Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor (42 page)

Kitty started working on another strip. “Back in August, not long after our honeymoon, I said I thought the roses were gaudy, but told you there was no accounting for taste and I’d let the hare sit—for a while. Then I brought it up a second time.”

He frowned and tried to remember. “When?”

“The day Colin Brown cut his foot. I recall you telling me a bit of penicillin would soon put him right.”

O’Reilly’s frown deepened. “I remember Colin’s foot.” Aye, he thought, and I recall how it had made me think of a lad called Dermot Finucane too, and that, here and now, made O’Reilly realise that maybe there were more important things in life than a change of ancient wallpaper. And there might be a glimmer of hope. Maybe Kitty had bought new roses to replace these old ones?

The next strip whispered as it drifted to the newspaper-covered floor. The paper had been hung on a wall that had previously been painted a bright green.

“But I don’t have any recollection of saying you could redecorate. Not then, anyhow.”

Kitty stopped scraping and shook her head. Her hair was done up under a headscarf, and despite his irritation O’Reilly couldn’t help but notice that even wearing khaki dungarees she managed to look attractive.

“Now, don’t get into a tizzy, dear. You were there when Helen Hewitt helped me—us—choose the new paper. The week before Bertie Bishop’s coronary I brought home a sample book. We both liked the light turquoise one with the pinstripe.”

“Both liked.” Did she mean Kitty and Helen or Kitty and O’Reilly? He knew he’d not remarked on it.

“And when I said, ‘Those roses have to go,’ you didn’t object.”

Aha. Kitty was invoking “implied consent,” the doctrine that said if a doctor suggested treatment and the patient did not refuse it was all right to assume that they agreed and go ahead.

She turned back and assaulted the wall again. “By the way, I forgot to mention to you when I got home last night—you were so keen to tell me about the prospects for the Irish Rugby International side for next season—”

He smiled when he realised that she was putting up a smokescreen, giving him time to settle down.

“—but Cromie’s Mister Braidwood has called to say the management committee have approved his request and that there will be a job for Helen as a ward orderly at Newtownards Hospital in the summer. You’ll need to speak to her about it.”

“Wonderful,” O’Reilly said, and his smile broadened. “And I do remember you actually saying, ‘Those God-awful roses have to go,’ but I don’t seem to recall agreeing with you.”

She smiled at him as a mother might whose ten-year-old has come second in the egg-and-spoon race. “Well, you didn’t exactly, but I knew you’d approve.” She blew him a kiss.

Game, set, and match to Kitty O’Hallorhan O’Reilly. Either he could give in graciously to the inevitable or start a row. And how could he possibly fight with Kitty or glue the already removed strips back on the wall? Sometimes discretion was the better part of valour. And perhaps—an idea was beginning to crystallise—there might be a way to salvage something after all. The fact that the wall had been previously painted would be a great help. He grinned, took off his jacket, and set it on a chair in the hall. “Did I ever tell you about the night Linfield, the Blues, were playing at Windsor Park against Glentoran and leading two to nil when the floodlights failed? Absolute bedlam. Then a wee man, Jimmy Dalzell from Finaghy, gets ahold of the microphone. ‘On the count of th’ee I want everyone of youse til start clapping, so I do,’ he roars. Crowd thought yer man had lost his marleys.” O’Reilly’s accent was now broad Belfast. “They must have decided to humour wee Jimmy. ‘One, two, th’ee.’ And away they went clapping like billyoh, and begod didn’t the floodlights come straight on?” O’Reilly reverted to his normal speech. “Because,” he paused for effect, “many hands make light work.”

“Many hands make—? Fingal, that’s terrible.” Kitty said, but she was chuckling.

Kinky was doubled over. “The humour of the wee north,” she said, “it would make a cat laugh, so.”

“And I do mean it,” O’Reilly said, rolling up his sleeves. “Have you ladies another stripper and I’ll give you a hand?” He fell to work with brio, all the while accompanying himself by singing,

’Tis the last rose of summer left blooming all alone

All her lovely companions, are faded and gone …

“Ah,” Kinky, said, “’Tis powerful voice you are in today, sir, and seeing yourself is in good form I would like to ask you a shmall-little favour, so.”

“Fire away.”

“It would please me greatly if you and—Kitty—” Kinky smiled at her friend and O’Reilly thought back a few months to when Kinky had struggled over the proper form of address for her employer’s new wife. “When we have the old stuff off, if you would both join me in my kitchen for tea and hot buttered barmbrack, for I do think it will be about elevenses time and I’ve a matter I’d like to discuss, so, before we start hanging the new paper.”

And O’Reilly wondered if the fact that Archie Auchinleck had stayed at least an hour longer than usual in Kinky’s quarters yesterday evening could have anything to do with the “matter.” He could wait to find out, and bent to the task in hand.

*   *   *

“Hanging the new paper, Kinky? I think,” said O’Reilly, putting a hand into the small of his back, “that if you two ladies feel half as stiff as I do we may need to come up with a different tactic for doing that.” He’d had plenty of time to refine his salvage plan and now, before Kinky started her “discussion,” was the time to set the wheels in motion.

“At least the stripping job’s done,” Kinky said, climbing down from her stepladder into a sea of strips of tattered paper roses. “And in a minute you can rest your back, sir.”

Kitty brushed away stray wisps of hair that had escaped from under her headscarf with the back of her hand. “That tea and barmbrack you promised sounds wonderful, Kinky. I could certainly use a breather.”

“Come along then.” Kinky led them to her kitchen, which as usual was redolent of something wonderful cooking. “I did think that I’d make a nice Dublin coddle for dinner,” she said, “and although some recipes use water I prefer to make my own stock, so.”

O’Reilly relished the thought of the bacon, sausage, potato, and onion dish that would be coming later and said, “I can hardly wait, but let’s get the kettle on now.”

“Doctor O’Reilly, Kitty, will you both please take a chair?”

They did, and watched as Kinky fussed round boiling the kettle, preparing the teapot. She sliced the freshly made circular barmbrack horizontally and popped it under the grill.

O’Reilly said, “I suspect you two were going to hang the new paper today so the waiting room will be ready for Monday.”

“That’s right, dear,” Kitty said.

“I think not,” O’Reilly said. “I have plans to take you to Belfast, Kitty. There’s a Renoir exhibition on at the Ulster Museum Art Gallery I know you’d love.”

“But—”

“And it would hardly be fair to expect Kinky to do the job all by herself.”

Kinky had removed the dark barmbrack from under the grill. She spread butter on the lower slice, replaced the upper half, and cut the loaf into pie-shaped wedges. “It would not be all by myself,” Kinky said, “Archie”—O’Reilly noticed how her voice softened—“would be pleased to help me, if that’s what you’d like.”

“Bless you, Kinky,” O’Reilly said, accepting a cup of tea and a plate with two slices of the warm loaf, “but I’ve a much better idea. When we’ve finished our elevenses and you’ve told us what you want to, I’ll nip out to Dun Bwee. Donal Donnelly’s always on the lookout for odd jobs, you know, especially now with little Tori on the scene. And he’s a damn fine paper-hanger…” Fine decorator of Halloween windows too, O’Reilly thought, “so if you have the rolls of the paper you want ready, Kitty, and the tools…”

“I have.”

“All we have to do is let Donal loose. If he’s left in peace the job’ll be done by the time we get home for dinner.” He bit into his first slice of ’brack, savouring its yeasty flavour and the sweetness of the dried fruit. Of course Donal could be easily persuaded to make some minor modifications, but he would need the privacy to do so.

Kitty sipped her tea. “Wellll,” she said, “I’d certainly like to see the Renoirs, and I’m sure Kinky could find better things to do.”

“I can.”

“Consider it arranged, then,” O’Reilly said, “and even if Donal’s not available today I’m sure he could do the job tomorrow.” He finished his first slice in one enormous bite, then said, “Now, Kinky, there was something you wanted to talk to us about?”

41

Exulting on Triumphant Wings

“Neither one of us knows how long you’ll be needed here.” Phelim Corrigan had spoken the truth. The whole day had gone by and all Fingal had been able to do was keep giving Dermot lots of water, examine him from time to time, and administer his four-hourly doses. The boy had slept.

“Are you sure you’d not like another cup of tea, sir?” Orla said. “It wasn’t much of a supper for a big lad like you.” It was seven thirty in the evening, the daylight was long gone, and the paraffin lamp was guttering and smoking. Dermot still drowsed and Minty paced the floor muttering, “How much longer, for God’s sake?”

“It was grand, Orla,” Fingal lied. Breakfast had been a bowl of thin gruel and a cup of tea. At two forty-five he’d managed to choke down a boiled pig’s cheek with a boiled onion for lunch after he’d examined Dermot. Fingal had not seen any improvement then, yet there had been no further deterioration, no more extension of the red lines either. All he’d managed to say to Minty and Orla had been, “He’s holding his own,” and had given Dermot his sixth dose.

“I’d feckin’ well hope so,” Minty’d said.

After lunch the man had snatched his duncher from a peg, said, “Jasus, I hate bein’ cooped up in here, worried sick. I can’t take it no feckin’ more. I’m goin’ out,” and slammed the door as he left.

Orla had shaken her head. “Don’t blame him, sir. He blames himself. He t’inks if he hadn’t rolled home stocious the night before you and Doctor Corrigan came…” She sighed and folded her shawl round her. “He t’inks if he’d let the stone bruise go sooner all dis wouldn’t have happened.” Her eyes had glistened. “He loves Dermot just as much as I do, but poor oul’ Minty has terrible trouble hiding his feelings. He can work himself up intil a ferocious rage and dis time he’s mad at himself. Better he’s out.” She smiled. “He’ll be back by suppertime.”

Fingal hadn’t known what to say to comfort her. He’d begun wondering how Columbus, DaGama, Cabot, and their likes had felt when the familiar land disappeared astern. Would they find new lands or would they sail off the edge of the world? How had they felt? Bloody terrified, just like me, he thought. He supposed those early explorers had people they could trust, friends who had faith in them and were happy to let them exercise their own judgement. He blessed Phelim Corrigan for his understanding. His faith.

Fingal had already made up his mind that he’d wait until midnight and then get Dermot admitted. Give in to failure. Fingal hated the thought, but by then thirty-six hours would have passed since treatment had begun. He remembered that Sister Oonagh O’Grady had said it was then that improvements usually started in the patients Doctor Davidson was treating with Prontosil at the Rotunda.

Fingal looked around and wished he could get out of here for a while like Minty. Somehow the room seemed to be shrinking. “Where’ll your husband go?” he asked.

She shrugged. “The boozer likely. Look for a bit of comfort from his friends. Try to find peace in a pint.”

“I hope he’ll be sober when—”

“I’ll feckin’ kill him if he’s not,” she said, and looked sideways at a serrated bread knife on the counter.

Fingal was not convinced that her words were an exaggeration.

Minty had come home stone-cold sober an hour later. “Sorry about dat,” he said. “I had to get some feckin’ fresh air. Smoke a fag or two. I walked around on the Quays. How is he, Doctor?”

“He’s no worse.”

Minty’d pulled his chair over to where Dermot lay and had sat holding his son’s hand until Fingal came to give the six thirty dose.

Fingal repeated the examination. No change. “Much the same, I’m afraid.” He looked at the red fluid in the beaker. “All I can tell you is that this stuff has worked in France, Germany, and England.”

“I hope it’s got nothing against us feckin’ Irish,” Minty said, sighed, and smoothed his son’s brow.

Fingal said nothing and together they sat in a silence punctuated by Dermot’s steady breathing, the spluttering of damp turf burning.

Someone was knocking on the door.

“Who’s dere?” Minty asked. “Mebbe Doctor Corrigan’s come back?”

Fingal answered the door then smiled. “Come in, Bob.” Fingal turned to the Finucanes. “You remember Doctor Beresford who came here last night?”

Bob came to just inside the doorway.

They greeted him and he returned the pleasantry.

“I’d forgotten I’d asked him to come round tonight and bring my bike,” Fingal said.

“It’s in my car,” Bob said. “How’s your patient?”

Fingal sighed. “Holding his own, but no obvious improvement yet.”

“Anything I can do?” Bob seemed anxious to get out of the room, hesitated, then said, “I nipped over to Lansdowne Road Rugby Grounds after my lunch, was able to explain to Charlie why you probably wouldn’t show up…”

“The Bective Rangers rematch. Damn it, I’d completely forgotten.”

“Aye,” said Bob. “Charlie said he understood, said he’d explain to your captain.”

“Thanks, Bob.”

Bob shrugged. “Least I could do for you considering the investment you’re making here. Sure there’s nothing more I can help with?”

“I’m sure.”

“Then I’ll be trotting on. Come and get your bike.”

“I’ll only be a minute,” Fingal said, following Bob.

“I hope you don’t mind me rushing off,” Bob said, opening the car’s door and hauling the bike out.

“Not at all. There really is nothing you can do.” Fingal took hold of the handlebars.