An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War

by Patrick Taylor

  There was some relief to be had in port with occasional four-hour runs ashore to Greenock, when O’Reilly and Tom and sometimes Davy Jones or the young gunnery officer Wilson Wallace would dine on meals prepared from the limited choice of wartime rationing. Once they had attended a concert given by the singer and comedienne Gracie Fields. O’Reilly still chuckled when he remembered her singing “The Biggest Aspidistra in the World” and “Walter, Lead Me to the Altar.” After these brief shore leaves sick bay would inevitably be busy treating crew members for the damage from bar brawls or doses of venereal disease.

  And, once in a while he’d been able to telephone Deirdre. Just hearing her voice had warmed him through.

  Then back to sea, where Warspite would pitch and roll horribly in force-nine gales, the winds roaring at more than forty knots and the thirty-foot-high Atlantic waves marching across the ocean from horizon to horizon. More often than not, Fingal would be safe belowdecks on the big ship, but sometimes, when the claustrophobia and blighted air would overcome him, he’d go out on deck and watch the wind tearing spindrift off the combers and listen to the banshee keening in the big ship’s rigging. She was more than thirty thousand tons, but the seas treated her roughly. It was madness to be at sea in such conditions. But the convoys had to get through or Britain would starve, run out of fuel—and lose the war. All that could be said in favour of the weather was that it made the task of the enemy submarines well nigh impossible.

  O’Reilly grumbled to himself, finished the last of the forms, stretched, and stood. “Nearly home,” he said to Ronnie Barker and Bert Fletcher.

  “We are that, and if it’s all right with you, sir, I think we can let Chief Barker go a little early,” Fletcher said. “I can hold the fort until the afternoon watch comes on if you’d like to get your packing finished.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Fletcher,” O’Reilly said. “I’d appreciate it very much. See you both in two weeks.”

  “Ta very much, Fletch,” Barker said. “I’ll do the same for you soon, and you have fun back home, sir.”

  “I will,” O’Reilly said, grabbing his cap and heading for the way out, “believe me I will.”

  * * *

  It had taken the remains of yesterday, last night, and this morning, all the while consumed with impatience, but he’d made it to Belfast. Now, after running half the length of the platform and hurrying through the ticket barrier, O’Reilly couldn’t find her in the throng of men in uniform. Like him, they were home on leave and being greeted by family and friends. Belfast’s Midland Station was noisy with their joy and laughter, with the hissing of steam and the clattering of iron wheels on luggage trolleys being pushed by uniformed porters across concrete platforms. The incomprehensibly garbled voice over a loudspeaker system presumably was announcing the arrival of the Larne boat train. The air was heavy with the smells of coal smoke and engine oil.

  And then he saw her twenty paces away. Deirdre was struggling to get past a portly man and his four small children. She waved and called, “Fingal. Fingal,” and his heart hiccupped.

  The other people, the station itself, faded into a misty blur, and all he could see was her face, her eyes smiling, lips open. She was bundled in a long brown overcoat with slightly padded shoulders held shut by a loosely tied belt and her shining hair was tucked up under a silky green scarf.

  He dropped one shoulder and, as if he’d been back on the rugby field, battered his way through the scrum, oblivious to a yell of “Watch where the hell you’re going, admiral, you great glipe.” As Warspite’s bows cleaved the ocean, so O’Reilly carved his path. He dropped his suitcase and enfolded her in a huge hug. “Deirdre. Deirdre.” He held her at arm’s length, drinking in the wonder of her, then pulled her to him. “I’m home,” he whispered into her hair. And then he kissed her. Damn it, there was a war on and old conventions about displays of emotion in public could go to hell. “I love you,” he said and kissed her again, her lips soft against his.

  “I love you, Fingal, and I’ve missed you terribly.” She kissed him, eyes shining with tears and laughter. “I suppose you better put me down, though. All these people here, and Lars is waiting outside.”

  “All right.” He set her down lightly like a man putting fine porcelain on a sideboard, lifted his suitcase, and took her hand. “Come on.” He started striding toward the way out.

  “Good Lord, Fingal,” she said, “did you have a drink or two on the train?”

  “No,” he said, “why?”

  “Because you’re swaying as you walk.”

  He laughed. “It always happens when we’ve been at sea. I’ll have to get my land legs again and,” he laughed again and said, “we’ve nearly two whole weeks for me to do it before I have to go back.”

  “And I’ve got two weeks off too,” she said, trying to match his swaying gait with her own.

  “Bloody marvellous,” he said, but anything more would have to wait. He squeezed her small hand in his.

  “It’s wonderful you’re here,” she said. “Darling, I’ve missed you so much.”

  They were on York Street in the chill of a damp March afternoon in Belfast, the air sooty from the smoke from the linen mills and factories. O’Reilly’s big brother Lars, dapper in a fedora hat, long grey Ulster overcoat, and brown leather gloves, was waiting on the steps. He stripped off his right glove and offered his hand, which O’Reilly shook with vigour. “Welcome home, Finn. How are you?” Lars’s narrow moustache, worn in the style of the film stars Errol Flynn and Douglas Fairbanks Jr., curled into a grin. “Good to have you home.”

  O’Reilly let go of his brother’s hand. “It’s good to be home. Good to see you, Lars. How’s Ma?”

  Lars grabbed his brother’s suitcase. “Ma’s fine. She’ll be feeding you the fatted calf tonight. She and Bridgit have been getting it ready for days when she’s not working like Billy-o with Lady MacNeill from Ballybucklebo raising money for the Spitfire fund…”

  “Lady MacNeill? I know her husband, the marquis. He’s off with his Irish Guards tank regiment, God knows where—”

  “Sorry, Deirdre, I didn’t mean to monopolize Finn.” Lars, who had dumped the suitcase into the boot, held open the back door of Ma’s huge Armstrong Siddeley for her.

  She laughed that wonderful contralto chuckle that always melted Fingal. “Lars O’Reilly,” she said, “you and Fingal are family and you’ve a lot of family stuff to chat about. I’m not family—”

  “Yet,” O’Reilly said, “but as soon as the bloody war permits, you will be.”

  “I know,” she said, “but for today, Fingal, you sit in front with Lars for the run down to Portaferry. I’m happy just to have you home—and I’m sure neither your mother nor Lars will expect to monopolise your time for the next ten days until you have to start your journey back.”

  Ten days with no bugles calling to action stations, no false alarms, no ships torpedoed, no screeching gales, no corned beef sandwiches. O’Reilly heard the promise in Deirdre’s voice of time together to come—of laughter, and softness, and love, of walks through little green hills, and lunches in small pubs, dinner at the Widow’s in Bangor if he could borrow Ma’s car and the petrol ration would stretch. With an enormously contented sigh, he let himself into the passenger’s seat. “Home, James—and don’t spare the horses.” He half-turned as Lars put the car into gear, and stared at Deirdre. “Apparently Queen Victoria used to say that,” O’Reilly said, and he inhaled deeply when she mouthed, “I love you, Fingal.”

  There was nothing left to do but say silently back, “And I love you too.”

  17

  The Mackerel-Crowded Seas

  “Be careful on the last step, Kitty. That green seaweed can be bloody slippy when it’s wet.” O’Reilly held on to her left hand and helped her down the final step of the Ballybucklebo jetty.

  “Thank you, Fingal.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “An evening’s mackerel fishing is exactly what I need. I’ve had better weeks at work. You�
��ve met one of my senior surgeons, Mister John Roulston. Ordinarily he’s a sweetheart, but this week? Oh boy. He’s had us running round like chickens with their heads cut off.”

  “The week’s over, love,” O’Reilly said, giving her hand a squeeze, “and Hall’s waiting. Let’s go and have some fun.”

  Hall Campbell had brought Jimmy Scott’s thirty-foot open fishing boat to the stone jetty and was now clutching a rusted ring in the granite to hold the craft alongside. He took Kitty’s right hand with his free one. While keeping the boat against the step, he took his time waiting for just the right wave to bring the boat’s gunwale exactly level with where Kitty stood.

  The boat’s engine, currently in neutral gear, puttered and gurgled, ejecting intermittent gushes of seawater mingled with exhaust fumes. The sea’s surface beneath was rainbow-hued as unburned oil reflected and refracted the sun’s rays. O’Reilly could smell the exhaust over the salty tang of the waters of Belfast Lough.

  As promised last month in the Duck, Hall had called round at Number One yesterday evening, the second Friday in June, to say that the mackerel were running. Would the O’Reillys like to go out on Saturday evening?

  “Bloody right we would,” O’Reilly’d said. “Thanks, Hall. That’s very generous of you.” Kitty wasn’t the only one who needed a break from patients. Not an hour before Hall had appeared last evening, O’Reilly and Barry had nipped out to the Duck for a quick preprandial. They’d been standing at the bar supping their pints, passing the time of day with Willie Dunleavy, when Lenny Brown had come in.

  “Evenin’, Doctors,” Lenny said, clearly avoiding meeting O’Reilly’s eye.

  “Evening, Lenny. How’s Connie and Colin?” O’Reilly asked.

  “They’re grand.” He turned away. “I’m meeting Alan Hewitt, so I am, so if youse’ll excuse me?” He quickly headed off down the bar room.

  “Away you go,” O’Reilly said to the man’s retreating back. “Has Sue said anything about Colin doing the Eleven Plus, Barry?”

  Barry shook his head. “I’m afraid not. The Browns have been mum on the subject, and Sue says Colin is quite subdued these days. And you know that’s not like Colin.”

  “It certainly isn’t. I thought as much. If Lenny’d given the go-ahead he couldn’t have waited to tell me. And Colin certainly wouldn’t have kept it quiet. I think Lenny’s dug his heels in. Damn. He sounded like he was coming around when Sue and I talked to him a couple of weeks back.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Damned if I know—yet. But we still have a few weeks.”

  “Come on ahead now, Mrs. O’Reilly, don’t wait any longer,” Hall Campbell was saying. “This wave’s just the job.” O’Reilly watched as his wife stepped onto the boat with the grace of a dancer. “There you are, ma’am. Dead on. Just like a pro,” Hall said, guiding her over the gunwale and into the cockpit. “Nice til have you aboard, Mrs. O’Reilly.” Hall turned. “Take a hold of that there, sir.” He offered his hand to O’Reilly.

  “I’m all right,” O’Reilly said, “I was in plenty of boats in my navy days.” He planted one foot on the boat’s side and pushed off with the other, only to have it skid on the very eel grass he’d been at pains to warn Kitty about. The force of trying to regain his balance shoved the vessel away from the quay and broke Hall’s grip on the iron ring. As the ship-to-shore gap widened, O’Reilly began to do an ungainly split, which could only have one soggy and frigid outcome. “Hoooooly thundering mother of—” He whirled his arms like a demented semaphore signaller and managed to totter over the side and into the boat’s cockpit, grabbing at Kitty as he tumbled aboard.

  The action dumped them both in a heap and the little boat tossed and bobbed like a Flower-class corvette in a force-eight gale.

  His stream of profanity, caused partly by his embarrassment and partly by his concern for Kitty, was cut short by her laughter as she hauled herself to her feet. She offered him her hand and helped him stand. “Welcome aboard, admiral,” she said, and to her credit, O’Reilly thought, refrained from making any more obvious remarks about his assurance that he’d been in plenty of boats.

  “You’d not be the first to slip on them there steps, sir,” Hall said. “I think maybe if you and Mrs. O’Reilly got yourselves sat down?” He indicated a bench that ran round the inside of the hull to provide seating round the cockpit. The fore end, one-quarter of the length of the clinker-built wooden boat, was decked over to provide some shelter and storage space for nets and fishing gear beneath. O’Reilly was aware of the strong smell of fish coming from the forepeak.

  Hall took the tiller, bent to the gear stick, and moved it to “ahead.”

  O’Reilly heard the change in the engine note and felt the thrust of the propeller pushing the boat through a swell, which she rode easily.

  The wind of their passage ruffled his great mop of shaggy hair sticking out from under his tweed Paddy hat. He had no idea where Kitty had bought her peaked navy blue skipper’s cap, but sitting at a jaunty angle it suited her. Just the right touch to set off her white Arran sweater and her navy blue stirrup pants.

  “Where the hell did you get that hat, Kitty? Very fetching if I do say so.”

  “Where did I get it? That’s for me to know and you to find out,” she said, inclining her head and raising an eyebrow. “A woman has to have some secrets, you know.”

  In other words, he thought, none of your business, O’Reilly. He chuckled.

  She let a few seconds lapse, then said, “Fingal, you great glipe. Do you not remember buying it for me in that wonderful outdoor market in Rhodes, just a few blocks from our hotel?”

  “Did I now? I’ll be damned. I must have had other things on my mind during our honeymoon.”

  He heard a great guffaw from Hall, who was studiously looking out to sea. “Where are you taking us, Hall?” O’Reilly asked, smiling at Kitty.

  Hall Campbell pulled out a packet of Capstan Full Strength cigarettes, politely offered one to Kitty while saying to O’Reilly, “I know you smoke a pipe, sir.” After she refused he took one and lit it with a Zippo lighter. “My da got that there,” he said, showing them the lighter, “from a Yankee GI when they were here waiting for D-Day in 1944. It’s a great yoke. Even if it’s blowing a half gale it lights.” He let go a cloud of smoke that was dispersed by the wind. “Where are we going, sir?” Hall said. “Well, there’s been a brave run of herring fry for the last week. The mackerel are after them and they’ve been coming in near Grey Point, so we’ll head down thonder.” He pointed ahead. “If you could mebbe steer, sir? I’ll get the fishing lines ready for you and the lady.”

  “Fair enough.” O’Reilly slid aft and took the tiller while Hall went for’ard. “This’ll be your first time out in the lough, Kitty,” O’Reilly said. “Enjoying it so far?”

  “A lot,” she said, “but I’d like to know where we are.”

  “Right. We’ve just left Ballybucklebo and are heading east. Directly across to port if you look over the waters to the far shore…”

  Tonight the lough was lightly rippled and a deep blue, reflecting the sky’s summer shade. An oil tanker so laden and low in the water that her deck was nearly awash made her way to the Port of Belfast. Overhead, puffy clouds played a slow-motion game of follow-my-leader.

  “Those are the Antrim Hills that we can see from our lounge.”

  “And I know that’s Carrickfergus Castle,” Kitty said, pointing to the massive motte-and-bailey edifice that had squatted grim and menacing on the Antrim shore since Norman times.

  “Right. Now if you look astern past me—” He’d already glanced back to see a fleet of racing Fairy-class yachts. Their multihued spinnakers ballooned and collapsed, only to fill again on the light airs as the boats raced downwind. “Those fellahs are out of Royal North of Ireland Yacht Club in Cultra and it’s on our side of the lough.”

  “I know Barry and Sue sail,” she said, “but they race out of Royal Ulster down in Bangor.”

>   “Which is a fair stretch up ahead, past where we’re going.” He nodded his head in that general direction. “Now to your right, to starboard, is the County Down coast. Those big houses with the long rambling gardens running down to shore are where some of the better-off live, including Bertie and Flo Bishop. And that big pile inland, halfway up the hills, is the Culloden Hotel.”

  “We’ve been there,” she said. “Funny how things look so much different when you see them from out here.” She smiled up at him. “It really is a lovely evening to be afloat.”

  Kitty had to grab the gunwale as the wake from the tanker hit the boat beam on and it rolled four times before settling on an even keel.

  The motion didn’t bother O’Reilly. It had been more than twenty years since he’d served on Warspite, but it was as if no time had gone by at all, so well he knew this feel of the pitch and roll of the deck. “Pity old Arthur couldn’t come.”

  “It’s no fun for a dog on a boat. Let’s take him down to Strangford tomorrow,” she said. “The forecast’s good and Barry’s on call. I’ll make a picnic. There’s some cold roast beef in the fridge and I’ll have time to make some Scotch eggs in the morning.”

  “Done,” he said. “I think I’ve a bottle of claret.”

  “Do you know, Fingal,” she said, “I think for a picnic I’d prefer a couple of bottles of Harp lager.”

  “Then you shall have them, madam,” he said, and smiled, damn sure she’d prefer wine, but knew his tastes. He’d bring both.

  Hall had reappeared from under the covered forepeak. “I know you know what to do, Doc, but mebbe I should show Mrs. O’Reilly?”

  “Go right ahead.” O’Reilly watched as Hall set two mackerel fishing hand lines on the bench.

  There was neither rod nor reel, but rather a square frame made from four pieces of wood laid so the ends of each overlapped by a couple of inches. Wound round the frame were numerous turns of grey whipcord, to the end of which was tied a wicked-looking barbed hook. There was no fine leader between the stout line and the hook as there would have been on a trout or salmon rig. Belfast Lough fishermen had used the simple setup for as long as anyone could remember.