An Irish Country Christmas (19 page)

“And to me, Kinky.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m for my bed, but run you up the stairs and see how he’s doing. He’s still in the lounge.”

“I will,” Barry said, taking off his coat.

“Doctor Laverty, would you do me one wee favour?”

“Certainly.”

“Don’t encourage him to have any more whiskey tonight.”

He heard the concern again. “I promise.” He said. “Not a drop.”

“Thank you, Doctor Laverty. Now be on with you.”

“Good-night, Kinky.” Barry headed for the hall, and as he climbed the stairs he heard the massive sounds of the majestic final movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

It was dim in the upstairs lounge. O’Reilly stood with his back to Barry, looking into the grate where the fire had died to embers. He had
switched off the lights and was enjoying the music in the glow of the dying fire. He was singing along with the choir in his deep baritone,
“Such’ ihn ber’m Sternenzelt! ber Sternen mu er wohnen.”

Barry waited quietly until the symphony ended and O’Reilly had turned off the Phillips Black Box. Then he coughed and said, “I’m back, Fingal.”

For a moment he thought O’Reilly hadn’t heard him, but the big man turned slowly. Even in the dim light, Barry could see O’Reilly’s eyes were brighter than normal, and when he spoke there was a hint of a catch in his voice. “Do you know that work?”

“I do.”

“It used to be a favourite of an old friend of mine.” He pulled out a handkerchief, blew his nose, and dabbed his eyes. “Bloody head cold. Makes your nose and eyes run.”

So can some memories, Barry thought, but he kept his counsel. “Kinky said she reckoned you were on the mend.”

“Much better, my boy.” O’Reilly parked himself in his armchair. “Do you fancy a jar?”

“Not for me, thanks, Fingal.”

“Nor me,” said O’Reilly, much to Barry’s surprise. “Come and sit down. We’ve a bit of catching up to do.”

Barry sat in the other armchair.

“Now,” said O’Reilly. He coughed once. “I’m much better, but I’m not
altogether
at myself yet, so I’ll not be back at work tomorrow, but I expect to be ready to go on Thursday. In the surgery anyway, if you don’t mind still doing the home visits and taking call for the next couple of nights?”

“Aye, certainly.”

“Good,” said O’Reilly. “Now, about the practice. I know you’ve not been too busy, but tell me about the patients you’re going to have to follow up.”

Barry thought for a minute. “Nothing very serious,” he said. Then he began to list them by ticking them off with his right index finger against the palm of his left hand. “Cissie Sloan, pharyngitis. She’ll be back if she’s not better in a few days.”

Even in the dim light Barry could see O’Reilly roll his eyes. “It’s a good thing we’ve chairs in the surgery, not stools.”

“Because she could talk the leg off a stool? The marquis said she’d talk the hind leg off a donkey.”

“I think Cissie inhabits a world populated by three-leggèd donkeys and biped stools.” O’Reilly laughed and coughed one short, sharp cough. “Who else is there?”

“Liam Gillespie should be home for Christmas.”

“Good.”

“Colin Brown won’t be back—”

“What was wrong with Colin?”

Barry laughed. “A bad attack of ‘I don’t want to go to schoolitis.’ His nose was out of joint because he wasn’t going to be allowed to play Joseph in the Christmas pageant.”

“Sounds like Colin. If I were his teacher, I’d keep an eye on him.”

Barry remembered the evil look he’d seen in the little boy’s eyes as he was leaving just as Doctor Fitzpatrick had shown up at the door. He was glad his responsibilities were for his patients’ ailments only. “And then there’s Jeannie Jingles’s lad with pneumonia. I’ve forgotten to phone the hospital to find out about him, but I’ll do it tomorrow.”

O’Reilly nodded.

“Miss Moloney’s back, and I’m pretty sure she has iron-deficiency anaemia. I’ll see her when her results are in.”

“Begod,” said O’Reilly, “I wonder if she’s a vegetarian.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Might be worth finding out.”

“Thanks, Fingal.” Barry shifted in his chair. “Miss Moloney and young Sammy Lindsay’s purpura are the most interesting cases. I’d a bit of luck there. Maggie says she’s happy to take care of him so Eileen can get to work. I’ll go see him tomorrow and let Eileen know.”

“That was a good idea of yours about Maggie. Eileen’ll be relieved.”

“I hope so. It would be a shame if she had to dip into her Christmas savings. She works hard enough as it is.”

“Och,” said O’Reilly, “ ‘the world is ill-divided. Them that works the hardest are the least provided.’ ”

“True and poetically put.”

“It should be. I pinched the words from a Scottish folk song.” O’Reilly leant forward and patted Barry’s knee. “It could apply to junior assistants and to country GPs.”

“Come on, Fingal. You pay me a fair wage.”

“Perhaps, but I have been sweating you a bit in the last few days.”

“I don’t mind. Honestly.”

O’Reilly sat back. “I’m grateful, Barry.” He cocked his head to one side. “It’s important that one of us is here all the time now there’s a new man in the Kinnegar.”

Barry had almost forgotten about Doctor Fitzpatrick.

“Anyway,” said O’Reilly, “Kinky phoned him this evening. He’s going to come over tomorrow to pay his ‘courtesy call.’ ”

“Indeed? Well, I suppose we should get to know him. Professional ethics and that sort of stuff.”

“Ethics, my arse,” said O’Reilly with a snort. “Better the divil you know than the one you don’t. I want to find out more about the man, and if it looks like he could be a threat, we’ll have a better notion how to counter him.”

“True.” Kinky was right. O’Reilly was back in form.

“So that’s for tomorrow, and the next day I will be back at work.”

“If you’re up to it.”

O’Reilly grunted. “And I’ll work this weekend. You deserve a break.”

“
If
you’re up to it, Fingal.”

“I bloody well will be. Count on it.”

“All right, all right. Actually I’d not mind being off on Saturday. I’m hoping to see my friend Jack Mills.”

“Good, because I want the next Saturday off. The tides are right at Strangford Lough, and I’m going to take Arthur out for a day’s wild-fowling.”

“Fine. It’ll be my turn to work anyway.”

“Thanks, Barry,” O’Reilly said, rising. “And we both have busy days tomorrow.” He yawned. “So I’m for my bed.”

“Good-night, Fingal,” Barry said, as O’Reilly left. He hoped they both would get a good night’s sleep, so that he could face the practice tomorrow and Fingal could have his meeting with Doctor Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick.

What’s in a Name?

Doctor O’Reilly stood at the window of the lounge, looking down. The pedestrians on the footpaths beneath him were bundled up, and they scurried along, too eager to get in out of the cold to stand around chatting. The shadow cast by the church steeple was twice as long as it would have been in June. Judging by the crystal rime on the verges of the gravel path through the churchyard, it was a crackling, frosty morning.

He gazed over the church roof. The sun hung low in a crisp, blue, cloudless sky, and so clear was the day, O’Reilly could almost have been persuaded that it was summertime. He watched two herring gulls glide lazily by, one with the brown-speckled feathers of an immature bird, the other with adult plumage as smooth as a well-pressed, dove-grey morning coat set off with a new white waistcoat. He heard the raucous bickering of the gulls, harsh against the occasional muttering of traffic on Main Street.

In the distance, over the Lough a vee of geese, purposeful as a sortie of light bombers, thrust its way east toward Ballyholme and the stubble fields of the Ards Peninsula. He smiled. Next Saturday he might get a shot at a goose.

“Excuse me, Doctor O’Reilly.” He turned to see Kinky standing inside the doorway. “Will I take away your coffee tray?”

“Please.”

Instead of lifting it, she stared at him and frowned. “Tch. Tch. Would you look at your jacket, sir?”

He glanced down. He’d been at particular pains this morning to dress properly so he’d look smart to greet Doctor Fitzpatrick. His brown boots shone—he’d polished them himself—the tweed pants of his suit were pressed, his white shirt was fresh, and he wore the tie of the Royal Navy Association. And yet Kinky was right. There was a large stain above the left jacket pocket. Damn it. He must have spilled some coffee. “Sorry, Kinky.”

“Give it here,” she said, “and I’ll take it and sponge it, so.”

O’Reilly shrugged it off and handed it to her.

“I’ll bring it back in a little minute,” she assured him, and so saying, she left.

O’Reilly sat down in his armchair. Kinky wouldn’t let him meet a guest in a stained jacket, but as far as he was concerned there was not a damn thing wrong with being in a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and letting the guest see that your pants were held up with a pair of red braces. He thought that whoever had said, “Clothes don’t make the man,” had said it all.

He smiled. Kinky, who had reappeared, would not have shared his opinion. “Put this on you now, sir.” She handed him the coat, waited until O’Reilly put it on, and then straightened his tie, clucking as she did so. Then she bent and lifted the coffee tray. “I’ll be off now. Your guest should be here in ten minutes. I’ll show him up when he comes.”

O’Reilly thought of Barry’s description of how Kinky had dealt with the man the last time he was here. “You’ll not fire a shot across his bows first, will you, Kinky?”

“Not if he minds his p’s and q’s and treats me properly,” Kinky said.

“I’m sure he will.”

He watched her step aside, tray in hands, to let Barry come in. “So,” said O’Reilly, “you’ve finished the surgery a bit early today?”

“Yes. It wasn’t too bad this morning. A few of the regulars, four for tonics,” Barry smiled. “I saw the tonics one at a time, and made them take their pants down.”

He’s remembering the day I lined up six patients in a row, O’Reilly thought, and gave them their injections right through their clothes. It
didn’t do them one bit of harm, and getting rid of six at once let me get through the work so I could see some really sick folks that bit sooner. But Barry had his own ways, and it was right that he be allowed to do what he reckoned to be correct, at least until he discovered the error of his ways.

“Kieran O’Hagan was in to have his dressing changed,” Barry said. “His thumb’s fine.”

“Good.” O’Reilly waved to the plain chair. “Have a pew there. You’ll not be in the direct line of sight of our esteemed colleague, Doctor Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick, when he sits in the armchair. You can keep an eye on him and he’ll not be aware you’re watching. He should be here any minute now.” He coughed once.

“How’s the chest today. Fingal?”

“Almost a hundred percent. I’ll be in the surgery tomorrow.”

“Good.” Barry peered at his senior colleague’s face. “Your colour’s a damn sight better today.”

If you like the colour of plums, O’Reilly laughed to himself. He was under no illusions about the hue of his cheeks made ruddy by years of braving the Ulster elements by day and by night. Ulster farmers weren’t the only ones with weather-beaten complexions. He looked at his watch. Fitzpatrick was supposed to be here at noon. Five minutes to go and . . . He cocked his head and listened. Front doorbell’s jangle. Pause. Kinky’s tread in the hall. Voices. Door closing. Footsteps approaching.

“He’s early,” O’Reilly said.

“Punctuality is the politeness of kings,” said Barry.

“I thought it was the virtue of princes,” O’Reilly said.

Barry shook his head. “Not if your source is Louis the Eighteenth.”

O’Reilly chuckled. “I stand, or rather sit, corrected.”

Doctor Fitzpatrick came in, followed by Kinky. He was an older version of the student O’Reilly remembered. If he’d been asked to pick out three of the man’s salient features, they would have been his massive Adam’s apple, the wing-tip collar, and the pince-nez.

Kinky bustled past Doctor Fitzpatrick. “This would be the gentleman you were expecting, sir?” Something in the inflection of her voice
told O’Reilly that as far as Kinky was concerned, “gentleman” was something of an overstatement.

Fitzpatrick glowered at Kinky over his pince-nez. “Thank you, my good woman. You may go now.”

Barry half rose. “Good morning, Doctor Fitzpatrick. We’ve already met.”

O’Reilly remained seated and ignored them as they exchanged pleasantries. “My good woman” Fitzpatrick had called Kinky, summarily dismissing her. O’Reilly had a suddenly vivid mental image of a café in Dublin, thirty-odd years earlier, where Fitzpatrick, then a student at Trinity College, had called a waitress “my good woman.” She had told him in no uncertain terms to go and do something anatomically impossible.

He wondered if Kinky would say anything more, but she contented herself with one enormous sniff, a stiff about-turn that would have put a sergeant major to shame, and a departure worthy of the queen of Sheba, so rigidly did she hold herself. O’Reilly chuckled.

Barry had returned to his chair. O’Reilly saw Fitzpatrick take a seat and realized he was being addressed.