A Dublin Student Doctor

  “You’ll take care, son, won’t you?” Ma asked. He noticed her frown.

  Fingal laughed. “I think it’ll be Wanderers who’re going to need your advice, M— Mother.”

  “I should have thought,” Father said, “you’d have outgrown that schoolboy game by now.”

  Fingal shook his head. “I enjoy it.”

  “It’s good exercise too, Father,” Lars said. “You always taught, mens sana in corpore sano.”

  A healthy mind in a healthy body, Fingal thought, and, hoping to change the subject, said, “I read in the Independent that the German army is now three hundred thousand strong.”

  Father sat forward. “That is three times,” he wagged his finger, “three times the level allowed by the Versailles Treaty.” He pursed his lips. “I’d hate to see another war.”

  “Surely,” Lars said, “the League of Nations will prevent that.”

  Father shook his head. “I’m not so sure. Remember, Hitler withdrew Germany as a member last year because the League disapproved of his treatment of a Jew. He argued that Jews were not protected by the League’s minority clause because Jews were not fully human.”

  “That,” said Ma, “is reprehensible. Despicable. I do try not to dislike people, but that Herr Hitler—” She pursed her lips and frowned. “And his ministers, Herr Doktor Goebbels and Herr Goering, are no better.”

  Father said, “Those Nazis are a belligerent lot. I’m worried. I truly am.”

  “Still,” Lars said, “even if the worst happens, you should be all right here. I can’t see de Valera letting Southern Ireland be anything but neutral.”

  Ma frowned. “What about you, Lars? You live in the north. It’s a part of the United Kingdom. Could you be conscripted?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “After the sacrifice of the Ulstermen at the Battle of the Somme we were promised no conscription in Ulster—ever.”

  Fingal did not mention his own liabilty for involvement because of his naval commitments. He didn’t want to worry Ma. Indeed on such a lovely autumn day with the whole family together he was regretting introducing the topic in the first place. He turned to Ma.

  “Did you know,” he said, “that I’m a fully qualified vaccinator now, with a certificate to prove it.”

  She smiled. “Good for you.”

  “I still think it’s a waste,” Father joined in. “You’ve a very agile mind, boy. Too swift for a country quack.”

  “A what?” Fingal’s voice rose and he felt his fist clench, but he took a deep breath and said in as calm a voice as he could muster, “I think that agility may be because you spent so much time teaching Lars and me when we were little, Father.”

  “To produce what? A jolly jack tar who’s going on to be a rustic sawbones when he could have—”

  “Connan,” Ma said, and Fingal heard the edge in her voice. “Fingal’s made a special effort to visit. Lars is here. Don’t spoil it.”

  “I am sorry, Mary,” Father said. He sighed. “I suppose you’re right, but—oh, never mind.”

  Bless you, Ma, Fingal thought.

  The silence was broken by Bridgit’s appearance. “Please ma’am, Cook says the Mulligitawny soup’ll be ready in ten minutes. She knows Master Fingal’s here so she put in extra potatoes and vegetables to go with the leg of lamb.”

  “Thank you, Bridgit, and please thank Cook.” Ma set aside her embroidery as the maid left. Father rose. “I’d like to wash my hands,” he said, and walked slowly to the door.

  Mary O’Reilly watched her husband go, then turned to Fingal. “Thank you for holding your tongue. That took a great deal of self-control,” she said. “You’ve changed. A year ago you’d have stormed out when Father called you a rustic sawbones.”

  Fingal gritted his teeth. “I think,” he said, “what I’m seeing has changed me. The hospital’s full of people with diseases none of our potions or our operations can cure. The patients suffer. Their families suffer. The average Dubliner puts up with it, makes the best of it, accepts things, even cracks jokes. It’s humbling. Having an intransigent father as the worst of my troubles is not a killing matter,” he said, but inside he wished that Father could bend, could try to understand.

  She stood and touched his arm. “Thank you, son. I couldn’t have stood another row.”

  Fingal sighed. “I just wish he’d let the hare sit, Ma. I’ll be qualified in another twenty months. I’m not turning back now—for anyone. I wish Father could come to terms with it.”

  She stood and pecked his cheek. “He will, and I’m proud of you,” she said, “very proud.”

  Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly blushed to the roots of his dark hair.

  “So am I,” Lars said. He rose and put his hands on Fingal’s shoulder.

  “Thank you, big brother,” Fingal said, and smiled.

  “Now,” said Ma, “before lunch, Father and I have a little something for you, Fingal.” From a nearby coffee table she picked up a small, gaily-wrapped parcel and an envelope. “You’ll be twenty-six on Monday. We know you’ll be working so won’t expect you here, but many happy returns. Don’t open them now,” she said. “Pop them in your pocket.”

  “Thanks, Ma,” he said, and wrapped her in a hug. “Thanks.”

  She disentangled herself and smiled at him.

  “I imagine this might come in handy.” Lars handed Fingal a plug of Crow Bar pipe tobacco. “Many happy returns,” he said, “although why you insist on smoking this stuff is beyond me.”

  “I like the taste,” Fingal said. And it’s the best I can afford, he thought. “You’re a sound man, Lars Porsena O’Reilly,” Fingal said as he released Ma. “A sound man. Thank you.”

  Ma said, “It’s wonderful having my boys together, but Cook gets a bit put out if we’re late for meals.”

  “After you, madam,” Fingal said, bowing and making a leg like an eighteenth-century courtier.

  Ma laughed. “Fingal, behave yourself. You’re going to be a doctor soon. It’s time you started to develop a bit of gravitas.”

  Fingal’s stomach rumbled. “Never mind gravy-tas,” he said, “I’d rather get stuck into Cook’s gravy.”

  Ma and Lars laughed. And Fingal thought, Cook’s Mulligitawny soup was always a thing of beauty, and a leg of lamb? Just the job to fuel a rugby player for a big game.

  * * *

  Fingal’s breath burned in his chest. The referee had blown his whistle for a scrum in Trinity’s favour twenty-five yards out from their own goal line. There were two minutes left to play and the game was tied. Now sixteen forwards, one eight-man “pack” from each side, would vie to see which team could get possession of the ball and a chance to mount a game-winning attack.

  Trinity’s front row of three men was ready. As second-row forwards, Fingal and Charlie stood side by side behind the front row and put their near arms round each other’s backs just beneath the armpit. Fingal could smell the sweat, feel his partner’s muscles tense.

  The two front rows locked their heads together forming a tunnel in the middle of the sixteen men, who from a distance looked like a many-legged turtle because of the way the supporting forwards held on to each other to form opposing human battering rams.

  Fingal heard his man tossing the ball into the tunnel. “Coming in left, Trinity—now.”

  The Trinity pack drove their legs against the ground. But no matter how he and his teammates strove, Fingal, purple of face, muscles standing out in his neck, felt himself being driven back. “Ball’s lost.” That was his captain’s voice, but Fingal also heard a stranger call “Bananas.” That was code for some unusual play. He let go of Charlie. Immediately ahead, one of the Wanderers’ players lay flat on the ground. He must have made a flying pass because now the whole of the Wanderers’ back line was rushing forward in echelon in a standard attack. Fingal hesitated. He couldn’t see who was carrying the ball.

  He sensed a movement to his right. A Wanderer, ball under one arm, was running like a whippet towards the Trinit
y goal. Fingal took off. On the command “Bananas” the attacker must have picked up the ball. The elaborate movement of the opposing backs had been a diversion. Fingal put everything into it and after four strides launched himself in a headlong dive. His shoulder crunched into the man’s thighs. The runner fell and his boot clouted Fingal’s cheek, but Fingal ignored the pain as he scrambled to his feet, grabbed the loose ball, and started running.

  Ahead he saw two of his own players coming at the charge. As he passed them, they ran in support of him off to his side, but slightly behind. Passing the ball forward was not allowed. Fingal’s nearest opponent tried to tackle but was thrust aside by a brutal straight arm. Now the last Wanderers defender in striking distance must tackle Fingal, who ran straight at his opponent, making no attempt to avoid the tackle, and at the last moment passed the ball.

  As he got to his feet and stood, hands on knees gasping for breath, he saw his teammate sliding across the goal line immediately under the crossbar of the goalposts. Bloody marvellous. Trinity twelve. Wanderers nine, and the kicker should have no difficulty adding another point by hammering the ball between the uprights.

  * * *

  “That result, I think,” Charlie said to Fingal in the dressing room as he shrugged into his jacket, “was very satisfactory.”

  Fingal shoved his muddy togs and boots into his hold-all and zipped it shut. He laughed. “So do you reckon,” he pointed to the bruised swelling under his slowly closing left eye, “that it was worth getting this?” He opened the door. “And me with a nurse to woo?” He’d spotted Caitlin among the spectators.

  “Och sure,” Charlie said, “can’t you always play the wounded warrior?”

  “Come on,” said Fingal, “let’s go and see Bob and Caitlin.” He stepped out into the autumn sunshine.

  “Fingal. Fingal O’Reilly.” She stood with Bob Beresford, who often came to support the team.

  Cromie wasn’t here today. He and Hilda had decently agreed to work for Fingal and Charlie so they could be free to play. Charlie would repay Hilda tomorrow. Cromie said he’d settle for a pint or a return favour in sailing season.

  “Bob.” Fingal’s friend looked very dapper in his camel hair overcoat and rakishly worn bowler hat, an ivory-headed ebony walking stick in his left hand.

  “Caitlin.” Fingal smiled at her. He’d barely been able to speak to the girl, had only exchanged a few smiles in the past two weeks. She wore a tartan tam. Her hair, usually hidden under her nurses’ headdress, cascaded down to below her shoulders. It was blacker than his own, had a sheen to rival Bob’s cane, and rippled in the light breeze. Those eyes sparkled. Her lips pursed, and she tutted. “That’s a nasty shiner.” He heard the concern in her voice.

  Before Fingal could shrug it off, Bob said, “Great tackle, Fingal, and brilliant run.” He lowered his voice. “I saw T. J. Greeves, one of the Irish selectors, watching.”

  Fingal, who had been focussing all of his attention on Caitlin, gasped. “Really? Honestly?” One of the men who’d pick the national team? They only came to a match if they were interested in a particular player.

  Bob nodded. “We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”

  Fingal saw Caitlin looking expectantly at him. “Och,” he said, “they’re probably here to watch Charlie, not me. There’s only room for two second-row forwards on the team. They’d not pick both players from the same club.”

  “We’ll see,” Charlie said. “Right now, Bob, I’m more interested in a post-game pint.”

  “You go on, boys, Caitlin and I are going to the flicks.” Fingal looked straight at Bob, who must have taken the hint. Bob turned to Caitlin, took her gloved hand in his, bent his head, and raised it almost to his lips. “It has been a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss O’Hallorhan,” he said, “I do hope we shall meet again.” He released her hand.

  You’ll bloody well not, Fingal thought. Not unless I’m with her. His vehemence surprised him. He barely knew the girl.

  “Thank you, Mr. Beresford,” she said, and smiled.

  At least, Fingal thought, it’s not “Bob” and “Caitlin” yet. He wondered why he was feeling so possessive.

  “You played well, Fingal,” she said. “It’s not often you see a second-row forward running with the ball. You handed off that Wanderer beautifully.”

  Fingal frowned. “I’d have thought a girl would know more about field hockey or camogie.” Rugby football was a boys’ sport.

  She put one hand on her hip. “Just because girls don’t play doesn’t mean we can’t understand the game. That’s about as sensible as saying because men have never been pregnant they can’t deliver babies.”

  “Point taken,” Fingal said, and laughed.

  “My father’s a fanatic for the game,” she said. “He’s taken me to matches for years.”

  “Och,” said Fingal, impressed by her knowledge and by her willingness to stand up for herself, “seeing how you understand the game you’d not expect a forward to run and think at the same time, do you? Our man was in the right place to collect the pass. That’s all.”

  She looked at him appraisingly, her right eyebrow arched. “You got all covered in confusion a week ago when Kevin Doherty was discharged and he tried to thank you. Are you trying to pretend you didn’t set up that try perfectly? Are you by any chance one of those Irishmen who get all hot and bothered if he’s paid an honest compliment?”

  He swallowed. “Caitlin, it’s nearly five o’clock. We don’t want to miss the start of the big picture.” It was a cheap night out when admission cost four pennies each. “Why don’t we get a tram to O’Connell Street?”

  “You are one,” she said, and laughed deep in her throat. “All right. Let’s get a tram. And never mind the Caitlin, Fingal O’Reilly. It’s Kitty.” Then surprisingly she reached out her hand and took his.

  12

  Even My Lungs Are Affected

  “Your left hand holds the barrel of the syringe,” Geoff Pilkington said to Fingal and Charlie. “Put your index and middle fingers through these stainless steel rings at the top end with your thumb through the central ring on the plunger.”

  It was the week before Christmas, and Fingal and Charlie were being taught how to tap a pleural effusion, a collection of fluid between the two layers of the membrane that sheathed the lungs. Geoff was demonstrating with a large syringe. “This,” he said, indicating a device between the syringe and the hub of a wide-bore needle, “is a two-way tap. When you have the handle parallel with the axis of the syringe, fluid can run in or out of the needle. When you put the handle at ninety degrees and shove on the plunger, the fluid in the barrel will come out here.” He pointed to an open tube on the side of the valve.

  This was the trickiest procedure he’d learned in three months. He and his friends had become adept at collecting blood from the patients, or setting up intravenous drips. Well, most of them had. Bob Beresford seemed to be cursed with two left thumbs and sometimes took as many as three attempts to find a vein. Cromie had confessed to Fingal over a pint that, for the sake of the patients, Bob was letting Cromie take all the bloods since the patients had started calling Bob “Count Dracula.”

  Fingal had even done two cut-downs for patients in such degrees of shock that their veins were too collapsed to find. For them it had been necessary to freeze the skin beside the inner ankle bone, make a small incision, expose the long saphenous vein, incise it, and slide in a narrow tube through which blood or saline could be infused. It had been very gratifying to feel that in a small way he’d helped when both patients recovered and were discharged.

  Fingal watched Geoff repeat the actions for a second time. It looked straightforward, but Fingal glanced back at the big needle. “Geoff,” he said, “that looks like something Captain Ahab would have stuck in Moby Dick.” He didn’t like the look of it one bit, nor fancied using it on living flesh. Particularly today’s patient.

  “Maybe,” said Geoff, “but it’s what you or Charlie is going to drai
n that pleural effusion with.”

  Fingal looked at Charlie and started to say he’d rather not, but Charlie beat him to the punch. “Me,” he said. “I’m from a farm. I’ve had to help my da often enough to geld bullocks.”

  Fingal exhaled. He knew he would need to learn the technique, but not today. He was happy to watch Geoff walk Charlie through the steps again.

  Fingal was surprised at his own discomfort. The repetition of doing procedures and the knowledge that they were of benefit had helped him conquer his natural aversion to inflicting pain. Gradually he was becoming inured, but not completely. Today he simply did not want to pierce this particular fellow human with a bloody great skewer the size of a knitting needle. He’d grown fond of the man.

  “And that’s it, Charlie,” Geoff said. “You’ll do fine. We’ll get the gear sterilized.” He put the instruments, including a smaller hypodermic, into the water of the sluice’s autoclave, shut the lid, and flicked a switch to heat the water to boiling. “You’ll not be using Big Bertha until you’ve put in some procaine two percent. That’s what the little syringe and its fine needle are for.”

  Thank God for local anaesthetics, Fingal thought, taking a deep breath. By now he barely noticed the smells in the bedpan washing room.

  “That’ll take twenty minutes to cook,” Geoff said. “Come on. We’ll go and see the patient.”

  They followed Geoff out of the sluice onto the, as ever, full Saint Patrick’s Ward. Sister Daly straightened up from speaking to a patient, tugged her apron straight, and walked toward Fingal’s group. She graced them with a smile.

  Fingal returned it. He was convinced that the faster their skills improved the more useful she considered them, and the wider her smile grew.

  “We’re going to tap the pneumonia in bed 51’s pleural effusion, Sister,” Geoff said.

  “Grand, so. I’ll send a nurse with the trolley. I imagine the instruments are being sterilised?”

  “They are,” Geoff said, and led the way to bed 51. The plaque read Gascoigne Bed. Supported by Colonel Trench Gascoigne. 1898.