Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor Read Online Free Page B

splint your ankle,” the tall one said.
    John-Joe took a drag, then stubbed out his cigarette. “All right, but go easy, for feck’s sake.”
    Fingal stood back. The attendants would be far more skilled than a physician at splinting broken bones, and indeed it wasn’t long before the break was swaddled in a pillow and bandages and immobilised so the jagged ends of broken bone wouldn’t grate together and cause pain when the patient was moved.
    “Now, Doctor, could yiz steady the ankle while me and me mate get yer man here on the stretcher? Alfie, take you yer man’s shoulders, I’ll take the right leg, and Doc, lift the pillow.”
    Fingal bent and grasped the pillow and in moments John-Joe had been hoisted and lowered onto a stretcher.
    “That’s her now,” said the tall one. “T’anks, Doc.”
    Fingal straightened. “You’ll be grand now, John-Joe,” he said. As a medical student he’d got into trouble for getting to know his patients by name, as people not as cases, but damn it all, he liked people.
    “T’anks, Doc, you’re a grand skin.”
    “You’ll be fine.” Those thanks meant a great deal to Fingal. He wasn’t a hair-shirt-wearing do-gooder and he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that being respected, looked up to, wasn’t soul-warming too.
    “And never worry about the missus,” the big Garda said. “I’ll have a constable round on his bike to let her know.”
    Although his face was pale and beads of sweat stood on his forehead and upper lip, John-Joe managed to smile. “Tell him to keep his wheels out of the feckin’ tram lines,” he said.
    Fingal laughed. Dubliners. Smashed ankle, job prospects up in smoke, and John-Joe could still manage a joke.
    “Can I ask a question, Doctor?” John-Joe said.
    “Fire away.”
    “What kind of a doctor are yiz, anyroad? Some kind of specialist?”
    “That,” said Fingal, “in the immortal words Sean O’Casey wrote in Juno and the Paycock, is ‘a darlin’ question, Captain. A daaarlin’ question.’” He laughed. “I’m just finished medical school so I’m no particular kind at all—yet. But I enjoy working in Dublin. I was in the middle of an interview for a job in Aungier Street Dispensary when we heard about the accident.”
    “Wit’ Doctor Corrigan w’at was here? He’s a sound man. Sound.”
    That a local thought so was more promising.
    “Fair play to you, sir. I hope you gets it,” John-Joe said.
    “So do I. And after meeting you, Mister Finnegan, I know this is what I want to do. Thank you.”
    “Happy to help, Doc.” He stuck out his hand.
    Fingal grasped it without hesitation. He had never forgotten Ma’s teaching, straight from Rudyard Kipling, If you can walk with kings and princes nor lose the common touch. Even as an apprentice in the merchant marine and later a sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy Reserve, he’d never felt distant from the crew.
    “If I get a chance, I’ll try to drop in and see you in Sir Patrick’s, John-Joe.” The hospital was no distance from Fingal’s home, and he was always curious about all his patients’ progress.
    The attendants hoisted the stretcher and started to load John-Joe into the ambulance. “Good luck to you,” Fingal called. He turned to the Garda. “Will you need me, officer?”
    “Couple of quick routine questions, sir.” He licked the end of a pencil and started in. It wasn’t long before he said, “That’s it, sir. I don’t t’ink we’ll be needing you in court.”
    “I hope not,” Fingal said. He bent, picked up Doctor Corrigan’s bag, and turned to go.
    The sergeant said, “I heard you tellin’ John-Joe about lookin’ for a job in Aungier Place. It’s part of my beat and it’s a pretty tough district.” The sergeant made a huuuhing noise, compressed his lips, and shook his head. “I hear bein’ a G.P. there, drawin’ a wage, and treating the poor folks for free can be a hard row to hoe. Good luck to you, sir, if you do get it.”
    And