Heart and Soul by Maeve Binchy Page A

fanciful, but Declan thought that even the dog was proud of him this morning. Just as well that none of them knew how anxious he felt about his first day as a new boy. He must be there in good time. It would be a very bad beginning to arrive late. He patted the overfed dog on the head and got on his bicycle to head off for the heart clinic. As he rode his bike through the busy early-morning traffic, he wished there had been someone just leaving the post, someone who could have marked his card. But this was a new outfit. He would be their first houseman, registrar, dogsbody. Or, as his mother was telling everyone already—senior cardiologist.
    •   •   •   
    Declan locked his bicycle outside the clinic. He had been asked to be there at nine-thirty, but he was half an hour early. That rather cool, nicely groomed woman, Clara Casey, had shown him around when he came to discuss the position. It was open plan. She had stressed no hiding away in offices. He would have a desk, of course, and a filing cabinet, but the emphasis would be on getting the patients to manage their own conditions and to have everyone on the team involved.
    She was good, Dr. Casey. He had heard her spoken of as a possible successor for the big cardiology job in the hospital earlier this year, but it hadn't happened. Maybe she didn't want it. One thing she certainly had going for her: she wasn't afraid of the hospital authorities. That would be a great asset, Declan thought. He wondered would he himself ever be courageous like that. Probably not. He was cautious by nature, and his parents were so humble it made him even more afraid of putting a foot wrong. He remembered when he was back in accident and emergency and a young motorcyclist had literally died in his arms. When he got home, still trembling, he was telling his mother and father about it.
    “They can't blame you for that, Declan,” Molly had said firmly.
    “There's no one can point the finger at you, son.” Paddy was bursting with loyalty.
    Neither of them seemed to understand that he didn't remotely think himself responsible for the death of a drunken joy rider. He just wanted some sympathy for holding a nineteen-year-old as he breathed his last breath. He wanted them to grip his arm and say, “You are a fine fellow, Declan, and you'll make a great doctor one day” But instead they had worried in case he was somehow at fault. It was hard to be courageous and gutsy when all you had known at home was fear that the supermarket might close its butchery department and Dad would be unemployed or the launderette might want someone younger and prettier than his mam.
    But Declan was a good listener. He would soon get the measure of this new place.
    He hoped that he wasn't
too
early. It might look too eager, too anxious. But the girl who opened the door seemed delighted to see him.
    “I am Ania. I'm just getting your name label ready. You can tell me how you like it.” She had a big, broad smile and a foreign accent.
    “I suppose just my name,” he said, surprised.
    “But I am about to write it. Would you like Celtic lettering or just bold print?”
    “Are you the clinic calligrapher?” he asked.
    “Please?”
    “Sorry. Are you a writing expert?”
    “No, but Clara liked the badge that I did for myself and she suggested I do one for everyone. She said they looked nicer than the boring ones the hospital does, which are too small for older people to read anyway. She got me these special pens for thick and thin strokes.”
    “I'm sure the hospital loved that,” Declan said.
    “No, they did not, but Clara doesn't mind.” Ania seemed very proud.
    “Right. I'd love Celtic lettering, please, Ania.”
    “Right. I'll do it now, and by the time the others come in you can have it on your chest. They'll know who you are.”
    She seemed to be happy and enjoying her work. He had no idea if she was a secretary, a nurse or a cleaner. It was a good sign that she didn't see any need to