“Now,” said Fingal, “Charlie, why don’t you nip back in, send for the ambulance, and ask Diarmud for another tea towel to use for a sling.”
“Just a minute,” a familiar voice said.
Fingal looked up to see Bob Beresford standing beside them, Elaine Butler’s books under one arm, his Trinity tie held in an outstretched hand to Fingal. “Use this for a sling and I’ll be happy to run Elaine to Sir Patrick Dun’s.”
“Hello, Bob,” Elaine said, and managed a tiny smile.
So, these two knew each other already. He used Bob’s tie by knotting the ends around her neck to form a loop that supported the splinted forearm.
“Small world,” Bob said. “The last time I saw you, you were only fourteen at your big brother’s twenty-first birthday.”
“I’ve grown up,” she said. “I’m in my second year of a BA.”
“You certainly have,” Bob said. “And a student too. So you tripped on one of Duke Street’s cobbles, did you? You always were better on a horse than you were on the ground.”
“Bob.” She grimaced, shook her head, but managed a smile. “I swear to goodness you haven’t changed a bit since you used to help me up onto my pony.”
“I hope not changing’s a good thing,” Bob said, running an appraising eye over the young woman.
And why not, thought Fingal. They already knew each other and it wasn’t as if Bob was directly involved in her care. There was no doctor/patient bond and if Bob was taking a fancy to young Elaine more power to his wheel. He’d always had an eye for the ladies.
“The car’s on Grafton Street,” Bob said. “Here, let me help you up.”
The girl got to her feet and then sagged against Bob. “Gosh, my knees feel like jelly.”
Bob handed the books to Charlie, bent, and gently scooped Elaine up, avoiding contact with her arm. “Bring the books, Charlie. I’ll carry you, Elaine. You don’t look like you’re in shock, but adrenaline leaving your system can do strange things.”
“Don’t tell me you’re a doctor too?”
“Tis strange but true. Come along, Doctor Greer. Carry Miss Butler’s books, will you?”
“Thank you so much, Doctors,” she said, and allowed her head to rest on Bob’s chest.
“Good luck,” Fingal said as he watched the little party move away, and wondered if he had just witnessed a simple Colles fracture or the rejuvenation of Robert Saint John Beresford’s love life. On that front, there’d be no such luck for Fingal. He shrugged and went back into the pub to find Diarmud taking away his and Charlie’s pints and replacing them with new ones.
“The last ones had gone as flat as feckin’ flounder fishes,” Diarmud said. “Fresh ones on us, and t’anks, Fingal.”
“You’re welcome. But I’m afraid you’ve lost your tea towels, Diarmud. I’d to send the young lady to hospital.”
Diarmud laughed. “Sure hasn’t Byrnes got more tea towels than there’s grains of shingle on the beach at Dingle? Nobody’s goin’ to miss the feckin’ t’ings.” He headed back to the bar.
Charlie appeared. “We put her in the back of the motorcar and Bob’s gone off. Those two have known each other since Elaine Butler was in pinafores.”
“I suspect Bob has made a new conquest,” Fingal said. He nodded at the table. “Diarmud’s poured us fresh pints.”
“Thank you, Diarmud,” Charlie called, then sat and took a pull on his. “Mother’s milk.” He wiped the foam from his upper lip. “Funny,” he said, “minutes ago Bob was reminiscing about us being in here pondering our futures. Wonder where we’ll all be this time next year? I’ve a suggestion to make about that.”
“Go on.” He picked up and relit his discarded pipe.
“I don’t want to lose touch with my friends once I go to Belfast. I know we’ll say we’ll get together, but life gets busy. We’ll both be in new jobs, Bob may have a new girl in his life, Cromie’s turning into a bookworm because he’s finding the surgery fascinating. It’ll be the first Friday in December at the end of this week. Why don’t the four of us, you and Bob, me and Cromie, the old four musketeers from Trinity days, solemnly agree to convene here in Davy Byrnes on the first Friday of December every year, catch up, renew our old friendship, find out how everybody’s doing?”
Fingal thought for a moment and the more he thought, the more he liked the idea. “Begod, Charlie, you’ve said a mouthful. It’s a brilliant idea.”
“In that case,” said Charlie, “let’s drink to it, and,” he raised his voice, “when these are finished, Diarmud, we’ll have the same again.”
50
Words Are Also Actions
“It was a brilliant idea, Fingal, to have the Culloden Hotel cater and provide the glassware and china,” Kitty said, loading a tray with plates of canapés warm from the oven. On this occasion the with-drinks nibbles had not been prepared by the redoubtable Mrs. Maureen “Kinky” Kincaid, who, after a strong but futile protest, was very definitely off duty tonight.
“Most of the invitees have arrived and are upstairs in the lounge,” Fingal said, helping himself to a cocktail sausage from a plate waiting its turn to be put on the tray. It was Kinky and Archie’s night, their promised engagement party on Saturday, December the fourth. “I think we managed to invite everyone who should be here. And Kinky’s family was wise to decide not to come up from Country Cork. There was a whiff of snow in the village this afternoon and the roads could very well be treacherous.”
“They’ll come up for the wedding in April,” Kitty said.
“Tonight is Kinky and Archie’s night. Now, I think we’re still waiting for Flo and,” he sighed, “Bertie Bishop.” The front doorbell rang.
“I’ll go,” Fingal said, putting the tray on the shelf—and snaffling another sausage.
He let Helen Hewitt in. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “The trains were running slow. There’s a lot more snow up by Sydenham.”
“Glad you could come,” O’Reilly said. “How are you getting on at Queen’s?”
“Och, it’s great, sir. And thanks again for fixing me up with a job next summer.”
“All Kitty’s doing. How are the exams going?”
“Remember back in October when I told you about the boys making the row in Doctor Emaleaus’s lecture about static electricity and Van der Graaf?”
O’Reilly chuckled. “I do.” He hung her duffle on the coatstand.
“And you told me to study it in case Doctor Emaleaus took a bit of revenge for not letting him finish that lecture. Guess what question was on the physics paper?” Her grin was wicked. “Your man Van der Graaf’s generator. I’ve passed physics and botany. Only chemistry and zoölogy to do next June and then after my summer job I’ll be in second year and only have five more years to go. It’s wonderful.” She sighed with every indication of bliss at the prospect. For a moment, O’Reilly envied the energy of the young. For him, the prospect sounded daunting.
“I’m delighted,” O’Reilly said. “Now trot on up and have fun. I’ve some Babycham in an ice bucket for you.”
“Just the jibby-job,” she said.
As Helen climbed the stairs, Fingal went back to the kitchen. “Helen Hewitt,” he said picking up the loaded tray. “Back in a jiffy.”
He delivered the canapés but was interrupted on his way back to the kitchen by Jenny letting herself in.
“Jenny.”
“Just made it, Fingal,” she said. “It was snowing to beat Bannagher at the Holywood Arches. I’ll be surprised if Terry gets here.”
“But you did,” O’Reilly said. “How was the patient?” Jenny had agreed to call on her way home with Hall Campbell, the fisherman whose patent ductus arteriosus had been successfully closed surgically and who had been discharged yesterday.
“Still a bit sore, but he’s doing fine.” She looked O’Reilly in the eye. “And that job in Belfast I’ve been investigating? Very interesting. When you get a moment, Fingal, can we have a word?”
He grimaced. “I
t’s Kinky’s party. Tomorrow?”
She looked crestfallen.
“Okay. Hang on. I’ll take the tray in to Kitty and be right back. Why don’t you go into the dining room.”
In the kitchen, he found Kitty pulling a tray of vol-au-vents and stuffed mushroom caps out of the oven. “Jenny needs to talk to me for a minute. Can you cope?”
“Course. I’m hardly being Julia Child here. The Culloden’s done everything beautifully. Take your time.”
“Thanks, love.”
Jenny was staring out the window as snowflakes drifted lazily in the twilight. He went in and didn’t bother to close the door. “So,” he said, “what have you to tell me?”
“I’ve had two meetings with Doctor Graham Harley, the gynaecolgist. The second one was this afternoon.” She was wringing her fingers so forcibly they were blanching.
“And?”
“I’ll give you some background. A Canadian doctor, David Boyes, introduced a province-wide cervical cancer screening in British Columbia starting in 1960. He’s been getting Papanicolaou cervical smears taken from every eligible woman, having the slides read, and then following up if necessary. It’s working. Cervical cancer rates are falling there. Doctor Harley knows Doctor Boyes and wants to start a similar screening programme in Ulster—in Belfast and Northern County Down—but aiming to cover the whole province eventually.”
“Anything that stops women getting cervical cancer would be a blessing. It’s a horrid disease,” O’Reilly said.
“Graham’s got a budget from the Cancer Authority and the Northern Ireland Hospitals Authority to train doctors and pay their wages once they’re trained and working.”
“Sounds wonderful,” O’Reilly said.
“He’ll start me in January, train me for four months, and his idea is that I and people like me can run well-woman clinics, do Pap tests, give contraceptive advice, baby immunisations.”
“Innovative,” O’Reilly said.
“Isn’t it just? The thought of doing something that prevents disease rather than treating it.”
The same pleasure and excitement that he had heard in Helen’s voice was in Jenny’s. “And I imagine it would be part-time work,” he said, “that might suit a married woman?”
She smiled and looked down. “Yes, that’s what I thought too, although Terry hasn’t said anything yet. Anyway, Doctor Sinton has known about this so he’ll not be upset when I turn his offer down.”
“I’m glad for you, Jenny,” O’Reilly said. “If it’s what you want, I hope it all goes wonderfully. I shall miss you.”
“But don’t you see—”
The doorbell rang.
“Hang on,” he said. “I’ll answer it.”
It took some moments to let Bertie and Flo Bishop in and hang up their coats, hats, and scarves.
“Bloody brass monkey weather out there, so it is,” Bertie said, blowing on his hands.
“It’s nice and cosy up in the lounge,” Fingal said.
Bertie and Flo began to head for the stairs, but Bertie must have seen Jenny in the dining room. “Run you away on, Flo,” he said. “If it’s all right with you, Doctor O’Reilly, I’d like a wee word with Doctor Bradley. I’ve not had a chance since you come til see me a couple of weeks back.”
“In private?”
“No. I’d like for you til be there so you can see I’m a man of my word, so you can.”
O’Reilly was pretty sure he knew what was coming. “Go right on in.” He followed Bertie into the dining room, but then stood back and listened.
“Doctor Bradley,” Bertie said. “I’d like very much for til say something til you.”
“Good evening, councillor,” Jenny said. “Please go right ahead.”
Bertie shifted from foot to foot, looked down, looked up, inhaled, and said in a rush, “Them nice doctors in the Royal says you saved my life, so you did.”
“Not me,” she said. “Doctor and Mrs. O’Reilly kept you alive until the flying squad arrived. Doctor Geddes saved your life with his defibrillator.”
Modest, O’Reilly thought. Good for you, Jenny.
“Aye,” said Bertie. “Aye. That may be so.” He narrowed his eyes and continued in a serious voice, “But who knew til send for that there firing squad? You tell me that now, young lady. You just tell me.”
O’Reilly shook his head. Leopards and spots. Even when it was meant to be an apology Bertie had to score points.
“If you won’t,” said Bertie, “I’ll tell you, Doctor.” He nodded to himself. “If it wasn’t for you I’d be six feet under and Flo a widow woman.” He pursed his lips and his voice trembled and cracked. “I owe you my life, so I do. I can never thank you enough—and I’ll never say nothing bad about lady doctors again, so I won’t. Not never. I’m dead sorry that I did, so I am and—” He inhaled.
O’Reilly could see the effort it was costing the man.
“I apologise, completely and teetotally, so there.” He took another deep breath.
“That is generous of you, Mister Bishop,” Jenny said, “very generous, and I accept your apology.” She smiled. “Teetotally too.”
“Thank you very much,” Bertie said, “and—” He fished in the pocket of his jacket and produced a small parcel. “Here. It’s just a wee thank-you, so it is.”
O’Reilly remembered Bertie saying he’d have something for Jenny. “I’m proud of you, Bertie,” O’Reilly said, and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Aye. Well. Doctor Bradley, are you not going to open it? Flo helped me pick it out at Sharman D. Neill’s.”
The same high-class Belfast jewellers where O’Reilly had bought Kitty’s engagement ring.
“Of course,” she said, and began carefully to unwrap the packet. She pulled back. “It’s beautiful,” she said, showing O’Reilly an exquisitely crafted brooch of shining green and black Connemara marble set in silver with matching pendant and earrings. “Thank you, Mister Bishop. Thank you very much, for your apology and your gift. I’ll think of you every time I wear them.”
“And good health to do so wherever you are, Doctor,” Bertie said. “Doctor O’Reilly says you’ll be leaving us soon. I’ll be sorry til see you go.”
“I’m not so sure about going—”
“Fingal,” Kitty said from where she stood in the doorway, “I’m sorry to interrupt. Hello, Jenny, and councillor, but I do need some help now getting those last trays upstairs. And we are neglecting our other guests.”
“Coming,” O’Reilly said. “You help the councillor upstairs, please, Jenny, and Kitty and I’ll be along in a minute.” And what the hell did Jenny’s “I’m not so sure about going” mean? Couldn’t be. There wasn’t room for three doctors. Anyway, the answer was going to have to wait. Time to join the ta-ta-ta-ra, and as he climbed the stairs he marvelled. In all his years in practice, Fingal O’Reilly had never seen a man as utterly transformed as Bertie Bishop. But how long would this turn for the better last?
51
There’s a Good Time Coming
“Still at the tugging, Lorcan?” Fingal asked as his bicycle drew level with his old patient and his cart as he trudged along Golden Lane. This was the street where Jam Jars Keegan and Joe Mary Callaghan had injured each other in a ruggy-up the day Phelim hired Fingal and Charlie.
“Oh, aye,” said Lorcan, the words coming out with a puff. He looked over to Fingal. “It’s you, Doctor Big Fella. I heard you was leavin’ us soon. I’m sorry to see you go.” Fingal looked along this well-known lane and thought of all the other familiar streets and alleys where he usually ran into folks he knew. News travelled fast in the Liberties. He slowed his pedalling.
“Thanks, Lorcan. I’ve not seen you for a brave while, not since—” Not since the night he and Kitty had walked along High Street after seeing Modern Times. The night she had started talking seriously about Spain.
“I remember. You was wit’ a wee mot, a nurse. Pretty t’ing.” Lorcan regarded Fingal. “Is dat why you’re leaving us
then. Goin’ off to get married and move to a new part of town. Where the toffs live, like?”
“No, Lorcan, no. Nurse O’Hallorhan has moved to Tenerife—to Spain—to look after children orphaned in the Spanish Civil War.”
“Has she now?” Lorcan stopped to pull off his duncher and wipe a hand over his brow. “Well, that’s a t’ing, isn’t it? Fancy her up and doin’ a feckin’ thing like dat. Women.” He spat. “Dey’re about as predictable as the Irish summer.” Lorcan chuckled. The thought seemed to give him energy and he picked up the cart, this time quickening his pace along the cobbles, with Fingal falling in beside him. Perhaps Lorcan was right and Kitty’s decision was just the unpredictable actions of the female of the species. But more likely it was Kitty who was right, and he had been too scared to make things more serious between them. But her ship had left for Tenerife and it was long past the time to change anything now. “How’s the back?” he asked.
The cartload of scrap metal clattered and jangled as the wheels jounced over a pothole.
“The back? Grand altogether. I’ve not needed more of the linament or ground-up pills you give me mont’s ago. Dey worked a treat.”
Or time passed and the backache got better by itself, Fingal thought. Still, it was good for Lorcan.
“And dat’s a feckin’ good t’ing. I’ve a regular job wit’ Harry Sive—”
“Who has a shop on Meath Street?”
“The very fellah. He came over from Rooshia after they had dat dere Bollixshevik Revolution, you know, and he opened his shop when he was only sixteen. He’s a feckin’ good skin. Dis is one of his forty-six carts and he doesn’t charge us to use dem.”
Fingal saw that Lorcan’s old plank-sided cart had been replaced with one made of wickerwork. WASTE SALVAGE and the letter S, for Sive, were painted on the side.
“It’s a feckin’ sight lighter to pull. Harry doesn’t pay wages, but by Jasus he gives a fair price for the stuff we bring in, and he’ll see you right wit’ a few bob if you’ve not been able to collect much from the toffs.”
“Where were you today?” Fingal knew that Sive’s tuggers scrounged used materials from the better-off districts of Dublin.