1It’s a Long, Long Road from Which There Is No Return
Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, edged the long-bonnetted Rover out of the car park. “Lord Jasus,” he remarked, “but this twenty-fourth day of April in the year of our Lord 1965 has been one for the book of lifetime memories.” He smiled at Kitty O’Hallorhan in the passenger’s seat. “For all kinds of reasons,” he said, “and now that the Downpatrick Races are over, it’s home to Ballybucklebo.” He accelerated.
Kitty yelled, “Will you slow down?” then said more gently, “Fingal, there are pedestrians and cyclists. I’d rather not see any in the ditch.” The afternoon sun highlighted the amber flecks in her grey eyes. She put slim fingers on his arm.
“Just for you, Kitty.” He slowed and whistled “Slow Boat to China.” “All right in the back?”
“Fine, Fingal,” said O’Reilly’s assistant, young Doctor Barry Laverty.
“Grand, so.” Mrs. Maureen “Kinky” Kincaid was O’Reilly’s housekeeper, as she had been for Doctor Flanagan. Fingal had met Kinky when he’d come as an assistant to Thómas Flanagan in 1938. She’d stayed on when a thirty-seven-year-old O’Reilly returned in 1946 from his service in the Second World War and bought the general practice from Doctor Flanagan’s estate.
They’d been a good nineteen years, he thought as he put the car into a tight bend between two rows of ancient elms. So had his years as a medical student at Dublin’s Trinity College in the ’30s.
“Jasus thundering Murphy.” O’Reilly stamped on the brake. The Rover shuddered to a halt five yards from a man standing waving his arms.
O’Reilly’s bushy eyebrows met. He could feel his temper rise and the tip of his bent nose blanch. “Everyone all right?” he roared, and was relieved to hear a chorus of reassurance. He hurled his door open and stamped up the road. “What in the blue bloody blazes are you doing standing there waving your arms like an out-of-kilter semaphore? I could have squashed you flatter than a flaming flounder-fish.”
The stranger wore Wellington boots, moleskin trousers, and a hacking jacket. He had a russet beard, a squint, and was no more than five foot two. O’Reilly expected him at least to take a step back, apologise, but he stood his ground.
“There’s no need for youse ’til be losing the bap, so there’s not. There’s been an accident, and I’m here to stop big buggers like youse driving into it, so I am. See for yourself.” He pointed to a knot of people and the slowly rotating rear wheel of a motorbike that lay on its side.
“Accident?” said O’Reilly. He spun on his heel. “Barry. Grab my bag and come here.” He turned back. “I’m Doctor O’Reilly. Doctor Laverty’s coming.”
“Doctor? Thank God for that, sir. A motorcyclist took a purler on an oil slick, you know. Somebody’s gone for the ambulance and police.”
“Here you are.” Barry handed O’Reilly his bag. “What’s up?”
“Motorbike accident.” He spoke to the short man. “You’d be safer back down the road where drivers can see you before they’re on top of you.”
“Right enough. I’ll go, sir.” He started walking.
O’Reilly yelled, “Kitty. Kinky. There’s been an accident. Stay with the car.” Kitty would have the wit to pull the car over to the verge. “Come on, Barry.” O’Reilly marched straight to the little crowd. Time to use the voice that could be heard over a gale when he’d served on the battleship HMS Warspite. “We’re doctors. Let us through.”
Ruddy-cheeked country faces turned. Murmuring people shuffled aside and a path opened.
A motorbike lay on the road, an exclamation mark at the end of two long black scrawls of rubber. The engine ticked and the stink of oil and burnt tyre hung over the smell of ploughed earth from a field and the almond scent of whin flowers.
A middle-aged woman knelt beside the rider. The victim’s head was turned away from O’Reilly, but there could only be one owner of that red thatch. A duncher lay a few yards away. It irritated O’Reilly that Ulstermen wouldn’t wear crash helmets but favoured cloth caps, worn with the peak at the back.
He knelt beside the woman and set his bag on the ground. “He’s unconscious, he’s breathing regular, his airway’s clear, his pulse is eighty and regular, and he’s not bleeding. There don’t seem to be any bones broken,” she said, and added, “I’m a first-aider, you know.”
“Thank you, Mrs.?”
“Meehan. Rosie Meehan.”
O’Reilly smiled at her. “Donal? Donal?” he said gently. Fifteen minutes ago he’d seen Ballybucklebo’s arch schemer, Donal Donnelly, riding the motorbike from the car park.
No reply.
O’Reilly grabbed the man’s wrist. Good. Mrs. Meehan was right; the pulse was strong and regular. “Donal,” he said more loudly, “Donal.”
Donal’s face was chalky. He wore his raincoat reversed and buttoned over his back. It was the practice of country men when riding motorbikes. It stopped the wind of passage getting through.
O’Reilly was hesitant to move Donal. He could have a broken neck. Better to wait for the ambulance. The first law of medicine was Primum non nocere. First do no harm. O’Reilly bent lower. “Donal?”
Donal’s eyelids fluttered. “Numuh?”
Better, O’Reilly thought. Donal might only be concussed. If that were the case he should start regaining consciousness. But you could never be certain about head injuries. The damage might range from a simple concussion with complete recovery through to serious brain injury leading to paralysis, permanent brain damage, and even death. O’Reilly gritted his teeth. Donal had a new wife and a wean on the way. O’Reilly’s heart went out to the pregnant Julie Donnelly, née MacAteer. He heard the nee-naw of an approaching siren. O’Reilly leant over. “Donal?”
Donal’s eyes flew open. “Doctor O’Reilly? What are youse doing here?” He struggled to rise. “I shouldn’t be in my bed.”
Donal recognised O’Reilly. That was a good sign even if he was unclear where he was. O’Reilly put a restraining hand on the man’s shoulder. “Lie still. You had an accident.”
Copyright © 2011 by Ballybucklebo Stories Corp.
