Read Online Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor by Patrick Taylor - Free Book Online
Authors: Patrick Taylor
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was sorry to have missed you.”
Father couldn’t have a better specialist than Fingal’s old mentor from Sir Patrick Dun’s Hospital. He attended Father at least once a week.
“He spoke to me in private.” There was a catch in her voice. “He doesn’t think—He’s not confident that Connan is going to live much longer. Doctor Micks offered your father another blood transfusion, but he declined. I think it was the right decision.” Her gaze was fixed on Fingal’s eyes.
The worry that was never far from the front of Fingal’s mind gnawed at him. He was no stranger to death, but watching his own father being wasted by acute myelogenous leukemia was harder than anything he’d done in his twenty-seven years. It was typical of Father’s iron will to refuse a transfusion that could only delay the inevitable. Fingal would like to have touched his mother’s hands but both were occupied. All he could do was say, “It was the right one. And Father’s not in any pain and has all of his wits about him.” It was the only comfort he had to offer.
She smiled and braced her shoulders as rigidly as he’d seen old Queen Mary doing in a Pathé newsreel of her husband King George V’s funeral in January. Mary O’Reilly née Nixon, was like Her Majesty, a woman of the Victorian age. Sometimes Fingal wondered what went on behind those seemingly reserved façades. He was aware of the door opening behind him.
Ma smiled and said, “Connan. You’re awake. Fingal’s home.”
Father was leaning on a blackthorn walking stick.
Fingal crossed the floor. “Take my arm.” He felt his father’s hand on his forearm and together they walked slowly. Fingal helped him onto the other folding chair.
It took Father a while to catch his breath before he could say, “Thank you, son.” He’d been a tall man, but now he was stooped. His once black hair was thinning and silver. The tartan dressing gown he wore seemed to have been made for a man twice his size. The skin of the hands folded in his lap was alabaster white and onion-skin thin. Veins coursed beneath. A bruise the size of a half crown disfigured the back of the left hand. “Good to see you home.” He looked at the canvas. “Please don’t stop, Mary. You know how much I like to watch you work.”
With the edge of the palette knife she started applying paint a third of the way up from the bottom of the canvas, drawing it across in a gently ascending thin line.
Fingal knew that as a boat builder begins with the keel on which the skeleton of the vessel is laid, so Ma started her ’scape pictures with the horizon. With so much space left above it, this one was going to be a skyscape. She had a knack for capturing those moments when nature wrought a summer sky of such perfection that the viewer half-expected to see angels in one corner, or those of agony when Boreas the north wind piled up the thunderheads of Armageddon and made mortal man feel tiny and afraid.
“Fingal’s just come in. Would you like a cup of tea, Connan?” Ma asked as if it were just another workaday afternoon.
“No, thank you, dear.” He turned to Fingal. “Do please sit. How did the interview go? Are you going to take the job?” There was no hint of approval in his voice.
Fingal frowned. His father had a deeply held belief that his younger son should specialize, a desire fostered by his friends Doctor Victor Millington Synge, nephew of the playwright, and Mister Oliver St. John Gogarty.
“Doctor Corrigan, the principal, seems like an interesting man.” Fingal smiled. “I must say initially he put me off. Seemed arrogant and bullying, but we had a tête-à-tête. I could grow to like that man a lot, I think. You would, M—Mother.” Father hated Fingal calling her “Ma.” He had told him often that it was “common,” and perhaps he was right. Still, he always thought of her as Ma. “He worried a lot about the poor when he was about my age and is still committed to helping the
Father couldn’t have a better specialist than Fingal’s old mentor from Sir Patrick Dun’s Hospital. He attended Father at least once a week.
“He spoke to me in private.” There was a catch in her voice. “He doesn’t think—He’s not confident that Connan is going to live much longer. Doctor Micks offered your father another blood transfusion, but he declined. I think it was the right decision.” Her gaze was fixed on Fingal’s eyes.
The worry that was never far from the front of Fingal’s mind gnawed at him. He was no stranger to death, but watching his own father being wasted by acute myelogenous leukemia was harder than anything he’d done in his twenty-seven years. It was typical of Father’s iron will to refuse a transfusion that could only delay the inevitable. Fingal would like to have touched his mother’s hands but both were occupied. All he could do was say, “It was the right one. And Father’s not in any pain and has all of his wits about him.” It was the only comfort he had to offer.
She smiled and braced her shoulders as rigidly as he’d seen old Queen Mary doing in a Pathé newsreel of her husband King George V’s funeral in January. Mary O’Reilly née Nixon, was like Her Majesty, a woman of the Victorian age. Sometimes Fingal wondered what went on behind those seemingly reserved façades. He was aware of the door opening behind him.
Ma smiled and said, “Connan. You’re awake. Fingal’s home.”
Father was leaning on a blackthorn walking stick.
Fingal crossed the floor. “Take my arm.” He felt his father’s hand on his forearm and together they walked slowly. Fingal helped him onto the other folding chair.
It took Father a while to catch his breath before he could say, “Thank you, son.” He’d been a tall man, but now he was stooped. His once black hair was thinning and silver. The tartan dressing gown he wore seemed to have been made for a man twice his size. The skin of the hands folded in his lap was alabaster white and onion-skin thin. Veins coursed beneath. A bruise the size of a half crown disfigured the back of the left hand. “Good to see you home.” He looked at the canvas. “Please don’t stop, Mary. You know how much I like to watch you work.”
With the edge of the palette knife she started applying paint a third of the way up from the bottom of the canvas, drawing it across in a gently ascending thin line.
Fingal knew that as a boat builder begins with the keel on which the skeleton of the vessel is laid, so Ma started her ’scape pictures with the horizon. With so much space left above it, this one was going to be a skyscape. She had a knack for capturing those moments when nature wrought a summer sky of such perfection that the viewer half-expected to see angels in one corner, or those of agony when Boreas the north wind piled up the thunderheads of Armageddon and made mortal man feel tiny and afraid.
“Fingal’s just come in. Would you like a cup of tea, Connan?” Ma asked as if it were just another workaday afternoon.
“No, thank you, dear.” He turned to Fingal. “Do please sit. How did the interview go? Are you going to take the job?” There was no hint of approval in his voice.
Fingal frowned. His father had a deeply held belief that his younger son should specialize, a desire fostered by his friends Doctor Victor Millington Synge, nephew of the playwright, and Mister Oliver St. John Gogarty.
“Doctor Corrigan, the principal, seems like an interesting man.” Fingal smiled. “I must say initially he put me off. Seemed arrogant and bullying, but we had a tête-à-tête. I could grow to like that man a lot, I think. You would, M—Mother.” Father hated Fingal calling her “Ma.” He had told him often that it was “common,” and perhaps he was right. Still, he always thought of her as Ma. “He worried a lot about the poor when he was about my age and is still committed to helping the