Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor

by Patrick Taylor

  Barry sat, frowned, and shook his head. “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Barry, I’m just delighted you’re coming back, the reasons don’t really matter.” But they did. Fingal wanted to know if whatever had swung Barry’s heart in this direction was anything like the decision-making a younger Fingal O’Reilly had had to wrestle with in 1936 and ’37.

  “I think,” Barry said, “I missed the feeling of belonging. I missed seeing how things turned out with the patients. I liked walking down the street here and being greeted with smiles and a ‘How’s about you, Doc?’ Knowing I fitted in. There’s no Mucky Duck in Ballymena. I missed feeling we were making useful changes here in the village that had nothing to do with medicine. Like helping Donal and Julie get their house.”

  History repeats itself, O’Reilly thought. Pretty much the same reasons why I chose to come back here in ’46 after the war.

  “And like stopping Bertie Bishop from buying the Duck and turning it into a chrome-and-plastic tourist trap with piped Mantovani and Percy Faith? Bertie, by the way,” said O’Reilly, “had a coronary three weeks ago. That’s one of the changes I was going to tell you about. He’ll be getting home on Monday.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Fingal,” Barry said, “and I don’t mean I’m sorry he’s getting home. He’s not the most amiable of men, but you’d not wish a coronary on your worst enemy.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “You’re right, Barry, but there have been occasions I’d have wished the plagues of Egypt on the bloody man. Let’s hope he makes as good a recovery as can be expected.” He raised his glass. “To you, Bertie. Get well soon.”

  “To Bertie.” Barry drank.

  A white blur shot acros the room, roared “Meroooowww,” launched herself into Barry’s lap, and began purring and indulging herself in what Kinky called dough-punching, kneading Barry’s lap with her forepaws. He glanced down and fondled Lady Macbeth’s head. “I missed your lunatic menagerie, Fingal.”

  “You can give old Arthur his walk anytime,” O’Reilly said.

  “Of course, the great lummox.” Barry sipped. “And it’s not just the things here to come back to that helped me decide,” he said. “I’ve learned something about myself too. I love obstetrics, but I’ve discovered that I didn’t like doing well-woman clinics. I know Pap smears are critical for the early detection of cancer of the cervix. I know they’re important to the individual woman, but in the hospital they come in and out so fast their faces are a blur. They’re barely people. Simply a procedure to be performed as efficiently as possible, then move on to the next.” He shrugged. “And much as I enjoy the difficult technical aspects of gynaecology, I like to get to know the customers and”—his grin was wry—“I also much prefer working with them when they’re conscious.” He looked up and smiled. “I think I’m a more natural G.P.”

  “That’s honest of you,” O’Reilly said. “And you’re going to be a fine G.P. I’ve watched you grow. I’ve been at it for more than twenty years—in Dublin, and here before the war. I don’t think you could ask for a better job.” He glanced at his whiskey. “My glass seems to have a hole in the bottom. Top up?”

  Barry shook his head. “No thanks. I’m having dinner with Sue in Holywood.”

  O’Reilly rose and poured for himself. “Nice girl, your Sue,” he said, back turned to Barry. Was she part of his reason for coming back? O’Reilly would love to hear but would not ask Barry directly.

  “Very,” said Barry. “I never thought I’d say it, Fingal, but leaving was the best thing Patricia Spence could have done for me.” Barry sat forward, glass held between both hands.

  O’Reilly took his own seat. “Because?”

  “Because I’d never have found Sue.” There was a softness in Barry’s voice. “I think, and let’s keep it between you and me, Fingal—”

  Father O’Reilly, confessor of this village and townland, O’Reilly thought, and smiled. Here we go again.

  “One day soon, next year when I can afford it, I’m going to ask her to become Mrs. Laverty.” Barry blushed.

  “Thundering Jasus, lad, that’s marvellous.” O’Reilly rose, grabbed Barry’s glass. “Good for you. Good for you, and by God, if I’m willing to drink to Bertie Bishop, you and I sure as all bedamned are going to raise a glass to you and Sue. If you’re as happy as Kitty and me, you can’t ask for better.”

  “All right, Fingal,” said Barry, laughing. “But just a wee one.”

  Fingal rose and poured. “I think,” he said, “Kitty and I have started an epidemic. Archie Auchinleck proposed to Kinky two weeks ago and she said yes. That’s another change you didn’t know about.”

  “Good Lord,” said Barry. “That’s absolutely wonderful. As our old friend Donal might say, ‘More power to her wheel.’” He accepted his topped-up drink.

  “It was the most touching thing, you know. She came to me to see if Kitty and I’d be able to manage if she moved out. Said if we couldn’t she’d turn Archie down.”

  “Typical of the woman to put other people first,” Barry said. “It’s going to be a very different Number One without her.” He frowned. “I’ll certainly miss her cooking. It was one of the things I had in mind as worth returning for. The junior doctor’s mess at the Waveney wasn’t exactly Cordon Bleu.”

  “She’ll still be cooking and working part time, Barry,” O’Reilly said, “and I thought you might like to move into her quarters after she leaves. It would be more comfortable than your old attic bedroom.”

  “That would be great.”

  “I’m pleased you’re coming back, Barry,” O’Reilly said. “And don’t worry about the details. I’ll have my solicitor draw up a contract. At least it’s not like in my younger days when a doctor often had to buy into a practice.”

  “A good thing too,” Barry said. “I’m poor as a church mouse. I couldn’t afford—”

  Jenny stuck her head round the door. “Just popped in to say, cheerio, Fing—Oh, hello, Barry. How are you?” She grinned at him. “Still liking obstetrics?”

  Barry looked at O’Reilly, clearly not wanting to be the one to break the news to Jenny.

  “Jenny,” O’Reilly said, “I think you’ve known all along this could happen. And your work here has been superb—”

  Her smile fled. “I see.” She swallowed.

  “I’m sorry,” O’Reilly said, feeling like a chaplain telling the condemned prisoner that the warden had rejected the plea for clemency, “but Barry does want to come back.”

  Jenny sucked in her cheeks, nodded. “Lucky you, Barry,” and to O’Reilly’s surprise she smiled again. “You know,” she said, “I am disappointed. Very.”

  O’Reilly flinched.

  “I did want the job a great deal, but no hard feelings. It was yours to come back to, Barry. Fingal, you made that very clear from the start. I shall miss the people here and the work very much, because I am breaking down the ‘I don’t want a lady doctor’ opinions. And I’ll miss you, Fingal O’Reilly, you old toasted marshmallow.”

  “Toasted what?”

  “Crusty as bejasus on the outside, but—”

  “Say no more,” O’Reilly said. “You’ll ruin my local reputation.” And inside her words warmed him.

  “You deserve the job, Barry,” she said. “You’ve earned it.”

  “That’s generous, Jenny,” Barry said. “Thank you.”

  “You know, I was beginning to wonder if I should perhaps be looking for something in Belfast.”

  O’Reilly guessed why. Terry Baird was becoming an important part of Jenny Bradley’s life. “If you like,” he said, “I could have a word with a friend of mine, Doctor Jack Sinton.”

  “I know Doctor Sinton. On the Stranmillis Road, right?” she said. “I’ve done weekend locums for him. Keen wildfowler. Shoots on the Long Island on Strangford with his twin brother Victor and two Bangor men, Jamsey Bowman and Jimmy Taylor. All of them doctors. The man loves his Mozart.” Her smile widened. “He’d be a delightful senior t
o work with. I’d be really grateful—and I’ll start looking for jobs myself too. There’s a rumour that the Lord helps those who help themselves.”

  “Originally used as the moral in one of Aesop’s fables, ‘Hercules and the Waggoner,’” O’Reilly said.

  “People often think it was Benjamin Franklin. But a chap called Algernon Sydney way back in Charles II’s time wrote it down first,” Barry said. “Poor chap was later executed for treason.”

  O’Reilly guffawed so loudly that Lady Macbeth leapt off Barry’s lap. He looked from Barry to Jenny. A middle-aged G.P. could not have wished for two better young assistants. It was a shame to have to lose Jenny. He frowned. The practice couldn’t support three full-time doctors, could it? He shook his head. For once, O’Reilly couldn’t begin to see a way round a difficulty.

  45

  Wind of Change Is Blowing

  “Please do be careful with that chest of drawers. It’s George III mahogany.”

  Fingal smiled at his mother’s words and glanced across at Lars. The brothers were at Lansdowne Road to lend moral support during the move, and Lars would be taking Ma and Bridgit to Portaferry as soon as the removal men were finished loading the furniture. He shared a tiny smile with his brother and guessed they were thinking the same thing. Ma was particularly fond of that piece and, as always in major family matters, she was in charge and making sure everything was being done exactly, exactly, to her satisfaction.

  “Don’t you worry yer head, missus. Me and Lacky here’s been shiftin’ furniture since yer man Mister Chippendale, who likely designed dis t’ing, was learnin’ to use a feckin’ chisel. Ain’t dat right, Lacky?” The speaker was a brawny man wearing moleskin trousers tied at the knee with leather thongs, a striped collarless shirt, and a leather waistcoat. Popeye the sailor, corncob pipe and all, was tattooed on the man’s right forearm.

  “True on you, Ignatius,” Lacky said, mopping his bald head. Even in the late November drizzle, carrying the furniture down the long flight of stone front steps to the waiting removal vans would be sweaty work. “We’ll treat it like one of our own chisslers, missus, and beggin’ your pardon—” He knuckled his forehead then replaced his peakless, leather dustman’s hat. “—the work’d go a lot easier if you and dese two gentlemen would give us a bit of peace to get on wit’ it, like.” They trundled a dolly bearing the carpet-swaddled piece along a hall now bare of furniture and paintings. The lighter paint beneath where the pictures had hung for years made Fingal think of a rare disease, vitiligo, where the skin lost its pigment in patches.

  “Come along, boys. Upstairs is all done, and the dining room, study, kitchen, and servants’ quarters. Movers can be clumsy, but I’ve made sure of everything I wanted to look after. They’ll be clearing the lounge last. Let’s go in there for a minute or two. It’ll soon be time to leave.”

  Fingal, following Ma and his brother, glanced into a now-empty room, Father’s study when he’d been well, his ground-floor bedroom in the days before his death. Fingal thought of times in there; of scoldings as a child, the rows about Fingal’s refusal to read nuclear physics, the reconciliation when Father had accepted Fingal’s choice to study medicine. He could picture Ma fighting back tears after Professor Connan O’Reilly had taken his last breath in July. Fingal swallowed, thinking how those memories had all been borne out of here along with the rolltop desk, the bookshelves, the library of books. He wondered what those who were left were meant to do with Father’s diplomas? They were pieces of paper that had marked the successes of a young man’s striving to achieve his goals and now were of no more value than the secondhand price of their frames.

  He looked up the bare wooden staircase, its upper flight masked in shade. The house had been Fingal’s home since his fourteenth year and by this evening all that had passed here would be starting to fade like the hues of a sunset on a cloudy night until only the shadows would remain. It must be hard for Ma.

  Bridgit, already wearing her outdoors coat and a blue felt cloche hat, sat on a hard-backed chair in the lounge, thin-lipped, knees together, handbag firmly clasped in both hands on her lap. Fingal knew that her and Ma’s suitcases were loaded into Lars’s car. Cook had left on November first to work for the Carsons. Fingal stopped at Bridget’s chair and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s very hard to leave this place, Master Fingal.” Somehow the “Doctor” title had slipped. “I mind your mother and me nursing you when you had the measles. You were fourteen.” She sniffed. “And you were forever skinning your knees on the gravel drive. Memories,” she said, “a brave chunk of our lives.”

  “I know,” he said, and squeezed, “but you’ll enjoy Portaferry.”

  Ma went to her usual armchair and motioned for her sons to be seated. In here, as in the rest of the house, the pictures had all been crated yesterday. The landscape Ma had painted in Donegal near Ramelton was gone, the curtains taken from their rods. Outside the drizzle had turned to a steady rain that tapped insistently on the glass for admission, was refused and, sulking, ran down the panes.

  “So,” Ma said, glancing round, “it was a good old house, but it’s looking sad now. I’ll always remember it fondly. I wonder if it will remember us? I’m sure the nice couple who have bought it will take good care of it.”

  “And I know you and Bridgit will be comfortable where I’ve rented for you in Portaferry,” Lars said.

  “And you’re sure you’ll be all right on your own in Dublin, Fingal?” she said.

  He shook his head and smiled. “Ma, I turned twenty-eight last month.”

  “I’m aware of that, dear, but there’s not a mother who doesn’t worry about her children and will always do so. I shall miss you, Fingal.” The stoic look slipped for an instant and she turned her head to stare out at the rain.

  “I’ll miss you too, Ma.”

  “And you’ll have that nice Miss O’Hallorhan to look after you. And Bob Beresford and Charlie too.”

  It was Fingal’s turn to stare out the window, hoping his face didn’t betray him. He’d decided there was no need to let Ma know about Kitty’s imminent departure, about Charlie Greer’s decision to specialize in Belfast, and other disruptions that might yet be on the horizon in Fingal’s life. Some bridges crossed, some yet to come. He looked round the partially stripped room. Everything in flux. Everything changing. “When I have a free weekend I’ll get the train to Belfast if Lars will collect me there.”

  “Of course I will, Finn,” Lars said. “Just give me a call and I’ll—”

  “’Scuse me, missus,” Lacky said, “but me and Ignatius is ready to get goin’ in here now and we’d like til get finished by teatime.”

  “Very well.” Ma rose and removed a change purse from her handbag. “Here.” She gave each man a half crown with an Irish harp on one side, a racehorse on the other. “I’ve already settled the account with your employer. This is to thank you both for all your hard work and for taking care of my things.”

  “T’ank you, missus,” Lacky said, and grinned. His two top front teeth were missing. “T’anks very much. We’ll sink a pint of plain til you tonight, your ladyship, won’t we, Ignatius?”

  Ignatius nodded. “Fair play. If you was a man I’d call you a right toff and a proper gent, lady.”

  Ma inclined her head. Fingal could see her trying not to smile at the backhanded compliment. “Come along, boys, Bridgit—and, dear, there’s no need to cry.” And Ma, shoulders back, head erect, strode from the room.

  Fingal stood in the rain as Lars helped Bridgit into the backseat and Ma into the passenger’s. Not once on the short walk to the car had she looked back. “You take care of yourself, Fingal,” she said. She reached out through the open window and patted his hand. “And, oh dear, I had quite forgotten. I did speak to Mister Jackson last week.”

  Jackson? Fingal frowned and flinched as a trickle of rain found its way under his coat collar.

  “I’m afraid he has no work at his factory in Chapelizod for your frie
nd. I am sorry.”

  Work for John-Joe. Of course. Fingal had not only forgotten Mister Jackson, he’d not had much time to spare a thought for John-Joe Finnegan either. “Thank you for trying.”

  Lars started the engine.

  “Safe trip. I’ll be in touch.” Fingal turned to go as Lars pulled into Lansdowne Road. The last Fingal saw of them was Ma staring fixedly ahead, but Bridgit was turned in her seat and was staring up at the big old house. Her face was crumpled and sad.

  Fingal collected his bike and headed for his flat. Pity about John-Joe. Fingal was feeling guilty that he’d forgotten the man and then something niggled. The Carsons. They lived a short ride away and Robin Carson was a director of several companies. Why not give it a try for John-Joe? Fingal felt he owed the man one last effort. Mount Street Upper where the Carsons lived was on the other side of the Grand Canal. All he’d have to do was cross Mount Street Bridge.

  Bridges. Huh. That’s all Fingal seemed to have been dealing with for the last four weeks, since Halloween when Kitty had broken it off. She’d be leaving in two weeks for Tenerife, damn it, and he missed her sorely. That bridge was well and truly burned.

  He stopped, one foot on the ground, and waited for the traffic to thin on Haddington Road. The next bridge to be anticipated was professional. Charlie’d not been upset when Phelim had announced on the Monday after Dermot’s cure that either Charlie or Fingal would have to be let go.

  Charlie’d simply said, “Then I’ll be the one. I’ve enjoyed my time here, but I’m going to see if there’s a surgical trainee spot at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast. I have a hankering to specialise in bones.”

  “Fair play to ye,” Phelim said, “and I wish ye luck.”

  Fingal pedalled ahead. All very well for Charlie, but would Fingal have a place in the new year? It still was not clear.