Free Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor by Patrick Taylor

Charlie doesn’t. If it’s what you want, stick at it. If it’s not, think about my opinion, after I’m gone.”
    If Fingal had any remaining reservations about taking the job, Father had put them to rest. The lump in Fingal’s throat was threatening to strangle him. He stared at the floor, then at his father’s pallid, wasted, but smiling face. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, Dad.” And as he poured more tea for himself, Fingal O’Reilly wished he could ignore the social convention that prohibited grown men from embracing. “And I will remember.”
    “Good,” said Professor O’Reilly. “And now, if it’s still warm, I think I will have that cup of tea.”

8
     
    With Aching Hands and Bleeding Feet
     
    O’Reilly listened to the rain hammering against the surgery windows at Number One Main Street. Bloody Ulster summer squalls. He headed for the waiting room, but Kinky, holding the hall telephone, stopped him. “Before you see your next patient, sir, his lordship’s on the line.”
    “Fine. Thanks, Kinky.” He took the receiver. “John?”
    “Fingal. Glad I caught you. I’ve just discovered I’d made a ghastly oversight. I do apologise.”
    O’Reilly frowned. “Oversight?”
    “Yes. Myrna’s accident and all that. I muddled up the guest list for tomorrow. You and Kitty should have been invited. It’s the opening day of grouse season.”
    Indeed it was. O’Reilly, who frequently was invited to shoot on the marquis’s moor in County Antrim, had been disappointed not to have been asked this year, but understood how his lordship had to share his favours throughout that county too. “Don’t worry about it, John.”
    “Myrna usually handles these things. I’m glad we got her home yesterday…”
    Despite his good intentions O’Reilly had not been able to make time to visit her in hospital, but Cromie had kept O’Reilly up to date on her progress.
    “I found your invitation wedged under a pile of tack catalogues this morning, so needless to say it didn’t get posted,” he said with a laugh. “Any chance you two could still come? I’d love to have you both there, and Arthur’s such a help with pushing up birds and the retrieving.”
    “I think so. I’ll have to arrange cover, but I’m sure Doctor Bradley will oblige. She’s out now. I’m not sure about Kitty. She’s off today, but I think she’s on duty tomorrow. I’ll phone you after lunch.”
    “I’ll look forward to hearing.”
    O’Reilly replaced the receiver. It would be a splendid day out on the moors near Loughareena, County Antrim, and, he thought as he marched along the hall, no distance from Ballymena. He wondered if Barry might be free for dinner that evening. It would be good to catch up with how he was getting on.
    O’Reilly opened the door to his waiting room and admired the roses on the wallpaper. Their bright hues always managed to make him feel cheerful even on the greyest day, like today. He said to the remaining patients, “Is it Colin or yourself, Lenny?” as he bent and scratched the droopy ear of Murphy, Colin’s new puppy.
    Lenny Brown pointed at Colin’s bare and grubby left foot. “Colin again. Sorry, Doc. He cut his foot a few days ago, but it’s getting worser, so it is. It was all right this morning when he went over to Gerry Shanks’s place so Mairead could mind him. The missus had til go til Belfast and I’ve my work. Mairead brung him til the building site half an hour ago because he said it had started to hurt like bedamned. I took one look at his foot and brung him right here, so I did.”
    O’Reilly shook his head. “In the wars again, eh?”
    “Yes, Doctor,” Colin said, and sniffed.
    “Come on then, let’s have a look at you, but leave Murphy here. He’ll be all right if we shut the door.”
    “Be a good dog, Murphy,” Colin said.
    Lenny bent, then lifted and carried Colin. “He was getting about rightly at brekky time, but he can’t walk on it now.” As O’Reilly led