An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War

An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War by Patrick Taylor Page A

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back at the Auchinlecks’ home and had nearly declined O’Reilly’s offer to come for a pint.
    O’Reilly looked more closely. Rory was sweating like a pig and pale as parchment, but before Fingal could ask how he was feeling, a man stopped at the table and said, “Excuse me, Doctor O’Reilly.”
    O’Reilly recognised Hall Campbell, the fisherman who’d moved here from Ardglass last year and was buying Jimmy Scott’s fishing boat. Jenny had made a very astute diagnosis of patent ductus arteriosus, a congenital heart defect, which had been successfully repaired surgically. “Yes, Hall?”
    â€œI’ve not seen Doctor Bradley about the place for a brave wee while, but I heard tell she’s come back to us. When you see her, would you tell her I’m going round like a liltie since I got over the operation and say thanks very much.”
    â€œI’ll do that. She was off taking a course, but she’s back now. She’ll be pleased to hear.”
    â€œShe done me a power of good, so she did, sir. I’ve more energy than I’ve had for years.” He laughed. “I need it. The herring’s running great this year, so they are, and we’ve been netting the odd mackerel this week. They should be coming in in shoals soon too.”
    â€œI’m very glad to hear it, Hall. Very glad,” O’Reilly said.
    â€œAye,” said Hall. He tilted his head to one side. “Jimmy tells me you like an evening at the mackerel fishing, sir.”
    O’Reilly, who had just finished his pint, said, “I do that.”
    â€œIf you’d like I’ll let you know when they’re in and I’ll take you out.”
    â€œThat would be wonderful,” O’Reilly said, “and if it would be all right I’ll bring Mrs. O’Reilly too?”
    â€œMore the merrier,” said Hall. “I’ll be running on now, sir, but I’ll see you soon.”
    Now that was something to look forward to. An evening out on Belfast Lough, lines in the water trolling for the silver-and-blue fish—and they were great eating too. He glanced at his watch. Better not be late for dinner.
    Another roar of laughter came from Gerry Shanks’s table and Charlie Gorman yelled, “Five more pints, Willie.” An adjoining table had been pushed over to join Gerry’s and the evening was beginning to develop the attributes of a spontaneous party. A voice said, “Maybe we’ll get Alan Hewitt to give us a tune?”
    O’Reilly’d not mind hearing Helen Hewitt’s dad. He had a great voice. There might be time to listen and have another pint before Kitty expected them home. O’Reilly was about to signal Willie, but Rory said, “Excuse me, sir, I don’t want to spoil the fun—”
    The man’s pint was hardly touched.
    â€œâ€”but could Donal maybe run me back to barracks? I just come over funny there now. I thought it was just a wee turn. Jasus,” he said, “I’m weak as a bloody kitten. I was feeling grand this morning so I’d no reason to go on sick parade, but I’m bollixed now, so I am.”
    O’Reilly reflexively reached for the man’s wrist to take his pulse. The skin was hot and clammy and when he counted for fifteen seconds and multiplied by four, Rory’s pulse was 112 instead of a steady 88. “You have a fever, Rory.”
    The noise from the party, the people at his own table, seemed to have vanished as O’Reilly concentrated on trying to discover how sick Rory was.
    The man’s teeth chattered. “I have something, sir, for I’m bloody well frozen.” He shivered.
    Probably a summer flu, O’Reilly thought. It wouldn’t take long to run him up to Holywood and get him under the care of his regimental doctor, but something made O’Reilly ask, “Have you ever had anything like it before?”
    â€œAye, twice

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