A Dublin Student Doctor (12 page)

That decision, one he had never regretted, to treat patients as people not as ciphers, had been another crossroads for O’Reilly, no less important than the one back in ’27 when he’d defied Father and refused to study nuclear physics.

Perhaps once he’d come back to live in Dublin, Fingal should have made a greater effort to heal the rift with Father. But only a saint—and he smiled at the thought because Ireland was said to be the Land of Saints and Scholars—only a saint could have withstood the scorn his father had regularly heaped upon his son’s chosen profession. Father was a scholar all right, and his son was no saint. He had deeply resented how his entry to Trinity had been held up for four years by Father’s pigheadedness. In 1801, when Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson, he who adorned a column in the middle of Dublin’s O’Connell Street, had fought the Battle of Copenhagen, the Danes had been described as being in “a state of armed neutrality.” That pretty much summed up how things had been with Fingal and his father since 1931 and still were in October 1934.

11

Nazi Germany Had Become a Menace

“So, what do you think?” Lars pulled into the gravelled drive of their parents’ house and sat back in the seat of his Morris Cowley. “It’s secondhand, but the body’s in excellent condition. Great engine too: 1548cc, side valve, straight four—”

“You know I’m not altogether wild, brother, about internal combustion. I still think fondly of Doctor O’Malley’s pony and trap.”

“Luddite,” said Lars with a laugh. “One day you’ll get your own car. Then you’ll see.”

“I think, Lars O’Reilly, you prefer cars to women.”

“I do not,” Lars said.

The two men ambled companionably toward the worn stone steps. The Virginia creeper had turned to its autumnal reds.

Whenever Fingal went to see Ma, he would skate tactfully round Father. Having Lars here would make things less strained.

They’d been close as nippers and had stuck together at boarding school, O’Reilly Major and O’Reilly Minor, as they had been known in an establishment where the use of Christian names was forbidden. One set of four brothers were collectively the Sintons: Maximus, Major, Minor, and Minimus. At a school where small boys were bullied, Lars had been a protective older brother until Fingal had grown and discovered his vicious left hook. He felt he could never repay Lars for his support then, nor for his help back in ’27 when he’d suggested Fingal go to sea. They hadn’t seen as much of each other since, but they certainly kept in touch.

“So, if it wasn’t you wanting to show me your new car that brought you down here, you must be in Dublin because you’re taking Jean out tonight,” Fingal said.

“I am.” Lars smiled. “I’d never have thought two years ago when she was hosting the Irish Law Society dinner party for her father Judge Neely she’d even speak to me, never mind agree to go out with me.”

“Your Law Society’s like my Rugby Union, isn’t it?” Fingal said. “Formed before the two Irelands split and happy enough to stay together since partition because the game is still the game and law is still the law.”

“It is,” Lars agreed with a grin. “Like Jean and me, still together, even though I have to roar up and down from Portaferry to go on seeing her.”

“And I thought you did all that travelling just to give you an excuse to keep buying new motorcars like this one.” Fingal laughed. “How many ccs?”

“Goat,” Lars said, and threw a mock punch at his brother’s head.

Fingal dodged it easily and said, “How is Jean, anyway?”

Lars blushed, but grinned. “Wonderful. I’m taking her to the Clarence tonight.”

“The Clarence? On Wellington Quay? That place has been there since 1852.” Fingal whistled. “It’s not cheap.” He looked right at Lars. “Getting serious about her?”

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“Going to propose?”

Lars stopped. His blush deepened. “Why do you ask?”

“I believe it’s what’s usually done if a young man is sufficiently—” He hesitated over the words “in love with” and said, “fond of a young woman.”

“I—that is—”

“Come on, Lars,” Fingal said, “it’s me, remember?”

Lars laughed. “Oh, damn it all, Finn—you know how embarrassed I get. You’re right, of course, but it’s been tricky carrying out a romance at long distance. I’d like to get married, but—I get so bloody tongue-tied around women. Most women. Jean’s different.”

Fingal clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine if it’s meant to be and when the time’s right. I’m glad you’ve found someone who suits you so well, Lars. You deserve happiness.”

“Thanks, Finn.” Lars started up the steps and Fingal followed, wondering when the time and place might be right for him.

Lars stopped. “How’s your love life?”

Fingal laughed. “Oh, well, I love ’em and leave ’em. You know us sailors. And getting qualified’s a damn sight more important.”

“Footloose and fancy free?”

“Something like that. I’m seeing a student nurse, after the game today. She’s got amazing eyes.”

Lars smiled and started to climb. “Careful you don’t get hooked.”

“Me? Not likely. I’ve exams to pass, profs to impress, poor and unsuspecting patients upon whom to inflict my stumbling efforts as a student doctor, and a big brother to tease about his swanky motorcars—” Fingal rang the bell as Lars took another playful swing.

Fingal grappled with Lars, his laughter drowning out his brother’s protests.

Bridgit opened the door. “Dear God,” she said. “Have youse two taken leave of your senses? Mister O’Reilly, Master Fingal. I—”

“It’s all right, Bridgit,” Lars said, disentangling himself and stepping into the foyer. “The folks in the drawing room?”

She nodded. “You two,” she said, wagging a finger. “Youse was always acting the lig when youse was weans. It takes me back a wheen of years seeing grown men acting the eejit, so it does.”

“I promise we’ll behave,” Lars said with a grin. “Now, please tell Cook there’s one more for lunch. I’m expected, but this one isn’t,” he said, pointing to Fingal.

Bridgit giggled, nodded, bobbed, and withdrew.

Together they went into the big familiar room. “Father. Mother,” Lars said. “See who I’ve brought.”

They were sitting in armchairs that flanked a fireplace where a coal fire glowed. Ma was working on her embroidery. “Fingal, what a lovely surprise,” she said, turning and smiling at them both, “and wicked of you, Lars, not warning us that you were bringing your brother. Now,” she said, “pull over a couple of chairs.”

“Boys,” Father said, glancing up from papers that Fingal assumed he was correcting. A grey woollen cardigan, open-necked shirt, and flannel trousers replaced his usual three-piece suit. “Do as your mother asks.”

Fingal brought over an easy chair and set it close to Ma. Lars pulled his closer to Father.

“No tutorial today, Father?” Lars asked.

“My assistant’s taking it.”

Unlike Father to delegate. Fingal was going to ask why but decided against.

“Fingal, you will be staying for lunch,” Ma said.

“Indeed I will, Ma.” Father fixed him with a steely gaze. “I mean Mother. Lars has asked Bridgit to tell Cook, but I’ll have to go at one thirty. I’ve to walk to Parnell Road. Kickoff for the game is at two thirty.”

“You’ll take care, son, won’t you?” Ma asked. He noticed her frown.

Fingal laughed. “I think it’ll be Wanderers who’re going to need your advice, M— Mother.”

“I should have thought,” Father said, “you’d have outgrown that schoolboy game by now.”

Fingal shook his head. “I enjoy it.”

“It’s good exercise too, Father,” Lars said. “You always taught,
mens sana in corpore sano.
”

A healthy mind in a healthy body, Fingal thought, and, hoping to change the subject, said, “I read in the
Independent
that the German army is now three hundred thousand strong.”

Father sat forward. “That is three times,” he wagged his finger, “three times the level allowed by the Versailles Treaty.” He pursed his lips. “I’d hate to see another war.”

“Surely,” Lars said, “the League of Nations will prevent that.”

Father shook his head. “I’m not so sure. Remember, Hitler withdrew Germany as a member last year because the League disapproved of his treatment of a Jew. He argued that Jews were not protected by the League’s minority clause because Jews were not fully human.”

“That,” said Ma, “is reprehensible. Despicable. I do try not to dislike people, but that Herr Hitler—” She pursed her lips and frowned. “And his ministers, Herr Doktor Goebbels and Herr Goering, are no better.”

Father said, “Those Nazis are a belligerent lot. I’m worried. I truly am.”

“Still,” Lars said, “even if the worst happens, you should be all right here. I can’t see de Valera letting Southern Ireland be anything but neutral.”

Ma frowned. “What about you, Lars? You live in the north. It’s a part of the United Kingdom. Could you be conscripted?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “After the sacrifice of the Ulstermen at the Battle of the Somme we were promised no conscription in Ulster—ever.”

Fingal did not mention his own liabilty for involvement because of his naval commitments. He didn’t want to worry Ma. Indeed on such a lovely autumn day with the whole family together he was regretting introducing the topic in the first place. He turned to Ma.

“Did you know,” he said, “that I’m a fully qualified vaccinator now, with a certificate to prove it.”

She smiled. “Good for you.”

“I still think it’s a waste,” Father joined in. “You’ve a very agile mind, boy. Too swift for a country quack.”

“A what?” Fingal’s voice rose and he felt his fist clench, but he took a deep breath and said in as calm a voice as he could muster, “I think that agility may be because you spent so much time teaching Lars and me when we were little, Father.”

“To produce what? A jolly jack tar who’s going on to be a rustic sawbones when he could have—”

“Connan,” Ma said, and Fingal heard the edge in her voice. “Fingal’s made a special effort to visit. Lars is here. Don’t spoil it.”

“I am sorry, Mary,” Father said. He sighed. “I suppose you’re right, but—oh, never mind.”

Bless you, Ma, Fingal thought.

The silence was broken by Bridgit’s appearance. “Please ma’am, Cook says the Mulligitawny soup’ll be ready in ten minutes. She knows Master Fingal’s here so she put in extra potatoes and vegetables to go with the leg of lamb.”

“Thank you, Bridgit, and please thank Cook.” Ma set aside her embroidery as the maid left. Father rose. “I’d like to wash my hands,” he said, and walked slowly to the door.

Mary O’Reilly watched her husband go, then turned to Fingal. “Thank you for holding your tongue. That took a great deal of self-control,” she said. “You’ve changed. A year ago you’d have stormed out when Father called you a rustic sawbones.”

Fingal gritted his teeth. “I think,” he said, “what I’m seeing has changed me. The hospital’s full of people with diseases none of our potions or our operations can cure. The patients suffer. Their families suffer. The average Dubliner puts up with it, makes the best of it, accepts things, even cracks jokes. It’s humbling. Having an intransigent father as the worst of my troubles is not a killing matter,” he said, but inside he wished that Father could bend, could try to understand.

She stood and touched his arm. “Thank you, son. I couldn’t have stood another row.”

Fingal sighed. “I just wish he’d let the hare sit, Ma. I’ll be qualified in another twenty months. I’m not turning back now—for anyone. I wish Father could come to terms with it.”

She stood and pecked his cheek. “He will, and I’m proud of you,” she said, “very proud.”

Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly blushed to the roots of his dark hair.

“So am I,” Lars said. He rose and put his hands on Fingal’s shoulder.

“Thank you, big brother,” Fingal said, and smiled.

“Now,” said Ma, “before lunch, Father and I have a little something for you, Fingal.” From a nearby coffee table she picked up a small, gaily-wrapped parcel and an envelope. “You’ll be twenty-six on Monday. We know you’ll be working so won’t expect you here, but many happy returns. Don’t open them now,” she said. “Pop them in your pocket.”

“Thanks, Ma,” he said, and wrapped her in a hug. “Thanks.”

She disentangled herself and smiled at him.

“I imagine this might come in handy.” Lars handed Fingal a plug of Crow Bar pipe tobacco. “Many happy returns,” he said, “although why you insist on smoking this stuff is beyond me.”

“I like the taste,” Fingal said. And it’s the best I can afford, he thought. “You’re a sound man, Lars Porsena O’Reilly,” Fingal said as he released Ma. “A sound man. Thank you.”

Ma said, “It’s wonderful having my boys together, but Cook gets a bit put out if we’re late for meals.”

“After you, madam,” Fingal said, bowing and making a leg like an eighteenth-century courtier.

Ma laughed. “Fingal, behave yourself. You’re going to be a doctor soon. It’s time you started to develop a bit of
gravitas.
”

Fingal’s stomach rumbled. “Never mind
gravy
-tas,” he said, “I’d rather get stuck into Cook’s gravy.”

Ma and Lars laughed. And Fingal thought, Cook’s Mulligitawny soup was always a thing of beauty, and a leg of lamb? Just the job to fuel a rugby player for a big game.

*   *   *

Fingal’s breath burned in his chest. The referee had blown his whistle for a scrum in Trinity’s favour twenty-five yards out from their own goal line. There were two minutes left to play and the game was tied. Now sixteen forwards, one eight-man “pack” from each side, would vie to see which team could get possession of the ball and a chance to mount a game-winning attack.

Trinity’s front row of three men was ready. As second-row forwards, Fingal and Charlie stood side by side behind the front row and put their near arms round each other’s backs just beneath the armpit. Fingal could smell the sweat, feel his partner’s muscles tense.

The two front rows locked their heads together forming a tunnel in the middle of the sixteen men, who from a distance looked like a many-legged turtle because of the way the supporting forwards held on to each other to form opposing human battering rams.