Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor (27 page)

“Thanks,” he said, “and thanks for trying. I do understand.”

Ma brought her own plate and sat. “At least,” she said, “and I’ve been working on this for a few weeks—at least I’ve been able to solve our own employment problems. Trying to find places for Bridgit and Cook after this place is sold hasn’t been easy. Most big houses are reducing their staffs. It’s simply too expensive now. But things have worked out for us, and just in time too. The estate agent sent round a nice couple yesterday when you were at work and I haven’t had a chance to tell you. They were very keen on buying. They’ll be making an offer today. If I accept, I’d like to have the sale completed by December the first. Lars will handle the conveyancing and help me find something suitable near him. You did say that when I leave to go to Portaferry you could move in with your friend Charlie?”

“I will, Ma. Any time it suits.”

“Good.” She rose, lifted his now-empty porridge plate, and gave him his kippers. “Eat up,” she said, took her own helping, and sat. She sighed. “I shall miss Dublin. We had quite the social life when your father—” She coughed and looked away, out the window to the redbrick walls covered in Virginia creeper. “But this old mausoleum’s far too big for me alone and there are just too many memories. I’d like a change. We were originally from the north, I’d like to go back there, and I can buy something suitable in Portaferry and have some money left over from this sale.”

“And you’d rather be in the country? Won’t you be bored? All the work you’ve been doing here for slum clearance…?”

“Heavens, there are plenty of folks involved in that here now.” She shook her head. “You’ll probably not remember Eunice Greer…”

“Husband had something to do with Mackie’s Foundry?”

“That’s right. She runs a charity for unwed mothers. She’s already approached me and I’ve agreed to help. I’ll certainly not be bored, and remember, Fingal, the north is where we’re from, and it’s not as if I don’t still have friends and family up there. I don’t expect Lars to lift and lay me, but his work seems less demanding than yours, son, so I’ll be able to see a bit more of him.” She chuckled. “And I’m not too old a dog to learn new tricks. Lars is going to teach me to drive so I’ll be able to come down here and see you and my friends too. I can stay at the Shelbourne when I come.”

“You have it all planned,” Fingal said. He’d not doubted for one minute that Ma would take charge and organise her life as she deemed fit, but with her usual concern for the servants.

She said, the catch of sadness in her voice, “I’ve had time to think about it. Perhaps too much time.”

Fingal laid his left hand on hers. “And Bridgit and Cook?” he said, squeezing the juice from a slice of lemon over the fish.

“I told Bridgit she can come to Portaferry with me if she wishes.” Ma smiled and said, “She and I aren’t getting any younger, you know.” She stopped, her fork halfway to her mouth. “She’s been with us,” Ma inhaled a deep breath, as if to help correct herself, “with me, that is, for so long she’s more of a friend than a servant. I should have missed her very much so I’m delighted that she’s agreed. I think between us we can handle the cooking.”

“I’m glad she’s going with you,” Fingal said. “She’s certainly one of my earliest memories. I think she’d be a bit lost in a new position. And Cook?”

“I’d have liked her to have come too, but she’d rather stay in Dublin.” Ma shrugged. “I can understand why, she’s Dublin born and bred. But I’ve had a piece of luck,” Ma said. “I didn’t know you knew Robin and Jane Carson. I was at their home two days ago.”

“Originally it was professional, but I’ve got to know Robin quite well. He’s a decent bloke. Great rugby fan.”

“Their cook is getting married next month to the butler of some very well-off folks who live between Blackrock and Dun Laoghaire and she’s going there with him. Cook has an interview on Monday with Jane Carson.”

“I hope it works out,” he said. “I’m sure Mrs. Carson will be easy to work for, and their place is close enough to here for Mrs. Kernaghan to be able to visit her friends without having to travel too far.” The kippers had been grilled to perfection and Fingal regretfully pushed away his plate and helped himself from a silver toast rack. He would miss Mildred’s cooking and chuckled to himself about all the times Ma had corrected him. She was to be addressed either as “Cook” or “Mrs. Kernaghan.” It was convention that cooks were called Mrs. even if they, like Mildred Kernaghan, were single women. “And you asked me what I’m up to today?”

“I did,” she said.

“First,” Fingal said, spooning up Frank Cooper’s Vintage Oxford Marmalade from a cut-glass jar. He loved the thick strips of orange peel in it. “First, I’m going to finish Cook’s excellent breakfast.” He spread the marmalade. “Then I’ve letters to write. Then I’m having lunch with Charlie and after we’ll go to Bob Beresford’s place. Bob’s our chauffeur. He’s the only one of us with a car.”

“I like your friend Bob,” Ma said. “I like all your friends.”

“Bob always did have an eye for attractive ladies,” said Fingal.

“What nonsense,” she said, blushing. “So will Bob drive you all to Donnybrook Rugby Grounds?”

“Sure, he likes to watch the matches. We’re playing Bective Rangers there at two thirty. They share the facilities with Old Wesley. It’s a great place down on the banks of the Dodder River. Father used to take Lars and me there, remember?”

“How can I forget? I thought you were catching pinkeens in the Dodder, but you were watching that awfully rough game. I think that’s what got you interested in the first place.”

“Come on, Ma, it’s not as bad as that. And you know I love it. Charlie and I are playing together for the first time today on the senior team. Charlie was selected after our first trial for the club in September but I’m afraid I had to settle for a place on the second fifteen. Last week a decent lad by the name of Willie Gibson, one of the forwards, broke his collar bone…”

Ma shuddered. “Not rough? I do hope you’ll take care.”

“I promise,” Fingal said, “and today’s really important. I’ve been called up to take Willie’s place on the senior team.”

“Fingal, that’s wonderful news.” Mary O’Reilly clapped her hands together lightly and then suddenly dropped them to her lap with a sheepish grin. “Well, of course, it’s not good news for Mister Gibson and I am sorry he’s hurt himself. But really, this is just the chance you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?”

“It is, Ma, and I intend to make the most of it because I know full well that it’s from the senior clubs’ first fifteens that the Irish International Team members are selected.”

“You will be careful, son?”

“I will, Ma. Promise.” She always worried, bless her. “After the game, I’m taking Kitty to the early showing of
City Lights
at the Lighthouse Cinema in Smithfield.” He started to rise. “She loves Charlie Chaplin.”

“So do I. You have fun, my dear,” she said. “The more I hear about this Miss O’Hallorhan, the more I like her. Why don’t you bring her round for dinner some night?”

“I will, Ma. Soon, but if you’ll excuse me now?” Fingal walked round the table, dropped a kiss on her head, and strode for the door. “I haven’t time for the news this morning, sorry. I’ll not be too late home,” he said, “but please don’t wait up.”

26

I Want Work

“Helen, come in. Come in.” O’Reilly stood smiling in the hall with the front door half open. Early October leaves, brown, sere, and rustling bowled along the gutters blown by a chill northeaster.

“I hope you don’t mind me coming til the front,” Helen Hewitt said. Her emerald green eyes sparkled. “I seen—sorry—I saw Mrs. Kincaid on the street and she told me the waiting room door would be locked, it being late afternoon, like, and just to ring the bell.”

“I’m delighted to see you,” he said, and he was. “But come in out of the wind and let me take your coat.” He hung it, a navy blue duffle complete with hood and wooden toggles, almost certainly bought at the Army and Navy Store in Belfast, on the hall coatstand. The coats were becoming the unofficial winter uniform of Queen’s undergraduates. Her heavy duffle bag, also de rigueur in that group, he set on the floor. “The weight of learning,” he said. “Textbooks?”

“Aye, and notes, and I remembered what you told me about doing more reading than medical stuff too. I’ve been working my way through those collected works of Shakespeare you gi—gave me the day the marquis told me I’d got the scholarship. We had to do
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
at school, but I never knew about his tragedies. That there
Julius Caesar
? It’s amazing. I go up to Belfast and back on the train every day. It’s a great time to read, so it is.”

“And my upstairs lounge is a better place to sit and chat,” he said, turning. “Come on up. Have you seen the film with Marlon Brando as Marc Anthony?”

“No, sir. Actually, I just popped in to ask you a question, a favour, like, and—”

“Helen Hewitt,” O’Reilly said, and pretended to glower at her, “I’m much better at granting favours when I’m sitting down, preferably with a Jameson’s in my hand. It’s that time of the day.” He glanced at his watch, quarter to six. “Come along.” O’Reilly started to climb the stairs. “Kitty’ll be home soon. I’m sure she’d like to see you too. Jenny’s off tonight. She’s up in Belfast seeing her beau, a Terry Baird. Have you met him?”

“Not yet,” she said.

“Just wondered.”

“I don’t mean to impose—”

“Helen.” He shook his head. “You are not imposing in the least and I’m delighted to see you. Let me explain something. You don’t work for me anymore. We’re practically colleagues, or will be soon. You’re not coming to see me as your doctor, are you?”

She frowned, looked dubious for a moment, then smiled and said, “No, sir, I’m not sick nor nothing, and I suppose I am going to be a doctor.”

“Damn right you are. Just like me.”

“Thank you.” She gave a contented little sigh then said, “Now the reason I came about—”

“Tell me—” He turned, climbed down, took her elbow in his hand, and pulling her along with him said, “Upstairs.”

She laughed. “Fair enough.”

Once in the lounge he said, “Have a pew. What would you like?” and headed for the sideboard. He poured himself a whiskey.

Helen took one of the armchairs in front of the fire Kinky had lit. “Would you have anything like a Babycham?”

O’Reilly frowned. He’d seen the “genuine champagne perry” advertised on TV in a campaign specifically targeting women. “I’m sorry. Kitty usually drinks gin and tonic. Would that do?”

“Lovely,” she said, “and hello, Lady Macbeth.” She fondled the white cat’s head as the animal purred and made herself comfortable on Helen’s lap.

O’Reilly gave her her drink and settled in his chair. “
Sláinte
.” He drank. A whiskey by the fire after a long day. Lovely.

“Cheers,” she said. “How’s Doctor, I mean Jenny, how’s Jenny getting on?”

“Splendidly,” O’Reilly said. “Bit of trouble at first.”

“Because she’s a woman doctor?”

He nodded, then fished out and lit his pipe. “At first, but folks are getting used to her. There are one or two of my women patients who are asking for her specifically now.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “And I’m sure it’ll be even easier by the time I’m qualified.” She leant forward and said seriously, “A couple of the girls in the class have been reading a book by Betty Friedan.”

“
The Feminine Mystique,
” he said. “If that stuff interests you, you should try
The Second Sex
by Simone de Beauvoir. I read it when it first came out in 1949. Interesting ideas. I reckon, judging by reports from America, there are changes coming for women.” He half-smiled. “And I’m not convinced us men are necessarily going to like them.” He wandered over to the bookshelf, took down the volume, and gave it to her. “See what you think.”

“Thanks very much,” she said, studying the book’s cover photo of de Beauvoir. “But she wasn’t the first one going on about women’s rights. I’ve read about the suffragettes.”

“I think you’d have to go farther back than that. Mary Wollstonecraft was agitating back in the eighteenth century.” He blew a smoke ring. “You still smoking?”

“Aye, certainly.”

“Feel free.”

She lit up.

He noticed that she was now smoking Gallagher’s Greens, a step up from her earlier cheap brand.

“I came to ask you if—”

“Later, Helen. I want to hear how you’re getting on.”

“I love it,” she said, “and a lot of the work’s just like what we did for our school exams. Physics, chemistry, botany, and zoölogy.” She exhaled, the smoke curling up. “But it’s a whole new experience,” she said. “There’s fifteen of us girls and about a hundred men, and in first year the dental students take the same classes as us so the lectures’re always filled.” Her eyes widened. “The teachers treat us like grown-ups.”

“You are one,” he said.

She laughed. “Some of the boys don’t behave like it.”

“Ragging the teachers, are they? We once had a skeleton called Gladys that could be lowered on a rope from the rafters. Three of my class dressed her in ladies’ undies and put an alarm clock in the hollow of her pelvis. It went off in the middle of the class. Great fun.”

“I don’t suppose you’d have been one of the three?”

He chuckled, winked, and blew another smoke ring.

“Bad divil,” she said, and laughed. “I don’t think it’s changed much. When we started, the professor of physics, Doctor Emelaeus, told us that he was conducting very important experiments in a sonics laboratory under the lecture theatre and that loud noises from overhead could ruin years of work.” She sipped her gin. “We were quiet as mice for six weeks, definitely not normal for medical students now, or in your day either, Doctor O’Reilly, I’m sure.”

“We could be a pretty rowdy lot,” O’Reilly said, “but what the hell? People used to give students fools’ pardons for a bit of high spirits.”

“They still do. Anyroad, one day one of the boys took a look. There was nothing down there but old storerooms.”