.” And he did. If young Carson had been an ardent Loyalist, he’d not be working in Ballybucklebo, that was for sure.

  “Thank you.”

  “Right, Sebastian. Let’s let that hare sit. Barry and I’d like to know your medical background.”

  “I went to Queen’s—”

  “In Belfast?”

  Sebastian laughed. “No. No. No. Queen’s College, Cambridge. Fine old spot. Three years basic sciences there, then three years clinical stuff.”

  Barry asked, “Which teaching hospital? Royal? Belfast City?”

  “Um, no. Bart’s, actually.”

  O’Reilly nodded. It was said that the graduates of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, London, founded in 1123, always tacked the “actually” on as a mark of pride.

  The waitress arrived and placed the plates before the diners. “Any drinks?”

  “Barry?”

  Barry shook his head.

  “Sebastian?”

  He finished his sherry. “Might one have a glass of Entre-Deux-Mers?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Mostly Sauvignon Blanc with a little Semillon and Muscadelle. Pleasantly dry.”

  O’Reilly indicated his pint. “Please.” At least Sebastian hadn’t made remarks like, “It’s a cheeky little wine with very good legs and a fine nose.” And what was wrong with a decent pint anyhow? He picked up his knife and fork. “I suggest we dig in,” and fell to. Savouring his battered and deep-fried Dublin Bay prawns, he wondered about Sebastian Carson. At first sight O’Reilly had summed him up as a somewhat ill-mannered young man despite his education. There was no excuse for not apologising or offering an explanation for being late. He obviously came from a privileged background and didn’t mind showing it. Attendance at some of the best preparatory and public schools, Cambridge—and Bart’s? O’Reilly chewed on a chip, barely noticed the arrival of young Carson’s wine and the pint and wondered if they were dealing with a pretentious upper-class snob or an insecure young man who was trying desperately to impress. O’Reilly speared another prawn.

  Barry asked, “Why general practice, Sebastian?”

  Sebastian’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “In three years at a teaching hospital all you see are cases that need specialist attention. I’d like to see the other end of the spectrum, and I’d like to finish my training quickly, get good mentor reports, pass the exams of the Royal College of GPs and then an assistantship with a view to partnership. None of this four years as a junior, speciality Royal College exams, then waiting for a senior post. I’ve just about had enough of studying.” He popped a piece of cod into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “And there’s another thing. Professor Irwin tells me you have four doctors who share night and weekend call and, assuming you’ll take me, once you’re satisfied that I can work unsupervised, it would become one in five.” Sebastian frowned. “Most specialist trainees work very heavy on-call rotas. Even the consultants at Bart’s, especially the surgical ones, were usually on call every other night. One rather hopes for time for a life of one’s own as well as one’s duties.”

  I see, O’Reilly thought. I’d not have survived in my early years here when I was single-handed if I’d believed that. Barry certainly didn’t. And yet—since there now were Connor Nelson, Emer McCarthy, and Barry to share call, life had become more relaxed for them all. O’Reilly said, “Sebastian, those are nearly all reasons why you don’t want to specialise. I’d really like to hear what attracts you to general practice, particularly rural practice.”

  Another chip-laden fork stopped halfway to the young man’s mouth. “I’m not entirely sure…” At least that was honest. “… but I’ve lived most of my life with boys and young men from my own kind of background. I know a bit about London and Belfast’s working class. They’re the bulk of patients in big-city teaching hospitals. I don’t know how the rest of the world lives. I think I’d like to find out. My only experience of general practice is being seen by our own doctor in my own home once when I had measles as a boy and once when I had sinus trouble. I’ve never set foot in a surgery.”

  “I see,” Barry said. “Neither had I when I came here in ’64. Tell me, do you like people?”

  “Pretty much. I’m told GPs get to know their patients better than the ones in hospital. I do rather think I’d like that.” He smiled and ate the chip.

  O’Reilly said, “It is very satisfying. You’d agree, Barry?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Sebastian moved in his chair.

  A short “woof” came from under the table.

  Both of Sebastian’s eyebrows shot up. “Good gracious,” he said, bending to peer, “but there’s a very large canine down here.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “Pay him no heed. That’s my dog Kenny.”

  “Um, does he bite?”

  “Kenny? He’s as gentle as a lamb.”

  “I rather hope so. I didn’t mean to kick him.” He withdrew his legs.

  “If you join us,” Barry said with a smile, “you’ll have to get used to Fingal’s menagerie and mine. Both of us have a cat and a dog.”

  “I didn’t. My only pet was a tortoise. I got him when I was seven. Called him Hector.” Sebastian sighed. “They live for ages, but I had to let him go to a new home when I went to Harrow.”

  O’Reilly heard the slightest catch in the man’s voice. Given his upbringing in the stiff-upper-lip school it was an interesting glimpse into him. O’Reilly said, “So let’s see, you have a number of reasons for not specialising, you like people, not quite sure about dogs, you think you’d like to get to know your patients better, and you know nothing about GP work?”

  “Yet—but I’m willing to learn.”

  “And you’d appreciate a fair bit of time off.”

  “Yes, actually. I would.”

  “I see.” Fingal resisted the urge to ask why. “You don’t see medicine as a kind of priesthood?”

  “Good Lord, no. I think it is a very satisfying profession, but not to the exclusion of all else.” He grinned. “And I’m single and twenty-four. I’ve not the remotest intention of being celibate. None whatsoever.”

  That remark hit O’Reilly’s funny bone and he burst out laughing. “I’m not entirely sure that aspect of your private life is any concern of ours, but I will expect you to sleep in quarters in my house when you are on call. I assume you’ll have somewhere to stay when you’re not.”

  “I’ll be living at home in Cherryvalley. It’s only about a fifteen-minute run to Ballybucklebo.”

  Cherryvalley? One of Belfast’s classiest suburbs. “And transportation?”

  Sebastian smiled. “My Mini Cooper S is in the car park.”

  Sporty but not wildly expensive or ostentatious, O’Reilly thought.

  “I’m living at home because Father died last year—”

  That caught O’Reilly off guard. “My condolences,” he said.

  “Yes. Well. Thank you. A-a heart attack, you see. Very sudden. It was quite the shock.”

  “I’m sure it was.” O’Reilly still remembered the death of his own father only six weeks after O’Reilly had graduated from Trinity. He said, “Thank you for answering our questions. Barry, anythi
ng else you’d like to ask?”

  Barry cocked his head to one side. “Have you any hobbies?”

  “Well, yes. As a matter of fact, I do. Fly-fishing…”

  Interesting. Barry was a keen angler.

  “And I used to like to sail in my summer holidays, but of course I’ve had to let that go for the last seven years. Hope to take it up again.”

  “I sail, and fish,” Barry said. “Thank you for telling us.”

  “Well, jolly good.” Sebastian looked at Barry quickly and then looked away.

  O’Reilly noticed that Barry made no offer to take Sebastian fishing or sailing. “In that case, Sebastian, is there anything you’d like to ask us?”

  “How soon will I hear if you’ll take me?”

  “Within a week,” O’Reilly said. “Professor Irwin will contact you.” The prof had set up that system to protect GP mentors who did not want to accept a certain learner. “Now, young man, your interview and our lunch are over. Would you care for dessert, coffee, another drink?”

  Sebastian finished his wine. “I want to thank you for a fair and thoughtful interview. I would indeed relish another glass of wine,” he glanced at his watch, “but I meant what I said about not regarding myself a priest. I’m meeting a most delectable young woman at the Grand Central Hotel on Royal Avenue for afternoon tea. Don’t want to be late—”

  But he was fine with being late for his interview, O’Reilly thought. He stifled a guffaw, leaned back in his chair—and was quickly reminded of his sore back.

  “—and then we’ll be seeing Rosemary’s Baby.” He winked at Barry. “I find the ladies tend to snuggle more closely during horror movies.”

  This time O’Reilly could not stifle a chuckle. Cheeky divil.

  “Thank you both once again.” He stood and reached for his wallet. “I’d like to pay for—”

  “No, you won’t,” O’Reilly said. “My shout.”

  “Well, thank you again, Fingal.” Sebastian offered a hand in turn to Fingal and Barry. “I shall await Professor Irwin’s notification with intense anticipation.”