An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (19 page)

 

13

Friendly Persuasion

Kinky's sniff was of such force that O'Reilly was sure the kitchen walls would move inward. “It does be a very charitable thing you and Kitty are doing, sir, having that man Fitzpatrick for dinner this evening.” She gave the bread dough she was kneading a punch. O'Reilly reckoned it could have flattened the current world heavyweight champion, Muhammad Ali. Kinky sighed mightily. “I do understand that you are very concerned about his health, but I cannot warm to that man at all, so.”

O'Reilly remembered back to the day in December 1964 when Fitzpatrick had called Kinky “my good woman.” O'Reilly had had a nasty chest cold and had told Kinky “no visitors.” But Fitzpatrick had always had a peremptory air about him, and he had been determined to see O'Reilly. He had ordered Kinky to step aside as if she were a mere skivvie. And her response had been sub-Arctic, her defiance like that of Horatius at the bridge.

“I've had no time for him since we were students together,” O'Reilly said, “but Kitty and I learned some things about him when we were in Dublin last month. I think they can explain to a degree why he is the man he is today.” He pulled up a stool to the counter and sat down. “He was born and brought up as an only child in Japan, sent back to Dublin in 1931 for his medical education, and never ever saw his missionary parents again. Now add to that that he's not a well man.”

“If you say so, sir, and that would all be very sad. The poor little spalpeen. And I'm sure you'll help him over his illness, so.” She tutted as she packed the dough into several small compartments in two baking tins. “I'll leave this to rise for a second time and have it in the oven later so you and your guest can have fresh rolls with your mushroom soup.”

“Thank you, Kinky.” Clearly the Corkwoman was not overly interested in what O'Reilly had learned in Dublin about Fitzpatrick, but then Kinky was not one who'd listen to any kind of gossip. He'd not been surprised that her expression of sympathy had been tinged with a lingering disrespect. “Little spalpeen” was not a term of affection.

She set the dough-filled tins aside, dusted off her hands on her apron, and turned her attention to three ramekins, each containing a base of her own rich custard flavoured with orange zest. “Seeing both young doctors will be out tonight I've only made three desserts. Kitty tells me they call this
crema Catalana
in Barcelona.”

“The French call it
crème brûlée
.”

“And when I was taught to make it, we just called it burnt cream, so.” She chuckled. “I'd like to have seen the look on my own face when my teacher caramelised the sugar—” She indicted a bowl of nearby brown sugar. “—with a shmall-little blowtorch. I thought she'd taken leave of her senses. She'd worked in a posh London place, the Café de Paris, before the war.”

O'Reilly pursed his lips. “Aye, the war. If I recall correctly, that place was hit by a bomb in 1941. A band leader called ‘Snakehips' Johnson was among those killed.”

“‘Snakehips'? He'd not get a name like that in Ireland. Saint Patrick drove those creatures out.”

O'Reilly chuckled.

Kinky said, “By 1941, thank the Lord, my friend Emer was working at Ballybucklebo House for the marquis's father, God rest them both,” Kinky said. “Now, tonight I'll be home with Archie,” her smile was beatific, “so Kitty'll have to finish off the desserts before serving. And the little torch and matches are there, sir,” she pointed. “I'm sure Kitty will manage fine, so.”

“I'm sure she will,” O'Reilly said, thinking how well things had turned out since Kinky's marriage and feeling rather satisfied with his lot. Then he was struck by an idea. If, by the end of the meal, he and Kitty had been forced to use the tactic she'd seen on
Z-Cars
and he had taken Fitzpatrick severely to task, then coming down here to do the caramelizing would give Kitty a chance to try to work her gentle wiles on the previously softened-up victim. He liked the notion. “Kinky?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Show me how to put on the sugar and use the torch, please.”

Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped.

He laughed. “Now come on, Kinky,” he said. “It's not as if I've not done a bit of cooking.”

“No, it is not, sir.” She smiled. “Your curried canned corned beef that you learned in the war is a thing to behold, and cooking does be a thing more men should do. I'm teaching Archie simple recipes. He's a dab hand now with a boiled egg, and his cheese and scallion omelette could be fluffier, but he's getting the hang of it, so.” She lifted the sugar bowl and began. “You only need to make a thin little crust, so.”

*   *   *

O'Reilly poured himself a Jameson. It was five thirty and Barry had given Kinky a lift home on his way to Belfast for a night out with his pal Jack Mills, the budding general surgeon. Kitty would be home any time now.

“Hello, Fingal.” Doctor Jenny Bradley came into the upstairs lounge. “I'm just heading out. I'm having dinner with Terry in the Causerie.” Her voice seemed to hide a chuckle, like a stream bubbling over its bed on a summer day.

“Jenny,” he said, “you look lovely.” And she did. Her shining blonde hair was nearly covered by a pillbox fur hat and her double-breasted grey wool suit had a shawl collar of the same fur. The skirt was mid-thigh—Mary Quant's miniskirt had taken the world of fashion by storm and Jenny's shapely legs in sheer dark tights suited the length well.

“Thank you, Fingal,” she said. “I want to look my best tonight.”

“And you do.” What was it about her, he wondered, that was so special tonight? She certainly was wearing more makeup than she would at work. False eyelashes were all the rage and her lipstick was bright. But it was something about the lightness of her voice, her tread, her great beaming smile. Something was making Jenny Bradley very happy. “Would you like a drink?”

“Mmm. Small sherry, please,” and she sat in one of the armchairs as he poured. Immediately Lady Macbeth leapt up on Jenny's lap.

“Here you are.” He handed her the glass and took the other chair.
“Sláinte.”

“Cheers.” She sipped and said, “Fingal, there's something I want to tell you.”

“Fire away.”

“Terry has asked me to marry him,” she said in a rush. “And I've said yes, and he's giving me the ring tonight.”

O'Reilly let a roar out of him like a wounded banshee. “He what? Oh lovely, bloody lovely. Well done, girl.”

Lady Macbeth screeched, flew off Jenny's lap, and, as she always did in times of great stress, went straight up the curtain to crouch on the pelmet and hurl feline vituperation at the world.

O'Reilly leapt to his feet, hauled Jenny to hers, and gave her an enormous hug. “I'm absolutely, bloody well delighted.”

“About what, pray tell? I heard the bellows of you, Fingal O'Reilly, when I was still outside in the street,” Kitty said as she came in. “And as I recollect about a year ago, you promised something about forsaking all others.”

O'Reilly looked over Jenny's shoulder at Kitty's scowl and knew she was teasing him. Releasing Jenny, he grabbed his wife in an equally ferocious hug that lifted her off the ground, kissed her, and roared, “Terry and Jenny are getting married.”

“Put me down, Fingal,” Kitty said with a laugh. “And Jenny, pay no attention to your senior. He has no sense of decorum.”

“Decorum? Decorum? Are you deaf, woman? Jenny's getting married. We need to celebrate. What would you like?” He nodded at the sideboard.

“I'd like,” Kitty said, turning to Jenny and giving her a gentle hug, “to wish Terry and Jenny every happiness.”

“Thank you, Kitty.”

“A small sherry, I think, Fingal.”

“Which you shall have.” O'Reilly went to pour.

“I'd also like to remind you that our guest will be here in fifteen minutes. I'm afraid one of the night shift nurses didn't show up and it took a while for me to get a replacement. I have time for a quick drink and then I must change. I'm sure Kinky has things well in hand in the kitchen.”

“Blast,” said O'Reilly. “I'd forgotten about Fitzpatrick.” He sighed, then grinned. “Even so, there's time enough to lift our glasses to the happy couple.”

“To you and Terry. We wish you much joy and contentment in your marriage, Doctor Jenny Bradley,” Kitty said, and drank.

“Hear hear,” O'Reilly said, and finished his Jameson in one swallow.

“You've both been very good to me,” Jenny said, returning to her armchair.

“Nonsense,” O'Reilly said. “You're a terrific asset to the practice.” He wondered, Does this mean she'll leave? He hoped not. “And your well-woman clinic is working a treat.”

Jenny frowned. “I have to be honest,” she said, “I'm not sure if I'll be able to stay on once we're married. Terry has just been given a partnership in his law firm in Belfast.”

“Good for him,” Kitty said. “You must be proud of him.”

“I am,” Jenny said, “very, but you can see how difficult it would be for him to leave and move here, and my job is really only part-time.” She looked straight at O'Reilly. “I know that it makes life a lot easier for you and Barry when I share call. I think at least at the start, if I could still have the attic, I could drive down at night, give you both extra time off.”

O'Reilly took his drink, wandered over to the mantel, and said, “Jenny, you are on your way to see the man you love, take his ring, and have a wonderful night out. Why don't we worry about the details of the practice in a couple of days?”

“Fingal's right,” Kitty said. “Off you trot and enjoy your evening. I'm sure it will all work out.”

Jenny finished her sherry. “Thank you both.” She stood. “I really don't want to leave the practice.”

O'Reilly put an avuncular hand on her shoulder and said, “I thank you for telling us so we can be prepared if you have to leave, but as I am very fond of saying—”

Kitty made her voice deep and gruff, “We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

He and Kitty were both laughing as Jenny said, “Thank you both,” and left.

“Now,” said O'Reilly, striding over to the curtains and looking up, “I'll get this blasted cat down and you go and attend to your toilette before our guest arrives.”

*   *   *

Once the greeting pleasantries with Kitty were finished and O'Reilly had ushered the man into the upstairs lounge, Doctor Fitzpatrick moved to stand in front of the fireplace. His gold-rimmed pince-nez shone in the setting sun's rays and his Adam's apple bobbed. He proffered a small, neatly wrapped parcel to Kitty, who sat in one armchair, Lady Macbeth, now returned to her usual composed self, curled up in her lap. “I've brought you a small gift, Mrs. O'Reilly,” he said.

“Why thank you, Ronald,” Kitty said, accepting the parcel, “and please, it's Kitty.”

“And while Kitty's opening it and you're taking a pew,” O'Reilly indicated the other armchair, “what can I get you to drink, Ronald?”

“Um. I'm not one for a lot of alcohol, but seeing it's a special occasion could I possibly have a small shandy?” He sat perched on the edge of a chair.

O'Reilly had to open the sideboard to find a bottle of Bass beer and one of Cantrell & Cochrane's white lemonade. He busied himself pouring a half-and-half mixture into a glass tumbler. “Here you are,” he said, handing it to Fitzpatrick. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Fitzpatrick, and sipped, “and thank you for inviting me to your lovely house.”

“Should have done it months ago,” O'Reilly said, parking his ample backside on a pouffe and turning when he heard Kitty's cry of pleasure.

“Ronald, he's quite beautiful,” Kitty said. She offered a tiny carved figure to O'Reilly. “Look, Fingal. Isn't he exquisite?”

O'Reilly took from her a three-inch figurine. It was a small man with a bald pate, infectious grin, exaggerated ear lobes, breasts, and a potbelly hanging over a loin cloth. He wore an open robe and carried a sack. The facial features were Oriental. The material looked like discoloured ivory. This must be an example of the
netsuke
that Kitty and Fitzpatrick had discussed so knowledgeably at the lunch in Davy Byrnes back in September. Somehow “exquisite” wasn't quite the word O'Reilly might have used, but then he was no art aficionado. He'd been at sea with a lot of the more modern works in the Picasso Museum in Barcelona. “Delightful,” he said, and handed it back.

“I believe he's
Hotei
,” Kitty said.

“Well done.” Fitzpatrick nodded rapidly. “
Hotei
in Japanese, or
Budai
in Chinese. He represents contentment. The Japanese call it
wa,
a sort of inner peace and tranquillity.” The man stared at the floor, then looked up at Kitty and said softly, “Which I wish always for this house.”

O'Reilly heard the sincerity in the man's voice and was touched.

Fitzpatrick took another drink. “I hope you don't mind my wishing that?”

Kitty reached out, touched Fitzpatrick's hand, smiled, and said, “I think it's the most charming gift and the loveliest sentiment. Thank you, Ronald. Thank you very much.”

Fitzpatrick blushed beet-red.

O'Reilly had been forced to stand and walk to the window so neither Kitty nor, more importantly, Fitzpatrick could see the shine on O'Reilly's eyes. With his back still turned, he said, “Thank you, Ronald. It was most gracious of you.” Damn it, this awkward, infuriating man had revealed such a thoughtful side they must be friendlier to him in the future, and for now it was even more important that he and Kitty find a way to get him to see Charlie Greer. They'd agreed to let that hare sit until the break between the main course and dessert.