Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor (51 page)

“I should have thought you enjoyed having the place to yourself,” Fingal said, eyeing his friend. Bob had been without a girlfriend since the glamorous Bette Swanson had moved on.

“I’m still licking my wounds from Bette’s departure. You know she left me for some entrepreneurial type with pots of money. I suppose a lowly medical researcher isn’t up to dear old Bette’s standards. She was fun, though.” For a moment Bob sounded wistful, but brightened and then said, “Truly, Fingal, I would enjoy your company.”

“Thanks, Bob. I’ll let you know once I’m certain I’ve got the Rotunda job.”

“Can one of youse doctors come quick?” Diarmud had returned. His voice was urgent. “A wee mott’s gone arse over teakettle on the cobbles outside and hurt herself.”

Fingal set his pipe down. “I’ll see to it,” he said. “Probably only bruised feelings, but just in case it’s not—”

“I’m right behind you, Fingal. No point you coming, Bob. You’re hopeless with patients.”

“Hey, steady on,” Bob said, and laughed. “All right, go off and play the white knights.”

Outside, a small crowd had gathered. Fingal simply said, “Coming through,” then knelt. “Hello,” he said, and raising his voice, “I’m a doctor.” Those closest to the victim drew back. She was a petite blonde with the most piercing blue eyes. Her oval face was pale and she was biting her lower lip. Surrounded by a half-dozen scattered books, she sat on the kerb with her feet in the gutter. She was nursing her right wrist with her left hand. Her arm was bent at the elbow, the palm of her hand facing her chest. “What happened?” he asked.

She looked up at him and spoke through clenched teeth. “I was in a hurry, trying to get from Trinity to the flower seller on the corner of Saint Stephen’s Green before she packed up.”

He squatted beside her. No hint of a Liberties accent. Probably comes from a good family and, judging from the books, she’s an undergraduate.

“I feel like such a fool. I tripped over a cobblestone, put out my right hand to save myself…” She grimaced and cradled her hurt. “Oooh, that’s sore. I heard a snap and there was a horrid pain. When I sat up, my wrist looked stupid.” She ground her teeth again. “I think I’ve broken it.”

It was the classic history of how a Colles fracture of the wrist was caused, often in older women. He hadn’t been out of medical school for so long that he also didn’t remember that the fracture was named for a Regius Professor of Surgery here at Trinity in the nineteenth century. “Sounds like it,” Fingal said, “Miss…?”

“Elaine Butler,” she said.

“Doctor Fingal O’Reilly.” He gently laid his fingers on her left wrist. Her skin was chilled and her pulse was rapid, but he didn’t bother counting exactly how fast. She clearly was not in shock.

“Anything I can do?” Charlie asked.

Fingal looked up. “I’m pretty sure she’s got a Colles. Nip in and see what Diarmud has that we could use to splint it and bring a couple of tea towels for bandages.”

“Right.” Charlie left.

“That was Doctor Greer,” Fingal said. “I’ll not disturb your arm now, Miss Butler. I’ll get a good look at it when we put a splint on, but my guess is that you’ll have to go to hospital, have a short anaesthetic, and have it set properly and put in a plaster cast.”

She frowned. “So why splint it now?”

He shrugged. “The ends of broken bones rubbing together can be pretty damn sore, Miss Butler. The splint will immobilise it so we can get you to hospital more comfortably.”

“I see. Thank you, and please call me Elaine.”

“Right.”

Charlie reappeared and handed Fingal two pieces of wood that looked like slats from the back of a chair, and three tea towels. “Here you are, Fingal.”

Fingal accepted them and said, “Charlie, this is Miss Butler. Now, give me a hand with the splint.” He looked into those blue eyes. “I’m sorry, this will hurt for a moment, but we’ll be as quick as we can.”

“Please go ahead.”

Charlie needed no instructing. He held his hands so that one was under her right hand, the other supporting the forearm. When Elaine took her left hand away, the fork-shaped deformity of the injured wrist typical of the Colles fracture was immediately apparent. Fingal took no pleasure from the rightness of his diagnosis as he put one slat along the forearm’s front, with the end of the wood level with the outstretched fingertips. The second slat went on the back of the forearm and in moments they were bandaged in place with two tea towels held in place by strips torn from the third. “Done,” Fingal said. As he had worked, he had hardened his heart to her subdued whimpering. He’d been impressed. Many grown men roared and howled when a Colles fracture was being splinted.

“Thank…” she took a deep breath, “you very much, Doctors.” Although sweat beaded her forehead, she said, “That’s more comfortable already.”

“Now,” said Fingal, “Charlie, why don’t you nip back in, send for the ambulance, and ask Diarmud for another tea towel to use for a sling.”

“Just a minute,” a familiar voice said.

Fingal looked up to see Bob Beresford standing beside them, Elaine Butler’s books under one arm, his Trinity tie held in an outstretched hand to Fingal. “Use this for a sling and I’ll be happy to run Elaine to Sir Patrick Dun’s.”

“Hello, Bob,” Elaine said, and managed a tiny smile.

So, these two knew each other already. He used Bob’s tie by knotting the ends around her neck to form a loop that supported the splinted forearm.

“Small world,” Bob said. “The last time I saw you, you were only fourteen at your big brother’s twenty-first birthday.”

“I’ve grown up,” she said. “I’m in my second year of a BA.”

“You certainly have,” Bob said. “And a student too. So you tripped on one of Duke Street’s cobbles, did you? You always were better on a horse than you were on the ground.”

“Bob.” She grimaced, shook her head, but managed a smile. “I swear to goodness you haven’t changed a bit since you used to help me up onto my pony.”

“I hope not changing’s a good thing,” Bob said, running an appraising eye over the young woman.

And why not, thought Fingal. They already knew each other and it wasn’t as if Bob was directly involved in her care. There was no doctor/patient bond and if Bob was taking a fancy to young Elaine more power to his wheel. He’d always had an eye for the ladies.

“The car’s on Grafton Street,” Bob said. “Here, let me help you up.”

The girl got to her feet and then sagged against Bob. “Gosh, my knees feel like jelly.”

Bob handed the books to Charlie, bent, and gently scooped Elaine up, avoiding contact with her arm. “Bring the books, Charlie. I’ll carry you, Elaine. You don’t look like you’re in shock, but adrenaline leaving your system can do strange things.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a doctor too?”

“Tis strange but true. Come along, Doctor Greer. Carry Miss Butler’s books, will you?”

“Thank you so much, Doctors,” she said, and allowed her head to rest on Bob’s chest.

“Good luck,” Fingal said as he watched the little party move away, and wondered if he had just witnessed a simple Colles fracture or the rejuvenation of Robert Saint John Beresford’s love life. On that front, there’d be no such luck for Fingal. He shrugged and went back into the pub to find Diarmud taking away his and Charlie’s pints and replacing them with new ones.

“The last ones had gone as flat as feckin’ flounder fishes,” Diarmud said. “Fresh ones on us, and t’anks, Fingal.”

“You’re welcome. But I’m afraid you’ve lost your tea towels, Diarmud. I’d to send the young lady to hospital.”

Diarmud laughed. “Sure hasn’t Byrnes got more tea towels than there’s grains of shingle on the beach at Dingle? Nobody’s goin’ to miss the feckin’ t’ings.” He headed back to the bar.

Charlie appeared. “We put her in the back of the motorcar and Bob’s gone off. Those two have known each other since Elaine Butler was in pinafores.”

“I suspect Bob has made a new conquest,” Fingal said. He nodded at the table. “Diarmud’s poured us fresh pints.”

“Thank you, Diarmud,” Charlie called, then sat and took a pull on his. “Mother’s milk.” He wiped the foam from his upper lip. “Funny,” he said, “minutes ago Bob was reminiscing about us being in here pondering our futures. Wonder where we’ll all be this time next year? I’ve a suggestion to make about that.”

“Go on.” He picked up and relit his discarded pipe.

“I don’t want to lose touch with my friends once I go to Belfast. I know we’ll
say
we’ll get together, but life gets busy. We’ll both be in new jobs, Bob may have a new girl in his life, Cromie’s turning into a bookworm because he’s finding the surgery fascinating. It’ll be the first Friday in December at the end of this week. Why don’t the four of us, you and Bob, me and Cromie, the old four musketeers from Trinity days, solemnly agree to convene here in Davy Byrnes on the first Friday of December every year, catch up, renew our old friendship, find out how everybody’s doing?”

Fingal thought for a moment and the more he thought, the more he liked the idea. “Begod, Charlie, you’ve said a mouthful. It’s a brilliant idea.”

“In that case,” said Charlie, “let’s drink to it, and,” he raised his voice, “when these are finished, Diarmud, we’ll have the same again.”

50

Words Are Also Actions

“It was a brilliant idea, Fingal, to have the Culloden Hotel cater and provide the glassware and china,” Kitty said, loading a tray with plates of canapés warm from the oven. On this occasion the with-drinks nibbles had not been prepared by the redoubtable Mrs. Maureen “Kinky” Kincaid, who, after a strong but futile protest, was very definitely off duty tonight.

“Most of the invitees have arrived and are upstairs in the lounge,” Fingal said, helping himself to a cocktail sausage from a plate waiting its turn to be put on the tray. It was Kinky and Archie’s night, their promised engagement party on Saturday, December the fourth. “I think we managed to invite everyone who should be here. And Kinky’s family was wise to decide not to come up from Country Cork. There was a whiff of snow in the village this afternoon and the roads could very well be treacherous.”

“They’ll come up for the wedding in April,” Kitty said.

“Tonight is Kinky and Archie’s night. Now, I think we’re still waiting for Flo and,” he sighed, “Bertie Bishop.” The front doorbell rang.

“I’ll go,” Fingal said, putting the tray on the shelf—and snaffling another sausage.

He let Helen Hewitt in. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “The trains were running slow. There’s a lot more snow up by Sydenham.”

“Glad you could come,” O’Reilly said. “How are you getting on at Queen’s?”

“Och, it’s great, sir. And thanks again for fixing me up with a job next summer.”

“All Kitty’s doing. How are the exams going?”

“Remember back in October when I told you about the boys making the row in Doctor Emaleaus’s lecture about static electricity and Van der Graaf?”

O’Reilly chuckled. “I do.” He hung her duffle on the coatstand.

“And you told me to study it in case Doctor Emaleaus took a bit of revenge for not letting him finish that lecture. Guess what question was on the physics paper?” Her grin was wicked. “Your man Van der Graaf’s generator. I’ve passed physics and botany. Only chemistry and zoölogy to do next June and then after my summer job I’ll be in second year and only have five more years to go. It’s wonderful.” She sighed with every indication of bliss at the prospect. For a moment, O’Reilly envied the energy of the young. For him, the prospect sounded daunting.

“I’m delighted,” O’Reilly said. “Now trot on up and have fun. I’ve some Babycham in an ice bucket for you.”

“Just the jibby-job,” she said.

As Helen climbed the stairs, Fingal went back to the kitchen. “Helen Hewitt,” he said picking up the loaded tray. “Back in a jiffy.”

He delivered the canapés but was interrupted on his way back to the kitchen by Jenny letting herself in.

“Jenny.”

“Just made it, Fingal,” she said. “It was snowing to beat Bannagher at the Holywood Arches. I’ll be surprised if Terry gets here.”

“But you did,” O’Reilly said. “How was the patient?” Jenny had agreed to call on her way home with Hall Campbell, the fisherman whose patent ductus arteriosus had been successfully closed surgically and who had been discharged yesterday.

“Still a bit sore, but he’s doing fine.” She looked O’Reilly in the eye. “And that job in Belfast I’ve been investigating? Very interesting. When you get a moment, Fingal, can we have a word?”

He grimaced. “It’s Kinky’s party. Tomorrow?”

She looked crestfallen.

“Okay. Hang on. I’ll take the tray in to Kitty and be right back. Why don’t you go into the dining room.”

In the kitchen, he found Kitty pulling a tray of vol-au-vents and stuffed mushroom caps out of the oven. “Jenny needs to talk to me for a minute. Can you cope?”

“Course. I’m hardly being Julia Child here. The Culloden’s done everything beautifully. Take your time.”

“Thanks, love.”

Jenny was staring out the window as snowflakes drifted lazily in the twilight. He went in and didn’t bother to close the door. “So,” he said, “what have you to tell me?”

“I’ve had two meetings with Doctor Graham Harley, the gynaecolgist. The second one was this afternoon.” She was wringing her fingers so forcibly they were blanching.

“And?”

“I’ll give you some background. A Canadian doctor, David Boyes, introduced a province-wide cervical cancer screening in British Columbia starting in 1960. He’s been getting Papanicolaou cervical smears taken from every eligible woman, having the slides read, and then following up if necessary. It’s working. Cervical cancer rates are falling there. Doctor Harley knows Doctor Boyes and wants to start a similar screening programme in Ulster—in Belfast and Northern County Down—but aiming to cover the whole province eventually.”

“Anything that stops women getting cervical cancer would be a blessing. It’s a horrid disease,” O’Reilly said.

“Graham’s got a budget from the Cancer Authority and the Northern Ireland Hospitals Authority to train doctors and pay their wages once they’re trained and working.”