An Irish Country Christmas (45 page)

Barry could have sworn the man actually gobbled like a turkey. Certainly the wattles of his neck shuddered. “I won’t stand for—”

“You will, Ronald. You will.” Until now, Barry had never heard anyone speak so sharply as to make him suddenly visualize a naked stiletto. “Because of
you
, I had to deliver an undiagnosed breech in the patient’s home.
You
were nowhere to be found. The baby could have died, and you know that as well as I do. The mother could have too.

“Bugger Hippocrates and his oath,” he continued. “It’s unnecessary. You’re a doctor, man. Your responsibility is to your patients first, last, and everywhere in between. You don’t need some mumbo jumbo about ‘swearing by Apollo, Asclepius, Hygieia, and Panacea’ to tell you what you should do, and if you don’t recognize that, you should be in some other trade.” The steel in O’Reilly’s voice was razor sharp.

And he was right, Barry thought. The day he’d started seeing patients as a student, he had learned from his seniors exactly where his responsibilities lay.

Fitzpatrick’s shoulders were heaving, but O’Reilly bored ahead. “You weren’t even professional enough to phone me to enquire how your patient was. And, Lord preserve us, I doubt if you as much as considered saying thank you to Miss Hagerty for getting hold of me.” O’Reilly shook his head slowly.

Barry had expected O’Reilly to finish with a line like, “And you call yourself a doctor?” but now the look on O’Reilly’s craggy face was one more of pity than anger.

Fitzpatrick hung his head. His momentary counterattack had shriveled to nothing, and Barry thought the man himself had shrunk. “You’re right, Fingal,” he said. “I’m sorry. I am sorry.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I am very sorry.” He sniffled, produced a large handkerchief, and blew his nose with a high-pitched honk.

O’Reilly smiled, planted his backside on the desk’s corner, folded his arms across his chest, and said in his normal voice, “Well done, Ronald. Well done.”

Barry was amazed at O’Reilly’s sudden change from a frontal attack.

“It takes a big man to admit he’s wrong, wouldn’t you agree, Doctor Laverty?”

“I certainly would.” Barry caught Fitzpatrick’s look of thanks and smiled back.

“You know, Ronald,” O’Reilly continued, “I don’t know what made you such a bitter man, but I suspect there is a half-decent side to you. I’m quite proud of you for admitting you were wrong, and even a little sorry for you.”

And although the remark could have been pure sarcasm, Barry could detect nothing but honesty in O’Reilly’s words or the way he now sat, leaning back on one outstretched arm and idly swinging one booted foot.

Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, Barry thought, you could somehow have summoned up some sympathy for Adolf Hitler. It was one of the qualities that made O’Reilly such a fine physician. Fingal would not have taken an instant dislike to Miss Moloney without finding out what had made her the way she appeared to be. O’Reilly might be quite proud of Fitzpatrick, but Barry Laverty was filled to bursting with pride in his senior colleague, and a little ashamed of himself for eagerly anticipating the destruction of Fitzpatrick. The man was more to be pitied.

When Fitzpatrick looked up at O’Reilly, Barry was sure he could detect gratitude in the man’s eyes. “Thank you, Fingal.”

O’Reilly rose and stepped down from the podium. “No thanks needed. Just see to it that you keep those promises. Remember why you practice medicine.”

“I will, Fingal. I will try.”

“Oh, yes,” O’Reilly said. “One other wee thing while we’re on about doctoring. Where the hell did a man like yourself, trained at a reputable medical school—the same one I was trained at—where in the name of Baby Jesus in velvet trousers did you come up with some of your quack remedies?”

To Barry it looked as if Fitzpatrick was going to protest, but after a ferocious scowl had crossed his face and faded, he asked meekly, “Such as?”

“Gunpowder for infertility. Honestly.” O’Reilly shook his big head. “Gunpowder. Do you know, Ronald, when I heard about this remedy, I had a terrible urge to put out the word that your patient had died.”

“But you couldn’t. It’s not true. It would have been libel.” Fitzpatrick’s eyes bulged.

“Not if I’d told everyone that they’d tried to cremate him . . . and they were still looking for the back wall of the crematorium.” He guffawed. “They’d have seen I was only joking.”

Barry, who was caught completely off guard, burst out laughing. He was surprised to hear a dry wheezing chuckle coming from Fitzpatrick. “You haven’t changed, Fingal,” Fitzpatrick said. “You could always make a joke out of anything.”

“Maybe,” said O’Reilly, deadpan now, a hint of metal once again in his tones, “but I’ll not find it funny if you don’t keep your promises.”

“I will,” said Fitzpatrick.

“All right,” said O’Reilly, climbing back up on the platform. He offered his hand. “See you do.”

Fitzpatrick shook the hand.

Barry could tell by the way Fitzpatrick gritted his teeth that he was the recipient of one of O’Reilly’s paw-crushing shakes.

“And now,” said O’Reilly, still holding on to the hand, “before Doctor Laverty and I head off, in the spirit of the season we’ll wish you an early merry Christmas and a happy New Year.” He let go the hand, and Fitzpatrick immediately massaged it with the other. “And if you have any difficulty keeping your New Year’s resolutions, I’m sure Barry and I can help you, Ronald.”

He turned to Barry. “Come along, Barry. Don’t trouble yourself to get up, Ronald. We’ll show ourselves out.”

When they left the house and headed back to the car, the light was already fading. It was, after all, Barry knew, only a few days short of the solstice, and then the days would start to lengthen. Even though today was calm, he’d not be sorry to see the gentler spring days arrive.

“That was amazing, Fingal,” Barry said, as they passed the army facility. “You really brought him to heel.”

“He is a bit of a cur,” O’Reilly said, “and at heel is where he belongs. I just hope he’ll stay there.”

“Don’t you think you were a bit lenient? I thought you were going to threaten him with exposure because he’d not paid up on his bet.”

“Och,” said O’Reilly, stopping to light his pipe. “I didn’t need to. He caved in more easily than I’d anticipated.”

“And you’re sure he’ll behave in future?”

“No,” said O’Reilly, “he’ll bear keeping an eye on.” He opened the car door. “Hop in.”

Barry did.

The car lurched as O’Reilly climbed aboard and started the engine. Before he drove away, he remarked, “Not saying I’ll tell the world he welshed, but him knowing full well I could, means that for a few weeks at least we still have a shot in our locker if we need one.”

“Clever. I hadn’t thought of that.” Barry wound his window down as O’Reilly let go a cloud of smoke.

“Ah, well,” said O’Reilly, “we can’t always think of everything.” He drove off.

Barry stretched and yawned.

“Tired?”

“A bit.”

“I hope it’s a quiet night for you tonight, Barry.”

Barry laughed. “It will be. I’m absolutely certain.”

“Good Lord.” O’Reilly turned and peered at Barry. “Are you getting the gift like Kinky? How can you be so sure?”

“Because, Doctor O’Reilly, because I’m not on call tonight. You are.”

“So I am,” said O’Reilly, looking ahead. “Having a go at your man back there must have made me forget. It was a bit like getting prepared for a boxing match . . .”

“When was the last time you fought, Fingal?” Barry asked, remembering full well his colleague had boxed at Trinity and when he was in the navy.

“In the ring? Gibraltar in nineteen forty-five. I lost on points.” He put the car in gear and drove off. “Otherwise about ten minutes ago with Fitzpatrick.”

“I’d say you won that one.”

“True, but I’d got myself primed to go ten rounds. When he threw in the towel early, it was a bit of a letdown . . .”

Barry realized something he’d suspected for a long time. O’Reilly actually enjoyed a good scrap, be it with Doctor Fitzpatrick or Councillor Bishop.

“And I was feeling so pleased with myself for such an easy win that I completely forgot who was doing what in the practice. I’m on call tonight, and I’ll be doing the surgery tomorrow.” He let go another huge cloud of smoke.

“When I was going on to Fitzpatrick about the gunpowder, I should have remembered that Gerry Shanks and his missus are coming in tomorrow. I wish I’d made Ronald confess that the treatment is useless. I could have told Mairead that he’d said so.”

“So what will you tell her?”

“If it’ll bring her to her senses so she’ll let poor Gerry stop taking the stuff, I’ll say Fitzpatrick agreed it was useless.”

“But he didn’t.”

O’Reilly let go another cloud and laughed. “True, Barry, true . . . but a white lie’s in a good cause, and what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.”

For They Shall Be Comforted

“
I
wanna sweetie. I
wanna
sweetie. I wanna
sweetie
.” The continuous chanting was high-pitched and grating.

At least, O’Reilly thought, not having been called out last night had given him a good night’s sleep. He was able to face this morning’s surgery, but it did seem as if the room had suddenly shrunk. The parents of the child yelling “I wanna sweetie”—Gerry and Mairead Shanks—showed no interest in controlling either of their two children. O’Reilly had noticed Donal Donnelly in the waiting room. Donal would be bringing news about the raffle, and while O’Reilly would give the Shankses their fair share of time, he did not want their consultation to be unnecessarily prolonged.

Four-year-old Siobhan stood beside her mother. Her face was scarlet, her scowl ferocious. “
I waaaana sweeteeeee
.”

The doctor ignored her and rose to intercept five-year-old Angus’s assault on the trolley. “Here,” O’Reilly said, pulling out his key ring. “Play with this.” He gave it to the child, grabbed the boy’s wrist, pulled him away from the collection of sharp steel instruments, and guided him back to his father. “Hang onto him, Gerry.”

“Right, Doctor.”

“I . . . want . . . a . . . sweetie.”

O’Reilly stifled his urge to say, “No, you want a good clip round the ear.” He did understand how difficult it could be for parents, particularly newcomers like the Shankses, to find babysitters. “I’ll be back,” he said, as he left the surgery.

He went to the kitchen, and said, “Kinky, could you nanny a couple of chisellers? I want to finish on time so I can get up to Belfast today to do my Christmas shopping.”

“Bless you, Doctor dear, I will indeed. Just let me pop your lunch to one side.”

He saw a plate of wheaten bread, butter, and cheese. Bloody diet.

“Will we go now, sir?”

He headed back to the surgery with Kinky at his heels. “Children, this is Mrs. Kincaid.”

Kinky, big and comforting, beamed at them and held out her arms.

“I’d like you to go with her, and she’ll give you some treats,” O’Reilly said.

Siobhan’s chant stopped. She moved across to where Kinky stood. Angus followed. As the boy passed, O’Reilly caught his shoulder. “My keys?”

Angus thrust them at O’Reilly and raced after Kinky and his sister, yelling, “Wait for me. Wait for me.”

O’Reilly put the keys in his pocket and took his usual seat.

“I’m awful sorry about that, Doctor,” Mairead said, “but you know what kiddies are like.” She smiled fondly. “I dote on them, so I do.”

“Och,” he said, “to the raven her own chick is white.” Which was the closest he could bring himself to saying, she could dote, but he’d just tolerate. He gave her a moment to think about what he had said.

Now that he was no longer distracted, O’Reilly took a good look at Mairead Shanks. Gerry had said his wife was a pretty wee thing. She was indeed. She could not stand more than five feet tall, and her short coppery hair was cut in a pageboy. That made him swallow. He’d managed not to think of Deidre for a few days, but she’d worn bangs like that, even though at Christmas 1940 the back and sides of her hair had been done in a reverse roll in the fashion of the times. He inhaled deeply and told himself to get on with his work.

“They can be a handful. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Never worry,” O’Reilly said, “Kinky’ll keep them occupied until we’re done.”

She smiled. It was a gentle smile of full lips and pale green eyes set in an oval face. “Thank you, sir.”

O’Reilly popped on his half-moons. “You’d like to have another wean?”

She nodded and managed a wry smile. “After you’ve seen my two you probably wonder why, Doctor, but yes, me and Gerry . . .”—she glanced at her husband, who reached across and took her hand—“me and Gerry’d like one more. Just the one.”

O’Reilly nodded. “Gerry said it’s been two years, and you’ve seen all the specialists and they can’t find anything wrong.”

Her eyes glistened. “That’s right, sir.”

“I imagine you’ve been asked a lot of personal questions, had a lot of examinations, and are getting pretty sick of tests.”

She sighed. “You can say that again, sir.”

“I’m not going to examine you, Mairead, and I’ve no more tests.”