An Irish Country Love Story (24 page)

And they were coming this way.

He crouched and turned slowly. “Jack. Geese.” O'Reilly kept his voice low. The birds had acute hearing and eyesight. He lifted his gun, crept under the shelter of the wall, keeping his head only high enough to keep the birds in view. As he counted, ten, twelve, fifteen greylag came at him in a ragged vee limned against the bulk of the Castle Hill. They were flying low and could pass in range. He felt his pulse quicken.

And all the while the big birds scolded and cackled and drew closer.

Jack slipped in close by as O'Reilly took off his safety catch and heard the double click of the hammers as Jack's ten bore was cocked.

The geese were sixty yards out, coming straight for the “house,” flying at an altitude of about thirty yards. The lethal range of a shotgun was forty. As they neared, he saw in detail the leading bird's yellow bill on an oval head thrust forward on a long, stiff neck. The words of Uncle Hedley to a thirteen-year-old Fingal came rushing back: “If you ever get a chance for a goose, aim for the head. It's nearly as big as a teal and you'll get a clean kill, not a wounded goose.” O'Reilly's breath came in short gasps. After all these years he was going to get that chance.

Now he could make out more details. As great wings slowly, powerfully beat he could hear the air being displaced by hundreds of primary flight feathers. Each bird flew en echelon, riding on the slipstream of the goose ahead. He saw their grey brow plumage, their heads darker than their bodies and, on the mature adults, black spots scattered at random on their pale bellies, yellow paddles tucked in under white tails.

The cackling was louder now, and in seconds the birds would be directly overhead. “Now,” O'Reilly said, and stood upright. The honking went up an octave as the birds scattered.

In a fluid movement, he slammed the butt into his right shoulder, the gun's metal barrels cold on his left hand. With both eyes open, he sighted along the rib between the double barrels, swung the bead foresight through the body of a goose that was clawing for height and trying to break to its left. More swing, past the head for sufficient lead-off, then he squeezed the trigger of the left barrel. Its bore was full choke, deliberately made narrower so the shot pattern would be denser than that from the unchoked right barrel. His aim must be more accurate, but if it were, more pellets would be delivered on target.

The gun roared and the butt slammed into his shoulder.

Simultaneously, he heard the deeper boom of Jack's heavier weapon.

O'Reilly watched as the remaining geese each sought their own salvation. His bird's head had snapped back across its body as the great wings folded in death. On the left side of the flock, a second bird was tumbling down. They were still in range of the right barrel, but O'Reilly shook his head as his goose hit the ground with an audible
thump
. He watched as Jack's bird splashed into the sea ten yards off shore. “Good shot,” O'Reilly said, and grinned.

“You too.” Jack smiled back.

“I'll send Arthur for your bird.” He put the safety catch on and propped his gun against the wall.

“And I'll pick up yours.”

“Come on, pup.”

Arthur needed no more bidding. He trotted at O'Reilly's heel as he walked down to the edge of the tide, pointed at the goose, which was bobbing up and down on the small waves, and said, “Hi lost.”

Arthur hurled himself in, front and hind legs stretched out fore and aft, landing with a crashing splash, spray flying. Powerful strokes carried him, head high, out to the bird. This was going to be the biggest object Arthur had ever retrieved. The dog sniffed at the goose, then took its neck in his jaws and, snuffling and snorting through his nose, swam ashore with the goose's body bobbing alongside his.

Once ashore, he ran straight to O'Reilly, sat, and presented the bird. O'Reilly took it, guessing it probably weighed six to eight pounds. “Good boy,” he said, and patted Arthur's head. Arthur grinned and shook himself. Together they went back to the hide where Jack was waiting with O'Reilly's bird.

“Thanks,” they both said at the same time, exchanging their trophies.

O'Reilly towelled Arthur off. That water was bloody cold. Jimmy Taylor must have had the constitution of an ox to go swimming in it. O'Reilly pointed to the sheltered corner. “Lie down.”

The dog obeyed and O'Reilly gave him a Bonio dog biscuit. Good behaviour must always be rewarded.

“Well,” said Jack, “you've shot your first goose. How does it feel?”

O'Reilly looked at the bird. He smiled. “It was the biggest thrill I've ever had wildfowling,” he said. Then his smile fled. He inhaled. “This big boy's going to be tasty when Kinky has stuffed and roasted him.” He smiled at the thought of the potato stuffing the Corkwoman made for goose. “But at the heels of the hunt, although I had a great thrill, the goose didn't.” And there was a sadness in the heart of the big man.

“I didn't take a second bird either,” Jack said, and left it at that. He had no need to explain. He looked at his watch. “The day's half over. Not much is likely to come on a dropping tide until the four o'clock flight from the Quoile River. What would you like to do?”

O'Reilly thought for a moment. “Let's have lunch here. Enjoy the day for a bit longer. You'll not get back until next year.”

“And I'll get you and Arthur down for a day or two. We're permitted to bring three guests each a season.”

“That's very civil. I might take you up on it, but I can see how much fun Lars is having working in conservation. I might just put the musket away. Either way, let's keep in touch.”

“Fair enough,” Jack said. “Leisurely lunch now, then we'll head ashore.”

“And let's stop in the Mermaid in Kircubbin on our way home,” O'Reilly said, rubbing his cold hands together. “I owe you a hot half-un and Arthur never turns down a Smithwick's, do you, lummox?”

And the big dog, content to be doing what he'd been bred for, thrashed his tail and grinned at O'Reilly.

 

20

He Was Lost and Is Found

“Have you seen my stethoscope, Fingal?” Barry said, letting himself into the otherwise empty surgery. O'Reilly, muttering profanities under his breath, was sitting at the rolltop desk, half-moon spectacles perched on his nose, filling in a form.

“What?” O'Reilly turned. “Stethoscope? Yes. It's hanging up near the couch.”

“Oh, right. Thanks.” Barry stuffed it into his jacket pocket and turned to go.

“Had a word with Nonie this morning when she popped in to get her list of home visits,” O'Reilly said.

Barry stopped. “And?”

“I'll not go into details, I've got patients waiting, but between the jigs and reels of it she now understands that it is expected that we all, including her, will collaborate on granting requests for cover, and that there will be a generally more collegial atmosphere.” O'Reilly smiled. “I must say I'd been expecting some resistance, but she agreed, apologised, and promised to do better in future.”

“I'm delighted to hear it,” Barry said. “She's not a bad head.” He was relieved that O'Reilly had done as he'd promised last week. Barry'd not have expected otherwise of the big man. No doubt O'Reilly handled matters tactfully, but being pulled up short by a senior colleague first thing on a Monday morning was never easy for any young doctor. Barry could find it in his own heart to feel sympathy for Doctor Nonie Stevenson.

“As far as I'm concerned, Barry, the slate's wiped clean and the girl gets a fresh start. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” Barry said, and yawned. “Sorry, but it was a long weekend. Flu galore, two cases of croup, and a buck eejit at five
A.M
. on Sunday claiming his pounding headache must be because he got a bad bottle on Saturday night. Hangover is a self-inflicted injury.” He yawned again.

“Lord,” said O'Reilly, “don't tell me the ever-nap-needing Nonie's starting an epidemic?”

Barry laughed. “Not at all. I'm short of oxygen. Isn't that why people yawn? That's what I learned at—” He stopped, listening. “Sounds like there's ructions going on in the waiting room.”

O'Reilly cocked his head. “God only knows. Come on.” He rose and headed down the hall with Barry in hot pursuit. They met Kinky coming the other way from her kitchen, drying her hands on her apron and frowning.

Barry took in the scene at once. Shooey Gamble was applauding—applauding, of all things. Cissie Sloan was in floods of joyful tears. Melanie Finnegan had brought her husband Dermot and he was waving clasped hands above his head like a prizefighter.

Everyone was talking at once.

And in the middle of the room stood a grinning Colin Brown, one sock round his ankle, his mongrel Murphy at his feet, and a bedraggled, skeletal, shuddering poodle-Labrador cross with droopy ears looking as gormless as ever.

“Holy thundering Mother of—” O'Reilly said. “Colin Brown, now you're better you've found Jasper.”

“Murphy did,” Colin said, “so he did, and—”

“Well, what are you doing standing there with both legs the same length. We've got to get this dog back to the Houstons. Doctor Laverty, I—”

“No, Doctors, please, I don't want them to see him like this. Can we not clean him up a bit first? And Jasper needs til get warm and dry right now, and something til eat. And he should see a vet, so he should, but Mister Porter has his surgery away far away in Conlig. My daddy's at work and Mammy's gone shopping and so, sure, where else could I come but here?”

“Where indeed,” said Kinky, smiling.

“Poor oul Jasper was having trouble walking the last wee ways round the sea path and I was trying til carry him. I was dead lucky because when I got onto the Shore Road, Mister Auchinleck was doing his milk rounds. He brung me and the dogs here on his electric float. He said til say ‘Hello,' Mrs. Auchinleck, and he'll see you at teatime. He couldn't wait, for he'd his rounds to finish.”

Kinky smiled and nodded.

“You're a very clever boy, Colin,” Cissie said, mopping her eyes with a spotted handkerchief. “I was just saying til Mister Gamble—wasn't I, Shooey?—that it's a powerful shame about the front of your house, Doctor O'Reilly, when in comes the wee lad and the doggies and he says, says he, ‘I have for til see Doctor O'Reilly at once. It's an emergency.' I was for telling him it wasn't a vet's and to run away off and chase himself, that the doctor had patients he needed to see, but the look on his face would have melted a stone and—”

“I'm sure it would have, Cissie.” O'Reilly's tones were kind, but firm.

Barry smiled. Cissie Sloan was, in local parlance, a woman who could talk the hind leg off a donkey. O'Reilly was one of the few people who could shut her up.

“I'll ask you all to bide for a minute or two,” O'Reilly said. “We'll see to Colin, then I'll be back to take whoever's first.”

“You see to the little boy,
Docteur,
” said Melanie Ferguson. “It is all right. We wait.” Even after all the years since she'd come from France as Dermot's war bride, her English was still accented.

Barry looked round. Everyone was smiling. He felt a sharp pang of regret that Sue was in France and he wouldn't be able to call her this evening and describe the scene. She had a particular soft spot for the impish Colin and had been instrumental in proposing he write the exam that would ensure a grammar school education for the lad. Colin's rescue of Jasper and the bungalow he'd found and wanted to buy would be high on his list to chat about over a glass of
vin blanc
in some picturesque little café in Marseille.

“You done very good, so you did, Colin Brown,” said Dermot. “We're all very proud of you.”

Everyone muttered assent.

“Come on,” said O'Reilly, leading the way. “I'll be back very soon.”

“You go first, Cissie, when the doctor comes back,” Shooey said. “I'm in no rush.”

“But you was here first…”

Barry could hear them still arguing over who should have the privilege of stepping aside as O'Reilly ushered him, Kinky, Colin, and the dogs into the kitchen and closed the door. “It's a lot warmer in here than in the surgery and that poor beast needs the heat.”

Barry was happy enough to let O'Reilly take command.

The big man knelt beside Jasper and began to run his hands from the dog's shoulders to the base of his tail. As he worked, he said, “Kinky, Colin looks foundered. Can you…?”

“I'll have hot chocolate and some of my ginger biscuits ready in no time, so. Sit you there on that chair, son.”

Colin sat, legs dangling, and without bidding, Murphy headed for the warmth of the range and curled up on the floor.

O'Reilly examined each leg in turn as Jasper's milky gaze followed every move. “I can't find any cuts or broken bones, but his fur's matted and full of burrs and there's more meat on a hammer than on this poor pup.”

“Mrs. Auchinleck,” Colin said, “could you borrow me one of Arthur's brushes?”

“Certainly.” She went to a cupboard and returned with a dog brush.

“Thanks.” Colin stood beside Jasper and began to brush his coat. “Poor ould fellah, I don't think you've had anything much to eat since you ran away,” Colin said, “but last year a Labrador was lost for three weeks from Holywood and when he was found he was nothing but skin and bone, but he was still alive. It's water they need. Just like us. We learned in school how, during the Irish War of Independence, Terence MacSwiney, Lord Mayor of Cork City, had gone on a hunger strike in 1920 and lived for seventy-four days.”

“I was a girl a little younger than you when that happened,” said Kinky. “I remember it well. I'll see to the poor crayture. Bread and warm milk and a drink of water will do. His poor wee tummy will be all shrunk, so. We'll have to take it easy to start with.”