Read Online An Irish Country Doctor by Patrick Taylor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patrick Taylor
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specimen."
"Specimen?"
"Of urine."
"Oh."
"Dip one of those dipsticks in it, and put the stick on the dressing table."
Mrs. Fotheringham looked dubiously at her handful of cardboard, sniffed, and said, "Very well." She sounded, thought Barry, like an English memsahib who'd been asked to clean up a heap of elephant manure from the streets of colonial Bombay--and who would do so, but only for the sake of the empire. "And," O'Reilly bored on, "I want you to repeat the test every hour on the hour until Doctor Laverty and I come back to read the results."
"Every hour? But--"
"It's a terrible imposition, Mrs. Fotheringham, but. . ." --O'Reilly put one large hand on her shoulder--"I know I can rely on you." She sighed.
"Should give us the answer, don't you think, Doctor Laverty?" Barry nodded, knowing his earlier attempts to stand up to O'Reilly had been ineffective, sure that any protest he might make would be rolled over with the force of a juggernaut, and despising himself for his lack of courage. "Good," said O'Reilly to Barry. He turned to Mrs. Fotheringham, who was sorting out the little pile of cardboard. "Get started at three, and remember, this test will sort out once and for all just how sick your husband is. Mind you, I'm pretty sure I know what's wrong with him." She nodded meekly.
"Don't bother to see us out," said O'Reilly, striding to the door. "You're going to have a busy night."
Barry sat stiffly in the Rover. He was angry about O'Reilly's hocus-pocus and angrier at his own inability to intervene. He watched as streaks of yellow made pastel shadings in the grey of the false dawn, and fidgeted in the seat. "Go on," said O'Reilly, "spit it out."
"Doctor O'Reilly, I-"
"Think your history taking stinks, and you're up to no good with all that buggering about with the dipsticks."
"Well, I-"
O'Reilly chuckled. "Son, I've known the Fotheringhams for years. The man's never had a day's real illness in his life."
"Then why didn't you just tell them to wait until the morning?"
"Would you have?"
"If I knew the patient as well as you obviously do, I might."
O'Reilly shook his head. "It's another little rule of mine. If they're worried enough to call at night, even if I'm damn sure it's nothing, I go."
"Always?"
"Lord, aye."
Nothing in O'Reilly's tone suggested pride to Barry. There was no hint of smugness, simply a matter-of-fact statement of how things were in the big doctor's particular universe. "I see," Barry acknowledged grudgingly, "but what was all that nonsense with the test? I've never heard of any such procedure."
"Ah," said O'Reilly, turning into the lane at the back of his house. "'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'"
"You'll not put me off by quoting Hamlet, Doctor O'Reilly."
"No," said O'Reilly, as he braked, "I didn't think I would, but you'll have to wait until we go back to the Fotheringhams' if you want to find out the answer. Now be a good lad, hop out, and open the garage door."
While O'Reilly parked the car, Barry waited in the lane. He looked past the lopsided steeple of the church to where the clouds were being lit by the rising sun.
"Begod," said O'Reilly, standing by Barry's shoulder and staring up. "Red sky in the morning, sailor, take warning. I wonder what the rest of today's going to have in store for us?"
Water, Water, Everywhere
Never mind sailors taking warning; anyone caught out in the summer gale that had blown up in the early hours would be getting drenched. Barry listened to the rain clattering off the surgery's bow windows. He glanced at his watch. Even at almost noon the lights were still needed in the room. Barry stretched and ran a hand over the back of his neck. He was feeling the effects of a broken night. He watched O'Reilly usher an older man with arthritis to the door. The morning had been busy, and yet O'Reilly showed no signs of fatigue. A fresh gust shook the panes.
"Jesus," said O'Reilly, "I
"Specimen?"
"Of urine."
"Oh."
"Dip one of those dipsticks in it, and put the stick on the dressing table."
Mrs. Fotheringham looked dubiously at her handful of cardboard, sniffed, and said, "Very well." She sounded, thought Barry, like an English memsahib who'd been asked to clean up a heap of elephant manure from the streets of colonial Bombay--and who would do so, but only for the sake of the empire. "And," O'Reilly bored on, "I want you to repeat the test every hour on the hour until Doctor Laverty and I come back to read the results."
"Every hour? But--"
"It's a terrible imposition, Mrs. Fotheringham, but. . ." --O'Reilly put one large hand on her shoulder--"I know I can rely on you." She sighed.
"Should give us the answer, don't you think, Doctor Laverty?" Barry nodded, knowing his earlier attempts to stand up to O'Reilly had been ineffective, sure that any protest he might make would be rolled over with the force of a juggernaut, and despising himself for his lack of courage. "Good," said O'Reilly to Barry. He turned to Mrs. Fotheringham, who was sorting out the little pile of cardboard. "Get started at three, and remember, this test will sort out once and for all just how sick your husband is. Mind you, I'm pretty sure I know what's wrong with him." She nodded meekly.
"Don't bother to see us out," said O'Reilly, striding to the door. "You're going to have a busy night."
Barry sat stiffly in the Rover. He was angry about O'Reilly's hocus-pocus and angrier at his own inability to intervene. He watched as streaks of yellow made pastel shadings in the grey of the false dawn, and fidgeted in the seat. "Go on," said O'Reilly, "spit it out."
"Doctor O'Reilly, I-"
"Think your history taking stinks, and you're up to no good with all that buggering about with the dipsticks."
"Well, I-"
O'Reilly chuckled. "Son, I've known the Fotheringhams for years. The man's never had a day's real illness in his life."
"Then why didn't you just tell them to wait until the morning?"
"Would you have?"
"If I knew the patient as well as you obviously do, I might."
O'Reilly shook his head. "It's another little rule of mine. If they're worried enough to call at night, even if I'm damn sure it's nothing, I go."
"Always?"
"Lord, aye."
Nothing in O'Reilly's tone suggested pride to Barry. There was no hint of smugness, simply a matter-of-fact statement of how things were in the big doctor's particular universe. "I see," Barry acknowledged grudgingly, "but what was all that nonsense with the test? I've never heard of any such procedure."
"Ah," said O'Reilly, turning into the lane at the back of his house. "'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'"
"You'll not put me off by quoting Hamlet, Doctor O'Reilly."
"No," said O'Reilly, as he braked, "I didn't think I would, but you'll have to wait until we go back to the Fotheringhams' if you want to find out the answer. Now be a good lad, hop out, and open the garage door."
While O'Reilly parked the car, Barry waited in the lane. He looked past the lopsided steeple of the church to where the clouds were being lit by the rising sun.
"Begod," said O'Reilly, standing by Barry's shoulder and staring up. "Red sky in the morning, sailor, take warning. I wonder what the rest of today's going to have in store for us?"
Water, Water, Everywhere
Never mind sailors taking warning; anyone caught out in the summer gale that had blown up in the early hours would be getting drenched. Barry listened to the rain clattering off the surgery's bow windows. He glanced at his watch. Even at almost noon the lights were still needed in the room. Barry stretched and ran a hand over the back of his neck. He was feeling the effects of a broken night. He watched O'Reilly usher an older man with arthritis to the door. The morning had been busy, and yet O'Reilly showed no signs of fatigue. A fresh gust shook the panes.
"Jesus," said O'Reilly, "I
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