Sister’s eyebrow rose. “Charlie?”
O’Reilly laughed. She thought he was being too familiar with her chief. “Charlie Greer and I were classmates at Trinity. Back in the Stone Age.”
“Oh,” she said. O’Reilly could imagine the unspoken, “Well, that’s all right then.” Gupta wouldn’t bring in a senior consultant unless there were serious grounds. That he hadn’t done so immediately told O’Reilly that the young man was not unduly concerned, but by repeating the X-ray he was taking no chances. Sensible. The latest imaging techniques had failed to give clear answers. Until they did, the only way to decide how Donal was doing was still the old analysis of symptoms and signs. That way of assessing a head injury had not changed since Fingal had been a student at Sir Patrick Dun’s. “Any change in Donal’s clinical state?”
“I’ve his chart here,” she said, and handed it to O’Reilly. The pulse rate was slower, the blood pressure stable, and the respiratory rate much slower. That was good. Patients who had suffered cerebral bruising, which was what Mister Gupta suspected, usually had a period of reaction when all those changes happened. O’Reilly sure as hell hoped that this was what was going on and that the next phase would be resolution with Donal regaining consciousness. He read on. Level of consciousness, unchanged, but the patient had spontaneously turned on his side. That too was a sign of the reaction period. Pupils equal and reacting to light. Good. Reflexes normal. Better. “When do we expect them back, Sister?” he asked.
“Twenty minutes—half an hour. We have our own X-ray department here in Quin House and the new Procomat automated film developer is a lot quicker than doing it by hand.”
He chuckled. “When I was a lad we used to hold glass film plates over the patient.”
She smiled and, he thought, tactfully refrained from comment.
“May I wait here?” he asked.
She beckoned to him. “Come round and have a pew. Can I make you a cup of tea?”
He smiled. Tea. Ulster’s answer to anything from a laddered stocking to nuclear war. “Please,” he said.
“I’ll be right back.” She rose. “Mister Gupta’s really very good. Try not to worry too much.” She left, heading for the ward kitchen. He had to smile. Usually it was him telling someone else not to worry. And, damn it, she was right. He should bide patiently. He looked at his watch. Ten past ten. It didn’t seem like more than four hours since Donal had come a cropper.
It would be dark outside now and the curtains of the four-bedded wards were all closed. These rooms against the wall of the hexagonal Quin House abutted a corridor that separated them from the single-bed isolation wards forming the inner hub. All rooms were glass-fronted. The building had been regarded as revolutionary when it was opened in 1953.
Charlie had invited Fingal to the occasion. A much more serious Charles Greer than the young man who’d suggested going dancing at a floating ballroom back in ’34. That had been a good night and yet Fingal had had no difficulty waking up the next morning. Youth, he thought wryly. He’d have more trouble nowadays getting his fifty-six-year-old bones out of bed at eight in the morning after a night of dancing.
O’Reilly crossed his legs at the ankles, locked his hands behind his head, and leant back in his chair. He could so clearly picture himself coming to in his digs, the sparsely furnished, linoleum-floored, ground-floor bed-sit at 23a Westland Row and remembering the night before. Charlie had been right about having fun. She’d been a pretty lass, that Finnoula—he had to struggle to remember her last name—Branagh. That was it. Branagh. Third-year botany student.
He’d taken her home by tram, kissed her goodnight, and had been pleased when she’d said she’d be delighted to go to the pictures with him on Saturday night. The Savoy Theatre on O’Connell Street had opened in 1929 and could seat three thousand. That was where they’d seen The Barretts of Wimpole Street with Charles Laughton and Maureen O’Sullivan. Now there was an Irish lass who’d done well for herself.
* * *
The springs of the single bed creaked as Fingal threw back the blanket. He felt the chill in the air. His stomach grumbled, but not in anticipation of the usual gruel accompanied by a pot of weak tea and a rationed two slices of bread and margarine that his landlady referred to as breakfast. No, once he’d showered and dressed he’d walk from here to his family home. Ma wasn’t expecting him, but he knew bloody well she’d put on an Irish breakfast that would leave you ready to call the cows home.
He let himself out of the front door, pausing as he always did to lift his cap to the plaque on the wall of the terrace house next door. Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wilde had been born there at Number 21. And a young Father had bestowed those names, less the O’, on his second son.
With a bit of luck, Father wouldn’t be home. He usually gave tutorials on Saturdays. Things between them had become very icy once Fingal had announced, back in ’27, that he was going to sea. They’d thawed over the years, but only by a degree or two. Fingal had made a point of popping in regularly to see Ma and had loyally eaten Christmas dinner at home ever since he’d started his medical studies. But while Lars and Fingal got on well, he and Father were only able to maintain a surface civility, and the depth of his father’s disappointment was palpable. Fingal strode on, humming “Lazybones.” It had been a big hit last year for the American band leader Ted Williams.
“Excuse me, sir?” A short man stood on the footpath. He wore laceless army boots, ragged moleskin trousers, a dirty, collarless shirt, and a threadbare Ulster overcoat. Two bronze medals were pinned to its left breast. The right coat sleeve was sewn back because his arm had been amputated below the elbow. He wore a tweed duncher tilted to one side.
The man’s pinched face was grimy, his cheeks blue, and Fingal saw that below a nicotine-stained moustache the upper two front teeth had gone. “Could you spare a penny, sir, so a poor, old sodger-man could get a cup of tea on a feckin’ cold morning?” He held out his left hand palm up and shivered.
Christ, Fingal thought. Poor divil. There were more beggars per square mile living in the Dublin tenements than in the slums of Bombay. Some of the saddest cases were wounded ex-servicemen who had fought in the Boer and Great Wars. They were barely supported by meagre pensions from their now-departed Imperial masters and despised by their fellow countrymen for having fought for the British. For centuries the British Army and Navy had provided jobs and a steady income for many of Ireland’s chronically unemployed, but a new Irish nationalism had burgeoned after the executions of the leaders of the Easter Rising and had made anything English despised.
Fingal thrust his hand into his trousers pocket. “Here,” he said, “here’s a florin. Get yourself a decent breakfast.”
The beggar’s eyes widened. “Holy Mother of God. Two whole feckin’ shillings? Ah, t’anks, yer honour. T’anks.” He snapped to attention and saluted with his left hand holding the shilling between his bent thumb and his palm. “Arragh Jayus, t’anks a feckin’ million, sir.”
“‘Breakfast,’ I said. Not a wheen of jars.” Fingal tried to sound stern.
Already the man had scuttled away in the direction of the alleys of the Liberties where the poitín and porter, the weakest ale brewed by Guinness, were cheap and plentiful. Och well, Fingal, he told himself, if the poor divil gets a bit of warmth in a shebeen and a few hours of drunken solace with his mates, a cigarette or two, why not? Fingal had lengthened his stride, eager to be home to see Ma, have his breakfast, and a nice cuppa.
* * *
“Here’s your tea, Doctor O’Reilly.” The nursing sister set a small tray on the desk. “What do you like in it?”
O’Reilly sat up. Uncrossed his ankles. Someone had dimmed the lights on ward 21. “Milk and sugar, please.”
She poured. Handed him the cup and said, “And there are some McVitie’s Rich Tea biscuits.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
“I’m going to have to leave you, I’m afraid,” she said. “We’ve a full ward and it’s time I
made my rounds.”
“Go right ahead,” he said. “No word from Mister Gupta?”
“Not yet, but it won’t be much longer. No news is good news. Enjoy your tea and biscuits,” she said, and left.
No, O’Reilly thought, no news is exactly that. No bloody news. But he’d have to bide. He lifted a biscuit and dipped it in his tea. Ma, he remembered, had always served tea, McVitie’s Rich Tea biscuits—no Dublin hostess would dare omit them—chocolate digestive biscuits, and Cook’s homemade shortbread and chocolate éclairs when people had come for afternoon tea. Never mind afternoon tea, he thought, Cook always put on a hell of a breakfast at Lansdowne Road.
6
Mother Will Be There
Fingal climbed the stone steps to the front door, admiring the delicate wrought-iron railings and the Virginia creeper that clung to the house’s red brick. The leaves were spring green. Come autumn they would be scarlet daubs of cheering colour among the sad leafless trees.
He stabbed the brass doorbell push and heard jangling in the hall, feet approaching.
“Master Fingal.” Bridgit, the maid, opened the door. She looked smart in her black dress, white pinafore, and crimped white cap pinned to grey hair parted in the middle.
O’Reilly grinned. “Morning, Bridgit.” To her, despite his twenty-five years, he was still “Master,” not “Mister.” Bridgit had been with the family for as long as he could remember. She’d probably helped change his nappies.
She led him to the drawing room. Fingal’s mother sat in a wing-backed armchair in the bay of the bow window. The low morning sun put highlights in her blonde hair and cast her in shadow beneath a landscape in oils in the style of the French Impressionists. It was one she’d painted last year while Father had been fishing on a holiday to Ramelton in Donegal.
She turned from her Irish Times and smiled. “Thank you, Bridgit. Fingal. What a surprise. How lovely to see you.” She frowned. “Have you had breakfast?”
He shook his head. “Morning, Ma.”
She tutted.
Typical Ma. Always worrying about her two grown sons. She probably thought that without food he’d be on the verge of collapse. He crossed to her and dropped a kiss on her head. As ever, her pearls were round her slender neck. “I’ve not eaten—yet.”
“Is there anything special you’d like, son?”
He shook his head. “Not much,” he said. “Something light. Porridge. Couple of rashers and two eggs please, Bridgit. Sausages. Bit of black pudding. Soda farl. Tomato. Maybe a couple of kidneys? Lamb chop?”
“Please tell Cook,” Ma said to Bridgit.
“Hey bye, you always was a grand man for the pan, sir, so you were,” Bridgit said as she left, her Antrim accent as strong as it had been the day she’d left the village of Portglenone and taken service with the O’Reillys.
“Father out?” Fingal asked.
“He’s giving a tutorial.”
Fingal blew out his breath. “How is he?”
She hesitated before saying, “Pretty much the same as usual. Perhaps he tires more easily. He’ll be sorry to have missed you.”
“Really.” Fingal curled his left hand and inspected his fingernails.
Ma pointed to a chair, the twin of hers. “Come and sit down. It’s lovely to have you here. It’s been three weeks since your last visit.” He thought she looked wistful when she said, “I just wish your brother could come as often as you do, son. I know sometimes when he drives up he’s seeing that nice Jean Neely girl.” She laughed. “No time for old fogies like us.”
Fingal sat and crossed his legs. “Lars was down from Portaferry at Christmas,” he said. “It’s a three-hour trip in his motorcar.”
“I know,” she said, “and I’m delighted for your brother. He seems happy being a solicitor in that small town and Jean might just suit him well.”
Fingal, not wishing to become too involved in a discussion of Lars’s love life, said, “He always knew what he wanted for a career.”
She touched his knee. “Both my boys did.”
“And,” he said, “thanks to you and Lars, Ma, I’m doing it. You’ve no idea how much I’m enjoying it.”
“I think I do, and I’m delighted. I’m only sorry you had to go away for so long before you could get started.”
“There was no other way.” He caught her wistful look and knew it must have cost her. “I’m sorry too.”
“Don’t be.” There was a tiny edge in her voice that Fingal had never heard before, not even at the height of his battles with Father. “Don’t ever be sorry for following your dream. Of all emotions, regret is the most futile.”
Fingal wondered what Ma had to regret.
She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head to one side. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “What could I have to regret? I have everything a Victorian wife could possibly want. A lovely home, a successful husband, two wonderful sons.”
“Victorian? You make yourself sound old, Ma.”
“Well, I was four in 1887 when Queen Victoria had her Golden Jubilee. And the attitudes of her era certainly didn’t perish when I was growing up.” She hesitated then said, “I was a girl once, Fingal. And I was lucky. Your grandfather had some advanced ideas. He believed girls should be educated—up to a point. When I was fourteen he sent me to Victoria College in Belfast and let me stay there until sixth form.” She turned away and looked out through the window. “I was captain of hockey that year, 1901. I was eighteen.”
“The year Queen Victoria died and a year after my namesake kicked the bucket,” Fingal said, wondering why Ma was telling him this.
“Poor Oscar,” Ma said. “I’d read his plays.” She winked at her son before continuing, “Very risqué for a young lady then, but I loved A Woman of No Importance.” She stood up quickly. “Come on. Let’s continue this next door. I need coffee. There’s a pot in the dining room. Have a cup with me while you wait for breakfast.”
He followed his mother across the hall and into the formal dining room, admiring the stateliness of her carriage, the grace of her walk. She was a handsome woman. He could imagine her as a girl, lovely, spirited. He pulled out a chair and sat where Bridgit had set a place for one. The cut-glass chandelier overhead sparkled diamond and blue like moonbeams reflected from rippled water.
“Here.” Ma handed him a cup of coffee and sat opposite with her own.
“That new hairdo suits you much better than your old chignon.”
Ma patted her hair. “Lots of waves are all the fashion. I do try to keep up.” She sipped her coffee. “I’ve always tried to keep up.”
“With fashion?”
She shook her head. “With the world. When I was at Victoria College I read the Belfast Telegraph every day. I supported Lady Constance Lytton and Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst and their campaign for votes for women.”
“You were a suffragette? Good Lord.”
“I was worse,” Ma said, “I nearly gave your Grandpa Nixon heart failure.”
Fingal sat forward, his coffee ignored. “How?”
“When I left school I told him that in 1899 the Faculty of Medicine of Queen’s College Belfast had approved the admission of women.”
Fingal pushed his chair back. “Ma—Ma, you wanted to be a doctor?” It was unbelievable. Ever since he was a nipper, it had seemed to Fingal that Ma had only one goal, to take care of her family. And yet all along, she had wanted what he himself so desperately did. “Jesus.”
“I know. Shocking, isn’t it?” Her smile was sad. “That’s what Grandpa thought too.”
“That’s not what I meant. We have three girls in our class, and why not? I was just surprised about you, that’s all. I never knew.”
“I was going to tell you when you first told me medicine was what you wanted. Then I realised it had to be your decision, your dream, not mine, so I kept my counsel.”
Fingal swallowed. It must have taken a lot of willpower for her not to say anything.
“Anyway,”
she continued, “Grandpa wouldn’t hear of it. To be fair he did let me study English. Still, it’s how I met your father so something good came of it. He was a postgraduate student working for his MA. He taught a series on the poetry of Oscar Wilde.” She sipped her coffee and looked down at the tablecloth. “He was awfully handsome, and his voice when he read from Wilde’s works gave me goose pimples.”
Fingal looked at his mother.
“He was a socialist back then,” she said. “Thought that Keir Hardie—the first Labour MP in the British Parliament—thought the man walked on water. I agreed. We were married in 1904 as soon as he got his MA. Grandpa was very pleased.”
“And you’ve regretted not going to medical school ever since?”
She shook her head. “I told you, of all emotions, regret is the most futile.”
Those, he thought, are her words, but he heard the catch in her voice.
“And that’s why you helped me defy Father?”
“You remember we used to read Yeats together?”
He nodded.
“‘Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams’?” Fingal heard the edge back in his mother’s voice. “No one should tread on anyone else’s dreams. No one.”
He felt his eyes prickle. “Thanks, Ma,” he said very quietly. “Thank you very much.”
For a while Fingal was content to respect her silence. His own thoughts bubbled. In 1927, he’d come close to accusing his father of wanting to live his life vicariously through Fingal. Instead he was living his dream all right—but Ma’s too.
He heard the door open and turned to see his father standing in the doorway. He seemed to have lost weight since Christmas. Fingal noticed shadows under brown eyes. The darkness was new and somehow Father’s skin seemed paler. His gaze rested briefly on Fingal, who stood so quickly he had to grab his chair to stop it toppling.
“Connan,” Ma said, “I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Look who’s come to see us.”
“Wretched student didn’t show up, Mary. You know I always allow them ten minutes, but then they’ve had it.”