Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor

  Bob shuddered. “I tried when we were students, but I’m really not excited about dealing with lice and scabies. And the smells…” He nodded to an acquaintance leaning on the bar. “Mind you, to tell you the truth, Fingal, I’m not cut out for a Merrion Square practice either. I really don’t like working with sick people.”

  Fingal laughed. “We’ve known that ever since we started at the hospital. I reckon doing microbiology research with Prof Bigger is right up your street. How are you enjoying working with Trinity’s new dean of medicine?”

  “It’s all very new to me, but he’s teaching me the scientific method. He’s got me plating out—you remember the old experiments we had to do with bugs on agar jelly plates? He has me at it, and putting pellets of a new compound called red prontosil on the agar of half the plates to see if it will inhibit bacterial growth there while the undrugged plates flourish.”

  “Interesting,” Fingal said. “You’ll let me know how it all turns out?”

  “If you want to know, sure.” Bob grinned. “Actually it’s fascinating. I never really thanked you for suggesting I consider research.”

  “We had to get you doing something, you idle waster.” Fingal shrugged. “And even if you don’t want to admit it, you’ve always had what the ancient Greeks prized most—”

  “The figure of Adonis?” Bob raised an eyebrow.

  Fingal shook his head. “No, you buck eejit—an enquiring mind.”

  “Oh, that? Well, I suppose so, and seeing I do have one, may I enquire if you are serious about wanting Charlie to work with you too?”

  Fingal eyed Bob, but he was lighting a cigarette. His face was a blank. “Charlie? That’s right. I’ve asked him. Phoned him yesterday. Gave him all the details. He said he’d think about it. There he is, with Cromie.”

  The two men sat at a table at the far end of the room. The ginger-haired Charlie Greer, and Donald Cromie, who preferred to be called simply “Cromie,” held straight, nearly full glasses of Guinness. Fingal went to the bar. “The usual, Bob?”

  “Please.”

  “Pint and a Jameson, please, Diarmud.”

  “Right you are, Fingal.” The barman’s form of address was not undue familiarity. The four friends had, since they’d started medical school together in 1931, frequented Davy Byrnes pub, where the fictitious Mister Leopold Bloom in James Joyce’s Ulysses had once enjoyed a gorgonzola sandwich. Diarmud was a friend more than a barman. He started to pour the Guinness from the barrel that had been broached the longest. The stout in it would be going flat. He’d let that settle, then add more from the new barrel where the ale would be too fresh to be drunk by itself. The resulting blend should be a perfect pint, smooth, creamy, bordering on sweet. “I’ll bring dem over.”

  “Come on, let’s join the lads. I’m anxious to hear what Charlie thinks.” Fingal was dying to hear what Bob really thought too, but for now he’d let the hare sit. They nodded hellos at other regulars who leant on the counter or sat at tables. Fingal thought, as he passed through the crowded bar, that this city was special, the energy of its people, its history, the gems like Phoenix Park, the Abbey Theatre. And he knew—he knew—how much he wanted to work with the Dublin poor. Father’s earlier opinion had sealed the decision for him, but damn it all, he was doing this for himself. He also realized he wanted very much to get to know Doctor Phelim Corrigan better. Fingal reckoned he could learn a lot from the older man who’d enjoyed his work in the tenements enough to keep him at it for twenty-nine years. Besides, it would be a daily puzzle as to which way the parting of his toupee might be facing on any given morning. Fingal smiled. He hoped Charlie would come too.

  Pipe and cigarette smoke and beer smells filled his nostrils. He overheard scraps of conversation.

  “Do youse t’ink dere’ll be a war in Spain?” a man in a duncher and raincoat asked his companion. “I hear the country’s in an awful mess since they chucked out the king. The Fascists and their bloke General José Sanjurjo keep havin’ a go at the Republican government and their leader, that Manuel Azaña—”

  “Let dem get on with it,” the man’s companion interrupted. “We’ve enough trouble here wit’ our own fascists. Call demselves Blueshirts. Fellah called Eoin O’Duffy’s in charge. Another feckin’ Adolf Hitler. Strutting round giving each other straight-arm salutes. De Valera declared dem illegal in 1933, but I hear dey still meet. Maybe O’Duffy’ll send dem to Spain to fight if dere is a war.”

  Fingal smiled. Dubliners were not people to ignore the world around them. He fetched up at the lads’ table in time to hear Bob say, “Move over in the bed,” and Charlie and Cromie, while making greeting noises, shifted their chairs to make room.

  Fingal sat next to Charlie but deliberately didn’t look at him. This was his decision.

  “Fingal O’Reilly, don’t ever play poker,” said Charlie with a laugh. “I know what you’re thinking and before you ask me if I’ve made up my mind, I’ve thought it over and yes, I’m ready to give this dispensary practice a go if they’ll have me.”

  “Grand,” said Fingal, grinning as he stuck out his hand, which Charlie shook. “That’s the berries. We’ve to see the boss, Doctor Corrigan—”

  “Here y’are.” Diarmud set the whiskey and Guinness on the table. “One and tenpence please.”

  Fingal handed Diarmud a two-shilling piece and accepted his tuppence change. Tipping was not customary in a Dublin pub.

  Fingal lifted his glass. “To us in practice, Charlie. I’m looking forward to it.”

  Charlie drank. “Me too.”

  “And we’ve to see this Doctor Corrigan at twelve tomorrow,” Fingal said. Charlie’s agreement was the icing on the cake. “I’ll meet you at the corner of West and North Saint Stephen’s Green at eleven thirty,” he said. “It’s only a doddle from there.”

  “Great,” said Charlie. “That’s no distance from my digs on Adelaide Road. Eleven thirty it is and we’ll beard this Doctor Corrigan in his lair.”

  Typical Charlie. Never able to be serious about anything for long—or at least never willing to appear to be taking something seriously.

  Bob smiled. “Good luck to you both, and please don’t forget, there’s always plenty of hot water in my flat.”

  “What are you on about, Beresford?” Charlie asked.

  There was the tiniest of curls to Bob’s lip. “I’ll get in some carbolic soap just for you. Kills fleas, I hear, and masks unpleasant smells.”

  Charlie threw a mock punch and said in a thick Northside accent, “Feck off, you toffee-nosed swank. Away on back to yer manor house and leave us culchies to do the real work.”

  Fingal took a deep pull from his pint. That exchange had answered his question about how Bob Beresford felt about Fingal and Charlie’s choice. Bob did not approve. Oh well, being close friends didn’t mean that they all had to like each other’s job choices. Bob was entitled to his opinion, as long as he didn’t make a thing of it.

  As far as Fingal was concerned, not only was it going to be fun to work in harness with one of his best friends, with three doctors in the practice there would surely be time for his other interests. He’d come so close to playing rugby for Ireland last season and he wasn’t getting any younger. He was determined to give it everything he had to try to realise his dream of representing his country this season, and of course, there was Kitty. Lovely Kitty. He’d be seeing her later today.

  “So,” said Bob, sipping his whiskey and lighting another Gold Flake, “that’s three of us decided. What about you, Cromie?”

  Cromie took a long drink, leaving a creamy tidemark three-quarters of the way down the glass. “Me?” He ran a hand through his thinning fair hair. “I’m going home back up to Ulster tomorrow. Stay with my folks. Do a bit of sailing. I’ll be starting as a surgical houseman at the Royal Victoria Hospital in August. I’m going to develop a special interest in bones.”

  “Good for you, Cromie,” Fingal said. “I know fractures are treated by general surgeons, but I rec
kon one day we’re going to have doctors who only do bone work. You could be one of the first.”

  “More interesting than working with the great unwashed, I should think.” Bob finished his whiskey, glanced at his friends’ glasses, and called, “Same again please, Diarmud.”

  Fingal wished that his friend would let the matter drop. He’d made his point.

  Diarmud interrupted Fingal’s thoughts by calling, “Right y’are, Bob.”

  “We will miss you, Cromie, you great bollix,” said Bob, “but you’ll keep in touch?”

  Cromie ignored the friendly insult. “With you lot? After what we’ve been through together for five years? Damn right. And sure it’s only a few hours away from here to Belfast. The train goes from Amiens Street Station.”

  “Seems we’re all pretty well set,” Fingal said, and fished out and lit his briar. “Will you be keeping your flat on Merrion Square, Bob?”

  “I hope so. It’s a bit pricey, but I still have dear old auntie’s money and I see no reason not to be comfortable.”

  “All very well for some,” Charlie said, “but I don’t imagine too many dispensary doctors have places on the French Riviera. How about you moving in with me, Fingal? Save a few bob splitting the rent.”

  Fingal sighed. “Maybe later, Charlie.” He let go a blast of blue smoke. For the immediate future he was needed at home. “You all know that my old man has acute myelogenous leukaemia,” he said.

  Three heads nodded. No one spoke until Cromie finally blurted out, “You feel so bloody helpless,” then took a quick swig from his glass before noticing it was empty.

  Charlie’s shoulders rose and fell as he inhaled and exhaled down his nose.

  “Aye,” Fingal said, “you do.” He glanced down at the tabletop then back up to his friends. “My old man’s not going to last much longer.” Funny how easily the words slipped off his tongue. Was it his training that let him sound rational, accepting, despite having one fist so tightly clenched under the table that his arm shook? “My brother Lars is miles away in Portaferry, and my mother’s a brick, but I know she appreciates having me about the place. I’ll be staying at home for a while.” And maybe he needed Ma as much as she needed him.

  “Is there anything we can do?” Charlie asked. “Anything at all?”

  Fingal shook his head. “Not really, but thanks for offering. I think my family are resigned to things. It’s … it’s really just a matter of time now.” He felt his nails digging into his palm and forced his hand to relax.

  No one spoke. What could anyone say that wasn’t trite?

  “Here y’are,” Diarmud said, setting fresh drinks on the table and accepting Bob’s ten-shilling note. “I’ll get your change in a minute.”

  The sadness of the mood was lifted by Diarmud’s prattling. “Did you have anything on the horses last T’ursday, Bob?” Diarmud, who must have been unaware of the atmosphere, was grinning fit to beat Bannagher.

  Bob’s weakness for the horses was legendary. He shook his head. “Actually for once I wasn’t able to get to the races last week. Big family do at home.”

  “Bejasus, it was hold the feckin’ lights for me. I got a daily double at five to one and then ten to one. Five bob bet on the first horse, let it and the winnings ride on the second, and dat bugger came in first too. I took away fifteen quid. You should have seen the look on the bookie’s face, fellah called ‘Rags’ Rafferty. I’m on the pig’s back. Rich as yer fellah, King Creases.”

  Fingal smiled. Diarmud meant Crœsus.

  “Good for you, Diarmud,” Bob said. “Everybody deserves a bit of luck.” He avoided looking Fingal in the eye.

  Diarmud spoke more softly. He pulled a scrap of tatty grey fur from his pocket. “You can’t beat the oul’ rabbit’s foot,” said he, and winked. “I wasn’t eavesdroppin’ nor nuttin’ but I overheard you discussing careers. Youse’ve been bloody good customers here since ’31.” He held up the bunny’s hind foot. “It would please me greatly if every one of you would give my oul’ foot a rub so you’ll all have luck in your new jobs.” He solemnly handed the talisman to Bob, who rubbed it and passed it to Cromie. Fingal, who was last, smiled as he took his turn. Scientifically trained as he was, the old Irish superstitions died hard. He stroked the soft fur and was grateful to Diarmud for sharing his talisman. “Good luck to all of us,” he said. And he meant it. He returned the charm to its owner. “Thanks, Diarmud.”

  “My pleasure,” he said, and shoved it back in his pocket. He headed for the bar. “Sing out if you need another jar.”

  “No more for me after this,” Cromie said, his words slightly slurred. “Two’s my limit.”

  Fingal was pleased his friend had come to recognise the weakness of his head when it came to the drink and glad that the lighter mood had returned. He glanced at his watch and said, “’Fraid it’s my last too, lads. I’ll see you tomorrow, Charlie. Bob, we’ll get together soon, and, Cromie, you stay in touch.”

  Nods of assent.

  “Sorry, but if I don’t get a move on, I’ll be late. I’m taking Kitty to the movies and then for a bite.”

  “And,” said Charlie with a deadpan expression, “where exactly do you intend to make this dental attack on the lovely Miss O’Hallorhan?”

  * * *

  “Scary,” said Caitlin “Kitty” O’Hallorhan as, hand in hand, she and Fingal left the three-thousand-seat Savoy Cinema on Upper O’Connell Street and walked through the late-evening crowds toward Nelson’s Pillar. She laughed and tightened her grip. “I wonder who did Elsa Lanchester’s silver lightning streaks at the sides of her hairdo? Bride of Frankenstein. What’ll they do next? Son of Frankenstein?”

  Fingal recalled the warmth of Kitty’s kisses and the softness of her in the back stalls after the house lights had gone out, her clinging to him in faked terror, which gave her an excuse to snuggle up. He chuckled and said, “Thinking of changing your style, Kitty? I like it the way it is.” Her hair was ebony, shiny, and rippling against her shoulders as she tossed her head.

  “Only if you get bolts put in the sides of your neck like the Frankenstein monster.” She cocked her head to one side. “You’re nearly as big as Boris Karloff.”

  “More articulate, I hope,” he said, “but I concur with his opinion,” and in an imitation of the monster’s speech announced, “Fooood, goood.”

  The restaurant was a small room, simply furnished. The sound of murmured conversations rose and fell. A waitress said, “For two, sir?”

  “Please. In the window.” He followed Kitty, as always admiring the sway of her hips, the curve of her calves. He waited until she was seated.

  “I’ll bring the menus. Would you care for a drink?” Her accent was Dublin, but not as thick as that of the folks from the Liberties.

  “Kitty?”

  “While wine would be nice. No, are we having red meat so we’ll have a red?” Kitty never had paid any heed to that convention.

  “Bottle of—” He frowned. “Which is the one you like?” He’d only drunk wine with Kitty once since they’d parted a year ago. They’d had a good claret at his folks’ house last week on Graduation Night, the night of their reconciliation. Father had managed to eat at the table and meet Kitty, but had retired to his bed in his study shortly after. For a moment, Fingal felt guilty that he was not at home now, then remembered his father’s words: “There’s absolutely no need for you to haunt this place like Banquo’s ghost.” Bless you, Dad.

  “Entre-Deux-Mers,” Kitty said. “If you’ve one chilled.”

  “We do, ma’am.” The waitress left.

  Kitty leant forward. “I did enjoy the film, Fingal. Good escapist nonsense. Not a patch on Mary Shelley’s original Frankenstein novel, but it was fun. Thank you for taking me,” she pointed out the window, “and I love O’Connell Street. I’d hate to leave Dublin. Just look.”

  He did and saw a Dublin United Tramways tram clattering along the centre of the street, a blue flash leaping between the top of the pole and the
overhead electrical wire. Cyclists were everywhere, and for a moment he cast a thought to John-Joe Finnegan and wondered how his ankle was mending. Sir Patrick Dun’s was no distance from Lansdowne Road; maybe Fingal would pop round and see how the cooper by trade was getting on.

  Motorcars crept along the congested thoroughfare. Fingal noticed a cream Hillman Minx Deluxe 4 and a dark green open Bentley-Rolls V12 Tourer among the numerous Fords and Morrises. Well-dressed people thronged the sidewalks, and on a street corner a man, probably an Italian immigrant, ground the handle of a barrel organ while his monkey, wearing a red waistcoat and fez, held out a tin cup for coins from passersby. And against walls and on street corners raggedy men, women, and children, the halt and the cripples, hands outstretched in supplication, Dublin’s batallions of beggars.

  Two streets away people, throngs of people, eked out an existence in the tenements. Out of sight. Out of mind. Well, they weren’t out of his or Ma’s. “O’Connell Street,” he said. “It used to be Sackville Street, you know, until they changed the name. It’s still where the toffs go, but Dublin’s not so pretty a few streets over.”

  “I know,” she said. “And it bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded, but smiled. “I’ve saved up telling you ’til we got here, but I’ll be starting work next week, not too far from your flat. In the dispensary in Aungier Place in the Liberties.”

  “That’s not Parnell or Merrion Square,” Kitty said.

  “I’m not looking for the carriage trade. Neither’s Charlie Greer. He’ll be working with me.”

  She touched his hand. “I’m not surprised, Fingal. I still remember you with the patients at Sir Patrick’s. I think you’re going to be happy with your choice.”

  “I hope you’re right.” He hesitated. Even with his closest friends, he’d been reticent about explaining exactly why, but he felt completely at his ease with Kitty. “I think it’s because of Ma. As long as I can remember she’s worked for the less well-off. I’ve always admired her for it. I love medicine and all the time I was a student working with the poor I’ve felt I was doing something really useful. And, Kitty? It’s a good feeling.”