A Dublin Student Doctor (32 page)

That was two weeks away. Fingal was going to ask could the test not be done sooner, but his senior asked, “Where will you be at ten o’clock that day?”

“Here, sir. July first is the start of our surgical dressership at Sir Patrick’s.”

“I’ll explain to Mister Kinnear, the senior surgeon, why you will be absent that morning. I’ll talk to you here, and take you with me to your parents’ house.”

“Thank you very much, Doctor Micks.” Fingal hesitated. If a physician of Doctor Micks’s stature was comfortable with having to wait, a student should be too. But this was Father’s test.

“Can we afford to wait two weeks, sir?” Fingal had been taught that in cases of cancer, speed of diagnosis and treatment were critical. To say nothing of leaving patients in a limbo of worry. Two weeks could seem like a lifetime.

“Yes.”

“Two weeks?” Fingal heard his voice rise in pitch.

“I appreciate it sounds like an eternity, but if we think about it dispassionately—”

“It’s not easy, sir, being dispassionate about family. This is my father.”

“It’s difficult for you under the circumstances, Fingal, I know.” Doctor Micks inhaled deeply. “I do know.”

“Thank you.”

“But the harsh facts are there is no cure for leukaemia. We can try to help his anaemia with iron supplements, proper diet while we wait for the results. We’ll be giving it to him regardless of the final diagnosis anyway. If he becomes very anaemic, a blood transfusion will help and for the long term—”

Fingal nodded and swallowed. “I understand, sir.”

“I’m sorry, but as things stand, I think waiting so the best man in the country can do the tests makes sense. Doing them isn’t going to change anything, it will only give us answers and a prognosis, and they’ll be the same in two weeks as they are today. They’ll not change any treatment.”

“I agree.” Fingal realised he was crushing the report, relaxed his grip, and smoothed out the creases in the paper. “I do understand, but the waiting’s not going to be easy.” He gave Doctor Micks the report.

Doctor Micks accepted the form. “Can you be free this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I promised your parents I’d call by to give them the blood results. I imagine you’d like to be there.”

“Will you be able to soften the blow, sir?”

Fingal was surprised when Doctor Micks shook his head and said, “They’ll need time to digest everything I’ll have to tell them. I must be absolutely honest.”

And he had been at Lansdowne Road that afternoon. The coming biopsy, the possible results, and the different prognoses depending upon the results had been presented factually and calmly. Father and Ma had taken the news stoically. It wasn’t until Doctor Micks had left that Ma had permitted herself to cry. “It’s so unfair, Connan,” she said.

“Yes, it is,” Father said, handing her his hanky, “but then life’s not fair, and if I’ve understood the consultant there is a good chance I might have the fairly benign disorder.”

She blew her nose.

Fingal hesitated. He didn’t want to intrude. It was a time his parents needed to be together without him. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and give Lars a ring,” he said. “Let him know what’s happening.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Ma said. “I know you’ll worry, but I think we shouldn’t concern your brother until we know exactly what the future holds. You agree, Connan?”

“Completely. I’m sure I’ll have the chronic sort so why upset Lars? Am I right, Fingal?” Father asked.

Fingal hesitated. For the first time ever Father, Father with a capital
F
, had asked Fingal’s advice, his reassurance. “You are indeed, Dad.” Dad. It seemed somehow right to call his father Dad, and by the way the man smiled, he must have thought so too. “But I’ll give Lars a call anyway. I’ll not worry him, just tell him you need one more test in a couple of weeks, to bide content with that and not worry.” I can worry enough for all of us, Fingal thought, and Doctor Micks is right. A doctor’s job is to alleviate suffering.

“Thank you,” Father said. “I am relieved.”

“Be a good boy, Fingal,” Ma said. “I’m sure you need to get back to your hospital, but on your way out ask Bridgit to have Cook send up some tea and biscuits.”

His mother had deftly protected her eldest boy for two more weeks. And now, sensing Fingal’s discomfort, she had given Fingal an excuse to leave and allow her and her husband the privacy she must know Father would prefer. She could perfectly well have rung for Bridgit.

Fingal kissed her cheek. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, “try not to worry too much.”

The flash of a lightning bolt and nearly simultaneous thunder brought Fingal back to the present. The first drops rattled on the sycamore leaves. He scurried back to the Examination Hall, shoulders hunched against the downpour, as a second jagged strike rent the heavens and the celestial cannons roared.

Back in the shelter of the anteroom Fingal found a seat. Time for the remaining candidates would be up in twenty minutes. He’d wait for the lads. The plan had been to go for a pint after the last paper. Even if he was not enthusiastic, he’d go. Being with his friends would take his mind off his troubles.

The hall doors opened. Bob Beresford strode out, lighting a cigarette. He waved. “Fingal.”

“Have a pew, Bob.” Fingal nodded at the seat beside him. “You’re out early.”

“Huh,” Bob said. “I just hope I put down enough. All that nose to the grindstone stuff with you, O’Reilly. I know I backslid for a while, but recently I’ve started to hope I’d make it.”

“So you bloody well should. We’ve been telling you we’d make a doctor of you in spite of yourself, Beresford. And remember that conversation we had about making a difference—perhaps in research.”

Bob nodded. “I’ve you to thank for that.”

A group of three students left the hall, deep in discussion, no doubt having a postmortem of the paper, each anxiously seeking reassurance from his friends.

Bob said, “I think I might squeak by.” He blew smoke down his nostrils. “I saw you go pretty early. You must have got the answers down in jig time.”

“I hit a snag. Sarcoidosis.”

“You weren’t at that lecture. I remember.” Bob sucked in his breath. “What about the other two questions?”

Fingal managed a weak smile. “Should be all right, but I made a hames of the microbiology paper too.”

“Oh, come on, Fingal. I’ll bet—”

“That’s your trouble, Beresford. You’d bet on anything.”

Bob laughed. “I still reckon as long as you keep your head for the rest of the week in the practical and oral exams, you’ll be all right.”

Perhaps he could pull himself up by his bootstraps in those next parts of the exams that would go on all week until Saturday. They’d be sitting practical tests and answering oral questions in every discipline. “I hope you’re right, Bob,” he said. “I hope you’re right.”

30

Children Casual as Birds

“Come in, Fingal.” Kitty stood on the step of the Leeson Street house where she and Virginia shared a flat. “Last exams yesterday. How did it all go?” She closed the door and muffled the church bells summoning the Sunday worshippers.

He kissed her, held her at arms’ length, and said, “It’s very good to see you, girl.” There was a clean scent in her hair. “It’s been a while.”

“Two weeks,” she opened the door to the flat and led him in, “but you kept your promise about phoning.” She frowned. “I didn’t like the way you sounded on Wednesday. Do you really think you’ve—?”

“Ploughed path and micro?” He blew air past his upper lip. “Pretty sure.”

“Here,” she said, sitting on a sofa, “come and sit down. Perhaps it’s not as bad as you think.”

He sat beside her, feeling her warmth. “I’m happy with four subjects but—” He rocked his hand from side to side. “—there was one pathology question I couldn’t answer at all and one in micro I made a very poor fist of.”

“Oh dear.” Fingal knew she was trying to sound cheerful. “Could you have done well enough on the other questions? The same thing happened to me once in a first-year exam, but I squeaked through.”

“Maybe I have too.” In his heart he didn’t believe it. “I’m pretty sure I got everything right on the pathology practical. I checked my answers with Cromie and Charlie and I don’t think I made too big a mess of the oral. Professor Wigham was smiling when we finished.”

“When will you get your results?”

“Five o’clock tomorrow.”

“It’ll seem like an age.”

“I can’t change a thing by worrying.” He forced a smile. And I’ve more than one cause for concern, he thought, wondering what news Doctor Micks might have tomorrow morning. “I don’t want to be the spectre at the feast today.” Fingal looked into her grey eyes. “It’s a lovely day after last week’s thunderstorms. I’ve not seen you for ages, and you’ve been very patient, so what would you like to do?”

“Take your mind off your cares,” she said. She cocked her head on one side and looked at him, a smile at the corners of her mouth. “Fingal O’Reilly, from the day I met you you’ve been the scruffiest student ever. When was the last time you had a haircut? You look like—what’s that song about Dublin Zoo?”

“Thunder and lightning is no lark. When Dublin City is in the dark,” Fingal said. He didn’t feel much like singing.

She chuckled. “It’s the lines from the fourth verse I’m thinking of.” She sang,

—says she to me, if you don’t come soon

I’ll have to get in with the hairy baboon,

Up in the Zoological Gardens.

“That’s you, O’Reilly. A great hairy ape.”

He ran a hand through his mop and smiled in spite of himself. “I can’t get a haircut on a Sunday.”

She stood and took his hand. “Oh yes you can. Into the kitchen, boy. I’m going to trim it for you and by the time I’ve done I’ll be sweeping up enough hair to stuff a mattress.”

She sat him on a chair, wrapped a towel round his neck, took scissors from a drawer, and started. “When I’ve finished with this, O’Reilly”—snip—“you’ll be ready to accompany a young lady for a stroll along the banks of the Grand Canal.” Snip. “You’ll be, in the immortal words of ‘God Bless England’ by Peadar Kearney”—snip—“‘neat and clean and well advised.’”

Fingal chuckled. “I think that song was not one of praise for the island next door. Kearney fought with Michael Collins in the Easter Rebellion, you know.”

“He did. And my uncle was in the General Post Office in April ’16 too. Did two years in Kilmainham Gaol. He’s still a Sinn Féiner.” She laughed. “Black sheep of the family.”

“Pretty socialist lot, Sinn Féin,” Fingal said. “I seem to remember you felt that way too.”

“I still do. Got some of it from my uncle Ruairí. He’d never use the English, Rory.”

“Kitty, do you remember Paddy Keogh?”

“The wee sergeant with the pleural effusion? You told me in April you’d got him a job.”

“I saw him on a tram last week. He was in great form. He’d had a pay rise to four shillings and sixpence and he’s moved his family out of the tenements.”

She stooped in front of the chair and kissed him, hard and long. “Jesus, O’Reilly, and I don’t take His name in vain very often, that’s marvellous.” Her next kiss was harder.

They had the place to themselves and it was all Fingal could do to control himself.

She straightened, looked down into his eyes. “Damn you, O’Reilly, you’re not just a good clinician, you give a damn about your patients, and you act on it.” He heard a catch in her voice when she said, “I think that’s why, even though you don’t see me very often and put your work first, I haven’t dated another man for nearly a year.”

Tell her, Fingal. Tell her. “Kitty, I—” Wait for tomorrow until you get your results. He stood, hugged her, and kissed her hard. “Kitty, I—I could fall in love.” He’d come as close as he dared and to his surprise he felt as if a load had been taken from his shoulders.

“So,” she said, very quietly, “could I.” She stepped back a pace. “Some things,” she said, “take time to mature, like good wine.”

“Do you want time, Kitty,” he asked quietly.

“I don’t think so—but Fingal, you do.”

He looked down.

“You’ve a lot on your plate, waiting until five o’clock tomorrow.”

And the results of Father’s tests tomorrow morning.

“So let’s you and me simply enjoy today.”

“I’d like that.”

“Let me get tidied up in here.” She took a dustpan and brush and started sweeping.

Fingal sat and let his breathing and his pulse slow down.

She emptied the dustpan into a bucket, moved to his chair, stooped and kissed him. “And we’re not going to have you preoccupied today.”

A few more kisses like that, Fingal thought—

“You asked me what I’d like to do today. I want to walk along the Grand Canal. I’m going to take you as far as Dolphin Road.”

“And what’s there?”

“A restaurant. They do wonderful Sunday roasts.” She tousled his hair. “Now comb it, leave your coat, it’s a lovely day out and we’ll head over there—and I sold a painting last week, so no arguments, O’Reilly. We’re going Dutch.”

“I’ll not argue,” he said, and if a meal out was what she wanted, fine. He didn’t feel very hungry. Hadn’t all week. Exams and sick fathers could steal a man’s appetite quite away.

*   *   *

They walked hand in hand along the canal’s south bank. Neither, it seemed, wanted to chatter. She’d given Fingal a lot to think about. He was in love. Yet why in the hell couldn’t he spit it out? Too much his father’s son? Fear of what happened to Lars with Jean Neely? That was unlikely. Kitty had as much as said she loved him too. Was it all the worry about what tomorrow might bring? Fingal O’Reilly knew the answer wasn’t simple. He should stop gnawing at it like a dog at a bone.

Despite a light breeze, the day was warm and he started to sweat. Maybe he should let life bend him the way the wind tossed the weeping willows lining the bank. Their midsummer branches touched the canal like tresses falling over the heads of silver-haired women washing their hair.

Two swans glided by, white, graceful, their reflections in the calm waters blurred by a film of scum. Three drake mallard, emerald heads iridescent, squabbled and churned the waters while a dowdy duck bird stood on her head to dabble in the vegetation of the shallows. It seemed an age since he and Lars had gone wildfowling. He’d have to be told Father’s diagnosis tomorrow. Try not to think about it, Fingal, he told himself. Not now.