Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor (16 page)

“No.” He laughed. “Three weeks back I saw an accident, gave first aid until the ambulance came. They brought him here with a Pott’s fracture…”

“Mister JJF,” she said.

Still this nonsense of only referring to patients by their initials. And why should it have changed in only a month?

“Don’t tell me you’re the Big Fellah?” She looked him up and down. “I should have guessed.”

“’Fraid so.” He laughed and so did she.

“He’s doing as well as can be expected,” she said. “Mister Kinnear did a closed reduction and put a plastercast on it. We’ve been doing weekly X-rays and the surgeons are pleased with the alignment of the fragments. The patient’s in the OTC Commemoration Bed.” OTC stood for officers training corps.

“Oh,” said Fingal, and felt a little shiver. He remembered the first time he’d read the brass plaque beside the bed.…
Endowed by the citizens of Dublin in recognition of the gallant defence of Trinity College. Easter 1916.

“I know,” she said, “it hit you hard when KD died. My heart bled for you.”

“It did hurt,” he said, thinking of Kevin Doherty, who two years before had lain in the same bed, “and thank you for that, Mary.”

“Och,” she said, “everybody felt it except that one there.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Heartless gobshite.” She inclined her head to a gangly figure in a white coat who was halfway down the multiple-bedded ward. He had gold pince-nez and a protuberant Adam’s apple. “Your old friend Fitzpatrick’s our new houseman.”

“Good God,” said Fingal. “Ronald Hercules. How do you put up with him?” He remembered the arrogant man who had been in Fingal’s year.

“With great difficulty,” she said, “but needs must. Go on now and see your patient. I’ve a report to write, but I’ll make you a cup of tea before you go.”

“Thank you. I’d like that.” He headed off between the rows of beds.

“What brings you here, O’Reilly?” Fitzpatrick demanded as Fingal passed the bed where Fitzpatrick was turning back the bedclothes preparatory to examining a young man.

“I know one of the patients. He got hit by a tram. I saw him then.”

“Still the same O’Reilly. Don’t think anyone but you knows how to treat people.” He sniffed.

“
Au contraire,
Hercules”—Fingal knew the man hated to be called Hercules—“just curious about how he’s getting on.” He kept walking.

He passed a bed with a metal gantry at its foot where bandages from a man’s injured leg had been twisted into a rope that ran over a pulley-wheel and were attached to a twenty-pound weight. The end of the bed was elevated nine inches and the patient lay head down. That was how fractured femurs were treated. The traction kept the broken ends aligned and reduced the damage to the surrounding muscles. Fingal’s nostrils were assailed by the stench of Sinclair’s glue, a substance made of glue, water, thymol, and glycerine with powerful adhesive properties and a ferocious stink. The compound was applied to the skin once a fracture had been reduced, and the bandages, which would be used to exert traction to keep the bone ends in place as they healed, stuck firmly to the glue. Its smell, and all too frequently that of decaying flesh in cases of infected compound fractures, were the olfactory hallmarks of orthopaedic patients. The man would be there for three months.

“Jasus Murphy, Doctor O’Reilly. What brings you here?” said John-Joe Finnegan from the next bed as Fingal passed the gantry. He put down the
Irish Times
and smiled. Fingal glanced at headlines that screamed,
Adolf Hitler Opens Berlin Olympics Today,
and a smaller one announcing,
Command of Nationalist Forces Split Between Generals Franco, Quipo del Llano, and Mola Vidal.
The Spanish Civil War had broken out on July 17.

“I used to work here,” Fingal said. “Sister Daly’s an old friend. I pop in to see her once in a while and I knew they’d brought you here so I thought—”

“You’d see how I was doing. Fair play to you, sir. Fair play.” He grinned. “Mister Kinnear, the surgeon, he says I’ll be here for at least another six weeks til the bones have knit.” He sighed. “Even den I’ll have a funny-looking joint, but I’ll be able to hobble around. It was good of you til come to see me, sir. Did you get the job with Doc Corrigan?”

“I did,” said Fingal, “three weeks ago yesterday.”

“Dat’s grand altogether.”

“And are they treating you well, John-Joe?”

“Couldn’t be better. At least I get my three squares a day in here. Jasus, but the grub’s great.”

Fingal, when he’d been a resident student here, had been fed from the same kitchen. “Great” was not the adjective he’d have used, but he supposed that when your diet was mostly potatoes, vegetables, and beef parings that could be bought for fourpence, the variety of the hospital meals would seem pretty good.

John-Joe sighed. “It’s tougher at home. I’ve a plot out at Dolphin’s Barn where I grow some veg. A fellah I know’s looking after it for me.” He forced a smile. “Anyroad, my Ailish and the two weans are managin’. She gets the ‘Relief’ money on Wednesdays and dat pays the rent, the neighbour’s granny looks after our two while Ailish makes a few bob as a cleaner, and she’s always been brilliant on Saturday nights at the nine thirty auctions.”

Fingal frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Bless you, sir, and why would you, a toff like yourself?”

Fingal had never exactly thought of himself in those terms, but he supposed in John-Joe’s eyes he would be.

“Every Saturday night at nine thirty the butchers auction off all the meat they couldn’t sell during the week. She gets some not bad leavings. Makes great stews. You might not t’ink much of dem, but och, sure, sir, for the likes of us, when you never get a salmon you’re happy wit’ a herring.”

Fingal smiled.

John-Joe’s face fell. “The trouble is when dey let me out we’ll have another mouth til feed—me—and it’ll be hard looking for a job.”

Fingal wished he could say something comforting, do something practical, but he knew he was powerless. “I wish … well, anyway,” he said, “I’m delighted to see you’re doing well.”

“And t’ank you for comin’ til see me. If you’re working in Aungier, I’ll likely see you round the place, sir.”

“Indeed you might,” said Fingal. “You take care. I have to trot.” He half turned, then remembering, shoved his hand into his jacket pocket and fished out a packet of Woodbine cigarettes. “Here,” he said, giving them to John-Joe and, ignoring the man’s thanks, headed back up the ward only to meet Doctor Micks going the other way.

“O’Reilly,” he said, “what brings you here? I thought you were working in a dispensary.”

“An orthopaedic patient, sir. Pott’s fracture. One of Mister Kinnear’s.” Fingal smiled. “He’s doing well, I’m pleased to say.”

“Good.” Doctor Micks stared down at his highly polished black shoes then straight at Fingal. “I’m so very sorry about your father.”

“It was decent of you to come to the funeral, sir. My mother appreciated it.”

“I wanted to come. Your father was a good man and I enjoyed getting to know him, even under the circumstances. It’s a pity we can’t do more.” He pursed his lips. “Sorry I couldn’t make the interment and graveside service, but Holywood’s a long journey for me from Dublin.”

“It’s all right, sir. We understand. It was my father’s wish to be buried there. He was born there and he wanted to—well, to go home.”

“Yes, of course. Please,” said Doctor Micks, “give my regards to your mother.”

“I will,” said Fingal, and after a moment’s embarrassed silence said, “I’d best be going, sir.” He headed down the ward, angry for the plight of John-Joe Finnegan, sad for his father, and suddenly in need of a comforting cup of tea with Sister Mary Daly.

15

Bring Equal Ease unto My Pain

“I’d’ve come out to the farm to see you, you know, Brenda,” O’Reilly said.

The pale young woman before him had curly auburn hair under a rain-spotted plastic hood and dark eyes behind National Health Service granny glasses. She was clearly having difficulty breathing, and, judging by the way she screwed up her face, each breath hurt. “Och, Doctor, dear,” she said, and grimaced, “I’m not altogether at myself, but I’m not at death’s door neither. There’s no need for anyone to come traipsing out into the Ballybucklebo Hills on a day like the day.”

He heard rain pattering on the surgery window. It hadn’t been the greatest summer, and here in early September yet another disturbance had come in from the Atlantic. Och well. They say in Ireland, “Rain at seven, fair by eleven,” and it was pretty well true. Four hours was about the spacing of the small low-pressure systems that tore across the isle bringing rain squalls—and kept it emerald.

“Not at yourself? You’re not just a bit unwell, Brenda Eakin, you’re sick. I could have come, or seeing it’s my turn in the surgery today, I would have sent Doctor Bradley.”

“Doctor Bradley?” Brenda lowered her voice. “Och, sure, haven’t you seen me ever since I was wee and don’t you know all about me? I’d be daft to swap horses in the middle of a gallop, if you know what I mean, like? I’m happy for til see yourself, so I am.”

O’Reilly pulled off his half-moon spectacles and peered at her. Bertie Bishop’s strong reaction to a woman doctor four days ago and now Brenda. Jenny still had failed to convince some of the practice that she was to be trusted. He tried to persude himself that it was the usual reactionary response of country folk to anything new … “Better the divil you know, that it?” he said, and smiled. But he was concerned. Was it merely because she was new, and young? Barry had taken a while to be accepted. He’d almost forgotten how he’d had to help young Laverty when a patient of his had died and it seemed the whole village had lost faith in him. O’Reilly would help Jenny all he could too, but it was also up to Jenny, who’d been here for more than two months, to keep working hard to allay local suspicions. But she could hardly change her genetic makeup.

After having taken an instant liking to the young woman, he was also becoming increasingly impressed with her clinical acumen. And during the dinner in Ballymena, Barry had expressed no interest in coming back. If he didn’t, Fingal would be happy to work with Jenny Bradley as his partner, if she could fit in here. Worry about it later, he told himself. Get Brenda sorted out first.

“You’re no divil, Doctor O’Reilly. You just—” She gasped. “—only pretend to be as tough as oul Balor.”

In Irish mythology, Balor was the king of the Fomorians, a race of giants. His gaze could turn men to rock. O’Reilly harrumphed. Pretend indeed? She’d not seen him having that little chat with Bertie a couple of days ago. The doctors at the Royal had confirmed O’Reilly’s diagnosis of angina. Bertie had had no more attacks, and as O’Reilly had instructed the good councillor on the subject of manners to all doctors, he’d fixed Bertie with a glare that bloody nearly turned the man into a lump of Mourne granite. Balor? When his ire was up, O’Reilly would have made the ferocious giant look like an edentulous pussycat, but he needn’t dwell on it. The problem of the moment was to get Brenda better.

“Now, let’s be getting you seen to. The last time you were in was last October. For painful periods.” He’d been confident back then that the twenty-six-year-old wife of farmer Ian Eakin was suffering from primary dysmenorrhoea, periods that occurred in ovulatory menstrual cycles and were caused by contractions of the uterine muscles. It was unrelated to any organic disease. The exact cause was not known. It often disappeared after a first baby was born. “You didn’t come back,” he said, “so I imagine the medicine worked?” He’d told her to use a combination of aspirin and paracetamol, which did not require a prescription. They were to be taken four times a day on the first day of her period when the pain was worst and twice a day thereafter until the pain went away as the period diminished.

She rubbed the right side of her chest. “Pretty well. Ever since then the minute my monthlies start, I get a wheen of pills into me like you said til and I’m able til thole the cramps and get on with—” She caught her breath. “Mother of God, that smarted.” She inhaled, but it was shallow. “Like I was saying, it takes me and Ian and a bit of help from young Peter Dobbin til keep the farm going—Peter’s eye’s better by the way. So I’m able for til do my work, so I am. I didn’t need to bother you, sir, and sure don’t most women have cramps anyroad?”

“Sad, but true,” he said. Although there was some evidence that as the repressive strictures of the Victorian era were being cast aside, the numbers were falling, and a good thing too. There was precious little medicine could do. Most approaches were either to treat the symptoms medically with painkillers or resort to dilating the cervix under anaesthesia and curetting, that is scraping out the uterine lining, known as a D and C. Some heroic surgeons removed a plexus of nerves from the pelvis and claimed a 70 percent success rate, but similar results had been reported using psychotherapy.

“The new contraceptive pill does work for painful periods, Brenda.” Because, he knew, it suppressed ovulation, which clearly was a prerequisite for primary dysmenorrhoea to occur.

“Aye, but me and Ian want a family so it’s a no-go, so it’s not,” she said. “Anyroad, I have my monthlies right now. They’re a bit niggly, but…” She screwed up her face. “This thing in my chest, that’s a different kettle of fish.”

“When did it start?”

“This morning about six. I’d just got up and I was feeding the chickens when I took this stabbing in my side every time I breathed in. I have it still. For a wee minute there now I thought I was going til keel over I felt so—” She gasped and said, “Excuse me, sir,” before continuing. “—faint.”

“I see.” In fact he didn’t, not precisely anyway. Her symptoms sounded as if she had irritation of the pleura, the double membrane that sheathes the lungs. There were a number of causes. “Did you hit your chest on anything?”

She shook her head.

That ruled out traumatic haematothorax, blood between the pleural layers caused by a blow. “I remember giving you a TB test in 1946 when you were seven.”