Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor (11 page)

Nods of assent.

“Sorry, but if I don’t get a move on, I’ll be late. I’m taking Kitty to the movies and then for a bite.”

“And,” said Charlie with a deadpan expression, “where exactly do you intend to make this dental attack on the lovely Miss O’Hallorhan?”

*   *   *

“Scary,” said Caitlin “Kitty” O’Hallorhan as, hand in hand, she and Fingal left the three-thousand-seat Savoy Cinema on Upper O’Connell Street and walked through the late-evening crowds toward Nelson’s Pillar. She laughed and tightened her grip. “I wonder who did Elsa Lanchester’s silver lightning streaks at the sides of her hairdo?
Bride of Frankenstein.
What’ll they do next? Son of Frankenstein?”

Fingal recalled the warmth of Kitty’s kisses and the softness of her in the back stalls after the house lights had gone out, her clinging to him in faked terror, which gave her an excuse to snuggle up. He chuckled and said, “Thinking of changing your style, Kitty? I like it the way it is.” Her hair was ebony, shiny, and rippling against her shoulders as she tossed her head.

“Only if you get bolts put in the sides of your neck like the Frankenstein monster.” She cocked her head to one side. “You’re nearly as big as Boris Karloff.”

“More articulate, I hope,” he said, “but I concur with his opinion,” and in an imitation of the monster’s speech announced, “Fooood, goood.”

The restaurant was a small room, simply furnished. The sound of murmured conversations rose and fell. A waitress said, “For two, sir?”

“Please. In the window.” He followed Kitty, as always admiring the sway of her hips, the curve of her calves. He waited until she was seated.

“I’ll bring the menus. Would you care for a drink?” Her accent was Dublin, but not as thick as that of the folks from the Liberties.

“Kitty?”

“While wine would be nice. No, are we having red meat so we’ll have a red?” Kitty never had paid any heed to that convention.

“Bottle of—” He frowned. “Which is the one you like?” He’d only drunk wine with Kitty once since they’d parted a year ago. They’d had a good claret at his folks’ house last week on Graduation Night, the night of their reconciliation. Father had managed to eat at the table and meet Kitty, but had retired to his bed in his study shortly after. For a moment, Fingal felt guilty that he was not at home now, then remembered his father’s words: “There’s absolutely no need for you to haunt this place like Banquo’s ghost.” Bless you, Dad.

“Entre-Deux-Mers,” Kitty said. “If you’ve one chilled.”

“We do, ma’am.” The waitress left.

Kitty leant forward. “I did enjoy the film, Fingal. Good escapist nonsense. Not a patch on Mary Shelley’s original
Frankenstein
novel, but it was fun. Thank you for taking me,” she pointed out the window, “and I love O’Connell Street. I’d hate to leave Dublin. Just look.”

He did and saw a Dublin United Tramways tram clattering along the centre of the street, a blue flash leaping between the top of the pole and the overhead electrical wire. Cyclists were everywhere, and for a moment he cast a thought to John-Joe Finnegan and wondered how his ankle was mending. Sir Patrick Dun’s was no distance from Lansdowne Road; maybe Fingal would pop round and see how the cooper by trade was getting on.

Motorcars crept along the congested thoroughfare. Fingal noticed a cream Hillman Minx Deluxe 4 and a dark green open Bentley-Rolls V12 Tourer among the numerous Fords and Morrises. Well-dressed people thronged the sidewalks, and on a street corner a man, probably an Italian immigrant, ground the handle of a barrel organ while his monkey, wearing a red waistcoat and fez, held out a tin cup for coins from passersby. And against walls and on street corners raggedy men, women, and children, the halt and the cripples, hands outstretched in supplication, Dublin’s batallions of beggars.

Two streets away people, throngs of people, eked out an existence in the tenements. Out of sight. Out of mind. Well, they weren’t out of his or Ma’s. “O’Connell Street,” he said. “It used to be Sackville Street, you know, until they changed the name. It’s still where the toffs go, but Dublin’s not so pretty a few streets over.”

“I know,” she said. “And it bothers you, doesn’t it?”

He nodded, but smiled. “I’ve saved up telling you ’til we got here, but I’ll be starting work next week, not too far from your flat. In the dispensary in Aungier Place in the Liberties.”

“That’s not Parnell or Merrion Square,” Kitty said.

“I’m not looking for the carriage trade. Neither’s Charlie Greer. He’ll be working with me.”

She touched his hand. “I’m not surprised, Fingal. I still remember you with the patients at Sir Patrick’s. I think you’re going to be happy with your choice.”

“I hope you’re right.” He hesitated. Even with his closest friends, he’d been reticent about explaining exactly why, but he felt completely at his ease with Kitty. “I think it’s because of Ma. As long as I can remember she’s worked for the less well-off. I’ve always admired her for it. I love medicine and all the time I was a student working with the poor I’ve felt I was doing something really useful. And, Kitty? It’s a good feeling.”

“I know. Nursing at Baggot Street Hospital’s like that too. You know I got all worked up about the poor in Tallaght, my part of Dublin, and that’s why I picked nursing when I realised after a couple of years at art school I couldn’t make a living as an artist. I’ve never regretted that choice, so I do understand what you’re saying, and I respect you for it,” she said. “I think it takes someone special to want to do it.” Her smile was broad. “And I think you’re special, Doctor O’Reilly.”

Fingal glowed. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Thank you very much.”

He felt the pressure of her hand and knew she was telling him, as she had last year in a tearoom on Abbey Street, that she loved him. He started to apologise again for sending her away, readied himself to make the leap and tell her he loved her. “Kitty, I’m sorry—”

“Your wine, sir. Will you taste it?”

Blast. He’d tell Kitty his feelings later. There was no real urgency. He felt—he felt comfortable with her. “No, thank you. Please let the lady try it.” He ignored the waitress’s raised eyebrow as she poured. So what if women never sampled the wine? Kitty knew her stuff in the oenophile department.

“Perfect,” Kitty said.

The waitress poured, shoved the bottle in an ice bucket, and produced two menus. “Here you are,” she said. “I’ll give you a minute.”

“Cheers.” Fingal sipped. Cool, crisp, fruity—and not a patch on a well-pulled pint of stout, but tonight was Kitty’s night. “Here’s to your bright eyes.” Grey flecked with amber. He drank again.

Kitty smiled and said, “Thank you,” and consulted the menu. “Choices,” she said, “decisions, decisions.”

Fingal read the table d’hôte menu, didn’t fancy roast lamb tonight so turned to the à la carte.

A discreet cough drew his attention to the waitress, who now stood by the table, pencil and order pad in hand. “Have sir and madam decided?”

“Sorry,” Fingal said. “Give us a tick.”

The waitress sniffed and said, “Take your time. God keeps makin’ plenty of it, but Chef’s not the Almighty and he wants to close the kitchen.”

“Kitty?”

“I’ll have the lamb chops please, and mash.”

“Sirloin, rare, and chips. We’ll get veg?”

“You will.”

“Terrific,” said Fingal, “and sorry to keep Chef waiting.”

The waitress tutted and tossed her head. “Sure aren’t all chefs the same; believe they’re no goat’s toe, but see our one? Our one t’inks he’s a philosopher. Profound, like.” She shook her head and curled her lip. “He’s about as deep as a feckin’ frying pan—and twice as dense.” She left.

Fingal laughed. Slapped his knee. “Did you hear that? ‘Deep as a frying pan.’ I can’t help liking Dubliners. Where else in the world would you hear the likes?”

“Probably,” she said, “nowhere outside the city, but definitely in a practice at Aungier Place.”

He laughed. “As they’d say in those parts, ‘True on you, Kitty. True on you.’” He exaggerated the first syllable of true so it sounded like “tuhroo.”

Her grip on his hand tightened. “Good Lord, Fingal,” she said, “you are half a Dubliner even if your folks did bring you here from the wee north, and now you’re sounding like a Northsider at that.” And she laughed. “I know when you get settled into this job you’re going to love it.”

“And if Charlie comes in I’ll only have to work one weekend in three and I’ll have evenings off midweek—”

“And that’ll leave plenty of time for,” she hesitated, “your family.”

He nodded. Kitty needn’t say any more. He knew she understood.

“And,” she said, “I hope there’ll be some left over for us,” and puckered a pretend kiss.

He tingled at the “us.” “There will,” he said. “All the time in the world.” He grinned. “And I’m not like the chef. I’m happy to take all the time the Good Lord sends—for us.” He looked into those smiling grey eyes and knew he meant every word. “And, by the way,” he said, lowering his voice. “I love you.”

10

Upon the Heath

“I didn’t know you’d been invited, O’Reilly,” Bertie Bishop said, pulling the stock and barrels of his twelve-bore from a leg-o-mutton gun case he’d taken from the boot of his Bentley. The councillor was wearing plus-fours, a Norfolk jacket, and a deer-stalker.

He reminded O’Reilly of a rotund, Edwardian Mole in an illustrated edition of
The Wind in the Willows.
Ostentatious, O’Reilly thought, not a bit concerned that his own outfit was scruffy. Wellington boots, old tweed pants, a gansey knitted by Kinky years ago worn under a patched hacking jacket, the ensemble topped with a Paddy hat.

“And it’s nice til see you, Mrs. O’Reilly.” Bishop favoured Kitty with a wintry grin.

To O’Reilly’s dismay, the man had been included in today’s opening day of grouse season on the marquis’s County Antrim moor. This despite his gaffe on his lordship’s pheasant shoot back in January during which Bertie’d nearly shot Kitty.

“And you, councillor,” Kitty said, and favoured him with a dazzling smile.

Hypocrite, O’Reilly thought, barely hiding a smile himself. Or perhaps, more charitably, Mrs. O’Reilly was just being diplomatic. She was dressed for the day in a headscarf, plain waterproof jacket, Donegal tweed skirt, ribbed woollen stockings, and laced brogues. Fingal approved. Simple and practical gear for a day out tramping the moors. She carried a shooting stick. And she looked lovely.

He tucked his own gun under his arm. “Keep an eye on Arthur, would you, please? I want to have a word with Myrna. Doctor-patient stuff. Stay, Arthur.” He wandered across to where the marquis had parked his shooting brake at the side of the road. Myrna was sitting nearby on a camp stool, a portable easel set up in front of her, and her watercolours open on a folding table. “How are you, Myrna?” O’Reilly said. “Sorry I didn’t get a chance to come and see you in hospital. I hope Sir Donald took good care of you.”

“Fingal, lovely to see you. And I’m sorry about nearly losing your invitation.”

“Never worry,” he said. “How’s the hind leg?”

“Remarkable,” she said. “It’s only three weeks since the stupid thing was fixed. Your friend Sir Donald said he used something called a Kuntscher nail and explained how in the old days I’d have been in hospital for months.”

Like my friend John-Joe Finnegan was back in 1936, O’Reilly thought.

“I’m not allowed to bear too much weight yet. Not up to tramping with you lot, but I love it up here and it’s a marvellous day for a few watercolour sketches.”

She was a keen watercolourist, but her work tended more to the Grandma Moses primitive school than the lush paintings of the Mourne Mountains by Percy French. “Just wanted to make sure you were all right,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to call if you’re worried.”

“Of course. Enjoy yourself up there.”

Myrna was right. It was a great day for the shoot and her art. Overhead in the blue heavens, small clouds drifted high above County Antrim and out across the distant enameled waters of the North Channel. Further north, a summer shower was tumbling over the purple bulking masses of Scotland’s Mull of Kintyre and further still was the island of Islay, where in the town of Lagavulin they distilled a damn good single-malt Scotch whisky.

“Glad you could make it, Fingal,” the marquis said when O’Reilly arrived where Kitty stood with Arthur. The marquis was instructing Bertie and the other three guns, a local farmer and his wife and another landowner. The two Antrim men had springer spaniels at their feet, and the marquis’s liver-and-white Jack Russell terrier, Buster, sat by his master.

“Thank you, sir,” O’Reilly said.

“Fingal, I want you to anchor the left end of the line.”

“Fine.”

“Then, at twenty-five-yard intervals, Edna, you beside Doctor O’Reilly, please.” She was the wife of Richard Johnson, who farmed near Clough Mills, and she was a crack shot. O’Reilly had met Ned Falloon, a local landowner, and the Johnsons on previous shoots.

“Then you, Richard, then Ned. Bertie, you’ll be beside me and I’ll anchor the other end of the line.”

O’Reilly understood that Bertie was being put next to John MacNeill so the marquis could keep an eye on the councillor.

“Questions?”

A shaking of heads.

“Right,” said the marquis. “Ned, if you’ll take Richard and Edna and the springers in your brake, I’ll bring the Ballybucklebo contingent in mine. See you at lunchtime, Myrna.”

“Have fun,” she said.

The marquis held open the passenger door for Kitty, leaving Bertie and O’Reilly to get in the back, and put Arthur and Buster, who were old friends, in the rear compartment. The shooting brake jounced and rattled along the rutted lane that climbed through a mile of cultivated stepped fields until it reached the border of the moor.

O’Reilly couldn’t make out the conversation from the front so he sat quietly, looking forward to the day’s sport, delighted that Jenny had been so accommodating in changing on-call days so he could be here—another reason she’d be a distinct asset if Barry didn’t want to come back. Maybe they’d find out more about that at dinner tonight. He smiled. All was right with the world and—