Breaking Bad News by Dr Pat Harold

“Tibbles. Tibbles. Here sir. Here!” But Tibbles was already waddling over to my car as I stepped out onto the gravelled drive. Despite his name, Tibbles was not a cat .He was an elderly Springer spaniel, who still retained his puppyish enthusiasm for a visitor. His owner was also elderly, but he lived up to his name, which was The Colonel. He was tall, lean and grizzled, with a well clipped moustache and equally clipped speech, and as I walked to the house I could see him stretched full length and face down on the lawn. His head was inserted in a drainage ditch.

One of the things about being a GP is that you know how old everyone is, and despite the fact that the Colonel was 86 years old, I was not unduly worried about falls and fractures. He was as fit as a man of his age could be. Moreover he was unlikely to catch cold as it was a beautiful May morning, and the sunlit garden was full of flowers and birdsong.

The Colonel loved his majestic family home and especially loved his garden. Since his retirement he rarely left either.

As I came closer I could see that he was inspecting the deep drain with keen attention. He suddenly jumped up, and picked up a large bucket of water with ease.

He addressed me in a kind of muted roar:

“Good man doctor .I didn’t know you were coming .You’re just in time .There’s a rat in that drain. When I pour in the water he’ll run for it .Just come over there, yes, here, yes, good. Tibbles sit! If the blighter breaks to the left you catch him .If he breaks to the right Tibbles will get him .Now, look lively.”

Tibbles had already taken up his position, so I looked as lively as I could .It was unthinkable to disobey him .I doubted if anyone had disobeyed him for several decades.

As he poured out the water, sure enough, a sleek head popped out of the drain. The rat and I stared at each other for a solemn moment, and then it turned and darted away from me. Tibbles galumphed after the rat and just before it reached the safety of the hedge caught it .Poor old Tibbles hadn’t the teeth to finish it off so he mumbled and chewed at the rat until the Colonel, in a slow motion, long-legged run caught up with them both .Then he whipped up the rat and with his big bony hands strangled it.

When he judged the rat to be definitely dead the Colonel tossed its mortal remains into the hedge.

“Tea?” he asked brightly.

I followed him into the house and sat in the conservatory while he crashed about in the kitchen. I listened hopefully for the sound of running water, but I had to conclude that the Colonel had omitted to wash his hands.

I looked out on the garden. It was always been an attractive sight, but on this perfect May morning it was incredibly gorgeous.

The lawn, scene of the battle, sloped down to the lake. My car nestled shabbily behind some budding fruit trees. Past the lake the turrets of a castle were just visible through the trees. I saw that the Colonel had been painting. On an easel was a very good watercolour of a bullfinch. That was one of the unexpected things about the Colonel. Although he was the very epitome of the fierce military man, stern and tough as they came, he was also a skilled artist and a sensitive gardener.

I could see the bullfinch hopping cheekily through the trees , his crimson and black plumage spectacular in the sunlight.

The Colonel bustled in, carrying a tray.

“Do you like the little bullfinch doctor? Very bright colours. Not like an Irish bird at all, more like the kind of thing you’d see in the tropics. Bastard keeps eating the buds of my apple trees, but gorgeous colours, gorgeous.”

He fussed about with tea cups and slices of cake .I could see the rat blood drying on his sleeve and wrist.

“I’ve just had tea .Honestly couldn’t eat a bite .Couldn’t touch a thing “I gabbled as he popped several slices of fruitcake onto a plate for me.

The Colonel stared at me with eyes as bright and dangerous as a terrier’s.

“Were you in the castle then?”

“I was, yes.”

“How’s Binky? I suppose that’s why you’re here,”

I paused .This was the moment I had been dreading.

“Well, yes .I’ve just come from there .I’m afraid I have bad news.”

The gimlet stare was unwavering.

“He died suddenly this morning. Probably his heart.”

The Colonel put down the plate .He sat back in his chair .His calm expression had not changed at all. Whatever emotions he felt were firmly held behind a stiff upper lip.

“Time for him.” He suddenly barked.”He was old.”

Then he started feeding Tibbles a slice of cake, chattering cheerfully about the house martins’ nests in the stables.

It was not the reaction that I had expected. When Binky, known to everybody except the Colonel as the Brigadier, had died I had found that everyone had expected me to break the bad news. They were boys together you know, I was told .Cousins. Prep school, Eton, Sandhurst, the lot. The Brigadier was the younger by six months. The common consensus was that he would be dreadfully upset and that the news had best be broken by a professional. I wasn’t so sure .It was bad enough that one of your patients dies suddenly without having to give devastating news to another.

When the Colonel left me to the door he mentioned the Brigadier again.

“I suppose I’ll see you at funeral .Damn nonsense. Lot of old codgers spoofing about the old days .We all have to go sometime”.

I walked to the car .That was that then .Job done. I suppose we all have our way of handling these things.

A loud gunshot, followed immediately by the hysterical sound of a dog yelping, nailed me to the ground. I looked wildly about, and then a window in the house shot up to reveal the Colonel, standing with a smoking shotgun in his hands.

For a second I thought that he had been shooting at me .Then I saw the small puff of crimson and black feathers that had once been the bullfinch.

The Colonel stared at me for a long moment and then the window slammed shut.




































* This is the winning entry in the 2010 Aindreas McEntee award. For further details contact Colin Kerr at kerrcolin@ireland.com.