A Dublin Student Doctor (17 page)

“So am I,” said O’Reilly. He saw how she was looking at him. “I suppose you already knew that.”

She smiled. “She has spoken of you.”

“She’ll be pleased about Donal too,” he said, not wishing to discuss himself and Kitty. Not at this hour of the morning. “I’ll get a cuppa, then bed. Good night, Sister Hoey,” he said and left.

It was a fair walk back to the cafeteria. He thought of Jane Hoey and how, with his life and Kitty’s coming together, this woman might become a part of a new set of friends. And it lifted his spirits, the thought of new friends and old. Old friends like Cromie, Beresford, Hilda Manwell, Charlie. And Donal Donnelly.

O’Reilly considered phoning Barry asking him to go and see Julie to give her the latest information, but, he shook his head, what was the point in disturbing both of them, even though the outlook at this point was good? Julie would be worried enough, and the news, while comforting, wasn’t good enough to soothe her fears. The morning would be fine, and Donal might be even better.

O’Reilly sat in the Caves finishing a tea that could have given Maggie MacCorkle’s corrosive cuppas a run for their money. Very few diners were in the place at this hour of the morning.

He didn’t want anything to eat. The apple pie he’d had hours ago still felt like sludge in his stomach, or perhaps was it his concern for Donal that was slowing his digestion? He shook his head. It took a lot to put Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly off his victuals. As a student he’d once had to eat not one but two Christmas dinners on the same day and it hadn’t troubled him at all. Well, not too much.

He pushed back his chair, crossed his arms, let his head rest on his left shoulder, and closed his eyes.

*   *   *

Fingal could hear church bells, their bronze voices strident, their cadences ragged. Each, it seemed, was trying to outdo the others. As Christmas services and masses ended, the joyous pealing rang over the districts of Dublin. Over Ranelagh and Rathmines, Ballyfermot and Bluebell, the Phoenix and Blackrock. The bells brought their message, “… and on earth peace, good will toward men,” to the homes of the well-to-do on Lansdowne Road in Ballsbridge, and to the tenements of the Liberties, Monto, the Coombe.

Paddy Keogh and Kevin Doherty were not at home, but here on Saint Patrick’s Ward. Kevin Doherty’s breathing was regular and his cheeks were pink. Paddy Keogh must have tired of his Old Bill. His moustache was neatly trimmed. Fingal winked across at Paddy and was rewarded with a left-handed salute. The old soldier was sitting at attention.

They weren’t sick, but two of the lucky winners of an annual lottery. It was a tradition of Sir Patrick Dun’s that only seriously ill patients were admitted for the three days preceding Christmas Day, and every effort was made to clear as many beds as possible. On Christmas Eve morning, messages were sent to the homes of a number of men and women. They were some of the poorest ex-patients who lived nearby. They were invited to attend for admission that afternoon. Each would be treated to a Christmas dinner the next day. A list had been compiled over the year by Sister Daly and names drawn from a hat.

Saint Patrick’s, the men’s ward, was decorated with holly over the picture frames, coloured crêpe paper ribbons wrapped around bed-head frames. A tree resplendent in tinsel and coloured glass balls stood in the centre aisle. Beside it was a low table heaped with wrapped gifts. Each patient had a Christmas cracker on his bedside locker.

The sounds of “Hark the Herald Angels” came from the horn of a windup gramophone on a table near Fingal. He’d been given the job of musical director. He thought the record sounded scratchy. Time to change the needle. He removed a triangular piece of bamboo from a little box on the gramophone’s top and a pair of clippers. One cut and the bamboo, sliced on the bias, was ready. He lifted the arm from the record, unscrewed the worn needle, and replaced it with the new bamboo. He wound up the machine and put the needle in the groove. Better. Much better.

It was de rigueur for every fourth-year student to be here to serve the patients and to have their own Christmas dinner. Senior staff supervised the proceedings in both the men’s and women’s wards.

“I wish,” said Cromie, who was standing near Fingal with the three other juniors and Geoff Pilkington, “I wish Doctor Micks would hurry up and get here.” Charlie was not on the ward. He was preparing a surprise.

Fingal sipped a sherry. They all had one except Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick, who clutched a glass of orange juice. “Once we’ve fed the customers and had a bite ourselves, we’re free,” Cromie said. “I’m meeting Virginia today. It’s too far to try to get to Bangor. My folks understand.” Cromie had started seeing Virginia Treanor (“Virgin for short, but not for long,” as Bob had once muttered, sotto voce), a classmate of Kitty’s.

Fingal was getting fond of that girl. He’d recognised it in Neary’s. Trouble was, could he afford to get involved at this stage of his studies? He’d meant what he’d told Lars about not getting hooked, and yet— He looked across at her where she stood. Sister and her staff nurses and students were lined up along the other side of the table. They too held full glasses. God, Kitty was gorgeous and if anyone would understand a medical student’s life who better than a nurse?

Doctor Micks arrived. Fingal’s naval discipline asserted itself and he came to attention.

The senior consultant carried a large hold-all. “Merry Christmas, all.”

“Merry Christmas, Doctor Micks.”

He put the bag on a trestle table near the centre of the ward between the ranks of beds. On it stood plates in piles, cutlery, serviettes, large bone-handled carving knives and forks, and places set for the staff. “To business, Sister.”

She despatched a student nurse. “Tell the kitchen we’re ready to serve dinner.”

“Doctor Pilkington, if you please,” said Doctor Micks.

“Right, you five,” Geoff said. “Follow me.” He led the students to the table under the tree. “I want each of you to grab half a dozen presents. They’re labelled with bed numbers. Go and give one each to the patients. Sister’s arranged for tobacco or cigarettes for the smokers and mickeys of Jameson for the nonsmokers.”

Fitzpatrick sniffed then said, “I don’t think small bottles of whiskey or tobacco are very healthy. I’d have thought New Testaments or psalters might have been more appropriate.”

“Och, sure,” Fingal said, “don’t half the doctors in Dublin recommend tobacco to settle the nerves? And a wee tot never did anyone a bit of harm. The worst a few cigs does is stunt your growth if you start smoking too young.”

“Nevertheless, I do not approve,” Fitzpatrick said.

Hilda Manwell fixed the man with a stare that would have done justice to Balor the mythical Fomorian whose gaze could kill. Her voice was low and controlled. “It’s the season to be jolly, for God’s sake.”

Fingal thought Hilda was going to tear a strip off Fitzpatrick, but a commotion at the end of the ward attracted everyone’s attention.

“Ho, ho, ho,” a deep voice boomed.

That was Fingal’s cue. He lifted the arm, spun the windup crank, removed the record and replaced it with Guy Lombardo’s Royal Canadians’ “Winter Wonderland.”

—In the lane snow is glistening—

“Ho, ho, ho.” A red-suited, white-bearded Santa Claus bounded along the ward. If his red hair hadn’t been sticking out from under his white cotton-wool-trimmed hat Fingal wouldn’t have recognised Charlie Greer. He made a beeline for Sister Daly, stood in front of her, and from behind his back produced a sprig of mistletoe. He held it above Sister’s head.

“Merry Christmas, Sister,” Santa yelled.

Every eye was on the couple.

Fingal stole a glance at Doctor Micks. The ordinarily reserved senior physician was smiling broadly and when Santa bent and planted a wet kiss on her forehead, Doctor Micks burst into laughter and began applauding. Soon everyone was joining in.

—gone away is the bluebird—

Sister Daly blushed to match Santa’s coat, but said, “It does be the festive season, Mister—”

Fingal was sure she was going to say “Greer,” and perhaps demand retribution, but she continued, “—Claus, so little liberties are permitted, so.” She returned the kiss quite forcibly, it appeared to Fingal. The applause deafened him.

“But,” Sister continued, as Santa tried to hug her, “only shmall little ones. You students—keep away from my nurses.” And yet, Fingal thought, as he watched Sister’s gaze flit from Kitty to himself, there was a kindness in the Cork woman’s eyes. She spoke to Charlie. “Go you now and have a sherry and give Doctor Micks’s helpers a hand with the presents.”

Charlie joined the group at the tree and grabbed a handful of gifts.

“Well done, Charlie,” Fingal said quietly.

“Begod,” said Charlie, “that sister is a ferocious kisser. I wonder what she gets up to on her nights off?”

Fingal laughed, ignored the question, and whispered, “Give me the mistletoe.”

He’d accepted the sprig when he felt a tug on his sleeve and turned.

Bob Beresford smiled and proffered a gift. “It’s for your sergeant pal in bed 65. I thought you’d like to deliver it.”

“Thanks, Bob.” Fingal wondered what it was about Bob Beresford that intrigued him so. He made a point of seeming not to care and yet he was considerate, looked after his patients well, and had a quick mind. Surely he didn’t keep failing simply to hang on to his inheritance? That conversation they’d had in Neary’s about public health and research would be worth following up.

Fingal took the gift, picked up the remaining few that were left on the table, and went to distribute them. When he passed Kitty he showed her the mistletoe, inclined his head toward the sluice, and grinned.

He kept Paddy’s gift for last. “Merry Christmas, Sergeant Paddy,” he said, and handed over the parcel. “Glad you’re looking well.”

The neat moustache went up as Paddy Keogh grinned and said, “T’anks, sir. T’anks a whole lot for the present and even more because I’m well because of you and your feckin’ great skewer. Jasus, I t’ought the first time I seed it, it was a French bayonet.”

“Och, sure it’s only my job,” Fingal said, but he smiled. “Thank you too, Paddy. I’ve done another pleural tap since.” But I learned on you, he thought.

“Ah well, fair play to you, sir. Merry Christmas.” Paddy pointed across the ward. “Jasus, Mary, and Joseph, would youse look at dat?” His eyes were wide.

The kitchen staff were setting steaming platters on the table. Roast stuffed turkeys surrounded by roast potatoes and chipolata sausages. Hams, their skin studded with cloves, gave off tantalising scents. Tureens of carrots jostled with dishes of brussels sprouts and more dishes of mashed potatoes. There were sauceboats of gravy, bread sauce, cranberry sauce. From where he stood the aromas made Fingal’s mouth water.

“Mother of God,” Paddy said, his eyes even wider. “I’ve niver seen the likes in me whole feckin’ life. Is it the five t’ousand you’re for feeding?” He shook his head and his smile vanished. “Here I am in dis place wit’ all you learnèd folks waiting on us hand and foot and serving us a feast. I’ll tell you, Mister O’Reilly, sir, it beats the bread and dripping pieces my two sisters and brother’ll be having in our wee room.”

Three people in one room with nothing for Christmas but bread spread with bacon grease. Fingal felt a prickling behind his eyelids.

“Mind you, we’ve a lot more space dan we had a couple of years back. Two of me sisters got married and left…” The man’s voice trailed off and Fingal waited. “I don’t mind telling you, sir, you’re feckin’ near family yourself, you know so much about me.” Paddy shrugged. “The ould ones passed along wi’ me baby brother, Aidan, not long after. Feckin’ fever. Daddy Nagle, the chemist on Meath Street, made them up powders but—och.”

Fingal shuddered. “The fever” that had taken Paddy’s mother, father, and brother had probably been typhoid. It was endemic in the Dublin slums due to poor sanitation and contaminated drinking water or milk. The tenement dwellers had great faith in their pharmacists. Mister Nagle would have administered a “powder” of ground-up herbs, perhaps a bit of strychnine. Ipecacuanha was a popular ingredient because of its foul taste. Everyone knew that the worse a medicine tasted the stronger it was.

“Is there no way you and your family could move out?”

“Where to? Me sisters have work as charwomen. Barry’s a messenger boy. I beg to add to me British pensheen.”

Fingal knew the addition of the Irish
sin,
pronounced “sheen,” was used to diminish something. It was Paddy’s way of saying “tiny pension.”

“On what we make combined we’ll not be moving into Dublin Castle in a hurry, sir. We get by, but we’re like most people. You live where you get born unless you’re a girl and some fellah takes you off to his place.” Paddy pushed himself further up the bed. He managed a smile and lowered his voice. “At least my ones’ll have a couple of bottles of stout apiece. Sister, she’s a good skin, she give me an extra bottle every day I was here. For to take home for me family, like. We’ve saved dem wee bottles up for Christmas.”

Fingal glanced over to Sister Daly. She was indeed a good skin. She had no authority to hand out extra Guinness. He admired anyone who clearly believed rules were for the obedience of idiots and merely for the guidance of wise folks.

“Aye,” said Paddy, his smile returning, “and Dicey Duggan, her w’at has a fruit barrow at Mason’s Market on Horseman’s Row, her w’at the lads call, ‘the tart wit’ the cart,’ she give me half a dozen oranges for treats.”

Fingal had heard how the people of the Dublin tenements pulled together. Even those who recently had been rehoused by the City Council’s new building program pined for their old neighbourhoods and wanted to return. It wasn’t that they missed their dilapidated surroundings, but vibrant communities had been torn apart. Neighbours of years’ standing had been separated by bureaucratic fiat. A family of fourteen might have shared one room across the staircase from their longtime friends. After rehousing, even the family might have been broken up and placed in separate, distant flats, with their former friends and neighbours a dozen streets away.