A Dublin Student Doctor (36 page)

“So why wait?”

“Because now everything is inflamed. It’s easy to tear bowel, cause haemorrhage. In three months the inflammation will have resolved and removing the appendix will be reasonably risk free.”

“Correct.” He chuckled and said, “So in three months we’ll readmit this man. I see you’ve been paying attention, O’Reilly, and if you’ve continued to impress me, in three months Doctor Ellerker will be sick and tired of doing simple appendicectomies. He’ll not mind letting you do this one. Will you?”

The houseman shook his head.

“Thank you, sir,” Fingal said, excited to be offered a chance actually to operate, but vividly remembering his trepidation when he’d had to tap Paddy Keogh’s pleura. Perhaps it would be different when the patient was under an anaesthetic.

“And don’t look so bothered, boy,” the surgeon said. “I’m told by my colleagues you’ve been developing a good pair of hands in outpatients. Keep that up and who knows? We might make a surgeon of you too.”

And after only three days working in surgery Fingal O’Reilly had to consider that it might be a professional direction worth thinking about. He liked the way most surgical conditions were relatively simple to diagnose and except for the cancers many responded well to an operation. It certainly might, but he had six months to go here and other branches of medicine to sample before he’d be sure.

34

A Time to Every Purpose Under Heaven

The heathers looked dry in the borders and several flowers on the rosebush had curled brown petals. Lars sat forward in one of the striped canvas-and-wood folding deck chairs that Bridgit had set up on the lawn in the dappled shade of the old trees. “It was a shock when you told me on the phone how sick Father is, Finn, but his X-rays were normal on Wednesday and that confirms the thing’s dormant, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Fingal said, and lay back in his chair. Saturday traffic murmured on Lansdowne Road, and birdsong was a descant to the clattering of the blades of a lawnmower. The air was heavy with the scent of cut grass. His pipe smoke hung like a grey phantom in the still air. “Doctor Micks was confident there was nothing involving any other system. He just wanted to be certain and the X-rays do confirm it.”

“It was such a relief, to hear there’s no progression,” Ma said, and glanced behind her to a second-storey window. “I hope Father is having his after-lunch nap,” she said. “He’s a terrible man for taking a book to bed.”

“Regular naps are good,” Fingal said. “Help him conserve his strength.”

Ma smiled. “And Cook is a wonder. She’s happy to prepare the special diet Doctor Micks prescribed and fortunately Father loves her beef tea. He’s not fond of the iron but will take it religiously.” She looked at Lars. “Everything possible is being done.”

Oh, Ma, Fingal thought, it’s all stop-gap, but if it gives you comfort, who am I to spoil your hopes?

“Lars,” she said, “Fingal’s been marvellous arranging for the best medical advice, helping us understand what is going on. Now it’s your turn to help.”

“Of course.”

“Father and I have been talking. He is not a man who refuses to face facts. We’ve made our decisions and I’ve something important to say.” She stood, smoothed her skirt, and walked away.

Fingal frowned and looked at his brother, who shrugged.

She returned and stood where she could see both of her sons. “We understand remission does not mean cure.” She straightened her shoulders. “Death,” she said, “must come to all creatures.”

Fingal swallowed. He’d been wrong. Ma harboured no illusions. Her eyes glittered.

“Your father and I have had a good life together, two fine sons. For him to have been granted three score years and ten would have been wonderful—but it is not to be.” There was a catch in her voice. “We do understand that and we need our boys to know we do. We want no mollycoddling. No beating around the bush.”

“There won’t be any, will there, Lars?” Fingal said.

“Of course not.”

Ma, Fingal thought, is the bravest woman I know. He wondered for a moment if Father was being so sanguine.

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” She took out a hanky and blew her nose. “Father and I decided we must make the very best of what remains.”

Fingal waited.

Lars said, “How can we help, Ma?”

“I don’t think that you, Fingal,” she said, “can do any more.” She smiled at him and turned to his brother. “Lars. You’re a lawyer. Father could be the model for an absentminded professor. He is so, so unworldly. We want you to handle his affairs, make sure his will is in order, insurance policies up to date, that sort of thing.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. You see he wants to be sure I’ll be taken care of after—” She glanced down, stared straight up, took a deep breath, then looked at Fingal and Lars before saying, “You may find this odd, but we’ve both always wanted to view the Pyramids and the Athenian temples. He wants to know if we can afford it.”

Fingal looked at his brother. “I think it’s a great idea.”

“I agree.”

“We have asked Doctor Micks, he concurs, and he will give us letters of introduction to doctors in France and Greece—just in case. We’ll be making our plans as soon as we hear about our finances,” she said. “I believe Thomas Cook and Son, Limited, are very good at arranging travel.”

Lord, Fingal wondered, now he’d had a moment to think, is this Father’s stiff upper lip in action or was it the kicking against the pricks of a couple who really did not want to face the truth? Did the answer to that question matter? No, he decided, not if it gave them comfort. “I’ve heard that about Cook’s,” he said. “They used the P&O steamships for long trips when I was at sea. Probably still do. I know Cook’s used to run steamers on the Nile.”

She sat. “Good,” she said with an air of finality, “that’s settled then.” She put her hanky in the pocket of her skirt and turned to Fingal. “You were in the middle of examinations last week. I imagine you’ve not been in touch because you thought we had enough to be dealing with?”

He nodded.

“I surmised that if everything had gone smoothly you would have let us know.”

“I’m afraid—I’m afraid I failed two subjects.” He hated having to admit failure in anything. He saw Lars’s look of surprise, heard him say, “Not like you, Finn.”

“Did you?” Ma asked. “That’s a pity, but did you pass any?”

“Four.”

She smiled. “Four out of six isn’t bad,” then a frown started. “Does that mean you won’t be able to graduate next year as planned?”

He shook his head. “I can sit the ones I missed in December and still do my Finals next June. It’s up to me to work hard enough.” Wasn’t that another of Father’s lessons? If you wanted something badly enough, wasn’t it your job to work hard enough to get it?

“Please do, Fingal. I don’t think I’ll mention your stumble to Father. I know how proud of you he has become. I don’t want to upset him now. He very much wants to come to your convocation.” Her gaze bored into him. “Don’t let him down.”

And how long have you been waiting to hear he’s proud of you? Fingal wondered. “I will do my best, Ma,” he said, and forced a grin. “I hope to see you both there.” A man with acute lymphocytic leukaemia surviving for one year? Fingal was convinced that Ma had a complete grasp of the facts, was doing her best to help Father, but had he really understood the truth?

“If it’s to be,” she said, and patted his knee. “If it’s to be, but I told you we do understand and we know it’s in the lap of the gods.” She tutted and stood. “Excuse me,” she said, “but William who does the garden on Fridays didn’t show up yesterday. Those roses over there need dead-heading.” She produced secateurs from her skirt pocket. “To everything,” she said, “there is a season.”

*   *   *

“Did you enjoy the film, Kitty?” Fingal asked as they left the Savoy Cinema that evening and strolled through O’Connell Street’s Saturday night crowds. Perhaps he’d been selfish. She’d wanted to see the Marx Brothers’
A Night at the Opera,
but Fingal had been in no mood for comedy. John Ford’s brooding tragedy,
The Informer,
had suited him perfectly. He’d back Victor McLaglen to win an award for his portrayal of Gypo Nolan.

“It was sad,” she said. “I’m not surprised the cinema was half empty. Ireland’s Civil War isn’t a subject that’s going to appeal to many folks here. It’s only thirteen years since it finished. People have long memories.” She reached for his hand. “Still,” she said, “with all that’s going on in your life I imagine you were happy enough to get engrossed in the story for a while. Get your mind off other things. It was gripping, I’ll grant you that.”

“Aye. It was.” They passed a closed tearoom. “I don’t feel like going to a pub tonight. How about a cup of tea?”

“At this time of night? All the places will be shut.”

“Not on Abbey Street. Wynn’s Hotel caters to theatregoers. It’s not far.”

“Suits me.”

Fingal still didn’t feel like talking. He knew he’d been uncommunicative since he’d met her at her flat, but since he’d learned he’d failed pathology and microbiology he’d been mulling the future and his plans. This afternoon at Lansdowne Road had strengthened his resolve. He’d decided it was all a matter of how he divided his time.

He’d not skimp on attending lectures and certainly had no intention of missing a minute of the surgical experience. As long as they wanted him he’d fit in Saturday rugby matches for the Trinity team, but no more midweek practices. The rest of his time would have to be divided between studying pathology and microbiology, keeping abreast of all this year’s new material, and constantly revising all the clinical stuff he’d learnt last year. He was going to graduate next June and nothing, nothing was going to interfere. That meant there were things he had to do, starting tonight.

He held open the windowed main doors, then followed Kitty into a green-marble-floored lobby beneath an ornate chandelier. “This way.” He opened another door. A bell tinkled, and a waitress, whose frilly lace cap was askew, showed them to a table in the corner.

Kitty removed her hat and set it on a chair.

The waitress took out her notebook and pencil. “W’at do yiz want?”

“Pot of tea, please,” he said. “Kitty?”

“I’d like some Jaffa cakes too.”

“For two,” he said.

The waitress licked the tip of her pencil, scribbled the order, and left.

By her accent a tenement girl, he thought, who has risen in the world because she can read and write. Good for her. He pulled out his pipe, laid it and his hands on the linen tablecloth, and looked around. The room was practically deserted. The production of J. M. Synge’s
Deirdre of the Sorrows
wouldn’t be finished yet in the theatre across the road. The story ended in the death of the lovers Naoise and Deidre. More death. Fingal’s fist tightened.

She reached across and covered his hand with hers. “You’re pretty low, Fingal. Can I help?” He looked into those grey eyes, saw how they lay beneath worry lines in her brow. “Can I help, Fingal?”

He slid his hand out from under hers. “Kitty—” God, this was hard. He cared for her. “Kitty, I’ve told you about my father.”

“And you know how sorry I am.”

“We can’t tell how long he has to live.”

“I’ve nursed people with leukaemia.” Her voice was gentle.

“This afternoon my mother told me how much he wants to see me graduate.” Are you being fair to Kitty, Fingal? he thought. You know bloody well how much you yourself want it and would even if Father was fit and well. You’ve wanted it since you were thirteen. You shouldn’t be using him as an excuse for what you’re going to do. “I owe it to him to try my very hardest,” he said. And it would be so sweet to keep Father proud even if he didn’t make the graduation ceremony.

Kitty drummed the gloved fingers of her left hand on the tabletop. “Fingal,” she said, “you’re trying to tell me something, aren’t you?”

He hadn’t noticed the return of the waitress.

“Here yiz are.” She set a tea tray on the table. “Will dere be anyt’ing else?” She scratched her left forearm. Fingal noted a row of red spots that could only be flea bites. “It’s fine, thank you.” He turned to Kitty. “Will you pour?”

She did, being careful to put milk into the cups before the tea. “Here.” She handed him his cup and saucer. “I asked you a question, Fingal.”

“I’ve failed an exam. I may not be able to finish by next June unless I spend an awful lot of time studying. The dressership, lectures, and outpatients gobble up the days.”

“You told me on the phone on Monday you’d failed, but only two basic science exams. When it comes to working with patients? I watched you for months on Saint Patrick’s Ward. I’ve told you before you’re going to make a fine physician.” She looked down at the tablecloth then back to his face. “I think the way you worked with Kevin Doherty was what made me start—” She swallowed and cocked her head. “Made me start to fall in love with you, Fingal. By the time you were worrying about Paddy Keogh, I’d got to know you much better. I was sure how I felt—even if you weren’t. I was giving you time.”

Christ. This was worse than he’d anticipated. He’d known he would hurt her, but now he was going to destroy her. “Kitty, I—” He looked away.

“It’s all right, Fingal,” she said. Her voice trembled. “I’ve been waiting, hoping you’d tell me you loved me. I wasn’t expecting you to ask me to marry you.” She managed a tiny chuckle. “You’d have run a mile—”

She was right.

“You’re trying to tell me you won’t have any time for,” an edge crept into her voice, “for distractions now you have to study so hard, aren’t you.”

He nodded.

“Let me make it easy for you, Fingal O’Reilly.” Her voice cracked and a single tear ran down her cheek. “I’m going to be very busy myself for quite a while.” A second tear started. “Take all the time you need.” She stood, bent, retrieved her hat, and straightened. She dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. “Take all the time you want.” She stiffened, then pointed at his cup. “But don’t let your tea get cold.”

She spun and walked, head high, handbag clutched under her right elbow. He heard the door-operated bell jingle as she passed through. His last glimpse was of the back of a maroon, mid-calf-length coat vanishing behind a closing door.