By Patrick Taylor 

There is a difference between broken and bent. If you don’t believe me, I’ll explain. As with anything vaguely related to Dr. Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, you may find the explanation convoluted.

When I worked for Dr. O’Reilly, Ireland had returned to daylight savings time. But during the second great numbered unpleasantness we had had a peculiar system of "double summer time" when the clocks were advanced not one but two hours. This, it was widely believed, had been introduced to foil the Luftwaffe’s night bombing raids. 

How, the denizens of Ballybucklebo reasoned, could the German airforce indulge themselves in a touch of nocturnal bombing when there was no longer such a thing as night and the sun, literally, shone at midnight? (It was this kind of reasoning that allowed the Irish to plan a manned mission to the Sun. They’d avoid the heat by going after dark.)

The Germans short-circuited the defensive ploy by resorting to, what was, according to the new clock settings, very early morning bombing raids. This upset that sense of fairness so dear to the hearts of the average Ulsterman. The Germans were regarded as no longer playing by the rules. 

Dr. Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly would never have failed to play by the rules. Never. He was, or at least as far as Her Majesty’s Royal Navy had been concerned, he had been an officer and a gentleman. I can categorically assure you I never saw him break a single rule during all the time I spent with him.

Bending was another matter. It is said the first pretzel was designed by O’Reilly when he mistook a straight biscuit for a statute for which he disapproved.

You may be wondering what the vagaries of springing forward, falling back and O’Reilly’s disdain for the laws of mere mortals have in common. To help you see the connection let me add the catalyst—alcohol. Still confused? Bear with me.

You do know that O’Reilly enjoyed a shot, both in the "of whiskey" sense and at the occasional unsuspecting duck. It might help if I explained that the months for molesting migratory mallard ran from September to February. You also are aware, because I have been at some pains to tell you, that when the omens were propitious on any given autumn or winter Saturday Dr. O’ would stick me with being on call, summon Arthur Guinness, his black Labrador, and vanish in the pre-dawn blackness to bang and blaze barrel after barrel at the bewildered birds.

On the third Saturday of October in the year of our Lord, I don’t remember exactly, O’Reilly and the faithful hound had been somewhere on the foreshore of Stangford Lough since well before dawn. I had been ministering to the medical emergencies; one cut finger, one marble up a nostril and one hangover—Donal Donnelly’s—that could have been mistaken for the symptoms of a brain tumour in anyone who actually possessed such an organ. I’d eaten a splendid supper—slices of one of Mrs. Kincaid’s roast hams—and for once feeling like a bit of company had wandered over to "The Mucky Duck."

By this stage of my apprenticeship with Dr. O’,I was well known to the locals and they to me. The snug was full of the usual suspects—Arthur Osbaldiston behind the bar, Fergal McGillicutty, Donal Donelly, as the English call it, "having a hair of the dog" or as the Irish say, "taking the cure"—in front. The local constable leant against the bar, straight glass of stout clutched in one hand.

"Evening, ‘Doc. Sherry?" Arthur asked.

"Thanks."

He poured, handed it to me and glanced over to where a large clock hung high up on the opposite wall. It was six minutes to ten. "Himself’s late the night."

"The ducks," I remarked, sipping from my glass.

"Oh, aye," said Arthur, polishing a glass with a grubby dishcloth, "Dr. O’Reilly’s a terrible man for the ducks." He glanced back at the clock and his head made an almost indiscernible twitch towards the rotund arm of the law. "The doctor’d better get himself in soon if he wants a wee hot whiskey to keep away the dew. I’ve to close in five minutes." He smiled obsequiously at the constable, "Isn’t that right officer?"

"It is, Mr. Osbaldiston. The licensing laws are very strict. Very strict." He held out his now empty glass. "I’ve just the time for the one more."

"Time, gentlemen," called Arthur as he started to build the policeman’s pint.

At precisely nine fifty-five the door flew open and O’Reilly pursued by Arthur Guinness entered. His cheeks were a slate gray, his nose a screaming red. He blew on his hands, rubbed the palms vigorously together and blew on them again. "Jasus, it’s cold as a witch’s tit out there," he remarked to the bar in general, and, "Hot Irish. Double." to Arthur Osbaldiston in particular.

The constable turned and glared first at O’Reilly then at Arthur Guinness. I suspected the episode when Arthur had mistaken the man for a burglar and had bitten him still rankled. "Last shout’s been called. It’s ten o’clock, doctor."

O’Reilly looked at the clock then back to the officer. I may have been the only one in the place to notice the change in the colour of O’Reilly’s nose tip, but he hid his anger well.

"True, officer true," he said, "and I know you are just doing your job."

The constable hurried to finish his pint within the five minutes drinking-up time permitted by the law. "True, sir."

"But," said O’Reilly, "if I could prove you’re wrong about the time could I buy you a pint and have a wee warmer myself?"

Every eye was on the peeler. The silence was such that the dropping of a single pin might have resulted in a bang of sufficient magnitude to rupture eardrums.

"Well…"

"Walking stick, Arthur," said O’Reilly in his best quarterdeck voice.

The stick was produced.

O’Reilly stepped over to the clock, pushed open the glass front with the stick’s rubber-tipped ferrule and with great concentration used the thing to turn the minute had back through sixty-five minutes. It was now, local "Mucky Duck" time, eight fifty-eight.

"But," spluttered the constable, "you can’t just do that."

"You’re right," said O’Reilly, "I can’t, but Her Majesty’s Government can." He glared round the room. "Today is the third Saturday of October, and what happens tonight?

To give him credit, Donal Donnelly saw it first. "Jasus, doctor. The clocks go back."

"They do," said O’Reilly.

The constable began, "But not until two…"

"Drinks have been poured, officer. One for you and, Arthur, a hot double John Jameson for me."

The constable laughed. "All right, doctor. I’ll allow you’re not breaking the law—only bending it."

"Right," said O’Reilly, lifting his steaming glass, "Cheers."
 
 

Patrick Taylor is an Ulsterman living in Canada. He has written about Dr. O'Reilly, his young assistant Dr. Barry Laverty and denizens of Ballybucklebo for six years. These characters are the subjects of Taylor's third novel, The Apprenticeship of Doctor Laverty, to be published this fall by Insomniac Press of Toronto, Canada.