A Dublin Student Doctor Read online

  “I will,” she said, taking the proffered hand.

  He watched her climb in and as she did so her skirt rode up. God, but she had a well-curved calf, O’Reilly thought, but then, he grinned, she always had.

  Barry finished with the officer. “Thanks for seeing to that, Barry,” O’Reilly said. “You’ll have to look after the practice tomorrow too because Lord knows what time I’ll get home.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Off you trot.” O’Reilly noticed his bag where he’d left it on the ground. “Take my bag to the car while you’re at it. The ambulance will be fully equipped.”

  Barry paused. “How will you and Kitty get home?”

  “Kitty lives only a short walk from the hospital. I’ll get a train. Now go on. It’s time we were off.”

  O’Reilly stuck his head into the ambulance. “Everything okay, Kitty?”

  “No change.”

  “Good.” As O’Reilly walked to the front of the ambulance, the last colours of the sunset flared and died. A straggling clamour of rooks flapped untidily across the dimming horizon and Venus rose, a glittering forerunner of the myriad stars that would spangle the sky’s dark dome.

  He climbed into the passenger side and shut the cab’s door. “How’s about ye, Doc?” Alfie, the driver, asked.

  “Grand,” said O’Reilly. “The lad in the back’s a patient of mine.” And, he thought, as close to being a friend as I’ll let any of my patients be. “I think he’ll be all right.”

  “Right,” said the driver, “let’s get going.” He switched on his flashing lights, but not the siren, put the vehicle in gear, and started for Belfast.

  “Can we radio ahead?” O’Reilly asked. “Let the neurosurgery people know we’re coming?”

  “Aye, certainly, sir.” The driver lifted a microphone, depressed a button, and announced, “Ambulance despatch, ambulance despatch. This is delta alpha two sixer, over.”

  In moments O’Reilly had relayed the details to the dispatcher, who would contact the neurosurgery registrar on call. “Who is the senior neurosurgeon on call tonight?” Just in case, and the thought niggled at him, just in case that bruise at the side of Donal’s head was a sign of more ominous damage.

  “Mister Greer, sir.” The voice from the speaker was distorted.

  “Thank you, despatch. Delta alpha two sixer. Out.” O’Reilly handed the mike back. “Thank you,” he said.

  Charlie Greer. He and O’Reilly went back to 1931, and that wasn’t yesterday. He hoped Donal would have no need of Charlie’s services, but if Donal did deteriorate he couldn’t ask for a better brain surgeon.

  “How long until we get to Belfast?” O’Reilly asked.

  “About an hour and a half—and if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’d better concentrate on driving. The road’s twisty here.”

  O’Reilly said, “Pay me no heed.” He sat staring through the window as rays from the dome flashers flickered and the headlights’ beams picked out fluttering moths, the verges and hedges, and dry stone walls draped with straggling brambles. He wondered about Donal. O’Reilly knew that no amount of worrying was going to help anything. Kitty would let him know if anything changed, and if it did, Donal was well on his way to being in the hands of a bloody good neurosurgeon. Charles Edward Greer, M.D., F.R.C.S., from Ballymoney, County Antrim. A long time ago he had been a rugby-playing medical student like O’Reilly at Trinity College Dublin.

  O’Reilly had met student nurse Kitty O’Hallorhan while he and Charlie, along with their friends Bob Beresford and Donald Cromie, and a nasty piece of work called Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick who now practiced in the Kinnegar, had been working in Sir Patrick Dun’s Hospital. Back in 1934.

  He’d been twenty-five years old and had completed nearly three years of his medical studies at Trinity College Dublin.

  Dublin had been richly described by the playwright Denis Johnston as, “Strumpet city in the sunset. So old, so sick with memories.” The place had memories for O’Reilly, all right.

  Trinity College with its Library’s Long Room wherein resided the Book of Kells and the Brian Boru harp. The pubs, Davy Byrnes, the Bailey, Neary’s, and the Stag’s Head. Great broad O’Connell Street crossing Anna Livia, the Dubliners’ name for the River Liffey. The tenement districts like the Liberties, the Coombe, and Monto, filthy, squalid, vermin-plagued, but with indomitable inhabitants. O’Connell Street and, halfway up it, Nelson’s Pillar beside the General Post Office, from the steps of which Pádraig Pearse had read out the Proclamation of the Irish Republic at Eastertide 1916. Its façade and Ionic columns were still pockmarked with British bullets from the siege during the Rising.

  O’Reilly was distracted by a sudden movement ahead and leant forward to see the bushy tail of a badger scurrying for cover and its home.

  Dublin had become O’Reilly’s home in 1925 when his father, young for the job at forty-five, had been appointed professor of classics and English literature at Trinity. O’Reilly had been born and brought up in Holywood, County Down, Northern Ireland, still part of the United Kingdom, but for eleven years had lived in the Irish Free State. Sometimes he thought he was neither fish, fowl, nor good red meat. He’d loved Ulster all his life, particularly Strangford Lough, where he and his older brother Lars had spent their winter Saturdays wildfowling. But he loved Dublin too.

  The ambulance slowed then halted to give a large lorry right of way. O’Reilly turned and slid back a window between the cab and the rear of the vehicle. “Everything all right, Kitty?”

  The lighting was dim and he had difficulty making out her features.

  Kitty said, “Everything’s fine. Donal’s sleeping.”

  If the middle meningeal artery had burst, Donal would be deeply unconscious, not asleep, but surely a nurse with Kitty’s experience—

  “It’s all right, Fingal. I’ve no trouble waking him up and there’s no change in any vital signs.”

  O’Reilly exhaled. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath, and damn it, he should have known better than to doubt. “Grand,” he said. “We’ll be there soon.” He closed the window as the ambulance began to move. Donal was going to be all right. Of course he was. O’Reilly looked out the windscreen to see the ambulance taking the left-hand fork of a Y junction.

  Ireland was full of strange road confluences, the Six Road Ends in County Down, the Five Road Ends at Beal na mBláth in County Cork where Kinky had grown up on a farm, and Michael Collins, head of the armed forces of the Irish Free State, had been assassinated in August 1922.

  O’Reilly had come to a crossroads in his own life in ’27. If he hadn’t made his choice about which road to follow, he’d not have Charlie Greer and the others as friends, nor Kitty. Nor would he have been a rural GP, a life he loved, if he’d meekly caved in when Father had decreed over breakfast in the family house on Lansdowne Road in Dublin that no son of his was going to be a physician. The ambulance lurched over a pothole and a goose walked over his grave as he shuddered and remembered that day, September 17, 1927.

  2

  It Is a Wise Father that Knows His Own Child

  “So, Fingal,” his older brother Lars said, refusing another slice of toast, “you’re convinced Sir Malcolm Campbell can beat Major Henry Seagrave for a new land speed record?”

  “Seagrave did 203 miles per hour,” Fingal said, digging out the yolk from a soft-boiled egg, “but Campbell’s tenacious. I admire that.”

  “I think,” said Father, “you are forgetting that fragments of miles per hour can be critical. The major’s actual speed was 203.841.”

  Fingal shook his head and looked across the table. Father was a professor at Trinity, a breed who tended to be inward-looking, but he had always been interested in the world around him and a stickler for accuracy. He was a tall, slightly built man with a neatly trimmed black moustache. His high forehead was scored with three horizontal lines, his nose aquiline. He wore a three-piece pinstripe suit, wing collar, and Old Harrovian tie.


  Father looked at his watch. “Fascinating as speed may be, boys, I have to be in the college in fifty-three minutes, and, Fingal, I should like to have a word in my study.” He rose.

  Fingal glanced at Ma, who nodded encouragement. Lars rolled his eyes skyward. During their younger years, an invitation to the study from Father had always been a prelude to punishment or a dressing down. Father, with a capital F, never Daddy, Dad, or Da, had strict standards. Fingal had never been one for unquestioning obedience, so such trips to Father’s lair had been frequent. As Fingal walked along the high-ceilinged parquet-floored hall he wondered, and not for the first time, if his contrary streak was a reaction against Father’s standards.

  Fingal went into the sanctum sanctorum, the holy of holies. He wasn’t in trouble, but he wasn’t looking forward to the interview. He knew they were going to replough a well-turned furrow and he was determined not to give in. He knew what he wanted from life and was not to be swayed.

  “Please close the door and sit down.” Father sat in a high-backed chair in front of an open rolltop desk. There were neat piles of papers, an open volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and today’s Irish Times.

  Above the desk hung his M.A., 1904, from Queen’s University Belfast and his D.Phil., 1907, from Oxford. Degrees befitting his position as professor of classics and English literature at Trinity College Dublin. He’d moved the family here from Holywood, County Down, when he’d accepted the post. The Victorian, sixteen-room, semi-detached house on Lansdowne Road was a short cycle ride from the college.

  Fingal walked past floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The room smelt of the dusty old books. Father wanted an academic career for his younger son, a life, as far as Fingal was concerned, that would be as dry as this library. He had other dreams.

  He glanced through the window to where the stands of Lansdowne Road Rugby Grounds loomed against a soft autumn sky. One day, he told himself, he’d put on the green jersey with a sprig of shamrock embroidered on the left breast and play rugby football for his country. For now he’d better pay attention to Father because this conversation was going to concern Fingal’s other, more important, aspiration. Since their last discussion of the matter, Fingal knew that Father would be expecting his son to have changed his mind. He bloody well hadn’t. He sat and crossed his legs, aware of Father’s disapproving look at his son’s scuffed boots.

  Father’s own shoes were brightly polished. “It’s September,” he said. “Your school days are over. You’ve very good marks in your Leaving Certificate. It’s time to make the decision about your university future.”

  Fingal said, “I’m going to register at Trinity next week. I have the five-shilling fee.”

  “Good.” Father steepled his fingers. “You’ve thought about what I said? You’ll be reading for a science degree?” He smiled and there was warmth in his brown eyes. “You’re going to make me proud of you, son.”

  “I hope so, Father.” Fingal sat erectly. “I truly appreciated your advice. I’ve given it a great deal of consideration.” You’re not going to like what’s coming, he thought, but I will not back down.

  “I’m delighted to hear it. You owe it to your forefathers. We O’Reillys go back a long way, descendants of the O’Connor kings of Connacht. Our name, Ó’Raghallaigh, is taken from the Irish, ragh meaning ‘race,’ and ceallach or ‘sociable.’”

  Fingal had heard it all before. He knew Father was, in rugby terms, kicking for touch, slowing the pace by putting the ball out of play to give himself time to formulate what he really wanted to say. Take your time, Father. I’m in no rush for the fireworks to begin.

  “In mediaeval days we were renowned traders,” he smiled, “so famous the word ‘reilly’ became a coloquial term for money.”

  “You’re a grand man for the names, Father,” Fingal said. “You gave me ‘Fingal,’ a fair foreigner, and ‘Flahertie,’ a prince.”

  “I did,” Father said. “You were born in 1908, eight years after Oscar Wilde, Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde, died.”

  “But Lars was born two years before me. If you thought so highly of the man why didn’t you give Lars his name?”

  Father frowned. “I thought hard about it. You do know Wilde had been imprisoned and died a disgraced man?”

  “I know that he was homosexual. He and the marquis of Queensberry’s son were—”

  “Indeed.” Judging by how Father’s nose wrinkled he had not approved of Wilde’s relationship with the poet Lord Alfred Douglas. “Your mother persuaded me that it was too soon after Wilde’s imprisonment. She didn’t want to cause a stir among our friends.”

  “I suppose people were a bit more—conservative back then,” Fingal said. “I don’t think it should matter what people do in that line, as long as it’s in private.”

  “Good,” said Father. “I should like to be able to agree, but old habits, the teaching of one’s own parents, are hard to overcome.”

  But you can do it if you really try, Fingal thought.

  “That is why I have tried to steer you and Lars along liberal lines.”

  “And we both appreciate the direction, Father.” Fingal looked deep into his father’s eyes. “In most things.” He knew the real matter under discussion was going to cause a rift and now he wanted to get it over and done with.

  Father was not to be sidetracked. “Instead we named your brother Lars Porsena O’Reilly, after—”

  “The Etruscan king who went to war with Rome about 500 BC.”

  Father’s eyes misted. “It seems like yesterday since I’d read the poem to you and Lars. The poet, Thomas Babington Macaulay, was the subject of my master’s thesis.”

  Fingal smiled. He had fond memories of a much younger Father sitting in the nursery, one boy on either knee. “You named Lars for your thesis?” Fingal smiled. “Was your doctoral thesis about Oscar Wilde by any chance?”

  “It was.” He gazed out the window. “I wrote a dissertation on his children’s stories.”

  “I remember them. The Happy Prince, The Selfish Giant, The Remarkable Rocket. You always made us laugh with that last one, and showed us how pride truly does come before a fall.”

  Father was nodding very slowly. “Those stories have a lot to teach about care for other people, self-sacrifice, selflessness. I think, no matter what his sexual proclivities, Oscar Wilde was one of the greatest masters of the English language—and one of the most romantic. I was proud to name you for him, despite what Mother believed people might think.” He laughed gently. “I’ve always wondered if—remember I was still a young man when you were born—I didn’t do it with a touch of mischief too. It certainly raised some eyebrows in the faculty common room.”

  Fingal sat back. Father? Dry old Father had had a mischievous streak?

  The laugh faded. “It took me a while, Fingal, but I soon came to see that humour was all very well—in its place, but if you wanted to advance academically, and I did, it was better to be seen to be serious and not offend the establishment.”

  Like you want me to toe the party line, Fingal thought. He took a deep breath. “What about someone who doesn’t give a tinker’s curse for the establishment? Wants to go his own way?” If Father wasn’t going to come to the point, Fingal wanted to, but that sudden glimpse of a different side to Father had weakened Fingal’s resolve. “Father,” he started, but it was as far as he could go.

  Father sat forward, steepled his fingers, rested his chin on them, and looked directly at Fingal. “What are you trying to say, son? ‘Wants to go his own way?’” He frowned.

  Fingal hunched his shoulders and rocked in his chair, then steeled himself and returned Father’s gaze. “I do want you to be proud of me, but I’m not as sure about having to preserve the O’Reilly name, and studying science is not what I want.” It was out. Again.

  Father pushed back in his chair. “You are still being stubborn.”

  “I know, and I really don’t mean to be.” Fingal didn’t wa
nt this to grow into a row.

  Father held out his hands palms up. “Then take my advice. Study science.”

  “Father, I want to be a doctor.”

  Father pursed his lips. “So you’ve told me, many times.”

  “Then why won’t you listen? Let me go to medical school. Please.”

  “I am your father. It is my responsibility to advise you, and if you won’t take my advice, I must do what I perceive as being the very best for your and your brother’s futures.”

  “You didn’t object two years ago when Lars wanted to study law.”

  “We are not discussing Lars. We are discussing your career.” Father’s voice was calm, the tones, Fingal thought, of a man who held all the trumps because he and he alone controlled the purse strings.

  Fingal started to sweat. “I’ve wanted to be a doctor since I was thirteen in Holywood when Doctor O’Malley took out my appendix. When I was better he let me ride round with him while he visited patients at home, Father, you know that. I’ve been telling you for years. I told Ma—”

  “I think you mean Mother.” Father frowned. “Why must you let your language drop to the level of a street vendor?”

  “Sorry,” Fingal said.

  Father’s voice was cold. “I spent a great deal of money to have you properly educated. It was easy for a thirteen-year-old to be impressed by a rural GP who wore muttonchop whiskers and a frock coat and drove round in a pony and trap.”

  “He was kind. He cared about his patients. He was a real man, not a prince in one of Oscar Wilde’s tales. You could see how he made a difference in the village. Father, I thank you for my education and for the time you spent teaching Lars and me about books, music, paintings. I know you’re trying to give me good advice—I do know—but,” Fingal put as much weight as he could summon into his next words, “I want to study medicine.”

  “You have a fine mind, Fingal. Don’t waste it.”

  “I’d not waste it.” Fingal felt his fists clench.

  “I agree it’s a respectable profession—”