Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor

by Patrick Taylor

  “Are you sure you’d not like another cup of tea, sir?” Orla said. “It wasn’t much of a supper for a big lad like you.” It was seven thirty in the evening, the daylight was long gone, and the paraffin lamp was guttering and smoking. Dermot still drowsed and Minty paced the floor muttering, “How much longer, for God’s sake?”

  “It was grand, Orla,” Fingal lied. Breakfast had been a bowl of thin gruel and a cup of tea. At two forty-five he’d managed to choke down a boiled pig’s cheek with a boiled onion for lunch after he’d examined Dermot. Fingal had not seen any improvement then, yet there had been no further deterioration, no more extension of the red lines either. All he’d managed to say to Minty and Orla had been, “He’s holding his own,” and had given Dermot his sixth dose.

  “I’d feckin’ well hope so,” Minty’d said.

  After lunch the man had snatched his duncher from a peg, said, “Jasus, I hate bein’ cooped up in here, worried sick. I can’t take it no feckin’ more. I’m goin’ out,” and slammed the door as he left.

  Orla had shaken her head. “Don’t blame him, sir. He blames himself. He t’inks if he hadn’t rolled home stocious the night before you and Doctor Corrigan came…” She sighed and folded her shawl round her. “He t’inks if he’d let the stone bruise go sooner all dis wouldn’t have happened.” Her eyes had glistened. “He loves Dermot just as much as I do, but poor oul’ Minty has terrible trouble hiding his feelings. He can work himself up intil a ferocious rage and dis time he’s mad at himself. Better he’s out.” She smiled. “He’ll be back by suppertime.”

  Fingal hadn’t known what to say to comfort her. He’d begun wondering how Columbus, DaGama, Cabot, and their likes had felt when the familiar land disappeared astern. Would they find new lands or would they sail off the edge of the world? How had they felt? Bloody terrified, just like me, he thought. He supposed those early explorers had people they could trust, friends who had faith in them and were happy to let them exercise their own judgement. He blessed Phelim Corrigan for his understanding. His faith.

  Fingal had already made up his mind that he’d wait until midnight and then get Dermot admitted. Give in to failure. Fingal hated the thought, but by then thirty-six hours would have passed since treatment had begun. He remembered that Sister Oonagh O’Grady had said it was then that improvements usually started in the patients Doctor Davidson was treating with Prontosil at the Rotunda.

  Fingal looked around and wished he could get out of here for a while like Minty. Somehow the room seemed to be shrinking. “Where’ll your husband go?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “The boozer likely. Look for a bit of comfort from his friends. Try to find peace in a pint.”

  “I hope he’ll be sober when—”

  “I’ll feckin’ kill him if he’s not,” she said, and looked sideways at a serrated bread knife on the counter.

  Fingal was not convinced that her words were an exaggeration.

  Minty had come home stone-cold sober an hour later. “Sorry about dat,” he said. “I had to get some feckin’ fresh air. Smoke a fag or two. I walked around on the Quays. How is he, Doctor?”

  “He’s no worse.”

  Minty’d pulled his chair over to where Dermot lay and had sat holding his son’s hand until Fingal came to give the six thirty dose.

  Fingal repeated the examination. No change. “Much the same, I’m afraid.” He looked at the red fluid in the beaker. “All I can tell you is that this stuff has worked in France, Germany, and England.”

  “I hope it’s got nothing against us feckin’ Irish,” Minty said, sighed, and smoothed his son’s brow.

  Fingal said nothing and together they sat in a silence punctuated by Dermot’s steady breathing, the spluttering of damp turf burning.

  Someone was knocking on the door.

  “Who’s dere?” Minty asked. “Mebbe Doctor Corrigan’s come back?”

  Fingal answered the door then smiled. “Come in, Bob.” Fingal turned to the Finucanes. “You remember Doctor Beresford who came here last night?”

  Bob came to just inside the doorway.

  They greeted him and he returned the pleasantry.

  “I’d forgotten I’d asked him to come round tonight and bring my bike,” Fingal said.

  “It’s in my car,” Bob said. “How’s your patient?”

  Fingal sighed. “Holding his own, but no obvious improvement yet.”

  “Anything I can do?” Bob seemed anxious to get out of the room, hesitated, then said, “I nipped over to Lansdowne Road Rugby Grounds after my lunch, was able to explain to Charlie why you probably wouldn’t show up…”

  “The Bective Rangers rematch. Damn it, I’d completely forgotten.”

  “Aye,” said Bob. “Charlie said he understood, said he’d explain to your captain.”

  “Thanks, Bob.”

  Bob shrugged. “Least I could do for you considering the investment you’re making here. Sure there’s nothing more I can help with?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then I’ll be trotting on. Come and get your bike.”

  “I’ll only be a minute,” Fingal said, following Bob.

  “I hope you don’t mind me rushing off,” Bob said, opening the car’s door and hauling the bike out.

  “Not at all. There really is nothing you can do.” Fingal took hold of the handlebars.

  “I’ll be off then.” Bob lit a Gold Flake and lowered his voice. “I did get fleas last night, you know. Rather not tonight. Good luck, Fingal. You’ll let me know how it all turns out?”

  “Of course.” As Bob drove away, Fingal waved, turned, left the bike in the hall, and let himself back into the room.

  “Come and get your supper, Doctor,” Orla said.

  Fingal joined the Finucanes at the table. He’d already known what one part of the meal would be. The smell of boiling cabbage had filled the air for the past hour.

  Orla bowed her head, closed her eyes, and waited until Minty intoned, “We thank you Lord for this our daily bread.”

  Fingal joined in the amen.

  She said, “I hope you like buttermilk. Dere’s a jug on the table, sir.” She served him a heap of champ, boiled cabbage, and one rasher of bacon.

  He waited. Minty had got champ and cabbage but no bacon—so he, Fingal, had been given their last rasher. She had spread bacon dripping on a slice of white bread for herself.

  Fingal poured some buttermilk and growled. It was always the way of it in the tenements. The men got the best of everything. The women held back.

  “Please start before it gets cold, sir.”

  There was no bloody way he was going to demolish all that grub while she had nothing but bread and dripping. “Give me your plate, Orla,” he said.

  “But…”

  “Your plate, please.” He held out his hand.

  She glanced at her husband and did as she’d been asked.

  “There.” He handed it back with half his own meal on it. He came close to yelling at her when she said, “You have half the rasher, Minty.”

  Perhaps it was because of Fingal’s presence that her husband refused.

  The meal was taken in silence and tea was poured. “Are you sure you’d not like another cup, sir,” she said when he’d finished.

  “No thanks,” he said, “but do you mind if I smoke my pipe?”

  “You go right ahead, sir,” Minty said, “and I’ll have a fag—”

  “Mammy. I want my mammy. Maaaaaa—mmy.”

  Orla leapt to her feet, Minty stared at Fingal, who rose and crossed the room.

  Dermot was sitting up. He was in tears. His lip trembled. “Mammy.”

  “It’s all right, muírnin,” she said, taking her son in her arms. “Mammy’s here. It’s all right. Dere now. It’s all right.”

  Fingal leant across Orla. The boy’s forehead was cool. Fingal got out his thermometer. “Hold this under your oxter, Dermot, like a good lad,” he said, lifting the naked boy’s arm then folding it down on t
he glass tube. He held Dermot’s wrist. The pulse was strong, regular, and—Fingal had to wait for fifteen seconds that seemed like an eternity, then multiply the number of beats he’d counted by four—eighty-eight per minute. Almost normal. He bent. “Bring over the light, Mister Finucane.” Parents’ Christian names were infrequently used in front of children. “Shine it on Dermot’s leg.” Fingal realised he was trembling. He hardly dared look. Yes, yes, sweet Jesus, yes. All that remained on Dermot’s calf were the three blue lines. The red, inflamed lymphatic channels had vanished as if they had been simply rubbed away with an eraser. He removed the thermometer and read 98.8, only 0.4 degrees above normal. He had to restrain himself and say, not shout, “It’s worked. Dermot’s getting better.” Fingal would need time alone before he could fully digest the implications of the hugeness of what the red prontosil had achieved. For now all that mattered was that the infection was coming under control and Dermot’s foot and life were saved.

  “Mammy. I’m hungry.”

  “Would it be all right, Doctor?” she said, her voice cracking, eyes glistening.

  For a moment the adage “Feed a cold and starve a fever” flashed through Fingal’s mind, but then he remembered that only applied to enteric fevers where solid food might perforate an inflamed bowel. “Here.” Fingal rummaged in his pocket, produced a handful of jelly babies, and gave them to Orla. “For later, Mammy, after you’ve given him a glass of buttermilk and a piece.”

  She wrapped him in a blanket and carried the boy to the kitchen table, sat him on a chair, poured tea, and spread margarine on a slice of bread.

  Fingal inhaled deeply, feeling the responsibility for what was going to happen if he’d been wrong lift from his shoulders.

  “And my wee boy’s all better, Doctor?” Minty asked. “All mended?”

  “Not quite,” Fingal said, “but almost. He’ll need to stay in bed, but he can get into the one by the fire and you and Mammy can get a bit of sleep tonight. I’ll show her how to change his dressings and I’ll make up enough doses so you can go on giving him the Prontosil every four hours, so you’ll have to be up at ten thirty, two thirty, and six thirty. I’ll come back tomorrow morning to see how he’s doing.”

  Minty stuck out his hand. “We don’t know how to thank you, sir.”

  Fingal shook the hand. “Mister Finucane,” he said, “just seeing Dermot on the mend is thanks enough.” And it was.

  “It is a feckin’ miracle,” Minty said.

  Fingal looked over to where Orla, smiling now though her cheeks were still wet, was asking Dermot, “Would you like another slice, dear?”

  Perhaps it was indeed a miracle, but could the boy suddenly get worse? Fingal had no idea. He said, “I’ll be going soon, but I’ll be sleeping at Aungier Place just in case you need me. All you’ll have to do is run over and ring the night bell. And you come, even if you’re only a bit worried.”

  “Och, he’ll be grand, feckin’ grand altogether,” Minty said. “Never you fear.”

  Fingal wished he could share the man’s belief, but he would sleep at Aungier—just in case, and he might see Phelim there, be able to give him the great news. Fingal hugged that thought.

  Minty opened a cupboard, took out a bottle and two glasses. He poured a clear liquid and handed a glass to Fingal. “I’d like to drink your health, Doctor Big Fellah,” he said. “It’s a drop of the pure I keep for very special occasions.”

  That damn Big Fellah again. Fingal grinned. He liked it. No doubt he was accepted here in the Liberties. And, Fingal thought, the cure of Dermot’s foot was special in more ways than one. If this Prontosil’s as good as I think it’s going to be, doctors won’t be so bloody helpless anymore. Even dispensary G.P.s like me will be able to cure a lot of their patients. Really cure them and not simply stand round helplessly waiting for nature to take its course. Acceptance by the locals and at last the ability to cure made the prospect of staying in the job very attractive.

  “Here’s til you, sir.” Minty raised his glass. “Dere’s very few doctors who’d t’ink of staying all night and all feckin’ day. You’re the kind of man who puts his patients before himself. Sláinte and thank you.”

  “Sláinte mHaith.” O’Reilly drank the fiery poitín and felt a satisfied … he sought for the word. It wasn’t quite smugness, but it was damn close and he must guard against that. The kind of doctor who put—Oh shite. He choked on his drink. Kitty. He’d been expected at her place for dinner last night. After Fingal had failed to get Bob to call Kitty then, explain to her why Fingal was unable to see her, he’d put her out of his mind. He’d even missed a chance tonight to ask Bob for the same favour. Idiot.

  Would she understand why he had simply vanished for more than twenty-four hours and hadn’t let her know why? Would she understand, and would she forgive him? He glanced at his watch. Eight fifteen. It was only a couple of miles from here to her flat, five or ten minutes on his bike.

  “Right,” he said, finishing his drink. “Let’s have a last look at you, Dermot, and then folks, I’ll be off.”

  42

  I Have Heard of Your Paintings

  Kinky perched primly on the oak chair, looking neither to right nor left. “I hope you are enjoying my barmbrack, so. Now, there is this matter I’d like to discuss.”

  “Fire away, Kinky,” O’Reilly said, taking another swallow of tea and starting on his second slice of ’brack.

  “You will recall, sir, a conversation we had last month, the day you came in here to help me pluck the ducks?”

  O’Reilly stopped chewing. “About whether I could manage if you left?” He glanced at Kitty. This wouldn’t come as a surprise to her. He had told her all about Kinky’s belief that one day soon Archie Auchinleck was going to propose and of her concerns about how O’Reilly would cope. “Has Archie—?”

  Kinky coloured to the roots of her silver chignon. “Last night over tea here he did ask me to be the second Mrs. Auchinleck, him being a widower man, so.” She smiled and her dimples appeared.

  Fingal was on his feet. “And? And?”

  “I said I’d be honoured, and he said—”

  O’Reilly let out such a loud whoop that it was answered by a “Woof” from the direction of Arthur’s kennel in the back garden. “D’you hear that, Kitty, and I don’t mean the dog? By God, this getting wed is becoming contagious. Kinky, Kinky, I wish you every happiness. When’s the big day?”

  “I’m very happy for you, Kinky,” Kitty said. She looked long at O’Reilly then back to Kinky. “Marriage is a condition I’d certainly recommend without any reservations.”

  Thank you for that, girl, O’Reilly thought, but said, “What time is it?”

  “To answer your first question, sir, no, we haven’t set a date yet. And it’s eleven thirty,” Kinky said. “Why, sir?”

  “There’s a bottle of Pol Roger in the fridge, and damn it all it is twelve thirty in Paris so the sun is over the yardarm so to speak, and this is something marvellous.” He headed for the fridge.

  “I wonder, sir, if I could ask a favour?” Kinky said.

  “Of course.” He opened the fridge door.

  “Would it be possible to save the bubbles until near your suppertime?”

  O’Reilly frowned. “I suppose.” He closed the door.

  “You see, sir,” she said, “Mister Auchinleck does be an old-fashioned gentleman and he’s asked me to ask you, sir, if he could pay his compliments this evening at six thirty?” She inhaled. “My da, God rest him, is long gone, so Mister Auchinleck would like you to stand in Da’s place so he can ask your permission for my hand.”

  “So he can ask—Kinky, you and Archie don’t need my permission.” O’Reilly felt a lump in his throat.

  “I think that’s sweet and very gallant, Kinky,” Kitty said. “And of course you’ll see him, dear.”

  “If that’s what Arch—Mister Auchinleck wants, of course.”

  “Thank you,” Kinky said, “and like the gentleman he is, Mister Auc
hinleck will be bringing my ring this evening, to put on my finger after his interview with yourself, and I do think that would be a time for my family, and that’s what you are, sir, and Kitty.” Kinky’s eyes glistened. “My northern family, for Fidelma and Tiernan and Sinead and theirs are far away in County Cork. I’d like you to drink a toast to us then, so.”

  O’Reilly grinned. “By God, we will. We’ll drink a toast to you and Archie. And perhaps more than one. I’ll stop at the off-licence when I go to get Donal so he can finish the papering and I’ll get a couple more bottles. Kinky, Kinky—” He stood in front of her. “Stand up.”

  She did, and he folded her in the most enormous bear hug. “Good luck to you and Archie,” he said, “and as my ma’s housemaid from Rasharkin, Bridgit, who was full of country wisdom, might have said, ‘The blanket’s always the warmer for being doubled,’” he held her at arm’s length, “‘and may the Lord keep you and Archie in his hand and never close his fist too tight on you.’” He let her go.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you very much.”

  “We’re absolutely delighted,” Kitty said. “Number One’s not going to be the same without you, Kinky. I imagine you’ll be going to live with Archie once you’re wed.”

  “I will,” she sat, “but I have been giving some thought to what we discussed last month, sir.”

  O’Reilly snaffled a third piece of ’brack on his way back to his seat. “Go on.”

  “Archie is a milkman, so. He does rise up very early in the morning to do his rounds. There’s no reason he can’t arrange to swing by his house and pick me up and drop me off here at about six thirty. I can get the breakfast ready so you both won’t need to fuss about it before you both go to work. I’ll do the lunch, and even make a start on the dinner if Kitty’s too busy to do it. The phone will get answered every morning. I can do the housework and the shopping like always, so.” She frowned. “If I could work three full days here and two mornings, sure Archie’s wee place needs the half of no upkeep, I’d like weekends off, all you’d need, sir, might be a bit of extra help on the three weekday afternoons I’ll not be here to answer the phone—like Helen Hewitt did when I was sick. And I’d not feel I’d be letting you down, so if we could come to that arrangement.”