In those days, before global warming, I always began to worry about impending exams at the first cut of grass in UCC. By the third cut, it was too late and no amount of cramming could make up for inadequate exam preparation. It was thus a great relief to have passed my Second Medical examinations, especially those papers set by the eccentric Professor of Anatomy. By passing this examination, I would now move on from cadavers to live patients. Already I had been asked for my opinion and advice on medical matters. My protests that I was not yet a qualified doctor fell on deaf ears.
I knew that this would be my last long summer holiday. It was nice of Daisy to ask me to lunch and I was looking forward to meeting Barty again.
The door of the holiday home was open. I walked into the kitchen. Steam rose from an open pot on the Aga cooker. I breathed in delicious aromas of cooking mutton stew. Shiny pots hung above. The copper taps on the Belfast sink were gleaming and the linoleum floor was spotless.
Daisy was standing with her back towards me, facing the range. I noticed how thin her hair had become. She was wearing a loose-fitting house coat with a faded pattern. Without turning, Daisy said, “Congratulations on passing your exams when so many ploughed it. Barty is looking forward to seeing you. He has great plans for the Summer.”
“It’s very kind of you to have me to lunch. I hate putting you to the bother, especially when you are on holiday,” I said.
“Sure, aren’t you one of our own. Go into the front room to meet Barty. I will call you when lunch is ready.”
It was almost a year since we had met. His face was fuller. He beamed. “Wisha, good to see you, Jimmy-boy. How’s tricks?” he said, grabbing me in a bear hug.
“Hold a while there; I don’t want any broken ribs. I suppose we should genuflect to you after three years in the seminary,” I said.
“Cut it out, Jim. Gimme a break. I am on me holliers as well. By the way, congrats on the exam. You must feel like a real doctor now.”
“Hold on, I am not there yet. I have three more years to go,” I said.
Daisy called out that lunch was served. The table was set with the best crockery. A silver teapot, incongruously encased in a knitted woollen tea cosy, stood on a stand. Crocheted doilies covered the jugs of milk and cream. A dish of butter balls and a basket of freshly cut bread was mid-table. Daisy decanted the bubbling stew into a tureen, placed it on a side table and started to serve it out.
Before we ate, Barty said Grace, in Latin.
“You know I have the diabetes? Mind you, the three boys all weighed close to fourteen pounds and I remember hearing that big babies are a warning that diabetes might develop later. By the way, I am told I have type 1. Does that mean there are other types?” said Daisy, looking at me.
“Yes, there is also type 2. That is more common. Unlike yours, it can be controlled by diet and tablets.”
“Yerrah, I thought I would never be able to manage the injections, but I am now used to pronging myself twice a day,” said Daisy.
I could see Barty was uncomfortable with his mother’s line of conversation, so I began to tell them anecdotes of my recent exam. I recounted how I had stood in the dissecting room with its ubiquitous smell of formalin, surrounded by marble slabs on which were specimens of limbs, torsos and skulls. The Professor had taken me to the far end of the room. On a slab was a body covered by a sheet. To my horror, I saw it was shivering. Pulling back the sheet he revealed an army ‘volunteer’, wearing nothing but underpants and a beret. I had been quizzed on the surface anatomy of the young man who looked pale enough to be a real corpse and was clearly terrified.
When we finished, the Professor had pulled the white sheet up again, covering the whole body of the young man. He had then taken me to a table covered in bones and instructed me to “Pick a bone!”
“The guy sounds as if he has a screw loose,” said Barty.
As the meal progressed, Daisy excused herself from the table. She took an Alka Seltzer tablet from the cupboard, put it in a glass and added water. She brought the fizzing drink back to the table. “Sorry, I have bad indigestion. It must be the chips I had in the village last night,” she said.
When we finished our main course, she put a dish with a large pudding of summer fruits on the table. “I have to pass on dessert, much as I would like to join you. I am on a strict diet and even then, I am finding it hard to lose weight.”
Just then, her husband, Teddy came in. A low-sized man, he was balding. Large tufts of hair grew out of his ears.
“Hello Ted. God, don’t some have the life of Riley to be in a cushy job that has you home by lunchtime? Sit down and I will serve up. You are lucky the boys didn’t finish all the stew. They have just started their dessert. I’m being a good girl, avoiding the pudding.”
“Yerra, take no notice of them Doctors. You are still a fine figger of a woman.” He turned to me saying, “Congrats on the exam Jim. Sure, you are more or less a doctor now.”
I thanked him. As nobody else had corrected him, I decided to leave the matter of my qualification for another time.
A week later, my father was busy gardening when I got home from the tennis club. As ever, he was critical. Apparently, I had not watered the lettuce and tomatoes to his satisfaction. Nor had I hoed the potato ridges properly.
“You should be studying next years’ curriculum or doing a proper summer’s job, rather than dossing around with your friends,” he said. Fortunately, my mother called him, saying it was time they got dressed to go to the city for the Fresh Air Fund summer dinner.
When they left, I switched on the PYE television to see Hancock’s Half Hour. I felt I needed to calm down. I felt exasperated. It seemed nothing I did was enough to satisfy my father. Soon, I was laughing out loud.
Half way through the programme, Barty walked in. He joined me in a cup of tea and we watched out the programme together. We talked about his studies. I asked if he was instructed in other world religions, such as Buddhism and Hinduism.
“Arragh no, haven’t we enough on our plate without having to learn about them. Sure, aren’t they all pagans! By the way, will your father soon be down from the city?”
I told him my father had gone back to the city to a dinner and planned to stay on in Cork that night.
“Well, would you mind coming back with me to see my mother. She got the coma and is not waking up. We are not worried as we knew people with diabetes could get a coma. It does seem to be going on a long time. Daddy sent one of the brothers into Crosshaven, to see if Dr. Mulcahy could have a look at her. He may be there by now.”
The sea mist was rolling in and the Roches Point fog horn boomed out MOO MOO. On the way, we made plans to go fishing and camping during the summer.
“I can’t go dancing but there is nothing stopping me going to The Merries in Crosser with you,” said Barty.
We laughed together as he recalled our last outing to The Merries. Us boys were all put to shame when Angela Bowen had outscored us all with her powerful hits on the punch bag. When we arrived, Teddy was sitting reading the Cork Examiner. He inclined his head forward, looking over his reading glasses.
“Daisy has got the coma. We are not surprised as your father told us it was a complication that could occur in diabetes. She is inside in the bedroom if you want to see her.”
Barty showed me to the bedroom door. Inside, it was dark, so I pulled back the brocade curtains. Summer light dulled by sea mist came in shafts. Dust motes hung in the air. Daisy was in the centre of the bed. She was pale. Her eyes were open and staring. I began to feel very uneasy. I leant forward to take her pulse. Her hand was icy cold. I could not feel a pulse. Around her blue lips were white crystals with a cloying sweet scent. I took a mirror from the dresser and held it over her mouth, but no mist formed.
Barty came to the bedroom door and said, “Is she waking up yet. You will see we gave her some sugar earlier, but it didn’t seem to do any good.”
“No, she is not waking up,” I said.
“Surely, she can’t stay in the coma forever?” said Barty.
“Well, not really. I am afraid your mother is dead.”
Barty’s lips trembled. His eyes widened. His face went white and he began to shake. “Are you sure?”
“Well, she is stone cold, there is no pulse and she isn’t breathing.”
We walked out. Teddy put down his newspaper. “Is the coma over?” he asked.
“No, I am afraid she is dead,” I said.
He jumped up and ran towards the bedroom shouting, “No, no, she can’t be dead. It is only a coma. Daisy, Daisy, talk to me.”
Minutes later, Dr. Mulcahy arrived and confirmed the diagnosis. Teddy was distraught. He wailed loudly. We tried to calm him down. Through the tears, he begged us to go to the city and get my father.
Barty drove me to the Imperial Hotel, where the function was being held. In the ballroom, my father was sitting at the top table. The chairman was standing at the rostrum speaking. I beckoned to my father, who got up and made his way over to me. “What in Gods’ name is going on?” he said.
I told him of the call I had to see Daisy, as the family said she had gone into a coma. I explained I had pronounced her dead. Before I could tell him that the local GP had confirmed the death, he exploded. “You had no right to be playing at doctor and you, only a second-year medical student. Wait outside. I will tell your mother and we will drive down in our car.”
When we got back to the house, my parents commiserated with Teddy, whose face was crumpled and tear-stained. He was slouched in his chair. My father gave him an injection of a sedative and he began to calm down.
“I will issue a death certificate tomorrow. I am sorry I was not around earlier. Jim had no business getting involved at his level of training.”
My face reddened with embarrassment. I decided to say nothing. Several cups of tea later, my parents left. As I stood up to leave, Teddy called me over. “Don’t worry Jim. We are grateful for your compassion and understanding. If you keep that up, you have a great career ahead.”