Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor (40 page)

“Mmmm,” she said, “I love learning new things. And it helped me to understand my own language better.”

“I agree,” said O’Reilly, “but I don’t think you’re going to a Latin class tonight.”

She laughed, a musical sound. “Not one bit. I’m going up to Belfast to fly my kite. It’s Friday.”

“Kick up your heels? Good for you, but drive carefully. There’s more frost forecast.” Winter had arrived in the north of Ireland even though it was only the first week of November. The light was gone outside and by six o’clock Kinky had got the curtains closed and a fire roaring in the upstairs grate. Outside the wind growled past the bow windows.

Kitty should be home soon. He lifted his booted right foot to keep the left one company on a footstool and swirled the Jameson round in his glass. “Seeing Terry Baird again?”

She smiled. “We’re going for dinner at the Tavern Buttery down by the Law Courts.”

O’Reilly whistled. “His law practice must be doing well.” The Buttery was a popular and pricey restaurant.

She laughed. “We go Dutch. I’m a salaried working woman, thanks to you, Fingal, and I like to pay my share.”

“Can I get you a pre-prandial?” He nodded toward the decanters.

She shook her head. “I’m driving and I’ll need to be off in fifteen minutes.” She lifted her current read,
World’s Best Science Fiction: 1965,
from the other armchair and sat. “Just wanted to tell you about a patient I saw this afternoon. She’s one of yours, but, and don’t get cross, Fingal, she wanted a woman’s opinion.”

He roared with laughter. “Why in the hell would I get cross? I think my practice is getting bigger since you came.”

“Thank you. Anyway, you know Norma Cochrane.”

“Twenty-six. Lives on the Shore Road. Husband’s an avionics expert at Short’s aircraft factory. He has a face not even the tide would take out, but they seem very happy together. It’s her third pregnancy. Last normal menstrual period…” He frowned, then said, “March fifth, so she’s—thirty-six weeks today. Oh yes, and she plays the balalaika and the penny whistle.”

Jenny shook her head. “Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, walking department of medical records. Balalaika and penny whistle? I’ll bet you know her granny’s name too.”

“Paternal is Susan, maternal is Joyce.” He lit his briar.

She chortled. “I despair. I’d need her chart to remember the half of that.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Jenny, I’ve been here for nineteen years. When you’ve been in one practice for as long you’ll remember your customers too. And before you say anything, we’ll have Barry’s answer in three and a half weeks.” And God knows, he thought, it’s getting to be a toss-up who I’d rather have stay. “Tell me about Norma.”

“I wish she’d sent for one of us,” Jenny said. “She’d have been much better seen at home and then packed off by ambulance to the Royal Maternity Hospital. She had an antepartum bleed, but it stopped so she came to the surgery.”

“It wasn’t painful?”

She shook her head.

“Sounds like a placenta praevia to me,” he said. “She should be in hospital.”

“She is. I kept her here until the ambulance came. She’ll be in RMH now.”

“Good,” O’Reilly said. “I’m sure she and her baby will be all right. It’s not good when the placenta comes before the baby, but it’s not as bad today as it was. Prof MacAfee, here in Ulster, did the early work on treating the condition conservatively. He got the maternal mortality down to half a percent and the fetal mortality down to ten percent. Have you any idea what those figures were in my day?”

“Not the foggiest, but I’ll bet they were much higher.”

“Much higher. Maternal seven percent, fetal more than fifty percent. Seven women out of every hundred with the condition died. And half the babies.”

“That’s appalling.”

“I know. I was a trainee obstetrician for a year. I saw it all. And that’s only thirty-odd years ago. People forget what a bloody risky business childbirth was and how the work of a few dedicated physicians like Davidson, MacAfee, Stallworthy, Lewis, Whitfield, have made it seem routine today. Sometimes,” he frowned, “sometimes I get a bit tired of some of the evangelical ‘natural childbirth’ brigade. I’m all for as little interference as possible,” he puffed out a cloud of smoke, “but I saw what that was like back then and I know what my colleagues did to improve things out of all proportion and I’d never want to turn the clock back.” He shuddered.

“I’m very glad I’m living today,” said Jenny, glancing down, then back up at him. “I love medicine, but one day I do want to get married, start a family. It’s good to know that’s not so dangerous for me as it would have been in your younger days, Fingal.”

“At least we did have blood transfusions, reasonably effective anaesthetics, fairly safe Caesarean sections. Can you imagine what it was like prior to that? And we were on the brink of the antibiotic era then too.”

“Penicillin, tetracyline, streptomycin, chloramphenicol. I don’t know what we’d do without them.”

“I do,” said Fingal quietly. “We had to watch a lot of people die.” He brightened. “But we did have the sulphonamides, the antibacterial drugs that preceded the true antibiotics. The first was called red prontosil. I’ll tell you a story about it one day, but you said you’d to be on your way. I’d not want you to keep Terry waiting.”

She rose. “Nor would I. He’s a lovely lad.” She paused at the door. “’Night, Fingal. I hope you’re not going to be too busy.”

O’Reilly blew out a blue cloud and sipped his whiskey. He heard Jenny greeting Kitty, and in a moment she had stuck her head into the lounge. “I’m home.”

“I’ve missed you,” he said, standing. “Drink?”

She crossed the room, pulled off her headscarf, and shook her hair free. “Not just now, thanks.”

He waited until she was seated and took his own chair.

“I came in through the kitchen. Kinky was able to tear herself away from a conversation with Archie long enough to tell me she’s made us lobster thermidor tonight. I thought a bottle of wine would be called for?” She cocked her head and pursed her lips.

Oysters weren’t the only denizens of the deep that reputedly got a fellah’s juices flowing, and Kitty knew that very well. “Bloody good idea,” he said, and by God, Jenny was out tonight. O’Reilly inhaled and cleared his throat.

“I thought so,” she said demurely, “so I popped a couple of bottles of Pouilly-Fuissé in the fridge.” She raised a wicked eyebrow.

“Wonderful,” he said, and knew his voice was husky. “Why don’t we eat up here? It’s horrid out”—The wind rattled the panes and moaned—“but the fire’s lovely and cosy and we can put on a lump of turf. I’d not mind a bit of music to dine to, say Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto?” He stood, bent, and kissed her very firmly. “That,” he said, “is because I love you very much, Mrs. O’Reilly.” He felt her tongue tip on his, stepped back, and took a deep breath.

She crossed her legs demurely with a mere whisper of nylon. “It’s our four-months-and-two-days wedding anniversary.” Her smile was feral. “I’m sure we can find some way of celebrating after a lobster dinner.” Up went her right eyebrow.

O’Reilly choked on his whiskey, then laughed until he cried. “Kitty, my love,” he said, “as usual I’m sure you’re right.” But after dinner. Calm down, boy. He took a very deep breath, swallowed, and said, “It’s always important to have something to celebrate. We made it a rule that we couldn’t have a ta-ta-ta-ra in the students’ mess at Sir Patrick Dun’s unless there was a reason. Last one I remember was Monday, June 18, 1935.”

“And the reason was?”

“The birthday of the late—as far as we knew—Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova.”

“Who?”

“The last tsar’s daughter. Don’t you remember, they made a film about her with Yul Brynner and Ingrid Bergman years ago? When I was a student, people were still talking about whether or not she’d survived the Russian Revolution. So we celebrated her birthday, June 18, 1901, it was. Our 1935 do was a grand celebration, fit for a grand duchess, I can tell you.” He laughed.

“Eejit,” she said. “I love to see you laugh, you old bear.” She used a hand to rearrange her hair, twisting it into a knot at the back of her neck. “Do you know, I think I might have a small G and T after all.”

“Right.” He rose and busied himself making her drink, singing sotto voce,

from city or country, a girl is a jewel

And well made for grippin’ the most of the while …

“And how was your day, my dear?” he asked to give himself a further chance to calm down.

“Pretty much the usual, but I saw Cromie. I’d spoken to him about Helen. He’s had a word with Walter Braidwood in Newtownards and sight unseen Walter’s recommended Helen for a ward orderly job next summer. The management committee will decide later this month.”

“Wonderful,” he said, and gave her her drink. “
Sláinte
.”

She took it, letting her hand brush lightly on his. “Cheers.” She sipped. “What have you been up to?”

He grinned. “‘The daily round the common task—’”

“‘—Will furnish all we ought to ask.’ I used to sing that hymn when I was a little girl.”

“Don’t you start finishing my quotes. It was one thing with Barry, now Jenny’s at it.” He smiled at her. “Jenny’s fitting in nicely, but she said something today that I’d simply not considered.”

“Oh?”

“She’ll want to start a family one day.” He frowned, scratched his head, and set his pipe in an ashtray.

“That’s hardly unusual, Fingal,” Kitty said.

“Yes, but how can she do that and work full time? I’ve got very used to having a lot of time to spend with you, love.” Alone with you, love, he thought, and smiled.

Kitty pursed her lips and cocked her head to one side. “I’ve no idea how we’d manage, but we don’t know Barry’s plans yet. And if he’s not coming back and you want to keep Jenny on, as I know you will do, then, as a certain Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly of my acquaintance is wont to remark, ‘We’ll cross the bridge when we come to it.’”

He smiled. “Practical as ever, Kitty O’Reilly née O’Hallorhan. And that bridge might come sooner than later. She’s out with Terry Baird again tonight.”

“Now, Fingal…” She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you meant it exactly like that.”

He frowned, and then the double entendre struck him. “Eejit. I didn’t—I mean, I wasn’t suggesting—”

Kitty raised the other eyebrow, then, slipping off her shoes, tucked her feet beneath her in one graceful movement and settled back into the chair.

“I meant I’ve a notion things are serious between those two and he might pop the question. Tonight.”

“Better,” she said. “She certainly came down the stairs at a gallop. Seemed in a hurry to get somewhere.”

“I held her up a bit. I was going to tell her some interesting medical stuff about antibiotics, but I didn’t want her to be late so I said I’d tell her some other time.”

“Good for you,” Kitty said. “A girl does not get dressed up in her best black dress and pearls to hear about antibiotics.” She chuckled and took another sip of her drink.

O’Reilly thought of the story he hadn’t told Jenny; a story of how things might have been a lot different back in ’36 if a certain antibiotic hadn’t made Fingal merely late. He’d missed the date altogether. Still—he looked Kitty up and down, perched comfortably in her armchair—it had all turned out for the best.

“Excuse me, sir,” Kinky said.

O’Reilly spun and saw her standing in the doorway. He hadn’t heard her coming. “Yes, Kinky?”

“Would you mind very much having the lobster cold with just mayonnaise, lemon slices, a potato salad, hard-boiled eggs, and a shmall-little tossed salad?”

“Would I mind? You’re offering that feast to a man who could eat the tyres off a truck.”

“I’m asking, sir, because, and I know it is not altogether right to ask, but something has come up and preparing the lobsters that way would be much quicker. I’d have been doing the garnishings anyway.”

“It’s certainly all right by me,” Kitty said.

“You see, sir—and Kitty, Archie’s mother’s visiting from Greenisland across the lough. She’s eighty-seven and Archie would like for me to meet her, so, and she’ll be leaving first thing in the morning, and—”

Oh ho, O’Reilly thought. Meeting Mama. Interesting. “You do the lobsters, stick ’em on two trays, leave them, give us a shout, and take yourself off with Archie.” O’Reilly smiled and looked longingly at Kitty. “And, Kinky? Have a lovely time and don’t feel that you need to rush home.”

39

… Painful Vigils Keep

“Wake up, Big Fellah. Come on wit’ you now. Wake up.”

Fingal was dimly aware that someone was shaking his shoulder. “Go ’way, Charlie.” He tried to roll over, pull the bedclothes round him, but hands were restraining him.

“Wake up, sir, or you’ll fall off the feckin’ chair.” It was a man’s voice, but not Charlie’s.

Where the hell was he? O’Reilly forced his eyes open, shook his head, screwed his eyes shut and opened them. His surroundings, dimly lit by a guttering, smelly paraffin lamp and the glow of a turf fire, came into sharper focus. “Sorry,” he said, sitting upright in the chair. “Must have nodded off. How’s Dermot?”

“He’s asleep, sir,” Minty Finucane said.

Fingal blinked and said, “What time is it?”

“It’s six fifteen in the mornin’, sir, and you said you’d need to examine him before he’d get his next dose at half past six.”

“Right. Let’s have a look at him.” Fingal pulled off a threadbare blanket—someone must have covered him up—got to his feet, and looked at the mattress in front of the fire. No sign of Dermot. “Where—”

“Orla took him into our bed, sir. He was still shivering. You nodded off at about t’ree. I’ve been sittin’ up so I could wake you at the right time.” He yawned.

Fingal looked at the man’s unshaven face, dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, and rubbed his own chin. He felt the rasp of stubble. “Thank you.”

Minty, carrying the paraffin lamp, crossed the room, pulled aside the blanket that did duty as a curtain, and said, “Dere dey are.”