Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor (48 page)

Fingal shook his head.

“So, how’s the rugby going? Any word?” Robin parked himself in his chair. “Cheers.”

“Not yet, but I’m hoping,” Fingal said. “Charlie’s not heard either, so no letters will have gone out. He’s bound to get a trial if not a place.”

“I’m sure you will too.”

“I hope so, but it’s not why I called, Robin. I want to ask you for a favour, but of course I’ll understand if you can’t grant it.”

“Fire away,” Robin said. “If I can help, I will.”

Fingal leant forward. “Last July a young man was hit by a tram. Smashed his ankle. I gave him first aid. He’s a cooper by trade and had secured a position with the Guinness Brewery. That fell through and—”

“And you’d like me to see if I can find him work?”

Fingal sat back. “Well, yes. How did you—”

Robin sighed. “If you knew how many requests I get, all us directors of companies get, you’d weep.” He set his glass on a coffee table. “Contrary to popular opinion, not all the people who live in the Liberties, the Quays, the Northside are work-shy drunken bowsies. You’d be amazed how many men are wanting to work.”

“John-Joe certainly is.” He remembered the man’s tears of frustration.

“Of the companies where I sit on the boards, most are in finance and insurance. They need clerks who at least have their School Leaving Certificate.”

“My friend’s a cooper.”

“Not much call for coopers, but I have interests in three concerns where skilled tradesmen are needed.”

“Do you think—”

Robin shook his head. “We’ve a policy so there’s no favouritism. Each business has appointed a foreman in charge of hiring. Anyone like your friend can apply. If they seem suitable, names are put on a waiting list and jobs are offered to whoever is at the top of the list. It’s a bit harsh, but it’s fair. The best I can do is give you the names and addresses of the hiring foremen. I’m sorry. The lists are very long, but your friend could ask.”

Fingal pursed his lips and inhaled. “I do understand,” Fingal said, “and thank you, but I don’t think I’ll take the addresses. Poor old John-Joe needs something now, not a forlorn hope.” He sipped his drink. He wanted to get back to his flat, but it would be impolite to leave now, seem as if he was going in a huff. “We’ll say no more.” He smiled. “Now, do you think King Edward will abdicate over this American Wallis Simpson woman?”

“I fear so. The Anglican Church won’t accept marriage to a double divorcée. Mister Baldwin, the British PM, is opposed, so are the PMs of Canada, Australia, and South Africa—”

“DeValera has publicly announced his indifference.”

Robin shrugged. “It’s not much concern to the Irish Free State, even if we are technically still a dominon. I can’t see that lasting much longer.”

And so the conversation went until Fingal had finished his drink and made his excuses.

He cycled slowly back to his flat on Adelaide Road. At least the rain had stopped, and as he pedalled he thought of John-Joe and remembered the promise of the loan of five pounds for Christmas. That at least Fingal could do for the man who was possibly facing a life of unemployment. It was in marked contrast to Fingal’s own case. If the money did run out and he had to leave Phelim, there was at least a safety net waiting at the Rotunda.

46

A Change of Heart

“You’ll be glad to be home, Bertie,” O’Reilly said from where he sat on a button-backed slipper chair beside the councillor’s bed. A quick examination had reassured O’Reilly that Bertie Bishop’s pulse was firm and regular, his blood pressure normal. The chintz curtains were closed, blocking the view of Belfast Lough. “I had a letter from Doctor Pantridge. I’ll not beat about the bush. You’re a very lucky man to be alive.”

“I know.” Bertie’s voice was little above a whisper. He was propped up on pillows, their pink cases clashing with the maroon of his silk pyjamas.

“There, there, dear,” Flo said, patting his hand from where she sat on a chair on the opposite side of the bed. The bedside table behind held a large bunch of grapes and a fleet of get-well-soon cards.

“And from now on you’re going to have to do as you’re bid,” O’Reilly said. “Behave yourself and you’ll be able to go back to work by February, but it’s stay in bed for another week, then we’ll start getting you up and about a bit more every day.”

“Donal Donnelly’s coming round this afternoon to move the telly in here, dear,” Flo said. “You can watch your favourites, so you can.”

“Thank you, Flo,” Bertie said listlessly.

“Bertie loves
The Magic Roundabout,
” Flo said, “don’t you, dear?”

Bertie grunted.

O’Reilly smiled. He had a soft spot himself for the stop-action characters, Dougal the dog; Dylan, a guitar-playing hare; Brian the snail; Ermintrude the cow; and Zebedee the jack-in-the-box. The programme was aired on BBC1 at 5:44 just before the six o’clock news. Like the
Winnie the Pooh
books, which were nominally for children, most adults found them and the
Roundabout
immensely appealing.

“Aye,” Flo carried on, “and the
Flintstones
and
Thunderbirds
and
Noggin the Nog.
Pity they’ve stopped showing that one this year.”

So Bertie had a penchant for children’s programmes. Interesting. “It’ll stop you getting bored, Bertie,” O’Reilly said.

“Aye, mebbe, but who the hell’s going to look after my business, that’s what I want til know?”

O’Reilly coughed and ignored the temptation to say, “Your executor if you snuff it, you eejit,” and instead remarked, “I’ve a suggestion. Last year, when you kindly repaired Sonny’s roof, you made Donal the foreman. He did a good job.”

Bertie frowned, then said, “Right enough, he’s a good worker, so he is.”

“Maybe make it a permanent position? Take some of the load off your shoulders?” said O’Reilly. Donal and Julie and the wee one would always be able to use a few bob more, and Bertie could afford it.

“Wellll…”

“I think thon’s a great idea, dear. You need to be taking it easy,” Flo said.

“That’s true,” added O’Reilly.

“I suppose.”

“And a pay rise for Donal?” O’Reilly suggested, quite ready to back up his original suggestion by turning it into doctor’s orders—for the sake of Bertie’s health, of course.

“Pay rise? Do you want me til have a relapse, Doctor?” Bertie said, but O’Reilly could see a weak smile on the councillor’s face. The man was starting to cave in. O’Reilly was delighted both for Donal and for Bertie, who must indeed start slowing down if his heart was going to recover. “Fair enough. I’ll do it,” Bertie said.

“Good man-ma-da.”

“Thank you, dear,” Flo said to Bertie, and smiled at O’Reilly.

“But will I be able to advise your man?” Bertie said. “Donal knows the half of sweet bugger all about contracts and accounts, that end of the business.”

“I think you might be pleasantly surprised by Donal’s business acumen,” said O’Reilly wryly. “And do you not have a solicitor and an accountant? And could they not advise Donal until you’re better?” O’Reilly asked.

“More money,” Bertie said, and rolled his eyes to the heavens.

“Bertie,” O’Reilly said, “there are no pockets in a shroud. Do it.”

“In soul, Doctor O’Reilly’s right, Bertie,” Flo said, and fluffed his pillow. “Them other nice doctors in the Royal had a wee word with me, you know. You’re not til exert yourself, nor get your knickers in a twist about nothing, so you’ve not. And I’ve for til feed you right, and all.”

“Not worry about nothing? Easier said nor done,” Bertie said, “but I’ll try, and I’ll eat whatever you set before me, so I will.” He turned hopeful eyes on his medical advisor. “Youse doctors is the great ones for prohibitions. ‘No smoking.’ Well, I’ve not had a cigar since I was took ill.”

“Good for you,” O’Reilly said. “It’s not easy to give up tobacco. I know.” And he did. Years ago his first wife, Deirdre, had asked him to quit his pipe. He’d tried and it had damned near killed him.

“Huh,” Bertie said, “and no drinking.” He sighed. “I’m not a raging drouth, but I enjoy my jar.” He sounded sad and O’Reilly could empathise.

“No reason why you shouldn’t have a nightcap. I’d suggest a wee half of Jameson’s. Less calories.”

“I like my pint,” Bertie sighed, and said, “but it’ll be a week or six before you’ll let me out of the house, won’t it?”

“In the new year,” O’Reilly said, and came close to offering to take Bertie for his first trip to the Duck, but doctor-patient relations only went so far.

“Fair enough.” Bertie took a deep breath. “But I’d prefer Paddy’s whiskey if that’s all right?”

“A grand drop from County Cork,” O’Reilly said. “You go right ahead. Do you know why it’s called Paddy?”

Bishop shook his head.

“It was called Cork Distillery Company Old Irish Whiskey when it was founded in 1779, a mouthful you’ll agree—”

“It’s long enough to gag a maggot,” Bertie said, “but if you put an air to it you could sing it,” and smiled.

It was the first time in all the years O’Reilly had known the councillor that he’d heard the man try a little levity, and moments ago he’d agreed to part with money. Had Bertie suffered a sea change?

“So why is it called Paddy?” Flo said.

“The company had a salesman, Paddy Flaherty, who was so good at his job that in 1912 they changed the name in his honour.”

“See what a learnèd man Doctor O’Reilly is, Bertie?”

“Not really,” O’Reilly said. “Kinky told me about it. She’s very proud about anything from her home county.”

“And Kinky and Archie’s getting wed. Isn’t it sticking out a mile?” Flo said.

“I think so,” O’Reilly said. “We’re all very happy for her.” He rose. “Now I’d be happy to chat about Kinky and Archie, but I’ve a few more calls to make, so if you’ll excuse me I’ll be—”

“Can you wait a wee minute, Doctor O’Reilly,” Bertie said. “I’d like til say something, so I would. I’ve had a whole month with bugger all to do but think things over.”

“Go right ahead.” Fingal wondered what was coming.

Bertie looked down. “It’s like, uh, it’s not easy for me, but…”

“Come on, dear. You can do it,” Flo said, patting Bertie on the shoulder then turning to O’Reilly and remarking, “Him and me’s talked this over, so we have, and I’m right proud of my Bertie.”

“Aye. Well. I hear my heart stopped.” He looked up at O’Reilly. “And you and Mrs. O’Reilly give me the kiss of death.”

O’Reilly struggled to keep his face straight. That’s what Ulster folks called mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

“And then your Doctor Bradley knew to send for the firing squad.”

“Flying squad, Bertie.”

“Aye, that. And they told me in the hospital if it hadn’t been for it—” He looked at Flo and a single tear dropped along his cheek. “The next time I see Doctor Bradley if she has a minute I’d like for to tell her, like…” He stared at the floor. “I’d like for to tell her I’m sorry.”

“See, Bertie,” Flo said, “that wasn’t too hard, was it?”

He managed a weak smile and shook his head. “I’m going to get a wee thing for her, and—” Bertie heaved himself up on his pillow.

“Go on, dear,” Flo said.

“She can be my doctor any time she likes, so she can.”

“I’ll tell her,” O’Reilly said, wondering if perhaps Saul, who changed his name to Paul, might also have had a coronary on the road to Damascus. The medical event had certainly wrought as big a change on a certain misogynist named Bertie Bishop. “I think you’d be doing the right thing, Bertie, but we’ll wait until you’re up and about in the next week or two.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

O’Reilly hesitated. Apart from the folks at Number One, no one in the village and townland knew that Barry would be coming back and, damn it all, Jenny leaving in January. The word had to get out sometime. “You may not need to see her professionally, Bertie. Doctor Laverty’ll be coming back and Doctor Bradley’ll be moving on in January.”

“Och, that’s great about Doctor Laverty, he’s a right good head,” Flo said, “but there’s a brave wheen of people who’ll miss our wee lady doctor, so there is. Wait ’til I tell Cissie Sloan and Aggie Arbuthnot.”

47

End Is Bitter as Wormwood

“It’s his finger, sir.” A beshawled woman in a floor-length grey skirt stood in front of Fingal. She had one arm protectively around the shoulders of a boy of ten or eleven in a darned woollen pullover and patched short trousers. With her other hand she supported his right wrist.

As Fingal climbed down from the high stool and took a couple of paces across the surgery floor he noticed the boy’s boots. They were laceless and the uppers of one had parted in front from the sole, letting his grubby toes peep out. Fingal squatted and looked the lad in the eye. “What’s your name, son?”

The boy dashed the back of his left hand across his snot-stained upper lip, sniffed, and said, “Damien Pádraic Costello. From Dean Swift Square.”

“And, Damien Pádraic, what happened to your finger?”

The boy sniffed again and buried his face in his mother’s skirts.

Fingal looked up. “Mammy?”

She tossed her head, making her long auburn hair fly. “Dere was a wedding at Francis Street Chapel, Doctor. Nobody we knew, personal like. I hear they was from somewhere over at Meath Place, but sure the whole street always comes out to watch newlyweds leave the church. When the bride and groom come out after the service and Damien and his pals was going after the grushie, some feckin’ bollix in hobnailed boots trod on his hand. You should have heard the gulders of him, poor wee lad.”

Fingal frowned. “Grushie?”

“It’s a custom here in the Liberties. When the happy couple comes out of the church, the groom has a brown paper bag and in it dere’s copper coins, pennies and ha’pennies and farthin’s, like. He chucks them into the street and all the gurriers yell, ‘Grushie, grushie,’ and scramble like buggery to grab as many coins as dey can.”