Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor (47 page)

“Please do be careful with that chest of drawers. It’s George III mahogany.”

Fingal smiled at his mother’s words and glanced across at Lars. The brothers were at Lansdowne Road to lend moral support during the move, and Lars would be taking Ma and Bridgit to Portaferry as soon as the removal men were finished loading the furniture. He shared a tiny smile with his brother and guessed they were thinking the same thing. Ma was particularly fond of that piece and, as always in major family matters, she was in charge and making sure everything was being done exactly, exactly, to her satisfaction.

“Don’t you worry yer head, missus. Me and Lacky here’s been shiftin’ furniture since yer man Mister Chippendale, who likely designed dis t’ing, was learnin’ to use a feckin’ chisel. Ain’t dat right, Lacky?” The speaker was a brawny man wearing moleskin trousers tied at the knee with leather thongs, a striped collarless shirt, and a leather waistcoat. Popeye the sailor, corncob pipe and all, was tattooed on the man’s right forearm.

“True on you, Ignatius,” Lacky said, mopping his bald head. Even in the late November drizzle, carrying the furniture down the long flight of stone front steps to the waiting removal vans would be sweaty work. “We’ll treat it like one of our own chisslers, missus, and beggin’ your pardon—” He knuckled his forehead then replaced his peakless, leather dustman’s hat. “—the work’d go a lot easier if you and dese two gentlemen would give us a bit of peace to get on wit’ it, like.” They trundled a dolly bearing the carpet-swaddled piece along a hall now bare of furniture and paintings. The lighter paint beneath where the pictures had hung for years made Fingal think of a rare disease, vitiligo, where the skin lost its pigment in patches.

“Come along, boys. Upstairs is all done, and the dining room, study, kitchen, and servants’ quarters. Movers can be clumsy, but I’ve made sure of everything I wanted to look after. They’ll be clearing the lounge last. Let’s go in there for a minute or two. It’ll soon be time to leave.”

Fingal, following Ma and his brother, glanced into a now-empty room, Father’s study when he’d been well, his ground-floor bedroom in the days before his death. Fingal thought of times in there; of scoldings as a child, the rows about Fingal’s refusal to read nuclear physics, the reconciliation when Father had accepted Fingal’s choice to study medicine. He could picture Ma fighting back tears after Professor Connan O’Reilly had taken his last breath in July. Fingal swallowed, thinking how those memories had all been borne out of here along with the rolltop desk, the bookshelves, the library of books. He wondered what those who were left were meant to do with Father’s diplomas? They were pieces of paper that had marked the successes of a young man’s striving to achieve his goals and now were of no more value than the secondhand price of their frames.

He looked up the bare wooden staircase, its upper flight masked in shade. The house had been Fingal’s home since his fourteenth year and by this evening all that had passed here would be starting to fade like the hues of a sunset on a cloudy night until only the shadows would remain. It must be hard for Ma.

Bridgit, already wearing her outdoors coat and a blue felt cloche hat, sat on a hard-backed chair in the lounge, thin-lipped, knees together, handbag firmly clasped in both hands on her lap. Fingal knew that her and Ma’s suitcases were loaded into Lars’s car. Cook had left on November first to work for the Carsons. Fingal stopped at Bridget’s chair and put a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s very hard to leave this place, Master Fingal.” Somehow the “Doctor” title had slipped. “I mind your mother and me nursing you when you had the measles. You were fourteen.” She sniffed. “And you were forever skinning your knees on the gravel drive. Memories,” she said, “a brave chunk of our lives.”

“I know,” he said, and squeezed, “but you’ll enjoy Portaferry.”

Ma went to her usual armchair and motioned for her sons to be seated. In here, as in the rest of the house, the pictures had all been crated yesterday. The landscape Ma had painted in Donegal near Ramelton was gone, the curtains taken from their rods. Outside the drizzle had turned to a steady rain that tapped insistently on the glass for admission, was refused and, sulking, ran down the panes.

“So,” Ma said, glancing round, “it was a good old house, but it’s looking sad now. I’ll always remember it fondly. I wonder if it will remember us? I’m sure the nice couple who have bought it will take good care of it.”

“And I know you and Bridgit will be comfortable where I’ve rented for you in Portaferry,” Lars said.

“And you’re sure you’ll be all right on your own in Dublin, Fingal?” she said.

He shook his head and smiled. “Ma, I turned twenty-eight last month.”

“I’m aware of that, dear, but there’s not a mother who doesn’t worry about her children and will always do so. I shall miss you, Fingal.” The stoic look slipped for an instant and she turned her head to stare out at the rain.

“I’ll miss you too, Ma.”

“And you’ll have that nice Miss O’Hallorhan to look after you. And Bob Beresford and Charlie too.”

It was Fingal’s turn to stare out the window, hoping his face didn’t betray him. He’d decided there was no need to let Ma know about Kitty’s imminent departure, about Charlie Greer’s decision to specialize in Belfast, and other disruptions that might yet be on the horizon in Fingal’s life. Some bridges crossed, some yet to come. He looked round the partially stripped room. Everything in flux. Everything changing. “When I have a free weekend I’ll get the train to Belfast if Lars will collect me there.”

“Of course I will, Finn,” Lars said. “Just give me a call and I’ll—”

“’Scuse me, missus,” Lacky said, “but me and Ignatius is ready to get goin’ in here now and we’d like til get finished by teatime.”

“Very well.” Ma rose and removed a change purse from her handbag. “Here.” She gave each man a half crown with an Irish harp on one side, a racehorse on the other. “I’ve already settled the account with your employer. This is to thank you both for all your hard work and for taking care of my things.”

“T’ank you, missus,” Lacky said, and grinned. His two top front teeth were missing. “T’anks very much. We’ll sink a pint of plain til you tonight, your ladyship, won’t we, Ignatius?”

Ignatius nodded. “Fair play. If you was a man I’d call you a right toff and a proper gent, lady.”

Ma inclined her head. Fingal could see her trying not to smile at the backhanded compliment. “Come along, boys, Bridgit—and, dear, there’s no need to cry.” And Ma, shoulders back, head erect, strode from the room.

Fingal stood in the rain as Lars helped Bridgit into the backseat and Ma into the passenger’s. Not once on the short walk to the car had she looked back. “You take care of yourself, Fingal,” she said. She reached out through the open window and patted his hand. “And, oh dear, I had quite forgotten. I did speak to Mister Jackson last week.”

Jackson? Fingal frowned and flinched as a trickle of rain found its way under his coat collar.

“I’m afraid he has no work at his factory in Chapelizod for your friend. I am sorry.”

Work for John-Joe. Of course. Fingal had not only forgotten Mister Jackson, he’d not had much time to spare a thought for John-Joe Finnegan either. “Thank you for trying.”

Lars started the engine.

“Safe trip. I’ll be in touch.” Fingal turned to go as Lars pulled into Lansdowne Road. The last Fingal saw of them was Ma staring fixedly ahead, but Bridgit was turned in her seat and was staring up at the big old house. Her face was crumpled and sad.

Fingal collected his bike and headed for his flat. Pity about John-Joe. Fingal was feeling guilty that he’d forgotten the man and then something niggled. The Carsons. They lived a short ride away and Robin Carson was a director of several companies. Why not give it a try for John-Joe? Fingal felt he owed the man one last effort. Mount Street Upper where the Carsons lived was on the other side of the Grand Canal. All he’d have to do was cross Mount Street Bridge.

Bridges. Huh. That’s all Fingal seemed to have been dealing with for the last four weeks, since Halloween when Kitty had broken it off. She’d be leaving in two weeks for Tenerife, damn it, and he missed her sorely. That bridge was well and truly burned.

He stopped, one foot on the ground, and waited for the traffic to thin on Haddington Road. The next bridge to be anticipated was professional. Charlie’d not been upset when Phelim had announced on the Monday after Dermot’s cure that either Charlie or Fingal would have to be let go.

Charlie’d simply said, “Then I’ll be the one. I’ve enjoyed my time here, but I’m going to see if there’s a surgical trainee spot at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast. I have a hankering to specialise in bones.”

“Fair play to ye,” Phelim said, “and I wish ye luck.”

Fingal pedalled ahead. All very well for Charlie, but would Fingal have a place in the new year? It still was not clear.

The sound of his tyres on the road changed and Fingal glanced over to see rings of raindrops on the still waters of the Grand Canal. He wanted the job. Phelim hadn’t said anything about the dispensary committee all month and Fingal had let the hare sit in the belief that no news was good news, but the uncertainty was unsettling. He hunched his shoulders and pedalled faster.

*   *   *

“Fingal, my friend, how are you?” Robin Carson rose with a smile from where he sat in an armchair in front of a black enamelled Coalbrooke Dale hob fireplace. Another man was sitting in a wingbacked chair with his back to Fingal. “She’s visiting her mother in Roscommon, but Jane will be sorry to have missed you. There’s no stopping her since she got over her surgery.”

“Robin.” Fingal shook the offered hand. “Sorry to pop in unannounced like this—”

“Always a pleasure. May I offer you something to drink?”

“Small Jameson, please.”

Robin headed for a sideboard. “Make yourself at home. You know Doctor Davidson, of course.”

“How are you, Doctor O’Reilly?” Doctor Andrew Davidson, who held a nearly empty cut-glass tumbler, smiled, but did not rise.

“Very well, thank you, sir.” Fingal wondered what the senior obstetrician from the Rotunda Hospital was doing here. It was four months since Jane’s operation and clearly she was still doing well. “Thank you, Robin.” Fingal accepted his drink.

“Jane asked Andrew to see Milly, the cook’s assistant. Some woman’s difficulty, I believe,” Robin said. He indicated a third regency-striped armchair. “Please. Have a seat.”

Fingal did, grateful for the warmth of the fire after his ride through the rain. His trouser legs steamed. It was very decent of Robin to pay Milly’s medical fees, and while Fingal would have liked to enquire how Cook was managing, he thought it polite to make conversation with his senior first. “If you don’t mind me asking, and I don’t think I’m being indiscreet, sir, how’s your Prontosil study coming on?” and before Doctor Davidson could answer Fingal went on to explain to Robin, “The doctors at the Rotunda are testing a new medicine that might cure infection.”

“That would be something,” Robin said.

“It is, and there’s no ‘might’ about it.” The obstetrician’s grin was huge. “We’ll be publishing the study early next year, but we have confirmed the work of our English colleagues. It works.”

I know, Fingal thought, and there’s going to be a revolution worldwide when sulphanilamide becomes available. He’d be able to make a real difference in a small way here too—if he still had a job.

Doctor Davidson’s smile faded. “I’d appreciate it, O’Reilly, and you, Robin, if you’d keep it to yourself until it’s public knowledge. We don’t want to be sensationalist about this.”

Fingal’s first thought was that perhaps he had been hasty asking the question, but he knew Robin would say nothing. His second thought was one of relief that apparently no one had mentioned his attempt to get some Prontosil from the postpartum ward last month. “I understand, sir,” he said, and managed to keep his face straight, but inside he exulted. And he’d been right to tell Phelim that even if the stuff seemed to have worked for Dermot, it was too early to broadcast the news. “But it is amazing. Have you any idea when it might be available to G.P.s like me?”

“Probably very soon, because the active principle was synthesised in 1903. It was widely used in the dyeing industry, its patent has expired, so anyone can manufacture it.”

“That’s wonderful,” Fingal said, forgetting for the moment what had brought him here.

“And you’re still happy working with Phelim Corrigan?” Doctor Davidson asked. “I hear there are cutbacks in the dispensaries.” He turned to Robin. “Even with the money coming in from the Irish Hospitals’ Sweepstakes since 1930 there’s still not enough to fund the system.”

“Phelim has had to let Doctor Greer, my classmate, go. He’s staying until he finds a job in Belfast,” Fingal said. “But yes, I’m enjoying the work tremendously. I just hope there’ll be no more cuts.” He took a drink.

“Don’t forget, young man, if you do ever have second thoughts, or find you are out of a job and fancy giving obstetrics and gynaecology a go, my offer stands. You’ll remember I mentioned special moneys?”

“After Jane’s surgery.”

“Right. I can create a position any time I like from an endowment fund set up specifically to attract truly promising young people.”

“Thank you, sir. I will remember that.” And the mention of jobs jogged Fingal’s memory. He turned to Robin. “I think, though, it’s time we stopped talking about medicine—”

“Quite right, young man. Doctors can be frightful bores.” Doctor Davidson rose.

Fingal stood.

“Milly will be fine if she takes the medicine, Robin, and keeps to her bed for a week. I’ll look in again in a day or so. My secretary will send my account.” He finished his drink. “I’ll be running along. And good luck in your work, O’Reilly.”

“I’ll see you out, Andrew.” Robin Carson led the way to the door.

Fingal sat and stretched out his booted feet in front of the fire, took another drink, and smiled wryly at Doctor Davidson’s “My secretary will send my account.” Naturally it would be in multiples of guineas, that archaic coin worth one pound and one shilling—and one guinea was probably as much as a cooper made in a day. “Bloody miserable out there,” Robin said, coming back rubbing his hands and blowing out his cheeks. He went to the sideboard and topped up his drink. “Another?”