The sound of his tyres on the road changed and Fingal glanced over to see rings of raindrops on the still waters of the Grand Canal. He wanted the job. Phelim hadn’t said anything about the dispensary committee all month and Fingal had let the hare sit in the belief that no news was good news, but the uncertainty was unsettling. He hunched his shoulders and pedalled faster.
* * *
“Fingal, my friend, how are you?” Robin Carson rose with a smile from where he sat in an armchair in front of a black enamelled Coalbrooke Dale hob fireplace. Another man was sitting in a wingbacked chair with his back to Fingal. “She’s visiting her mother in Roscommon, but Jane will be sorry to have missed you. There’s no stopping her since she got over her surgery.”
“Robin.” Fingal shook the offered hand. “Sorry to pop in unannounced like this—”
“Always a pleasure. May I offer you something to drink?”
“Small Jameson, please.”
Robin headed for a sideboard. “Make yourself at home. You know Doctor Davidson, of course.”
“How are you, Doctor O’Reilly?” Doctor Andrew Davidson, who held a nearly empty cut-glass tumbler, smiled, but did not rise.
“Very well, thank you, sir.” Fingal wondered what the senior obstetrician from the Rotunda Hospital was doing here. It was four months since Jane’s operation and clearly she was still doing well. “Thank you, Robin.” Fingal accepted his drink.
“Jane asked Andrew to see Milly, the cook’s assistant. Some woman’s difficulty, I believe,” Robin said. He indicated a third regency-striped armchair. “Please. Have a seat.”
Fingal did, grateful for the warmth of the fire after his ride through the rain. His trouser legs steamed. It was very decent of Robin to pay Milly’s medical fees, and while Fingal would have liked to enquire how Cook was managing, he thought it polite to make conversation with his senior first. “If you don’t mind me asking, and I don’t think I’m being indiscreet, sir, how’s your Prontosil study coming on?” and before Doctor Davidson could answer Fingal went on to explain to Robin, “The doctors at the Rotunda are testing a new medicine that might cure infection.”
“That would be something,” Robin said.
“It is, and there’s no ‘might’ about it.” The obstetrician’s grin was huge. “We’ll be publishing the study early next year, but we have confirmed the work of our English colleagues. It works.”
I know, Fingal thought, and there’s going to be a revolution worldwide when sulphanilamide becomes available. He’d be able to make a real difference in a small way here too—if he still had a job.
Doctor Davidson’s smile faded. “I’d appreciate it, O’Reilly, and you, Robin, if you’d keep it to yourself until it’s public knowledge. We don’t want to be sensationalist about this.”
Fingal’s first thought was that perhaps he had been hasty asking the question, but he knew Robin would say nothing. His second thought was one of relief that apparently no one had mentioned his attempt to get some Prontosil from the postpartum ward last month. “I understand, sir,” he said, and managed to keep his face straight, but inside he exulted. And he’d been right to tell Phelim that even if the stuff seemed to have worked for Dermot, it was too early to broadcast the news. “But it is amazing. Have you any idea when it might be available to G.P.s like me?”
“Probably very soon, because the active principle was synthesised in 1903. It was widely used in the dyeing industry, its patent has expired, so anyone can manufacture it.”
“That’s wonderful,” Fingal said, forgetting for the moment what had brought him here.
“And you’re still happy working with Phelim Corrigan?” Doctor Davidson asked. “I hear there are cutbacks in the dispensaries.” He turned to Robin. “Even with the money coming in from the Irish Hospitals’ Sweepstakes since 1930 there’s still not enough to fund the system.”
“Phelim has had to let Doctor Greer, my classmate, go. He’s staying until he finds a job in Belfast,” Fingal said. “But yes, I’m enjoying the work tremendously. I just hope there’ll be no more cuts.” He took a drink.
“Don’t forget, young man, if you do ever have second thoughts, or find you are out of a job and fancy giving obstetrics and gynaecology a go, my offer stands. You’ll remember I mentioned special moneys?”
“After Jane’s surgery.”
“Right. I can create a position any time I like from an endowment fund set up specifically to attract truly promising young people.”
“Thank you, sir. I will remember that.” And the mention of jobs jogged Fingal’s memory. He turned to Robin. “I think, though, it’s time we stopped talking about medicine—”
“Quite right, young man. Doctors can be frightful bores.” Doctor Davidson rose.
Fingal stood.
“Milly will be fine if she takes the medicine, Robin, and keeps to her bed for a week. I’ll look in again in a day or so. My secretary will send my account.” He finished his drink. “I’ll be running along. And good luck in your work, O’Reilly.”
“I’ll see you out, Andrew.” Robin Carson led the way to the door.
Fingal sat and stretched out his booted feet in front of the fire, took another drink, and smiled wryly at Doctor Davidson’s “My secretary will send my account.” Naturally it would be in multiples of guineas, that archaic coin worth one pound and one shilling—and one guinea was probably as much as a cooper made in a day. “Bloody miserable out there,” Robin said, coming back rubbing his hands and blowing out his cheeks. He went to the sideboard and topped up his drink. “Another?”
Fingal shook his head.
“So, how’s the rugby going? Any word?” Robin parked himself in his chair. “Cheers.”
“Not yet, but I’m hoping,” Fingal said. “Charlie’s not heard either, so no letters will have gone out. He’s bound to get a trial if not a place.”
“I’m sure you will too.”
“I hope so, but it’s not why I called, Robin. I want to ask you for a favour, but of course I’ll understand if you can’t grant it.”
“Fire away,” Robin said. “If I can help, I will.”
Fingal leant forward. “Last July a young man was hit by a tram. Smashed his ankle. I gave him first aid. He’s a cooper by trade and had secured a position with the Guinness Brewery. That fell through and—”
“And you’d like me to see if I can find him work?”
Fingal sat back. “Well, yes. How did you—”
Robin sighed. “If you knew how many requests I get, all us directors of companies get, you’d weep.” He set his glass on a coffee table. “Contrary to popular opinion, not all the people who live in the Liberties, the Quays, the Northside are work-shy drunken bowsies. You’d be amazed how many men are wanting to work.”
“John-Joe certainly is.” He remembered the man’s tears of frustration.
“Of the companies where I sit on the boards, most are in finance and insurance. They need clerks who at least have their School Leaving Certificate.”
“My friend’s a cooper.”
“Not much call for coopers, but I have interests in three concerns where skilled tradesmen are needed.”
“Do you think—”
Robin shook his head. “We’ve a policy so there’s no favouritism. Each business has appointed a foreman in charge of hiring. Anyone like your friend can apply. If they seem suitable, names are put on a waiting list and jobs are offered to whoever is at the top of the list. It’s a bit harsh, but it’s fair. The best I can do is give you the names and addresses of the hiring foremen. I’m sorry. The lists are very long, but your friend could ask.”
Fingal pursed his lips and inhaled. “I do understand,” Fingal said, “and thank you, but I don’t think I’ll take the addresses. Poor old John-Joe needs something now, not a forlorn hope.” He sipped his drink. He wanted to get back to his flat, but it would be impolite to leave now, seem as if he was going in a huff. “We’ll say no more.” He smiled. “Now, do you think King
Edward will abdicate over this American Wallis Simpson woman?”
“I fear so. The Anglican Church won’t accept marriage to a double divorcée. Mister Baldwin, the British PM, is opposed, so are the PMs of Canada, Australia, and South Africa—”
“DeValera has publicly announced his indifference.”
Robin shrugged. “It’s not much concern to the Irish Free State, even if we are technically still a dominon. I can’t see that lasting much longer.”
And so the conversation went until Fingal had finished his drink and made his excuses.
He cycled slowly back to his flat on Adelaide Road. At least the rain had stopped, and as he pedalled he thought of John-Joe and remembered the promise of the loan of five pounds for Christmas. That at least Fingal could do for the man who was possibly facing a life of unemployment. It was in marked contrast to Fingal’s own case. If the money did run out and he had to leave Phelim, there was at least a safety net waiting at the Rotunda.
46
A Change of Heart
“You’ll be glad to be home, Bertie,” O’Reilly said from where he sat on a button-backed slipper chair beside the councillor’s bed. A quick examination had reassured O’Reilly that Bertie Bishop’s pulse was firm and regular, his blood pressure normal. The chintz curtains were closed, blocking the view of Belfast Lough. “I had a letter from Doctor Pantridge. I’ll not beat about the bush. You’re a very lucky man to be alive.”
“I know.” Bertie’s voice was little above a whisper. He was propped up on pillows, their pink cases clashing with the maroon of his silk pyjamas.
“There, there, dear,” Flo said, patting his hand from where she sat on a chair on the opposite side of the bed. The bedside table behind held a large bunch of grapes and a fleet of get-well-soon cards.
“And from now on you’re going to have to do as you’re bid,” O’Reilly said. “Behave yourself and you’ll be able to go back to work by February, but it’s stay in bed for another week, then we’ll start getting you up and about a bit more every day.”
“Donal Donnelly’s coming round this afternoon to move the telly in here, dear,” Flo said. “You can watch your favourites, so you can.”
“Thank you, Flo,” Bertie said listlessly.
“Bertie loves The Magic Roundabout,” Flo said, “don’t you, dear?”
Bertie grunted.
O’Reilly smiled. He had a soft spot himself for the stop-action characters, Dougal the dog; Dylan, a guitar-playing hare; Brian the snail; Ermintrude the cow; and Zebedee the jack-in-the-box. The programme was aired on BBC1 at 5:44 just before the six o’clock news. Like the Winnie the Pooh books, which were nominally for children, most adults found them and the Roundabout immensely appealing.
“Aye,” Flo carried on, “and the Flintstones and Thunderbirds and Noggin the Nog. Pity they’ve stopped showing that one this year.”
So Bertie had a penchant for children’s programmes. Interesting. “It’ll stop you getting bored, Bertie,” O’Reilly said.
“Aye, mebbe, but who the hell’s going to look after my business, that’s what I want til know?”
O’Reilly coughed and ignored the temptation to say, “Your executor if you snuff it, you eejit,” and instead remarked, “I’ve a suggestion. Last year, when you kindly repaired Sonny’s roof, you made Donal the foreman. He did a good job.”
Bertie frowned, then said, “Right enough, he’s a good worker, so he is.”
“Maybe make it a permanent position? Take some of the load off your shoulders?” said O’Reilly. Donal and Julie and the wee one would always be able to use a few bob more, and Bertie could afford it.
“Wellll…”
“I think thon’s a great idea, dear. You need to be taking it easy,” Flo said.
“That’s true,” added O’Reilly.
“I suppose.”
“And a pay rise for Donal?” O’Reilly suggested, quite ready to back up his original suggestion by turning it into doctor’s orders—for the sake of Bertie’s health, of course.
“Pay rise? Do you want me til have a relapse, Doctor?” Bertie said, but O’Reilly could see a weak smile on the councillor’s face. The man was starting to cave in. O’Reilly was delighted both for Donal and for Bertie, who must indeed start slowing down if his heart was going to recover. “Fair enough. I’ll do it,” Bertie said.
“Good man-ma-da.”
“Thank you, dear,” Flo said to Bertie, and smiled at O’Reilly.
“But will I be able to advise your man?” Bertie said. “Donal knows the half of sweet bugger all about contracts and accounts, that end of the business.”
“I think you might be pleasantly surprised by Donal’s business acumen,” said O’Reilly wryly. “And do you not have a solicitor and an accountant? And could they not advise Donal until you’re better?” O’Reilly asked.
“More money,” Bertie said, and rolled his eyes to the heavens.
“Bertie,” O’Reilly said, “there are no pockets in a shroud. Do it.”
“In soul, Doctor O’Reilly’s right, Bertie,” Flo said, and fluffed his pillow. “Them other nice doctors in the Royal had a wee word with me, you know. You’re not til exert yourself, nor get your knickers in a twist about nothing, so you’ve not. And I’ve for til feed you right, and all.”
“Not worry about nothing? Easier said nor done,” Bertie said, “but I’ll try, and I’ll eat whatever you set before me, so I will.” He turned hopeful eyes on his medical advisor. “Youse doctors is the great ones for prohibitions. ‘No smoking.’ Well, I’ve not had a cigar since I was took ill.”
“Good for you,” O’Reilly said. “It’s not easy to give up tobacco. I know.” And he did. Years ago his first wife, Deirdre, had asked him to quit his pipe. He’d tried and it had damned near killed him.
“Huh,” Bertie said, “and no drinking.” He sighed. “I’m not a raging drouth, but I enjoy my jar.” He sounded sad and O’Reilly could empathise.
“No reason why you shouldn’t have a nightcap. I’d suggest a wee half of Jameson’s. Less calories.”
“I like my pint,” Bertie sighed, and said, “but it’ll be a week or six before you’ll let me out of the house, won’t it?”
“In the new year,” O’Reilly said, and came close to offering to take Bertie for his first trip to the Duck, but doctor-patient relations only went so far.
“Fair enough.” Bertie took a deep breath. “But I’d prefer Paddy’s whiskey if that’s all right?”
“A grand drop from County Cork,” O’Reilly said. “You go right ahead. Do you know why it’s called Paddy?”
Bishop shook his head.
“It was called Cork Distillery Company Old Irish Whiskey when it was founded in 1779, a mouthful you’ll agree—”
“It’s long enough to gag a maggot,” Bertie said, “but if you put an air to it you could sing it,” and smiled.
It was the first time in all the years O’Reilly had known the councillor that he’d heard the man try a little levity, and moments ago he’d agreed to part with money. Had Bertie suffered a sea change?
“So why is it called Paddy?” Flo said.
“The company had a salesman, Paddy Flaherty, who was so good at his job that in 1912 they changed the name in his honour.”
“See what a learnèd man Doctor O’Reilly is, Bertie?”
“Not really,” O’Reilly said. “Kinky told me about it. She’s very proud about anything from her home county.”
“And Kinky and Archie’s getting wed. Isn’t it sticking out a mile?” Flo said.
“I think so,” O’Reilly said. “We’re all very happy for her.” He rose. “Now I’d be happy to chat about Kinky and Archie, but I’ve a few more calls to make, so if you’ll excuse me I’ll be—”
“Can you wait a wee minute, Doctor O’Reilly,” Bertie said. “I’d like til say something, so I would. I’ve had a whole month with bugger all to do but think things over.”
“Go right ahead.” Fingal wondered w
hat was coming.
Bertie looked down. “It’s like, uh, it’s not easy for me, but…”
“Come on, dear. You can do it,” Flo said, patting Bertie on the shoulder then turning to O’Reilly and remarking, “Him and me’s talked this over, so we have, and I’m right proud of my Bertie.”
“Aye. Well. I hear my heart stopped.” He looked up at O’Reilly. “And you and Mrs. O’Reilly give me the kiss of death.”
O’Reilly struggled to keep his face straight. That’s what Ulster folks called mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
“And then your Doctor Bradley knew to send for the firing squad.”
“Flying squad, Bertie.”
“Aye, that. And they told me in the hospital if it hadn’t been for it—” He looked at Flo and a single tear dropped along his cheek. “The next time I see Doctor Bradley if she has a minute I’d like for to tell her, like…” He stared at the floor. “I’d like for to tell her I’m sorry.”
“See, Bertie,” Flo said, “that wasn’t too hard, was it?”
He managed a weak smile and shook his head. “I’m going to get a wee thing for her, and—” Bertie heaved himself up on his pillow.
“Go on, dear,” Flo said.
“She can be my doctor any time she likes, so she can.”
“I’ll tell her,” O’Reilly said, wondering if perhaps Saul, who changed his name to Paul, might also have had a coronary on the road to Damascus. The medical event had certainly wrought as big a change on a certain misogynist named Bertie Bishop. “I think you’d be doing the right thing, Bertie, but we’ll wait until you’re up and about in the next week or two.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
O’Reilly hesitated. Apart from the folks at Number One, no one in the village and townland knew that Barry would be coming back and, damn it all, Jenny leaving in January. The word had to get out sometime. “You may not need to see her professionally, Bertie. Doctor Laverty’ll be coming back and Doctor Bradley’ll be moving on in January.”
“Och, that’s great about Doctor Laverty, he’s a right good head,” Flo said, “but there’s a brave wheen of people who’ll miss our wee lady doctor, so there is. Wait ’til I tell Cissie Sloan and Aggie Arbuthnot.”