An Irish Country Wedding (7 page)

The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Barry said, sprang to his feet, and ran.

“Hello, Barry, just wanted to let you know the boss is starting to scrub. We’ll be operating a bit earlier than anticipated,” Jack Mills said.

Barry swallowed. “Has she got worse?”

“No. Sir Donald, and God knows how many of these things he’s seen, feels we’re on a hiding to nothing waiting for this to cure itself. We might as well get on with it.”

“But at least she’s no worse. Is she awake?”

“Anaesthetised, and I’d better trot. I’m assisting.”

“Will you see her postop after she wakes up?”

“Sure.”

“Tell her O’Reilly and I wish her
—
”

“Done, and I’ll give you a ring once we’ve finished. Let you know what we found.”

“Thanks, Jack. I’ll go and tell O’Reilly.” He hung up.

“No need to go. I’m here. I heard you and can work it out.” Barry hadn’t been aware of the big man’s approach. “She’s no worse, but they’re operating,” O’Reilly said.

“Right.”

O’Reilly nodded. Pursed his lips. “I don’t know if you’re a praying man, Barry. I’m not, but if you are, say one for Kinky, and if you’re not, close your eyes and think hard about her for a little while and I’ll do the same.”

Barry bowed his head. When he looked up, O’Reilly was standing stock still, eyes closed. He opened them. “Good luck, Kinky Kincaid,” he said softly, and Barry silently mouthed, “Amen.”

6

Under the Knife

O’Reilly heard the blue plastic doors slap shut behind him. The ward smells of human effluent, powerful disinfectant, and floor polish must be universal, he thought. If he closed his eyes, Fingal O’Reilly could have been back thirty years ago in the teaching hospitals of Dublin. He strode along the hall to the long, narrow, twenty-four-bedded ward as a door to his left opened and a short man in a long white coat appeared. He was bald save for a fringe round the back and sides. He wore a Trinity College Dublin tie and his green eyes were smiling. “Doctor O’Reilly. Good to see you,” he said, offering his hand.

“Sir Donald.” Fingal shook the hand. They’d been Fingal and Cromie for thirty-odd years, but in public the professional niceties had to be observed.

“Before you ask, she’s doing fine.” He nodded to the door. “Seeing she is who she is, I put her in the side ward by herself and she’s out of bounds to the medical students.”

O’Reilly knew that each unit had a single room, the side ward, where very seriously ill patients or those who needed to be isolated were nursed. By putting Kinky in there, Sir Donald was giv
ing her a free private room. “Thanks for that, Cromie,” he said. “I
appreciate it and I know Kinky will.”

“I’m pleased with her,” Cromie said. “The surgery was straightforward and we’ll keep a close eye on her postop. Should get her out by next week.”

O’Reilly had already had a blow-by-blow description of the operation last night from Jack Mills. He was quite content to take his old friend’s word for it today. “Thanks for looking after her
—
”

“It’s what I’m here for.”

“You and Charlie Greer.”

“What’s old Charlie been up to?”

“Did an extradural for a patient of mine. I’m going to see the man when I leave here. And that reminds me, I need to talk to you about something Charlie brought up about a class reunion next year, but I’ll give you a call in a day or two to see if the three of us can get together to start planning it. You’re busy now and I really want to see Kinky.”

“Fair enough.” Sir Donald looked at his watch. “Got to run, and don’t worry, I’ll have young Mills give you a daily update until she’s ready for discharge.”

“Thanks.” O’Reilly turned to the door, let himself into the side ward, and closed the door behind him. “Mrs. Kinky Kincaid,” he said, “good morning.”

Kinky stared at him, blinked, and on her dry lips a tiny smile played despite the plastic tube that was taped to the side of her forehead and curled into a nostril. “Doctor O’Reilly, sir. Good of you to come.” She was propped up on pillows and flapped one hand in the direction of a hard wooden chair. “Please sit down, sir.” Her voice was weak and she was pale. As he sat, O’Reilly noticed that her silver hair had been neatly brushed and hung to her shoulders. He studied her pupils. Both were tiny, a sure sign she’d been given morphine. A red rubber intravenous line ran to a needle in an elbow vein from a glass bottle of saline suspended on a pole. “Well now, Kinky Kincaid,” he said, “how are you feeling?”

“I am all the better for seeing yourself, sir, so. Thank you.”

He took her free hand in his. The skin felt cool and dry. “You’re not looking too bad yourself, Kinky,” he said, “considering you’ve been through the wars.” He took her pulse. It was normal.

“I’m mending now, sir. And those awful spasms have gone away, so. I don’t miss them one bit. Not one bit. My tummy’s sore where they cut me
—
” She winced. “
—
but sure you can’t pickle a herring without killing the fish. That nice surgeon, Sir Donald, says I’ll be charging ’round like a liltie in no time. I’ll be back to running Number One before you and Doctor Laverty starve or run out of clean socks.”

“Kinky Kincaid,” O’Reilly said, “Sir Donald’s idea of ‘no time’ doesn’t mean in a day or two.” O’Reilly didn’t want to discourage her, but he didn’t want her to have unrealistic expectations. “You
were a very sick woman last night. You’ve had surgery. That
knocks the stuffing out of anybody. It’ll be a week before you’re even out of here. And if you’re worried about our socks, there’s always Lilliput Laundry. They pick up and deliver.”

“But,” she said, struggling to sit straight up, “what’ll you eat?”

“Not our socks, anyway,” he said, and was pleased to see a smile return. “You lie still now.” He laid a hand gently on her shoulder.

She sank back on her pillow, closed her eyes, and gasped.

O’Reilly waited until she looked at him again, then said,
“We’re managing fine. That steak and kidney last night? Delicious.” Liar, he thought, but in a good cause. “And you know what Ballybucklebo’s like. You’d need to beat our neighbours off with a big stick.” He saw her relax and wondered if he could make her smile again. “I know what hospital grub’s like. You’re not allowed
to eat yet, I understand, but when you are, I’ve two slices of Mag
gie MacCorkle’s plum cake I could bring up.” He heard a faint chuckle.

“Doctor O’Reilly, sir,” she said with a little grin, “you do be a terrible one for taking a hand out of a poor Cork widow woman.”

O’Reilly noticed that the toy hare Barry had mentioned was on the pillow beside her. “Doctor Laverty sends his love, says please get better soon.”

“He’s a nice young man.”

“He is that,” O’Reilly said, then, “I spoke to your sister Fidelma last night and Sinead was there too. She and Malachy send love. Fidelma said to tell you she’s getting Eamon to drive her up.”

“Thank you for letting them know. I’ve not seen them for a while.” She frowned. “It’s a brave stretch of the legs from Beal na mBláth.”

O’Reilly laughed. “Your sister said you’d say that and to tell you to pay no heed. They’re coming and that’s that.”

“Fidelma and me were always close.”

“I think,” said O’Reilly, “they’ve a half-notion to take you down to Cork to convalesce.” He knew that six weeks was the generally recommended term, but he’d keep that to himself for now. “Let’s see how you are next week, all right?”

She struggled forward. “But, sir, who’ll look after Number One?” He heard her anxiety.

“Kinky Kincaid,” he said firmly. “You will, but only when you’re on your feet. In the meantime, Barry and I can manage and I’ve already told you about the neighbours. We’re coming down with pies, stews, roast chickens.”

She lay back on her pillows. “I suppose.”

“And I’m sure Kitty
—
”

“Miss O’Hallorhan?” She frowned. “In my kitchen?”

“Not at all.” O’Reilly had been going to say, “will help.” As tactful as a blow to the head with a ball-peen hammer, he thought, and instead said, “will be distressed to hear you’re not well. I’ll tell her when I see her.” He rose and squeezed her hand before releasing it. “Now Kinky,” he said, “I mustn’t tire you out. You need your rest.”

“Thank you for coming, sir, and please thank Doctor Laverty for seeing to me yesterday,” she said. “Please look after yourself. All I’ve got here in the north is yourself and Number One.” A tear trickled.

“We’ll have you back there in no time,” O’Reilly managed, but only just. His throat was tight.

Kinky lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed and in moments she was snoring gently.

Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly bent and gently kissed her forehead. “Sleep well, Kinky Kincaid,” he said. “Sleep well.”

7

I Am Getting Better and Better

“Have you come to see Donal?” Sister Jane Hoey was sitting by herself at the Ward 21 desk in Quinn House, the neurosurgery unit of the Royal Victoria Hospital. The normally serious nurse smiled.

It was unusual for nurses to refer to patients by their first names. Donal Donnelly must have made an impression. “Please,” O’Reilly said.

“Quite the character.”

“I do know. What’s he been up to?”

She laughed, and he could hear affection belying her words. “The sooner we get that buck eejit off my ward the better. He’s been running a poker school, and making book on what time the tea trolley will get here.”

“He’s what?” O’Reilly couldn’t help laughing. “He’s incorrigible, that man. Still, it’s a sure sign he’s on the mend.”

“We moved him to a four-bedded ward on Monday morning. By Monday evening it was a miracle he didn’t have a roulette wheel working,” she said. “Make sure you keep an eye on your wallet when you see him, Doctor O’Reilly. At least he’s being discharged tomorrow.”

Still chuckling, O’Reilly walked along the corridor of the
octagonal building. Donal had been moved from a single room in the inner core, where the critically ill patients were nursed, to one on the outer side of the corridor, which meant he was getting better. Two of the other recovering patients in Donal’s ward were playing cards at a table in the space between the beds. The third was in bed, snoring.

Donal, head swathed in a turban of white bandages, sat on a chair by his bed reading a tattered copy of
Reader’s Digest
. A vase of wilted flowers kept a bunch of grapes and bottle of Lucozade company on a bedside locker. His bed was close to a window that gave a view across a lawn to the red-brick Royal Maternity Hospital.

Donal looked up and grinned. “How’s about ye, Doc?” Donal’s buck teeth had survived the fall intact.

“I’m fine, Donal. How are you?”

“I’m keeping rightly, so I am. Dead on. The ould dome still hurts,” he pointed to his bandages, “but, och, I never worry.” He indicated another chair. “Grab a pew, sir. Right decent of youse to come and see me, and that lady friend of yours, Sister O’Hallorhan? She’s been a real corker. The way she looks after me is great, so it is.”

O’Reilly was not surprised that Donal thought Kitty O’Hallorhan, whom he had met several times in Ballybucklebo, was outstanding. She was. And of course she’d give Donal a bit of extra TLC because
he was Fingal’s patient. He sat. “I’ll tell her you said so next time I
see her.”

“Thanks, sir. I’m getting out the morrow,” Donal said. “Julie’s coming at ten for til take me home.” He took a deep breath. “One of the nurses told her you saved my life. I’m very grate
—
”

“Wheest, Donal. All I did was get you into an ambulance.”

“From what I hear, I’ve been one jammy bugger.”

“You’d some luck, I grant you, but it’s Mister Greer and Mister Gupta, the doctor who saw you first when you were admitted, you need to thank.”

“No harm til youse, sir, but you’re a hard man to thank, so you are.”

O’Reilly made a guttural noise. “Bollix,” he said. He’d only done what any doctor should have. “You’ll be glad to get home,” he said, changing the subject.

Donal’s smile faded. “Huh. I’ll not be sorry for to see the back of this place, though. That Sister Hoey. See that one? See her?” Donal’s tone rose.

O’Reilly caught himself glancing in the direction of the door even though he knew that in Ulster, the expression didn’t actually mean you could see someone. Donal was using “see her” for emphasis, and none too kindly either.

“Right spoilsport, so she is. Them three lads?” Donal nodded at his wardmates. “We had a wee poker school going, but she stopped it. And she made me give them back their money on the book I was making on the tea trolley, so she did, before it got here.” He pouted. “I’d’ve made three pounds if she’d not interfered.”

“You’re no dozer, Donal Donnelly,” O’Reilly said, chuckled, and leant closer. “As one betting man to another, how in the name of the sainted Jasus were you sure you were going to win?” Donal had a reputation for arranging for dogs to win greyhound races.

Donal shook his head and held a finger to his lips.

“All right, Donal. I understand.”

“But I would have won. Sure thing.” He winked at O’Reilly.

O’Reilly rose.

“Excuse me, sir, could I ask you a wee quick question, like, before you go?”

“Of course.”

“When I get home and my feet under me, would you and maybe Doctor Laverty have time to look at a house?”

“A house? What house?” For many Ballybucklebo folks their doctor was, along with their priest or minister, the font of all
wisdom and expected to render opinions on nonmedical matters
too.

“I may be a bit hazy about the crash and what went before, like,” said Donal, “but Julie told me I won a right clatter at the races and she’s got a wee bit put by.”

O’Reilly smiled. He’d helped Julie acquire some of that “wee bit.”

“We’d like for to buy a house, so we would. Nothing special, like, but a place of our own, and I’ve heard, on the quiet like, of one that might be going cheap, you know. It’s a lovely wee place, so it is,” Donal said. “It’s only a ways out of the village on the Bangor side. Where there’s a big hairpin bend in the Bangor Belfast Road? It’d be close enough for me to ride my bike to work.” He grinned. “Or nip into the Duck.”