“I see,” he said. He frowned. He remembered a night in Alex in 1940 at the Cecil Hotel. Patrick Steptoe had mentioned how, on the way out from England, his troopship had stopped at Santa Cruz de Tenerife. And didn’t you, when he told you that, O’Reilly, didn’t you hope that Kitty O’Hallorhan had found a new love? And didn’t you wish it for her many times after that? He was an intelligent man. He should be able to accept that what Kitty had done was none of his bloody business. Then why was he feeling the way he might if an opposing forward had tackled him from the blind side?
He mustn’t let Kitty see that he was hurt. This was clearly hard enough for her without saddling her with more guilt. “There was no reason that you should not have.” He worked to keep his voice steady. “I told you. I understand…” At a purely intellectual level, but my pulse is racing and I’m starting to sweat.
“Thank you for that, Fingal. Thank you so very much.”
He heard the catch in her voice.
“He was a very sweet man, eight years older than me.”
O’Reilly hesitated before asking the inevitable. “You were young, free, eight years isn’t much—why didn’t you marry him?”
She shrugged. “Religion…”
O’Reilly nodded. He was no stranger to the Catholic-Protestant divide in Ireland.
“Mañuel was Catholic and he became devout after his wife died. Spain was a very Catholic country then, especially in the villages. I was an outsider, a Protestant. His family didn’t approve.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, I see.”
A panting Arthur ran up, satisfied himself, and galloped off again.
They were out of the dunes and onto the strand when Kitty stopped and said, “His daughter Consuela was a lovely little thing. When she could talk she always called me Tia Kitty, Auntie Kitty.” She smiled.
O’Reilly smiled in return. Tia Kitty.
“I needed them, Fingal. They were the family I never had…” She looked him in the eye. “Might have had, but—”
“I’m sorry, Kitty,” he said, and he was.
“When the orphanage closed in 1940 I felt I had to leave Tenerife. I knew that part of him wanted to marry me, but his family was not encouraging … To be honest, though, neither of us could picture the future together. I knew firsthand those same troubles in Ireland. The World War was raging, he knew he’d have to return to Madrid and try to pick up his life there. And I knew I had to return to Ireland. Those three years had been like a dream away from the reality of the war. We wrote to each other for three more years. By that time I was learning to be a neurosurgical nurse at the Royal Victoria. I was getting on with my life. And yet…”
“It must have been very hard for you, Kitty,” O’Reilly said. “When Deirdre was killed it cut me for years, but at least I knew where I stood.”
She hung her head. “I didn’t. I couldn’t seem to let go. I couldn’t. Life seemed very bleak in Ireland, away from the sun and the warmth. Away from Consuela—she was six going on seven—away from him.” Her eyes misted and O’Reilly took her in a huge hug.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I understand.” And he was trying to, feeling her pain at her loss through his own when Deirdre had died.
“I finally did let go. I wrote him one last letter, concentrated on my work, my painting, my life and the memories faded; and then years later you came back into my life, you wonderful man.” She kissed him, then said, “Everything seemed so perfect.” Her lip was trembling and it seemed she couldn’t go on.
O’Reilly waited then and said at last, “And then he wrote to you and you got the letter today? What does he want?” Keep a grip, O’Reilly, he thought. Give her all the help she needs. Even if this man has resurfaced, Kitty and I together can deal with it. Must deal with it.
She shook her head. “It wasn’t from Mañuel. He—he died, six weeks ago. His other lung just gave up.” She swallowed, her voice quavered, and a tear fell. “That was what was in the letter that I’d read just before you came home this afternoon. He was a dear, kind man and had meant a great deal to me, and now to find out he was dead and gone.”
“I’m sorry.” He knew that while he would not wish death on anyone, at that very moment he was feeling relieved.
Kitty’s words came out in a torrent. “Consuela—she’s thirty-three now—was going through her father’s papers and found my letters to her father, and to her.” Kitty pursed her lips. “She remembered me, her Tia Kitty.” She took a deep breath. “She said her father still spoke of me up until he died…”
Arthur reappeared and in that way of some dogs must have sensed her unhappiness, and sat at her feet licking her hand.
O’Reilly too, wanted to comfort Kitty, but a young couple were walking by not far away, hand in hand, light of step. He lifted her chin so he could look into her eyes and said, “Kitty, Kitty. It’s terrible when you lose someone you’ve loved. I do know. It’s even more terrible when they die far away and you don’t know for weeks then the news comes like a bombshell out of the blue.”
She nodded against his hand.
“I understand why you have kept this to yourself all these years. It wouldn’t have served any purpose telling me. I’d have done the same in your shoes.”
“Truth?”
“Truth.” He certainly hadn’t told her or anyone else about a naval officer’s wife called Elly in Alexandria, nor would he ever. He said, “I’m glad you’ve explained. Bless you. Now, have you told me everything?”
She said, “Not quite.”
It hit O’Reilly as lightning strikes a tall tree. My God, did she have his child? Is this Consuela … No, no, didn’t Kitty say that the child was already two years old when they met?
“Consuela wants to see me, and I’m not quite sure what to do.”
O’Reilly sat for a time in silence, trying to work out what the implications of a meeting might be. “Neither,” he finally said, “am I.”
32
The Voice of a Great Thunder
Fingal climbed up inside Warspite’s bridge structure. Tom Laverty had kept the promise he’d made in the Cecil Hotel. Today, Tuesday, June 11, their ship and an important part of the fleet were steaming through the Grand Pass, the swept, mine-free channel outside the harbour, as they left Alex. Part of the sortie’s purpose was to test-fire her great guns, and Fingal, thanks to Tom, was going to be able to watch from a special vantage point, see for himself what a fifteen-inch-gun battleship could do when engaged.
He’d experienced the rifles’ pounding at Narvik, but only by their God-awful roaring and the ship’s shuddering. It was still hard to believe that the recoil from those enormous blasts had done enough damage to Warspite herself that she’d needed repairs in Alexandria. It hadn’t been until the 24th of May that the Alexandria Dockyard staff had declared her “In all respects fit for sea.”
He walked along a corridor on number two “platform”—the name for the decks in the bridge superstructure. Tom’s cabin was five levels up from the main deck where Fingal berthed and ordinarily worked, six levels up from the medical distribution centre, which was Fingal’s action station and from which he could see nothing except the human wreckage of any battle.
Fingal knocked on Tom’s door, heard his distracted “Come in,” opened it and stepped over the sill. “Morning, Tom.”
Tom looked up from where he sat at a desk, writing. He grinned and said, “Morning, Fingal. Just starting a letter to Carol, but I don’t think I’ll get much chance to post it for a while.”
“Why not?” Letters, Fingal thought, the serviceman’s lifeline to home. Deirdre’s missives, full of a cheerfulness he knew like his own to be forced, and love, which, like his own, was deep and true, were a comfort—but he remembered their last night in Belfast. Longed to hold her. Make love to her. Tom was probably feeling the same.
“This trip might just get to be exciting,” Tom said. “After we’ve scared the living bejizzis out of any passing seagulls and dolphins b
y firing our big guns and satisfying ourselves they are A1 at Lloyds, we’re going to cruise off northwest Crete. See if we can tempt Benito Mussolini’s Regia Marina to come out and play. ABC wants to try to get an early dig at the Eyeties.”
“Scuttlebutt has it we’ve scored one already. Have you heard?” Fingal said.
“I have,” Tom said. “One of our destroyers, Decoy, attacked a sub last night and there was a two-mile oil slick this morning. The admiral’s pretty quick off the mark.”
Fingal said, “He certainly is. Il Duce only declared war on France and Great Britain yesterday.”
Tom nodded his agreement. “I liked Richard Wilcoxson’s craic in the wardroom anteroom before dinner last night,” Tom said. “‘I see old chubby chops is rushing his heroic people to the desperately needed succour of Germany,’” Richard said, “‘since it is currently the winning side.’”
Fingal laughed.
“Cunningham’s right to try to get in the first punch,” Tom said. “We were briefed late last night. We’ll be carrying out a provocative sweep northwest of Crete. He hopes the Italians will be tempted to come out from their base at Taranto. They have two older battleships, Conte di Cavour and Giulio Cesare, ready for immediate action and we need to try to lower the odds. Before long, Mussolini will have much more up-to-date ships at sea.”
“After Dunkirk it wouldn’t hurt to give the folks at home something to cheer them up by way of a victory,” Fingal said, shaking his head. “The debacle in France was a bit personal for me…”
“What’s up?”
He heard the concern in Tom’s voice. “I never told you much about my medical student days, but it’s probably the same in the navy. You make your best friends when you’re young and share the same crises, like exams, losing patients.”
Tom nodded. “I still keep in touch with three lads I met when we were midshipmen together.”
“I was at Trinity with a chap called Bob Beresford. He was—is—a sound man. Very sound. Useless clinician, but a first-class research worker. He and I grew close. He volunteered, joined the Royal Army Medical Corps, and was posted to a light tank unit. They were in France. I still don’t know if he’s alive or dead or a POW. I keep hoping I’ll get a letter from him. I know it’s far too early to expect to hear, but I worry about him.”
Tom cocked his head and looked at Fingal. “More than three hundred thousand men were evacuated. They’ll still be trying to sort that shambles out. Your pal could be anywhere in England.”
Fingal looked up and smiled at his friend, who squeezed Fingal’s shoulder and said, “I’m sure Bob—that’s his name?”
Fingal nodded.
“I’m sure Bob will be all right.”
“Thanks, Tom,” Fingal said, knowing full well that Tom had no reason for his confidence but grateful for his friend’s words of comfort. “I’m sure I’ll hear soon. Now, should we be heading up so we can watch?”
Tom grabbed his cap. “Come on then. Three more platforms up for us. We’re going to the open upper bridge and compass platform, practically the highest vantage point aboard.” Tom handed Fingal some cotton wool. “I’ll tell you when to plug your ears before the fun starts.” He headed for the door. “Let’s go.”
Fingal dutifully followed, but two decks up on the admiral’s bridge both he and Tom had to come to attention and salute. The Commander in Chief Mediterranean Fleet, Vice Admiral A. B. Cunningham, C.B., D.S.O., and bar, was heading toward his charthouse, which was sited at the most for’ard part of this deck.
The admiral, a well-set man with silver hair showing under his cap, a round face, large ears, piercing eyes, and a square chin just beginning to double, returned the salute. “Laverty. Brought a friend to see the fun?” He had a soft Scots burr. “And do stand easy.”
“Yes, sir,” Tom said. “May I present Surgeon Lieutenant O’Reilly?”
“An Irishman, I believe?” His eyes twinkled.
“Ulsterman, sir,” Fingal said.
“It was all one country when I was born there in Rathmines in Dublin.”
“I used to live in Ballsbridge not too far from Rathmines. My father taught at Trinity and I know your father did too, sir,” Fingal said.
“He did, and I hear, because Hippocrates told me, that you are a navy boxing champion, young man, and an Irish rugby international. Warspite fields a seven-a-side rugby team during quiet spells in Alex.”
“It’s a faster game, sir, with only half the number of players per side than I’m used to,” Fingal said, amazed that this man, who must have the woes of the world to contend with, could spend time with and be so knowledgeable about a junior officer. “Perhaps I’ll give it a try.”
“Think about it,” the admiral said, “now, if you’ll excuse me?” His smile was self-deprecatory. “For better or for worse, I’ve got a fleet to run. Enjoy the show.”
Fingal and Tom came to attention and saluted as the senior officer let himself into his chartroom.
As they headed off, Fingal said, “Kipling would have liked our boss. He certainly can ‘walk with kings—nor lose the common touch.’”
“And I have the feeling he can probably ‘meet with Triumph and Disaster and treat those two impostors just the same,’” said Tom with a laugh. Clearly Tom Laverty had learned the famous Kipling poem—that paean to Victorian stoicism—in school as well.
“I suspect he’d much prefer triumph,” Fingal said.
Tom laughed. “He’s very much regarded and tipped for even more senior command. Might even make admiral of the fleet one day, get a peerage.”
“And I reckon he’d deserve it,” Fingal said as he followed Tom to the upper bridge and compass platform.
Warspite was steaming at twenty knots and the wind of her passage made Fingal’s cheeks glow. Behind him, the fifteen-inch control tower reared up the height of two more decks. The crew in there would be using optical instruments to calculate range, speed, course, and bearing of any targets and then passing the information to the transmitting station deep in the ship’s bowels where calculating machines would work out the coordinates and pass the aiming details to the big guns. Astern of the tower, flags were being run up the signal halliards of the fore signal yard. On this deck there were two searchlight sights and two target-bearing sights, all manned. Projections from the main part of the deck, platforms with guard rails, jutted out to port and starboard. Each bore twin, single-barreled Oërlikons mounted on one pedestal, manned by a gunner, and pointing up. The man wore a white asbestos antiflash balaclava, a steel helmet, and long gauntlets. Another helmeted rating armed with high-powered binoculars scanned the blue, cloud-spotted skies for enemy aircraft, ripe crops it was to be hoped, for the antiaircraft gunners’ grim reaping. Fingal moved to the port platform astern of the gunner and looked to where the smoke from Warspite’s boilers roiled down from the single funnel trunking inside which he knew were four exhaust stacks. The smoke lay in greasy black coils where the whitecapped sea was churned to a foaming wake by the ship’s propellors. The stink of burnt fuel filled his nostrils.
“That’s HMS Eagle, half a mile astern,” Tom said.
Fingal looked at the seemingly lopsided ship, her bridge structure and funnel offset to the starboard side of a flat flight deck. There, four Swordfish, their spinning propellors flashing in the sun, were at readiness.
“And that’s HMS Malaya, another of our sisters astern of Eagle,” Tom said.
All around Warspite, a phalanx of cruisers and destroyers kept perfect station, ships in serious light-grey business suits striding purposefully across the sea, intent on showing the world that Britannia still ruled the waves.
“Thanks for fixing this up for me, Tom,” Fingal shouted, his ears filling with the wind’s keening in the halliards above, the roaring of the turbines below. “It’s not just because I think it’s going to be fun seeing the guns fired. I think … I think it’s important for their MO to understand what the crew are experiencing in battle.”
“It’ll not be quite the same,” Tom said. “No one’s firing back.”
Fingal laughed. “That’s the only reason I can even be here. With the fleet not in the presence of any enemy, I can stay on deck unless the call comes to close up for action stations.”
“I think,” said Tom, “you may be in for a bit of a surprise. Those things really do make a hell of a racket.”
“That’s all right,” Fingal said, and grinned. “I suspect all little boys and a great many grown-up men love things that go ‘bang.’”
“They’ll be doing that soon enough,” Tom said. “Now look.” He pointed for’ard at what on a clock face would be ten o’clock. “The target’s being towed by a destroyer about five miles off our port bow. See her?”
Fingal nodded.
“The other ships will leave a clear corridor between us and the target. Look, there they go now.”
Fingal saw a cruiser and three destroyers turning away, showing their sterns as they took up their new positions.
“Any minute now,” Tom said. “We’ll only be able to see our shell splashes and we won’t be firing live rounds.” He glanced down.
Fingal followed his friend’s gaze. In unison, the gunhouses of A and B turrets began swinging smoothly, ponderously, to port before steadying on the bearing Tom had indicated. All four gun barrels moved from the horizontal until they were angled up, but not all to the same degree. Their rising and falling, until each had found its assigned elevation, reminded Fingal of the gentle rise and fall of kelp in a rolling sea. A quick glance astern confirmed that X and Y turrets had conformed.
“Ranging shots will be fired in salvoes,” Tom explained. “That’s one gun of a pair at a time. They’ll try to straddle the target by putting one shell over and one shell on this side of it. That gives the directors the information they need to calculate the exact settings to lay the guns accurately on the target. Get out your cotton wool and bung your ears.”
An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War Page 26