A Dublin Student Doctor (19 page)

“Thanks, Lars, but your news. You’re right,” he tried to make Lars smile, “you do have a lousy sense of timing. I don’t suppose you’ve said anything to the folks?”

“I didn’t want to spoil Christmas. Ma would be upset and Father?” Lars stared up. “I didn’t need his ‘importance of marrying well’ lecture today.”

Fingal laughed. “Nor me. Mind you, I’m safe so far. No ladies on the horizon.”

Lars shrugged. “Men have been rejected before. They recover.”

“I hope so,” Fingal said. “I really do.”

Lars inclined his head. “Let’s not make a song and dance about it. It happened. What’s more important is that I never thought the old man would back down over you choosing medicine. Never. How do you feel?”

“Flabbergasted,” Fingal said.

“I think,” Lars said, “the pair of us have misunderstood him. Mistook a deeply held sense of having to do what he sees as right for sheer bloody mindedness.”

Fingal lit his pipe. He stared into the fire then back at Lars. “You’re right,” Fingal said, and lifted his glass. “To our Father,” he said, then grinned and continued, “which art in Lansdowne Road. Professor O’Reilly be thy name. Thy will be done.”

“Unless your younger son runs off to sea,” said Lars, and managed a smile. “Which was a bloody good thing too.”

Fingal inclined his head to one side and looked long at Lars. “You suggested it back then, big brother, and now look what’s happened.” He sipped his wine. “Lord, Lars, I’m tickled pink, and not only about the money.”

“Because Father has bent, is willing to accept your decision?”

“Right. You know how strained things have been. It’s going to be a lot more pleasant coming home in future.”

“I really am delighted, Finn.” Lars stared out of the window then back to Fingal. “And speaking of visiting, when are you going to come up to Portaferry?”

“Maybe in the spring. Once the rugby season’s over.” Fingal let go a mighty puff of tobacco smoke. “You still wildfowling?”

Lars smiled. The wrinkles at the corners of his peat-brown eyes deepened and his moustache curled up to reveal straight white teeth. His smile had always been slow, lazy; perhaps, Fingal thought, like the man himself who if rumour be true had scraped through law school with a minimum of effort and the lowest marks compatible with passing. “I’ll be in a wheelchair before I stop.” He leant across and tapped Fingal’s knee. “It’s time you came up for a day out. A breath of fresh air would do you good.”

Fingal hadn’t taken his shotgun out of its case since he’d started at Trinity. It was a matter of priorities. The duck-shooting season would close before the rugby was over for the year, but he would have enjoyed a day in the wild solitude of Strangford Lough. The place had been important to Fingal ever since he was thirteen and living in Holywood. His brother, nearly three years his senior and at the time seeming like one of the ancients, had loaned him a light gun and brought him out along the banks of the stream at Lisbane. Fingal smiled at his brother. “You’re right,” he said. “It would. I will if I can make time. I miss the place.”

“Aye,” said Lars softly, “it’s beautiful there. I miss it already.” His eyes brightened. He inclined his head. “I’d never want to be far from Strangford. It has a pull all its own. It’s somewhere I can go if I’m worried, hurt—”

“Like now,” Fingal said quietly.

“Yes, Finn. Like now. I’ll go to the shore as soon as I’m home. Lick my wounds.” He sighed. “If my clients could hear me, the fellah they think is a dry old stick of a lawyer, saying how much of a hold the lough can have over a man, they’d think I’d taken leave of my senses, but it is a place I love dearly.”

“I envy you, Lars,” Fingal said. “You’ve found your spot.” He wanted to take the words back, suddenly aware that it was Lars’s love for the lough that had ended his romance with Jean Neely.

But Lars’s face was composed. “And what about you, Finn?” he asked. “Any closer to finding yours?”

“Yes and no. Medicine certainly, but general practice or specialise? I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, Lars. I don’t have to choose right away. I’ll probably do what a lot of people do. Qualify, be a GP for a few years, then decide whether to stick with it or change course and specialise. But so far medicine’s everything I ever wanted.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’d be qualified, but for—”

“Father’s certainly turned up trumps now.” Lars stretched his legs to the fire and leaned back into his chair. “God knows what it’s cost him to admit he was wrong.”

“Good old Ma.” Fingal puffed contentedly and said, “However she did it I’m damn glad my personal state of hostilities is over.”

“I’m pleased for you too,” Lars said.

“And you’re not alone,” Ma said. Fingal hadn’t heard her coming in.

“I’m in your debt, Ma,” Fingal said. “Deeply.”

She wagged a finger at him. “You repay me by working hard, passing all your exams, and being the best doctor you can be.”

“I will,” he said.

“You had better, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly,” Father, who had just entered, said, “and if you’ll take some advice—” He held up a hand. “—not mine, Mister Gogarty’s. Don’t settle for being a GP. Specialise.”

It’s Christmas, Fingal thought. Father has just made a massive concession. Humour him. Don’t say, “that’s my decision.” Instead he smiled and said quietly, “I’ve the next eighteen months to get through first, Father. I enjoyed my time in internal medicine, but I still want to see how I like surgery and obstetrics. I’ll be doing them later this year and early next.” He pointed his pipe stem at Father’s chest. “The whole field of clinical practice so far has been exciting, but I must try it all before I make up my mind.”

“And I,” said Father, “have no doubts whatsoever that you will.” He walked over to the sideboard and lifted a decanter. “Now. Who would like a brandy?”

“I’ll not,” Ma said, “but I’m sure the boys will.” She took one of the vacant chairs and smoothed her cerise silk dress over her knees. “Now,” she said briskly, “I want to hear what both of you are planning for 1935. You first, Lars.”

17

Why He a Wauling Bagpipe

“… For the sake of auld lang syne.” The discordant singing ended and a drum roll accompanied the cheers of the students and their partners welcoming 1935. Fingal tootled on his party horn and chucked a coloured paper streamer to tangle with the myriad others that arced through the air. Spotlights picked out balloons released from an overhead net.

“Happy New Year, Fingal,” Kitty yelled in his ear. “Happy New Year.”

He picked her up off the floor and whirled her in a circle. The train of her floor-length backless dress trailed out behind her. He set her on her feet. “Happy New Year, Kitty O’Hallorhan,” he roared, and kissed her. “When we come to this dance—” He’d been going to say, “next year, you’ll be a staff nurse and I’ll only have six more months to go to be qualified,” but he realised there was no guarantee he and Kitty would still be keeping company twelve months from now. What had happened to Lars on Christmas Eve was evidence of how fragile love affairs could be. But that wasn’t it. Fingal knew he just wasn’t ready to tell her he loved her. Not yet. He’d too much invested. Four years at sea. Paying his own way for three and a half years at school. A newly healing seven-year rift with Father. And he’d invested it all for one reason. He wasn’t like Bob studying to please a deceased eccentric relative. Fingal yearned to be a doctor. It was perfectly simple.

He tugged at his wing collar and hoped she’d not heard him. His naval jacket, blue waistcoat, and gold laced trousers were in gaudy contrast with the other men’s subfusc formal attire. He’d kept the mess dress from his days on HMS
Tiger.
Even with Father and Ma’s Christmas present, Fingal did not want to waste money buying clothes. He smiled at Kitty. He’d been willing to wear the damn monkey suit because she’d been so keen to come to this dance.

Cromie was squiring Virginia Treanor, a petite blonde wearing a short crepe de chine evening frock. At the start of the evening he had taken one look at Fingal and said, “Good Lord, a salty sailor man. Come on, O’Reilly, dance the Sailor’s Hornpipe.”

“Listen, you heathen haggis,” Fingal had said to Cromie, “seeing you’re in full Highland dress, Glengarry bonnet, jacket with silver buttons—and isn’t that a lovely skirt—”

“Kilt, you eejit.” Cromie pointed to a dagger stuck down the leg of his sock, “and that’s a
skean dhu,
a black knife.”

“And that yoke hanging down your front like a dead cat with tassels is a sporran. I know, but why the Highland regalia? You’re not Scots.”

“Actually Great-grandfather Cromie was from outside Aberdeen. The name of his village in Scots Gaelic,
crombach,
means ‘the crooked place.’ The family had been there since at least the tenth century. He moved to Bangor in 1870.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“And it may have escaped you, I do play the pipes. I’ve to play after midnight. Pipe in the New Year.”

“Indeed,” said Fingal. “Well, you pipe away and I’ll give you a hornpipe—after you’ve danced a Highland fling.”

“Sword dance more likely,” Bob Beresford said from where he stood with Charlie and their partners.

Cromie had laughed and suggested they have a warm-up drink.

Now, four hours later Fingal wondered if letting Cromie start so early had been a good idea. His friend was being helped onto the stage by Charlie Greer.

“Do you think he’ll be all right, Bob?”

“Och aye.” Bob Beresford stood beside his own partner, Bette Swanson, a honey blonde with a winter rose that Bob had given her pinned close to her décolletage. It kept company with her Christmas cameo that Bob had told Fingal had been bought after he’d left Neary’s and given the whistle player not two but five shillings. “I’m told pipers play best when they’re half cut.” He shot a cuff with diamond cuff links that matched the studs of his white waistcoat. “Charlie’ll keep an eye on him. Don’t worry.”

“I hope so.” Cromie did not hold his drink well and after a couple of beers could start to sway. “We should have made him take it easy on the grog.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee announced in a fake Scots burr, “ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Angus MacHamish MacAngus Auchterlony, Laird of the Tattie-bogles, Thane of Pittenweem, Master of Ballantrae, and Commander of the ancient Caledonian Order of the Thistle, twelfth class. Angus will now play ‘MacReekie’s Lament.’” He handed Cromie a set of bagpipes.

Fingal laughed and said to Kitty, “Did you ever hear such fake Scottish gibberish?”

“Sure, it’s only a bit of
craic,
” she said, and chuckled.

He put his arm round her waist and pulled her to him. “You’re right, but I’m still worried about Cromie. He’s had quite a skinful. He doesn’t usually drink much. I should have kept an eye on him or persuaded him not to go onstage. I don’t want him to make an ass of himself.”

“Don’t worry your head about it, Fingal. You can’t be responsible for everyone. And look,” she said, pointing to the stage. “Big Charlie’s up there with him. He’ll make sure Cromie’s all right. You heard what Bob said about pipers and the drink.”

“I hope he knows what he’s talking about.”

Cromie tucked the pipes under his left arm, the drones sticking out in front of him, took a couple of unsteady steps, and teetered near the edge of the stage. Fingal started forward, but Charlie grabbed the back of Cromie’s jacket and hauled him away from the drop.

Someone yelled, “Scots wha’ hae,” over the cheering of the crowd.

Cromie blinked in the footlights.

Get him off the stage, Fingal thought, clenching his teeth.

Cromie slammed to attention and in three stacatto movements, thrust the pipes out to arm’s length, hauled them back to tuck the bag under his left arm, and set the drones on his shoulder. He put the blow-pipe in his mouth. His cheeks swelled and reddened. The bag only swelled. Cromie thumped its tartan cloth covering with the flat of his right hand and immediately placed his right fingers beneath those of his left hand to cover the holes of the chanter, which hung down from the neck of the bag.

A sonorous roaring came from the drones and underpinned the harsh melody that Cromie’s flying fingers wrung from the chanter. Fingal recognised “Pibroch of Donal Dhu.” He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck tingle and could envision the clans being spurred into battle by the martial music.

Cromie marched across the stage, kilt swinging, pipes blaring. No wonder the American troops in their War of Independence had called the Scottish regiments, “The ladies from hell.”

On the dance floor undergraduates and their partners were forming themselves for Scottish dancing. Fingal turned to the four women and Bob. “Come on, we’ll make a set.” Everyone would know the dances. Young ladies and gentlemen were instructed in the art as part of their senior school curriculum at Protestant public schools, and Trinity was a Protestant university. He remembered his physical training instructor, a retired sergeant-major from the Gordon Highlanders, trying to teach the sixth-form boys a hornpipe saying, “Put yer left foot in—the bloody left one, left one, O’Reilly—like a nice young gentleman.”

They formed two lines. Fingal faced Kitty and Bob stood across from Bette while Virginia and Charlie’s date, a quiet, dark-haired country lass from near Maynooth, made up the final pair. Despite her shyness earlier in the evening she had shown remarkable proficiency dancing both the old Lindy hop and the brand-new college shag.

The noise from the stage stopped and the emcee announced, “Ladies and gentlemen. Our piper will now give us a reel, a jig, and a strathspey.”

The hall rang with whoops and cheers, and the air was split asunder by the voice of the great highland bagpipe,
an pib mhór.

Cromie played four sets. Fingal was perspiring from his exertions. He’d had to work hard remembering the intricacies not only of the manouevres but also of the steps required, the
pas de basques,
the common
schottisches.
As the last notes rang out, Fingal put his arms round Kitty. She fitted there as if she’d always belonged. “Having fun?” he asked.