A Dublin Student Doctor (38 page)

“Me,” said Cromie, lifting his glass. “In the immortal words of my Scottish forbears—”

“I didn’t know you were descended from bears,” Charlie said. “Which one? The grizzly,
Ursus horribilis,
I’ll bet.” He held his arms crooked above his head, hands curled into claws, and made a ferocious growling noise.

Fingal laughed.

Bob chucked a cushion at Charlie, who dodged, but managed to spill some Guinness on Fingal. “Shut up, Greer,” Bob said, “and let Cromie finish.” He turned to Cromie. “The floor is yours.”

Cromie bowed, then said, “To Fingal’s dextrous surgical fingers—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Bob said, “but would you consider being a surgeon, Fingal?”

“I might,” Fingal said. “I just might. We’ll see.”

“Just curious,” Bob said. “We’re all going to have to choose pretty soon.”

That, thought Fingal, is pretty promising. Bob’s including himself in “all.”

Bob said, “Carry on, Cromie.”

Cromie pointed at Fingal. “To his forthcoming success in Finals Part One,” he swept an arm wide to encompass the room and intoned, “and to us four. As us Caledonians say, ‘Here’s to us. Wha’s like us? Damn few—and they’re mostly dead.’”

Fingal had heard it before, but somehow the intense way Cromie had spoken struck a chord. Fingal was a lucky man to have these three stalwarts as friends. He lifted his glass and said, “I’ll drink to that, all of it. By God I will.”

36

Windy Night; a Rainy Morrow

Fingal shivered. The windows in his room clattered as another gust of the rain-sodden mid-November gale smashed against the pane and a cold draught slipped past the ill-fitting sash. The rug over his legs barely kept the chill at bay. “Dublin in the winter? Bad as the bloody Bay of Biscay,” he muttered, rubbing his hands together and blowing on his fingers before he could turn the page of the book lying on the desk where he sat studying. A small paraffin heater burbled, giving off an acrid smell and precious little heat.

For a moment he mistook a knock on his door for the rattling of the window. “Come in, and shut the door behind you,” Fingal called. He’d been at his books for two hours already this evening and would be grateful for a break.

Charlie Greer, who had the room across the hall in the students’ quarters, came in, shut the door, and stood beside Fingal. Charlie was wearing a Paddy hat, raincoat, and carrying a hold-all. He must be going out somewhere.

“Yes, Charlie?” Fingal asked.

“Still at it? So our session here last month didn’t lead your stumbling feet off the paths of righteousness.” Charlie leant over and grunted. “The spleen.” He read the page heading from the 1935 edition of
A Short Practice of Surgery
by Bailey and Love. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

Fingal said, “It is. I try to read about any new case we see, and Bob and I were on duty last night. Fellah with a ruptured spleen came in. I assisted Mister Kinnear and Doctor Ellerker at the splenectomy. They let me close the incision.”

Charlie shivered and said, “It’s cold as a witch’s tit in here.” He asked, “Mind if I have a pew?”

Fingal shrugged. Charlie, like all Irishmen, should be used to their miserable winters. There was no point complaining. Then Fingal smiled and said, “Park yourself.”

The springs gave a
twang
as Charlie flopped onto the two-seater. He said, “I’m pretty sure I’m going to be a surgeon.” He grinned. “In the last five months we’ve removed sebaceous cysts, ingrowing toenails, repaired uncomplicated hernias, fixed abscesses, appendixes, varicose veins. I love working with my hands. I want to do more.”

“I’ve enjoyed it too,” Fingal said, “but I think of it as training for general practice. Doctors in the country are still taking out appendixes on kitchen tables.”

“And speaking of which—”

“Kitchen tables?”

“No, you goat.” Charlie shook his head. “Appendixes. The last time you took a break was when we descended on you with Guinness to celebrate you taking out your first one.”

“No,” said Fingal, holding up a hand like a traffic policeman on point duty. “Oh no. Not again.” He turned in his chair and roared, “Bob and Cromie, if you’re lurking out there, go ’way to hell out of it.” He lowered his voice. “Charlie, I don’t mind chatting with you for a while, but tonight I still want to read the pathology of pancreatitis and the bacteriology of tuberculosis. And I was just finding out if removing the spleen was any good for cases of leukaemia.” He hoped so.

Charlie chuckled. “Don’t worry. The lads aren’t here. I came by myself, and I can save you some reading. It’s been tried in the past for cases of leukaemia, but splenectomy has no curative value. It’s not done anymore.”

“I see. Thanks.” Fingal wasn’t going to discuss his family’s affairs with Charlie, so would keep his disappointment to himself. “But I still have more studying to do tonight.”

Charlie pushed his Paddy hat back and ran fingers through his red fringe.

“You’re bound to pass.”

Fingal shrugged. “I shouldn’t have missed so many classes.”

“I wonder,” said Charlie, “if all those practices last season improved our game. I’ve been training on Thursdays, but you haven’t, and I reckon you outplayed me last Saturday.” He grinned. “Did Bob tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Doctor Murray and Mister Musgrave were at the match.”

Fingal spun in his chair. “Seriously? The selectors?” Rugby, even at an international level, was an amateur game. The scouts were volunteers who themselves had long been associated with the sport. Since his first cap in 1927, Doctor P. F. Murray had collected eighteen more for Ireland. To Fingal, to any serious player, there could be no greater honour. Charlie’s news made Fingal quiver.

Charlie nodded. “I reckon we both have a chance. The trial’s before Christmas. If we’ve been picked for it we’ll hear in the next week.”

Fingal grunted. “My exam’s just before Christmas too.”

“Fingal,” Charlie said quietly. “It’s a chance to be picked to play for your country.” He waited.

Fingal said nothing.

Finally Charlie broke the silence. “You know, the rest of the lads and I, we worry about you.”

“I’m fine.” Fingal glanced at the page. It was time to get back to work, but Charlie was not to be put off.

“You’re not the old Fingal. You’re more like Mister Badger in
The Wind in the Willows.
You never leave your lair. It’s not healthy. The odd night getting your mind off the books wouldn’t hurt you.” Charlie picked up his hold-all, unzipped it, took out a boxing glove, and tossed it at Fingal.

He caught it. “What the hell?” Without thinking he sniffed the scuffed leather and the memories came.

“Bob says you told him you’d boxed in the navy. I’d often wondered where you got those lugs.”

Fingal’s ears were thickened from his years in the ring at school and at sea. He laughed and nodded. “Aye, I did box a bit back then. See that?” He pointed to a scar under his left eye. “I got that in 1930 on board HMS
Tiger.
We were in Gibraltar. Referee stopped the fight early in the third.” He didn’t want to seem to be boasting to Charlie so didn’t mention how the bout had ended.

“I go to the gym every Tuesday,” Charlie said, “skip, punch the bags, spar if I can get a partner. Helps keep me trim.”

“I just play rugby on Saturdays,” Fingal said, “but I reckon I’m pretty fit.”

“Physically,” Charlie said, “but, and I mean it, you’re not the old, hoist skeletal Gladys up in her knickers, stuff Fitzy’s stethoscope with cotton wool Fingal. There was a time you enjoyed playing practical jokes, took a jar with the lads, went to the flicks. We reckon the odd night out of this room away from those damn books wouldn’t hurt, and it doesn’t have to be a night in the boozer. You’re getting old before your time.” Charlie grinned and said, “We’ll be buying you a walking stick soon—old man.”

Fingal roared with laughter. “Bugger you, Greer. Old man? Walking stick? If you’ve got a second pair of gloves in that bag I’ll show you who’s an old man.”

“Will you, by God?” Charlie laughed. “Will you? Have you guttees?”

“Gym shoes? I have.” Fingal cocked his head, looked at Charlie, then back to the surgical text. Surely he could afford a couple of hours? And Fingal O’Reilly could never resist a challenge.

Charlie nodded at the hold-all. “I’ve three more gloves, spare trunks. Mine should fit you.”

Fingal cocked his head at Charlie then marked his page. “I want to be back here at nine.” He rose and chucked the glove back.

Charlie caught it, stood, and landed a deadner, a punch on Fingal’s biceps.

Fingal laughed. “You, you gingernutted bollix, you have three rounds coming up. I hope you’re good.” He went to a coat rack and took down his overcoat and duncher, pulled gym shoes from a drawer and shoved them in his coat pockets. “I never did tell you what happened after that fight in Gibraltar was stopped, did I?” To hell with modesty. Charlie was entitled to know Fingal’s boxing history. He shrugged into his coat and pointed to the scar under his eye. “After the referee restarted us in the third I KO’d my man. Knocked the tripe out of him. I won the fleet trophy.” Fingal opened the door, “Just thought you should know,” he said, smiling and bowing to Charlie. “After you.”

*   *   *

Fingal walked at Charlie’s side. The wind was from the southeast and blew on their backs. Never mind. A few brisk rounds would warm him up. “So you go to the gym every Tuesday, Charlie?” Fingal waited for a car to turn onto Macken Street. Since he’d teamed up with Bob for their ward duty he’d seen a lot less of Charlie Greer than when they’d been partners during their medical clerkship under Doctor Micks.

“Unless Cromie and I are on call,” Charlie said. “Come on.” He led across the road. “My dad taught me to box,” he said. “The old man reckoned it was a good way to get things out of your system, and it certainly came in handy if you were getting picked on at school.”

Fingal laughed. “I know that,” he said. “I had to learn the hard way too, but I did enjoy boxing for its own sake.” He shook his head. “But ever since we started classes I couldn’t fit everything in. This medicine takes up a lot of time.”

“I hesitate to comment,” Charlie said, “but you used to have time for other things—like Kitty O’Hallorhan.”

The traffic stopped Fingal at the intersection with Holles Street. Three times since the night they’d parted he’d walked down there on his way to the flat she shared with Cromie’s Virginia Treanor to try to see if Kitty would consider giving him another chance. Three times he’d turned back before he’d reached Leeson Street. “I miss her, Charlie,” he said.

They crossed the road.

“The lads and I reckoned you were getting serious about her. We know you’re hurting, but you’re too bloody self-sufficient to tell us.”

It was on the tip of Fingal’s tongue to tell Charlie to mind his own business, but Charlie ploughed on, “We’re worried and we’d not be if you weren’t our friend. We’d help you if we could.”

“Thanks, mate,” Fingal said. They were his friends. “I do miss her. A lot.” After nearly five years together Charlie Greer had become an easy man to trust. “I’m—I’m going to ask her for another chance after I’ve passed this exam, and I’ll not do that if I don’t study.” He forced a smile. “The work on the wards, the studying keep my mind busy so I don’t have time to fret over other things.”

Charlie cleared his throat. “Maybe you should fret. Just a bit. Not wait too long to talk to her.”

Fingal stopped. “What the hell are you on about?” He turned to face Charlie and felt the chill of the wind and rain.

Charlie stopped. “If it concerned anyone but you, Fingal, I’d not repeat this.” He hesitated as if seeking permission to continue.

“Go on.”

“I was having a blether with Cromie earlier. His Virginia let it slip to him last night that Kitty’s seeing one of the doctors from where she’s working at Baggot Street Hospital.”

Not half a mile from here, just past Merrion Square, Fingal thought, and wondered who the hell the bastard was. The gobshite. He surprised himself at his vehemence.

“I see,” he said very quietly. “I see.” He turned from Charlie and began striding toward the gym. A trickle of frigid water slipped past his collar and Fingal O’Reilly shuddered. Seeing someone else? He jammed his hands into his coat pockets only to find them stuffed with his gym shoes. He gritted his teeth. He’d be changing into the guttees soon enough and stepping into the ring. Fingal’s jaw clenched. He wished with all his heart it could be with the doctor from Baggot Street, not his friend Charlie Greer.

37

Must Often Wipe a Bloody Nose

Fingal sat in his corner at the end of the second round and inhaled the stink of sweat, dusty floors, the leather that wrapped the ring’s ropes. The lights overhead glared, but the grey canvas covering the floor reflected none. The rest of the gym faded into indistinct shadow, muffled sounds of other boxers thumping bags, skipping. The only place that mattered to Fingal was an eighteen-foot-square arena bounded by four padded ropes.

What had Charlie said on the walk over? That boxing was a good way of getting things out of your system? By God it was. You’d no time to worry over other matters no matter how pressing when your opponent was trying to knock your block off. Trouble was you couldn’t always control your errrant thoughts between rounds. He’d still like to have Kitty’s anonymous doctor from Baggot Street in here instead of Charlie. Damn it he missed her.

Fingal willed his breathing to slow. His ribs ached. Charlie had landed a couple under Fingal’s guard, but Fingal had given as good as he’d got, and more. He nudged his gum-guard in place, used his forearms to straighten his protective headgear, and stood. Charlie was good, but Fingal knew he was better. His gloved fists curled.

The referee, the gym’s professional trainer, beckoned.

Fingal and Charlie left their corners, touched gloves, and crouched ready.

“Round t’ree. Last round. Box.”

Fingal led with his left, circled slowly to his right. He didn’t want to win on points. He wanted a knockout. Find the opening. Feint. Jab. Jab. Charlie blocked them easily. Left feint to the head. Right to the chest under Charlie’s guard. Fingal felt the thump on his fist, heard breath being forced out. Charlie’s helmeted features blurred in Fingal’s eyes. It was no longer Charlie Greer on the receiving end, but a faceless man, an anonymous opponent. Or was he?