A Dublin Student Doctor (18 page)

Because of their friend Dicey Duggan, Sergeant Keogh’s family would each get two oranges as their Christmas treat. Fingal remembered that he and Lars would always find an orange at the bottom of the pillowcase full of Santa Claus presents. It had been one of Ma’s family traditions. He looked at Paddy. Damn it, Fingal, he told himself, you told Kitty a week ago you’d try to find the man a place. And what have you done? Sweet Fanny Adams.

Sister said to the patients, “Now gentlemen, Doctor Micks will carve and my nurses and the medical staff and students, and Saint Nicholas himself, will serve you.” She grinned at Charlie. “Hope you’re not too hot in there under all that red serge,” she said.

Charlie grinned and wiped the back of his hand over his glistening forehead.

She lifted a bottle of Jameson. “All of you who wish will get a glass of this after you’ve had your Christmas pudding and pulled your crackers.”

The patients applauded.

A voice yelled, “It’s a life of feckin’ Riley. Can we stay tomorrow too, Sister?” That provoked laughter and cheers.

Fingal, wondering how he might get a glass of the Jemmy instead of this sticky sherry, crossed the ward and joined the line of students and nurses waiting to be handed loaded plates. Quite a reversal, he thought, for members of the upper class to be acting as servants for the workers. Maybe the fellah whose birthday they were celebrating today had it right when he washed the beggars’ feet.

*   *   *

Before the staff sat down to dine Doctor Micks opened his hold-all and distributed gifts. He coughed. “Seems a bit odd me giving you a present, Santa.”

Charlie laughed. “It’s Greer, sir, and thank you.” He accepted a gift.

“Here you are, O’Reilly,” Doctor Micks said. “Try this Murray’s Erinmore Flake. It doesn’t stink like that Crow Bar stuff you smoke.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Fingal did justice to the meal, finished the last of his Christmas pudding, got up to say good-bye to Kevin Doherty and Paddy Keogh. He caught Kitty’s eye where she sat at the nurses’ side of the table. This time it was her turn to nod toward the sluice.

He showed her five fingers and hoped she understood. He needed a few minutes before he could be there.

He went and sat on Kevin’s bed. “How’ve you been, Kevin?” he asked.

Mister KD, the “heart failure because of rheumatic valvular disease” smiled. “Not so dusty, sir. I’m off quinidine now. Dat digitalis stuff—is it true it’s made from foxgloves? It’s doing its trick all right.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Fingal said, “and yes. From a foxglove called
Digitalis purpurea
. I hope it keeps up the good work. We don’t want to see you back in here, do we?”

“I hope you’re right, sir, but it’s happened before.”

And it probably will happen again, Fingal thought, but said, “We must hope for the best.” He rose. “You look after yourself, Kevin, and have a happy New Year.”

“And to you, Doc—and t’anks for all you done. By the way.” Kevin Doherty raised one eyebrow. “You don’t mind my asking, sir? But how did t’ings go with dat pretty wee mott over dere?”

“Ah,” said Fingal, glancing over to where Kitty was walking to the end of the ward. “I’m taking her out to bring in the New Year.”

“Fair play to you, sir. Fair play.”

Fingal could see that Kevin’s smile was one of pure pleasure. Although his own life had been limited by poverty and ill health, he wasn’t bitter about someone else’s happiness.

“Thanks,” Fingal said, glancing at his watch. “You look after yourself, Kevin. I’d better be running. I’m expected at my folks’ for Christmas dinner.”

He made sure Sister Daly was deep in conversation with Doctor Micks, then slipped into the sluice, where Kitty was waiting. He stood beside her, held the sprig over her head, encircled her with one arm, and kissed her long and hard. “Merry Christmas, Kitty O’Hallorhan,” he said. “A very merry Christmas and a happy New Year.”

16

We’ll Keep Our Christmas Merry Still

Ma asked, “Has everyone had enough? Are we finished?”

Father, from his place at the top of the long mahogany dining table, said, “Marvellous, Mary.” The yellow silk cravat Lars had given him added a festive touch to his otherwise sober suit.

Lars wiped his mouth and folded his napkin. “It was wonderful, Mother. Thank you.” His words were formal.

Ma glanced at her son. “Are you sure you’re all right, Lars? You’ve eaten very little.”

“I’m fine. Honestly.”

Was Lars fine? Fingal pursed his lips. When he’d arrived, his brother had seemed subdued. The man wasn’t normally boisterous, but he usually exuded an air of rural contentment. They’d not had a moment alone, but the minute they did Fingal was going to find out why his big brother had fidgeted through the meal and barely eaten his turkey.

Fingal hadn’t done Cook’s efforts justice either. He swallowed, stifled an urge to burp, and wondered if he might undo the button of his waistband. The answer was no. Ma and Cook would both be devastated if they thought he’d had to struggle to eat what they didn’t know was his second Christmas dinner of the day.

The light from the chandelier glanced off the facets of a Waterford cut-glass bowl where the remnants of a sherry trifle clung to the sides and bottom. The Christmas pudding lay in ruins.

“You may clear, Bridgit,” Ma said.

“Thank you, Ma’am.” Bridgit moved from where she’d been standing and began piling plates onto her tray.

“That meal,” Fingal said as she took away his dessert plate, “was the bee’s knees.” He knew his remark would be relayed to Cook.

Father’s brow wrinkled and he asked, “The what?”

“Bee’s knees,” Fingal said. “Just a step down from the cat’s pyjamas and much better than the eel’s ankles.”

Ma chuckled. “Eels don’t have ankles, Fingal.”

“Perhaps not, but bees do have knees. I’ve seen ’em,” Fingal said and was relieved to hear Lars’s dry laugh.

Father shook his head. “I despair. American slang, I suppose?” He pursed his lips, and tutted. “Our American cousins will be the ruination of the English language.” He sipped a little wine. Surprisingly he was on his second glass of claret.

Here we go, Fingal thought. Another of his sermons. Surely not on Christmas Day?

“Bee’s knees indeed,” Father continued. “As your namesake remarked as long ago as 1882, ‘We have really everything in common with the Americans nowadays except, of course, language.’” He smiled broadly. Fingal’s mouth opened when Father laughed and said, “Who can identify the quotation?”

Fingal beat Lars. “
The Canterville Ghost,
” he said, then realised that his brother didn’t look as if he’d tried to answer.

“I’m glad you remembered,” Father said.

Fingal said, “You made us act it out one Christmas. You and Mother took all the grown-up parts and Lars and I were the Otis twins, known as the ‘stars and stripes.’”

Ma laughed, but Fingal heard a wistfulness when she said, “It was fun when you two were young. You were the show-off, Fingal. I often wondered if the stage might not have been in your stars.”

He shook his head. “You know what I’ve always wanted.” I wish, he thought, I hadn’t said that, because I know I’ve given Father a cue to start a discussion I’d rather avoid.

“As for your career, Fingal—”

Here it comes. Fingal sat back and folded his arms.

“I think after seven years,” Father leant forward, “I am becoming reconciled to your decision to study medicine.”

What? Fingal’s eyes widened. Reconciled?

“Father and I have talked about you a lot, son,” Ma said, and smiled at him.

I’ll bet you have, Ma. “Thank you.”

“We have,” Father said. “We only have one point of disagreement now.”

Ma turned to Father. “I wonder if today is the right time, Connan?”

“To discuss it? Of course it is. It’s for Fingal’s own good. It’s because we worry about him, Mary.”

Fingal wondered what was coming but decided that he would not rear up no matter what Father might say.

“We have some medical friends who move in literary circles. Doctor Victor Millington Synge is a nephew of the playwright the late J. M. Synge and Mister Oliver St. John Gogarty is a poet in his own right.”

“Mister Gogarty is also an ear, nose, and throat surgeon and can charge as much as three hundred pounds for one operation,” said Fingal. That was probably more than Father made in one year. He wondered what Father was coming to and continued, “Mister Gogarty has a primrose Rolls-Royce, his own aeroplane, and a mansion at Renvyle on the west coast.” He frowned. “I’m not quite sure what he and Doctor Synge have to do with me.”

“They are specialists,” Ma said, “and Father, having met them both several times, is very impressed by them and how they do their medical work.”

And he can’t quite bring himself to say it, Fingal thought, but he’s on the verge of telling me to specialise.

“Your mother is absolutely right,” Father said. “I may just have been wrong forbidding you to go your own headstrong way about university, Fingal.”

Glory Hallelujah, he may just have been wrong. He had been. Totally wrong. Then Fingal recognised the thought as ungenerous and said, “Thank you, Father. Thank you very much.”

Father coughed. “Our Christmas present to you, Lars, is a trip to the French Riviera this coming February or March—”

“Thank you. Thank you both,” Lars said. It looked forced to Fingal, but Lars finally did smile after having taken a deep breath. He stood, shook Father’s hand and hugged Mother. “That’s most generous. Thank you both. So much.” No wonder. Usually gifts from the folks were things like Fingal’s birthday lighter. And if Lars was getting such an expensive present what was coming next?

“And yours, Fingal, is fifty pounds annually for the next two years. You should be qualified as a doctor in 1936.”

Fingal pushed his chair back. Fifty pounds? Manna from Heaven. No more scrimping and saving, long walks instead of tram rides, no more fish-and-chips unless he really wanted them. And, the realisation dawned, a bridge had been thrown over the chasm between father and son.

Fingal stood. He too shook Father’s hand. “Thank you, Father. Thank you very much, and not only for the money. I was pigheaded. I’m sorry.” That was as close to a complete apology as he could get without being hypocritical. If he’d not been stubborn he’d be a nuclear physicist by now, and hating it. He looked at Ma and saw her smiling, nodding, and with brightness at the corners of her eyes. Lord knew how hard she must have worked to bring this to pass. “Thank you, Mother,” Fingal said. “Bless you.” He enfolded her in a bear hug.

Bridgit reappeared with an empty tray and began clearing the last of the dinner things.

Ma inclined her head toward the maid and said, “We’ve had a lovely meal, but Christmas is such extra work for the servants.”

“Tell Cook, Bridgit,” Father said, “how very much we enjoyed our dinner. And thank you both for all your efforts.”

Bridgit bobbed. “Thank you, sir, ma’am.”

Ma rose and picked up her plate. “I’m coming with you, Bridgit,” she said. “I’d like to thank Cook personally.” She followed the maid.

Fingal, still hardly believing his father had come around, picked up his glass. “Will we go through to the lounge?”

Father said quietly, “You boys go ahead. I’ll finish my claret then Mother and I’ll join you.” He smiled. “Seeing we’ve something to celebrate I might just open the Napoleon to complement the coffee.”

Fingal understood what his father was trying to say and was searching for the right words when Lars said, “Thanks again for the trip to France.”

“When it came to finances, Mother and I have always tried to treat you boys equally,” Father said.

“You have, Father,” Fingal said, “you really have. Thank you.”

“We’ll go through,” Lars said.

“Don’t be too long, Father,” Fingal said, smiled, and moved toward the drawing room, but, he thought, give me enough time to find out what’s bothering my brother.

Lars plumped himself down in an armchair, one of four arranged in a semicircle around a low table in front of a blazing fire. He crossed his legs.

Fingal sat in another armchair, set his glass on the table, and pulled out his briar and the unopened pouch of Erinmore Flake tobacco, his present from Doctor Micks. “Right, Lars,” he said, “come on. What’s eating you?”

Lars shrugged. “I’m letting it show, aren’t I?”

Fingal nodded.

“I’m sorry. You remember telling me I’d know when the time and the place were right?”

Fingal had to think for a few seconds then remembered the day back in October. They’d been climbing the front steps after Fingal had dutifully admired Lars’s new car. “Jean Neely?”

“Last night. Dinner at the Gresham, a drive in Phoenix Park, the moon four days past the full.” He lowered his head onto his locked hands.

Fingal waited.

Lars pulled a velvet-covered box from his pocket and opened it to show a ring, a diamond solitaire flanked by smaller sapphires. His voice trembled. “She said no. She couldn’t bear living in the country.” He sighed. “And I know I couldn’t take big city living. I should have seen it coming. I know how she loves Dublin. She said she was actually planning to break things off, but was waiting until after Christmas.”

“Lord.” Fingal stood. He put his hands on Lars’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sorry, Lars. I really am.” He could imagine what it must have cost the man to open himself completely. How he must be hurting. Fingal wanted to hug his brother, but that was something men did not do. Pity, he thought. About as humane as not calling patients by their names, but Lars would be embarrassed. “Is there anything at all I can do?”

Lars shook his head. “But thanks, Finn.” He rose, stood by the mantel, and took a deep breath. “I’ve always had a lousy sense of timing.” He managed a wry grin. “I’ll get over it,” he said. “In time.”

“Course you will.” But Fingal wondered if his brother would. He knew several of his father’s friends who were confirmed bachelors. Would Lars become one too?

His brother returned to his seat. “Sit down, Finn.” Lars took a deep breath. “It hurts like hell, but life has to go on. It’s been a big day for you. I don’t want to spoil it.”