An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War by Patrick Taylor

asked.
    â€œAye, you’re dead on. Well, your man gets a powerful skinful and wins an elephant at the coconut shy at the August Lammas Fair in Ballycastle—”
    â€œAn elephant,” said Gerry, rolling his eyes and looking sceptical. “Pull the other leg. It has bells on.”
    â€œCome on, Gerry, we all know there’s about as much chance of seeing an elephant as there is of a grown man hanging on to a rope with his teeth, but that’s what made your yarn work. Now give me a chance, it’s only a gag, so hould your wheest.”
    â€œFair play,” said Fergus. “Give Charlie the floor.”
    â€œGo ahead, Charlie,” Gerry said.
    â€œThank you, and you’ll all have to be patient. This is a bloody good story and takes a wee while til tell right. Soooooo, anyroad, your man brings this bloody great pachyderm back til Alma Street and tethers it til a lamppost and goes off til bed…”
    O’Reilly chuckled. When some Ulstermen got into competive storytelling it was like two gunslingers in the Wild West shooting it out. He’d have liked to hear the end of the yarn, but his friends were waiting.
    O’Reilly’d barely taken his seat when Willie, pursued by Brian Boru, the pub’s feisty Chihuahua, appeared with the pints. O’Reilly paid with a ten-shilling note, which would exactly cover the cost.
    â€œCheers, Fingal,” Barry said, and raised his glass to the accompanying toasts of two of the others. Rory nodded but did not drink.
    â€œSláinte,” said O’Reilly, drinking and relishing the beer’s bittersweet taste. “And thank you all for your help.”
    Barry simply smiled, but Donal said, “No bother, and sure wasn’t it a great pleasure to see the Auchinlecks settled? I mind how excited Julie and me was when we moved intil our wee house.” He chuckled. “You all know about the Stone-Age grave on the site at Dun Bwee? The National Trust have it open til the public now—and I got permission from one of their highheejins for her to do it, so Julie’s going a humdinger selling afternoon teas in the back garden for the visitors, so she is, and I’m carving wee hairy-looking men with spears and clubs for the customers til buy for souvenirs, like. And I’ve another wee sideline going too.” He winked at O’Reilly.
    O’Reilly laughed. Trust Donal to find a potential for profit. He wondered what the “wee sideline” might be, but refrained from asking.
    Charlie Gorman’s voice could be heard over the buzz, and by his inflection it sounded as if he’d finally got to the punch line. “‘Och, missus,’ says your elephant man who’s woke up with a ferocious headsplitter, ‘don’t be ridiculous. My elephant couldn’t possibly do that to your wee pussy cat.’ And she says, ‘It did so.’” Charlie paused for effect. “‘It took its big foot and went—’” He stamped his foot on the floor to a momentary pause, then gales of laughter and a round of applause.
    O’Reilly laughed. He’d missed too much of the story to understand the joke, but the laughter of the Ulsterfolk was terribly infectious.
    â€œYour man Charlie Gorman’s the quare gag, so he is. He’d make a cat laugh,” Donal said.
    â€œHe’s a comedian, all right,” Barry said, “but you’re no slouch yourself when you’re telling a story, Donal. I still remember the one about the Kerryman and the dead greyhound.”
    â€œAway off and chase yourself, Doctor Laverty,” Donal said, but O’Reilly could tell by the man’s buck-toothed grin he was delighted to be complimented.
    O’Reilly sank another third of his pint.
    Rory said nothing, barely raised a smile, and toyed with his pint.
    For a moment, O’Reilly wondered if Archie’s son was all right. He’d been sluggish about lifting boxes