An Irish Country Christmas (35 page)

He hoped O’Reilly hadn’t been too busy taking calls to enjoy his evening with Kitty. That Kitty O’Hallorhan was a very special woman, and so, by God, was his Patricia Spence. And if he really wanted to know if she was coming home for Christmas, he’d ask Kinky. She was fey. He was convinced she was. He shouldn’t be, not with his scientific training, but if Kinky didn’t have the gift he’d eat his hat. Kinky would know. Of course she would.

It Is Best Not To Swap Horses
While Crossing the River

Judging by his scowl, O’Reilly was in one of his bear-with-a-sore-head moods. He barely thanked Mrs. Kincaid when she set a serving plate bearing a large omelet in front of him and silently left. He helped himself to two-thirds and told Barry to pass his plate.

Barry accepted his one third, decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and kept his counsel. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the breakfast table sipping it. He glanced out the bow window, past the church steeple, to a sky so bright blue that it looked as if God had fashioned it from enamel. He listened to the Sunday pealing of the chapel bells, loud in the clear and no doubt frosty air.

He tried the first mouthful of his omelet. It was light, fluffy, and filled with melted Cheddar cheese. He tasted a subtle hint of onion. The omelet was liberally studded with mushrooms and melted in his mouth. Delicious.

He tried to ignore O’Reilly where he sat in his customary place, hunched over his plate, filling his face. There was no doubt, thought Barry, the keen game fisherman, that in angling circles his mentor would be referred to as a coarse feeder. Still, if O’Reilly behaved in his usual fashion, the food should go directly from his stomach to whatever brain centre affected his mood and change it for the better.

“That was powerful,” said O’Reilly, swallowing the last morsel of his lion’s share. He grinned, then belched happily. “Good morning to you, young Barry.” He stretched and picked up his coffee cup.

Barry smiled. The transit time from gut to brain had been very rapid this morning.

“Good morning, Fingal,” he said.

“And how were things in your particular Glocca Morra last night, lad?”

Barry finished his mouthful before answering. “Well,” he said, quite happy to play the quotations game, “the willow tree was certainly weeping there, and Finian’s rainbow was as bright as ever. It was good to see Jack, and the nurses’ dance was fun.” He filled another forkful. “How was your night, Fingal? I got home early, and I heard you and Kitty in the dining room. But I didn’t want to disturb you, so I went on up to bed.” He’d wondered why they were in the dining room and not the upstairs lounge.

O’Reilly grunted and reached for the toast rack. “We were in the dining room because Kitty’d rustled up a bloody great fry. She’s a grand hand with the pan.” There was a dreamy look in O’Reilly’s eyes.

If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, Barry thought, Kitty O’Hallorhan must be well along the road. But it still didn’t answer the question. Had O’Reilly still been hungry after a meal at the Craw-fordsburn? “I thought you were taking her out for dinner,” Barry said.

“Bloody Fitzpatrick. He damn nearly made me starve to death.”

Barry hesitated, his fork halfway to his mouth. There were venial sins and mortal sins. Along with murder, adultery, and idolatry, keeping O’Reilly from his grub was definitely one of the latter. “How did he do that, Fingal?”

“Kitty and I were just getting going with our starters when Kinky sent for me to go and see one of Fitzpatrick’s unfortunate customers. She was in labour, and your man might as well have been on the far side of the moon.” He buttered a slice of toast.

“Was Miss Hagerty not able to cope on her own?” Barry had learnt that if the GP was not available, midwives were quite able to conduct normal deliveries. He popped the forkful into his mouth and chewed.

“Not this one,” O’Reilly said, liberally spreading Kinky’s homemade
marmalade. “The Klutz from the Kinnegar had taken over all the antenatal care himself, told Miss Hagerty not to bother seeing the patient—”

Barry nearly choked as he swallowed. He coughed, then said, “Idiot.”

“
Amadán
’s right. He missed a breech presentation. Miss Hagerty was pretty sure that’s what it was—the husband sent for her because he couldn’t find Fitzpatrick—but she didn’t want to call for the ambulance until a doctor had examined the patient, a woman called Gertie Gorman. Miss Hagerty told me Gertie’s always been the kind who doesn’t like to trouble people, so she waited until her labour was well along before she sent for help. She’d waited too bloody long this time.”

“He missed a breech?” Breeches were always tricky, but any half-decent doctor should have made the diagnosis.

“By the time Miss Hagerty tried to find him and then sent for me, the patient was fully dilated and it was too late to get her to the hospital. I’d to deliver her there and then.”

“And it went all right?”

“Och, aye,” O’Reilly said. He devoured most of the triangular slice of toast in one bite, and his next words were difficult to make out as he spoke through a half-full mouth. “Nice wee baby girl. Her mum’s going to call her Noelle.” He swallowed and glanced at his watch. “It’s nine forty-five. I’d half thought Fitzpatrick might have phoned here by now . . .”

“To thank you for looking after things?”

“Thank me?” O’Reilly shook his shaggy head. “I doubt if he knows the word. No. To get the medical details about how things went. He’ll need them to take proper care of his patient.” The remains of his toast disappeared.

“Perhaps she should transfer to our care now, Fingal,” Barry said, feeling a glimmer of optimism that the flow in the tide of patients to Fitzpatrick might be starting to turn.

O’Reilly reached for the toast rack again and rapidly spread another slice with butter and marmalade. He shook his head. “I’ve already told
Gertie to stay with her own doctor.” He looked Barry directly in the eye. “Fitzpatrick might be an unethical, parasitic, patient poacher.
We
don’t do things like that in our practice. If she wants to come to us once all the necessary postnatal care and follow-up of the baby are finished, that’s a different matter. It’s not good for the patient to change doctors in mid-treatment.”

Barry nodded. He was not surprised by what O’Reilly said. By now he’d have expected no less of his senior colleague. He was also gratified by the way O’Reilly had referred to the practice as “our.” Barry finished his omelet and cast a hopeful eye at the toast rack’s remaining slice. “Will we do anything about Doctor Fitzpatrick, Fingal?” he asked.

O’Reilly nodded ponderously and gobbled his toast before saying, “I gave the bugger the benefit of the doubt, but he
is
pinching our patients, he was bloody rude to Kinky, he’s been handing out medical advice that borders on quackery, he welshed on a bet with me, and this, putting a patient and her baby in jeopardy, this is the final destructive piece of vegetable matter on the dorsum of the Bactrian.”

“The straw that broke the camel’s back?” Barry said with a smile.

“Right,” said O’Reilly. “As far as I’m concerned, the man should collect one or two of the plagues of Egypt and then depart into the wilderness.”

Barry had a mental image of O’Reilly as Moses, inflicting Pharaoh with lice, or a murrain on his cattle, or perish the thought, a rain of blood in the Kinnegar. “Fingal, you weren’t thinking of doing away with his firstborn, were you?”

O’Reilly laughed and it was a demonical noise, Barry thought, a laugh to match the fires deep in O’Reilly’s brown eyes.

“No,” he said, “but I do intend to meet with him and gently remind him of the error of his ways. Give him due warning.”

“A kind of shot across his bows?”

“Yes,” said O’Reilly, “and if a wink is not as good as a nod to that blind horse’s arse . . .”—O’Reilly’s nose tip paled—“I’ll gut him, fillet him, and chuck the remains to the seagulls. I’ll go round to the Kinnegar, and see him in the next day or two if I don’t run into him sooner.” O’Reilly munched his second piece of toast.

Barry rose, moved quickly around the table, and without a by-your-leave grabbed the last slice, nipped back to his place, and ignored the hurt look in O’Reilly’s eyes. “Pass the butter and marmalade, will you, Fingal?”

“What’s this?” O’Reilly said. “Mutiny in the ranks?”

“No, but after what you did to my kippers the other night, I began to understand, Fingal, that in the grub stakes with you, he who hesitates is lost.”

O’Reilly laughed. “Well done, Barry, but it’s actually ‘The woman that deliberates is lost.’ Thomas Addison said it.”

“I stand, or rather sit, corrected, and I’d still like the butter . . .”

“And marmalade.” O’Reilly passed them along. He was looking wistfully at the toast rack when Kinky appeared in the doorway.

“Good morning, Doctor Laverty,” she said. “And how was your breakfast?”

“Wonderful. Thanks, Kinky,” Barry said. “The omelet was magnificent.”

“Ah sure, and wasn’t it only a shmall little thing?”

“No,” said O’Reilly, “it was not. It was grand.”

Barry saw her many chins wobble as she chuckled. He wondered if this would be a good time to ask her if Patricia would come home for Christmas, but he was forestalled when O’Reilly added, “The omelet really was grand but, Kinky . . . I think you were a bit, a bit . . .” He stared at the empty toast rack.

“Mean? I was not, so.” Kinky put one hand on a substantial hip. “While you were sick there, sir, I wanted to get the nourishment into you, but now you’re better”—she eyed O’Reilly’s waistline—“I’ve already heard your Santa Claus suit needs letting out. I’ll say no more.”

O’Reilly took a deep breath, then sighed and absentmindedly patted his tummy.

Barry chewed the last slice of toast with gusto. It wasn’t often he managed to put one over on Fingal. He intended to enjoy it, but his enjoyment was cut short by the ringing of the hall telephone.

“Excuse me,” Kinky said and left.

Barry swallowed his last mouthful, turned to the door, waited, and
then listened as Kinky returned and said, “It’s Cissie Sloan, Doctor O’Reilly. Her wee lad Callum has swallowed sixpence. I told her to bring him to the surgery. To come to the front door. She’ll be here in about fifteen minutes.”

“Fine, Kinky,” said O’Reilly. “You’ll be busy in the kitchen, so I’ll just wait here and let them in when they come.”

Barry had been happy to pour them both second cups of coffee and to sit and chat with O’Reilly. He had planned to go upstairs to try to solve the
Sunday Times
cryptic crossword puzzle, but it could wait until after he’d examined Cissie. Barry wanted to see if her throat was better. If it was, it would save a follow-up visit later in the week. He also wondered how O’Reilly would deal with the missing sixpence.

The front doorbell jangled. O’Reilly stood and ambled out of the dining room. Barry followed. He felt the draught as the front door was opened. It was chilly, he thought, so the draught was a natural phenomenon and not the result of Cissie’s nonstop blethering.

“Thank you so much for seeing us, Doctors . . . on a Sunday too . . . and me on my way to mass.”

That, Barry thought, explained the gloves and flowerpot hat she wore to set off what must be her best coat and low-heeled brogues.

“And this rapscallion . . .” She thrust a boy of about eight or nine ahead of her. “This raparee goes and swallows a sixpence and—”

“Bring him into the surgery, Cissie.” O’Reilly closed the front door.

“—And God knows if it’ll get stuck in his wee tummy, and his daddy off to Belfast on the early train to see about buying a ferret. Nasty, smelly things, but he wants one for hunting rabbits . . .”

In the time it had taken Cissie to say this, O’Reilly had manoeuvered her and Callum into the surgery, got Callum to undo the waistband of his pants, pull out his shirttails and undervest, and hop up onto the examining couch.

Barry stood just inside the doorway watching and, Lord help him, listening. He had no doubt that Cissie’s sore throat was better.

“I make a lovely rabbit pie, so I do, even if I say so myself. I got the recipe from your Mrs. Kincaid . . . she’s a lovely woman . . . for one from the Republic . . .”