Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor (44 page)

Arthur appeared from his kennel, a look of anticipation on his face.

“Come on, lummox,” O’Reilly said, “let’s go and see Bluebird or Buttercup or Brandywine or whatever the hell that buck eejit calls his dog now.”

*   *   *

“I hadn’t realised that Claude Monet was such a shaggy-looking bloke,” O’Reilly said as he neared the back door of Number One.

Kitty had been in her artistic element at the exhibition and had talked about nothing else on the way home. “Renoir painted that portrait of his friend in 1875,” she said, “when Monet was thirty-five.”

“Died of lung cancer not long after his eighty-sixth birthday, I believe,” O’Reilly said.

“Did he? I didn’t know that.” She waited while O’Reilly opened the door. “The curator of the exhibition worked wonders with the exhibits,” she said. “That portrait of Monet and
Dance in the City, Dance in the Country
and
Nude in the Sun
all usually hang in either the Musée d’Orsay or L’Orangerie in Paris. I can never quite remember which Impressionist is where. Thank you for taking me to see them, Fingal.” She chuckled. “It beat hanging wallpaper all afternoon.”

“Mmmm,” said O’Reilly, wondering how Donal was getting on. “Maybe next year I’ll take you to see those museums and the Louvre. I’d love a trip to Paris. There’s a wonderful hotel, the Regina du Passy, near Chausée de la Muette. I stayed there in 1959. Went to watch the Irish Rugby team beat France nine to five.” He looked over to catch Kitty sending him a look of despair. “No, I am not a Philistine, my love. I also, I’ll have you know, visited L’Hôtel Biron to see the Musée Rodin.”

Kitty chuckled. “It might be heresy, but I’ve always thought his
Thinker
looks like a man who could really use a laxative.”

O’Reilly was still laughing when he opened the back door and waited until Kitty had gone in before following.

“Kinky, you look lovely,” Kitty said.

She did. Under her pinafore, Kinky was wearing the embossed silk bridesmaid’s outfit she’d worn at his wedding. O’Reilly put the champagne into the fridge.

“Well,” said Kinky, “it does not be every day that a body is going to get engaged to be married, so.” She indicated with a lift of her head. “Mister Auchinleck arrived a little early. I have taken him up the stairs to the lounge, sir.”

“I’ll go straight up, but when I send him down to you, Kinky, Kitty, you bring up the bubbles and five glasses. We’ll give Donal a wee tot when he’s finished.” O’Reilly left.

“And I’ll keep you company, Kinky, until then,” Kitty said. “Teach me about Dublin coddle while we’re waiting. I know it’s one of Fingal’s favourites.”

He closed the kitchen door and opened the one to the surgery. All he could see with his head barely inside was Donal’s dungaree-clad back as he used a broad brush to hang what was probably the final strip of the pinstriped paper. “How are you getting on?” O’Reilly kept his voice barely above a whisper.

“Rightly,” said Donal, half turning. He winked. “First I done that wee special touch you asked for, sir. Made it a lot easier seeing the wall had been painted and didn’t need priming. You can’t see it unless you come right into the room, so you can’t. It took a wee while. I thought I might have til come back the morrow for til finish the papering, but hanging the paper’s been a doddle. Just this here last piece, you know, then Bob’s your uncle.”

“Great. I won’t look now. It’ll be a surprise,” said O’Reilly. “We’ll be with you soon.” He closed the door and climbed the stairs.

Archie Auchinleck stood in O’Reilly’s upstairs lounge. Archie was rigidly at attention and for a moment O’Reilly thought the man might salute. Not surprising. He’d been a colour sergeant with the First Battalion, Royal Ulster Rifles, which had become an airlanding brigade after Dunkirk. Archie and hundreds of his comrades had been taken by Horsa gliders to France on D-Day and across the Rhine in Operation Varsity in 1945.

“Doctor O’Reilly,” he said, “thank you for taking the time to see me.”

“It’s my pleasure, Mister Auchinleck,” O’Reilly said, and offered his hand. He stood level with Archie, who was a good deal thinner than O’Reilly. Let’s see what a few months of Kinky’s cooking did to that, thought O’Reilly with an inward smile. The man’s greying hair was neatly trimmed in a short back and sides and combed flat. He wore what must be his best blue serge three-piece suit, starched white shirt, regimental tie with its crown and harp emblem, and highly polished black shoes.

Archie hesitated then took the hand and shook it with a strong grip. “Doctor O’Reilly,” he said stiffly, “you might think a man of fifty-six like me coming to you like this a bit odd, but all my life I’ve done things the proper way, so I have. By the book. No muckin’ about, no hanky-panky. The first time I was wed back in 1938, a man was expected to ask.”

O’Reilly nodded and waited.

Archie took a very deep breath. “Everybody knows me and Maureen’s been keeping company since April.” His next inhalation was even deeper and his voice hesitant when he said, “Her and me’s in love and it’s time.”

To save Archie further embarrassment, O’Reilly said, “I understand.” He knew from past experience what a great effort it took for Ulstermen to confess their love to their girl, never mind another adult. It took a kind of courage to propose marriage and to ask for a daughter’s hand. God knew, O’Reilly should have in 1936. “You think you need my permission?”

Archie frowned. Stiffened. He sounded as aggrieved as a vegetarian might if offered a ham sandwich. “It’s the usual custom, sir, in these parts, and God rest him, Maureen’s da’s long gone. Who else would I ask?” His voice softened. “I’ll take good care of her, so I will. I promise. Honest to God.”

Not so long ago a father would have been expected to enquire into a future son-in-law’s prospects and whether he could support his wife in the manner to which she was accustomed. At least the days of having to provide the bride with a dowry were long gone too. He said, “Archie, if you feel you need my go-ahead, and I’m touched you’d ask, you have it from the bottom of my heart and my blessing and Mrs. O’Reilly’s too.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you.” The man’s smile, which revealed a gold tooth, was radiant. “Thank you very, very much.”

O’Reilly offered his hand, which was shaken. “Now,” he said, “you trot down to the kitchen, Kinky’s waiting, and send Mrs. O’Reilly up here, and when you’re ready, bring Kinky back and we’ll seal the bargain with a jar or two.”

“Right, sir.” Archie bent and picked up a bunch of red roses that O’Reilly had not noticed lying in an armchair.

“Good man-ma-da,” said O’Reilly to Archie’s back.

In what seemed like no time Kitty appeared carrying a tray bearing a bottle of Moët Chandon and five tulip glasses. She set it on the sideboard.

“Fingal,” she said, “if you’d seen the look on Kinky’s face when Archie appeared with the bouquet of red roses and the ring, you’d have wept. I’ve never seen her so happy.” She stretched up and kissed him. “You’re very good at making women happy, pet.”

He took her in a hug, kissed her, and said, “Thank you.” He looked down. “It’s taken me a fair bit of time to learn how, but I think I am getting the hang of it.”

“You are,” she said, “quite definitely.” She glanced at the bottle. “And what’s champagne for but to celebrate happiness?”

O’Reilly took the hint. Shortly after the cork went
pop,
he had poured four glasses and Kinky and Archie arrived.

“Let’s see?” Kitty said, reaching for Kinky’s left hand. “Beautiful. That’s one of the loveliest princess-cut diamonds I’ve ever seen.”

“And Kitty should know,” O’Reilly said. “She’s taken courses in gemology.” He handed out the glasses of bubbles.

Kinky smiled. “Thank you, sir, and thank you, Kitty. I’m a very lucky woman, so.” She beamed up at Archie and took his hand.

The tall Ulsterman smiled down and said, “The luck’s all mine, so it is, Maureen.”

“Now,” said O’Reilly, raising his glass. “To Archie and Kinky. May they always love and find comfort in each other.”

“To Archie and Kinky,” echoed Kitty. “I hope you’ll let Doctor O’Reilly and me give you a party soon to celebrate with family and friends?”

“Good idea,” O’Reilly said. “Some time in the next few weeks before Christmas.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Archie said. “Me and Maureen’d like that very much, so we would.”

As he drank deeply, O’Reilly’s gaze caught Kitty’s. May they all love and find comfort in each other. True, he thought. How very true. “All right, but now I’d like you two to excuse Kitty and me for five minutes, then we’ll be back up because we want to hear all your plans. But first I want to take a glass down to Donal, pay him, and let him get home. Come on, Kitty.” He poured another glass.

They went down the stairs. “That was very tactful, Fingal,” Kitty said, “giving them a few moments together. For all your bluster, you really are a pussycat, you know.”

“For goodness’ sake, woman, don’t tell anybody. I’ve my reputation to think of.” He pushed open the waiting room door. “It’s us, Donal,” he said, standing in the doorway and effectively blocking Kitty’s view of the room, now smoothly papered in the subdued pastel shade.

“Just finishing tidying up, sir,” Donal said with an eyelid-drooping wink. “Wheeker. Thanks.” He accepted the glass. “Champagne? What’s the big event?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” O’Reilly said, barely able to hide his smile, “but come on in, Kitty.” He stepped aside. “How do you like it?”

Kitty came in looking straight ahead and obviously admiring Donal’s work. “Lovely. Thank you, Donal. You’ve done a marvellous job. Now, Fingal, don’t you think it’s much more restful than those God-aw…” She turned through 180 degrees. “I’ll kill you, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, you gobshite,” but she nearly spilled her drink she was laughing so violently. “I’ll kill you. Oh dear.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “Oh dear me. Wonderful.”

“Do you approve, Mrs. O’Reilly?” Donal asked in his most innocent voice, the one he used on unsuspecting punters just before he scalped them. “Doctor O’Reilly said you especially liked murals and he lent me one of your art books for to copy, so he did.”

And there on the rear wall was an unpapered strip of previously green-painted wall upon which in acrylic paint not yet dry were the stems, leaves, and heads of three bright red floribunda roses. Donal had shown remarkable talent, even to having put glistening dewdrops on three of the leaves.

“Oh, Donal, Donal,” said Kitty, as her guffaws subsided into a series of throaty chuckles, “I never liked the wallpaper, but I’ve never had any quarrel with roses.” She took a deep breath and once her chuckles had subsided said, “And you’ve made them look so natural. I think Donal should sign it, don’t you, Fingal?”

O’Reilly inclined his head. “I do, in soul I do.”

43

Part at Last Without a Kiss

Despite the late-October rawness, Fingal was sweating when he rang the bell and waited on the steps of the converted Leeson Street terrace house where Kitty had her flat. He’d pedalled furiously from Bull Alley, rehearsing his speech of apology all the way. “Kitty. I’m so sorry about last night. It was an accident—”

She opened the door. The Kitty he saw standing in the doorway was a far cry from the smartly dressed, well-coiffed young woman he’d become used to seeing. She was wearing a tartan dressing gown, felt slippers, no makeup, and her hair in paper curlers. “Fingal?” her voice was expressionless. He’d been prepared for a relieved, “Are you all right? Thank God you’re here,” or an exasperated, “Where the blazes have you been. I’ve been worried sick.” She certainly had every right to be angry, but it would be all right when she understood why she’d been stood up.

He pursed his lips. “Can I come in? I’d like to explain.”

She nodded, said, “Put your bike in the hall,” and stood aside.

He grabbed his doctor’s bag from the basket—it would be silly to leave it in a public hallway—and followed her into the flat.

“Sit down,” she said once she’d closed the door. The living room was cosy and the gas fire burbled and popped. “Virginia’s out. You know she and Cromie came to the parting of the ways. There’s too big a distance between Dublin and Belfast.”

Fingal had felt sorry for his friend when Kitty had mentioned last month that Cromie and Virginia Treanor had parted, but understood that, like Fingal himself, his friend was on the threshold of a career, too junior to settle down and working even worse hours than Fingal.

“Virginia decided to cut her losses. She has a new man now. He’s not a doctor. He doesn’t work on weekend nights. Lucky Virginia.” Fingal detected a wistful tone. Kitty’s laugh was clipped. “It’s Halloween tonight, and she’s gone to—”

“Halloween? I’d lost track,” he said. “I’ve been working.” He didn’t take a chair. “Look, I’m so sorry about last night.”

She stood, arms folded across her chest. “I’m listening. Go on.”

“Kitty, you won’t believe what I’m going to tell you.”

She tapped her foot. “I’m sorry, Fingal, I just hope it’s a good explanation. I was worried sick. That time last year when you couldn’t get back from the north because your brother’s car broke down—at least then you got a message to me through one of your friends. I understood then. Circumstances…”

“And I should have sent a message this time too. I’m sorry.” Boy, should he have? You bet he should. Yesterday evening, when he’d asked Bob to explain things to Phelim Corrigan, Fingal could have asked his friend to nip round and tell Kitty as well. But Fingal had been totally preoccupied with Dermot Finucane, and by the time Fingal had thought of it, Bob had gone. “I’m sorry. I know I should have tried to let you know, but I was with a very sick boy—”

“And the patient always comes first,” she interrupted. “I know.” She shook her head. “Fingal, I’m trying to be understanding, but back in August you made that pretty clear. I have tried to understand. Three weeks ago when you spent ages chatting to that tugger—”

“Lorcan O’Lunney? But—”