sit around all day dreaming up new imaginary illnesses to suffer from. There was a wonderful vogue for colitis—whatever the hell that is—among the ladies. You could make a fortune giving high colonic enemas.”
Fingal whistled and said, “Really? I never knew.”
“And you never saw the highheejins at a hospital like Dun’s, did you? They’d not want to be in a bed beside someone like Mary Foster. They get treated in nursing homes or at home.” Doctor Corrigan wheezed his dry laugh. “I came here in ’07 and I’ve been here since, and I think the locals are used to me by now. I fit in and it’s comforting to be respected, have them value my work, and so I stay, hoping I’m doing some good.”
Fingal thought of John-Joe. “Doctor Corrigan’s a sound man,” he’d said.
“But,” and Corrigan laughed, “the real truth is that I am a real Irishman, too stupid to come in out of the rain.” The man’s smile faded and his voice was level. “I hope ye’ll take the job.” He shook his head. “I can’t promise ye’ll have it forever, mind. There’s always rumours of the new administration changing the boundaries of the districts of each dispensary or reducing staff. We’ll have to see how things pan out.”
Fingal hesitated. That didn’t concern him greatly. There’d be other jobs. A doctor would always find work, not like labourers or even skilled tradesman like John-Joe Finnegan. But would the satisfaction of being a respected, recognised local figure, of getting a diagnosis right, be compensation enough for what he’d just heard about the long hours, the poor pay, the possible future insecurity? The paperwork? He already had experience of the squalor in the patients’ homes. That didn’t bother him. And after a certain initial discomfort with Doctor Corrigan, Fingal reckoned he could do much worse in a senior. He had said he’d not mind working alternate nights, but remembering one of his father’s adages about “fools rushing in” said, “Can I have a day or two to think about it?”
“Ye can.”
“Doctor Corrigan, I’ll be honest as well. I love medicine, but there are other things in my life,” like Nurse Kitty O’Hallorhan and rugby football, he thought. “You said if you could hire me and another doctor, the call schedule would be much lighter? One of my classmates is still making up his mind. His name’s Charles Greer.”
“The big red-haired ox that played in the second row for Ireland last season?”
So Doctor Corrigan followed the rugby? “The very fellah. He’s one of my best friends. I’m seeing him tomorrow for a jar. I’ll phone him tonight, tell him what you told me, follow up tomorrow and see if he’s interested, and if he is—”
Doctor Corrigan beamed and said, “If he is, we’d each work one weekend in three. Ye see yer friend tomorrow, and if he wants to find out more, bring him round on Friday at noon.” He slipped off the stool, crossed to Fingal, and offered his hand. The grip was solid. No nonsense.
“Think hard about it, O’Reilly.” The handshake was broken. “And for now I’ll bid ye fair adieu and go back into the trenches with the great unwashed—the poor divils.”
7
Ruinous and Old but Painted Cunningly
Fingal let himself into the high-ceilinged hall to find Bridgit vigorously taking a feather duster to a large Chinese urn. She bobbed at Fingal. “Nice to see you home, Doctor O’Reilly.”
“Thank you, Bridgit.” He smiled at her use of his title. Her elevation of him from Master O’Reilly to Doctor had been instantaneous the moment he’d qualified.
The County Antrim woman from Portglenone had been working for the family since they’d lived in Holywood in the north and had accompanied her employers, Professor Connan O’Reilly and his wife, Mary, and their two young sons to Dublin so their father could take the chair of classics and English literature at Trinity College.
“I’m a bit late. I got held up,”
Fingal whistled and said, “Really? I never knew.”
“And you never saw the highheejins at a hospital like Dun’s, did you? They’d not want to be in a bed beside someone like Mary Foster. They get treated in nursing homes or at home.” Doctor Corrigan wheezed his dry laugh. “I came here in ’07 and I’ve been here since, and I think the locals are used to me by now. I fit in and it’s comforting to be respected, have them value my work, and so I stay, hoping I’m doing some good.”
Fingal thought of John-Joe. “Doctor Corrigan’s a sound man,” he’d said.
“But,” and Corrigan laughed, “the real truth is that I am a real Irishman, too stupid to come in out of the rain.” The man’s smile faded and his voice was level. “I hope ye’ll take the job.” He shook his head. “I can’t promise ye’ll have it forever, mind. There’s always rumours of the new administration changing the boundaries of the districts of each dispensary or reducing staff. We’ll have to see how things pan out.”
Fingal hesitated. That didn’t concern him greatly. There’d be other jobs. A doctor would always find work, not like labourers or even skilled tradesman like John-Joe Finnegan. But would the satisfaction of being a respected, recognised local figure, of getting a diagnosis right, be compensation enough for what he’d just heard about the long hours, the poor pay, the possible future insecurity? The paperwork? He already had experience of the squalor in the patients’ homes. That didn’t bother him. And after a certain initial discomfort with Doctor Corrigan, Fingal reckoned he could do much worse in a senior. He had said he’d not mind working alternate nights, but remembering one of his father’s adages about “fools rushing in” said, “Can I have a day or two to think about it?”
“Ye can.”
“Doctor Corrigan, I’ll be honest as well. I love medicine, but there are other things in my life,” like Nurse Kitty O’Hallorhan and rugby football, he thought. “You said if you could hire me and another doctor, the call schedule would be much lighter? One of my classmates is still making up his mind. His name’s Charles Greer.”
“The big red-haired ox that played in the second row for Ireland last season?”
So Doctor Corrigan followed the rugby? “The very fellah. He’s one of my best friends. I’m seeing him tomorrow for a jar. I’ll phone him tonight, tell him what you told me, follow up tomorrow and see if he’s interested, and if he is—”
Doctor Corrigan beamed and said, “If he is, we’d each work one weekend in three. Ye see yer friend tomorrow, and if he wants to find out more, bring him round on Friday at noon.” He slipped off the stool, crossed to Fingal, and offered his hand. The grip was solid. No nonsense.
“Think hard about it, O’Reilly.” The handshake was broken. “And for now I’ll bid ye fair adieu and go back into the trenches with the great unwashed—the poor divils.”
7
Ruinous and Old but Painted Cunningly
Fingal let himself into the high-ceilinged hall to find Bridgit vigorously taking a feather duster to a large Chinese urn. She bobbed at Fingal. “Nice to see you home, Doctor O’Reilly.”
“Thank you, Bridgit.” He smiled at her use of his title. Her elevation of him from Master O’Reilly to Doctor had been instantaneous the moment he’d qualified.
The County Antrim woman from Portglenone had been working for the family since they’d lived in Holywood in the north and had accompanied her employers, Professor Connan O’Reilly and his wife, Mary, and their two young sons to Dublin so their father could take the chair of classics and English literature at Trinity College.
“I’m a bit late. I got held up,”
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