A Dublin Student Doctor Read Free Page B

in my study.” He rose.
    Fingal glanced at Ma, who nodded encouragement. Lars rolled his eyes skyward. During their younger years, an invitation to the study from Father had always been a prelude to punishment or a dressing down. Father, with a capital F , never Daddy, Dad, or Da, had strict standards. Fingal had never been one for unquestioning obedience, so such trips to Father’s lair had been frequent. As Fingal walked along the high-ceilinged parquet-floored hall he wondered, and not for the first time, if his contrary streak was a reaction against Father’s standards.
    Fingal went into the sanctum sanctorum, the holy of holies. He wasn’t in trouble, but he wasn’t looking forward to the interview. He knew they were going to replough a well-turned furrow and he was determined not to give in. He knew what he wanted from life and was not to be swayed.
    “Please close the door and sit down.” Father sat in a high-backed chair in front of an open rolltop desk. There were neat piles of papers, an open volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and today’s Irish Times.
    Above the desk hung his M.A., 1904, from Queen’s University Belfast and his D.Phil., 1907, from Oxford. Degrees befitting his position as professor of classics and English literature at Trinity College Dublin. He’d moved the family here from Holywood, County Down, when he’d accepted the post. The Victorian, sixteen-room, semi-detached house on Lansdowne Road was a short cycle ride from the college.
    Fingal walked past floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The room smelt of the dusty old books. Father wanted an academic career for his younger son, a life, as far as Fingal was concerned, that would be as dry as this library. He had other dreams.
    He glanced through the window to where the stands of Lansdowne Road Rugby Grounds loomed against a soft autumn sky. One day, he told himself, he’d put on the green jersey with a sprig of shamrock embroidered on the left breast and play rugby football for his country. For now he’d better pay attention to Father because this conversation was going to concern Fingal’s other, more important, aspiration. Since their last discussion of the matter, Fingal knew that Father would be expecting his son to have changed his mind. He bloody well hadn’t. He sat and crossed his legs, aware of Father’s disapproving look at his son’s scuffed boots.
    Father’s own shoes were brightly polished. “It’s September,” he said. “Your school days are over. You’ve very good marks in your Leaving Certificate. It’s time to make the decision about your university future.”
    Fingal said, “I’m going to register at Trinity next week. I have the five-shilling fee.”
    “Good.” Father steepled his fingers. “You’ve thought about what I said? You’ll be reading for a science degree?” He smiled and there was warmth in his brown eyes. “You’re going to make me proud of you, son.”
    “I hope so, Father.” Fingal sat erectly. “I truly appreciated your advice. I’ve given it a great deal of consideration.” You’re not going to like what’s coming, he thought, but I will not back down.
    “I’m delighted to hear it. You owe it to your forefathers. We O’Reillys go back a long way, descendants of the O’Connor kings of Connacht. Our name, Ó’Raghallaigh, is taken from the Irish, ragh meaning ‘race,’ and ceallach or ‘sociable.’”
    Fingal had heard it all before. He knew Father was, in rugby terms, kicking for touch, slowing the pace by putting the ball out of play to give himself time to formulate what he really wanted to say. Take your time, Father. I’m in no rush for the fireworks to begin.
    “In mediaeval days we were renowned traders,” he smiled, “so famous the word ‘reilly’ became a coloquial term for money.”
    “You’re a grand man for the names, Father,” Fingal said. “You gave me ‘Fingal,’ a fair foreigner, and ‘Flahertie,’ a prince.”
    “I