Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor by Patrick Taylor Read Free Book Online Page A

chair and stiffly leant forward. “Doctor Corrigan, I’m very new at this, and there’s probably something I don’t understand.” Fingal hesitated, realising that being placatory might well be the road to defeat before he even got started. He straightened and looked the senior man in the eye. “I think you were cruel to that patient. Very cruel.”
    Corrigan inclined his head. “Do ye now?”
    “Yes, I do. And I didn’t like being ordered around, being told to ‘Carry my bag.’”
    “Did ye not?” Something akin to a smile flickered on the little man’s lips. “Well, well.” He folded his arms and leant back.
    Fingal felt as if he’d delivered his best punch and Doctor Corrigan had let it whistle by into thin air. Nor had he mounted a defence or a counterattack. Fingal would have to forge ahead again. “I just don’t think seniors should treat the juniors like personal servants.”
    “Go on.”
    Fingal took a deep breath, folding his arms in front of his chest. “I came here expecting to be treated as a colleague. I don’t think being ordered to carry your bag as if I were a footman is very collegial.”
    “Do ye not?” Doctor Corrigan tilted his head to one side and regarded Fingal. There it was again, the hint of a smile behind the thick lenses. “There’s a thing now.”
    “I do not.” Fingal frowned but ploughed on. “And I didn’t appreciate your simply vanishing when I was examining the victim. I don’t think that was very professional either.” He ran a finger under a collar that now seemed too tight.
    Doctor Corrigan pursed his lips, nodded, his smile widened. “And just so I’ll know where I stand with ye, young fellah, ye’ve been gathering up yer courage all the way back here from Aungier Street to have it out, haven’t ye? Then ye got your fires more stoked up because I was rude to Mary Foster.” His voice was calm, if anything amused. “I don’t believe ye’re a man that would bottle up something that annoys him, are ye?”
    “Well … no. I’m not.” Fingal’s collar was definitely too tight.
    “More power to yer wheel.” Doctor Corrigan was making a sound like dry autumn leaves being blown along a gutter. It wasn’t until Fingal noticed that the little doctor’s shoulders were shaking that he realised the man was laughing.
    Fingal felt his fists clench, knew that the tip of his nose must be blanching. It would have been all right if Doctor Corrigan had reared up, but he was laughing and clearly at, not with, Fingal.
    Before Fingal could speak, Doctor Corrigan continued, and his voice was quiet, serious. “That took real courage for a fellah wet behind the ears to risk losing a job before he got it by tackling a senior man head on, and, boy, ye went at it like a bull at a gate.”
    Fingal started to blush. He had expected an argument, even anger, but not understanding.
    “I told ye the job was yers if I took a shine to ye,” Doctor Corrigan said.
    Fingal hung his head.
    “So for once I’ll explain. I told ye to carry my bag because ye’re young and strong and I wanted to get to the accident as quick as my old legs would carry me. For all we knew the poor bugger could’ve been bleeding to death. Maybe I should have said ‘please,’ but there seemed to be more pressing matters than manners.”
    Fingal saw the truth of it. “I didn’t—”
    “Then, as soon as I saw you knew what you were about, I legged it back here because the waiting room was stiff with customers.”
    Absolutely rational. “I think—” Fingal swallowed and said, “I think I was a bit hasty about that.”
    “Ye were,” said Doctor Corrigan, “but sure isn’t being impetuous the prerogative of the young? And didn’t ye have the courage of yer convictions to act? If ye do come to work here, I’ll expect ye always to do what ye think is right. Will ye promise me that?” He gazed directly into Fingal’s eyes.
    Fingal did not glance away. “I will.” He took a deep breath. “In