An Irish Country Christmas (20 page)

“I trust you are feeling better, Fingal.”

“Oh, indeed, Hercules.” Obsequious bastard.

Fitzpatrick’s larynx bobbed up and down. The wattles on his neck quivered.

Good Lord, O’Reilly thought, if he was a turkey he’d gobble.

“I believe I told you, O’Reilly, when we were students together that I prefer to be addressed as Ronald.”

“Aye. People are funny about what they like to be called,
Ronald
.” Before Fitzpatrick could reply, O’Reilly continued, “Take Kinky, for example. She responds well to ‘Mrs. Kincaid.’ Some other things don’t please her very much.” He winked at Barry and said, “I think they gave up dragging the Lough after three days.” O’Reilly saw the great grin on Barry’s face. O’Reilly wondered, has he worked out what I’m hoping he’ll say when Fitzpatrick rises to the bait?

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. ‘Dragging the Lough?’ ” Fitzpatrick scratched his cheek.

Up like a trout to a fly. O’Reilly glanced at Barry and raised one eyebrow. He was delighted when Barry, who clearly had followed O’Reilly’s train of thought, said with a smile, “They were looking for the body of the last man who called Mrs. Kincaid ‘my good woman.’ ”

O’Reilly heard a dry cackling noise. Fitzpatrick’s narrow shoulders were shaking. Gracious. The man was laughing. He pulled off his pince-nez and polished them with a handkerchief. I’ll often fiddle with my pipe to give myself time to think, O’Reilly thought. Does he use the same trick but with his glasses?

Finally Fitzpatrick said, “Heh, heh. Droll. Very droll. Looking for a body. Heh.”

Barry spoke and this time there was just a hint of an edge to his voice. “Mrs. Kincaid did tell you, the last time you were here, she wasn’t keen on being called that.” Then his words were softer. The olive branch. “You must have forgotten.”

Fitzpatrick sat more erectly, with his knees together like a prim dowager afraid some lecher might try to look up her skirt. “I will remember for the future. It’s Mrs. Kinsale.”

“No,” said O’Reilly. “Kincaid. Mrs. Kincaid.”

“It seems to me you’re making an extraordinary fuss over a mere servant.”

O’Reilly saw Barry stiffen and shake his head. Then Barry relaxed and said nothing. Fitzpatrick had, on the surface, come to establish professional diplomatic relations. If by his attitude he chose to make himself persona non grata, he might well end up regretting it. He’d already made an enemy of Kinky, and she was certainly one of the most important arbiters of public opinion in the townland. O’Reilly was quite happy to let the man dig his own grave. “You could be right,” O’Reilly said in his most placatory voice, “and I’m sure you didn’t come merely to discuss our domestic arrangements here. Actually Doctor Laverty and I have been remiss. As the established practice, we should have visited you to welcome you to the district.”

“I’m glad you recognize that, Fingal.” Fitzpatrick looked down his nose at O’Reilly. “Very glad.”

God, Fitzpatrick, you were a prissy bastard at Trinity, and you’re a
prissy bastard now, O’Reilly thought. But he said. “We’ll let bygones be bygones, won’t we, Ronald?”

“That would be the Christian thing to do.”

The man had belonged, and almost certainly still did, to one of the ultraconservative fundamentalist sects that abounded in the north of Ireland. “A bit of other-cheek turning, you mean?”

“Precisely.”

“Och,” said O’Reilly, standing to give himself the physical equivalent of the moral high ground. “Consider mine turned.” He offered his hand to the seated Fitzpatrick, who accepted the handshake with a grip O’Reilly found soft, clammy, and about as welcoming as touching the scales of a recently boated flounder. “How’s business in the Kinnegar anyway?” He released the hand and foreswore the temptation to wipe his own on the leg of his pants. O’Reilly decided he would remain standing.

“Very promising. It
was
a bit slow at the start. I suspect some of my predecessor’s patients started consulting this practice.” He looked over the top of his pince-nez at O’Reilly and smiled his grim smile. “I’m very pleased to say that in the last month the tide seems to have been reversed. Quite a few of yours are now coming my way.”

“Is that a fact?” O’Reilly glanced at Barry to see that he was sitting on the edge of his chair, forehead creased in a frown. He took a deep breath as if he was about to speak, so O’Reilly said, “Doctor Laverty and I haven’t noticed any reduction of our load.” He fixed Barry with a glare. “Have we, Barry?”

“None at all.”

Good lad. Give nothing away. It’s our business, not his. O’Reilly wandered over and leant on the mantelpiece.

“Well, I think you soon will. They seem to like my more traditional approach.”

“And what would that be?” O’Reilly enquired. “Eye of newt, and toe of frog?” He laughed.

Fitzpatrick’s larynx bobbed once.

“Or maybe wool of bat, and tongue of dog?” said Barry.

O’Reilly laughed more loudly. Barry could never resist playing
their quotations game. Fitzpatrick wasn’t the only one who would rise if offered the right fly.

“You may jest, Fingal, but I have had some quite spectacular successes with old country remedies.”

“Have you, Ronald? Would you like to give us a for instance?” O’Reilly made sure he wore an expression of rapt interest. “I’m always up for learning something new.” It was annoying, he thought, that just at that moment his throat tickled and he was forced to cough.

Fitzpatrick pointed his bony index finger at O’Reilly. “You yourself are a case in point.”

O’Reilly coughed once more, then said, “And how would that be?”

“You have tracheobronchitis. How are you treating it? No, I can guess. Antibiotics. Modern medicine is hopelessly wedded to them.”

“Actually, I’m not—”

“Don’t interrupt.” The finger wagging increased. “
I
have very little use for them, but
I
find a home-prepared tincture very effective.”

O’Reilly found the man’s stressing of “I” irritating. “Would you like to tell us about it?”

“It would be my pleasure. Take primrose roots, crush them up, and put them in the whey of goat’s milk.”

“Interesting,” said Barry. “And are primrose roots easy to come by in December?”

O’Reilly couldn’t tell whether Barry was genuinely interested or was having Fitzpatrick on.

“The plant doesn’t flower, but its roots are still in the ground.”

“Oh,” said Barry. “Thank you.”

“Primrose roots in the whey of goat’s milk?” O’Reilly frowned. “Sounds simple enough. And does the patient drink the mixture?”

Fitzpatrick leant forward. In his eyes, O’Reilly saw an evangelical gleam. “No. The next step is the clever one because it gets right to the root of the disease.” He tittered. “That’s rather good, using roots to get to the root.”

“Go on,” said O’Reilly, thinking that once in a while the old adage “Laugh and the world laughs with you” could be wrong. “I’m all agog.”

“You stick the mixture up the patient’s nose.” Fitzpatrick smiled smugly. “What do you think of that?”

O’Reilly guffawed. For a while he couldn’t stop. When he finally gained control, he said, “Sorry, Ronald, but I just got what you said earlier: ‘Using roots to get to the root.’ Very good. Very good.”

“Well, that’s all right then. For a moment, I thought you were mocking my therapy. Worse, that you were laughing at me. I hate it when people laugh at me. I always did.
I hate it
.” He actually stamped one foot.

“Me?” said O’Reilly, all injured innocence. “Laugh at you, Ronald?” He glanced at Barry, who was also struggling to keep a straight face. “I’d never do such a thing. I remember how it used to upset you.”

“Thank you.” Fitzpatrick seemed to be mollified.

“It’s not every day I hear such an
incredible
approach,” O’Reilly said.

“Well, thank you, Fingal.” The man actually simpered.

O’Reilly looked at Barry, who inaudibly mouthed, “Incredible,” and grinned broadly.
Oxford English Dictionary
, O’Reilly thought. More people should read it. If they did, they would find “
incredible
: that cannot be believed.” But if it made old Fitzpatrick happy, who was O’Reilly to spoil his morning? O’Reilly’s stomach grumbled. He realized he was hungry. Barry must be too. It would be close to lunchtime, and that meant it was time to get rid of their colleague.

“I’m pleased you’re settling in so well, Ronald.” O’Reilly moved toward the door. “And Doctor Laverty and I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work for too long, would we, Barry?”

Barry rose. “Certainly not.”

Fitzpatrick stood, made a half bow to Barry, and said, “Young Laverty.” Then he strode to O’Reilly, paused, offered his hand, accepted the handshake, and said, “I’ve enjoyed our little meeting, Fingal. I do hope we can do it again.”

I’d rather sit through a two-hour sermon by the Presbyterian minister, O’Reilly thought. But he said, “I don’t see why we can’t. Perhaps we can do a bit of catching up on what the pair of us have been up to since medical school?” And I’ll bet your story, Hercules, will be as fascinating
as the manual that came with the washing machine I bought for Kinky last year.

“I might quite enjoy that, Fingal, but for the moment I’d prefer to keep things on a professional basis.” He cleared his throat. “I think we might find we’re going to be in competition.”

“Suits me,” said O’Reilly, standing clear of the mantel and adopting his old familiar boxer’s attacking stance, with one foot in advance of the other. He hadn’t boxed since he’d left the navy, but old habits died hard.

“I hesitate to be the ghost at the feast,” Fitzpatrick continued, looking particularly cheerful, “especially at this festive season, but I have wondered if the region is big enough to keep three doctors busy.”

O’Reilly saw Barry flinch. The lad would be worried. O’Reilly shared his concern, but if Fitzpatrick was throwing down a professional gauntlet, Fingal O’Reilly was the man to accept the challenge. “Probably not, Ronald,” he said blandly. “I’m sure Doctor Laverty and I will miss you when you leave.” He moved across the room and opened the door. “Now let me show you out.” He glanced at Barry. “Doctor Laverty and I are on our way down to our lunch. Sorry we can’t invite you to stay and join us.”

A Primrose by a River’s Brim

O’Reilly knocked the dottle out of his briar into a huge ashtray that Kinky had this Thursday morning, under some protest, placed in its habitual spot on the dining room table. It was beyond him why she’d been under the impression he’d given up smoking forever, just because he’d not picked up his pipe for the few days his chest had been afflicted. He’d missed his tobacco as a man might miss an old and dear friend.

He crammed the pipe into his jacket pocket, finished his tea, and rose. Time for him to be in the trenches. He’d promised Barry he’d take care of the surgery this morning, and by God, he would, and he’d be well enough by Saturday to cover the weekend too.

O’Reilly shoved his chair away from the table, rose, glanced up, and hoped Barry was still asleep. The lad had worked hard for the last few days. O’Reilly had not heard Barry leave this morning, but he had heard him return just after dawn had broken. Let him sleep. He’d earned it.

O’Reilly passed the big table, went into the hall, and opened the waiting room door. Jesus Murphy, he thought. It was like Paddy’s market in there, standing room only. Barry would be pleased to hear the place was packed. O’Reilly ignored the chorus of “Good morning, Doctor,” and roared, “Right, who’s first?”

Cissie Sloan, blue beret on her untidy mop of hair, woolly scarf wrapped around her neck, the rest of her bundled up in an army surplus great coat that O’Reilly knew would have been purchased at the
Army and Navy Store in Belfast, lumbered to her Wellington-booted feet. “Right, Cissie,” he said, “you know your way.”

As he followed her to the surgery he remembered yesterday’s lunch when, try as he might, O’Reilly did not seem to be able to reassure Barry that Doctor Fitzpatrick probably did not present a real threat. Once his novelty had worn off, the Ballybucklebo patients would be quite happy to return to Number 1 Main Street. Some of them, he thought, watching Cissie process along the hall and into the surgery, didn’t even seem to have any notion of leaving at all. He heard the chair creak as Cissie settled herself. Passing her, he parked himself in his swivel chair.

“Doctor Laverty not in the day?”

“My turn, Cissie. He was up half the night.”

“Right enough? He works very hard, so he does.” She made a sympathetic clucking noise and leant forward. “And I hear you’ve been a bit under the weather yourself, sir.”

“Och, sure it was only a slight touch of the bubonic plague and leprosy, and I shook them both off in no time.” He looked at her over his half-moon glasses. “I’ve the constitution of a Clydesdale horse.”

Cissie’s laugh was throaty, though whether from her earlier thyroid deficiency or her recent sore throat he couldn’t be sure.

“You’re the terrible man, Doctor dear, so you are, teasing a poor countrywoman like me. Leprosy, my aunt Fanny Jane. You only get that in darkest Africa. Wasn’t I just telling my cousin Aggie, you know the one with the six toes, her and me was working in the parish hall getting it ready for the pageant, we’d just hung up another red paper chain, and Aggie says—”