A Dublin Student Doctor (29 page)

And he remembered telling her he’d not let the flame die. He didn’t regret it. Perhaps he should be asking her home to meet his folks as Ma had suggested and yet, and yet he wasn’t ready to declare his love. “I know,” he said, “we’ve not seen a lot of each other in the last nine months—”

“I’d imagine it’s much the same for a busy doctor’s wife,” she said.

Fingal took a deep breath. “I suppose it would be. GPs are on call twenty-four hours a day.” He looked into her eyes. “Would you want to be a GP’s wife?”

“I might—if the right GP asked me.” Her tone was serious.

“Kitty, I—” He was unsure how to respond.

“It’s all right, Fingal,” she said, “I know at the moment you can’t see much further than your exams, your rugby, but maybe one day—?”

Her voice was firm, not pleading, but there was a wistfulness. “Maybe,” was as far as he could go and he hurried to say, “but you’re right about the exams. I have to put them first. I won’t make any promises until I’m Doctor O’Reilly.” It was the truth. How would she respond?

“It’s all right,” she said, “I understand.” She let his hand go and strode off toward the zoo.

Oh Lord. Now what? Women. They were such complicated creatures. If Charlie was annoyed with Fingal he’d tell him straight out. Bob and Cromie behaved exactly the same, but all the years he’d watched Ma handle Father? She always approached serious matters obliquely, never head on, and she usually got her way. He’d better chase after Kitty and try to find out what she wanted, although inside he was pretty sure he knew, and couldn’t give it to her. Not yet. “Hang on a minute,” he called.

Kitty only shortened her stride.

He hurried after her. “Hang on, Kitty.”

She stopped and turned to face him. There was no hint of a smile.

“Look,” he said when he caught up, “I’m sorry. Honestly.” He took her hand and looked into her eyes.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she said. “I understand. Sometimes I don’t know what I see in you. You’re about as romantic as a sack full of spuds.”

What had Ma said last year about Father? “He has great difficulty in expressing affection, that’s all.” He grabbed her hand, forcing her to stop and face him. Modesty be damned. He pulled her to him and kissed her.

She was breathless when they parted. He smiled at her and was pleased to see her smile back. “There now,” he said. “Is that romantic enough for you?”

“Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly,” she said, and shook her head, “you’re an
amadán
of the first magnitude.”

“Och sure, wouldn’t any man make an idiot of himself round you, Kitty?” He lowered his voice. “You make it very hard for a fellah not to get very fond of you. Very fond indeed.” Face it, he thought, you’re more than just fond of her, but you have one more year of studies and rugby, and nothing, nothing is going to distract you. And she knows that now.

“Thank you, Fingal,” she said, “because I’m very fond of you too.” She pecked his lips, turned, and called over her shoulder, “I’ll race you to the zoo gates.”

*   *   *

Fingal and Kitty left the Dublin United Tram Company vehicle at the base of Nelson’s Pillar on O’Connell Street. From his pillar, the cocked-hatted, one-armed Lord Nelson stared down with his single eye. He’d been there since 1808, a memorial to a British hero, and the recipient of a century and a quarter’s worth of Irish pigeon droppings. There had been a great deal of talk in the ward-room about “fostering the Nelson spirit” when Fingal had served on HMS
Tiger
in 1930.

He took Kitty’s hand and guided her across the broad street where trams ran up the middle and horse-drawn and motor traffic the outer lanes.

Once on the footpath he walked slightly ahead to bulldoze a way through the Saturday crowds. Barefoot women in shawls, gurriers in ragged short pants. Men in cloth caps with clay dudeens between their lips stinking of cheap tobacco rubbed shoulders with gents in top hats, morning coats, and spats. How could they stand to be so overdressed in this heat?

As they passed the General Post Office, still bullet-pocked from its occupation by the Rebels and the siege during the 1916 Easter Rising, he had to raise his voice. “Cromie said the Stag’s Head Pub is near the column.”

“It would be lovely to stop and have a drink. My feet are killing me in these half-heels and you look parboiled.”

He laughed. “We’ll go up to one more cross street, then I’ll ask,” he said. Fingal O’Reilly had always hated having to seek help. With anything. He ploughed ahead until he was pulled up short at the junction with Prince’s Street.

Model A Fords jostled with Austins. He saw a Beauford convertible nearly brush against an open Rolls-Royce tourer. Over the hum of voices, motorcar engines burbled and iron wheels rumbled on tarmac as a pair of Clydesdales hauled a Guinness cart stacked with barrels. And there were bicycles. Everywhere cyclists jingling their bells. Sweat, car exhaust, and the whiff of a recently dropped pile of horse apples stung his nose. A man approached wearing a buttonless woollen suit one size too small. The jacket was missing a lapel and laceless boots shod his feet. “Buy my sheet music, sir?” He had a Northside, nasal Dublin accent you could cut with a knife. “For the lady, like?”

“How much?” Kitty asked.

“Och, Jasus, lady, only a penny. One penny.”

“Go on, Fingal,” Kitty said, “and ask him about the pub.”

O’Reilly laughed, rummaged in his pocket and produced two pennies. “I only want one sheet.”

“Lord bless you, your honour,” the man said, and handed O’Reilly a green paper.

He glanced down and saw, printed in smudged typeface, the music and lyrics of “The Star of the County Down.”

“Ask him, Fingal,” Kitty said.

“Excuse me,” O’Reilly said, “but would you know where the Stag’s Head is?”

“Stag’s Head?” He grinned and exposed a set of stained upper teeth. “The Stag’s Head? I do, by God. The Stag’s Head is exactly where you’d expect it to be, sir.”

“And where is that?”

The man laughed then said, “The stag’s head is always, always, invariably—about six feet from the stag’s arsehole, sir.”

He was long gone by the time O’Reilly and Kitty stopped laughing.

He noticed a policeman approaching, probably a former member of the Dublin Metropolitan Force which had been amalgamated with Garda Síochána after partition. The uniformed man was very tall and wore a large spiked helmet. The Metropolitans had been known as the “giant police.” They had all been at least six feet.

O’Reilly approached him. “Excuse me, officer.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m looking for a pub called the Stag’s Head.”

The constable smiled. “Turn right on Abbey Street,” he said. “You can’t miss it, but if you do dere’s another pub next door, the Vincent van Gogh.”

“Thank you very much. Come on, Kitty.” He led her through the crowd and in minutes had found the pub.

Cromie and Virginia were inside sitting at a circular table. “Come on over,” Cromie called. Fingal noticed how the sunlight coming through a clear glass window highlighted Virginia’s copper hair.

Fingal and Kitty were soon seated and had placed their orders. He couldn’t wait to tell Cromie the story of the sheet music seller. Virginia was a broad-minded young woman. She’d not mind the punch line.

“… The stag’s head is six feet—”

“Away from the stag’s arsehole,” the barman who had arrived with the drinks said. “Sorry to spoil your line, sir—” He set the drinks on the tabletop as the laughter subsided. “—but,” he continued, “we all know dat crack round here and dat’s why the boozer next door, the oul’ Vincent, is called the Stag’s Arsehole by the locals.”

Fingal paid the man and lifted his pint.
“Sláinte.”
He swallowed and savoured the Guinness, the summer day, the company. He glanced at Kitty. He didn’t have to choose between his studies and her. He never thought she’d insist on that, but it was good to know and he considered himself a lucky man. A very lucky man. “Och Jasus,” he said aloud, even if momentarily nagged by a thought about Father, “God is in His Heaven, and all is right with the world.”

27

The Fever and the Fret

Fingal stood in the bay window while his mother aligned the lace-bordered antimacassars on the backs of the sitting room chairs. She moved to a vase of roses, rearranged them, and glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel.

“Please, Mary,” Father said, “come and sit down. We’re not receiving royalty.”

“But we are expecting Doctor Micks and I can’t have the house looking untidy.”

“It is unnecessary,” Father said.

Fingal wondered if Father meant the tidying or the doctor’s visit.

“I’m just a bit under the weather, that’s all,” Father said. “A strong tonic or Cook’s beef tea is all I need, not a visit from a specialist.”

“You promised,” Ma said. She stood behind his chair and dropped her hand on his shoulder. “You know what a worrier I am. That’s why I persuaded Fingal to speak to his senior.” She glanced down. “I should have asked you first, Connan, but when Fingal was here on Saturday I thought the opportunity too good to waste. We’re doing this for my peace of mind, remember, dear?”

Fingal heard the rain rattling on the panes, the thrashing of the trees. Mid-June and a summer gale was howling. He hoped Doctor Micks wouldn’t be soaked getting here. On Monday he’d listened to Fingal’s request, smiled, and said, “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. I’m busy for a couple of days, but I’ll make a domiciliary visit at two o’clock on Thursday.”

“Thank you, sir. Very much.” Fingal felt comforted knowing that soon there’d be some answers; worries, he hoped, laid to rest. “I’ll let them know to expect you.”

“Your father’s probably simply tired—it happens to men in their fifties. I suspect he needs a warmer climate for a while, perhaps a cruise.”

Fingal smiled. “‘My mother would enjoy that. Father might be harder to persuade.”

Doctor Micks looked over his spectacles. “You are familiar by now with the expression, ‘Doctor’s orders,’ O’Reilly?”

“Of course, sir.”

“If I believe it to be necessary, he will go.”

Fingal stifled a grin. Poor Father. He’d certainly find it difficult to stand up to both Doctor Micks and Ma. The medical profession put great store in the curative properties of lots of fresh air. Of course the less well-off had to make do with the Dublin variety, tainted as it was with dampness, chill in the winter, and chimney smoke. The upper classes were sent on a cruise or to a spa like Bath or Baden-Baden.

Ma had been grateful on Monday night when Bob had run Fingal over to tell her to expect Doctor Micks this afternoon. “Could you be there when he comes, Fingal? Sometimes doctors’ talk can be so confusing. Perhaps you could be my translator?”

“Of course.” Another Thursday pathology lecture missed to add to the ones he’d skipped for rugby practices. Sarcoidosis was the topic. All he knew about the condition was that it was some kind of rare chronic inflammatory condition that could affect any body system. Ah, well. He could always borrow someone’s notes. He knew that pathology, the study of how damage to the body’s systems caused illnesses, was important to a doctor’s understanding, but it was bedside medicine that enthralled him. Once the exam was passed, he would be done with basic sciences forever.

Bridgit ushered in the visitor. “Professor O’Reilly. Ma’am. Doctor Micks.”

Father stood and Ma dropped a tiny curtsey. “Good of you to come, Doctor,” Father said, “and on such a filthy day.” He offered his hand, which Doctor Micks shook. “May I introduce Mrs. O’Reilly. I believe you know our son, Fingal.”

Doctor Micks nodded at Fingal. “How do you do, Mrs. O’Reilly?”

“How do you do, Doctor Micks? Please have a seat.” Ma indicated an armchair and said, “Would you care for some tea?”

“Thank you, no,” Doctor Micks said.

“You may go, Bridgit,” Ma said.

“Perhaps a sherry when we’ve finished?” Father said.

“Perhaps, but now, if there is somewhere private?”

“Of course,” Father said, moving toward the door. “Please come with me.”

*   *   *

Ma had tried to make small talk with Fingal, but she kept glancing at the drawing room door. He knew she was willing the consultant to return, and to return with good news. She sat forward the second the doorknob started to turn.

“Your husband will be with us shortly, Mrs. O’Reilly,” Doctor Micks said when he entered. “I have completed my examination. We’ll wait for the patient and I’ll tell you together what’s in store.” He smiled. “Ordinarily I’d consult with your GP and have him explain, but under the circumstances—”

“We’d both like you to talk to Fingal,” Ma said, “I’m sure he’ll understand more than us.”

Fingal waited.

Doctor Micks frowned. “It’s irregular. We usually don’t discuss adult cases with family members other than husbands or wives.”

And then only if the news is bad. How many times, Fingal wondered, had he heard a husband being told that his wife had cancer, but under no circumstances was she to be told. The adage was that next of kin should know the worst, but patients should always be allowed to cling to hope. In his opinion they’d be a damn sight better off knowing the truth.

“The trouble is, Doctor,” Ma said, “my husband is very much a man of letters, not at all scientific, and I’m just—” Her smile was dazzling. “Fingal is nearly qualified. I know he’ll understand.”

The usually austere Doctor Micks smiled. “Of course, my dear Mrs. O’Reilly. If that is what you and your husband wish.”

“It is.”

“In that case, if you’d come with me, Mister O’Reilly? You’ll excuse us, madam?”

Fingal followed the senior man into the high-ceilinged hall. Before either could speak, Father passed them on his way back to the drawing room, smiled, and spoke to Doctor Micks. “Talking about your patient, I see. I seem to remember a quotation from George Bernard Shaw; he said that, ‘all professions are a conspiracy against the laity.’”

“On the contrary in this instance,” said Doctor Micks. “Mrs. O’Reilly wanted your son to be informed so he could explain matters to you if I became too technical.”