July 12th. Worst attack so far. Cruisers Liverpool and Sydney have joined us. I took the name Liverpool to be an omen that I might soon be headed there on my way to Portsmouth. Several casualties in Liverpool from a near-miss. Does that mean I’m not going to get away?
Fingal could laugh now he knew he’d be going home tomorrow, but when he’d made the entry he’d been as superstitious as an old Roman consulting the augurs, hoping for favourable omens. He read on.
I was sure Warspite had had it. From the deck of Touareg I could see her disappearing behind the splashes. Counted twenty-four bombs to port, twelve to starboard, all within two hundred yards of her. The whole lot missed. She’s a lucky ship.
Berthed in Alex July 13th. Happy to be back in home port.
He picked up his pen and made a final entry:
July 16. And happy to be back on Warspite. All quiet in Alex—for now.
He was glad he had taken the trouble to keep the diary up to date. The roar of the guns, the blasts of the bombs, the deaths and burials of the Touareg men—it had all conspired, through some trick of his mind that he didn’t understand, to obliterate the memories even though the Italians had been happy to provide aides memoires by bombing the dockyard and anchorage on a regular basis. He closed the book, put it in the suitcase, grabbed his cap, and left the room.
* * *
“Hello, Fingal,” said a familiar voice.
He turned on the steps of the hospital, having just satisfied himself that both of his patients were doing well. John Collins, his squash partner of last month, stood smiling behind him. “Hello, John. What brings you here?” He had given up on the notion of paying a courtesy call to Elly Simpkins, deciding it was better they simply remained ships that had passed on a warm and fragrant night in Alexandria. Now, presented with this very real reminder of her loss, Fingal felt guilty.
“My boss in signals has been in with a nasty case of piles. I brought him some grapes. Thought they might cheer him up. You?”
“Couple of patients to see. I’d been sent to Touareg because their MO had been killed before Calabria.”
John glanced down. “So I heard.” He shook his head. “Bad about Chris Simpkins too.”
“Yes, very bad. Have you seen Elly?”
“Mmmm, several times. It came as a hell of a shock when the God wallah appeared and broke the news—a week ago today in fact. But she seems to have pulled herself together and is handling it well,” John said. “Perhaps ‘well’ isn’t the best word. Let’s just say she’s bearing up. Grateful for her friends.” He pursed his lips before saying, “I hesitate to ask, Fingal, I’m sure you do enough comforting in your trade, but she knows you were on Touareg at the time. ‘If you see Finn,’ she said to me, ‘see if he’ll pop in. I only met him once, but he made me laugh.’”
Bloody nearly did a damn sight more. He looked down. Damn it, he’d time enough before he had to be back on board. It would be the right thing to do. That was all. “It’s only about a mile to Saad Zaghloul Square from here. Do you think she’s home?”
John looked at his watch and nodded. “She and Michelle had an early lunch at the club but she’ll be home by now. Decent of you, old boy,” John said. “I have a car if you’d like. I can’t come in but I’ll drop you there.”
“Thank you,” Fingal said.
* * *
The lift with its wrought-iron cage stopped on the third floor of 16B Saad Zaghloul Square. Fingal opened the concertina gate, crossed the landing, and pushed the doorbell. He heard it jingling and expected the manservant Hanif to answer.
The door opened. “Finn. Oh, Finn. You came.” Elly Simpkins was certainly not wearing widow’s weeds. Her low V-necked, knee-length frock was a fashionable floral print, her hair was neatly coiffed, and he couldn’t help but notice the scarlet nail polish that matched her lipstick. “Thank you so very much. Do come in. You know your way.”
She closed the door behind him and followed as he walked along the hall, through the bead curtain, and into the big living/dining room. The air smelt of tobacco smoke and he noticed an ashtray on the coffee table. It was overflowing with half-smoked butts. The curtains and the French windows were open and he could hear the traffic.
He removed his cap and put it on an armchair, and as he waited for her to take a seat he saw how carefully she had put on her eye makeup but hadn’t quite succeeded in hiding the dark circles under her eyes.
“I’ll make us some coffee,” she said. “Hanif’s at the bazaar. He’ll be gone for ages.”
“It’s all right,” Fingal said.
“A drink then?” She nodded at the Welsh dresser where the bottles sat.
“No, thank you, Elly. I just popped in to offer my condolences. John Collins said you’d asked for me. I’m dreadfully sorry about what happened…”
“Yes,” she said, and her voice was level. “It came as quite a shock, although God only knows why. There is a war on.” She shook her head and her laugh was brittle. “I went into a tailspin for days, lay about in my dressing gown chain-smoking.” She sat on the sofa and Fingal took the chair opposite.
“I can imagine,” he said.
“But yesterday I woke up and I couldn’t face it, couldn’t face myself. So I told myself to pull my finger out, washed my face, went and had a hairdo and manicure, and treated myself to this new dress, new shoes”—he noticed her high heels—“and some deliciously sheer stockings.” She picked up a packet of Player’s from the tabletop, took one out, and lit up, greedily inhaling the smoke then coughing. “I really should try to stop smoking,” she said.
“I think you’re being very brave,” he said, remembering what she’d told him about how she and Chris had been perfectly happy for each to see other people. He wondered if her gaiety was in fact a cover for indifference to his death or a stiff-upper-lip façade hiding real grief. “And I’m so dreadfully sorry. If it helps for you to know, I was at his burial at sea. It was very dignified, with full military honours. The captain told me Chris died instantly. Didn’t suffer. We should be grateful for that at least.”
“I know,” she said. “I’d a nice letter from Captain Huston-Phelps.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette and blew out smoke. “Apparently I’ll be getting a widow’s pension.”
“That’s good.” Fingal knew he was struggling for words. He’d come expecting to be offering comfort to a grieving widow. Instead he was talking to a woman who seemingly was taking everything practically. “Um … have you told your sons yet?”
She nodded. “I sent Daddy a telegram. He is very sweet. He’ll have taken Mummy and gone and broken the news to them at school. And I’m…” She looked round the flat. “… getting to hell out of here and back home as soon as I can get a berth on a ship.”
“I think that’s wise. The boys will need their mother.”
Her smile and her façade cracked as did her voice when she said, “They do. And I need my man. I can’t believe he’s not coming back. Ever.” She dashed away tears and said, “I—I know this is going to sound crazy but are they absolutely sure he’s dead? I mean, I just can’t believe it. It seems unreal. As if there’s something I could do to bring him back if only I knew what it was.”
The doctor in him told him it was normal for people to try to deny the truth, want to do something, anything. “I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do, Elly.”
She smashed out her cigarette, seemingly unconscious of what she was doing. “Damn it all,” she said, “it’s not fair. I’m only twenty-nine.” She looked up at Fingal. “It’s just not bloody well fair. I’m far too young to be a flaming widow.”
Anger was all part of grieving and he knew that what Elly Simpkins needed most was someone who would listen and offer her a human touch. “It’s desperately unfair, Elly,” he said, and moved to the edge of the couch beside her, taking her hand in both of his. “I don’t have an answer. I’m truly sorry.” She was crying again, the anger forgotten, it seemed, as the tears came. He put an arm roun
d her shoulders and, as he would have with an injured child, gently brought her head down onto his chest, and with his other hand stroked her hair. “It’s all right. It’s all right.” He felt her shuddering and her sobs. She turned her face up to him, and said, “Please, keep holding me, Finn,” she said. “Just hold me. Just for a minute.”
He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t, but she needed to be hugged, he told himself, and it would be inhuman not to. His other arm went round her and she put her head on his shoulder. He felt the softness of her against him. A warm tear fell on his neck and he inhaled the woman’s scent of her and knew, despite her being the widow of a fellow officer, that he was becoming excited by her nearness.
She pushed herself away, dashed a forearm across her eyes, straightened her back. “I’m sorry,” she said and took a deep breath, and with an edge to her voice said, “This is nonsense. I’m over tears. I’ve cried enough for Chris.”
“Perhaps,” he said gently, “you need to cry a little for Elly?”
“Why? For the poor grieving widow?” She pursed her lips. “I’ve done the public show. I didn’t say a moment ago I needed Chris. I said I needed my man. I’m a woman. I have a woman’s needs and since he took up with that creature…” She shook her head and put it back on his shoulder, her arms round his neck, her lips to his. He resisted, knowing he must continue resisting, yet wanting her and to hell with her being recently widowed. He began to respond, but she moved her lips away and looked at him, her gaze never leaving his eyes. “Look at me, Finn. Want me, Finn. Make love to me.” He sat, staring, lusting for the woman. He was honest enough to strangle the thoughts that she needed to be comforted, that it was his duty as a human being. Comfort be damned. Duty be damned. He’d been celibate for months. He wanted Elly Simpkins and it was no good deed he’d be doing. His conscience could wrestle with the facts later. His breath came in short bursts and he knew his pulse was racing.
“Your fiancée is thousands of miles away. No one need ever know…”
Deirdre, whose letter was in his pocket, between Fingal and Elly’s soft breast. As he moved toward her knowing what must happen, he heard a voice, Deirdre’s voice in a hotel room in Belfast saying, “I want you to make love to me, Fingal … I want to own you and you to own me.” And Fingal O’Reilly swallowed, sat stock-still, disentangled Elly’s arms, then stood and took a pace back. “I want to own you.” Soft, gentle, loving Deirdre. “And I want you to own me,” and it had been a shining gift she had given, a benificence too radiant to tarnish with the satisfaction of a few moments’ craving. “Elly,” he said, keeping his voice low, neutral, “you are a very beautiful woman. A very desirable woman…”
“Then take me.” She moved toward him, but he said, “I can’t.” And the heat in him had cooled. “I can’t, Elly, and I mustn’t.”
“Damn you,” she yelled. “Damn you to hell.” Her eyes blazed. “Damn you, Fingal O’Reilly,” but now her words were softening and her tears flowed, and his heart ached in him for her. “I’m sorry,” she said and he barely heard her whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m just so tired, so desperately tired.”
“Come on,” he said, taking her hand, “you need to sleep.”
She followed him into the bedroom, making no demur when he turned back the bedclothes, removed her shoes, and tucked her in still fully dressed. “Thank you, Finn,” she managed before she rolled on her side and grabbed a stuffed teddy bear that had been lying on the pillow. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Please don’t think badly of me, Finn.”
“I don’t,” he said softly. How he felt about himself was a different matter. He waited until her sobbing stopped and he was certain she was sleeping soundly, then bent, dropped a tiny kiss on her hair, and said, “Sleep well, you poor thing. Sleep well.”
Fingal walked softly from the room, his doctor’s training taking over. She mustn’t be left alone, but he had to get back to Warspite.
In a very short time he had phoned HMS Nile, spoken to John Collins, and arranged for him to have Michelle interrupt whatever she was doing. He’d wait until she arrived, then head back to Warspite. He glanced round the big room and saw something on an armchair. He picked it up from the cushion. This time he’d not forget his cap.
41
The Bomber Will Always Get Through
“You, O’Reilly,” said Tom Laverty, “look like the cat that got the cream. Can’t say I blame you. Have a good time in Portsmouth, and we’ll try to keep the old girl afloat without you.”
The anteroom was not busy at two thirty on a Wednesday afternoon. Richard and Tom, who were remaining on Warspite, were standing farewell drinks for Fingal and Wilson Wallace, who were not. The former lieutenant had been promoted lieutenant-commander into HMS Neptune, a Leander-class light cruiser and would be joining her in a week. To replace Wilson, a junior gunnery officer, apparently another Ulsterman called Phillip Nolan, had been promoted from HMS Liverpool and he and the new MO would be coming out on the liberty boat to join Warspite.
“I wonder what you’ll find when you get back to Blighty,” Wilson said. “What news we’ve got by BBC relay says some air attacks are starting.”
Tom Laverty’s brow furrowed and he sat back in his seat. His imitation of the prime minister’s delivery was near perfect. “‘The Battle of France is over. I expect the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilisation.’ That’s what Mr. Churchill said in his address to the House of Commons last month. Sounds pretty grim to me.”
“He might just be right,” Richard said, “and for the last four days there have been reports of the Luftwaffe attacking our convoys in the English Channel and our side sending up Spitfires and Hurricanes to shoot down the attackers.”
Fingal thought of Ma and Lady Laura, the Marchioness of Ballybucklebo, with their posters of an airman, a Spitfire fighter, and the slogan, “I’ll fly it if you’ll buy it.” The accompanying collection boxes were all over County Down, and the two women’s Spitfire fund, one of many throughout the United Kingdom, had raised the necessary five thousand pounds. He wondered where the fast and lethal fighter was stationed now. He hoped it was where it and its fellows could wreak the greatest havoc amongst the attacking German bombers.
Richard looked at his glass. “Time will tell, but the English Channel is a pretty effective antitank ditch and if the Germans have any plans to invade they’ll have the chief of Fighter Command, ‘Stuffy’ Dowding’s Fighters, and the Home Fleet to contend with.”
Fingal heard the pride in the man’s voice, a pride that he, Fingal, echoed.
Richard clapped Fingal on the knee. “Let’s hope you have a safe trip home and that you’re not going from the frying pan into the fire. The Luftwaffe had a go at Portsmouth on the eleventh of July when we were still at sea. Aimed for the dockyard, but some overshot. My favourite pub, The Blue Anchor at Kingston Cross, was hit. I know because I heard it on a BBC bulletin. Still, the missus should have been all right. She lives at Fareham, about six miles from where you’ll be working. If you’re interested, when he was a boy ABC spent three years as a pupil at Foster’s School there preparing for Dartmouth Naval College. Anyway, I think she’s pretty safe from air raids, but it’s a concern.”
“Six miles doesn’t seem very far,” Fingal said. “I’d have thought somewhere deeper in the country would be better and safer.” And he wondered with a start if it would be wise to bring Deirdre to live near Portsmouth. The vital naval facilities were bound to be the targets of many attacks.
Richard grinned and said, “Marjorie’s a tough old bat.”
Fingal heard the wistfulness and understood how Richard Wilcoxson was feeling. He also recognised the stiff-upper-lip English reticence that forbade any public shows of emotion.
“Fareham’s deep enough in the wilds for her. She’s working in the Women’s Land Army there…”
“Is that what they’re calling the group of women who’ve volunteered to work on farms b
ecause the men are at war?” Wallace asked.
“It is,” Richard said. “The programme was started in the last war. Apparently today one thousand alone of them work as rat catchers. If you could see my Marjorie when she’s riled. Mister Hitler should be grateful she’ll be working at home and not going to be in the front line once we get one reestablished.” He laughed. “She volunteered on September the fourth, ’39.” He laughed. “I thought us sailors had some pretty ripe expressions. What she said about the Nazis as she went off to volunteer made me blush.”
All the men laughed.
“And…” His tones conveyed an admixture of pride and concern. “She wants to be near our only son, Tony…”
It was the first time Richard had discussed his family in such detail. Perhaps Fingal and Wilson’s leavetaking was having the same effect as when Fingal’s boarding school broke up for the summer holidays and friends began confiding secrets they’d kept to themselves all term. Why that had always happened he’d no idea, but it had. He listened.
“He’s like you, Wilson. Career Royal Navy.”
“A chip off the old block,” Tom said.
Richard nodded. “I’m very proud of him. He’s just got his first command. A destroyer. Her home port is Portsmouth so when she’s in, Marjorie can see as much as possible of him.” A frown creased Richard’s open brow. “I just wish he wasn’t on North Atlantic convoys. The U-boats are starting to take a much greater toll than when Warspite was on that run.”
“It was mainly the weather we had to fight with,” Fingal said.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine, Richard,” Tom Laverty said. “And, well, I didn’t want to take attention away from Fingal and Wilson, but speaking of sons…” His grin was vast. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled telegram. “‘Last night’—that was two nights ago—‘bouncing baby boy. Stop. Mother child doing well. Stop. Love Carol. End.’”
An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War Page 34