Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor (6 page)

“You could do a lot worse.” Her voice softened. “Phelim Corrigan’s a remarkable man.”

6

One Law for the Rich … Another for the Poor

When Fingal returned to the surgery, the “remarkable” Doctor Corrigan was still cuddling young Manus and handing a hanky to a tearful Mary Foster. “All right, Mary,” he said gently, “all right, lass, dry yer eyes. Manus is going to be all right.” He rummaged in his pocket and handed Miss Jackson a set of keys. “Here, Irene, run Mary and Manus over to Baggot Street. Tell the houseman to admit the chissler and pop him in an oxygen tent. Accidental coal gas poisoning.” He stressed the word “accidental.” So, no reports would be made to the Gardai or the nuns.

Doctor Corrigan turned back to Mary Foster and handed her the child. “Now,” he said, “I’ve given ye an earful, Mary, and I meant every word. I know he’s yer first—but Miss Jackson and Miss O’Donaghugh are here to help. Bring the babby here when he gets out of hospital. They’ll show ye how to change a nappy, won’t ye, Irene?”

“Of course. And I’ll arrange for a nursing sister to call every day for a while until Mary gets more comfortable with Manus.”

“If I’d had any wit I’d have done that myself the last time.” He shook his head. “Och well, we all make mistakes.”

The change in the man from hectoring ogre to a seemingly calm and caring physician, and one willing to admit his failures, had false-footed Fingal, who had been steeling himself for a confrontation.

“T’ank you, Doctor, sir, and I’m awful sorry. I’ll never do it again, honest til God.”

“Ye won’t,” said Doctor Corrigan, scowling, “because, by Jasus, if ye do, so help me God, it’ll be Manus for the Sisters of Charity Orphanage taken away from ye for child neglect, and yerself for Mountjoy Gaol for the same crime. Do ye understand, Mary Bernadette Foster? Do ye?”

The edge was still in Doctor Corrigan’s voice. He must stand up to this man.

“Yes, Doctor, sir.”

“Run along now with Miss Jackson.”

As the two women left, he turned to Fingal. “Just be a tick. I’ll go and explain to the other customers that I’ll be in consultation with a colleague for a while. Have a pew.”

Fingal was still clutching the offending bag, so he set it back in its place beside the door. That aspect of his potential relationship with Doctor Corrigan needed to be sorted out as much as, if not even more than, Corrigan’s bedside manner.

Fingal gritted his teeth. He had his own reasons for wanting this job, and most of them were, at least on the surface, altruistic. Ma had taught him her brand of caring since he’d been old enough to understand that not everybody lived as comfortably as the O’Reillys. He did want to help what his classically educated father would call the hoi polloi, the common people. Yet he also recognised that the obverse of altruism was the selfish inner glow that came from the doing of “good deeds.” A reasonable question to ask himself: Was the feeling of satisfaction making correct diagnoses and giving proper treatments, those “good deeds,” any less if performed for patients with money who could pay a damn sight more than a dispensary doctor’s salary?

Probably a lot less. The truly affluent had no difficulty getting medical help. What physician wouldn’t prefer to take sherry in a drawing room after a consultation as opposed to searching for the fleas that often attacked anyone who went into a tenement? The money was with the upper class and the newly emerging “middle class” of accountants, managers, teachers, doctors, nurses, and civil servants. Like the cream of society, most of them would patronise the more fashionable physicians. The crying need for good medical help was here in the Liberties.

And to be ruthlessly practical, even if he’d wanted the carriage trade, those jobs were not the easiest to come by for recently qualified doctors, and usually were had by purchasing part or all of the principal’s practice. Fingal was in no position to buy in. He needed a job like this, at least as a start to his career in general practice. But with this Doctor Corrigan? Perhaps.

Corrigan returned and climbed up on his high stool. “I’m sorry about that scene. Silly wee girl.” He shook his head. “How did ye get on with the tram accident?”

The whole thing dismissed just like that? Fingal clutched the seat of the chair and stiffly leant forward. “Doctor Corrigan, I’m very new at this, and there’s probably something I don’t understand.” Fingal hesitated, realising that being placatory might well be the road to defeat before he even got started. He straightened and looked the senior man in the eye. “I think you were cruel to that patient. Very cruel.”

Corrigan inclined his head. “Do ye now?”

“Yes, I do. And I didn’t like being ordered around, being told to ‘Carry my bag.’”

“Did ye not?” Something akin to a smile flickered on the little man’s lips. “Well, well.” He folded his arms and leant back.

Fingal felt as if he’d delivered his best punch and Doctor Corrigan had let it whistle by into thin air. Nor had he mounted a defence or a counterattack. Fingal would have to forge ahead again. “I just don’t think seniors should treat the juniors like personal servants.”

“Go on.”

Fingal took a deep breath, folding his arms in front of his chest. “I came here expecting to be treated as a colleague. I don’t think being ordered to carry your bag as if I were a footman is very collegial.”

“Do ye not?” Doctor Corrigan tilted his head to one side and regarded Fingal. There it was again, the hint of a smile behind the thick lenses. “There’s a thing now.”

“I do not.” Fingal frowned but ploughed on. “And I didn’t appreciate your simply vanishing when I was examining the victim. I don’t think that was very professional either.” He ran a finger under a collar that now seemed too tight.

Doctor Corrigan pursed his lips, nodded, his smile widened. “And just so I’ll know where I stand with ye, young fellah, ye’ve been gathering up yer courage all the way back here from Aungier Street to have it out, haven’t ye? Then ye got your fires more stoked up because I was rude to Mary Foster.” His voice was calm, if anything amused. “I don’t believe ye’re a man that would bottle up something that annoys him, are ye?”

“Well … no. I’m not.” Fingal’s collar was definitely too tight.

“More power to yer wheel.” Doctor Corrigan was making a sound like dry autumn leaves being blown along a gutter. It wasn’t until Fingal noticed that the little doctor’s shoulders were shaking that he realised the man was laughing.

Fingal felt his fists clench, knew that the tip of his nose must be blanching. It would have been all right if Doctor Corrigan had reared up, but he was laughing and clearly at, not with, Fingal.

Before Fingal could speak, Doctor Corrigan continued, and his voice was quiet, serious. “That took real courage for a fellah wet behind the ears to risk losing a job before he got it by tackling a senior man head on, and, boy, ye went at it like a bull at a gate.”

Fingal started to blush. He had expected an argument, even anger, but not understanding.

“I told ye the job was yers if I took a shine to ye,” Doctor Corrigan said.

Fingal hung his head.

“So for once I’ll explain. I told ye to carry my bag because ye’re young and strong and I wanted to get to the accident as quick as my old legs would carry me. For all we knew the poor bugger could’ve been bleeding to death. Maybe I should have said ‘please,’ but there seemed to be more pressing matters than manners.”

Fingal saw the truth of it. “I didn’t—”

“Then, as soon as I saw you knew what you were about, I legged it back here because the waiting room was stiff with customers.”

Absolutely rational. “I think—” Fingal swallowed and said, “I think I was a bit hasty about that.”

“Ye were,” said Doctor Corrigan, “but sure isn’t being impetuous the prerogative of the young? And didn’t ye have the courage of yer convictions to act? If ye do come to work here, I’ll expect ye always to do what ye think is right. Will ye promise me that?” He gazed directly into Fingal’s eyes.

Fingal did not glance away. “I will.” He took a deep breath. “In that case, will you explain to me why you were so hard on that young woman?”

“By Jasus, O’Reilly, ye are a terrier. All right.” He leant forward, elbows on the desktop. “Poor stupid girl. It’s not her fault. They leave school at ten, because as any kid in the tenements will tell ye, learning still doesn’t get ye a decent job. Some lasses are lucky, end up as one of the ‘Jacob’s Mice,’ the girls taken on by the Jacob’s biscuit factory when they turn fourteen. A whole lot of kids start courtin’ in the stairwells of the tenements, often get put up the spout or just get married too early. Half of them don’t even know where babies come from, and when they end up as mothers it’s usually their own grannies who teach them motherhood skills, because their mas are out at work.”

“I’ve seen it,” Fingal said, “but what can we do?”

Doctor Corrigan shook his head. “Pick up the wreckage, use whatever treatments we have. Some of them are useful. Try to comfort, and try to prevent what we can.” He pursed his lips. “Mary Foster’s not going to be persuaded by the Socratic method of reasoned argument.”

That brought a smile to Fingal’s lips.

“That’s twice she’s nearly gassed the wee mite. The only way I could think of to try to stop her doing it again was to throw the fear of God into her. I can’t give her what she needs, a husband with a decent job, family support—her granny died of TB last year, her own ma sells used clothes in the Iveagh Market on Francis Street. She’s the eldest of nine. She lives in a single end on Peter Street with her husband ‘Boxty’ Foster, he’s one of eleven and he’s in and out of builder’s labourers jobs.” He blew out his cheeks. “Do I need to go on?”

Fingal shook his head. “I hear you. My own ma’s working hard for slum clearance, decent rehousing, but it’s not going to happen overnight.”

“No, it’s not. Nothing changes fast in this benighted city, and us dispensary doctors keep carrying on pretty much the same as when the first Act of the English Parliament set the dispensaries up in 1851.” He shifted on his stool. “That was after An Gorta Mór, the great hunger, as part of the poorhouse system. But things are changing now.”

“Before we went to the accident, you’d mentioned a 1933 Act of Parliament,” Fingal said, glad the subject of their conversation was being changed. “It was a Pott’s fracture, by the way. John-Joe Finnegan’s off to Sir Patrick Dun’s to have it set.”

“They’ll do a good job there.” Doctor Corrigan nodded to himself. “They’ll have him doing toe exercises in ten days, but he’ll not be walking on crutches for at least a couple of months.”

And after that? No job waiting for him as a cooper, that was for sure, Fingal thought.

Doctor Corrigan grunted and shook his head. “Aye, the 1933 Act of Parliament. Bah. Ye might as well know that I’ve no time for politics. It’s best ye understand that about me, for my sins, right now. Bunch of bollixes, the whole tribe of them, Sinn Féin, de Valera’s Fianna Fáil
,
this new Fine Gael lot, the Labour Party James Connolly founded? Well, maybe I’d give Labour houseroom, but only just. I’d not give ye tuppence for the rest. Never know when to leave well enough alone. A plague on all their houses.”

Fingal wondered if his senior colleague might have a fondness for the works of Shakespeare.

“They’ve decided to amalgamate all the eighty old independent Approved Medical Insurance Societies that administered the dispensaries and paid our wages under one governing body, the Unified Health Insurance Society, for the whole twenty-six counties of the Irish Free State. The chairman is the Very Reverend John Dignan, Bishop of Clonfert.”

“Trust the Catholic Church to have its finger in the pie,” Fingal said. The church forbade contraception; the government made it illegal in 1935. Was it any wonder Mary and Boxty Foster had eighteen brothers and sisters between them?

“Och, sure, the priests are everywhere. Our concern is how the system’s being run now, and I don’t think the new setup’ll make bugger all difference to us. There’ll be no raise in salaries. We might get the occasional paying patient, but the insured pay our salaries. Being situated where we are, the poor, to misquote Saint Mark, will always be with us. They’ll still get their tickets for free care.” He inhaled and blew out his breath past nearly closed lips. “And many of the toffs from places like Ranelagh and Ballsbridge, rather than going to a posh local doctor, will come here because even though the gurriers can afford to pay, they can get tickets from their upper-class cronies on the overseeing committee for free care, diddling us out of our pittances. Despite all the political manoeuvrings, for us poor buggers in the trenches it’ll be
plus ca change, plus c’est le meme chose
. My two partners here had had enough. One’s gone to Canada, the other to Liverpool.” His smile was lopsided. “So if ye do take the job, don’t say ye weren’t warned.”

“Thank you for being honest, but—but if it’s so terrible, why do you stay? I mean, I keep wondering myself exactly why I’m so attracted to this kind of practice. I think I know, but may I ask you why you like it here?”

Doctor Corrigan frowned, said, “Huh,” and shook his head. “I sometimes wonder myself, but I will tell ye a couple of things. When I was a youngster, a country boy from County Roscommon, I came to Dublin to train at the College of Surgeons. The bishops won’t let Catholics attend a Protestant university like Trinity. Like a lot of kids back then I was full of ideals. I always thought the poor people weren’t treated fairly. I saw the lot of the tenement folks firsthand. Somebody had to do something. I’ve no time for politics, as I told ye, and I’m not a bloody evangelist either. I just thought I could make a difference.”

“I see,” Fingal said. “I think you and my mother would hit it off. She and her friends are trying to get the council to move on slum clearance.”

“Fair play to her, boy. Most of Dublin’s toffs pretend poverty simply doesn’t exist. Or they blame it on inborn character defects of the poor that make them unable to benefit from help. When I was training, I liked looking after poor people. They were grateful for my efforts and needed medical help a damn sight more because of their poverty, their lousy—and I mean that literally—housing, and appalling diets. The crowding in those neighbourhoods is so atrocious, infections go through the tenements like a gorse fire in summer. I thought the system of free care for them, partly provided by workers’ and employers’ contributions and from city taxes levied on the rich, was a good way to help.”