Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor

  “Good,” said Phelim. “She’s almost awake.” He took the mask from her face.

  Doctor Davidson cocked his head to one side and regarded the wound. “Neat,” he said. “Very neat. And swiftly done. I knew I could trust you to do a good job. You do have good hands, young man.”

  Fingal was glad his toque and mask hid most of his blush.

  “If you ever get tired of working with the old bog-trotter there—” Doctor Davidson took off his mask and grinned at Phelim, who smiled and shook his head. “Come and talk to me at the Rotunda. I’m always on the lookout for promising young trainees and I have special moneys.” He arched his back again and rubbed the small of it with one hand.

  I wonder, Fingal thought, watching the doctor continue to knead his back, if a trip to the massage department at Sir Patrick Dun’s might help Lorcan?

  17

  The Little Fishes of the Sea

  “Morning, Archie,” O’Reilly said as he went into the kitchen looking for a blouse of Kitty’s that Kinky was to have ironed. “Back still behaving itself?”

  Archie Auchinleck was sitting drinking a cup of tea at the kitchen table, his tweed jacket draped casually over the back of his chair. He smiled and rose. “How’s about you, Doctor? The back’s rightly, so it is, dead on, like, and thanks for asking.”

  O’Reilly took it as normal that he could at any time ask anyone in the village a specific, concerned question about their health, not the usual “How are you?” For a second he wondered about Brenda Eakin’s chest. It was four days since she’d been in and she hadn’t phoned nor had the hospital sent a report of her X-ray. He must assume she was no worse, possibly better, and still helping with the harvest. “Sit down, Archie,” he said, “and finish your tea.” If O’Reilly had heard nothing from Brenda by Monday, he decided, he’d try to drop in on her while he was out making his home visits.

  Archie sat, crossed his legs, and lifted his teacup. O’Reilly noticed the way the man held the handle delicately and extended his little finger in a fair imitation of how Ma’s upper-crust friends would have back in the ’30s. “I just popped round for til see Mrs. Kincaid for a wee minute, like,” Archie said.

  His “poppings in” had become an almost daily event, and if it was after his milk round and Kinky wasn’t too busy, the “wee minute” could stretch for quite a while. O’Reilly suspected he was going to lose his friend and housekeeper soon and yet was delighted for her. Like himself, she’d been alone for a long time. Too long.

  “Lovely day out, so it is,” Archie said, “but there might be rain later for I’m getting ferocious stoons in my thumb, so I am.”

  Archie’s thumb’s sudden shooting pains were regarded locally as being as good as the BBC weather forecasts, so much so that he had staunchly refused O’Reilly’s offers of treatment. “Hope not,” O’Reilly said. “Seeing it’s Saturday and we’re both off duty, Mrs. O’Reilly and I will be having an outing after lunch. What do you know about greyhounds?”

  Before Archie could answer, Kinky appeared from the door of her quarters, said, “Doctor O’Reilly,” beamed at Archie, and said to him, “Is your tea all right, dear?”

  The “dear” was not lost on O’Reilly. Kinky had changed a lot since her surgery, and her growing attachment to Archie Auchinleck was clear to see. She seemed younger, was given to occasional moments of what he could only think of as girlish giggling. He’d been surprised by the depth and timbre of her contralto when he’d heard her singing “My Favourite Things.” That she could yodel so well when she moved on to “The Lonely Goatherd” as she polished the silver had come as a total surprise to him, and he’d known her for going on twenty-six years. It looked like The Sound of Music had taken her fancy.

  “Just a wee taste more, please.” Archie held out his cup. “I often go to the oul gee-gees with Donal Donnelly, but I don’t know nothing about racing dogs, sir. That’s Donal’s corner, so it is.”

  “Hmm. Just wondered,” O’Reilly said happily, watching the cosy scene of domesticity.

  Kinky lifted a teapot and poured, added milk, two teaspoons of sugar, and stirred the tea before handing him the cup.

  “You like sweet things, Archie?” O’Reilly asked.

  “In soul I do, sir. Indeed I do.” He glanced at Kinky, smiled, then said, “I’ve never tasted nothing in my life like Maureen’s raspberry Pavlovas. They’re sticking out a mile, so they are.”

  There was no greater accolade in Ulster, and Archie was right. “They are that,” O’Reilly said. “Spectacular.” He envied Archie, who was tall and angular. In local parlance he’d be described as being “only as fat as a hen across her forehead.” He apparently could tuck into his blooming Pavlovas till the cows came home and with no apparent ill effects. Maybe it was because of the exercise he got trotting up people’s drives every day carrying full bottles of milk from his electric milk float and back down with yesterday’s empties. O’Reilly really missed Kinky’s desserts, creamier sauces, and the magical things she used to do with the humble spud, but there was no doubt that the diet she had instituted for them after her discharge from hospital in May was finally working wonders for his waistline. Soon she’d be asking Alice Molony the dressmaker to take in the waistband of several pairs of his pants. Kinky herself must have lost at least a stone and looked much better for it.

  He waited as Kinky went over to the ironing board.

  Perhaps Flo Bishop was having the same success at the Bishop house? O’Reilly knew he really should call on the councillor again, but their last meeting had been less than friendly. As he had promised himself he would, O’Reilly had demanded the respect due to Doctor Jennifer Bradley be accorded by Bertie. He’d told Jenny about it and for now would let the hare sit. Fingal’s visiting the councillor would not prevent another anginal attack. That was up to providence—and Bertie Bishop.

  “Here it is, sir.” She handed him Kitty’s blouse, ironed and neatly folded.

  “Thanks, Kinky.”

  “Could I ask you a shmall favour, sir?”

  “Sure.”

  “Would yourself and Mrs. O’Reilly”—Kinky was always formal in front of other people—“be able to answer the phone if Doctor Bradley has to go out this morning? I need some things from Belfast and—”

  “Of course.”

  “Archie can run me to town, can’t you? It will save me having to take the smelly old ‘covered wagon,’ so.”

  O’Reilly smiled at her use of the locals’ name for the one-carriage diesel train that ran from Bangor to Belfast and back with stops along the way.

  “Aye, certainly,” Archie said.

  “And we’ll be home in time for me to get lunch ready by twelve, so.”

  “Off you go, Kinky. We’ll not be leaving for Kirkistown until one. We’re meeting my brother Lars, then going to see how Donal and young Colin Brown and a certain greyhound do at an unofficial meet.”

  “Is it Donal’s dog then?” she asked.

  O’Reilly remembered the need for secrecy. “I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s Bluebird. He said he’s finished racing her. She’s a pet now.” He marvelled at himself, how easily the little lie had rolled off his tongue. He’d always enjoyed a bit of intrigue—for a good cause.

  She looked at him sideways, head tilted. “No matter. If Donal’s racing one, that’s good enough for me. I’ve another shmall-little favour to ask, sir. If you’ll excuse me?”

  He nodded.

  She went to her quarters, came straight back, and offered him a ten-shilling note. “To win, for me please. Donal’s dog.”

  O’Reilly chuckled and took the money. He already knew how fond she was of the horses, and how successful. “What have you seen, Kinky?” he asked. After all, the whole village and townland knew that Maureen “Kinky” Kincaid was fey.

  “With the sight? Nothing.” She lowered her voice. “But I do know Donal Donnelly.” And to his surprise, she winked. “Now you run along, sir. Archie and I will get going right away, and don’t w
orry, lunch will be on the table at twelve noon, so.”

  * * *

  And it was.

  “That smells wonderful, Kinky,” Kitty said as the Corkwoman served up grilled plaice garnished with lemon slices and parsley, green peas and mint, and boiled new potatoes, limiting O’Reilly to one spud. The peas and herbs had been grown in the back garden.

  “I’m sure the fish is fresher than anything I used to buy in a Belfast fishmonger’s.”

  “I bought it on my way home,” Kinky said. “Archie drove me to the sea wall on the Shore Road. There’s a local fisherman, Jimmy Scott, you know him, Doctor O’Reilly.”

  “I do indeed,” Fingal said, thinking about how the man had had a nasty bout of contact dermatitis last spring that only cleared up when Doctor Hall, the dermatologist at the Royal, was able to identify the cause. Jimmy was sensitive to the zinc in the pieces he bolted round the propellor shaft once a year. Because of a peculiar electrolytic effect that O’Reilly didn’t quite understand, the salt water tended to corrode the quaintly named “sacrificial anodes” rather than the boat’s propellor shaft and the propellor.

  “Jimmy goes out into the lough at the crack of dawn and he’s usually selling from the sandstone slabs on the top of the wall by eleven. I bought a string of six, so that’s your ones and three more for Archie and myself too, that we’ll have for our tea this evening.”

  Damn it, O’Reilly thought, the man’s practically moved in here—he smiled—and I’m delighted for Kinky.

  “That’s what I mean by really fresh,” Kitty said.

  “You’ll get none fresher than Jimmy’s unless you cook them on the boat, so.” She smiled and said softly to herself, “There’s nothing better than a herring straight from the sea, gutted, dipped in flour, and thrown straight into butter in a pan on the galley stove. When you’re married to a fisherman, you can do that. I remember it well.” O’Reilly heard no sadness in her voice. He was gladdened that after all these years she was able to let go of her drowned husband, Paudeen. He knew how she’d felt about the loss in the past.

  “Thank you, Kinky,” Kitty said. “Ouch.” Lady Macbeth was standing on her hind legs, front paws on Kitty’s thigh, tensing to leap onto her lap, clearly attracted by the smell of the fish. She pushed the animal away. “You’re sweet, your ladyship, but you’ve got very sharp claws and you’ll ladder my stockings.”

  Kinky scooped the animal into her arms. “You come with me now, you wee dote, and leave the doctors and Kitty in peace. I’ll find you a nice bit of plaice skin later, so.”

  “Aaaargow,” said Lady Macbeth, who had long ago learned, as is the way with felines, that the big, comfortable Kinky Kincaid had been placed on this earth primarily to minister unto the needs of one small white cat.

  “I’d wager,” said O’Reilly, “that you’d be hard-pressed to work in a practice that feeds you half as well, Jenny.”

  “I think,” she said, smacking her lips and keeping her fork hovering over a now half-destroyed plaice, “if the Michelin Guide gave stars for home cooking, Mrs. Kincaid would be top of the list. You are a very lucky man, Fingal. You’ve Kitty, the marvellous Kinky, and apart from the odd snag, you run the best practice a young doctor could hope to work in.”

  Fingal stopped in mid-chew. Snag? He looked at her. She was obviously enjoying her lunch, looked relaxed and happy and, if he wasn’t mistaken, was possibly teasing him a little. He liked that. But he knew what she meant. “Are you still having trouble?” He hadn’t been able to observe anything firsthand. After a very short time showing her the ropes, Fingal and Jenny had worked independently, just as he and Barry had when the young lad started. She’d not said anything to him lately about any difficulties she might be having, although he knew very well about Brenda Eakin’s and Bertie Bishop’s opinions.

  “Not enough to bother anybody with.”

  “Sure you don’t want to tell us?” Kitty asked.

  Jenny seemed to be deciding what to say and O’Reilly knew that Kitty was wise enough to let the young woman take her time.

  Jenny Bradley in her own way was becoming part of the Number One Main Street family—and O’Reilly liked that. In the couple of months she’s been here, Jenny had dined often with him and Kitty and, in Jenny’s own words, liked to “help them watch TV” if there was something worth watching. Jenny had become very good about giving Arthur his walks when O’Reilly was busy, and often, if he came home early in the afternoons, he’d find her in the lounge curled up with Lady Macbeth on her lap reading J. G. Ballard or Ray Bradbury or Isaac Asimov, her favourite science fiction authors. There wasn’t much for youngsters here if she went out. She was a golfer, liked to swim in Bangor’s saltwater Pickie Pool, had tickets to the symphony for the next season, and had her own circle of younger friends up in Belfast. And he’d begun to suspect, by the number of calls from a Terry Baird, that she had a boyfriend too.

  And she was careful not to intrude too much on O’Reilly and Kitty’s privacy. When they were together as two off-duty doctors, it was like the old navy mess ashore. “Talking shop,” discussion of profesional matters, was taboo. He could understand why she’d said nothing.

  She set her napkin on the table and said, “I’m not complaining, Fingal. Simply letting you know. My father used to tell me and my big brother, Stanley, ‘You’re both big enough and ugly enough to look after yourselves.’”

  “I’ve never seen your brother,” Kitty said with a laugh, “but I’d hardly call you ugly.” O’Reilly looked over at Jenny in her open-necked white silk blouse and red Stewart tartan mini-kilt, as bright and pretty as a rosebud.

  “Thank you.” Jenny laughed. “Figure of speech. Dad had his sayings…”

  Just like my father, O’Reilly thought.

  “… and he wanted both of his children to be able to fight their own fights. I truly appreciate you speaking to Councillor Bishop, Fingal, he was the worst, but I’ve met men like him before. He’s not going to change his mind.”

  O’Reilly nodded. “You may be right.”

  “I am. It’ll take a miracle. And if you’re not here and he has more angina—which he will sooner or later—I’ll look after him whether he likes it or not.”

  “Good for you.” O’Reilly clenched a fist and waggled it in a gesture of encouragement.

  “And I do understand why some of the other customers want to see you—it’s a question of comfort with the familiar. I know it takes time to build trust. I’ve seen it in other practices.”

  “Exactly what I thought when I saw Brenda Eakin on Tuesday. She wanted to see me, but they’re not all like that. They can’t be.” He sliced off another piece of fish. “Just how bad is it?”

  She shrugged. “It’s only a few folks—funnily enough, mostly women—but it’s been that way since I started seeing patients years ago.” She took a long drink of water. “They’ll get used to me. I’ll not get a better job anywhere. I mean that. And if Barry doesn’t want to come back—”

  “The job’s yours.” O’Reilly had made his decision with barely a thought. She was a damn good doctor, he knew because he’d seen a lot of her patients in follow-up, and he admired her feisty attitude. “And whatever I can do to help.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. Thank you very much, but there’s another thing my dad used to say when we were little: ‘The Lord helps those who help themselves.’”

  “Wrongly thought to be biblical,” O’Reilly said, “frequently attributed to Hezekiah, King of Judah, who defeated Sennacherib, the King of Assyria, somewhere around 700 BC if anyone’s interested.”

  “Not really,” said Kitty, and laughed, “but we know it amuses you.” She puckered a pretend kiss.

  “You wait, Mrs. O’Reilly.” He puckered up himself, then said, “Pay no attention to us, Jenny. You keep plugging away. I’ll do what I can, and we’ll have to wait for Barry’s decision.” If he wanted to come back, having to let Jenny go was going to make Fingal O’Reilly very uncomfortable.

  Kit
ty looked at her watch then at O’Reilly. “Come on, Fingal. Time’s moving. Eat up and let’s get going.”

  Jenny grinned, raised an eyebrow, and said, “And if anybody is looking for you both while you’re away I’ll tell them that Doctor and Mrs. O’Reilly are—going to the dogs.”

  18

  The Clouds Ye So Much Dread

  “Come on, Kitty. Let’s get going,” Fingal said as she locked the door to her flat on Leeson Street. He took her hand. “We’ve to be at Bob Beresford’s at one thirty if we’re going to get out to the course for the first horse race. He’ll go daft if we’re late and make him miss the two thirty.” And, he thought, I’ll be very happy to get into the bar tent for a pint or two. He grinned. “Never mind old Omar Khayyám and his loaf of bread and jug of wine and thou beside me in the wilderness. I’m up for a pint of stout, a big cruibin, and thou beside me at the paddock.” He kissed Kitty and she kissed him back.

  “Behave yourself, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly,” she said, and pretended to slap his face. “And I don’t like stout.” She smiled up at him from under her eyebrows. “But if you’re as sweet to me as Bob usually is, I’ll let you buy me a chicken sandwich and a glass of claret.”

  “To you? I’ll be sweet as honey.” He swung their hands in exaggerated arcs like a couple of schoolkids might and grinned as she laughed.

  They’d strolled to the corner and turned onto Fitzwilliam Place in the sunny August afternoon, surprised by the number of pedestrians hurrying in the same direction. “Busy today,” he said. “They’ll be heading for Ringsend or Sandymount. It’s only a couple of miles from the middle of the Liberties. Lots of those folks go to Ringsend on weekends to watch the Gaelic football, kick a ball around, row, or swim in Dublin Bay. It’s the poor man’s Lido.”