Authors: Maeve Binchy
“I thought you'd be up to your neck in arrangements,” Brian said, still hoping to have an ally, any ally who might slow Johnny down.
“No, I leave all that side of it to the women,” Declan said. No need to tell Brian and Johnny that Fiona refused to see him in the evenings.
She said she was keeping her part of the bargain by behaving as if nothing had changed during the daytime, but it would be pointless going out in the evening and going over old ground again and again. She had explained her position and said she was sorry. What more was there that could be said?
Fiona said she would like to take Dimples for a good long walk. Molly and Paddy approved—Dimples was running to fat.
Fiona and the large Labrador set off together. They walked into the center of town and went toward Trinity College. Fiona remembered a school trip that had taken them by Sweeney's Pharmacy, the old chemist shop mentioned in James Joyce's
Ulysses,
which didn't look as if it had changed at all in over a hundred years. And she paused at the hotel where James Joyce had met Nora Barnacle. Now
there
was a love affair that shouldn't have worked and yet it did.
Fiona didn't know if they allowed dogs in there, but she didn't ask. Dimples looked entirely at home anywhere, so no one was likely to stop them.
She found herself looking up at the old buildings that had been there since the first Elizabeth was on the throne of England. She saw the lines waiting to go and see the Book of Kells. Imagine monks
decorating that, nearly seven hundred pages of it, instead of getting on with things. But maybe they weren't doing anyone any harm.
Fiona wondered, was she in danger of becoming very bland and dull?
They came out and walked around Merrion Square. Fiona showed off the various landmarks to the dog. Where Oscar Wilde had lived, the statue of the same Oscar with his one-line witticism engraved on it; the Georgian fan windows over the colorful doors, the foot-scrapers, the different door knockers. She had seen them all many times before, but somehow this was different. She realized she was printing it all in her mind.
Next week, when she and Declan told people that the wedding was off, she would work out her notice, repair as many broken fences and crushed dreams as she could, and then she would go away. Far away.
What she was doing tonight was saying good-bye to Dublin.
An elderly American couple stopped her to admire the dog.
“That's Dimples,” Fiona said sadly.
“And have you had him long?” they asked, playing with Dim-ples's ears.
“He's not mine, he's my fiancé's.” Fiona looked at the opal ring and bit her lip.
“Oh, well, same thing.” The lady found some nuts in her bag and gave them to Dimples, who loved them and held up a huge paw to thank her.
“Not really,” Fiona heard herself say.
“So, are you going to live in a place where they don't allow dogs?”
“No. We're not going to get married,” Fiona said, and it all came out in a gush. How she was a person of no judgment. It wouldn't be fair. She had to go away, miles away.
The couple looked at each other, mystified.
“And is everyone upset about this?” the man asked eventually.
“Nobody knows,” wept Fiona. “Nobody knows except us. It was a ludicrous promise he made me make, to keep it all secret for a week.”
“How much of the week is left?” The American woman was very interested.
“Four and a half days, but nothing's changed.”
“No, of course not. Look, it's pretty simple, isn't it? Do you think he loves you?”
“Yes. Yes, he does,” said Fiona through her tears.
“And do you love him? Because if you don't, you mustn't marry him. But if you do …”
Brian Flynn couldn't believe that they were going to do two more laps before they had their pint. He thought he was going to die on the spot.
“We'll revive you,” Johnny said unsympathetically
“It's
good
for you, Brian,” said Declan, a veritable Judas Iscariot who turned out to love exercise too.
Finally they got the pint.
“You're curiously calm for a condemned man,” Johnny said to Declan.
“It's all an act,” Declan said truthfully.
“And how's Fiona?” Brian asked.
“Oh, wouldn't it be great to understand the mind of a woman.”
“They're usually more focused than we are. Certainly about weddings.”
“It would be much better if you could look at some of these properties, Rosemary,” Bobby Walsh pleaded.
“What for? Haven't you said that you're buying one anyway. What does my approval mean one way or another?”
“I just want somewhere all on one floor. I can't make stairs anymore. We have many good years left.”
“Shuffling around in a crowded apartment? I don't think so.”
“If we're together isn't that all that matters?”
“We're together
here,”
she said.
“I live in a bed-sitter here, Rosemary. I can't manage the steps up to the hall door. Let's choose somewhere
you
like.”
She said nothing, just stood there like a mutinous child.
“Then
I'll
have to choose for you. There's a very nice place I've been told about. It's got a little garden. There's a block of thirty just going on the market. If we offer the estate agents the chance to sell this place, then they'll give us our pick of the new apartments. The corner one on the ground floor looks the nicest. You can see the sea from the window, and they have a swimming pool in the complex.”
“Where is this place you've set your heart on?”
He named the posh area and saw her eyes widen a little. She would have no trouble selling the idea of this move to her snobby friends. If he played this properly it might be plain sailing from now on.
“It wouldn't hurt to see it,” she said.
Hilary Hickey was coping with two painters. They had come to touch up some neglected areas of the clinic—at the request of Frank Ennis. That was surprising enough. Then it was even more odd to see Rosemary Walsh come alone to the heart clinic. It wasn't a day when Bobby had an appointment. She hoped Mrs. Walsh wasn't here to make some kind of trouble. Fortunately Ania had gone for her lunch, so there wouldn't have to be a confrontation there.
“I wonder is there anyone who could give me some advice about Bobby's heart condition?” Rosemary Walsh began.
“Well, Clara is up at the hospital just now.”
“Not Clara,” Mrs. Walsh said.
“Declan's here.”
“Yes, Declan.”
She was imperious still. But she seemed to be readjusting her face somehow so as to turn on the charm.
“Ah, Dr. Declan, and we're getting near the big day”
“Indeed, Mrs. Walsh. Looking forward to seeing you and Bobby there.”
“And what kind of a
gift
would you like?” Rosemary managed to make the word
gift
seem somehow beneath her.
Declan smiled wanly. “Just your being there would be enough, but if you do insist, then we would love a CD, some nice music that meant something to you and Bobby perhaps?”
She looked at him witheringly “What I really came for was to know about Bobby's heart. Would it increase his life expectancy if we were to live somewhere on one floor?”
“You know it would, Mrs. Walsh. We've been over this many times. Clara and I showed you both the results of his stress test. Gentle exercise, a swim if possible, but no stairs.”
“So I suppose I have to do it, then.” She sighed heavily.
“Do what?”
“Give up my lovely house by the sea and move to a cramped flat. Bobby has his eye on one,” and she named the development.
“Hardly most people's idea of a cramped flat,” Declan said. “Most of Ireland would love to be able to afford a place there.”
“Compared to what I was used to,” she said coldly. Then changing the subject abruptly, she said, “And could Johnny come round and do exercises with him there: try and build him up a bit?”
“No, Johnny works here and in the hospital. He could give you a list of exercises, however, or the details of some other physiotherapist that you might like to employ personally.”
“You mean he won't come to a sick man's house?”
“Johnny works here for the Health Service. You and Mr. Walsh are lucky enough to be able to afford a private physiotherapist. And indeed, Johnny can write out the exercises for you, and you could do them with Bobby”
“You're asking
me
to do exercises?”
Something snapped in Declan's head. The strain of the last few days, of keeping up an act, pretending everything was all right when he wanted to howl at the moon—all of it crashed around him in the face of this dreadful woman.
“Listen to me, Mrs. Walsh. If I thought I could help Fiona's life by doing exercises, by cooking her low-salt, low-fat meals, if I thought I could give her one more day in this world with me, I
would do everything I could. I would stand on my head if I thought it would help. And so would Nora for Aidan Dunne, and so would Lar's wife, and so would so many of the relatives who come here. You may not feel like that. We're all different.”
“Are you criticizing me, Dr. Carroll?”
“No, Mrs. Walsh. Now can you tell me what exactly you wanted me to say to you when you came in here?” He turned away so that she wouldn't see him shaking with rage and annoyance.
“Please, Dr. Carroll—” she began.
“Just tell me, what did you hope for?”
She was so shocked by his voice that she answered him truthfully. “I suppose I hoped you would say it didn't really matter. That Bobby wouldn't improve, no matter where he was. Then we could stay where we were.”
“That's what you hoped to hear?” Declan was trembling.
“Yes, since you asked me.”
“May you get what you deserve, Rosemary Walsh,” he said and turned away. He closed his eyes and tried to do measured breathing. “May you get what you deserve in life,” he said and walked away. He was halfway down the corridor when he heard the crash and the screams.
Hilary was already on the phone for an ambulance when Declan burst back into the room.
Rosemary had pushed her way past the workmen's ladders and knocked one of them down. The ladder was supporting a long plank of wood where two painters stood working away. They had been thrown to the ground in a welter of paint pots and falling timber. Right on top of Rosemary Walsh.
Declan knelt beside them. Was this all his fault? Where the hell was Ania? The one time they really needed someone to speak Polish to the dazed workers.
“Ania!” he called out helplessly. Fiona appeared at the door and took in the situation at a glance.
“She's got a new mobile phone. I'll call her,” Fiona said. It was
done in seconds. Ania was running back from the sandwich bar in the precinct.
“Rosemary?” Fiona said.
“Unconscious. She has a pulse. I want to move the guys first.”
Ania ran and knelt beside them. Declan barked questions and Ania, holding their hands, translated quickly. Declan saw confidence coming back to their faces as they were being addressed in their own language.
“Tell them they're fine,” he said.
“I already have,” Ania said.
Fiona suggested that Ania sit with the Polish men until the ambulance arrived. She took her place kneeling beside Declan.
“She's breathing,” she said.
“Barely,” Declan said.
They knelt there looking at Rosemary Walsh, her face cut from splintered wood and her legs at a very odd angle. She might have a fractured spine. Declan ran his hands up and down her.
“Broken arm. Broken leg. Her neck feels okay, but I don't want to risk moving her.”
“What would you do if there was no ambulance coming?” Fiona asked.
“What I'm going to do now. I'd start to resuscitate.”
“But…”
“Her breathing is very shallow. We could be losing her,” he said. And in front of Hilary, Lavender, Ania, Fiona and the two groaning Polish boys, Dr. Declan Carroll began a mouth-to-mouth resuscitation of Rosemary Walsh, undoubtedly the least likable person that any of them had ever met.
The ambulance men were full of praise. If it hadn't been for the young doctor, they said …and shook their heads. They had her in intensive care in the hospital in no time. She was badly injured, but she would live. Someone would have to tell her next of kin.
“I'll tell Carl,” Ania said.
“I'll tell Bobby,” Declan said.
• • •
By the time Clara got back, Hilary had spoken to the Guards who were called to investigate the incident and told them in her clear voice how Rosemary Walsh had walked directly into the ladder and caused the accident.
“And why did she not see the ladder?” the young policeman asked.
“She was in a stressed condition,” Hilary said diplomatically.
“Where's Declan now?” Clara wanted to know.
“Out in the leafy suburbs, breaking the news to Bobby”
“And why didn't Fiona go with him? I saw her as I came in.”
“Search me, Clara. I don't think all is well in that area. I have a feeling that you and I will be wearing our new gear to our own children's wedding sooner than giving it an outing for Declan and Fiona's big day.”
“Yes, I think you're right. Pity. They are so suited. And I imagine it means we'll lose Fiona.”
“But why?” Hilary asked. “Declan will be going anyway. His time here is nearly up.”
“Fiona won't want to hang around. Not if it's all over. She'll move on somewhere.”
“I wonder what it's all about?” Hilary said.
“Something utterly unimportant. These things usually are. We'll never know,” Clara said with a sigh.
“Bobby, it's just Declan Carroll.”
“Declan, how good to see you. How did you get in?” Bobby was in his little bed-sitting room.
“I let myself in. I'll sit down here beside you.”
Declan had in fact taken Rosemary's keys from her handbag.
“Rosemary left the door open? That's so unlike her.” Bobby was distressed.
“No, no.” Declan was soothing.
“Let me get you a cup of tea.” Bobby was always the polite host.
“Let me make it. I make great tea.” He made them a mug each with a lot of sugar.