Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor Read Free Page B

door.”
    “Jasus Murphy.” He stood in front of the youth and shot his jaw. “Not more bloody fighting, Eamon?”
    “No, Doctor, sir. Dere’s been an accident on Aungier Street. A tram hit a man on a bike. I was on the tram and the driver braked so hard I banged me feckin’ nose.”
    “Is the cyclist still down?”
    “I t’ink so.”
    “Right. Eamon, take yerself along the hall. Sister O’Donaghugh will fix up that nose. It’s a bloody good thing midwives train as general nurses first. Doctor O’Reilly, we are going to run there straightaway and see what we can do. Carry my bag. It’s there,” he pointed, “beside the door.”

3
     
    I’m Not Even a Bus; I’m a Tram
     
    Fingal trotted, holding the battered leather bag. “Carry my bag”? Was he being offered the job of doctor or bloody medical orderly? He’d been used to giving orders as an officer in the Royal Naval Reserve. Next time he’d tell Corrigan to carry his own damn bag.
    They ran out of Aungier Place and onto Aungier Street, halted, and looked right to a stopped tram. The pole that connected the tram to overhead wires drooped over one side. A small crowd had gathered and as Fingal passed it he noticed the mangled remains of a bike crushed under a front bogey.
    The tram driver was bent over a man lying on the cobblestones. Doctor Corrigan tried to push his way through the press of bodies with Fingal hot on his heels.
    A man in a duncher and patched jacket muttered, “Quit your barging, you bollix,” but a woman beside him said, “Houl’ yer wheest. Dat’s Doctor Corrigan.”
    “I’m a doctor, too,” Fingal said, trying to get past.
    The man in the duncher squinted at Fingal, then smiled and said, “Hello dere, Big Fellah.” He put his hands on his hips and yelled, “All right, you bunch of bowsies, quit your rubbernecking. Dere’s two doctors here, so move back and let the dogs see the rabbit.”
    As the crowd started to move aside Fingal thought, This man must have seen me out on my rounds as a medical student only months ago. Being recognised by folks like Finnoula Curran and now this fellow was something he’d enjoyed while working among the tenement dwellers. He knew it was one of his reasons for wanting to practice here. His own upbringing had been privileged, yet he felt a sense of belonging whenever he was in the tenement slums of Dublin. Perhaps it was akin to the feeling of community he’d always known from his earliest days growing up in a small village in Ulster and later in the enclosed world of his boys’ boarding school, the camaraderie of his medical class.
    Finally Doctor Corrigan and Fingal stood beside the tram driver, who stared at the new arrivals. “I couldn’t have missed him. Honest to God, sirs.” He was pale and trembling.
    “I’m sure ye couldn’t,” Doctor Corrigan said. “It was an accident, and I know about bikes and tram tracks. Anyone who lives in Dublin does.”
    “T’ank you, sir.” Fingal heard the relief in the man’s voice. “The conductor’s sent for the Peelers and the ambulance.”
    “Good. Now, Doctor O’Reilly, if ye’ll take a look at the patient?” Doctor Corrigan stood aside.
    “Me?” Fingal frowned.
    “No. The other Doctor O’Reilly,” Doctor Corrigan said, and shook his head. “Yes, of course—ye. Get on with it, young man.”
    Sarky bugger, Fingal thought, and wondered if this was going to be some kind of on-the-spot practical examination of his clinical skills. He cocked his head, darted a glance at the senior man, then knelt by the patient, setting Doctor Corrigan’s bag on the ground. By God, Corrigan could carry the bag back when they’d finished here. If Fingal was going to work with the man it would have to be established at the start that while he might be Corrigan’s junior, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly was nobody’s skivvie.
    He turned his attention to the patient, whose head was pillowed on the driver’s jacket. “I’m Doctor O’Reilly,”