An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War: An Irish Country Novel, Page 3

  “Translation, please, Fingal,” said Barry.

  “A cuishle? It means ‘pulse of my heart.’”

  Barry laughed. “That’s Kinky for you. A soft touch for all of God’s creatures.”

  Colin Brown, who must have been crawling along under the pews, stood up in front of Kinky.

  She cocked her head and shook it. “And I don’t suppose you can cast any light on this matter, Master Brown?”

  People were stepping back down to the floor; dresses and skirts were being rearranged and smoothed down. There was muttering, but a fair bit of laughter too. O’Reilly was pleased that some folks could see the funny side. He and Barry and Kitty were chuckling.

  Colin sniffed. “His name’s Snowball, Mrs. Kincaid. I’m awful sorry, so I am.”

  She tousled the boy’s hair. “And my name’s Mrs. Auchinleck now, Colin, bye.” She looked fondly at Archie. “Isn’t it, muirnín?”

  “Darling,” O’Reilly said, translating for Barry, and wasn’t the Irish language grand with musical-sounding endearments?

  “I’m sorry. Honest to God.” Colin stretched out his hand. “Please can I have Snowball?”

  “Here.” She gently passed the little animal back to its owner.

  A woman’s voice O’Reilly could not identify, soft at first and then with more intensity as the church became quiet, said, “Well, I think it’s a disgrace, so it is. That wee lad should have til go til bed without his supper.”

  At least it was a less violent punishment than getting his arse tanned, O’Reilly thought.

  A man replied, “It’s all that there television, so it is. Them Yankee children calling their mammies and their daddies by their Christian names. No respect. You mark my words. The young generation? See them? Crowd of skivers and wasters. Now in my day—”

  Kinky’s voice rose over that of the complainer. “Saving your presence, Mister Robinson, can we all try to understand that to err is human, so, and although I am far from divine—”

  “But you look it today, Kinky,” the marquis said.

  She blushed scarlet and dropped a small curtsey. “Thank you, my lord, but what I want to say is, please don’t be too hard on wee Colin. He’s only a little boy and it was only a very shmall little mouse, so.”

  “You are a fine example of Christian charity,” Mister Robinson remarked, “and I for one concur.”

  The noises of assent gladdened O’Reilly.

  “Very well then. Miss Sloan, please proceed,” Mister Robinson said, and Cissie Sloan took her seat again, warmed up the harmonium, and set off on a very syncopated rendition of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  The recessional re-formed and O’Reilly fell in with Kitty on his arm behind the bridal party. “I reckon,” he said, “Archie and Kinky’ll remember today…”

  “Like I remember ours, pet.” Kitty squeezed O’Reilly’s arm. “But they’ll also have the mousecapade to chuckle over.”

  “You mean,” O’Reilly misquoted, “when they are old and grey … and nodding by the fire?”

  “William Butler Yeats,” Barry said. And as he spoke they followed the bridal party into the good air where the salty tang of the nearby lough mixed in a subtle blend with the piney scent of the ancient yews in the churchyard. From the branches came the low-pitched melodious warble of a blackbird.

  The April sun beamed down. A crowd of villagers was waiting. They all couldn’t possibly have been invited to the church and reception, the budget would only stretch so far, but the women were bright in spring dresses, the men smart in their Sunday suits. Out here there were no constraints and they cheered and whistled.

  Gerry Shanks was bending to his work, tying a string of tin cans to the back bumper of the rented but very posh Bentley Continental. A crudely hand-lettered sign, JUST MARRIED, had been wired in place. The capped and gauntleted driver finished his cigarette and held the back door open. As was customary, the short walk to the waiting cars was flanked by men from the Ballybucklebo Highlanders, colourful in full dress uniform. At a signal from Dapper Frew, the estate agent, the great Highland bagpipes roared out “The Minstrel Boy”—in two-part harmony no less.

  The happy couple stopped and Kinky hurled her bouquet to be caught by Jeannie Kennedy. There were gales of laughter and some joker yelled, “Look out, Colin Brown. Jeannie’s going to be looking for a husband.” The laughter redoubled. Jeannie was fourteen and apparently as enterprising as Colin when it came to missing school for something as important as the wedding of Kinky Kincaid to Archie Auchinleck.

  Archie helped Kinky into the Bentley and a second car, a humbler Morris Oxford, awaited Rory Auchinleck and Flo Bishop and Bertie.

  O’Reilly waited until the bridal cars had left for the drive to the Crawfordsburn Inn then, followed by Barry, piloted Kitty across the road to where his long-nosed Rover waited.

  “I think,” Kitty said, “you are a very lucky man, Fingal. Living in Ballybucklebo for years.”

  “I am,” said O’Reilly, “and I’m all the luckier for having you to live here with me—”

  The rest of his words were drowned by a strangled yodelling coming from his back garden.

  O’Reilly stopped at the garden gate, where Arthur Guinness stood with his front paws on the top, tongue lolling from his great square Labrador’s head.

  “Not today, lummox,” O’Reilly said, patting the dog. “Back to bed.”

  Arthur’s sigh would have softened Pharaoh’s hard heart, but the big dog obeyed.

  “Right,” said O’Reilly. “Everybody into the car. Party time today.” He climbed into the driver’s seat and turned on the engine. Party time indeed today. But it would be back to porridge tomorrow with Fingal and Barry running the practice. Next week things would get more interesting when young Doctor Jenny Bradley, her training under Doctor Graham Harley of the Royal Maternity Hospital complete, would be starting her first well-woman clinic.

  “Fingal,” Kitty said as they moved onto the main road, “drive carefully, please, and watch out for cyclists.”

  4

  Only the First Step That Is Difficult

  O’Reilly glanced up, his attention caught by the sun’s rays being reflected from the cut-glass chandelier over the bog oak dining room table. The table had stood in the dining room at Number One Main Street, Ballybucklebo, long before he’d come here as an assistant twenty-eight years ago, just a year before the war. “Those poor divils have been in the wars,” he said, nodding at the remnants of lunch.

  The heads and bones of three brown trout, one each on his plate and those of Barry Laverty and Jenny Bradley, were mute testimony to the meal’s success. Barry had caught the fish two days ago from the beat on the Bucklebo River where the marquis owned the fishing rights. There was a distinctly piscine aroma in the room, which probably was why twice during the meal Jenny had had to ask Lady Macbeth to get her little, white, feline self off Jenny’s lap—the second time with a certain amount of force.

  “I must ask Kinky for the recipe for the sauce,” Jenny said. “Anyone can grill fish, but that sauce—”

  “Anyone?” O’Reilly said. “With Kitty at work and Kinky away on honeymoon, I’ll have you know that anyone was me.” O’Reilly smiled broadly at Jenny and, still seated, made a deep bow and extended his left arm.

  “Ta-da. Drum roll please, maestro,” Barry said.

  “Less of your lip, Laverty,” O’Reilly said, chuckling, delighted by how the youngster’s self-confidence was growing. “But you’re right, Jenny, the sauce is a different matter. I know Kinky uses horseradish, but what else is in it is a mystery. Good thing she keeps a jar in the fridge. You’ll have to wait for her and Archie to come home on Saturday from Newcastle, where,” O’Reilly sang,

  … the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

  “I was so sorry to miss the wedding, but it was a very important last couple of days on the course,” said Jenny. “Nice to think of Kinky only a couple of hours away in Newca
stle. The town’s got the loveliest beach.”

  O’Reilly looked over at Jenny’s shining young face, her obvious pleasure in thinking of Kinky off on her honeymoon. God, but it was good to be here in County Down in early spring with Jenny fresh from her three months of training at the Royal Victoria Hospital under the aegis of Doctor Harley, raring to start her well-woman clinic, and Barry back from trying specialising, choosing general practice instead, and fitting nicely into his new role as partner.

  Barry added, “Did you know that Percy French, who wrote that song, was quite the watercolourist too? I’ve seen some of his paintings in the Slieve Donard Hotel in Newcastle. I don’t suppose Kinky and Mister Auchinleck are staying there, are they? I mean, it’s awfully grand.”

  O’Reilly was silent and Barry looked over at him. “Is it a secret, then?” said Barry, laughing. “Come on, Fingal.”

  O’Reilly cleared his throat. “Kitty and I gave them a wee wedding present—their last four nights at the Slieve Donard Hotel, but let’s just not let the whole village and townland know about it, all right? And let’s change the subject, shall we?” O’Reilly picked up his pipe and put it down again. He’d not wanted any fuss over the gift. It was the least he could do for someone who had been such a part of his life for almost two decades.

  “Did you really grill the trout, Fingal?” Barry said. “As Donal Donnelly might say, ‘Dead beezer.’ They were excellent.” Barry pursed his lips and cocked his head to one side. “But, fair play, you did get much better last year in the kitchen when Kinky was sick and we had to do a bit of cooking.”

  “Well done, Fingal,” Jenny said. “I think all men should be able to cook. I’m teaching my boyfriend, Terry.”

  “Different generation,” O’Reilly said. “In my day, men didn’t, except for professional chefs and cooks in the armed services.” He wiped his mouth on his napkin and rose. “Now,” he said, “I know you’ve home visits to make, Barry. Don’t let me stand in your way.”

  “I’ll be off,” Barry said.

  “Jenny, I know this is your very first well-woman clinic since your training,” O’Reilly said. “Would you mind if I sat in? Saw how it works?”

  Jenny frowned, inhaled, clicked her tongue on her teeth, and said, “Fingal, it’s really important to get this thing off to a good start. It’s not long ago that we went through the ‘lady doctor’ thing here about women physicians not being acceptable to country patients. And didn’t we find out that quite a few of the younger ones actually chose to see me?”

  “That’s true.” It hadn’t fazed O’Reilly, and it was true that the practice of medicine was changing, as well as attitudes toward its practitioners.

  “So if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to run the inaugural one all by myself.”

  “Hmmmm,” said O’Reilly, thinking quickly. He could understand her point of view but was hesitant to relinquish his position as undisputed boss of this practice. “I can certainly see why you’d feel like that, but I’d be surprised if any of the patients haven’t already seen me before or would mind me being there, and I’d really like to know how the system works. Doctors aren’t immune to illness, Jenny, and if you got sick or wanted time off, somebody’d have to fill your shoes.” He had to hand it to the lass. She wasn’t slow replying, “You’d look daft in my dress high heels.”

  O’Reilly bellowed with laughter. “Touché, but what do you say?”

  “Let’s compromise, Fingal. You have another cup of tea. Smoke your pipe. I’ll ask those in the waiting room if any have a particular need to see me on my own, get them taken care of, then come and get you to join me. It’s just to get the thing started.”

  O’Reilly fished out his briar, shook his shaggy head, grinned, and said, “If you ever get tired of medicine, Jenny Bradley, I have a friend in the Foreign Office.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “You’d have a stellar career in the diplomatic service. Go on, get the first ones seen to and then come and get me.” He sat, lit his pipe, and called to Lady Macbeth, who came out from under the table and jumped up on his lap. “What does Kinky call you, madam? ‘A wee dote’?”

  He found a few slivers of trout on what had been Barry’s plate. “Here you are.”

  Lady Macbeth wolfed them down then began to purr. She was easily satisfied.

  O’Reilly looked across the hall to see a smiling Jenny showing a young woman into the surgery. He’d been around long enough to know that nearly every doctor would be excited when they started a new programme, but Jenny Bradley was a very smart woman. She had graduated from medical school with honours. Doing nothing but routine physical examinations, taking cervical smears, and giving contraceptive advice must surely be going to pall after a while? Making difficult diagnoses or doing surgery were the constant stimuli of specialty practice. Knowing your patients, and all the variety of complaints, were what made general practice so attractive to O’Reilly and, he knew, to Barry. But repetitive routine, day in and day out? He wondered if Doctor Jenny Bradley was going to be happy with her new position or whether after a few months she’d move on. He blew a magnificent smoke ring and invoked one of his favourite sayings. It was a bridge they’d cross when they came to it.

  * * *

  “Doctor O’Reilly.” Jenny stuck her head round the door. “Will you join us?”

  He put his pipe in an ashtray, decanted her ladyship onto the floor, and headed for the surgery. Once inside he closed the door. Jenny sat in the swivel chair at the rolltop desk. “How are you, Mrs. Beggs?” O’Reilly said to a short, slim, fair-haired woman wearing a light raincoat over a simple dress. She occupied one of the two patients’ seats.

  “I’m grand, sir, so I am. Your nice Doctor Bradley’s going til do one of them new- fangled smears for me, so she is. I seen Eileen Lindsay—her that won the Christmas raffle at the Rugby Club party…”

  Whose son, Sammy, had had Henoch-Schönlein purpura and was now quite recovered, O’Reilly thought.

  “Anyroad, she told me all about getting one so you’d not get cancer of the neck of the womb. We come in together, so we did. She’s next.”

  “Eileen’s right about the test,” O’Reilly said. “We’re very lucky to have Doctor Bradley and the clinic here.” He was rewarded by a smile from Jenny and said to her, “Irene’s been a patient from almost the first day I started to practise here when I came back from the war. She was eight in 1946 and had tonsillitis. Had them out in ’48.” He smiled at the woman and said, “Isn’t that right?”

  “You’re dead on, Doctor,” Irene said.

  “And apart from a few coughs and colds she’s been feeling fit as a flea since, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve always kept myself rightly,” she said, “and I get enough til keep me busy with my two weans.” She directed her next remarks to Jenny. “Doctor O’Reilly delivered wee Albert in ’62 and Doctor Laverty looked after me for Vera in ’64, so he did. Gertie Gorman’s minding them this morning for me. And Doctor Laverty had me in for an examination a year after wee Vera was born. Nothing til worry about. Just routine, he said.”

  Jenny was scribbling on a form of a kind O’Reilly hadn’t seen before, presumably a standard record for a well-woman visit.

  Not quite routine, he thought. Barry had sought O’Reilly’s advice during Irene’s postpartum visit in ’64. He’d found a mass about the size of a golf ball that seemed attached to the front of her uterus, the presence of which Barry had asked O’Reilly to confirm. It wasn’t difficult. Irene Beggs was slim with little abdominal fat and O’Reilly had concurred with Barry’s diagnosis of a small fibroid, a benign swelling of part of the uterine muscle, and was satisfied it was not of ovarian origin. X-rays were of little help in the diagnosis of pelvic lesions, and the only way to be absolutely certain was to open the patient’s belly, a pretty radical procedure for something that probably wasn’t going to give the patient trouble.

  They had decided that discretion was the better part of valour, to say nothing, and
simply keep her under observation. Which was why Barry had reexamined her and had happily, as expected, found no change. O’Reilly knew that about 20 percent of women had been found to have fibroids of which they had been blissfully unaware. He had been convinced they were not putting Irene at any risk and saw no reason to worry her by telling her about it as long as it was asymptomatic and her doctors kept a regular eye on her.

  “Don’t mind me,” he said, grabbed the other patients’ chair, swung it round, and sat legs astraddle, arms draped over its back. He waited while Jenny completed the standard social history concerning her age, twenty-eight; occupation, housewife; and religious persuasion.

  Jenny went on to ask about illnesses in the patient’s family, previous illnesses, had O’Reilly’s information about her tonsils confirmed, and rightly sought details of the two normal pregnancies.

  “Last thing, Mrs. Beggs.” Jenny swung in the swivel chair to face the patient. “I need to know about your periods.”

  “The monthlies? You could set your watch by them, so you could. Every twenty-eight days, a few cramps on the first day or two and they last for five days.”

  “And,” said Jenny, “when was your last one?”

  Irene frowned and started to count on her fingers, then she smiled. “It was four days after them Frenchmen fired one of them statamelites intil outer space.”

  O’Reilly kept a straight face. Ulster folks were prone to producing pronunciations of their very own, like “bisticks” or “biscakes,” both of which meant “biscuits.” “That was on the seventeenth. So your last was the twenty-first of February?” he asked.

  “Aye.” She smiled. “I’m pretty sure I’m up the spout. See my Davy? See him?” She lowered her voice. “He only has to hang his britches at the end of the bed and I’m in the family way again. I was going til ask about it while I was here, but I wanted a smear too.”

  Jenny must have been doing the necessary calculations while Mrs. Beggs rambled on about her ease in falling pregnant. “That means you are eight weeks pregnant now and due on November the twenty-eighth,” Jenny said.