A Dublin Student Doctor (28 page)

“Indeed,” said Charlie. “I hope we’re all well read.”

“We bloody well ought to be,” Bob said. “Fingal here’s been keeping everyone’s nose to the grindstone for the past three months since he wrung that promise out of me back in March.”

“I have medical jurisprudence and materia medica coming out my ears,” Charlie said. “What I don’t have is the fresh pint I need. Anyone else?”

“I’m fine,” Cromie said. “I’m seeing Virginia later and meeting Fingal and Kitty in the Stag’s Head off O’Connell Street tonight. I’d better heel tap.”

Finally, Fingal thought, Cromie was learning to handle his drink. “Kitty’s going with her sister and nephew to the zoo this afternoon. I’m meeting her there in Phoenix Park, but we’ll see you two at seven.”

“I’m not waiting until seven for a jar. It’s Saturday,” Bob said. “Jameson, please, Charlie, then I’ve a date with the horses at two thirty over at Leopardstown. Want to come?” He lit a cigarette.

Charlie shook his head. “No thanks, Bob, I’m going to buy some trousers, and put my feet up tonight. Listen to Raidió Éireann. Fingal? Pint?”

“Not for me. I’m heading home.” Earlier this week Ma had dropped him a note practically demanding he visit today. It wasn’t like her. She usually made her invitations informal. Fingal had written to say he’d drop by this afternoon and had tried not to worry.

He watched Charlie rise and amble over to the long bar, stopping to greet a nonmedical acquaintance. Byrnes was a friendly place. No wonder James Joyce had spent so much time in here writing
Ulysses.

“So, Fingal, how goes the studying?” Bob said. “Are you and Charlie catching up with Cromie, and much as it hurts an old chronic to say it—with me?”

“I think so.”

Bob cocked an eyebrow at Fingal. “You’ve missed a fair number of pathology and bacteriology lectures on those Thursday afternoons you’ve gone to rugby.”

“I know, but I am making up,” Fingal said, hoping it was enough.

Bob leant forward and tapped his glass. “I was disappointed there was no Irish selection for you or Charlie this year.”

So was Fingal, but he didn’t want to let it show. “Always next year, Bob. And I’m in top condition.”

“So,” said Charlie, “is my pint.” He set it on the table. “Here, Bob.” He handed Bob his whiskey.
“Sláinte.”

“Cheers,” said Bob. “Here’s to July first and the end of those three bloody awful months of psychiatry.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Fingal, raising the last of his pint. “I don’t think I saw a single patient improve. Sedating folks with chloral hydrate or barbiturates is about all doctors can do. You feel so bloody useless.”

Bob sipped from his glass, Charlie raised his pint, and Fingal puffed on his pipe.

“Begod,” said Fingal, “I wonder if they’d not do better with a jar or a smoke or two?”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Charlie.

“At least Jameson’s tastes better than chloral hydrate,” Bob said. “I tried it.” He grimaced.

The friends looked at each other and burst into laughter.

*   *   *

“Fingal.” Ma rose from her chair in the living room and hugged her son. “It’s been a while.”

“I’m sorry, Ma,” he said, “life’s pretty hectic.”

“Perfectly all right,” she said, “now come and sit down.”

Fingal thought she looked pale.

“I’m so glad you could come.”

“What’s up, Ma? Something’s bothering you.”

“I wanted to talk to you alone. Father’s gone to see an exhibition at the Royal Hibernian Art Gallery,” she said. “Percy French watercolours.” She made a little moue. “I let him go alone. I don’t like watercolours. Much prefer oils.”

“I know,” he said, thinking of the Yeats in the dining room and the veritable gallery in heavy gilt frames that adorned the rooms, halls, and staircase walls.

She leant forward and her pearls swung away from her throat. “That’s why I asked you to come today. Lars was here yesterday.” She smiled. “He’s still got some of the tan he got in Villefranche. I think the time away did him good.”

The last time Fingal had been home in March, Lars, recently returned from France, had been tanned and seemed to be feeling less hurt by Jean Neely.

“I think you’re right.” Fingal frowned. “I didn’t know he’d been in town this week.”

“No,” she said. “He was only able to get away yesterday and I wanted his advice before I spoke to you. Father was in Trinity Library when Lars popped in. He did agree it was a good idea to seek your advice.” She fiddled with the loop of the necklace. “I worried about writing to you earlier, but I did want to see you, son.”

“About what?”

“Father.” Her voice was flat.

“Father?” What in the world could he, Fingal, advise about Father?

She looked straight at him. “He’s not well, Fingal, and he refuses to admit it.”

“Not well?” Fingal leant forward. “How exactly is he not well?”

Ma’s fingers plucked at her skirt. “He tires so easily. He’s getting very short of breath. You remember when you and Lars were here last year and Father’d let his assistant take the Saturday tutorial?”

“Yes.” Fingal had noticed that.

“He confessed to me he’d been feeling run down.”

Fingal started to work out a differential diagnosis. On those two symptoms it was a long list. “Has he seen his doctor?”

Ma shook her head. “He gets angry if I even hint at it. I thought you might have an opinion about whether he really needs to see someone. If you do, I’ll find a way to make him go.”

Fingal heard the iron in her voice. Despite his worry he smiled. “Have you,” he asked, “noticed anything else?”

Ma’s eyes glistened. “He’s—that is, I think he’s losing weight and—and he looks terribly wan.”

Losing weight was always worrying. Cancer patients lost weight. Tired, short of breath, pale? Ma could be describing Roisín Kilmartin, she of the pernicious anaemia. It would be a coincidence if Father had the same condition, but it certainly sounded as if it might be some kind of anaemia.

“Lars thought that as you are almost a doctor you’d have some ideas.” She touched his knee. “I do hope so.”

Having strangers as patients could be upsetting, but your own father? “I’m certain,” Fingal said, “that someone needs to examine him. That might be enough, but if it’s not, some simple blood tests, perhaps an X-ray, might tell if anything’s wrong.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Fingal. Lars was sure I was right to want to ask you.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but you’ll have to persuade Father to go. I can’t examine him.” He grinned. “They say a doctor who treats his own family has idiots for patients.”

Ma nodded. “I understand, but I will find a way to get him to go,” she said, “and I want him to see a good doctor—a really good doctor.”

“I know the one,” Fingal said. “A consultant who taught me for six months. Doctor Micks. He was our clinical clerkship supervisor. I don’t see much of him now we’ve moved on to studying other branches of medicine, but I’m sure he’d be willing to do one of his old students a favour. I’ll ask him on Monday.”

“If he agrees, Father
will
keep his appointment.”

Fingal had no doubt about that.

“I’d be so very grateful, son. It would take a great load off my mind.”

Fingal could hear the pleading in her voice. He struggled not to let his concern show. “First thing on Monday I’ll see my old chief and I’ll phone you. I’m sure Sister Daly won’t mind.”

She smiled. “You’re a good lad, son. But then, you always were.”

Fingal smiled back. “Och,” he said, “the last time I heard tell you only get issued with one ma. You’re meant to keep an eye on her.”

She chuckled and sat more straight, her hands clasped in her lap. “Now,” she said, “now that we’ve got the unpleasant business out of the way, tell me about everything else in your life.”

Fingal sat back. “Let’s see,” he said, “at work things are chugging along nicely. I should be qualified in twelve months. Only two more exams to go, one this month. No rugby until September.” He could tell by her smile she was perfectly happy that he was unlikely to get injured for a while. He winked at her. “This evening I’m going for a walk in the Phoenix with a young lady. Her name’s Caitlin O’Hallorhan. Her dad’s an accountant and she’s a nursing student.”

“Is she indeed?” Ma asked, and smiled. She cocked her head to one side. “And is she the kind you might like to bring home to meet us?”

Fingal laughed. Typical of Ma never to enquire about her sons’ romantic lives, but if they volunteered information she’d come to the point, but not directly. She was really asking was he serious about Kitty. “Not yet, Ma. Not yet, but in a while? You never know what might happen. You never know at all.” If he did bring her, which was tantamount to telling his parents he was thinking of proposing, it wouldn’t be until after Finals Part II next year, and the more he saw of Kitty O’Hallorhan the more he hoped she’d be happy to wait. She’d been almost as jubilant as he in April when he’d finally been able to tell her face-to-face about Paddy. He still remembered the soft way she’d looked at him and said gently, “You are a gentleman, Fingal O’Reilly, and I admire that,” then she’d kissed him and he could taste it yet.

“And you’re seeing her this evening?” Ma opened her handbag and took out her purse. “Here,” she said, handing him a pound note, “buy her a nice tea.”

He tried to give it back. “Ma, I can’t—”

“Oh yes you can, Fingal O’Reilly. Now put it away. The workman is worth his hire. That’s your consultation fee.” She smiled. “And see you have a good time tonight.”

26

The Stag at Eve Had Drunk His Fill

Fingal loosened his collar. The tram was crowded, hot, and humid. He got off in Phoenix Park near the Wellington Monument, a massive obelisk on a square plinth. It had been erected two years after the Battle of Waterloo as a tribute to the Duke of Wellington, who had been born Arthur Wellesley in 24 Baggot Street Lower. Of Anglo-Irish stock, when accused of being Irish, the Iron Duke had icily replied, “Being born in a stable does not make one a horse.”

Fingal spotted Kitty sitting on the steps at the monument’s base. She was waving at him, hatless, and ignoring the fashion dictate that young ladies should wear gloves.

She hugged him. “Fingal.” She held him at arm’s length. “It’s been forever.”

“It has.” He’d seen her only three times since her restriction to the Home had finished at the end of March and here it was, the first week in June. “But I don’t see what else we could do. We can’t meet on the ward. You’ve been in paediatrics, I’ve been in psychiatry. And the work’s been heavy.”

“At least now that my first year’s over, I’m out of that Nurses’ Home and sharing a flat with Virginia. That should make things easier.”

“After Finals Part One,” he said.

“Of course, after Part One. I know it’s important.” He felt her against him, firm and warm, and he inhaled her gentle musk. The perfume was mingled with a hint of fresh perspiration. He found the combination arousing. He gave her cheek a quick peck. The Phoenix was crowded and modesty forbade public displays of affection.

“Come on,” he said, taking her hand. “Let’s walk up as far as the zoo, across to Ashtown Castle, then head down Chesterfield Avenue to the tram stop.” It was great just to hold her hand. He’d missed her company sorely. Fingal, content to be with her, felt no need to make conversation as they strolled. He wanted to put away his concerns for Father and bask in the company of the young woman who for him was living proof that, as he had once told her, absence did make the heart grow fonder. He hoped Kitty was enjoying the afternoon sunshine as much as he, the springiness of the grass underfoot.

The sticky buds of horse chestnuts had long since burst to free the multifingered leaves. Under the trees a mosaic of emerald brightness and bottle-green shade dappled the lawn where sparrows hopped and starlings strutted. Phoenix Park on the north side of the River Liffey was a rustic refuge in the gritty, workaday capital city.

Horse-drawn open carriages carrying top-hatted gentlemen and ladies sheltering under lacy parasols and wide-brimmed hats rolled through the park. The air was filled with the clop of hooves, the clatter of motorcar engines, the high-pitched squeals of children, and, from the zoo, the piercing cry of a peacock.

“Where are we going tonight?” she asked.

“The Stag’s Head.”

“Stag’s Head,” she said. “Where’s that?”

“On a street off O’Connell Street. We’re meeting Cromie and Virginia. It was his idea.”

“Oh. She told me this morning she was to meet him at Nelson’s Pillar, that was all.”

“She’s been a good friend to you, hasn’t she?” he said. “And she saved my bacon when Lars’s car broke down and I wasn’t able to make it to Dublin that night back in February.”

“Ginny’s a lamb,” Kitty said. “She didn’t believe the stories the girls in the Nurses’ Home were telling me. Told me to ignore them.”

“What about?”

She squeezed his hand. “It’s funny,” she said, “when I was confined to barracks they told me I’d better get used to not seeing you anymore. You know what kind of cats young women in residence can be.”

He stopped. “Why on earth not see me?”

She laughed. “You have a bit of a reputation, you and Bob Beresford.”

“As what?”

“I think the word is Lotharios.”

Fingal blushed. “Well I—that is—”

She laughed. It was a rich sound. “Eejit. I knew that before our first date. Why shouldn’t a student see lots of girls? And you two aren’t youngsters like Cromie and Charlie. Heavens,” she said, “you don’t think you’re the first boy I’ve kissed, do you?”

Kitty kissing another man was an image he preferred not to dwell on. He said nothing.

“Course you don’t, but, Fingal?”

“Yes?”

“You’re the first I’ve wanted to go on seeing.”

He took a deep breath. A phrase from his medical jurisprudence course,
res ipsa loquitur,
sprang to mind. The thing speaks for itself. He’d not looked at another woman since last October. “Me too,” he said.

“I knew on New Year’s morning when that nice countertenor sang, ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.’”