“My folks gave me a new easel for my birthday.”
“An easel. You never told me that you were an artist. My ma paints.”
“I love it,” she said. “I went to the National College of Art and Design when I left school, but—” He heard how wistful she sounded. “I do sell a few. One went last week. That’s how I bought this new dress, but there’s no real money in it so I decided to nurse.”
“I’m bloody glad you did,” he said. “And I’m glad I went to medical school or I might not have met you.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I think you made the right choice.”
“To meet you?”
She laughed and punched his arm. “No, you eejit. To study medicine. You’re going to be good at it.”
“Well, I—”
“I thought you tapped that pleural effusion well.”
Inwardly Fingal glowed.
“He’s a nice wee man, Paddy Keogh,” she said.
“Funny,” he said, “Bob and I were discussing him before you arrived, and what a terrible place he’ll be going home to.” Fingal was glad to have something else to talk about, something to stop his gaze constantly returning to Kitty’s cleavage. He shook his head. “As my old family doctor in Holywood, Doctor O’Malley, used to remark, ‘It’s ill divid,’ meaning the money in the world is not well divided.” He thought of tonight’s window shoppers and how Paddy, back in October, had thought two shillings, half an old-age pensioner’s weekly stipend, a full day’s wage for a cleaner, was a king’s ransom.
She looked at him, her head cocked to one side, eyes slightly narrowed. “You’ve not been listening to Bertrand Russell on the wireless, have you? That’s a pretty socialist idea.”
“Do you mind that?” he asked, and waited.
“Not one bit,” she said. “I’ve a few of those notions myself. When I realised I wasn’t going to support myself by painting and needed another job I’d no difficulty choosing nursing. It doesn’t pay worth a damn, has little social standing, but,” she glanced down, back at Fingal, and said quietly, “I’ve always liked to help.” She looked sad. “There’s so many poor people in Tallaght. It’s unfair.”
“I understand,” he said, and he did. “Doctor Micks told us on our first day at Sir Paddy’s that we physicians can’t change the world. Bob’s just quoted him. Some people are trying to, but I’m not sure I like what I hear is going on with socialism—they call it Communism, in Russia. Stalin’s trying to change his country in a big way.”
“We don’t hear much about Russia in the newspapers or on Raidió Éireann.”
“One of my father’s friends was an attaché to the British embassy in Saint Petersburg. They call it Leningrad now. I was at home last year when he was visiting. My ma thought a great deal of Lenin and Stalin. I think what Father’s friend told her rocked her.”
“Go on.” Kitty laid her forearms on the table.
“It seems that Stalin’s idea to modernise Russia is to collectivise the farms.”
“Collectivise? I’ve never heard that word.”
“Neither had I. Apparently Russian agriculture was millons of small private farms run by people called Kulaks. Stalin’s amalgamating them into a relatively few, huge, state-owned operations.”
“I don’t imagine their owners were impressed.”
“They were not. So far about twenty million of them have been forcibly retrained as industrial workers. Thousands of Kulaks have even been sent to prison camps or shot.”
“God, that’s awful. Twenty million?” her voice cracked. “Twenty million. That’s about seven times the whole population of Ireland. And the ones that resist get imprisoned or shot? That’s appalling.”
He thought her near to tears and admired her for it. “Not much news gets past the Russian censors these days,” he said. “I don’t like censorship and, like you, I sure as hell don’t like to hear of people getting imprisoned and shot.” Fingal stood and took a deep pull from his pint. “There’s two more like Stalin in Europe now, Mussolini and Hitler. They all want to make Utopias, at least what they think of as heavens on earth. A lot of people admire them for bringing order. I think all dictators are bloody monsters. They don’t give a tinker’s curse who they trample on.”
He remembered the first time at school he’d fought back against the bullies. “You only have to stand up to them once and they’ll slink off. One day somebody’s going to have to say, ‘enough’s bloody well enough,’ and rear up and fight those three.”
He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Kitty. I didn’t mean to get worked up, but dear God, it must be hellish living in Russia or Germany.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t think people should try to change the whole world all at once, not the way the dictators are doing it. They don’t really give a damn about improving things. They want power and position. Do you know Lord Acton’s dictum?”
She shook her head.
“He said that power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. He was right. All my old GP did was to try to make changes on a small scale in our village. Not in a big city, but I’m damn sure in a country practice a good doctor could get involved in the community. Make things better.” He took a huge puff on his pipe. “I just wish we could do a bit more for Paddy Keogh here.”
She’d nearly finished her sherry and was looking at him strangely, quizzically. There was softness in those grey eyes. “I’ve never seen you like this before, Fingal. Golly. You have a serious side? When we’ve been out with your pals and their girls, or even alone with me you hide your feelings by acting the lig—”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get carried away.” He could feel the presence of his father breathing down his neck. “By all means feel strongly, but don’t let it show. It’s common.” Fingal inhaled deeply. Go away, Father. I’m a grown man now and I don’t have to live by your values. I’ll say what I need to say. “Paddy Keogh gave his right arm for what was then his country and what that man needs now is a decent place to live or a job or both. I’ve no notion how I might get him one, but, by God, I’m going to try.”
To Fingal’s surprise, Kitty ignored the other couple in the snug, wrapped her arms round him, and kissed him long and hard, her tongue flickering on his. He was breathless when she pulled away and said huskily, “I’m getting to be very fond of you, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly. Very fond indeed.”
He was at a loss for words. He knew he was starting to care. The very thing he’d told Lars that he was going to avoid was happening. He pulled hard on his pipe. He knew he wasn’t ready to confess to deep feelings, yet every time he was with her things happened inside him, and tonight more than ever. His usual banter had gone into hiding. She was right. He did hide his feelings by acting the lig. All he could manage was, “I like you a lot, Kitty.”
She pursed her lips and said, “I mean it, Fingal, very fond.”
Now what should he say?
She spared him. “Enough seriousness for tonight. What about that dinner?”
Fingal was relieved that the subject had been changed. “I have,” he said, “enough for one more round here then I know a great wee chipper over on Drury Street—”
To his surprise, in a soft contralto she sang a snatch from a Dublin song, “Anna Livia,”
—we got a whiff of ray and chips
and Mary softly sighed,
“Oh, John won’t you come for a one-on-one
“Down by the Liffey’s side.”
They both laughed. “Why the locals call the cheapest order of fish-and-chips ‘one-on-one’ is beyond me, Fingal,” she said, “but I’d love some—although I’d prefer codfish to ray.”
“Done,” he said, “and when we’ve eaten I’ll walk you to the Nurses’ Home and get you back before ten o’clock. With a bit of luck the rain’ll have stopped.” There were dark places on the way there for a bit of a cuddle, he thought. He could still feel the firmness of her breast under his fingers.
“Lovely
,” she said, “now go and get those new drinks.”
As he left to do as he was bid, he wondered, had he been too reticent? Should he have told her how he was feeling? But how in the name of the wee man could he when he wasn’t sure himself? Maybe later tonight? Maybe at the New Year’s Eve Ball?
* * *
And maybe not until much later, thirty-one years later to be exact, thought O’Reilly as he stretched in the tattered armchair, massaged his leg, and stood. He’d had enough of the Royal Hospital’s Huts, damn it, and he wanted to know about Donal Donnelly. It was time to go up to ward 21, see Donal, and perhaps drop into the cafeteria on his way back. He smiled ruefully. Pity the kitchen didn’t do a good one-on-one.
15
’Tis the Season to Be Jolly
“They just brought him back, Doctor O’Reilly,” the night sister said. “He’s unconscious. We have him in a single-bedded ward.” She rose from her desk. “Mister Greer popped in before he went home,” she said as they walked. “Told me where you were. Asked me to let you know if anything happened to your patient. I phoned, but you must have been on your way here.”
“Thoughtful of Charlie,” O’Reilly said, “and thank you, Sister.”
“How are you finding the Huts?” she asked.
“Pretty basic,” he said.
Mutterings and snores came from the darkened wards. One room was brightly lit. A staff nurse sat in a chair beside the bed where Donal lay. She was using a suction catheter to clear saliva from his mouth and throat. His head was swathed in a gauze bandage. He had no pillow.
“This is Doctor O’Reilly,” Sister said.
The nurse turned off the sucker and smiled.
“How’s Donal?” he asked, looking down on the man and the array of tubes that surrounded him. You poor bastard, he thought. A tube in your nose into your stomach to remove any gastric secretion, getting fluids from an intravenous drip, having your bladder emptied by a catheter, and judging by the stain on the bandage, still leaking blood from the injury. Charlie had been right to put in a drain.
“He’s doing well.” She handed him a clipboard.
O’Reilly read the observations. Donal’s temperature, pulse, blood pressure, and respiratory rates were all normal. “Good,” he said. The man had surmounted the first hurdle and it gladdened O’Reilly. How completely Donal would recover remained to be seen, but the next step was for him to regain consciousness. Come on, Donal, fight, O’Reilly thought, although after years of practice he knew Donal had no control over the next hours. But damn it all, he wanted Donal to get better. Completely better.
O’Reilly returned the clipboard. “Thank you, nurse. Please take good care of him.” He regretted the remark, smiled, and said, “I know you will.” He turned to Sister. “Thank you both.” He yawned. “Oh Lord, it’s been a long day.” He looked at his watch. One twenty. The last train to Ballybucklebo had gone hours ago. “I’ll try to get some shut-eye.”
“If anything changes with your friend I’ll give you a ring,” Sister said.
The word “friend” wasn’t lost on O’Reilly. Come to think of it, all his patients in the little village and townland were his friends, and he liked it that way. “I’d be grateful,” he said. “Good night, Sister?”
“Hoey. Jane Hoey. I’m a friend of Kitty O’Hallorhan.”
“So am I,” said O’Reilly. He saw how she was looking at him. “I suppose you already knew that.”
She smiled. “She has spoken of you.”
“She’ll be pleased about Donal too,” he said, not wishing to discuss himself and Kitty. Not at this hour of the morning. “I’ll get a cuppa, then bed. Good night, Sister Hoey,” he said and left.
It was a fair walk back to the cafeteria. He thought of Jane Hoey and how, with his life and Kitty’s coming together, this woman might become a part of a new set of friends. And it lifted his spirits, the thought of new friends and old. Old friends like Cromie, Beresford, Hilda Manwell, Charlie. And Donal Donnelly.
O’Reilly considered phoning Barry asking him to go and see Julie to give her the latest information, but, he shook his head, what was the point in disturbing both of them, even though the outlook at this point was good? Julie would be worried enough, and the news, while comforting, wasn’t good enough to soothe her fears. The morning would be fine, and Donal might be even better.
O’Reilly sat in the Caves finishing a tea that could have given Maggie MacCorkle’s corrosive cuppas a run for their money. Very few diners were in the place at this hour of the morning.
He didn’t want anything to eat. The apple pie he’d had hours ago still felt like sludge in his stomach, or perhaps was it his concern for Donal that was slowing his digestion? He shook his head. It took a lot to put Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly off his victuals. As a student he’d once had to eat not one but two Christmas dinners on the same day and it hadn’t troubled him at all. Well, not too much.
He pushed back his chair, crossed his arms, let his head rest on his left shoulder, and closed his eyes.
* * *
Fingal could hear church bells, their bronze voices strident, their cadences ragged. Each, it seemed, was trying to outdo the others. As Christmas services and masses ended, the joyous pealing rang over the districts of Dublin. Over Ranelagh and Rathmines, Ballyfermot and Bluebell, the Phoenix and Blackrock. The bells brought their message, “… and on earth peace, good will toward men,” to the homes of the well-to-do on Lansdowne Road in Ballsbridge, and to the tenements of the Liberties, Monto, the Coombe.
Paddy Keogh and Kevin Doherty were not at home, but here on Saint Patrick’s Ward. Kevin Doherty’s breathing was regular and his cheeks were pink. Paddy Keogh must have tired of his Old Bill. His moustache was neatly trimmed. Fingal winked across at Paddy and was rewarded with a left-handed salute. The old soldier was sitting at attention.
They weren’t sick, but two of the lucky winners of an annual lottery. It was a tradition of Sir Patrick Dun’s that only seriously ill patients were admitted for the three days preceding Christmas Day, and every effort was made to clear as many beds as possible. On Christmas Eve morning, messages were sent to the homes of a number of men and women. They were some of the poorest ex-patients who lived nearby. They were invited to attend for admission that afternoon. Each would be treated to a Christmas dinner the next day. A list had been compiled over the year by Sister Daly and names drawn from a hat.
Saint Patrick’s, the men’s ward, was decorated with holly over the picture frames, coloured crêpe paper ribbons wrapped around bed-head frames. A tree resplendent in tinsel and coloured glass balls stood in the centre aisle. Beside it was a low table heaped with wrapped gifts. Each patient had a Christmas cracker on his bedside locker.
The sounds of “Hark the Herald Angels” came from the horn of a windup gramophone on a table near Fingal. He’d been given the job of musical director. He thought the record sounded scratchy. Time to change the needle. He removed a triangular piece of bamboo from a little box on the gramophone’s top and a pair of clippers. One cut and the bamboo, sliced on the bias, was ready. He lifted the arm from the record, unscrewed the worn needle, and replaced it with the new bamboo. He wound up the machine and put the needle in the groove. Better. Much better.
It was de rigueur for every fourth-year student to be here to serve the patients and to have their own Christmas dinner. Senior staff supervised the proceedings in both the men’s and women’s wards.
“I wish,” said Cromie, who was standing near Fingal with the three other juniors and Geoff Pilkington, “I wish Doctor Micks would hurry up and get here.” Charlie was not on the ward. He was preparing a surprise.
Fingal sipped a sherry. They all had one except Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick, who clutched a glass of orange juice. “Once we’ve fed the customers and had a bite ourselves, we’re free,” Cromie said. “I’m meeting Virginia today. It’s too far to try to get to Bangor. My folks understand.” Cromie had started seeing Virginia Treanor (“Virgin for short
, but not for long,” as Bob had once muttered, sotto voce), a classmate of Kitty’s.
Fingal was getting fond of that girl. He’d recognised it in Neary’s. Trouble was, could he afford to get involved at this stage of his studies? He’d meant what he’d told Lars about not getting hooked, and yet— He looked across at her where she stood. Sister and her staff nurses and students were lined up along the other side of the table. They too held full glasses. God, Kitty was gorgeous and if anyone would understand a medical student’s life who better than a nurse?
Doctor Micks arrived. Fingal’s naval discipline asserted itself and he came to attention.
The senior consultant carried a large hold-all. “Merry Christmas, all.”
“Merry Christmas, Doctor Micks.”
He put the bag on a trestle table near the centre of the ward between the ranks of beds. On it stood plates in piles, cutlery, serviettes, large bone-handled carving knives and forks, and places set for the staff. “To business, Sister.”
She despatched a student nurse. “Tell the kitchen we’re ready to serve dinner.”
“Doctor Pilkington, if you please,” said Doctor Micks.
“Right, you five,” Geoff said. “Follow me.” He led the students to the table under the tree. “I want each of you to grab half a dozen presents. They’re labelled with bed numbers. Go and give one each to the patients. Sister’s arranged for tobacco or cigarettes for the smokers and mickeys of Jameson for the nonsmokers.”
Fitzpatrick sniffed then said, “I don’t think small bottles of whiskey or tobacco are very healthy. I’d have thought New Testaments or psalters might have been more appropriate.”
“Och, sure,” Fingal said, “don’t half the doctors in Dublin recommend tobacco to settle the nerves? And a wee tot never did anyone a bit of harm. The worst a few cigs does is stunt your growth if you start smoking too young.”
“Nevertheless, I do not approve,” Fitzpatrick said.
Hilda Manwell fixed the man with a stare that would have done justice to Balor the mythical Fomorian whose gaze could kill. Her voice was low and controlled. “It’s the season to be jolly, for God’s sake.”
A Dublin Student Doctor Page 13
