An Irish Country Christmas Part 28

And if it was going to be yours, Donal, the numbers would be 666, O'Reilly thought with a smile.

"They collect the do-re-mi too."

"Brilliant," O'Reilly said and clapped Donal on the shoulder. Then a thought struck him. "But Donal, if you sell two hundred and fifty tickets, the winner could be 111 or 222 and that-"

Donal shook his head as a parent might at a rather dim child. "Doctor, sir, you stick to the doctoring of people. Leave the doctoring of raffles to me."

"I think," said O'Reilly, "that makes a great deal of sense. I've only one more question."

"Fire away, Doc."

"Are you absolutely certain you can arrange for Eileen to be the winner?"

Donal shook his head. "Not me. You, sir."

"Me?"

"Aye. If Eileen's as broke as you say, Doc, she'll not be able to afford a pound for a ticket . . . but you could give her one."

"On what pretext?" It was O'Reilly's turn to frown.

Donal scratched his chin, pursed his lips, and then said, "Tell her His Lords.h.i.+p bought a clatter for the club to give out for free. She'll accept that story. You know and I know the one you give her will have all the same numbers in a row."

And it will win. O'Reilly knew that. How Donal would arrange it was his business, but arrange it he would. "You, Donal," said O'Reilly, "are a genius." And perhaps Stockholm will be in your stars yet, he thought. "Right. Off the pair of you go." He escorted them to the door, then headed back to the waiting room. He'd spent quite some time with the Donnellys, so he would have to cut some corners with the rest of the patiently waiting mob, but Doctor Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly, M.B., B.Ch., B.A.O., was no stranger to cutting corners, not if the time saved was going to a good cause. And anyway, it was about three hours to lunchtime and already he was feeling a mite peckish. There was no reason why the customers should come between him and his lunch. None at all.

Till the Gunpowder Ran Out at the.

Heels of Their Boots.

O'Reilly thought he knew everyone in Ballybucklebo, but this man, the last patient in the waiting room, was a stranger. "Come on then. Let's be having you," he said. "I'm Doctor O'Reilly." At first glance there were no obvious clues as to why the man was there.

He was lean-faced and looked to be in his early thirties. He wore a Dexter raincoat, a woolen m.u.f.fler in the colors of the Glentoran Soccer Club, and a shapeless tweed duncher. He smiled weakly, rose from the bench, and followed O'Reilly to the surgery.

As he walked along the hall, O'Reilly noticed a most flavorful aroma wafting from the kitchen.

"Have a pew, Mr. . ..?"

"Shanks, sir. Gerry Shanks." He sat and s.n.a.t.c.hed off his flat cap.

"New here, are you?" O'Reilly asked.

"I just moved from the Kinnegar, so I did."

"Hang on," said O'Reilly. "I'll need to get a few details." He pulled out a patient record card and soon was filling in Shanks's address and phone number.

"That's a quare smart-looking pen, sir, so it is," Shanks remarked. "Parker, is it?"

"It is." O'Reilly regarded the new pen fondly. "It was a present. It certainly writes very smoothly." He held the pen poised over the card. "Would you like to tell me what brings you here, Gerry?"

"I will, sir. I come to see you special, like. My mate, Charlie, he lives here. He's lived here all his life. Him and me're platers on the Island. Charlie said he reckoned maybe youse could help me."

"So you and Charlie build s.h.i.+ps on Queen's Island?" O'Reilly wanted to get this consultation over so he could find out what dish had sent its scent into the hall. It irritated him that he hadn't a clue who Charlie might be, and he should if the man lived here. O'Reilly wanted to find out without asking directly. He certainly couldn't think of any Charlie in the village or in the practice who was a s.h.i.+pwright.

The new patient wore a Glentoran scarf. Knowing Charlie's soccer loyalties might be a useful clue, O'Reilly asked, "Does Charlie support Glentoran too?"

"Not at all, sir." Gerry grinned. "He's a bit thick. He's a Blues man. That lot couldn't fight their way out of a wet paper bag. Charlie thinks they're the bee's knees. But we're best mates anyway, like. Have been since we were wee lads together at Sullivan Upper School in Holy-wood."

To O'Reilly's knowledge there were no supporters of the Blues-more formally known as Linfield, serious rivals of Glentoran-in his practice either. His stomach rumbled. Hunger was about to trump pride when Gerry Shanks said, "You know Charlie, sir . . . Charlie Gorman . . . Gertie's husband."

O'Reilly grinned. No wonder he hadn't immediately known the Charlie in question. Presumably he was a patient of Fitzpatrick, like his wife whose breech delivery O'Reilly had supervised on Sat.u.r.day night. "That Charlie. Right," said O'Reilly.

"Anyhow, sir, Charlie said you made a right good fist of his wife's delivery, and so he thought maybe you could help me a bit." He sat stiffly and glanced around as if making sure he couldn't be overheard. "Him and me was patients of good old Doc Bowman until he retired. Our parents used to go to him before you came here, sir. Now we go to Fitzpatrick because he took over the practice." Gerry lowered his voice. "To tell you the truth, sir, and maybe I shouldn't say it like, 'cos youse doctors stick together, but Charlie and me's not so sure your man's altogether at the match."

O'Reilly pulled his half-moons down to the very tip of his nose and stared at Gerry. He'd not comment to a patient on his opinion of Fitzpatrick's competence. That would be unethical. Instead, he said, "We're supposed to support each other, true enough, but"-he removed his gla.s.ses-"patients are fully ent.i.tled to ask for a second opinion." He sat back comfortably in his chair and let the hand holding the spectacles dangle over the side of the chair. "So what can I do for you, Gerry?"

Gerry visibly relaxed. "You'd not mind, sir?"

"Go ahead. I'm listening."

"It's a bit awkward, like."

O'Reilly's tummy rumbled, but he said, "Take your time."

Shanks took a deep breath. "It's me and the missus, so it is."

"Go on." Not all marriages were made in heaven, O'Reilly knew, but he hoped he wasn't in for a long rambling tale of woe.

"We'd like another baby, so we would."

"Mmm," said O'Reilly, wondering if Barry might be able to help. He was bound to be better acquainted with the use of the new fertility drugs like the recently introduced clomiphene and the powerful gonadotrophic hormone Pergonal. "And what advice have you had?"

Shanks shrugged. "It's weird, so it is. We have two kiddies. Angus is five and Siobhan's four, and the missus breast-fed her for eighteen months so we didn't start trying for another one until a couple of years ago." He frowned. "It used to be I'd just to hang my trousers on the end of the bed and Mairead was poulticed, but nothing happened this time." He blushed. "And it wasn't for want of trying, at first anyway."

"And did you go to see anybody about it?"

"Aye. Doctor Bowman, just before he retired. He was a right decent man, a sound man, so he was. He said straight off he didn't know nothing about fertility, so he had us go up to the clinic at the Royal with them specialist doctors."

"And?"

"They done every test and at the heels of the hunt said they could find nothing wrong."

O'Reilly frowned. "If you've seen the specialist doctors, Gerry, I doubt if there'll be much I can do. I'm a country GP." Confessing his lack of expertise in that particular field bothered Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly not one jot or t.i.ttle.

"Och, Doc, sure don't I know that?"

O'Reilly glanced surrept.i.tiously at his watch.

"I'm taking up a lot of your time, so I am. I'd one wee question, that's all."

"Fire away."

"Seeing as how Fitzpatrick's new, the missus reckoned we'd nothing to lose if we asked his advice."

But you still might have lost something, O'Reilly thought. Infertile couples were some of the most vulnerable patients. They would often grasp at any straw, even if it were of no value, and indeed in some cases it might be harmful. G.o.d alone could guess what peculiar idea Fitzpatrick might have for the treatment of infertility. "And did he suggest crushed primrose roots in goat's milk?" O'Reilly asked.

Gerry shook his head.

"Or putting vegetable marrow jam in your left ear once a month by moonlight?" O'Reilly knew most patients, even the infertile ones, would laugh at such an idiotic suggestion. He had used the line many times in the past as a metaphor for a useless therapy asked for by a patient.

He was surprised when Gerry didn't laugh but said seriously, "I wish he had, so I do. He told Mairead something far worse."

"Oh?"

"Aye. I'm not kidding you, sir. He told her to stop putting sugar in my morning cup of tea."

"That's hardly a killing matter, Gerry."

"And to put in a teaspoonful, a teaspoonful, of black gunpowder instead."

O'Reilly's mouth opened wide. "Gunpowder? Gunpowder?" He struggled to keep a straight face as he resettled his spectacles on his nose.

"Aye. He told Mairead it would put lead in my pencil." Gerry started to squeeze his left knuckles with his right hand. He looked straight at O'Reilly. "It tastes b.l.o.o.d.y awful, sir, but I don't mind that. I'll take it if it helps. I have for the last four months"-there was a catch in his voice-"but I hate to see Mairead's face when her monthlies keep coming on."

O'Reilly leant forward. He put his big hand over Gerry's hands and stilled their wringing. "Gerry, I've never heard of such a treatment. I can't for the life of me think why it should work. Gunpowder's made of charcoal, and sulphur, and saltpetre. Sulphur can give you the skitters, but charcoal will bind you. You had any change in your motions?"

"No, sir."

"Saltpetre's a nitrate, like the stuff farmers use for fertilizer. If you get exposed to enough of it, it can cause skin rashes. Have you noticed any?"

"No, Doctor."

"There used to be a rumour in the navy that we doctors put saltpetre in the men's tea to stop them feeling randy. We didn't, but a lot of sailors believed we did."

Gerry smiled wryly. He lowered his voice. "Mebbe it's doing that to me. It's difficult to get interested, so it is. Fitzpatrick says I've to save myself except for the fourteenth day of the month." His face started to crumple. "Mairead's a pretty wee la.s.s. It's not fair to her."

O'Reilly nodded and put as much sympathy into his next words as he could muster. "I don't think it's the gunpowder that's making you disinterested, Gerry, but only making love on the right night to make babies, whenever the h.e.l.l that is, for I don't know. Sure, the fourteenth day of a woman's month might be a bit better, but some women don't ovulate on the fourteenth day. We know that for a fact. Having to perform to order could dampen anyone's enthusiasm."

"Too b.l.o.o.d.y true. It certainly sickened my happiness."

O'Reilly knew that the tip of his nose was becoming pallid. "You know I'm not infallible, but I think performing to order's a total b.l.o.o.d.y waste of time, and the gunpowder's worse than useless."

"Honest, sir?" Gerry managed a weak smile.

O'Reilly nodded. "Would you like me to have a wee word with Mairead? Let her hear it from the horse's mouth?" Instead of from the other end of the animal, he thought.

"Would you, sir? I'd like that a whole lot."

"Bring her in on Wednesday, but-I hate to advise you this-go on taking the gunpowder until I have the chance to tell her it's useless. If you stop now, it'll upset her. Once we've had our chat, you can chuck it out-or go and blow something up." Preferably that b.l.o.o.d.y menace of a charlatan Fitzpatrick, he thought. He scribbled a quick note in the chart.

"Fair enough, Doctor O'Reilly." Gerry rose. "We'll see you on Wednesday. Thank you, sir. Thank you very much. I'm most grateful, so I am, sir." He put on his duncher and headed for the door. O'Reilly followed. "Wednesday it is," he said, as Gerry left through the front door and O'Reilly headed for the dining room-and lunch.

A New and Original Plan.

"Finished in the surgery, Fingal?" Barry asked from where he sat at the dining-room table.

"Finished and I'm famished, a word incidentally derived from the same root as famine." O'Reilly sat, rubbed his hands, then picked up his knife and fork. He glanced from the table to the sideboard.

"And the Great Famine started in Ireland in eighteen forty-five when the potato crop failed . . . But there's no risk of being short of vittles here, not with Kinky in the kitchen."

O'Reilly wasn't so sure. The sideboard must have taken a lesson from Mother Hubbard's cupboard. It was completely bare. He frowned.

There was a plate in front of him. On it sat a solitary hard-boiled egg, three lettuce leaves, a tomato, six slices of cuc.u.mber, and a stick of celery. "Rabbit food," he growled. Then he softened. He knew, he absolutely knew, there was a second course to come. He'd known it since he'd smelled it cooking earlier that morning. He might as well eat up his salad with good grace. "Pa.s.s the mayonnaise," he said, and held out his hand.

He spread the rich creamy homemade dressing. "How was your morning, Barry?"

"Can't complain. The lad with the asthma, Billy Cadogan, wasn't doing so well, and he didn't respond to more adrenaline. It's frustrating. The poor mites always think they're going to suffocate to death." Barry ate some egg. "I could never have done pediatrics, Fingal. I hate to see the wee ones sick. I can remember being sick with the measles when I was a child. Wasn't much fun."

He had a very soft side, had Barry Laverty. O'Reilly approved. "We all have some part of medicine we don't like. Me? I hate cancer." Just before Barry had come to Ballybucklebo, O'Reilly had watched an old fisherman waste away to sc.r.a.ps from cancer of the pancreas. At the end not even morphine could control the pain.

"I'd love to be able to treat it effectively," he said, and he meant it, "but I could never have been a cancer specialist." O'Reilly felt himself shudder and saw Barry staring at him curiously.

"I'm surprised, Fingal. I really didn't think anything fazed you."

"Cancer does. All the treatments-radical surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy-are brutal, and I'm not convinced any of them work very well. It's a horrid disease. We do our best, but no matter how well intentioned, I could never have been the physician inflicting the treatments on some poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

It was Barry's turn to shudder. "Nor me."

"Maybe the treatments'll improve in the future," O'Reilly said. "I'm sure a lot of the causes are genetic, and now the laboratory boys have begun to understand DNA we should start to make progress." He certainly hoped so. "Maybe we'll even be able to prevent cancer one day. But now? We're pretty impotent." Just like Gerry Shanks, he thought.

"Come on, Fingal, it's not as bleak as that. The gynaecologists have the Papanicolaou smear for early detection of cervical cancer. The link between smoking and lung cancer is proven-"

"Aye, and everybody's suddenly stopped smoking, I suppose? And lung cancer's going to vanish overnight?" He grinned. "I'm not giving up my pipe."

"I'd not believe you if you said you would, but I quit, and other people eventually will." Barry pointed his fork at O'Reilly. "We will see the number of cases fall. And the work implicating asbestos as the cause of cancer of the pleural membrane was done right here in Belfast by Doctor Elwood. There'll be less of that too now we know what causes it."