Book
An Irish country village / Patrick Taylor.
"Young Doctor Barry Laverty has only just begun his assistantship under the eccentric Dr. Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly, but he already feels right at home in Ballybucklebo. When the sudden death of a patient casts a cloud over Barry's reputation, his chances of establishing himself in the village are endangered. While he anxiously waits for the postmortem results, Barry must regain the trust of the gossipy Ulster village one patient at a time. From a put-upon shopgirl with a mysterious rash to the troubled pregnancy of a young lass who's not quite married yet, Ballybucklebo provides plenty of cases to keep two country G.P.'s busy. When a greedy developer sets his sights on the very heart of the community--the village pub--it's up to the doctors to save the Black Swan (affectionately known as the "Mucky Duck") from being turned into an overpriced tourist trap. After all, the good citizens of Ballybucklebo need some place to drink one another's health..." -- Back cover.
Record details
- ISBN: 9780765320230
- ISBN: 0765320231
- Physical Description: 431 pages : maps ; 21 cm.
- Edition: First trade paperback edition.
- Publisher: New York : Forge, a Tom Doherty Associates book, 2009.
- Copyright: ©2008
Content descriptions
| General Note: | Numeration from Fantastic Fiction. "A Tom Doherty Associates book." |
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| Subject: | Physicians > Fiction. Country life > Northern Ireland > Fiction. |
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Available copies
- 10 of 11 copies available at Evergreen Indiana.
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Chapter 1
Barry LavertyâDoctor Barry Lavertyâheard the clattering of a frying pan on a stove and smelled bacon frying. Mrs. âKinkyâ Kincaid, Doctor OâReillyâs housekeeper, had breakfast on, and Barry realized he was ravenous.
Feet thumped down the stairs, and a deep voice said, âMorning, Kinky.â
âMorning yourself, Doctor dear.â
âYoung Laverty up yet?â Despite the fact that half the village of Ballybucklebo, County Down, Northern Ireland, had been partying in his back garden for much of the night, Doctor Fingal Flahertie OâReilly, Lavertyâs senior colleague, was up and doing.
âI heard him moving about, so.â
Barryâs head was a little woozy, but he smiled as he left his small attic bedroom. He found the Cork womanâs habit of tacking âsoâ to the ends of most of her sentences endearing and less grating than the âso it isâ or âso I willâ added for emphasis by the folks from his native province of Ulster.
In the bathroom he washed the sleep from his blue eyes, which in the shaving mirror blinked at him from an oval face under fair hair, a cowlick sticking up from the crown.
He finished dressing and went downstairs to the dining room, passing as he did the ground-floor parlour that Doctor OâReilly used as his surgery, which Barry knew an American doctor would have called his âoffice.â He hoped to be spending a lot of time here in the future. He paused to glimpse inside the by now familiar room.
âDonât stand there with both legs the same length,â OâReilly growled from the dining room opposite. âCome on in and let Kinky feed us.â
âComing.â Barry went into the dining room, blinking at the August sunlight streaming in through the bay windows.
âMorning, Barry.â OâReilly, wearing a collarless striped shirt and red braces to hold up his tweed trousers, sat at the head of a large mahogany table, a teacup held in one big hand.
âMorning, Fingal.â Barry sat and poured himself a cup. âGrand day.â
âI could agree,â said OâReilly, âif I didnât have a bit of a strong weakness.â He yawned and massaged one temple, his bushy eyebrows moving closer as he spoke. Barry could see tiny veins in the whites of OâReillyâs brown eyes. The big manâs craggy face with its cauliflower ears and listing-to-port nose broke into a grin. âWhen I was in the navy itâs what we used to call âa self-inflicted injury.â It was quite the ta-ta-ta-ra yesterday.â
Barry laughed and wondered how many pints of Guinness his mentor had sunk the previous night. Ordinarily drink would have as much effect on OâReilly as a teaspoon of water on a forest fire. Barry still wasnât sure if the manâs magnanimous offer, made in the middle of what had seemed to be the hooley to end all hooleys, had been the Guinness talking or whether OâReilly was serious. When heâd first woken heâd thought he mightâve dreamed the whole thing, but now he clearly remembered that heâd vowed before laying his head on the pillow to muster the courage this morning to ask OâReilly if he had meant it.
He knew he could let the hare sit, wait for OâReilly to repeat the offer under more professional circumstances, but damn it all, this was important. Barry glanced down at the table, then back straight into OâReillyâs eyes. âFingal,â he said putting down his cup.
âWhat?â
âYou were serious, werenât you, about offering me a full-time assistantship for one year and then a partnership in your practice?â
OâReillyâs cup stopped halfway to his lips. His hairline moved lower and rumpled the skin of his forehead. Pallor appeared at the tip of his bent nose.
Barry involuntarily turned one shoulder towards the big man, as a pistol duellist of old might have done in order to present his enemy with a smaller target. The pale nose was a sure sign that fires smouldering beneath OâReillyâs crust were about to break through the surface.
âWas I what?â OâReilly slammed his cup into his saucer. âWas I what?â
Barry swallowed. âI only meantââ
âHoly thundering mother of Jesus Christ Almighty I know what you meant. Why the hell would you think I wasnât serious?â
âWell . . .â Barry struggled desperately to find diplomatic words. âYou . . . that is, we . . . weâd had a fair bit to drink.â
OâReilly pushed his chair away from the table, cocked his head to one side, stared at Barryâand began to laugh, great throaty rumbles.
Barry looked expectantly into OâReillyâs face. His nose tip had returned to its usually florid state. The laugh lines at the corners of the big manâs eyes had deepened.
âYes, Doctor Barry Laverty, I was serious. Of course I was bloody well serious. Iâd like you to stay.â
âThank you.â
âDonât thank me. Thank yourself. Iâd not have made you the offer if I didnât think you were fitting in here in Ballybucklebo, and if the customers hadnât taken a shine to you.â
Barry smiled.
âYou just keep it up. You hear me?â
âI do.â
OâReilly stood and started to walk round the table until he stood over Barry. OâReilly stretched out his right hand. âIf we were a couple of horse traders weâd spit on our hands before we sealed the contract, but I think maybe a couple of GPs should forgo that in favour of a simple handshake.â
Barry rose and accepted OâReillyâs clasp, relieved to find it wasnât the manâs usual knuckle-crushing version of a handshake. âThanks, Fingal,â he said. âThanks a lot and I will try toââ
âIâm sure you will,â said OâReilly, releasing Barryâs hand, âbut all this serious conversation has me famished, and Iâm like a bull with a headache until I get my breakfast. Where the hellâs Kinky?â He turned and started to amble back to his chair.
Barry heard a loud rumbling from OâReillyâs stomach. He did not say, âExcuse me.â Barry had learned that the man never apologized; indeed his confession of being short-tempered in the morning was the closest Barry knew OâReilly would get to expressing regret for having roared at Barry moments earlier. The man rarely explained himself and seemed to live entirely by his own set of rules, the first being âNever, never, never let the patients get the upper hand.â
Barry heard a noise behind him and turned to see Mrs. Kincaid standing in the doorway. He hadnât heard her coming. For a woman of her size she was light on her feet.
âYouâre ready now for your breakfast, are you, Doctors?â she said, moving into the room, setting a tray on the sideboard, lifting plates, and putting one before OâReilly and one in front of Barry. âI didnât want to interrupt. I know youâre discussing important things, so.â Her eyes twinkled and she winked at Barry. âBut you get carried away sometimes, donât you, Doctor OâReilly dear? I hear that kind of thing is very bad for the blood pressure.â
âGet away with you, Kinky.â OâReilly was grinning at her, but with the kind of look a small boy might give his mother when he knew heâd been caught out in some peccadillo.
Barry turned his attention to his breakfast. On his plate two rashers of Belfast bacon kept an orange-yolked egg company. Half a fried tomato perched on a crisp triangle of soda farl. A pork sausage, two rings of black pudding, and one of white topped off the repast. He felt himself salivate as the steam rising from the platter tickled his nostrils. If professional reasons werenât enough to keep him here, Mrs. Kincaidâs cooking certainly tipped the scales. âThanks, Kinky,â he said. âWhen I get through this, Iâll be ready to go and call the cows home.â
He saw her smile. âEat up however little much is in it, and leave the cows to the farmers, so.â She turned to go, her silver chignon catching the sunâs rays as they slipped through the roomâs bay window to sparkle in her hair and plant diamonds in the cut-glass decanters on the sideboard.
âThanks, Kinky,â said OâReilly, tucking a linen napkin into his shirt-neck. He waved his fork. âBegod I could eat a horse, a bloody Clydesdale, saddle and all.â He shoved most of one rasher into his mouth.
Barry swallowed a small piece of tomato.
OâReilly speared a piece of black pudding and chewed with what appeared to be the enthusiasm of a famished crocodile feeding on a fat springbok. âI canât face the day without my breakfast. Once I get this into me, Iâll be a new man.â
As Barry sliced his bacon he heard the front doorbell, Kinkyâs footsteps, and a manâs voice. Kinky reappeared in the dining room. âItâs Archibald Auchinleck, the milkman.â
âOn a Sunday morning?â OâReilly growled through a mouthful of soda farl.
âHe says heâs sorry, butââ
âAll right,â OâReilly growled, ripping the napkin from his throat. âBetween you making breakfast late with your questions and the patients interrupting it,â he said, eyeing Barry, âIâll die of starvation.â He stood and walked down past the table. Mrs. Kincaid moved up the other side. The pair of them look like partners in a slip jig, Barry thought.
âIâll pop this back in the oven. Keep it warm, so.â She lifted OâReillyâs plate.
Barry nodded and returned to his meal. Suddenly a roar shattered the morning.
âDo you know what bloody day it is, Archibald Auchinleck, you pathetic, primitive, primate? Do you?â OâReillyâs shout made Barryâs teacup rattle. âAnswer me, you pitiful, pinheaded parasite.â
Barry was glad he wasnât on the receiving end. He strained but couldnât hear the milkmanâs reply.
A line echoed in Barryâs head. Never, never, never let the patients . . .
âSunday. Well done. Pure genius. You should get a Nobel Prize for knowing that. Not Monday. Not Friday. Sunday. Now I know what it means in the good book, in Genesis chapter one, verse twenty-five, that on the fifth day God made âevery thing that creepeth upon the earth. Relatives of yours, no doubt, Archibald Auchinleck. But what . . . what does it say in chapter two, verse two, about the seventh day? Tell me that.â
Muted mumbling came from across the hall.
OâReilly continued his rant. âIt says, and please correct me if Iâm wrong, âAnd on the seventh day God ended his work . . . and He rested.â And what did he do?â
Barry could just make out the reply: âAnd he rested, sir.â
Never, never, never let the patients
Barry could hear OâReilly resuming his diatribe. âYes, he rested. He bloody well rested. Now tell me, Archibald Auchinleck, if the Good Lord could put his feet up on the Sabbath, why in the hell canât I? What in the name of Jesus H. Christ possessed you to come to annoy me today, Sunday, with a simple backache youâve had for bloody weeks?â
. . . get the upper hand. It might be OâReillyâs first law of practice, Barry thought, grinning widely, but the corollary, the first law to be obeyed by OâReillyâs patients, was âPokest thou not a rabid bull mastiff in the eye with a blunt stick.â
OâReillyâs voice dropped in volume and seemed more placatory. âAll right, Archie. All right. Enough said. I know you only get Sundays off from your milk round. Itâs probably all the stooping and bending to deliver the bottles thatâs giving you gyp, and having a boy in the British army must be a worry. Tell me about your back, and Iâll see what I can do for you.â
Barry mopped up some egg yolk with a piece of soda farl. That was OâReilly in a nutshell, he thought. A temper and a tendency to erupt like a grumbling volcano, wedded to an encyclopaedic knowledge of his patients and a sense of obligation to them that made the oath of Hippocrates sound as trite as a Christmas-cracker motto.
Barry pushed his plate away, stood, and looked out through the bow window. It was a beautiful day, and as OâReilly had said he could have today off, he was free from any responsibility to the practice.
He intended to enjoy his freedom to the full. Tomorrow would mark the start of his assistantship to Doctor Fingal Flahertie OâReilly.
Copyright © 2008 by Patrick Taylor. All rights reserved.
