Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor

by Patrick Taylor

  He spread Frank Cooper’s Oxford Marmalade on buttered toast. The stuff had been a favourite of his for years. After several chilly negotiating sessions in 1947, Kinky had given in. Apart from the Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce necessary to the devilled kidneys recipe, Cooper’s marmalade was the only bought preserve permitted at Number One Main Street and even then she only served it when she was feeling expansive. Did the fact that Archie had squired her to see Lord Jim starring Peter O’Toole last night have anything to do with her good mood this morning?

  He took a bite, chewed happily, and scanned his Daily Telegraph. It didn’t look as if the British prime minister, Harold Wilson, was going to prevent his Southern Rhodesian counterpart Ian Smith unilaterally declaring the independence of his country from the British Commonwealth.

  Not even a letter from Her Majesty seemed to be having any effect. O’Reilly knew that during the war Smith had survived the crash of his Hurricane, extensive plastic surgery, and later having his Spitfire shot down by German flak. He’d be no pushover if his mind was made up. And O’Reilly was sure it was all very important to Rhodesians.

  He supposed he should take more interest in the big wide world, but in Ballybucklebo, as life trundled along with its little dramas, tragedies, and comedies closer to home, things were much more immediate than in—in Belfast, never mind in a country five or six thousand miles away.

  And, most important, he, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, could not influence affairs in Southern Rhodesia by one jot or tittle. But he could make changes here. Like helping Helen Hewitt. Already Kitty had asked Cromie to speak to his colleague Mister Braidwood about a summer job in Newtownards Hospital for the lass. It seemed Braidwood ran a monthly hand clinic at the Royal, and Cromie would see him there soon. The work of the clinic was critical to artisans, returning their damaged hands to near normal function.

  He finished his tea and toast and rose. Kinky’d already tidied much of the stuff away. He’d take the rest to the kitchen. Save her the trip. He lifted the chafing dish and blew out the squat little candles of the warming plate, piled his cup, saucer, plate, and knife on the dish, and headed for the door. He noticed as he passed that the waiting room was packed and wondered why Kitty was still chuntering on about changing his favourite rosy wallpaper. She’d brought the subject up last night.

  “Fingal, I wish you’d take it seriously.”

  “Take what seriously?”

  “The waiting room wallpaper. Kinky agrees with me that—”

  “It’s perfectly fine as it is. My customers don’t like changes.”

  “Honestly,” she’d said and had let the matter drop, but that Kitty could be very persistent, he knew from of old.

  He went into the kitchen, where Kinky sat on a chair, her back to him. She clearly hadn’t heard him come in. She was plucking one of the brace of green-headed mallard drakes he’d shot on Saturday at Strangford Lough. A sheet of newspaper protected the counter nearby where the other bird lay in its full plumage. She had a pillowcase ticking between her knees to accept the soft feathers from the breast. Typical Kinky. Waste not, want not. A few more birds and Number One would possess another down pillow. “Tidied up a bit,” he said, putting the dirty things on a counter near the sink.

  She looked up. “Thank you, sir,” she said, “for I’ll be a while plucking and cleaning these birds.” She frowned and tutted when she saw that two kidneys had not been eaten. “Was everything all right?”

  “We were all stuffed to the gills, Kinky, and everyone said it was grand.” To a Corkwoman, there was only one higher accolade than “grand,” and it pleased O’Reilly to see the colour rise in her cheeks, cheeks that since her introduction of the slimming diet for the pair of them were still rosy, but like the rest of Kinky, less heavy. “Grand altogether.”

  “Go ’way out of that, Doctor O’Reilly.” She shook her head at him, but her grin was vast.

  Even after their nineteen years together, twenty if he counted the time he’d spent here as an assistant to old Doctor Flanagan before the war, he could still take pleasure from paying her a compliment.

  O’Reilly dragged another chair across the room, set it opposite her, and rolled up his sleeves. Picking up the second bird, he sat. “I’ll give you a hand. I’ve been dressing fowl since our uncle Hedley taught Lars and me to shoot. You know that.”

  “I do,” she said. “And the help’s appreciated.”

  O’Reilly’s left hand held the bird by its feet and he let its head fall into the ticking sack. He made his right hand into a loose fist and grasped feathers between outstretched thumb and curved index finger. Pushing his hand away, he tore a tuft of soft feathers free. He dropped them into the sack, then repeated the operation. “I’ve not lost my touch,” he said.

  “You do enjoy your shooting, so, don’t you, sir?”

  “It’s more than just shooting, Kinky. It’s an excuse to go to a quiet place. Be on my own with Arthur.” He let another tuft of feathers fall free. Next to Kitty and his brother Lars, Kinky was the only person in whom O’Reilly would confide. “There’s something about our Ireland,” he said. “The country places like Strangford Lough, the Glens of Antrim, the Cliffs of Moher. And I love dirty old Dublin, ‘Strumpet City.’” More feathers drifted into the sack.

  “And I do be very fond of Béal na mBláth, Clonakilty, West Cork, and Dingle out in Kerry,” she said, her arm working in time with his, feathers drifting into the ticking.

  He laughed. “We sound a bit like a brochure for Bord Fáilte, the Irish tourist board, don’t we?”

  “We do not at all. You’re like me. You love this country and there’s no shame in saying it out loud, so.” The entire underside of Kinky’s drake was now completely bald, the skin white and pimpled. She turned the bird and started to pluck its back, but this time over a sheet of newspaper. These feathers were too coarse for making bedding.

  O’Reilly stopped plucking. “You know, it’s not just the places. It’s the people north and south of the border. Most of them are hardworking folks. Helen Hewitt wants summer work to earn a few bob for her family.”

  “Does she now? Good for her.”

  He shook his head. It seemed that almost since the day he’d started medical school he’d become a one-man job-finder. “I knew a couple of Dubliners, Paddy Keogh, a one-armed army sergeant, and John-Joe Finnegan with a smashed ankle, and they both desperate for work despite their disabilities. They were brothers under the skin to Donal Donnelly.”

  She laughed. “Donal? A complete skiver if there’s money to be made, but I grant you, that man works every hour God provides to take care of his family, so.”

  “He does,” O’Reilly said, and bent back to his own work. He noticed Lady Macbeth sitting on the floor, one paw raised, batting at a single feather that fluttered on the wind of her paw’s passage.

  “I’m a lucky man, Kinky,” he said. “My home’s in the best village in all the thirty-two counties. I’ve a job that is as satisfying as anything I ever dreamed of, and,” he bent over and touched her shoulder, “I’ve got the best housekeeper in Ireland.”

  “Thank you, Doctor O’Reilly,” she said, and he heard how serious she sounded. “I appreciate that very much.” She sat back, took a deep breath. “Might you spare a Corkwoman a moment to answer a question?”

  “I’m all ears. Fire away.” The lower part of his bird’s underside was as white as Kinky’s now. He continued plucking.

  “I think,” she said, “I could not have a better employer, sir.”

  “Thank you, Kinky.” A thought struck him. “Or even after all these years would you prefer to be called Maureen?”

  “Kinky does be grand, sir, but thank you for asking. That is exactly what I mean. Only a gentleman would ask a thing like that.” She frowned and tugged at a single long feather that didn’t want to come free. “How a body’s called is important to them.”

  He inclined his head and wondered where this was leading. Perhaps she needed a little
prompt. “What would you like to ask me?”

  “I’d like to say that apart from yourself, and I don’t mean to open old wounds, that I’m the only one here who met your Miss Deirdre Mawhinney before she became Mrs. O’Reilly…”

  “There’s no hurt taken, Kinky.” He pursed his lips, inclined his head.

  “Poor girl.”

  He started plucking. “That’s very long ago now. I’ll never forget her, but the ache has gone.”

  “And you hurt sore back then. I saw how you still grieved, sir, when first you came back here in ’46.” She jerked back as the feather came free.

  He inhaled. “Aye,” he said quietly, “I did.” He still couldn’t see where this was going.

  “And you know my story, my Paudeen, the fisherman, and how he was drowned.” It was a flat statement of fact.

  “I do, Kinky. And you grieved long and hard too.”

  “Until Paudeen spoke to me when I had that operation in the springtime of this year, so.”

  And just as on that day, when she’d told him about her dead husband appearing and asking her to consider remarrying, the hairs on O’Reilly’s arms stiffened and he knew goose bumps like the ones on the plucked fowl were appearing. It was generally known in Ballybucklebo that Kinky Kincaid was fey.

  “It does seem to me, and I know it’s impertinent of me to say so, but if you’ll not mind the observation, you’ve been a different man since Kitty came back into your life.”

  O’Reilly grinned. “Mind? Kinky? Kinky, why would I mind you saying what’s true?”

  “Thank you.” Her bird was now feather-free. She set it on the counter. “I just need to chop off its wings and feet and clean it, and if you’d like me to finish your bird?”

  “I’m fine.” He turned his to do its back and waited. He knew she’d come to the point soon.

  “The question I need to ask, sir, is if I were to remarry and leave your employ, would you be able to manage?”

  He pushed his chair back. His mouth fell open. “Thundering mother of Jasus,” he roared. “Has Archie proposed? Has he?” O’Reilly would be tickled pink for Kinky if Archie had, and O’Reilly loved being right. He’d already told Barry of a real concern that they were going to lose Kinky to marriage. “Well? Well?” Lady Macbeth, presumably startled by his shout, leapt up onto the counter, sat down, and began to wash vigorously.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s not an answer to my question.” Kinky’s jaw was set.

  “You’re right, it’s not. Manage?” You’re on thin ice, Fingal. Say “of course” at once and she’ll feel she’s wasted all those years here. He frowned. “It would be bloody hard to get used to, but with, I dunno, a part-time receptionist, a lady to come in and clean, I think we might get by, but it wouldn’t be the same without you.”

  “But you would cope? I know I was a bit suspicious at first about Mrs O’Reilly’s cooking—”

  Suspicious? Closer to feeling persecuted, O’Reilly thought. Thank the Lord she got over that.

  “But I know she would not let you starve, sir.”

  “She’d not.” He leant forward, put his hand on Kinky’s. “Are you telling me, Kinky, that Archie has said nothing and if I’d told you I couldn’t do without you you’d’ve turned down a proposal if one came?”

  She stiffened. “Of course I am, sir. It does be my solemn duty to look after you, so.” A tear glistened in the corner of one eye. “Anyway, not a word on that subject has he spoken. Archie does be a very shy man. I simply wanted to know where I stood, in case.”

  O’Reilly swallowed, inhaled. He said softly, “You’d do that for me?”

  “Of course. No need to make a fuss.”

  He felt humbled and damn near wept himself. He’d been ruminating about loving Ireland, its places, its people. He could add one more person he felt so strongly for. Maureen “Kinky” Kincaid née O’Hanlon. “Damn it, Kinky, I don’t know how to say thank you for that.”

  “And it does not be like you, sir, to be at a loss for words.” She sniffed. Took a deep breath.

  “And now you know if he proposes you can go ahead and accept.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Bright fire shone in her agate eyes when she said firmly, “Mister Archie Auchinleck doesn’t know yet he’s going to ask for my hand, so…” She grinned. “… but he will, bye. He will.” Her smile was beatific.

  O’Reilly guffawed. “Kinky, you’re a marvel. I told you when you were in hospital I’d dance at your wedding, and by God—”

  “Excuse me, Doctor O’Reilly.” Jenny had come in. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need a second opinion.”

  “Be right with you, Jenny.” He turned to Kinky. “Sorry. You will have to finish plucking—”

  A miniature version of the eruption of Krakatoa, but in feathers, covered O’Reilly as Lady Macbeth, for reasons only known to her tiny feline brain, leapt from the counter and landed on the ticking sack.

  “Holy thundering Mother of G—” O’Reilly cut himself off. There were two ladies here. “Come on, you two,” he said, “help me get these feathers off me.”

  As Kinky and Jenny, both chuckling, helped O’Reilly to pluck his feathery self, he wondered. Was Kinky’s certainty that Archie was going to propose because the sight had shown her? Or was the self-possessed Corkwoman going to give the hesitant Ulsterman a nudge in the right direction?

  31

  And What Dread Feet

  “It’s a bloody good thing you learned to cook. Bless you, Charlie Greer,” Fingal said, sitting at the table in the upstairs kitchen wolfing down one of the cold sandwiches Charlie had put up this morning from a ham he’d roasted two days ago. Fingal masticated mightily. He’d been doing home visits since nine forty-five and had another call to make this afternoon to see a youngster with something called a “stone bruise.” He’d popped in to the dispensary for lunch, and because he hadn’t the foggiest notion what a stone bruise might be, he wanted Phelim’s advice.

  “Bless me?” Charlie, who sat opposite, pretended to grumble. “More like a bloody curse. And here I’d thought sharing a flat would save me money?” Charlie laughed, and shook his head. “You moved in a week ago—I’ve taken careful note of the date: October 22. The papers were full of Hitler moving something called the Condor Legion to Spain to fight for Franco. I didn’t realise the bloody Vulture Legion was moving in with me at the same time. You’re eating me out of house and home, you big lummox.” He prodded Fingal’s belly. “Where the hell do you put it? There’s not an ounce of fat on you.”

  “Riding my bike burns it off,” Fingal said, “and I need the energy for the rugby—and I pay for half of the groceries, so less of your lip, Doctor Greer, you great gurrier. Your perceived imminent poverty, as one of my patients might remark, ‘would bring tears to a feckin’ glass eye.’”

  “And what in the name of the wee man’s so funny?” Miss O’Donaghugh the midwife walked into the kitchen as Fingal and Charlie were both laughing.

  “Bring tears to a glass eye,” Charlie managed to blurt out before dissolving again.

  “It’s little amuses the innocent,” she said, but laughed with them.

  “You may be right, Edith. These on-call days tend to make a man feel a bit punchy after a while. But don’t you think having a bit of a chuckle with a friend of five years is a good thing?” Fingal said.

  “Och, sure,” she said, her County Kerry lilt musical to Fingal’s ear, “friends are better than gold, so they say. And you’re sharing a flat now, are you?”

  “We are,” Fingal said.

  “And it’s working well?”

  “It would be hard not to get on with this great eejit. When he’s not beating the bejasus out of a sparring partner or on the rugby pitch he’s only a cooing dove,” Fingal said.

  “Away off and feel your head, Fingal O’Reilly.” Charlie was still grinning.

  Edith shook her head. “Bye, but you northeners are grand ones for the slagging, but we’re no slouches out west either with the friend
ly jibe.” She smiled and Fingal thought he detected mischief in her eyes. He’d come to admire her midwifery skills and her no-nonsense approach to life and to two young doctors who were twenty years her junior.

  “You’re a pair of sound men,” she said. “Now I must be running along.”

  “Bye, Edith,” Fingal said.

  “She’s a good skin,” Charlie said. “Saved my bacon last week with an undiagnosed breech. She’s a better accoucheur than some of the specialists at the Rotunda.”

  “Still thinking of specializing yourself, Charlie?”

  Charlie nodded. “It’s hard making up your mind, but I will give you fair warning if that is what I decide.”

  “I hear you. I have second thoughts about this job sometimes myself.” Fingal took another bite of his sandwich. “Still, it’s good to be sharing the flat for the time being. Lots of changes at my old home. Our cook has left to work for the Carson family on Mount Steet Upper.”

  “How’s the house sale going?”

  “Roaring along. Ma and Bridgit our maid will be out by November the thirtieth. My brother, you remember Lars? He’s found a place for Ma to rent in Portaferry while she’s looking for somewhere to buy.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard in a place like Portaferry,” Charlie said. “Will you not miss living on Lansdowne Road?”

  “I’ll miss Cook’s meals and I don’t mean to be disloyal to my mother, but I can use the extra free time once they’ve moved.”

  “For the rugby?”

  “Aye. And for Kitty…”

  Charlie sighed. “I understand. You take care of that girl.”

  Fingal shrugged. “I’m trying to. She’s got a bee in her bonnet about the orphans in Spain.”

  “And there be more of them now since General Franco started a drive towards Catalonia on Monday.”

  “I try to be sympathetic, but thank the Lord she’d not said much about Spain on our last two dates.” Nor, for which he was grateful, about wanting something more permanent than walking out.

  “You pay attention. She’s a jewel, that one. You’re a lucky man she came back to you.” He stared into the middle distance. “Meuros, my Maynooth lassie, blew me out last week.”