An Irish Country Christmas Part 14

"Good-night, Fingal," Barry said, as O'Reilly left. He hoped they both would get a good night's sleep, so that he could face the practice tomorrow and Fingal could have his meeting with Doctor Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick.

What's in a Name?

Doctor O'Reilly stood at the window of the lounge, looking down. The pedestrians on the footpaths beneath him were bundled up, and they scurried along, too eager to get in out of the cold to stand around chatting. The shadow cast by the church steeple was twice as long as it would have been in June. Judging by the crystal rime on the verges of the gravel path through the churchyard, it was a crackling, frosty morning.

He gazed over the church roof. The sun hung low in a crisp, blue, cloudless sky, and so clear was the day, O'Reilly could almost have been persuaded that it was summertime. He watched two herring gulls glide lazily by, one with the brown-speckled feathers of an immature bird, the other with adult plumage as smooth as a well-pressed, dove-grey morning coat set off with a new white waistcoat. He heard the raucous bickering of the gulls, harsh against the occasional muttering of traffic on Main Street.

In the distance, over the Lough a vee of geese, purposeful as a sortie of light bombers, thrust its way east toward Ballyholme and the stubble fields of the Ards Peninsula. He smiled. Next Sat.u.r.day he might get a shot at a goose.

"Excuse me, Doctor O'Reilly." He turned to see Kinky standing inside the doorway. "Will I take away your coffee tray?"

"Please."

Instead of lifting it, she stared at him and frowned. "Tch. Tch. Would you look at your jacket, sir?"

He glanced down. He'd been at particular pains this morning to dress properly so he'd look smart to greet Doctor Fitzpatrick. His brown boots shone-he'd polished them himself-the tweed pants of his suit were pressed, his white s.h.i.+rt was fresh, and he wore the tie of the Royal Navy a.s.sociation. And yet Kinky was right. There was a large stain above the left jacket pocket. d.a.m.n it. He must have spilled some coffee. "Sorry, Kinky."

"Give it here," she said, "and I'll take it and sponge it, so."

O'Reilly shrugged it off and handed it to her.

"I'll bring it back in a little minute," she a.s.sured him, and so saying, she left.

O'Reilly sat down in his armchair. Kinky wouldn't let him meet a guest in a stained jacket, but as far as he was concerned there was not a d.a.m.n thing wrong with being in a s.h.i.+rt with the sleeves rolled up and letting the guest see that your pants were held up with a pair of red braces. He thought that whoever had said, "Clothes don't make the man," had said it all.

He smiled. Kinky, who had reappeared, would not have shared his opinion. "Put this on you now, sir." She handed him the coat, waited until O'Reilly put it on, and then straightened his tie, clucking as she did so. Then she bent and lifted the coffee tray. "I'll be off now. Your guest should be here in ten minutes. I'll show him up when he comes."

O'Reilly thought of Barry's description of how Kinky had dealt with the man the last time he was here. "You'll not fire a shot across his bows first, will you, Kinky?"

"Not if he minds his p's and q's and treats me properly," Kinky said.

"I'm sure he will."

He watched her step aside, tray in hands, to let Barry come in. "So," said O'Reilly, "you've finished the surgery a bit early today?"

"Yes. It wasn't too bad this morning. A few of the regulars, four for tonics," Barry smiled. "I saw the tonics one at a time, and made them take their pants down."

He's remembering the day I lined up six patients in a row, O'Reilly thought, and gave them their injections right through their clothes. It didn't do them one bit of harm, and getting rid of six at once let me get through the work so I could see some really sick folks that bit sooner. But Barry had his own ways, and it was right that he be allowed to do what he reckoned to be correct, at least until he discovered the error of his ways.

"Kieran O'Hagan was in to have his dressing changed," Barry said. "His thumb's fine."

"Good." O'Reilly waved to the plain chair. "Have a pew there. You'll not be in the direct line of sight of our esteemed colleague, Doctor Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick, when he sits in the armchair. You can keep an eye on him and he'll not be aware you're watching. He should be here any minute now." He coughed once.

"How's the chest today. Fingal?"

"Almost a hundred percent. I'll be in the surgery tomorrow."

"Good." Barry peered at his senior colleague's face. "Your colour's a d.a.m.n sight better today."

If you like the colour of plums, O'Reilly laughed to himself. He was under no illusions about the hue of his cheeks made ruddy by years of braving the Ulster elements by day and by night. Ulster farmers weren't the only ones with weather-beaten complexions. He looked at his watch. Fitzpatrick was supposed to be here at noon. Five minutes to go and . . . He c.o.c.ked his head and listened. Front doorbell's jangle. Pause. Kinky's tread in the hall. Voices. Door closing. Footsteps approaching.

"He's early," O'Reilly said.

"Punctuality is the politeness of kings," said Barry.

"I thought it was the virtue of princes," O'Reilly said.

Barry shook his head. "Not if your source is Louis the Eighteenth."

O'Reilly chuckled. "I stand, or rather sit, corrected."

Doctor Fitzpatrick came in, followed by Kinky. He was an older version of the student O'Reilly remembered. If he'd been asked to pick out three of the man's salient features, they would have been his ma.s.sive Adam's apple, the wing-tip collar, and the pince-nez.

Kinky bustled past Doctor Fitzpatrick. "This would be the gentleman you were expecting, sir?" Something in the inflection of her voice told O'Reilly that as far as Kinky was concerned, "gentleman" was something of an overstatement.

Fitzpatrick glowered at Kinky over his pince-nez. "Thank you, my good woman. You may go now."

Barry half rose. "Good morning, Doctor Fitzpatrick. We've already met."

O'Reilly remained seated and ignored them as they exchanged pleasantries. "My good woman" Fitzpatrick had called Kinky, summarily dismissing her. O'Reilly had a suddenly vivid mental image of a cafe in Dublin, thirty-odd years earlier, where Fitzpatrick, then a student at Trinity College, had called a waitress "my good woman." She had told him in no uncertain terms to go and do something anatomically impossible.

He wondered if Kinky would say anything more, but she contented herself with one enormous sniff, a stiff about-turn that would have put a sergeant major to shame, and a departure worthy of the queen of Sheba, so rigidly did she hold herself. O'Reilly chuckled.

Barry had returned to his chair. O'Reilly saw Fitzpatrick take a seat and realized he was being addressed.

"I trust you are feeling better, Fingal."

"Oh, indeed, Hercules." Obsequious b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

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 gla.s.ses?

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 att.i.tude 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."

G.o.d, Fitzpatrick, you were a prissy b.a.s.t.a.r.d at Trinity, and you're a prissy b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 t.i.ttered. "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 was.h.i.+ng 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 compet.i.tion."