“Just my feckin’ luck,” John-Joe Finnegan said. “I landed a job at Guinness’s at Saint James’s Gate. I’m a cooper by trade and they make about one t’ousand five hundred barrels a day—barrels just like the big bugger that has me destroyed. I got the bike today from a fellah on City Quay and I was takin’ it for a spin because I was goin’ to use it to get to my work next week. Fat bloody chance now. Dey’ll not keep the position until I’m back on me feet and dere’s no shortage of coopers lookin’ for places. I’ve been out of work for eighteen months, I finally get a feckin’ job, and now this? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it’d make a grown man weep. And me new bike’s fecked too.”
Fingal already understood how high the rate of unemployment was among the men of the tenements, particularly after the stock market crash of 1929, and how precious a job could be, particularly to a man like John-Joe Finnegan. By doing an apprenticeship for several years and learning a trade, he had made every endeavour to give himself and his family a chance. “I hear you, Mister Finnegan,” Fingal said, feeling bloody useless. He tried to remind himself that he was only a doctor, not someone who could solve all of the world’s injustice—but it was bloody unfair.
John-Joe propped himself up on one elbow. “Would youse do me a favour, Doc?”
“If I can.” Fingal wondered what it might be.
“In me jacket pocket.” He inclined his head. “There’s a packet of Woodbine.”
He found the ten-for-fourpence cigarettes, put one between John-Joe’s lips, and used the Ronson Fingal’s parents had given him as a twenty-sixth birthday present to light the fag.
“Lord Jasus,” John-Joe said as he inhaled deeply, then blew out a cloud of smoke, “but there’s a great comfort in the oul’ weeds.” He took another puff. “Where’ll they take me to, Doc?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe Baggot Street Hospital,” Fingal said, and thought with pleasure about a certain Nurse Kitty O’Hallorhan who worked there. “Or Sir Patrick Dun’s. It’s pretty close, on Grand Canal Street.” Fingal and his friends had spent most of the last two years walking its wards learning their trade. Great years.
He saw the crowd part and two ambulance men approaching.
Fingal stood. “I’m Doctor O’Reilly,” he said. “I’ve examined the patient. He has no injuries except for what is probably a Pott’s fracture of his left ankle. He’ll need it splinted and you’ll have to take him to…?”
“Dun’s, sir,” the taller of the two said, turning away. “We’ll see about splints and getting him on a stretcher.”
Fingal was pleased. He bent to John-Joe. “You will be going to Dun’s.”
“And who’ll let my missus know? She’ll be going spare when I don’t come home.”
“I’ll ask.” For a moment, Fingal thought of volunteering, but on foot the Coombe was a fair stretch and he still hadn’t finished his interview for a job with the … “different” was the word that came to mind, the different Doctor Corrigan. Nor did Fingal relish having to break the news to Mrs. Finnegan that John-Joe’s prospects for a job were now nil.
The big policeman bent over John-Joe. “Where do you live?”
“Ten, High Street. The front parlour.”
So, Fingal thought, John-Joe lived in a tenement, but in one of the better sets of rooms, if it could be called that.
“Scuse us.” The ambulance men had come back. They set a canvas stretcher on the cobbles. “We have to splint your ankle,” the tall one said.
John-Joe took a drag, then stubbed out his cigarette. “All right, but go easy, for feck’s sake.”
Fingal stood back. The attendants would be far more skilled than a physician at splinting broken bones, and indeed it wasn’t long before the break was swaddled in a pillow and bandages and immobilised so the jagged ends of broken bone wouldn’t grate together and cause pain when the patient was moved.
“Now, Doctor, could yiz steady the ankle while me and me mate get yer man here on the stretcher? Alfie, take you yer man’s shoulders, I’ll take the right leg, and Doc, lift the pillow.”
Fingal bent and grasped the pillow and in moments John-Joe had been hoisted and lowered onto a stretcher.
“That’s her now,” said the tall one. “T’anks, Doc.”
Fingal straightened. “You’ll be grand now, John-Joe,” he said. As a medical student he’d got into trouble for getting to know his patients by name, as people not as cases, but damn it all, he liked people.
“T’anks, Doc, you’re a grand skin.”
“You’ll be fine.” Those thanks meant a great deal to Fingal. He wasn’t a hair-shirt-wearing do-gooder and he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that being respected, looked up to, wasn’t soul-warming too.
“And never worry about the missus,” the big Garda said. “I’ll have a constable round on his bike to let her know.”
Although his face was pale and beads of sweat stood on his forehead and upper lip, John-Joe managed to smile. “Tell him to keep his wheels out of the feckin’ tram lines,” he said.
Fingal laughed. Dubliners. Smashed ankle, job prospects up in smoke, and John-Joe could still manage a joke.
“Can I ask a question, Doctor?” John-Joe said.
“Fire away.”
“What kind of a doctor are yiz, anyroad? Some kind of specialist?”
“That,” said Fingal, “in the immortal words Sean O’Casey wrote in Juno and the Paycock, is ‘a darlin’ question, Captain. A daaarlin’ question.’” He laughed. “I’m just finished medical school so I’m no particular kind at all—yet. But I enjoy working in Dublin. I was in the middle of an interview for a job in Aungier Street Dispensary when we heard about the accident.”
“Wit’ Doctor Corrigan w’at was here? He’s a sound man. Sound.”
That a local thought so was more promising.
“Fair play to you, sir. I hope you gets it,” John-Joe said.
“So do I. And after meeting you, Mister Finnegan, I know this is what I want to do. Thank you.”
“Happy to help, Doc.” He stuck out his hand.
Fingal grasped it without hesitation. He had never forgotten Ma’s teaching, straight from Rudyard Kipling, If you can walk with kings and princes nor lose the common touch. Even as an apprentice in the merchant marine and later a sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy Reserve, he’d never felt distant from the crew.
“If I get a chance, I’ll try to drop in and see you in Sir Patrick’s, John-Joe.” The hospital was no distance from Fingal’s home, and he was always curious about all his patients’ progress.
The attendants hoisted the stretcher and started to load John-Joe into the ambulance. “Good luck to you,” Fingal called. He turned to the Garda. “Will you need me, officer?”
“Couple of quick routine questions, sir.” He licked the end of a pencil and started in. It wasn’t long before he said, “That’s it, sir. I don’t t’ink we’ll be needing you in court.”
“I hope not,” Fingal said. He bent, picked up Doctor Corrigan’s bag, and turned to go.
The sergeant said, “I heard you tellin’ John-Joe about lookin’ for a job in Aungier Place. It’s part of my beat and it’s a pretty tough district.” The sergeant made a huuuhing noise, compressed his lips, and shook his head. “I hear bein’ a G.P. there, drawin’ a wage, and treating the poor folks for free can be a hard row to hoe. Good luck to you, sir, if you do get it.”
And as he started on his walk back to the dispensary the Garda’s parting words echoed in Fingal’s mind.
* * *
Yes, it had had its rough patches, starting with my first impressions of Doctor Phelim Corrigan, O’Reilly thought as he ran the Rover into the garage back home at Number One. He let himself into the garden to be greeted by a joyous Arthur Guinness. “All right,” he said, patting the Labrador’s head. “All right. Soon.”
Arthur gazed at Fingal, the big dog’s brown eyes full of adoration.
“Kitty and I are going to take a run race down to see Dona
l and the new baby. You can come too and we’ll give you a walk.” Fingal’s stomach made a noise akin to that accompanying the release of geothermal energy from one of New Zealand’s mud pits. “But not until I’ve seen if Kinky’s kept my breakfast warm.”
4
When the First Baby Laughed
O’Reilly turned left off the inside curve of the hairpin bend on the Belfast to Bangor Road, the Rover rumbling along a rutted lane so narrow, brambles scraped the car’s sides. Despite the warmth, Kitty cranked up her window. “Nearly got scratched,” she said.
Now that the car had left the surfaced road for a country lane, Arthur Guinness made excited noises and wagged his tail. “He always does that. Thinks we’re going shooting,” O’Reilly said as he parked the car in front of a thatched cottage. “Here we are,” he said, “Dun Bwee, the Yellow Fort. Home of the Donnellys, and if I’m not mistaken that’s Donal himself putting on a lick of paint.”
Donal, with most of his carroty hair hidden under a paint-smeared duncher, was putting a coat of fire-engine-red paint on one window sash. He hadn’t heard the car coming because his portable transistor radio was blaring the Byrds’ recent number-one recording of a Bob Dylan song.
Hey, Mister Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle-jangle morning …
“Turn off that bloody awful racket, Donal,” O’Reilly yelled in his best quarterdeck voice. “‘Jingle-jangle morning’ indeed,” he muttered. He liked the song well enough, but not the volume at which it was being played.
Donal flinched and his brushstroke jerked over a strip of masking tape and put a red smear on the pane. He spun and his wide-eyed look turned into a buck-toothed grin. “It’s yourself, Doctor,” he said, bending to turn off the radio, “and Mrs. O’Reilly. When you yelled there now I near took the rickets, but I’m main glad to see youse both, so I am. Welcome back.”
“Thank you, Donal. It’s good to be back. Is it all right to let Arthur out? Where’s Bluebird?” O’Reilly asked. The two dogs had been known to disappear when together, and O’Reilly wasn’t taking any chances close to the main road.
“In her dog run round the back.” Something in the way Donal lowered his voice seemed furtive to O’Reilly. Donal came closer to the car and peered in. “So if you want to let Arthur out it’ll be fine.”
“Grand,” said O’Reilly. “Hop out, Kitty.” He let Arthur out of the back. The big dog, tail going like a threshing machine with slipped gears, headed for the fuchsia hedge, cocked a leg, gave a happy “Yip,” then headed straight for Donal and licked his hand.
Now the radio was off, O’Reilly stood for a moment listening to the silence of the country. The air was heavy with the scent of clover spiced by the odour of drying paint. He moved round the car and Arthur came and sat at his feet.
“Sound day,” said Donal, “for the time of year it’s in.” He stooped and set the paintbrush on the upturned lid of the paint tin. “I’ll not need to let the half of that new coat get too dry before I finish it,” he said as if to himself, then turning to O’Reilly, “and what brings you out here, for didn’t you only get home last night, sir?”
“Six o’clock Heathrow plane into Aldergrove,” Kitty said. “Kinky told us you and Julie had had your baby. We’re taking Arthur for a walk, and Doctor O’Reilly wanted to see the new arrival, so we popped in.”
“Julie’s in the back garden with the wean in her pram.”
O’Reilly knew Donal had for the entire pregnancy been convinced the baby would be a boy, but he seemed to puff up when he said, “She’s one hell of a—Sorry, Mrs. O’Reilly, she’s a right wee cracker, so she is.” His grin was vast. “Hang about.” He stuck the brush into a jam jar of clear fluid, wiped his hands on what by the stink of it must have been a turpentine-soaked rag, then along the sides of his dungarees. “Come on in and we’ll go round and see the pair of them.”
O’Reilly took Kitty’s hand and together they followed Donal to the big back garden shaded by a row of towering lime trees. Julie, her long cornsilk hair shining, had parked a high-sprung four-wheel pram that would not have looked out of place in an Edwardian nursery. She was carrying her new daughter wrapped in a white, open-weave wool blanket.
“Doctor and Mrs. O’Reilly.” Julie smiled. She lowered her bundle and O’Reilly could see a little face, wrinkled brow, and tiny pursed lips. “Meet Victoria Margaret Donnelly,” Julie said.
Kitty moved closer and bent over. “She’s lovely.”
“Victoria for Julie’s ma, Margaret for mine,” Donal said. “Prettiest baby in the whole six counties, but she takes after her mother so that’s no surprise.” He puckered a kiss at Julie.
“Och, sure, and doesn’t a baby bring her own welcome?” said O’Reilly, thinking that if you lined ten newborns up you’d think they were identical decatuplets who all bore striking resemblances to squashed oranges. But he was too much of a gentleman to say so.
“And before you say it, Doctor O’Reilly, sir, for I can guess what you’re thinking, so I can, she does take after her ma. None of your ‘Oh, doesn’t she look like her daddy? Never mind. At least she’s got her health’ craic.”
O’Reilly laughed. “You know me too well, Donal Donnelly.”
Arthur, who had walked at O’Reilly’s heel, lifted his head, sniffed at the baby, gave a wag of his tail, and wandered off down the lawn. He passed a mound that bore a sign, on which the words NATIONAL TRUST HERITAGE SITE were accompanied by an embossed sprig of oak leaves, and continued on to a chain-link dog run. Donal’s racing greyhound Bluebird greeted Arthur by sticking her narrow muzzle through a link to exchange sniffs with the Labrador.
Victoria Margaret screwed up her face and amazed O’Reilly by how such a tiny creature could manage to sound like an air-raid siren crossed with a banshee. He recognised the niff that assailed his nostrils.
Julie frowned. “I think someone has a full nappy.”
Donal took a step back. Maybe times were a-changing, but by the way he folded his arms and inclined his head, it was clear that in his opinion changing nappies was not men’s work.
Victoria Margaret’s face grew redder and she let go another shriek. Julie shrugged and said, “I’ll go and see to her. I’m not very good at it. Miss Hegarty the midwife gave me a few lessons, but seems to me you need five hands, not two.”
“Come on,” Kitty said. “I’m not a nurse for nothing, and I’m sure, Fingal, you and Donal will have lots to talk about.” She took Julie gently by the arm and headed for the cottage’s back door. “The trick is to get the wee one by the ankles…”
“It’s going to take a power of getting used to, this being a new daddy, so it is,” Donal said. “Being a carpenter’s a lot easier.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage. You and Julie’ll make great parents.”
“We’re certainly trying, but it’s a brave sight harder than training dogs.” He cocked his head at O’Reilly. “I do try to give Julie a rest by doing the late bottle feeds, but the pair of us is both a bit sleepy these days, so we are.” He grinned his lopsided grin. “At least you can put an ould bow-wow in her kennel at night. Victoria Margaret had us both so knackered with her gurning in the wee hours this morning that…” He inclined his head in the direction of the dog run.
“You don’t mean that, Donal.”
“Not at all. Just pulling your leg, sir. We’re both daft about the wee crayture. No man ever wore a cravat as nice as his own child’s arm around his neck. We would never let nothing hurt her, so we’d not.”
“Good man,” O’Reilly said. He noticed that Arthur had wandered back again. He glanced to the dog run. “And how’s Bluebird doing, Donal? Dogs can get jealous of new babies.”
“Not her. She’s as gentle as a lamb. But then I haven’t raced her for a brave while. All the local bookies know her and her form. You can’t get decent odds at any of the registered tracks, so you can’t.”
O’Reilly knew that, legally, dog tracks had to meet standards set by
the Greyhound Racing Board of Great Britain and their Ulster branch, the Irish Coursing Club.
“I’m going to go in for a bit of flapping,” Donal said.
“Flapping?”
“Just between you and me and the wall, Doctor, there’s a few unregistered tracks and I’ve a wee notion how to make a few bob running her at one or two. That’s called flapping.”
“But surely the bookies would still recognise you and her?”
“I’ve another wee notion about that, too. Change her looks a bit, like, tell folks I’ve got another dog, and get some wee lad to take her to the stewards after the race. Dog owners’ kids handle dogs all the time, so nobody’ll mind.” Donal let one eyelid droop in a slow wink.
O’Reilly guffawed. “Jasus Murphy, Donal, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” The man was incorrigible. “But you’ll let me know what happens?”
“Och, aye. Sure it’ll only be for a bit of craic, anyway.” Donal grinned. “Now, sir,” he said, “I don’t mean to be impolite nor nothing, but would you excuse me for a wee minute? The paint’s going to be half dry on that sash and I’d like for to get her completely finished the day.”
“Off you trot. I’m content to sit in the sun in your back garden, Donal. Kitty and I just popped in and we’ll be running along once she’s finished with Julie and the chissler.”
“Thank you, sir. Come round anytime. Anytime you like.” Donal left.
Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor Page 3
