Heart and Soul (7 page)

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Declan locked his bicycle outside the clinic. He had been asked to be there at nine-thirty, but he was half an hour early. That rather cool, nicely groomed woman, Clara Casey, had shown him around when he came to discuss the position. It was open plan. She had stressed no hiding away in offices. He would have a desk, of course, and a filing cabinet, but the emphasis would be on getting the patients to manage their own conditions and to have everyone on the team involved.

She was good, Dr. Casey. He had heard her spoken of as a possible successor for the big cardiology job in the hospital earlier this year, but it hadn't happened. Maybe she didn't want it. One thing she certainly had going for her: she wasn't afraid of the hospital authorities. That would be a great asset, Declan thought. He wondered would he himself ever be courageous like that. Probably not. He was cautious by nature, and his parents were so humble it made him even more afraid of putting a foot wrong. He remembered when he was back in accident and emergency and a young motorcyclist had literally died in his arms. When he got home, still trembling, he was telling his mother and father about it.

“They can't blame you for that, Declan,” Molly had said firmly.

“There's no one can point the finger at you, son.” Paddy was bursting with loyalty.

Neither of them seemed to understand that he didn't remotely think himself responsible for the death of a drunken joy rider. He just wanted some sympathy for holding a nineteen-year-old as he breathed his last breath. He wanted them to grip his arm and say, “You are a fine fellow, Declan, and you'll make a great doctor one day” But instead they had worried in case he was somehow at fault. It was hard to be courageous and gutsy when all you had known at home was fear that the supermarket might close its butchery department and Dad would be unemployed or the launderette might want someone younger and prettier than his mam.

But Declan was a good listener. He would soon get the measure of this new place.

He hoped that he wasn't
too
early. It might look too eager, too anxious. But the girl who opened the door seemed delighted to see him.

“I am Ania. I'm just getting your name label ready. You can tell me how you like it.” She had a big, broad smile and a foreign accent.

“I suppose just my name,” he said, surprised.

“But I am about to write it. Would you like Celtic lettering or just bold print?”

“Are you the clinic calligrapher?” he asked.

“Please?”

“Sorry. Are you a writing expert?”

“No, but Clara liked the badge that I did for myself and she suggested I do one for everyone. She said they looked nicer than the boring ones the hospital does, which are too small for older people to read anyway. She got me these special pens for thick and thin strokes.”

“I'm sure the hospital loved that,” Declan said.

“No, they did not, but Clara doesn't mind.” Ania seemed very proud.

“Right. I'd love Celtic lettering, please, Ania.”

“Right. I'll do it now, and by the time the others come in you can have it on your chest. They'll know who you are.”

She seemed to be happy and enjoying her work. He had no idea if she was a secretary, a nurse or a cleaner. It was a good sign that she didn't see any need to explain. It meant that she was part of a team. Declan relaxed and watched her confident strokes as she drew out his name.
DR. DECLAN CARROLL.
His mother would just love it; maybe he could put it on the photocopier and give it to her.

And one by one, the rest of the team came in.

Lavender, the dietitian, who congratulated Declan on choosing to be a GP. Too many young men now wanted a showy career as a consultant. Fine lot of help that was to ordinary people, who, like Kitty Reilly, needed a good doctor.

Barbara, a nice, lively nurse, who said that this clinic was a great place. It had only been up and running for two weeks and yet you felt at the end of the day that you had done some good, which was more than a lot of people must feel, if you were to judge by their faces. Barbara said that she started each week with three resolutions: this week she was going to lose four pounds weight, she was going to frighten this barking patient Kitty Reilly into learning the names of her tablets and she was going to a charity do at a very smart golf club, because she and her friend Fiona had heard there were going to be some unmercifully gorgeous men at it.

Hilary Hickey, who said she was Claras assistant, welcomed him and said he would be very happy here. There was a kind of magic about seeing people who thought they were finished and for the high jump when they had heart attacks come round to realizing they could cope with it after all.

There was a security man called Tim, who said he only came in for a short time each day, mainly to see that things were functioning all right. He wanted to check if Declan would have any drugs in his filing cabinet, because if so there would have to be extra precautions and lists and locks. Declan said he thought it was highly unlikely. He might prescribe drugs, but people would go to the pharmacy to collect them.

He met Johnny, the physiotherapist, who told him that he had high hopes for this place. That woman Clara had more nerve than most. There was absolutely no money for machinery but she had gone and ordered it all. Johnny had been almost afraid to unwrap it, so quickly did he think that bollocks Frank what's-his-name in administration would repossess it. But no. The cunning Clara had given a press conference saying that it was all state-of-the-art equipment and thanking the hospital publicly for its great sense of commitment. Frank, the bollocks, now had no way out.

Declan noted that they all called the director of the clinic by her first name. That was certainly different from his last posting, where people had been
Mr.
this and
Dr.
that and a huge amount of pecking order and distinction was the norm.

“How about the patients?” he asked Hilary. “Do we call them by first names too?”

“We ask them how they like to be addressed. Clara says they all want to be on first-name terms but often their children get sniffy and think we are being too familiar.” It made a lot of sense to Declan.

At that moment Clara came in, tall, dark and very well groomed. The first thing he noticed about her was that she took care of herself. The second was her smile. She made him feel that he was the one person in the world that she had been looking forward to seeing.

“Declan Carroll. Welcome. Welcome. I'm so sorry I wasn't here to greet you. I had a meeting with some Neanderthals up in the hospital. You have to go to these meetings or they'll decide something ludicrous behind your back. Anyway, I'm here now. Have you met everybody?”

“Oh, yes, yes indeed.”

“And you're ready to start?”

“Yes, absolutely.” He wondered would he ever have the confidence and polish of this shiny woman.

“Good. Off we go.” And she turned to the left, where there were three treatment cubicles. Each one was brightly lit, with cheerful curtains separating each area and giving some privacy. There were reclining chairs that turned into beds should the doctor need to have the patient lie down. They stopped at the first one, where an elderly woman peered at them suspiciously.

“This is Dr. Declan Carroll, Kitty. And Declan, this is Mrs. Kitty Reilly You'll see her chart here. She's in fine shape and needs to come in to see us every three weeks. Declan will listen to your heart and breathing, Kitty. I'll leave you in his hands.”

“What happened to the other doctor, the fellow who was here last time?”

“That was Sulong. He was only filling in until we got Declan,” Clara explained.

“Was he a qualified doctor? Did he train properly out where he came from?”

“Yes, indeed, he was very highly qualified in Malaysia. But he was just helping until Declan was able to come to us.”

“How are you, Mrs. Reilly, or will I call you Kitty? Tell me which you prefer.” He felt rather than saw the look of approval from Clara.

“Well, since you are going to be feeling my vest and everything I think you should call me Kitty,” she said almost grudgingly.

“Yes, Kitty, and what medication are you on?”

“Lord, you're as bad as that bossy nurse Barbara. She's always asking me do I know which tablet this is and which that is. I suppose I'm on whatever this place put me on.”

“It's useful for
you
to know what you're taking, Kitty.” Declan had a persuasive smile.

“I don't see why.” Kitty Reilly's face showed someone looking forward to a lengthy argument. “That's the clinic's job, isn't it? Mine is just to take them.”

“Ah, yes, but suppose you were feeling short of breath and rang us up. We might say take a diuretic, a water pill, you know, but it wouldn't be any use if you didn't know which was which.”

Kitty's scowl had lessened a little. “Learning the tablets is actually for
me,
then?”

“It certainly is, Kitty. Here, show me your pillbox. I'll go through them with you if you like.”

“You won't make me learn them like a child at school?” Kitty looked defensive and for a moment a little frail and vulnerable.

“Of course not. Let's put them out on the table.”

“This won't take away from the time listening around my vest?” She wanted to make sure she was getting value.

“Not at all. There's all the time in the world,” Declan said, the soul of reassurance.

“One thing, though.” Kitty's eyes were bright. “Where do you stand on Padre Pio?”

“On what?” Declan asked, bewildered.

“You
must have
heard of him, he had the stigmata.”

Dimly, Declan remembered his mother talking about this priest in Italy somewhere who had wounds like Our Lord in his hands and feet and side.

“He was a truly great gentleman,” he said.

“I'm not sure he was a gentleman.” Kitty would fight with her shadow.

“But he was gentle. Surely he was a gentle person? Now let's have a look at all these pills. Every color of the rainbow here.”

Clara left the cubicle. She had a smile on her face. This Declan Carroll had been a good choice. He had the makings of an excellent doctor, and she would enjoy teaching him about cardiology while he was here.

In the next cubicle, Barbara was taking Mr. Walsh's blood pressure. He was
Mr.
because his wife had said that she found it offensive and patronizing to hear young girls addressing her husband as
Bobby.
Mr. Walsh was a patient man. He had always wanted an easy life, he told Barbara, and he was happy now that he was retired. He had a son, Carl, who was a schoolteacher and very happy in his work. Bobby did a little painting, mainly watercolors, he went fishing, he spent long happy hours in the library. His wife wished they would entertain more, but mercifully the heart specialist who had referred him to this clinic said that he was to stay quiet. Barbara sighed. Good, decent gentlemen like this were always married to dreadful old rips like Mrs. Walsh. It seemed to work that way. Sometimes it did in the opposite direction too. Think of all the time and tears her friend Fiona had wasted over that loser Shane, who was now in jail somewhere for drug dealing. Fiona never gave a backward glance, mercifully. Still, it had been fairly horrific at the time.

Barbara had never really been in love. Well, not in the sense of settling down for life with someone. But that would all change when they went to this glamorous gathering at the end of the week. It was a celebrity auction. Really famous people were going to come to it and you could bid for a well-known singer to come and do a number at your party, or a chef to cook you a dinner, or an artist to paint your house or your garden.

Barbara had heard that the style was going to be something out of this world. She had got two free tickets from a patient of hers, a young fellow who worked in a bank. She told some of this to Mr.
Walsh, who said that these young men would have to be blind and mad not to see how beautiful Barbara and Fiona were. Fiona and Barbara were going to knock them all dead, he said.

Fiona was not at the hospital today. Clara had thought it a good idea to send her to a pharmaceutical conference. Some firm was having those involved in cardiology to a lunch at one of the big hotels. She called just as Barbara was back at her desk and thinking about her.

“Are you busy?” Fiona asked.

“Not really. Just lying down, feet on the desk, sipping a tequila sunrise,” Barbara said.

“Okay, you're between patients. Who have you got?”

“Let me see. Nice Mr. Walsh, mad Kitty, a few new people. That nice woman with the yapping dogs rang—she's coming in tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes, that's Judy, but isn't she better to have the bloody Jack Russells than to have nothing?”

“I'm not sure,” Barbara said broodily

“And how about your resolutions?” Fiona said.

“I only had an apple for lunch. But you won't believe this: remember I was going to teach Kitty Reilly her tablets today or take her by the throat?”

“Yeah, and did you?”

“No, the new doctor had got there first. She knew which were beta-blockers, which were heart medicine. She pointed out the diuretics to me as if I were soft in the head.”

“He must be something, the new doctor.”

“Nice enough fellow. Declan is his name.”

“Well, I'll see him tomorrow. Got to go now. They're serving lobster with lunch. I don't want to miss out on it.”

“Lobster?” Barbara cried. “Does it have a big creamy mayonnaise? Or hot butter? God, I'd love lobster.”

Declan was passing by and heard her. “No you wouldn't, Barbara, you'd hate it. Rubbery texture, swimming in grease. Think of your resolution.”

“God, who was that?” Fiona whispered. “The new fellow. You'll meet him tomorrow.”

“Can't wait,” Fiona said and hung up.

Declan cycled home. His route took him through some of the fastest-changing areas of the city, and he never ceased to be surprised by some new aspect that he hadn't ever noticed before. He passed an open market that used to sell cabbages and potatoes, but now people from faraway lands sold Indian silks and exotic spices there. Then there was a huge block of luxury apartments that had suddenly sprung up on the site of—what? He couldn't remember anymore. He felt the usual triumph at having moved faster than the almost stationary traffic, and then he was home, back in St. Jarlaths Crescent.