Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor (46 page)

And Fingal realised that Kitty’s suspicion about Phelim’s bachelorhood was right, and it might be prophetic for Fingal’s future too.

“I wish,” said Phelim, “I could say I could free up more time for ye to make it up to her.”

“I don’t think that would matter,” Fingal said. “She’s a nurse and she’s leaving next month to help with orphans of the Spanish Civil War.” He took a deep breath. “But it was a generous thought.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Phelim put down the uneaten half of his fig roll. “I was going to tell ye and Charlie on Monday anyway.”

“Tell us what?”

“Ye know I’ve been having these meetings with the dispensary supervisory committee?”

“Yes.”

“So, Fingal, they’re going to redraw the boundaries of the Aungier Street Dispensary. On Monday I was going to have to tell ye and Charlie that I’ll have to let at least one of ye go—”

At least one of them? Charlie was pretty set on leaving anyway, but what if they both had to go? Fingal knew, knew completely, that his future was here in Aungier Place working with a man who must be the best senior colleague any young doctor could ask for. He gritted his teeth, and said levelly, “I’m sure between us Charlie and I can work it out.” Charlie’d understand. Probably be relieved to have an excuse. Fingal smiled, but the smile vanished when Phelim said, “It may not be just one. The new boundaries may not even support two doctors. I’m sorry.”

“Jesus,” Fingal said. Kitty gone, probably the job he had finally decided was the right one for him gone, and—trivial in comparison, but still important to him, by missing playing rugby this afternoon he’d probably jeopardised his chances for selection, and a place on the Irish team. All taken from him in the space of twenty-four hours.

Who’d said bad things come in threes? Damned if he knew or actually gave a tinker’s curse about the source, but everything Fingal cared about had been overthrown like the shattering of the ramparts of a sand castle by the waves of Killiney Bay.

44

Choose Thou Whatever Suits

Barry Laverty didn’t seem to be able to stop laughing, but managed to say, “Donal painted those roses? He’s quite the artist.”

Immediately after letting the young man in through the front door, O’Reilly had taken Barry to view the redecorated waiting room. “What my Dublin patients would have called ‘spec-feckin’-tacular,’” O’Reilly said. “Not quite up to the standard of the old wallpaper, but, ‘Not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door … but…’”

“Mercutio,
Romeo and Juliet,
‘but mind you, ’tis enough.’”

“Indeed it is,” O’Reilly said with a smile. “You haven’t changed much, Barry, have you? But you’d be amazed by some of the things round here that have since you left. I’ll tell you about them soon, but, and I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you, I still like my jar. Come on upstairs and we’ll have a quick one.” He led and Barry followed. The young man had phoned yesterday to say he’d like to see O’Reilly at five o’clock today. Hall Campbell, the fisherman from Ardglass who last week had his patent ductus arteriosus repaired successfully, may have wondered if O’Reilly’s first name was Sherlock, but it had taken no great powers of deduction to guess why Barry’d asked to come. What he was going to say was another matter.

While Barry settled in one armchair with his glass of John Jameson, O’Reilly filled his briar and lit up before sitting himself. “
Sláinte,
” he said, raised his glass, and drank.

“Cheers,” Barry said. He pointed to the curtained bow windows. “It doesn’t seem like nearly eighteen months since I first sat with you in this room, sipping a sherry, admiring the view. Do you know, Fingal, I got so used to it I can picture it now even with the curtains closed? You can see past the moss-grown lopsided steeple, down over the rooftops of the cottages on Main Street, over the foreshore, across Belfast Lough, and out to the Antrim Hills.” He sipped. “You said, and I’ll never forget, ‘You couldn’t beat it with both sticks of a Lambeg drum.’ You were right.”

“Aye,” said O’Reilly, belching smoke. “And it’s not just the scenery or the slow pace of life. It’s a place and people that will get under your skin if you let them.”

“I have done,” said Barry quietly.

O’Reilly wondered if it was the place, its inhabitants, or a certain schoolmistress. He waited.

“I promised you a decision before the end of November, Fingal.” Barry stood, walked to the window, and came back. “I didn’t want to talk about such an important thing over the phone last evening. It has to be face-to-face.”

“I agree.” That was the sort of approach folks used if they were delivering what they thought their listeners would perceive as bad news. Did that mean in spite of loving the place Barry wasn’t coming back?

“I won’t muck about…” And he grinned. “If you’ll have me, Fingal, I’d like to be your partner starting in January.”

“Bloody marvellous.” O’Reilly rose, extended his hand. “Welcome back, Barry. We’ve missed you.”

Barry too, rose and shook hands.

“When can you start?” O’Reilly said.

“I need to give a month’s notice in Ballymena. Would Monday the third of January be all right?”

“Make it Monday the tenth. I’m sure you could use a break and Jenny won’t mind staying on for as long as that. She may need a bit of time to find another spot.” How was he going to break the news to Jenny? She was going to be very disappointed and O’Reilly hated to disappoint people. He sat and motioned Barry to do the same. “What made you decide?”

Barry sat, frowned, and shook his head. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Barry, I’m just delighted you’re coming back, the reasons don’t really matter.” But they did. Fingal wanted to know if whatever had swung Barry’s heart in this direction was anything like the decision-making a younger Fingal O’Reilly had had to wrestle with in 1936 and ’37.

“I think,” Barry said, “I missed the feeling of belonging. I missed seeing how things turned out with the patients. I liked walking down the street here and being greeted with smiles and a ‘How’s about you, Doc?’ Knowing I fitted in. There’s no Mucky Duck in Ballymena. I missed feeling we were making useful changes here in the village that had nothing to do with medicine. Like helping Donal and Julie get their house.”

History repeats itself, O’Reilly thought. Pretty much the same reasons why I chose to come back here in ’46 after the war.

“And like stopping Bertie Bishop from buying the Duck and turning it into a chrome-and-plastic tourist trap with piped Mantovani and Percy Faith? Bertie, by the way,” said O’Reilly, “had a coronary three weeks ago. That’s one of the changes I was going to tell you about. He’ll be getting home on Monday.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Fingal,” Barry said, “and I don’t mean I’m sorry he’s getting home. He’s not the most amiable of men, but you’d not wish a coronary on your worst enemy.”

O’Reilly laughed. “You’re right, Barry, but there have been occasions I’d have wished the plagues of Egypt on the bloody man. Let’s hope he makes as good a recovery as can be expected.” He raised his glass. “To you, Bertie. Get well soon.”

“To Bertie.” Barry drank.

A white blur shot acros the room, roared “Meroooowww,” launched herself into Barry’s lap, and began purring and indulging herself in what Kinky called dough-punching, kneading Barry’s lap with her forepaws. He glanced down and fondled Lady Macbeth’s head. “I missed your lunatic menagerie, Fingal.”

“You can give old Arthur his walk anytime,” O’Reilly said.

“Of course, the great lummox.” Barry sipped. “And it’s not just the things here to come back to that helped me decide,” he said. “I’ve learned something about myself too. I love obstetrics, but I’ve discovered that I didn’t like doing well-woman clinics. I know Pap smears are critical for the early detection of cancer of the cervix. I know they’re important to the individual woman, but in the hospital they come in and out so fast their faces are a blur. They’re barely people. Simply a procedure to be performed as efficiently as possible, then move on to the next.” He shrugged. “And much as I enjoy the difficult technical aspects of gynaecology, I like to get to know the customers and”—his grin was wry—“I also much prefer working with them when they’re conscious.” He looked up and smiled. “I think I’m a more natural G.P.”

“That’s honest of you,” O’Reilly said. “And you’re going to be a fine G.P. I’ve watched you grow. I’ve been at it for more than twenty years—in Dublin, and here before the war. I don’t think you could ask for a better job.” He glanced at his whiskey. “My glass seems to have a hole in the bottom. Top up?”

Barry shook his head. “No thanks. I’m having dinner with Sue in Holywood.”

O’Reilly rose and poured for himself. “Nice girl, your Sue,” he said, back turned to Barry. Was she part of his reason for coming back? O’Reilly would love to hear but would not ask Barry directly.

“Very,” said Barry. “I never thought I’d say it, Fingal, but leaving was the best thing Patricia Spence could have done for me.” Barry sat forward, glass held between both hands.

O’Reilly took his own seat. “Because?”

“Because I’d never have found Sue.” There was a softness in Barry’s voice. “I think, and let’s keep it between you and me, Fingal—”

Father O’Reilly, confessor of this village and townland, O’Reilly thought, and smiled. Here we go again.

“One day soon, next year when I can afford it, I’m going to ask her to become Mrs. Laverty.” Barry blushed.

“Thundering Jasus, lad, that’s marvellous.” O’Reilly rose, grabbed Barry’s glass. “Good for you. Good for you, and by God, if I’m willing to drink to Bertie Bishop, you and I sure as all bedamned are going to raise a glass to you and Sue. If you’re as happy as Kitty and me, you can’t ask for better.”

“All right, Fingal,” said Barry, laughing. “But just a wee one.”

Fingal rose and poured. “I think,” he said, “Kitty and I have started an epidemic. Archie Auchinleck proposed to Kinky two weeks ago and she said yes. That’s another change you didn’t know about.”

“Good Lord,” said Barry. “That’s absolutely wonderful. As our old friend Donal might say, ‘More power to her wheel.’” He accepted his topped-up drink.

“It was the most touching thing, you know. She came to me to see if Kitty and I’d be able to manage if she moved out. Said if we couldn’t she’d turn Archie down.”

“Typical of the woman to put other people first,” Barry said. “It’s going to be a very different Number One without her.” He frowned. “I’ll certainly miss her cooking. It was one of the things I had in mind as worth returning for. The junior doctor’s mess at the Waveney wasn’t exactly Cordon Bleu.”

“She’ll still be cooking and working part time, Barry,” O’Reilly said, “and I thought you might like to move into her quarters after she leaves. It would be more comfortable than your old attic bedroom.”

“That would be great.”

“I’m pleased you’re coming back, Barry,” O’Reilly said. “And don’t worry about the details. I’ll have my solicitor draw up a contract. At least it’s not like in my younger days when a doctor often had to buy into a practice.”

“A good thing too,” Barry said. “I’m poor as a church mouse. I couldn’t afford—”

Jenny stuck her head round the door. “Just popped in to say, cheerio, Fing—Oh, hello, Barry. How are you?” She grinned at him. “Still liking obstetrics?”

Barry looked at O’Reilly, clearly not wanting to be the one to break the news to Jenny.

“Jenny,” O’Reilly said, “I think you’ve known all along this could happen. And your work here has been superb—”

Her smile fled. “I see.” She swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” O’Reilly said, feeling like a chaplain telling the condemned prisoner that the warden had rejected the plea for clemency, “but Barry does want to come back.”

Jenny sucked in her cheeks, nodded. “Lucky you, Barry,” and to O’Reilly’s surprise she smiled again. “You know,” she said, “I am disappointed. Very.”

O’Reilly flinched.

“I did want the job a great deal, but no hard feelings. It was yours to come back to, Barry. Fingal, you made that very clear from the start. I shall miss the people here and the work very much, because I am breaking down the ‘I don’t want a lady doctor’ opinions. And I’ll miss you, Fingal O’Reilly, you old toasted marshmallow.”

“Toasted what?”

“Crusty as bejasus on the outside, but—”

“Say no more,” O’Reilly said. “You’ll ruin my local reputation.” And inside her words warmed him.

“You deserve the job, Barry,” she said. “You’ve earned it.”

“That’s generous, Jenny,” Barry said. “Thank you.”

“You know, I was beginning to wonder if I should perhaps be looking for something in Belfast.”

O’Reilly guessed why. Terry Baird was becoming an important part of Jenny Bradley’s life. “If you like,” he said, “I could have a word with a friend of mine, Doctor Jack Sinton.”

“I know Doctor Sinton. On the Stranmillis Road, right?” she said. “I’ve done weekend locums for him. Keen wildfowler. Shoots on the Long Island on Strangford with his twin brother Victor and two Bangor men, Jamsey Bowman and Jimmy Taylor. All of them doctors. The man loves his Mozart.” Her smile widened. “He’d be a delightful senior to work with. I’d be really grateful—and I’ll start looking for jobs myself too. There’s a rumour that the Lord helps those who help themselves.”

“Originally used as the moral in one of Aesop’s fables, ‘Hercules and the Waggoner,’” O’Reilly said.

“People often think it was Benjamin Franklin. But a chap called Algernon Sydney way back in Charles II’s time wrote it down first,” Barry said. “Poor chap was later executed for treason.”

O’Reilly guffawed so loudly that Lady Macbeth leapt off Barry’s lap. He looked from Barry to Jenny. A middle-aged G.P. could not have wished for two better young assistants. It was a shame to have to lose Jenny. He frowned. The practice couldn’t support three full-time doctors, could it? He shook his head. For once, O’Reilly couldn’t begin to see a way round a difficulty.

45

Wind of Change Is Blowing