Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor (43 page)

“I’ll be off then.” Bob lit a Gold Flake and lowered his voice. “I did get fleas last night, you know. Rather not tonight. Good luck, Fingal. You’ll let me know how it all turns out?”

“Of course.” As Bob drove away, Fingal waved, turned, left the bike in the hall, and let himself back into the room.

“Come and get your supper, Doctor,” Orla said.

Fingal joined the Finucanes at the table. He’d already known what one part of the meal would be. The smell of boiling cabbage had filled the air for the past hour.

Orla bowed her head, closed her eyes, and waited until Minty intoned, “We thank you Lord for this our daily bread.”

Fingal joined in the amen.

She said, “I hope you like buttermilk. Dere’s a jug on the table, sir.” She served him a heap of champ, boiled cabbage, and one rasher of bacon.

He waited. Minty had got champ and cabbage but no bacon—so he, Fingal, had been given their last rasher. She had spread bacon dripping on a slice of white bread for herself.

Fingal poured some buttermilk and growled. It was always the way of it in the tenements. The men got the best of everything. The women held back.

“Please start before it gets cold, sir.”

There was no bloody way he was going to demolish all that grub while she had nothing but bread and dripping. “Give me your plate, Orla,” he said.

“But…”

“Your plate, please.” He held out his hand.

She glanced at her husband and did as she’d been asked.

“There.” He handed it back with half his own meal on it. He came close to yelling at her when she said, “You have half the rasher, Minty.”

Perhaps it was because of Fingal’s presence that her husband refused.

The meal was taken in silence and tea was poured. “Are you sure you’d not like another cup, sir,” she said when he’d finished.

“No thanks,” he said, “but do you mind if I smoke my pipe?”

“You go right ahead, sir,” Minty said, “and I’ll have a fag—”

“Mammy. I want my mammy. Maaaaaa—mmy.”

Orla leapt to her feet, Minty stared at Fingal, who rose and crossed the room.

Dermot was sitting up. He was in tears. His lip trembled. “Mammy.”

“It’s all right,
muírnin,
” she said, taking her son in her arms. “Mammy’s here. It’s all right. Dere now. It’s all right.”

Fingal leant across Orla. The boy’s forehead was cool. Fingal got out his thermometer. “Hold this under your oxter, Dermot, like a good lad,” he said, lifting the naked boy’s arm then folding it down on the glass tube. He held Dermot’s wrist. The pulse was strong, regular, and—Fingal had to wait for fifteen seconds that seemed like an eternity, then multiply the number of beats he’d counted by four—eighty-eight per minute. Almost normal. He bent. “Bring over the light, Mister Finucane.” Parents’ Christian names were infrequently used in front of children. “Shine it on Dermot’s leg.” Fingal realised he was trembling. He hardly dared look. Yes, yes, sweet Jesus, yes. All that remained on Dermot’s calf were the three blue lines. The red, inflamed lymphatic channels had vanished as if they had been simply rubbed away with an eraser. He removed the thermometer and read 98.8, only 0.4 degrees above normal. He had to restrain himself and say, not shout, “It’s worked. Dermot’s getting better.” Fingal would need time alone before he could fully digest the implications of the hugeness of what the red prontosil had achieved. For now all that mattered was that the infection was coming under control and Dermot’s foot and life were saved.

“Mammy. I’m hungry.”

“Would it be all right, Doctor?” she said, her voice cracking, eyes glistening.

For a moment the adage “Feed a cold and starve a fever” flashed through Fingal’s mind, but then he remembered that only applied to enteric fevers where solid food might perforate an inflamed bowel. “Here.” Fingal rummaged in his pocket, produced a handful of jelly babies, and gave them to Orla. “For later, Mammy, after you’ve given him a glass of buttermilk and a piece.”

She wrapped him in a blanket and carried the boy to the kitchen table, sat him on a chair, poured tea, and spread margarine on a slice of bread.

Fingal inhaled deeply, feeling the responsibility for what was going to happen if he’d been wrong lift from his shoulders.

“And my wee boy’s all better, Doctor?” Minty asked. “All mended?”

“Not quite,” Fingal said, “but almost. He’ll need to stay in bed, but he can get into the one by the fire and you and Mammy can get a bit of sleep tonight. I’ll show her how to change his dressings and I’ll make up enough doses so you can go on giving him the Prontosil every four hours, so you’ll have to be up at ten thirty, two thirty, and six thirty. I’ll come back tomorrow morning to see how he’s doing.”

Minty stuck out his hand. “We don’t know how to thank you, sir.”

Fingal shook the hand. “Mister Finucane,” he said, “just seeing Dermot on the mend is thanks enough.” And it was.

“It is a feckin’ miracle,” Minty said.

Fingal looked over to where Orla, smiling now though her cheeks were still wet, was asking Dermot, “Would you like another slice, dear?”

Perhaps it was indeed a miracle, but could the boy suddenly get worse? Fingal had no idea. He said, “I’ll be going soon, but I’ll be sleeping at Aungier Place just in case you need me. All you’ll have to do is run over and ring the night bell. And you come, even if you’re only a bit worried.”

“Och, he’ll be grand, feckin’ grand altogether,” Minty said. “Never you fear.”

Fingal wished he could share the man’s belief, but he would sleep at Aungier—just in case, and he might see Phelim there, be able to give him the great news. Fingal hugged that thought.

Minty opened a cupboard, took out a bottle and two glasses. He poured a clear liquid and handed a glass to Fingal. “I’d like to drink your health, Doctor Big Fellah,” he said. “It’s a drop of the pure I keep for very special occasions.”

That damn Big Fellah again. Fingal grinned. He liked it. No doubt he was accepted here in the Liberties. And, Fingal thought, the cure of Dermot’s foot was special in more ways than one. If this Prontosil’s as good as I think it’s going to be, doctors won’t be so bloody helpless anymore. Even dispensary G.P.s like me will be able to cure a lot of their patients. Really cure them and not simply stand round helplessly waiting for nature to take its course. Acceptance by the locals and at last the ability to cure made the prospect of staying in the job very attractive.

“Here’s til you, sir.” Minty raised his glass. “Dere’s very few doctors who’d t’ink of staying all night and all feckin’ day. You’re the kind of man who puts his patients before himself.
Sláinte
and thank you.”

“
Sláinte mHaith
.” O’Reilly drank the fiery
poitín
and felt a satisfied … he sought for the word. It wasn’t quite smugness, but it was damn close and he must guard against that. The kind of doctor who put—Oh shite. He choked on his drink. Kitty. He’d been expected at her place for dinner last night. After Fingal had failed to get Bob to call Kitty then, explain to her why Fingal was unable to see her, he’d put her out of his mind. He’d even missed a chance tonight to ask Bob for the same favour. Idiot.

Would she understand why he had simply vanished for more than twenty-four hours and hadn’t let her know why? Would she understand, and would she forgive him? He glanced at his watch. Eight fifteen. It was only a couple of miles from here to her flat, five or ten minutes on his bike.

“Right,” he said, finishing his drink. “Let’s have a last look at you, Dermot, and then folks, I’ll be off.”

42

I Have Heard of Your Paintings

Kinky perched primly on the oak chair, looking neither to right nor left. “I hope you are enjoying my barmbrack, so. Now, there is this matter I’d like to discuss.”

“Fire away, Kinky,” O’Reilly said, taking another swallow of tea and starting on his second slice of ’brack.

“You will recall, sir, a conversation we had last month, the day you came in here to help me pluck the ducks?”

O’Reilly stopped chewing. “About whether I could manage if you left?” He glanced at Kitty. This wouldn’t come as a surprise to her. He had told her all about Kinky’s belief that one day soon Archie Auchinleck was going to propose and of her concerns about how O’Reilly would cope. “Has Archie—?”

Kinky coloured to the roots of her silver chignon. “Last night over tea here he did ask me to be the second Mrs. Auchinleck, him being a widower man, so.” She smiled and her dimples appeared.

Fingal was on his feet. “And? And?”

“I said I’d be honoured, and he said—”

O’Reilly let out such a loud whoop that it was answered by a “Woof” from the direction of Arthur’s kennel in the back garden. “D’you hear that, Kitty, and I don’t mean the dog? By God, this getting wed is becoming contagious. Kinky, Kinky, I wish you every happiness. When’s the big day?”

“I’m very happy for you, Kinky,” Kitty said. She looked long at O’Reilly then back to Kinky. “Marriage is a condition I’d certainly recommend without any reservations.”

Thank you for that, girl, O’Reilly thought, but said, “What time is it?”

“To answer your first question, sir, no, we haven’t set a date yet. And it’s eleven thirty,” Kinky said. “Why, sir?”

“There’s a bottle of Pol Roger in the fridge, and damn it all it is twelve thirty in Paris so the sun is over the yardarm so to speak, and this is something marvellous.” He headed for the fridge.

“I wonder, sir, if I could ask a favour?” Kinky said.

“Of course.” He opened the fridge door.

“Would it be possible to save the bubbles until near your suppertime?”

O’Reilly frowned. “I suppose.” He closed the door.

“You see, sir,” she said, “Mister Auchinleck does be an old-fashioned gentleman and he’s asked me to ask you, sir, if he could pay his compliments this evening at six thirty?” She inhaled. “My da, God rest him, is long gone, so Mister Auchinleck would like you to stand in Da’s place so he can ask your permission for my hand.”

“So he can ask—Kinky, you and Archie don’t need my permission.” O’Reilly felt a lump in his throat.

“I think that’s sweet and very gallant, Kinky,” Kitty said. “And of course you’ll see him, dear.”

“If that’s what Arch—Mister Auchinleck wants, of course.”

“Thank you,” Kinky said, “and like the gentleman he is, Mister Auchinleck will be bringing my ring this evening, to put on my finger after his interview with yourself, and I do think that would be a time for my family, and that’s what you are, sir, and Kitty.” Kinky’s eyes glistened. “My northern family, for Fidelma and Tiernan and Sinead and theirs are far away in County Cork. I’d like you to drink a toast to us then, so.”

O’Reilly grinned. “By God, we will. We’ll drink a toast to you and Archie. And perhaps more than one. I’ll stop at the off-licence when I go to get Donal so he can finish the papering and I’ll get a couple more bottles. Kinky, Kinky—” He stood in front of her. “Stand up.”

She did, and he folded her in the most enormous bear hug. “Good luck to you and Archie,” he said, “and as my ma’s housemaid from Rasharkin, Bridgit, who was full of country wisdom, might have said, ‘The blanket’s always the warmer for being doubled,’” he held her at arm’s length, “‘and may the Lord keep you and Archie in his hand and never close his fist too tight on you.’” He let her go.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you very much.”

“We’re absolutely delighted,” Kitty said. “Number One’s not going to be the same without you, Kinky. I imagine you’ll be going to live with Archie once you’re wed.”

“I will,” she sat, “but I have been giving some thought to what we discussed last month, sir.”

O’Reilly snaffled a third piece of ’brack on his way back to his seat. “Go on.”

“Archie is a milkman, so. He does rise up very early in the morning to do his rounds. There’s no reason he can’t arrange to swing by his house and pick me up and drop me off here at about six thirty. I can get the breakfast ready so you both won’t need to fuss about it before you both go to work. I’ll do the lunch, and even make a start on the dinner if Kitty’s too busy to do it. The phone will get answered every morning. I can do the housework and the shopping like always, so.” She frowned. “If I could work three full days here and two mornings, sure Archie’s wee place needs the half of no upkeep, I’d like weekends off, all you’d need, sir, might be a bit of extra help on the three weekday afternoons I’ll not be here to answer the phone—like Helen Hewitt did when I was sick. And I’d not feel I’d be letting you down, so if we could come to that arrangement.”

O’Reilly glanced at Kitty. “It certainly would make life a lot easier. What do you think, Kitty?”

“I think it would be wonderful, but I think it would be too much to expect Kinky to run two households.”

O’Reilly saw Kinky start to bristle, hunch her shoulders. “Too much…” she said, her voice starting to rise.

“Kinky,” he said, “I agree with Kitty, and there’s no point you huffing. How would you feel if we got somebody to do the heavy housework here?”

“Well … I … I suppose…” Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled.

“Consider it done,” O’Reilly said.

“Thank you, and perhaps your assistant, sir, would be more comfortable down here…” She glanced slowly round. “… in my old home after I’m gone?”

“I don’t mind having them upstairs,” Kitty said, “but we’d certainly have more privacy, Fingal.”

“We would, and they’d have more privacy too. It’ll all take a bit of getting used to, but the main thing is Kinky’s happiness, and if she can have that and go on working here, well…? Today is a great day. Grand day altogether.” He finished his third slice of ’brack. “Now,” he said, “we’ve things to do. Kitty, out of those overalls and into something fit for a Renoir exhibition. Kinky, I’ve no doubt you’ll want peace to get the lunch ready,” he headed for the back door, “and I’ll get off right now to see if Donal can work this afternoon.” And, he thought with a grin, as he closed the door behind him, I’ve got time to nip into the off-licence and the painter’s and decorator’s supply shop in Bangor and organise a little surprise.