Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor by Patrick Taylor Page B

his ease with Kitty. “I think it’s because of Ma. As long as I can remember she’s worked for the less well-off. I’ve always admired her for it. I love medicine and all the time I was a student working with the poor I’ve felt I was doing something really useful. And, Kitty? It’s a good feeling.”
    “I know. Nursing at Baggot Street Hospital’s like that too. You know I got all worked up about the poor in Tallaght, my part of Dublin, and that’s why I picked nursing when I realised after a couple of years at art school I couldn’t make a living as an artist. I’ve never regretted that choice, so I do understand what you’re saying, and I respect you for it,” she said. “I think it takes someone special to want to do it.” Her smile was broad. “And I think you’re special, Doctor O’Reilly.”
    Fingal glowed. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Thank you very much.”
    He felt the pressure of her hand and knew she was telling him, as she had last year in a tearoom on Abbey Street, that she loved him. He started to apologise again for sending her away, readied himself to make the leap and tell her he loved her. “Kitty, I’m sorry—”
    “Your wine, sir. Will you taste it?”
    Blast. He’d tell Kitty his feelings later. There was no real urgency. He felt—he felt comfortable with her. “No, thank you. Please let the lady try it.” He ignored the waitress’s raised eyebrow as she poured. So what if women never sampled the wine? Kitty knew her stuff in the oenophile department.
    “Perfect,” Kitty said.
    The waitress poured, shoved the bottle in an ice bucket, and produced two menus. “Here you are,” she said. “I’ll give you a minute.”
    “Cheers.” Fingal sipped. Cool, crisp, fruity—and not a patch on a well-pulled pint of stout, but tonight was Kitty’s night. “Here’s to your bright eyes.” Grey flecked with amber. He drank again.
    Kitty smiled and said, “Thank you,” and consulted the menu. “Choices,” she said, “decisions, decisions.”
    Fingal read the table d’hôte menu, didn’t fancy roast lamb tonight so turned to the à la carte.
    A discreet cough drew his attention to the waitress, who now stood by the table, pencil and order pad in hand. “Have sir and madam decided?”
    “Sorry,” Fingal said. “Give us a tick.”
    The waitress sniffed and said, “Take your time. God keeps makin’ plenty of it, but Chef’s not the Almighty and he wants to close the kitchen.”
    “Kitty?”
    “I’ll have the lamb chops please, and mash.”
    “Sirloin, rare, and chips. We’ll get veg?”
    “You will.”
    “Terrific,” said Fingal, “and sorry to keep Chef waiting.”
    The waitress tutted and tossed her head. “Sure aren’t all chefs the same; believe they’re no goat’s toe, but see our one? Our one t’inks he’s a philosopher. Profound, like.” She shook her head and curled her lip. “He’s about as deep as a feckin’ frying pan—and twice as dense.” She left.
    Fingal laughed. Slapped his knee. “Did you hear that? ‘Deep as a frying pan.’ I can’t help liking Dubliners. Where else in the world would you hear the likes?”
    “Probably,” she said, “nowhere outside the city, but definitely in a practice at Aungier Place.”
    He laughed. “As they’d say in those parts, ‘True on you, Kitty. True on you.’” He exaggerated the first syllable of true so it sounded like “tuhroo.”
    Her grip on his hand tightened. “Good Lord, Fingal,” she said, “you are half a Dubliner even if your folks did bring you here from the wee north, and now you’re sounding like a Northsider at that.” And she laughed. “I know when you get settled into this job you’re going to love it.”
    “And if Charlie comes in I’ll only have to work one weekend in three and I’ll have evenings off midweek—”
    “And that’ll leave plenty of time for,” she hesitated, “your family.”
    He nodded. Kitty needn’t say any more. He knew she