A Dublin Student Doctor

by Patrick Taylor

  “And deformed pelves,” the consultant said. “The tenements.” He pursed his lips. “Where grannys and handy women do half the deliveries.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Fingal asked, “handy women?”

  “Lay women who help at confinements.”

  Fingal frowned. “But, why wouldn’t a patient send for a midwife or use the dispensary doctor? It doesn’t cost anything if you don’t have a lot of money.”

  Doctor Tweedy shook his head. “It’s not the money. Dublin women have a mortal fear of hospitals and so they hope if they don’t get professionals involved, things will work out all right at home. And often they do, but there can come a point when they have to come here or to one of the other hospitals and that often means the situation has become dire and, of course, if a death is involved—it’s not hard to understand why other pregnant women are terrified of institutions.”

  “I don’t understand, sir,” the Scottish student said. “The patients come to us in Scotland. And Caesarean section’s pretty safe.”

  “Until recently it wasn’t,” Doctor Tweedy said, “and the only safe option then for the mother was to crush the baby’s head so it could be delivered. You can see the instruments called cephalotribes and cranioclasts in the museum here.”

  “Sounds pretty gruesome, sir,” Bob Beresford said.

  Fingal saw Hilda shudder. And well she might. He’d already learned that petite women, even if they didn’t have rickets, were at much greater risk of obstructed labour because their pelves were small.

  “And it was, if it was allowed to be done at all,” Doctor Tweedy said.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Cromie asked.

  “It is forbidden by the Catholic church. The mother would have been baptised and have a chance of Heaven. However, if the baby died before it could be baptised it would spend eternity in Limbo. The rule was simple. Make every effort to save the baby even if it cost the mother her life. I’m afraid I’ve had to do postmortem Caesarean sections just like the ancient Romans did.”

  Barbaric superstitious nonsense, Fingal thought, but kept the thought to himself.

  “Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will please follow me to the theatre, I will take great pleasure in demonstrating the operation of Caesarean section.”

  The procedure, Fingal thought, was said to have been performed on the mother of Robert the Bruce, King of Scotland, giving Shakespeare the model for Macduff, Macbeth’s nemesis.

  The entourage headed off, Fingal at the rear. He’d been impressed with Doctor Tweedy. The man hadn’t hesitated to reassure a terrified woman, hold her hand, and yet it was obvious he was a master of the technicalities of his discipline. It strengthened Fingal O’Reilly’s resolve to be that kind of doctor—he chuckled at his own phrasing—when he grew up, in less than six months. He smiled and remembered Sister Daly using the exact words when she’d threatened to report him to Doctor Micks. “When you grow up.” He had matured since then. A lot.

  42

  Give Crowns and Pounds and Guineas, But Not Your Heart Away

  “Good Lord, Fingal. Fingal O’Reilly? What on earth brings you here?” Virginia Treanor answered the front door of the converted three-storey house on Leeson Street. The petite blonde’s head usually only reached his shoulder, but from her vantage point up a short flight of sandstone steps she looked him in the eye.

  “Mostly the tram,” he said, and managed a smile, “but I did walk a bit.”

  “Oh, very good,” she said. “Incisive wit. Stunning repartée.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head, but said, “I know it is a fair stretch from Parnell Square to here. Cromie’s doing his midwifery there at the Rotunda so I know the other suspects including you are too.” She took a pace back and folded her arms across her chest. “I suppose you came to see Kitty?”

  “Please.”

  “I’m not sure I should let you. It’s been six months since you blew her out. You hurt her, Fingal. Would you not just leave her be?”

  “I can’t.” He tried to ignore the pelting rain that shimmered as it flew past the streetlights and trickled under his raincoat collar.

  Virginia sniffed. “Wait there. I’ll go and ask her.” She closed the door after her.

  Fingal hunched his shoulders and stepped back a couple of paces on the narrow pavement. Would she see him? He’d not blame her if she wouldn’t, but he fervently hoped she’d not refuse. It might have been immediately after the foxhunt that he had decided he was going to ask her for another chance, but it had taken him until now, late January, to steel himself to do it.

  Like the previous three times before Christmas when he’d headed here from Sir Patrick’s, he’d almost turned back tonight. He was unsure of whether he was scared of hurting her again or terrified of rejection. There was the other man.

  A motorcar sped past, chucking up from the gutter a sheet of water as big as old Tiger’s bow wave. He turned and roared after the driver, “Slow down, you unmitigated bollix. You’re not Sir Malcolm Campbell.”

  “Still the same O’Reilly,” he heard a familiar voice saying. “Come in, Fingal.”

  Fingal spun and saw her in silhouette, the light coming from the hall behind her and making a halo of her hair. “Kitty,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  He started forward up the steps and she stepped aside to let him into the shared hall of the building, closed the door, and said, “You look in real rag order. You’re drenched. Give me your coat and cap.”

  “Thank you.” Fingal snatched off his duncher, shrugged out of his coat, and handed them to her.

  She hung them on one of a row of hooks to drip on the linoleum.

  She’d changed her hairstyle. Before it had hung to her shoulders; now it was straight, parted to the left like a man’s. Three rolled waves stopped abruptly just below the tops of her ears. He didn’t like it and hoped it was a passing fad, not an outward sign that Kitty had decided to get rid of a lot of things from her past. “How have you been?” he asked, and shifted from one foot to the other, the question hanging in the air.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Virginia said as she left their shared flat and came into the hall. “Top Hat’s still showing. I love Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.” She grabbed her coat and left singing, “‘Isn’t it a lovely day, to be caught in the rain?’”

  “Enjoy,” Kitty said.

  And into that single word Fingal read volumes. Virginia would almost certainly have asked Kitty if she wanted moral support. Another’s presence would have squashed anything other than small talk, at the end of which Kitty could have said good-bye without either she or Fingal having been embarrassed. But Virginia had left.

  “So, Fingal, how have you been?” she said over her shoulder as she crossed to the door of the flat and turned back to him. “Good Lord,” she said, “what have you done to your nose?”

  He chuckled. “I didn’t do anything. Charlie Greer did. We were in the gym sparring. I let my guard down for a moment.” He shrugged.

  “I’d have guessed you’d broken it playing rugby.”

  Was there a hint of bitterness that while he’d let her go he’d kept on playing? “Boxing,” he said.

  “Virginia didn’t tell me. She’s still seeing Cromie and keeps me abreast of most of the gossip. I heard from her that you passed your exam. Congratulations. You’re back on course.”

  So she still was interested in what he was doing. “Thank you,” he said as he followed her into the sitting room.

  She sat in an armchair. A simple loose woollen sweater could not disguise the beautiful woman beneath. She wore no makeup. Those amber-flecked grey eyes didn’t need any, nor did her full lips. “Have a seat.”

  He sat on the sofa facing her. He recognised that the minute she’d closed the door behind them he should have taken her into his arms, kissed her, and told her he loved her. Damnation. For all the worldliness he professed to Lars, despite his experiences in the navy, Fingal was still in matters of his own heart an overgrown
schoolboy. “You’re looking well,” he said.

  “I am well,” she said. “I’ve been keeping myself busy. Baggot Street Hospital’s a wonderful place to nurse and I’ve been going to night classes to improve how I use pastels.” She pointed to a portrait.

  No mention of the other man. Perhaps it was over. Fingal dared to hope. “That’s Virginia. I’d recognise her anywhere,” he said. “It’s very good.” We’re like a couple of boxers, he thought, sparring, throwing out exploratory punches, seeking the opening. “I like the way you’ve caught her expression.”

  “It’s not quite what I was after. I’m still trying for better economy of line.” She stood quickly, surprising him, took two paces away and two back. Then she folded her arms and looked down on him. “Fingal,” she said, “you didn’t come here tonight to discuss the finer points of pastel art, did you?”

  He sat forward, leaned his wrists on his knees, and stared down at his intertwined fingers before looking up into her eyes. “I came to apologise.”

  She cocked her head.

  “Kitty, I’m sorry I pushed you away. I’ve regretted it ever since.”

  “I tried to understand. Your exams. Your father’s illness. I tried, Fingal. I really did.”

  “Father’s in France,” he said. “In remission.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Silence.

  She said, “If you have regrets, so had I. I broke my heart for you, cried myself to sleep. Virginia was wonderful.” Kitty laughed, a short dry laugh. “Held my hand through the worst. She didn’t want me to see you tonight. Thought it would open up the wound.” She lowered her voice. “Fingal, you took away my laughter.”

  He hung his head.

  She walked away and back again. “I appreciate your coming here tonight to apologise. I always knew you were a gentleman. Thank you. I accept your apology.”

  He looked up at her. Kitty’s shoulders were braced, her stance erect. “Kitty, I—”

  She held up a hand, palm out. “Fingal, I don’t want you to embarrass yourself.”

  “I’ll not. I’ll not because it’s true, what I want to say. I—”

  “Fingal, please don’t. I’ve something to tell you and I want you to hear it before you say anything.” One hand plucked at a crease in her skirt. “I think you know I’ve been seeing a surgical trainee.”

  Fingal felt his mouth drying up. Those words hit as hard as Charlie’s gloved fist.

  “For more than two months. He’s very sweet. A Galway City man.”

  I’m sure he’s very sweet, Fingal thought, but I don’t give a tinker’s damn if he’s the duke of the whole bloody province of Connaught.

  “Last week he asked me to marry him.” The words came out in a tumbled rush.

  Fingal’s mouth opened. He couldn’t stifle pictures of a strange man kissing her, caressing her, telling her he loved her, and Kitty saying “Yes.”

  “I see,” he said.

  “Fingal, I told him I needed time to think about it.” The grey eyes looked straight into his.

  Tell her, you moron, a voice yelled in his head. Tell her you love her. If she needed time, that must mean she wasn’t sure. Perhaps, perhaps she still cared? But he found he simply couldn’t bring himself to ask. Fingal’s words were cooler than he intended. He rose. “I’m pleased for you, Kitty. I wish you every happiness.”

  “Is that all you have to say, Fingal?” There was a catch in her voice. “Is it?”

  “What else is there to say? You’re considering a proposal of marriage.” Stop being the gentleman, doing the honourable thing, the voice told him. Tell her you love her and the Galway man be damned. So what if she hadn’t simply sat at home pining for Fingal O’Reilly? Swallow your pride, man, and tell her.

  “All right. I understand,” she said quietly.

  “I don’t think,” he said, “there’s any point in my staying. I hope you’re able to make up your mind soon.” He moved closer to her. She wasn’t wearing her usual musk. Of course she hadn’t been expecting him.

  Just as he hadn’t been expecting news of a marriage proposal.

  “I hope, Kitty,” he said, “we might stay friends.” Another winner from your book of clichéd platitudes, Fingal, he thought. He extended his hand.

  She took it. Her grasp was cool and firm.

  He tingled at her touch.

  “I know you and the lads have your big exams in five months,” she said, releasing his hand. “I hope they go well for you, Fingal. I think I more than anybody know exactly how much passing means to you.”

  He saw how bright her eyes were. “I’ll let myself out,” he said. “I wish you well, Caitlin O’Hallorhan.”

  “And I wish you luck, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, I truly do.”

  This time it was his turn not to look back. As he closed the door he was sure he heard a sob, but he lifted his cap and coat, opened the outer door, and stepped out into the misery of a Dublin January downpour.

  He wasn’t surprised that his cheeks were wet.

  43

  To Change What We Can; To Better What We Can

  “Bugger off,” Fingal yelled at a lurcher snarling at the rear tyre of his Raleigh bicycle as he wobbled along to attend a labouring patient who lived on Swift’s Alley.

  Fingal had ridden from the Rotunda, an institution founded in 1745, the year of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s abortive Jacobite rebellion, as a “Hospital for the relief of poor lying-in women in Dublin.” Proceeds from performances in the adjoining circular theatre from which the hospital had taken its name had been meant to defray the hospital’s costs.

  As well as its inpatient wards, the Rotunda had a busy extern department where annually 1,500 women were seen at the antenatal clinic before being delivered in their own homes. Fingal had attended to today’s patient at the clinic, but he had first met her last year in Sir Patrick Dun’s. As Fingal had followed the progress of Roisín Kilmartin’s pregnancy, he had made sure she was taking her iron and liver extract, confirming she kept a normal level of haemoglobin.

  His two-sizes-too-small bicycle had taken him across O’Connell Street Bridge, along the Quays, and now, well into the Liberties, he was bumping over the cobblestones of Francis Street, Paddy Keogh’s old home territory.

  Fingal pedalled harder trying to keep up with Doctor Milliken, who despite his girth crouched over his handlebars and pumped his legs like a competitor in the Tour de France. Patients who had given birth many times did not linger in labour.

  Doctor Milliken cycled on, seemingly oblivious to the street urchins who cheered him along. On an April Saturday afternoon, two men from the Rotunda would be a fresh source of amusement to the youngsters. The junior medical staff and students were known by their bicycles and the midwifery bags, leather hold-alls strapped to platforms mounted over the rear wheel. They held the necessary equipment for home deliveries. Inquisitive children were told that doctors brought babies in the black bags.

  “Here come the babby doctors.”

  Fingal recognised the gangly cigarette-smoking speaker as Jockser, who’d helped guard Bob’s car when they’d come to see Sergeant Paddy last year. The lad’s shirt had no collar, and his trousers, once someone else’s long pants, ended halfway down his bare shins.

  “Is dat feckin’ great bag on your carrier the wan youse brings the snappers in?”

  Fingal grinned. “Snapper” was another Dublin term for baby. Not only had he been learning medicine for the last four and a half years, he’d become fluent in the English of the tenements.

  “Dey’ve got one bag each. Mebbe it’s twins.” That from Finnoula Curran of the fair shoulders, the little girl who’d directed him to Paddy Keogh’s room.

  Roger Milliken dismounted under a laundry-laden pole sticking out from an upper storey window. He propped his bike against a whitewashed brick wall that must last have been white before the turn of the century.

  Fingal followed suit.

  “Hello dere, Big Fellah.” A boy in a cloth cap,
clean sweater, short pants, and wearing socks and a pair of shoes got up from where he’d been sitting with his back against the wall. He grinned at Fingal. “How’s the form?”

  “The form? I’m grand, and hello to yourself.” Fingal had to think and think hard for a name. “Declan,” he said, “Declan Kilmartin. How are you?”

  “Put out of me house,” Declan said. “All the menfolk are, and the yougwans. There’s just me granny and me mammy and the midwife in the place. Me da, him wat’s workin’ stackin’ bricks and carryin’ a hod now for his oul’ pal Sergeant Paddy Keogh, the pair of dem are down at the boozer.”

  Brendan’s income as a labourer would account for how well dressed Declan was compared with the rest of the kids here.

  “De’re gettin’ a head start on wettin’ the babby’s head.”

  Standard practice for Irish husbands when their wives were in labour. Having babies was strictly women’s work. Men had to suffer through it as best they could in the pub with their mates buying them drinks.

  “Come on, Fingal,” Roger Milliken said. “It’s her ninth. Labour’ll be short.” He hefted his bag, pushed open a badly fitting plank door, and disappeared into the gloom inside.

  Fingal lifted his bag and said to Declan, “Nip round to the pub. Tell Paddy Keogh I’m here and I’d like to know how he’s getting on.” He put his hand into his pocket. “Here’s tuppence and a bulls’ eye.”

  “T’anks, sir. You’re a sound man,” Declan said. “I’ll tell dem and be back. It’s my job, once the snapper’s here, to run over to Auntie Dodie’s on Dean Swift Square. Dat’s where the rest of the family’s at. Tell dem to come home.” He trotted off.

  Fingal entered the narrow communal hall and avoided a pile of recent dog turds. Beside a rickety staircase was a broken-down pram piled high with rusty saucepans. Someone would be selling them for scrap.

  He heard the familiar sounds of labour.

  “Ah, Jasus, ah Jasus, ah Jasus.” He recognised Roisín’s voice. “Feck it. Feck it. Feck it. Feck it.”

  Another woman, whom he reckoned by her tones must be much older, kept saying, “It’s all right, me darlin’ girl. It’s all right.”