An Irish Country Doctor (5 page)

Barry sat back in his dining-room chair and pushed his lunch plate away. Certainly, he thought, O'Reilly's clinical methods might leave something to be desired, but, he burped gently, he was willing to forgive the man's eccentricities as long as Mrs. Kincaid's cooking stayed at its current level.

"Home visits," said O'Reilly from across the table. He consulted a piece of paper. "Anyone who's too sick to come to the surgery phones Kinky in the morning, and she gives me my list." 

"The one she gave you at breakfast?"

"Aye, and she tells me to add any who call during the morning." O'Reilly folded the paper and stuck it into the side pocket of his tweed jacket. "We're lucky today--just one. At the Kennedys'." He rose. "Let's get moving. There's a rugby game tonight on the telly. I want to get back in time for the kickoff."

Barry followed down the hall and into the kitchen where Mrs. Kincaid, up to her elbows in a sink full of soapy water, greeted them with a smile and said, "Would you like them lobsters for supper, Doctor dear?"

"That would be grand, Kinky."

Barry savoured the prospect.

O'Reilly's forward progress stopped. "Kinky, is tonight your Women's Union night?"

"Aye, so."

"We'll have the lobsters cold. Leave them with a bit of salad and get you away early."

He charged on, ignoring Mrs. Kincaid's thanks, opened the back door, and ushered Barry through.

He found himself in a spacious, fenced garden, the one he'd seen from his bedroom window. Vegetables grew in a plot by the left-hand hedge. Some apple trees, heavy with early apples, were bowed over a well-kept lawn--he recognized a Cox's Orange Pippin and a Golden Delicious. A tall chestnut tree at the far end drooped branches over a fence and shaded a dog kennel. "Arthur!" yelled O'Reilly. "Arthur Guinness!"

A vast black Labrador hurled himself from the kennel, charged over the grass, and, tail wagging so hard that his backside swung ninety degrees, leapt at O'Reilly.

"Who's a good boy then?" O'Reilly said, thumping the dog's flank. "I call him Arthur Guinness because he's Irish, black, and has a great head on him . . . just like the stout." 

"Aryouff," said Arthur.

"Arthur Guinness, meet Doctor Laverty."

"Arf," said Arthur, immediately transferring his affections to Barry, who fought desperately to push the animal away. "Ararf." 

"Arthur Guinness is the best bloody gundog in Ulster." 

"You shoot, Doctor O'Reilly?"

"Fingal, my boy, Fingal. Yes. Arthur and I enjoy a day at the ducks, don't we, Arthur?"

"Yarf," said Arthur, as he wound his front paws round Barry's leg and started to hump like a demented pile driver. Keep that up, dog, Barry thought, as he tried and failed to hold the besotted beast at bay. Keep that up, and your next litter will be Labrador-corduroy crossbreeds. "Down, Arthur." He might as well have kept his mouth shut as the animal redoubled his efforts.

"Get on with you, sir," said O'Reilly, pointing to the kennel. "Go home."

Arthur Guinness gave one last thrust, disengaged himself, and wandered off in the general direction of his abode. "Affectionate animal," said Barry, as he unsuccessfully tried to brush the mud from the leg of his best trousers.

"If he likes you," said O'Reilly, as he walked on, "and he obviously does."

"I'd never have guessed." Barry made a mental note to avoid the back garden.

"Garage is out here," said O'Reilly, opening the back gate. He crossed a lane to a dilapidated shed and swung an overhead door upwards. Barry peered inside and saw a black, long-bonnet Rover, one of a line of cars that had not been produced for at least fifteen years. O'Reilly climbed in and started the engine. It grumbled, spluttered, and backfired. Barry hopped into the passenger seat. O'Reilly put the car in gear and nosed out into the lane. Barry gagged. The car stank of damp dog and tobacco smoke. He wound down a window. O'Reilly turned left onto the street and drove past his house, past the church with the lopsided steeple, and on along Ballybucklebo's main thoroughfare. Barry looked around. Terraces of whitewashed, single-storey cottages, some thatched and some with slate roofs, lined the route. They came to a crossroads and halted at a red traffic light. A large maypole, paint peeling, leaning to the left, stood like a huge barber's pole on the far corner. "It's fun here on Beltane--that's the old Celtic May Day," said O'Reilly, pointing to the pole. "Bonfires, dancing, the pursuit of young virgins ... if there's still one or two around. The locals aren't far removed from their pagan ancestors when there's the chance of a good party." He revved the engine and gestured at the road to the right. "Go down there, and you'll end up at the seashore; left takes you up into the Ballybucklebo Hills."

Barry nodded.

The light changed to amber. O'Reilly slipped the clutch and roared ahead. "Amber," he remarked, "is only for the tourists." He paid no attention to a tractor that had been coming in the other direction and now stood with its trailer slewed across the intersection. "Got to get home in time for the game." He gestured vaguely around. "The throbbing heart of Ballybucklebo," he said. Two-storey buildings now. Greengrocer, butcher, newsagent, and a larger building, outside of which hung a sign: The Black Swan. Barry noticed a familiar figure, left ankle bandaged, limping towards the front door.

"Galvin," said O'Reilly. "Jesus, that one'd drain the lough if it was Guinness."

Barry turned to watch as Galvin pushed his way into The Black Swan.

"Never mind him," said O'Reilly, shifting up with a grinding of gears. "I'm meant to be showing you the way around. Now. You can take this road we're on to Belfast, or if you take a look to starboard . . . see? You can always take the train."

Barry glanced to his right to see a diesel train moving slowly along a raised embankment. Interesting, he thought. He might just do that on his day off. It would be cheaper than driving up, and he'd like to visit one of his friends from medical school because--

He was hurled forward as O'Reilly braked. "Bloody cow!"

O'Reilly growled.

Barry saw a single black-and-white bovine, eyes soft, reflecting the utter vacuity behind, ambling along the centre of the road, chewing its cud with delicate deliberation. O'Reilly wound down his window. "Hoosh on, cow. Hoosh. Hoosh."

The animal lowered its head, emitted a single doleful moo, and budged not one inch.

Barry sat back and watched O'Reilly to see just when the man's already demonstrated short fuse would burn down. O'Reilly dismounted, slammed the door, and walked to face the cow. "Look, cow, I'm in a hurry."

"Moo," replied the cow.

"Right," said O'Reilly. He took a horn in one hand and pulled. To Barry's amazement the beast took two paces forward, clearly unable to withstand the force being applied to its head. "Move your bloody self," O'Reilly roared.

The cow flicked its ears, lowered its head, and skittered to the side of the road. O'Reilly climbed into the car, slammed it into gear, and took off with a screeching of rubber on tarmac. "Jesus Murphy," he said. "Animals. They're one of the delights of country practice. You just have to get used to dealing with them." 

"All right," said Barry. "Fine." He was quite unaware of how soon Doctor O'Reilly's words would be shown to be true.

O'Reilly grunted and then ground the gears. Barry listened to the grumbling of the engine as the rear tires whined and spun--and spun.

"Bugger it," said O'Reilly. "We'll have to walk." He leant over, reached into the back seat, and grabbed his black bag and a pair of Wellington boots. "Out."

Barry stepped out--and sank to his ankles in a sheugh. He hauled each foot loose from the mud and squelched to the lane's grassy verge. Blast! His shoes and best pants, already stained from the attentions of Arthur Guinness, were filthy. Barry wondered how much it would cost to have them dry-cleaned.

He turned and stared at a farmhouse at the end of the rutted lane. "Is that where we're going, Fingal?"

"Aye, that's the Kennedys' place."

"Is there some other way to get there? My shoes ..."

"Always bring wellies." O'Reilly pointed to his own footwear.

"Don't worry about your shoes."

"But these shoes cost--"

"Christ Almighty! All right, we'll cut through the fields." Barry noticed just a hint of pallor in the tip of O'Reilly's nose. "Get a move on. The match starts in half an hour." O'Reilly hefted his bag, pushed open a rusting five-bar gate in the blackthorn hedge, and strode off. "Close the bloody gate after you," O'Reilly yelled over his shoulder.

Barry struggled to haul the gate shut, scratching his hand on the wire loop that had to be used to secure the gate to the gatepost. He sucked his bleeding hand and stared at the ruin of his shoes--his only pair of good shoes. He heard O'Reilly yelling, "Is it today you were coming?"

"Bugger off," Barry muttered, as he walked to where O'Reilly stood. The grass in the pasture was knee-deep, lush, feathered with seeds. And damp, very damp. As Barry walked purposefully ahead, he knew that the grass seeds would cling to his pant legs, and already he could feel his shins growing moist. Oh, well, he thought, at least the dew would wash off some of the mud.

"What kept you?"

"Doctor O'Reilly," Barry began, refusing to be intimidated, "I came as fast as I could--"

"Huh."

"And my shoes and pants are ruined."

"What," asked O'Reilly, "do you know about pigs?"

"I fail to see what pigs have to do with my clothes."

"Suit yourself, but there's one coming." O'Reilly started to walk rapidly.

Barry hesitated. Coming towards them was a pink something with the dimensions of a small hippopotamus. It had the same rolling gait as the African animal, but as Barry reckoned such beasts were rare round Ballybucklebo, the creature in question must be a pig, and its eyes--he could see them now that it was appreciably closer--were red and distinctly malevolent. Barry set off at a canter in pursuit of O'Reilly and caught up with him halfway between the gate and the end of the field. "It is a pig."

"Brilliant," said O'Reilly, lengthening his stride. "I've read somewhere that domesticated boars can turn ugly."

"Ugly?"

"Right." O'Reilly was breathing heavily. "Bloody big teeth." O'Reilly's gait moved up to a fully developed trot and opened a fair gap between Barry and himself. Barry, quite aware that glancing back had cost several Olympic hopefuls a gold medal, nevertheless risked a backward glance. The beast was gaining, and if it had intentions of using its "bloody big teeth," it was reasonable to assume that the victim would be the first one it hunted down. He began to sprint. Ten yards from the far hedge, Barry passed a flagging O'Reilly. The extra helping of Mrs Kincaid's steak-and-kidney pudding must be slowing O'Reilly down, Barry thought, as he himself cleared a low gate. He almost collided with a small grinning man in a flat cap, who stood in the farmyard. Before Barry could begin to explain, the quiet of the afternoon was shattered by sounds of crashing and rending, and he saw O'Reilly break through the blackthorn like an American tank smashing through the hedges in the bocage country of Normandy. O'Reilly came to a halt, examined the rents in his tweed suit, and tried to control his laboured breathing. Then he marched over to the cloth-capped stranger who, Barry noticed, had a ferocious squint but was laughing heartily.

Although O'Reilly's cheeks were scarlet, despite his recent exertions his nose tip was alabaster.

"Dermot Kennedy," he bellowed, "what's so bloody funny?" There was no answer. Mr. Kennedy was doubled over, holding his tummy and gasping between hiccups of laughter, "Boys-a-dear, thon was a quare sight to see."

"Dermot Kennedy." O'Reilly drew himself up to his full six foot-two. "You're a menace to civilized people. What in God's name are you doing keeping a man-eating boar in an open field?" Mr. Kennedy straightened, took a hanky from the pocket of his trousers, and wiped his eyes.

"I'm waiting for an explanation," O'Reilly roared.

Mr. Kennedy stuffed the hanky back. "Thon's no boar, Doctor dear. Thon's Gertrude, Jeannie's pet sow. She only just wanted her snout scratched." 

"Oh," said O'Reilly.

"Right," said Barry, still smarting for being yelled at for being tardy. "Animals are, I believe--and please correct me if I'm misquoting you, Doctor O'Reilly--'one of the delights of country practice. You just have to get used to dealing with them.'" 

"You can do that if you like, Doctor sir," said Mr. Kennedy, his laughter quite gone, "but it's really the farmer's job. Doctors keep an eye to the sick and"--he hesitated and glanced down at his boots--"I'm powerful sorry for dragging you out here, so I am, but I'm sore worried about our Jeannie. Would you come in and take a wee look at her, sir?"

More Haste, Less Speed

Barry followed Mr. Kennedy and Doctor O'Reilly to the farmhouse, a single-storey building, whitewashed and thatched with straw that, judging by the patches of moss, had not been replaced for many years. Smoke drifted upwards from a chimney. Barry could smell the tang of burning peat. Black shutters flanked every window.