A Dublin Student Doctor (33 page)

A high-pitched warbling distracted him. From the top of a tree, a cock linnet, red flash on his forehead, redbreasted, sang his hymn of praise, the free cousin of Paddy Keogh’s caged bird. A shire horse on the towpath puffed air past its lips, making a rubbery sound. The animal leaned into its collar and strode purposefully, hauling a narrow river barge away from Dublin to a destination in the Midlands of Ireland. Smoke from the vessel’s chimney curled up into the willows’ filigree. Someone was making tea.

On the bank, a man in a striped shirt and corduroy trousers tied at the knees with leather thongs was using a trowel to point a retaining wall of granite blocks. He straightened and put a hand in the small of his back, grimaced at Fingal, and said, “Lord Jasus, but I’ve a fierce crick.”

“Give your back a rest then,” Fingal said with a grin, “doctor’s orders.”

“Are yiz a doctor, sir?” he said, kneading his back.

“Almost. You should take a break. It’s a hot day for your job.”

“It’s as hot as the hobs of he— Sorry, miss.”

Kitty smiled. “It’s all right, but tell me how come you’re working on Sunday?”

“It’s a job dat goes all week and I’ve dispensation from Father Grogan to work on Sunday once I’ve been to Mass. Jasus, sir,” the man said, giving Fingal an appraising look, “almost a doctor. I thought when I was a gossoon, young like, I’d like to be an apothecary. Instead I’ve been mending dis feckin’ canal for twenty-five years. But I’d rather work in the sun dan the wet.” He hitched one hip on the wall and pulled out a dudeen. “Doctor’s orders,” he said, raising the pipe with a chuckle.

“Twenty-five years,” Kitty said. “That’s a long time.”

The man pulled off his duncher, produced a red hanky, and mopped his completely bald pate. “My family,” he said, “the Lannigans, has worked on An Chanáil Mhór, the Grand Canal, since they started building it in 1757.” He set his trowel on the wall and scratched his backside. “I could tell you tales all right.”

The permanence and the history of this country, Fingal thought. It might be interesting to hear the man’s story. He pulled out his tobacco pouch. “Like a fill?”

“You’re a gentleman and a scholar, sir.” He used a finger to stuff the bowl of his short white clay pipe and accepted a light. “Dis here waterway wasn’t opened for forty-seven years, not until 1804, the same year the first steam engine pulled a load in England.”

Kitty laughed. “I know a builder like that. It took him months to put up a garage for us in Tallaght when Dad got our first car.”

The man puffed a cloud to hang in the air. “Saving your presence, miss, I don’t t’ink your builder had to put up with w’at the folks who made dis did. The walls kept collapsing.” He crossed himself. “I’d two relations crushed and they weren’t the only ones, but the builders kept at it. They had to drain hundreds of acres of the Bog of Allen, but they did, and connected Dublin wit’ the river Shannon and opened up the southwest and west of Ireland.”

“You know your history,” Fingal said.

“Ah sure, sir, isn’t the whole feckin’ country full of history? And wouldn’t I be the right buck eejit if I didn’t know about my own trade?”

“Thank you for telling us about it,” Fingal said.

“My pleasure, sir, t’anks for the smoke, and the doctor’s orders wat gave me a chance for a break.” He picked up his trowel. “I’d better get on,” he said.

Fingal and Kitty walked away. They had to move to make room for a sweating, beefy-faced man in red braces carrying his coat over one arm. In place of a hat, a handkerchief knotted at each corner made a sun-protector for his head. “You and your feckin’, ‘Wouldn’t it be gas to take a stroll down by the canal?’” he said to the woman who walked beside him pushing a pram. “Fun? Jasus. I’m boiled like a feckin’ lobster and the chiseller must be baked.”

Fingal, who couldn’t catch the wife’s reply, was chuckling as he moved to be beside Kitty. “I’m warm myself,” he said, and wondered was this what happened after a few years of marriage? Squabbling over trivia?

“Ah, but,” said Kitty solemnly and with a deadpan expression, “at least you don’t look like a feckin’ lobster.”

Fingal stopped and guffawed, then, other pedestrians be damned, he kissed her. “Kitty O’Hallorhan,” he said, still laughing, “I love your sense of humour.” If he did ask this girl to marry him, he couldn’t see them bickering. She had too fine a sense of fun.

“I’m glad, Fingal,” she said. “I’m glad you love my humour.”

He detected a touch of wistfulness in her voice but was interrupted by a tugging at his arm. He looked down to see a naked child, beads of water clinging to his pearly skin. Fingal could count every rib. The boy shook his head and shed water like Lars’s springer Barney after a retrieve. “Hey, mister … mister…”

“Gerroff,” Fingal said, trying to avoid the spray.

The boy grinned. “Have yiz kicked any more arses up to the Dodder, mister?”

“Do you do that often, Fingal?” Kitty asked sotto voce and chuckled.

Fingal bent and looked at the lad’s pinched face. “Enda,” he said as he recognised the ex-patient. He said to Kitty, “Enda here was having a pea removed from his ear. He wouldn’t hold still and he kicked my shin.”

“And you offered to—? Shame.” She tousled the lad’s damp hair. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” she said.

“How’s that ear?” Fingal asked.

“Me lug’s grand now. Me mam sent me wit’ a bunch of other lads from Weaver’s Street to come down here for a wash. It beats sitting in a tin bat’ on a Friday after me da and big brudders have used it and the water’s black and cold.” Enda smiled at Kitty then said to Fingal, “Last time I seen you, you’d brandy balls.”

“Och,” said Fingal, “I don’t today.” He had trouble keeping a smile from starting.

Enda turned to where half a dozen naked boys splashed in the shallows and yelled, “The big fecker doesn’t have any brandy balls. He’s about as much use as matches on a motorbike.”

“But I have bulls’ eyes. Here.” He handed over a bag of black-and-white sweeties.

Enda grabbed and screeched, “I’ve a whole feckin’ bag of bulls’ eyes.”

He headed for the bank where the other urchins were racing each other from the water, cheering at the tops of their voices. Enda stopped and squinted up at Fingal. “Me mam would kill me if she knew I’d not said, t’anks, mister, so t’anks very much.” He frowned then said, “If you’re ever on Weaver’s Street, me mam’ll make yiz a cup of tea.” He was surrounded by his friends, leaping, grabbing, and demanding, “Me, me, me. Gimme a sweetie. I want a feckin’ sweetie.”

“Come on, Kitty,” Fingal said, “it’ll be like watching the keepers feed the lions at the zoo.” He strode off forcing her to keep pace. He still wasn’t very hungry himself.

“Do you always have sweeties in your pocket?” she asked.

“I do.”

“Do you know, you’re a big soft lump, O’Reilly,” she said, and as the sounds of yelling children faded behind them kissed his cheek.

He stopped and faced her. “I’ve a soft spot for youngsters, and the poor wee gurriers from places like the Liberties have nothing.”

She looked into his eyes. “Fingal,” she said, “I think you’d be a great father.”

Fingal glanced down at his boots, then faced Kitty. “I want kids one day, but—”

“But kids and medical school don’t mix. I think I told you already I understand.” She took his hand and they turned onto Dolphin Road. It hadn’t seemed like a two-mile walk from her flat. The restaurant was three doors up. Fingal opened the door and waited for her to go in. He’d think about the future, and love and kiddies, once he knew about Father and the results of his own exams. But this morning Kitty had succeeded in making sure he wasn’t preoccupied. He was going to make damn sure he’d not let his worries spoil this afternoon.

As the kitchen smells filled his nostrils, Fingal O’Reilly’s mouth began to water and he realised he could do a roast beef lunch justice after all.

31

It Is Never Good to Bring Bad News

Not a vestige of a smile showed as Doctor Micks entered Saint Patrick’s Ward on Monday morning. He didn’t need to speak. Fingal remembered being kicked in the stomach by an opposing rugby player. He felt that way now.

“I’m truly sorry, O’Reilly,” Doctor Micks said. “Please come into the office.”

Fingal followed. Damn. Damn. Damn.

“Sit down please, Fingal.” Doctor Micks remained standing. “I’ll come to the point. Your father does have aleukaemic leukaemia—and it is acute lymphocytic.”

Fingal envisioned the man wearing the red robes of a British judge removing a square of black silk from the top of his horsehair wig after pronouncing a death sentence. “I see.” Fingal swallowed. His fists clenched. He wanted to scream, “No,” but instead said, “I suppose there’s no possibility of a mistake?” He’d been working in the hospital long enough to know that laboratory tests could be wrong.

“I’m afraid not. Doctor Fullerton is a meticulous man. He made several smears of the marrow. They show immature lymphocytes. He sent two slides over.” He pointed to the brass barrel of a microscope on a nearby bench. “Would it help if you were to examine one?”

Fingal shook his head. “No thank you, sir.” Fingal knew that at high magnification the malignant cells would appear as dark blue irregular circles. Wanting to peer at the harbingers of his own father’s death struck him as being morbidly curious.

Doctor Micks touched Fingal’s shoulder. “My boy, we can take some comfort. The lymphocytes make up less than five percent of all the bone marrow cells.”

Fingal felt his hands relax. It wasn’t much, but there was a glimmer. “Does that mean the disease is in remission, sir?”

“Not exactly. We’ll have to be sure there’s no involvement of other systems.”

Fingal understood. Father had cancer of the bone marrow, but at present it was not pouring out vast numbers of cells. If the rest of the body was not affected the process was said to be in remission. It was quiescent, but only as trustworthy as a cask of powder on a burning fuse.

He wanted to ask, “How long has my father got,” but that was a question for a character in a bad film. No honest doctor could ever answer that question. “You said we’d go and give them the news.” Fingal stood. “Thank you for telling me first.”

Doctor Micks said, “I need you, Fingal. Now that you understand, you’ll show no surprise, no anger when I explain to your parents. They’ll be comforted by your response if you are not visibly upset.”

Moments ago, Fingal had wanted to yell, rage against the fates. Now he could at least show a façade of calmness.

The senior man continued, “I will not be prevaricating as I did at the first consultation when there was a possibility of something else. I shall be telling them the facts now. It will be hard for your parents.”

Fingal bowed his head. Nine months ago he had been scornful of how Doctor Micks distanced himself from his patients, insisting that the students do the same. Yet here he was taking Fingal’s feelings into consideration, asking him if he’d like to examine one of the slides, doing what he could to ease things for Father and Ma. His concern was hard to reconcile with the apparent attitude of a man who had seemed to regard human beings as mere “cases.” Fingal was beginning to understand that in his teaching, Doctor Micks was trying to protect his students. He himself was a humane man.

“Now come along. I’ll explain in the car what needs to be done,” he said, and added, “I’ve already spoken to Mister Kinnear. He understands why you won’t be at his rounds this morning. You will be expected this afternoon to meet Doctor Ellerker, the house surgeon, here and be instructed in your duties.”

*   *   *

“Thank you for visiting again.” Ma managed a smile when Bridgit showed Doctor Micks and Fingal into the drawing room. Ma’d had her hair done and wore her favourite cardigan and a tweed skirt. She held a lace hanky in one hand. The sun’s light made her pearls shine.

“Much better day than the first time you called,” Father said. “Please forgive me if I don’t get up.” He indicated two vacant chairs.

Fingal took one and noticed that Father had a pillow between his hip and the chair arm. His bone, the iliac crest, where the device had been thrust into the marrow cavity on Friday, would still ache.

“So, Doctor,” Father said, “what have you to tell us?” His voice was flat, expression deadpan. “The blood test made it clear it wasn’t a simple infection. The last two weeks have been hard on Mary.” He smiled at her. “Fingal did explain why we had to wait, but I’m glad you’re finally here—” He cleared his throat. “—to put us out of our misery.”

Fingal glanced at Father. He was still smiling. Once more, the dark sense of humour that Father used so sparingly had caught Fingal completely off guard.

Doctor Micks smiled. “You could say that, I suppose, but you’re not a horse with a broken leg and I’d make a very poor vet.”

Father said, “It was, perhaps, an unfortunate choice of words, I agree, but I understand you do have a diagnosis.”

Doctor Micks’s smile faded, his voice became level. “I wish the news were better—”

Ma made a small sound.

“Professor O’Reilly, I am so very sorry, but you are suffering from acute leukaemia.”

“I see. And that is bad, isn’t it?” Father’s smile had gone.

“I’m afraid so.”

Doctor Micks had meant it when he’d said he wasn’t going to prevaricate. Fingal wanted to get up, go to his parents, hold them, but instead he sat on the edge of his chair.

“Can anything be done?” Father asked. “We need to know.”

“Very little, I’m afraid, but as I explained to your son, the results seem to show that at the moment the disease is in remission.”

“I don’t understand,” Ma said, “I’m sorry.”

“It means that while the leukaemia is not going away, it is not progressing either,” Doctor Micks said.

“So I’m not getting any worse?”

“I hope not, but I will have to reexamine you and perhaps ask for some more tests before I can be sure.”

“Not,” Father glanced at his hip and grimaced, “not another bone marrow biopsy, I hope.”

“No, but could I examine you now, Professor?”

“Certainly.” Father rose awkwardly.