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she’d married Sonny Houston, had been one of the first patients O’Reilly had introduced to young Barry three years ago, when she had been complaining of headaches—two inches above the crown of her head. She was certainly eccentric, but the fact that she’d not confide her troubles to Kinky, when everyone usually did, boded ill, O’Reilly thought. He fished out his half-moon spectacles and perched them on his nose.
    Kinky opened the door to the dining room. “Here’s Maggie.” She ushered the woman into the room, followed by a large dog. The ungainly animal looked like a cross between a Labrador, a standard poodle, and something with long droopy ears.
    â€œMorning, Maggie,” O’Reilly said. “Have a pew.” He pulled out a chair.
    Maggie sat sideways. Wellington boots peeped out from under her voluminous black skirt, itself half-hidden under a heavy overcoat. A blue felt hat perched on her grey hair. The wilted flowers that she customarily wore in her hatband had been replaced by a sprig of holly with fresh red berries. Her usually bright ebony eyes were lifeless.
    The dog flopped to the floor at her feet, regarded O’Reilly with doleful eyes, and began sweeping its tail back and forth and drooling onto the carpet.
    â€œThis here’s Jasper,” Maggie said.
    â€œMorning, Jasper,” O’Reilly said, and smiled. Rural practice had its moments. The dog wasn’t the first animal to be brought to Number One Main Street. Not by a long chalk. Miss Moloney the dressmaker had sought his opinion on the health of her African grey parrot, and just before Christmas, Colin Brown had brought in his pet white mouse, Snowball, the little beast that had got loose at Kinky’s wedding. He did not, however, think Maggie wanted an opinion about the dog. “And what can I do for you, Maggie?”
    â€œOch, Doctor O’Reilly,” she said, and sniffed.
    O’Reilly took a chair opposite and leaned forward. “What’s the trouble?”
    She sighed, placed a huge handbag on the dining room table, and said, “It’s Sonny, so it is. He’s not well.” A tear trickled down one wrinkled cheek.
    He could tell this was an informal occasion. She was not wearing her dentures.
    â€œThe ould goat refuses to see a doctor. Said he’d bar the door if one came til the house, so he did.” She snatched a short hiccup of a breath. “I don’t know what to do. I’m at my wits’ end, so I am. He doesn’t even know I’m here. I took the bus. Said I was going shopping.” She rummaged in the bag, fished out a large linen hanky, and blew her nose with a ferocious honk. “This buck eejit,” she pointed at the dog, who made a strange Aaaarghow, “followed me til the stop and wouldn’t go home. And see that there Sticky Maguire? Him that’s the bus conductor with Ulsterbus? Says he til me, he says, when the bus pulled up at the stop, ‘No dogs allowed.’ And just because your man’s got a uniform and a peaked cap, he’s standing there on the platform like a wee Hitler.” Maggie looked at her handbag. “Says me til him, ‘Away off and chase yourself, Sticky Maguire. You let me and Jasper here on or I’ll—I’ll…’” She pursed her lips then inhaled deeply. “I was so cross. I had til get here til see a doctor and I didn’t want til miss the bus. And poor Sonny sick, so I took this,” she picked up her bag, “and I said, ‘See you, Sticky, let us on or, or I’ll hit yiz with my handbag, so I will.’”
    Fighting words, O’Reilly thought. She must be really worried about Sonny. “And?”
    â€œShooey Gamble and your man Fergus Finnegan, the jockey, was on the bus. The pair of them starts chanting, ‘Let her on, Let her on,’ and soon everybody joined in.” She smoothed her skirt. “And here I am.”