Heart and Soul Page 6

  “It certainly is, Kitty. Here, show me your pillbox. I'll go through them with you if you like.”

  “You won't make me learn them like a child at school?” Kitty looked defensive and for a moment a little frail and vulnerable.

  “Of course not. Let's put them out on the table.”

  “This won't take away from the time listening around my vest?” She wanted to make sure she was getting value.

  “Not at all. There's all the time in the world,” Declan said, the soul of reassurance.

  “One thing, though.” Kitty's eyes were bright. “Where do you stand on Padre Pio?”

  “On what?” Declan asked, bewildered.

  “You must have heard of him, he had the stigmata.”

  Dimly, Declan remembered his mother talking about this priest in Italy somewhere who had wounds like Our Lord in his hands and feet and side.

  “He was a truly great gentleman,” he said.

  “I'm not sure he was a gentleman.” Kitty would fight with her shadow.

  “But he was gentle. Surely he was a gentle person? Now let's have a look at all these pills. Every color of the rainbow here.”

  Clara left the cubicle. She had a smile on her face. This Declan Carroll had been a good choice. He had the makings of an excellent doctor, and she would enjoy teaching him about cardiology while he was here.

  In the next cubicle, Barbara was taking Mr. Walsh's blood pressure. He was Mr. because his wife had said that she found it offensive and patronizing to hear young girls addressing her husband as Bobby. Mr. Walsh was a patient man. He had always wanted an easy life, he told Barbara, and he was happy now that he was retired. He had a son, Carl, who was a schoolteacher and very happy in his work. Bobby did a little painting, mainly watercolors, he went fishing, he spent long happy hours in the library. His wife wished they would entertain more, but mercifully the heart specialist who had referred him to this clinic said that he was to stay quiet. Barbara sighed. Good, decent gentlemen like this were always married to dreadful old rips like Mrs. Walsh. It seemed to work that way. Sometimes it did in the opposite direction too. Think of all the time and tears her friend Fiona had wasted over that loser Shane, who was now in jail somewhere for drug dealing. Fiona never gave a backward glance, mercifully. Still, it had been fairly horrific at the time.

  Barbara had never really been in love. Well, not in the sense of settling down for life with someone. But that would all change when they went to this glamorous gathering at the end of the week. It was a celebrity auction. Really famous people were going to come to it and you could bid for a well-known singer to come and do a number at your party, or a chef to cook you a dinner, or an artist to paint your house or your garden.

  Barbara had heard that the style was going to be something out of this world. She had got two free tickets from a patient of hers, a young fellow who worked in a bank. She told some of this to Mr. Walsh, who said that these young men would have to be blind and mad not to see how beautiful Barbara and Fiona were. Fiona and Barbara were going to knock them all dead, he said.

  Fiona was not at the hospital today. Clara had thought it a good idea to send her to a pharmaceutical conference. Some firm was having those involved in cardiology to a lunch at one of the big hotels. She called just as Barbara was back at her desk and thinking about her.

  “Are you busy?” Fiona asked.

  “Not really. Just lying down, feet on the desk, sipping a tequila sunrise,” Barbara said.

  “Okay, you're between patients. Who have you got?”

  “Let me see. Nice Mr. Walsh, mad Kitty, a few new people. That nice woman with the yapping dogs rang—she's coming in tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yes, that's Judy, but isn't she better to have the bloody Jack Russells than to have nothing?”

  “I'm not sure,” Barbara said broodily

  “And how about your resolutions?” Fiona said.

  “I only had an apple for lunch. But you won't believe this: remember I was going to teach Kitty Reilly her tablets today or take her by the throat?”

  “Yeah, and did you?”

  “No, the new doctor had got there first. She knew which were beta-blockers, which were heart medicine. She pointed out the diuretics to me as if I were soft in the head.”

  “He must be something, the new doctor.”

  “Nice enough fellow. Declan is his name.”

  “Well, I'll see him tomorrow. Got to go now. They're serving lobster with lunch. I don't want to miss out on it.”

  “Lobster?” Barbara cried. “Does it have a big creamy mayonnaise? Or hot butter? God, I'd love lobster.”

  Declan was passing by and heard her. “No you wouldn't, Barbara, you'd hate it. Rubbery texture, swimming in grease. Think of your resolution.”

  “God, who was that?” Fiona whispered. “The new fellow. You'll meet him tomorrow.”

  “Can't wait,” Fiona said and hung up.

  Declan cycled home. His route took him through some of the fastest-changing areas of the city, and he never ceased to be surprised by some new aspect that he hadn't ever noticed before. He passed an open market that used to sell cabbages and potatoes, but now people from faraway lands sold Indian silks and exotic spices there. Then there was a huge block of luxury apartments that had suddenly sprung up on the site of—what? He couldn't remember anymore. He felt the usual triumph at having moved faster than the almost stationary traffic, and then he was home, back in St. Jarlaths Crescent.

  His parents were pleased to see him and sat at the table asking questions about his day. To make them happy he made his role seem more important than it was. He asked his mother about Padre Pio. She told him much more than he needed to know. He asked his father about his day at the meat counter. Paddy Carroll shrugged his shoulders. It had been just like any other day, he said, big rush with a crowd wanting attention one moment and then a valley period when there would be nobody. Declan ate his two lamb chops and tinned peas. He thought about the laughing nurse and her friend talking about lobster. He wished that he had a more exciting social life. He looked down a road where he and his parents would live here forever, with only one change. He would eventually make the meals for the three of them because they wouldn't be able to do it anymore.

  The next morning, Declan cycled to the clinic again. This time he was looking forward to it without anxiety, and today everyone knew his name. The patients were filing in and chatting away in the bright, cheerful waiting room.

  His first patient was a woman called Judy Murphy, who told him that she had no worries whatsoever about herself. She would be fine, just fine, but they wanted her to go into hospital for three days’ observation. The problem was the dogs. She had two little Jack Rus-sells and who would look after them? She couldn't afford an expensive kennel, and anyway the dogs would pine. Her neighbor would open tins of dog food twice a day but wouldn't take them for a walk. The dogs needed their walkies. She couldn't go to hospital. Perhaps she could have stronger medication. She was fine. Her thin, worried face looked at him as he went through her notes. Persistent angina attack, wild fluctuations in blood pressure. Declan Carroll's eye fell on her address. Judy Murphy lived a few short streets from where he lived himself.

  “I'll walk them,” he said.

  “You'll what?”

  “I'll take them for a walk every evening. I take our dog, Dimples, for a walk, and we'll just all go together.” He saw some hope return to her face.

  “Dimples?” she inquired.

  “A huge, lovable, neutered near-Labrador. Your fellows will love him. He's like an enormous pussycat.”

  “Doctor, you wouldn't, would you?”

  “Declan,” he corrected her. “I'll start tonight.”

  “But I'm not going to hospital tonight, surely?”

  “No, Judy, but you should go tomorrow, and this way they get to know me and get to meet Dimples. I'll come round to your place at eight o'clock. Now you go and check in with Clara, then Ania will get in touch with admissions an
d you'll be as right as rain.”

  “You're the very best, Dr. Declan,” Judy said.

  Clara was delighted with him too. “I've been bringing that woman in here three times a week just to keep an eye on her. Now you've got her to do what the rest of us couldn't. Is there a St. Declan by any chance? If not, you could be the first.”

  “There's meant to be a St. Declan, but I didn't ever find out much about him. In the dictionary of saints it goes straight from David to Demetrius, so I sort of gave up on him. Anyway, my mother had me baptized Declan Francis to be sure, to be sure.”

  Clara laughed. “Well, she's right to cover all options,” she said. But Declan wasn't listening. He was looking at the girl in the dark trousers and white jacket, which was the clinic's uniform. A girl in her early twenties kneeling down beside an elderly man, helping him fill in a form. She had long lashes and a perfect smile. She was the most gorgeous girl he had ever seen. For the first time in his life Declan Carroll felt what he had read about and sung about and dreamed about. He ached to get to know her properly, this beautiful girl. Not since he was fourteen did he wish he was tall and dark and broody-looking, rather than square and red-haired and freckled. Who in their sane senses could fancy him?

  Fiona looked up from filling in Lar Kelly's form and saw Declan with his brown eyes looking right at her. She would have had to be blind not to have noticed the admiration in his look. This must be the new guy, the one who had got Kitty to learn her tablets, the one who had made Judy agree to go into hospital. What kind of guru was he?

  “Declan,” she said, “welcome to the asylum.”

  “Is this an asylum?” Lar looked up anxiously. He was a small, round man with a bald, egg-shaped head and a bow tie.

  “Sorry, Lar, of course it's not. It's just a disrespectful way of talking about our workplace. Declan, this is Lar Kelly. He is a fount of information. He tells me something new every single visit. I want him to come in every day.”

  “What did you tell Fiona today, Lar?” he asked.

  “You know who I am?” She had totally forgotten she was wearing a name badge.

  “Indeed, I do. I know what you had for lunch yesterday. You had lobster,” he said.

  “Aren't you great.” She seemed pleased.

  “You didn't tell me you had lobster.” Lar was aggrieved.

  “No, I hadn't got round to it. There was only very little actually a bit cheapskate, I thought.”

  Declan wanted to talk forever. “So what was the new thing today?”

  “Lar taught me the offside rule in soccer,” Fiona said.

  “You know the offside rule?” Declan's jaw fell open in admiration. Hardly anyone could explain that to you.

  “Lar said that it's in order to stop players hanging around the goal of their opponents waiting for a long ball to come to them. You're offside if when the ball is passed to you, you're nearer the goal than the ball and the second last defender.”

  “You should be a sports commentator,” Declan said, awestruck.

  Lar joined in. “Her memory isn't all that good. You wouldn't want to test her on terms like URL or html. I don't know how she works a computer at all. Our lives in their hands. It would frighten the wits out of you.”

  Fiona wasn't at all put out by this. “I did remember what a vole was. I never knew when I came across them in books were they good or bad. I don't think we have them in Ireland. But anyway, Lar said that vole was a name for any number of blunt-nosed, short-eared mouse or rat-like rodents.”

  “Is that good or bad?” Declan asked.

  “Very bad, I would think. Come on, Lar, we'll never get this form finished.”

  “I like to read documents carefully,” Lar said.

  “Yes, but it's an X-ray form, Lar, and this question, it's asking are you pregnant?” Fiona's eyes danced at the two men.

  “You can't be too careful,” Lar said.

  With a great effort Declan dragged himself away.

  Declan realized that Fiona was utterly enchanting and that he didn't stand a chance with her. He looked at himself in the mirror of the clinic's cloakroom. A great round face looked back at him with a topping of awful ginger hair. Maybe if his hair wasn't so terrible he might have some hope?

  Yesterday, cycling home, he had passed a row of smart shops that had included a very expensive hair salon. Today he would call in there and discuss his hair. It couldn't do any harm.

  The place was full of black marble and chrome and glass.

  “Could I have a consultation?” he asked.

  “Sure. You can consult me. I'm Kiki, one of the stylists,” said the girl with the long black hair, heavy white makeup and dark purple nails.

  “Thanks, Kiki. Should I sit down or something? What could I do with my hair?” he asked.

  “What do you want to do with your hair?”

  “That's why I need to consult. It can't stay like this.”

  “Why not?” Kiki yawned a terrible yawn, showing the back of her throat.

  “Well, it's desperate,” said Declan.

  “Is it falling out or something?” Kiki asked.

  “No, it's not falling out, but it's like a pot scrubber or something. It's desperate.”

  “I don't see anything wrong with it,” Kiki said.

  “It's ludicrous.”

  “Naw, it goes with your face. It's fine.” Kiki said she thought the consultation was over.

  “I thought you were meant to attract business, not turn it away,” he said.

  “Mister, you're fine. What's the point in my suggesting some kind of treatment or color or streaks or frosting or something that would set you back hundreds of euros when you're fine as you are. How often do I have to tell you?”

  The manager, not liking the sound of raised voices, edged over slightly. “Everything under control here?” he asked.

  “Yes. Kiki has been very helpful. I'll come back next week,” Declan said, moving for the door.

  Kiki went and held it open for him. “Thanks,” she said. “It's just I hate them making money out of people like you. People who haven't a penny to their name.”

  Declan unlocked his bicycle. Did she think he was poor because he was riding a bike? His mother thought he was a heart consultant. Neither of these things mattered very much. What mattered was what Fiona thought he was. And the other thing that mattered was that she wouldn't meet anyone at the charity gathering on Friday anyone who would take her fancy.

  Judy Murphy's little Jack Russell terriers were no trouble. They got on very well with Dimples, who ignored them loftily and pretended he wasn't with them at all. Declan talked to the dogs as he brought them to the park. Told them about Fiona and how beautiful she was. How sharp and funny. She had traveled too, lived in Greece once, even. She shared a flat with Barbara, but she went to her parents’ house a lot as well. She seemed to like him, Declan told the dogs, but you never knew with women. The problem was if you spoke too soon you might make an eejit of yourself, and if you spoke too late she might have met someone at this terrible charity do. Declan told them that it was much easier being a dog if they only realized it. The Jack Russells agreed with him in supportive barks. Dimples looked disdainful. Then Declan heard a shout.

  “Glory be to God, there you are talking to that pack of hounds and there's not a word out of you at home.” It was his father. Paddy Carroll was on his way to the pub for his evening pint. “Come on and join me, and bring that troop of huskies with you. We can sit outside on the footpath.”

  “I don't want to be going in on top of you and your friends, Dad.”

  “Sure, aren't I proud of my son, the Dog Walker.” His father laughed. “And maybe you could tell me about this girl you fancy”

  “What girl?”

  “Decco, I know that fifty-seven seems very, very old to you, but I haven't forgotten what it was like. I was all over the place like you are now when I first laid eyes on your mother.” Declan hoped his father wasn't going to tell him anything embarrassing o
r intimate. He couldn't take it just now. But Paddy Carroll seemed to be taking a pleasant trip down memory lane. “It was 1980 and the real hit song was ‘Your Eyes Are the Eyes of a Woman in Love,’ and I saw your mother. She had a red velvet skirt and a white blouse. And when we had been dancing for the whole night and I knew this was right, this was the real thing, I said, Are they?’ and she said, Are they what?’ and I said ‘Your eyes, Molly. Are they the eyes of a woman in love?’”

  “And what did Mam say?” Declan was engrossed in spite of himself.

  “She said that they might be, that only time would tell, but hadn't we plenty of time. Do you know, Declan, I couldn't sleep for a week, and how I didn't cut off my full set of fingers at work I don't know.”

  “How soon did she know about whether she was in love or not?” Declan could hardly believe he was having this conversation.

  “Eight weeks,” his father said.

  “And did you play hard to get or anything?”

  “No. I'd be no good at that sort of thing. I have too open a face. And if you want my advice, for what it's worth, Decco, neither would you. I think honesty is our long suit. Decency, you know, reliability in a world of sharks.”

  “I'm sure you're right, Dad.” Declan had never sounded so unconvinced.

  “Declan, to celebrate finishing your first week here and surviving it, will you have a drink with Hilary and me tonight?”

  Declan was pleased, but he had kept hoping that in some way he could have wangled himself a ticket to this charity do. He had even found a dress hire place that stayed open late so that he could grab a tuxedo if it were called for. He knew it was foolish, but he had the most awful foreboding that Fiona was going to meet the love of her life at this golf club. And he had loved her since Tuesday. Yes, it was love like his father had felt for Mam. Something that had developed in a short time because you knew it was right.

  “That's very kind of you, Clara. Can I just call my dad and ask him if he'll walk the dogs for me tonight?”

  “Do you still have Judy Murphy's awful little things every night?” Clara was admiring.

  “They're not too bad when you get to know them. They're deafening, of course, but that's their way.”