A Dublin Student Doctor (41 page)

“Don’t see why not,” Cromie said, “unless your names are Cain and Abel.”

“Or Jacob and Esau,” Charlie added, “and you’d not qualify as Esau, Cromie. You’re not hairy enough.” He sank a huge swallow.

Cromie ran a hand through his thinning hair. “As they say in the Liberties, Charlie, ‘Feck off, you great bollix.’” His grin went from ear to ear.

“Why do you ask?” Bob wanted to know. Half his whiskey was gone.

“I’ve an older brother. I’ll be seeing him next week. He’s a really good skin. I’d count him as a friend.”

“Family Christmas?” Bob asked, and inclined his head. “Things okay?”

Fingal sank another third of his pint. “Fine, Bob, but no family celebration this year.” Bob knew about the leukaemia, and Fingal felt ready to tell his other friends about Father’s illness, but not tonight. He’d not want to put a damper on the evening. “My folks are travelling,” he said. “They’ll be in Cap d’Antibes for the season. Family home’s closed up except for the maid and cook, and they’ve been given the week off so I’ll be going to my brother in Portaferry. I’m looking forward to it.”

“I’m for home in Bangor,” Cromie said.

“Home for me too,” Charlie said.

Fingal sank the rest of his pint. “Bob? What about you?”

Bob Beresford blushed. “Seeing we have ten days off over Christmas and the New Year because the surgeons’ll only be doing emergency cases, I’m giving myself a treat.”

“Diarmud,” Charlie roared.

“Right, sir. I’ve the pints poured.”

“Tell us, Bob,” Cromie demanded, and finished his first pint.

Bob coughed. “As this may be my last Christmas when dear old auntie’s money’s coming in, I’m having five days sking in Saint Moritz. Bette’s coming too.”

Charlie whistled. “Life of Riley for some,” he said. “Fair play to you, Bob. Enjoy it.”

“Does that mean you’re going to take Finals seriously?” Fingal asked. The suggestion of Bob’s inheritance stopping hadn’t been lost on Fingal.

“Here’s your grog.” Diarmud unloaded a tray.

Bob paid. “It pains me to say it, but much against my better judgment I’ve actually started to enjoy seeing patients get better.” He grinned at Fingal and lifted his glass in toast. “All your bloody fault, O’Reilly, making me study, keeping me at it.”

Fingal hugged that thought.

“Will I take Finals seriously in June?” Bob asked. “I might.”

“We’ll drink to that, Bob,” Fingal said. “Lads. To Doctor Beresford to be.”

Glasses were raised. Their voices spoke as one and Cromie added, a little slurred, “And all who sail in her.”

“That,” said Charlie, “is for launching ships. Slow down, Cromie.”

“Bollocks,” said Cromie, “we’re celebrating your cap and Fingal’s pass.”

They were, by God, Fingal thought. Part I was finally over and Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly was going to enjoy this evening, sink a few pints, enjoy good company—and for tonight at least pay no heed to thinking about what the next and final six months of their training would involve. “Same again, Diarmud,” he roared, “and you, Cromie, sit up straight.”

40

The Foxes Have Holes

Fingal tucked an Irish linen napkin into his collar and surveyed the chafing dishes on the sideboard in Lars’s dining room. The scents of bacon and coffee were making his mouth water. “What time does the hunt meet?” he asked his brother. A painting above the sideboard, a Percy French watercolour of snow-covered Mourne Mountains, matched conditions outside the window.

“Eleven thirty outside Davy McMaster’s at Lisbane,” Lars said. “Two hours from now, so relax and enjoy your breakfast.” The Portaferry Fox Hounds went out every Boxing Day, the honorary secretary was a friend of Lars’s, and they’d been invited for a stirrup cup before the hunt started. Lars poured coffee. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to the dawn flight, but I never shoot if there’s snow. The birds become stupid with the cold. It’s too easy. You could knock them down with a stick.”

The flakes had started on the morning of Christmas Eve and had made the drive to Portaferry from Belfast, where Lars had picked Fingal up from the train, tricky. The snow had stopped on Christmas Day. “Fine by me,” Fingal said. “I’m sure we’ll get other days fowling, and I’ve never seen a fox hunt.”

“It’ll be nippy out and we should fuel our boilers, so tuck in, Finn,” Lars said.

Fingal helped himself. Myrtle, Lars’s housekeeper, had left a sterling Boxing Day breakfast before going to Bangor to see her family. Servants traditionally were given their Christmas present, a “Christmas box,” on December 26, hence the day’s name, and they had the day off.

He chuckled and added sautéed lambs’ kidneys to bacon, poached eggs, fried soda farl, and mushrooms. “At least,” he said, “I didn’t have to eat two Christmas dinners yesterday like last year. It’s the fourth-year students who serve the patients theirs and are expected to dine at Sir Patrick’s. Us fifth-years get a few days off.” He wandered over and sat at the table where Lars was already tucking into rashers and eggs.

Lars said, “So, Finn, only six months to go. How does it feel?”

Fingal swallowed a mouthful of kidney. “Feel? You know bloody well I’ve wanted it since before you started bringing me to Strangford to shoot. Three more courses to go, one bloody great exam. How did you feel coming up to the end of law school?” Fingal used a piece of soda bread to mop up egg yolk.

Lars shrugged. “Glad that it would soon be over. Fed up I’d still more courses to take. Law’s pretty dry, you know.”

Fingal swallowed and attacked a rasher with all the verve of Flashing Fingers Kinnear at his work. “Medicine’s not one bit dry. I’ve finished surgery, and I loved it, and we’ll be going to the Rotunda for our midder for five months.”

“Midder?”

“Midwifery. Looking after pregnant women, delivering babies, that along with a couple of other courses, it’s very much the last lap.” He helped himself to a cup of coffee and speared another kidney. “How do I feel? I’m champing at the bit to get on with it. Then June. Finals Part Two.”

“I can imagine you’ll be well prepared?”

“Bloody right. I’ve got to pass. Father wants to come to my graduation.”

Lars hesitated, a forkful of bacon halfway to his mouth. “Do you think he will? Make it, I mean.”

Fingal sighed. “Lars, I’m a final-year medical student, not a clairvoyant. I simply don’t know, but I hope so. I really do.” Fingal put a hand into his pocket. “At least,” he said, offering a crumpled repeatedly-read telegram, “this appears to be positive.” He slid the piece of paper over to Lars. Fingal now knew the words by heart.

“Congratulations—Stop—,” Lars read. “Am delighted—Stop—Father well and proud as Punch—Stop—Merry Christmas—Stop—Love you and Lars—”

“I telegraphed them in Antibes to let them know I’d passed.” Those six words, “Father well and proud as Punch” had meant a great deal to Fingal. A very great deal. “I think we can safely assume his leukaemia is still in remission. Ma wouldn’t have said ‘well’ if it wasn’t.”

“That,” said Lars, returning the telegram and pushing his empty plate away, “is the best Christmas present two sons could expect.”

“So, my universe is unfolding, the folks seem to be all right, how about you, Lars?”

His brother shrugged. “‘The daily round, the common task—’”

“‘Should furnish all we ought to ask.’ I know.” Fingal finished a rasher. “Does it?” He looked directly at his brother.

Lars shrugged. “Pretty much. I’m well settled in here, part of the local community, I like that. It’s, it’s cosy. I think growing up in a wee place like Holywood makes you appreciate village life.”

“It does. I’m still torn between GP and specialising, but I’ll not worry about that for a while.” Fingal pushed his empty plate aside. He’d decided before he came down not to broach the next subject until after Christmas Day, but he was still concerned for his brother. “Lars, you can tell me to shut up if you like, but it’s nearly exactly a year—”

“It’s all right, Finn. A year since Jean Neely said no. I am well aware of that.” He stared out of the window. “I still think about her. Whether the same can be said of her, I don’t know. I hear she’s engaged to a stockbroker now and is very happy. She always did like the good life.”

And I think about Kitty and that damned Baggot Street doctor, Fingal thought.

“But, no, I don’t hurt as much. Life goes on. I haven’t bothered dating anybody else, and do you know? It’s a lot less complicated.”

“You are all right though?”

Lars laughed and yet Fingal detected a sadness in the laughter. “As rain, but thanks for asking.” He glanced at his watch. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get these things washed up and then go and watch, in the words of your namesake, ‘The unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable.’”

*   *   *

As the car neared the McMasters’ the verges were filled with horse boxes parked along the Portaferry to Newtownards Road. They left Lars’s car and and set off to walk the last fifty yards. Fingal trudged in tyre ruts through the ankle-deep snow, shielding his eyes against the glare of sunlight reflected from the shining hills. The air was crisp in his nostrils, but the scent of burning turf was less distinct than it had been when he’d gone shooting with Lars in February. He shrugged. His poor old proboscis would never be the same.

From around the corner ahead came the sound of iron-shod hooves on tarmacadam, an occasional whinny, and high-pitched belling as the hounds gave voice. Laughter, men’s tones, women’s voices.

The blackthorn hedges’ ebony lattices were topped with what looked like royal icing. Small birds sat, disconsolate brown balls, their feathers fluffed against the cold, too lethargic to fly away as the two men approached. Lars was correct about the effects of cold, and right not to go shooting.

“They’ve got a brave day for the hunt,” Lars said.

“Sound,” Fingal agreed as they rounded the corner.

The road in front of Davy McMaster’s farmyard was ajostle with members of the hunt, some on foot holding their horses’ reins, some mounted. The horses’ coats shone and their breath hung fine as gossamer in the crisp air. A woman held a chestnut gelding’s bridle as the animal turned its head, twitched its ears, and watched with soft peat-brown eyes as a saddle blanket was spread and an English saddle, its surface glistening in the sun, was fitted with a slap of leather and a clink of stirrups.

Fingal overheard fragments of conversation. “The going should be good this year, not like last year’s downpour.”

“Perhaps young Blennerhasset won’t come a cropper this year. Poor seat that boy.”

And a woman’s voice, offhand yet with unmistakable pride. “And so she’s going to Queen’s in September to study chemistry.”

Another woman. “Your daughter? Little Esme? Good Lord. Girls going to university, and to read science no less? I’m sure I don’t know what the world is coming to.”

Hilda Manwell was taking a science, medicine, Fingal thought, and she was going to be a damn fine physician, probably a specialist. And the best of luck to her.

A joke’s punch line: “I don’t know about artificial respiration, but if you keep on pumping his arms and don’t get his arse out of the Royal Canal you’ll be at that forever,” followed by a loud burst of laughter.

Davy and his wife circulated, handing out stirrup cups, which, Fingal surmised, by the steam rising from the glasses, were either hot toddies or mulled wine.

In a smaller yard behind a five-bar gate, the pack of hounds was being controlled by the huntsman and two whippers-in.

The scene was ablaze with colour. Many men wore scarlet coats, the rest black jackets. All had on pale breeches and English boots. The ladies sported navy coats, some with coloured collars. Some wore voluminous skirts and would be riding sidesaddle.

“Why the different uniforms, Lars?” Fingal asked.

“It’s complicated, but the professionals, like the master and huntsman, and the gifted amateurs, wear red coats if they’re men—the coats are actually called ‘pinks.’ And the outstanding women wear coloured collars on navy jackets. Otherwise black jackets for the men, plain navy for the women. If you’re under eighteen, you’ve to wear tweed like young Andy Blennerhasset.” He indicated a rotund young man who Fingal noticed was sorely troubled with acne, and who reputedly had a poor seat. Poor it might be, but it was certainly ample. “I wonder how long those traditions have been around.” Certainly the sport wasn’t Irish. It had been imported by the English aristocracy probably as long ago as the sixteenth century.

“No idea,” Lars said, “but it’s firmly established in this part of Ireland.” He scanned the crowd. “Now, there’s my friend, the secretary,” Lars said, pointing to a red-jacketed man astride a large bay. “Michael.” Lars waved.

“Come on over, Lars. Come and have a drink.”

Davy McMaster offered a tray of drinks. Fingal took a whiskey toddy and followed Lars past other horses to where his friend sat beside a ramrod-stiff man with iron-grey hair. In his army officer’s uniform with its captain’s three pips on the epaulettes, and seated on a large black stallion, the man looked ready to do battle. Beside him, also mounted on a black horse, was a fine-boned woman. She had a coloured collar so must be regarded as an expert. A long chestnut ponytail escaped from under her John Bull top hat and swayed and glistened in the sun. She had full lips and pale blue eyes.

“Michael Crawford,” Lars said. “Meet my brother, Fingal. Fingal, Michael Crawford.”

Fingal reached up to take the proffered hand.

“How do you do, Mister O’Reilly,” Michael said.

“How do you do?” Fingal replied. Idiotic greeting, he thought, and had a desire to ask instead, “How do I do what, exactly?”

“May I introduce Captain, Lord John MacNeill, First Batallion, Irish Guards and his wife, Lady Laura MacNeill?” Michael said. “Just home from India.”

More how-de-do’s, then the soldier said, “O’Reilly? Not Fingal O’Reilly?”

Fingal looked up and squinted against the sun. “Yes, my lord.” The man’s face was familiar, he was sure he’d seen pictures of it somewhere.

“I was dreadfully sorry to hear you had to turn down an Irish trial. Please accept my sympathy.”