An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea

by Patrick Taylor

  “Poor devils,” Sister said.

  “Twenty-six consecutive night attacks on London since September the seventh. The bastards—sorry, ladies—the Huns can’t be everywhere at once, so poor old London’s loss, at night anyway, seems to be our gain.” He coughed, and said, “And as we can’t stop the air raids, we can at least do our part in fixing up the damage. Now, Lieutenant O’Reilly’s the one being trained, so he’ll do the work. I’ll only give advice if I’m asked.” Although Angus managed to smile, it was a tired one.

  “I’ll do my best, sir.” Fingal stifled a yawn, feeling the stubble on his chin, which hadn’t seen a razor for two days. Since “flying solo” on Tuesday afternoon he, with gradually increasing confidence, had given ten anaesthetics by himself, although with three tables in service in the theatre Angus had always been nearby working on another patient. David White had manned the other table and another trainee the third. As yet Fingal was unsure of just how many procedures they’d done, but with two operating theatres going all out it must have been close to sixty major cases and Lord knew how many walking wounded.

  Between shifts in theatre, shifts on the wards, and snatched meals and naps, there’d been no time for social chitchat, and Fingal had only been able to give Angus a curt “not good” after his interview with the admiral. That felt like a hundred years ago. “Let’s get started, please, Sister.” It was always politic to keep on the good side of senior nurses.

  The little entourage moved to the first bed, where a patient was trying to lie at attention, as regulations prescribed. Bloody regulations. Fingal clenched his teeth. A cylindrical cage under the blue-and-white blanket held the bedclothes over where his legs had once been. Crushed under a toppled dockyard crane. The cage kept the weight of the bedclothes off the stumps.

  Sister handed Fingal a clipboard where the man’s temperature, blood pressure, pulse, and number of bowel motions had been recorded. He scanned the numbers quickly and said, “Good morning, Benson. You seem to be doing well.” All the man’s vital signs had been normal, but doing well? Fingal grimaced at his own banality and deep in his guts could feel the hurt of what he saw. Twenty-three and no legs. What a bloody waste.

  He looked into the eyes of the drowsy man, whose pupils were constricted, the results of morphine given for pain relief. The man mumbled something. Patients heavily dosed with the opiate often did and it was nothing to worry about, but Fingal still struggled to understand what the man was trying to say, alas to no avail.

  “We’ll keep him on a quarter of a grain of morphine every six hours please, Sister.” Fingal handed her back the clipboard, which she immediately passed over to the VAD to write the order.

  The next patient, like several others, was sitting beside his bed stiffly, with arms folded. They all wore the hospital uniform, serge trousers and blue shirts. Fingal took a deep breath. Above a distinct smell of disinfectant hung the stink of Sinclair’s glue, the adhesive used to attach traction devices to the skin of broken limbs. He could see two patients farther along the ward in Balkan beam beds with gantrys, ropes, pulleys, and weights keeping traction on the splinted limbs.

  Those poor divils would have been left alone up here during the raid on Portsmouth with the racket of exploding bombs and antiaircraft fire, the ward lit by garish red and yellow flashes as the bombs went off some miles away. Even today, there lingered a whiff of brick dust and smoke mingling with the usual hospital smells. The smoke was not only from fires. Portsmouth Dockyard was ringed with generators called “Smokey Joes” that were lit up to try to generate a smoke screen.

  Many of the German planes would have passed directly overhead, because the raiders often used the hospital’s distinctive water tower as a navigation point. Waiting for a bomb to hit the hospital must have been terrifying for those men—alone, vulnerable, unable to move a muscle to save themselves.

  “Here you are, sir.” The sister handed Fingal a chart. “Chief Petty Officer McIlroy. He’s an instructor at the gunnery school on Whale Island. If we’ve no emergencies, he’s booked for a—” She lowered her voice to a whisper as a sop to the man’s privacy. “—haemorrhoidectomy. He’s been examined by the admitting doctor and is fit for anaesthesia.”

  “Fine,” said Fingal, “and no previous illnesses?”

  “No, sir,” she said.

  “Usual omnopon and scopolamine premed then, please. Usual timing.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” the man said in a thick Ulster accent, “begging your pardon, but you’re one of my lot, aren’t you?”

  “From Ballybucklebo.” Fingal was surprised to find how homesick he felt hearing the man’s harsh tones.

  The patient’s grin was vast. “Away off and chase yourself—sir. You never are. I’ll be damned, and me from Helen’s Bay, just down the road, so I am. And my old oppo, fellah called Thompson, he’s just been posted til…” he lowered his voice, “Warspite. He’s a Ballybucklebo man.”

  “I don’t think I knew him back in Ireland,” Fingal said. “I was on Warspite. I’ll be going back to her so maybe I’ll meet him there.” He ignored Sister impatiently clearing her throat. “One of our gunnery leading seamen…”

  “Alf Henson. He’s on my course. Sharp as a tack, thon one, sir. He’ll go far, so he will.”

  Sister cleared her throat once more. “I’m sure that’s very interesting, Chief Petty Officer,” Sister Blenkinsop said, “but we must be getting on.” She fixed Fingal with a glare and then glanced over to Angus, as if asking the senior to pull rank. But the Highlander was clearly being true to his word and had no intention of interfering. Instead he took a sudden interest in his fingernails.

  “Good luck,” O’Reilly said.

  “Thanks a million, sir. You’ve made my feckin’ day, so you have. Up till now it’s been a right pain in the arse.”

  Fingal stifled a smile and saw Sister Blenkinsop raise her hand to her mouth to hide her own grin.

  And so the round went until Fingal and Angus had completed their duties and had retired to Sister’s office for a cup of tea and a piece of her homemade shortbread. The office was at the end of the ward and had a small bow window looking onto the ward so she could keep an eye on her staff and her patients. They met David White coming off duty.

  “Eh,” said Angus, leaning back in his chair. “This is the first chance we’ve had to talk about anything other than what gasses to use. I’m guessing your remark, that the interview was ‘not good,’ means you can’t get permission?”

  Fingal nodded. “I’ve to wait until I’m a lieutenant-commander.”

  Angus shook his head. “I know when promotions are made, laddie. Too late for you. I’m very sorry.”

  “That’s pretty rotten,” David said. He helped himself to a sugary wedge of shortbread, bit into it, and said, “Sister, this shortbread is jolly good.”

  Sister Blenkinsop was stirring her tea with one hand and writing up progress notes with the other. “I got the recipe from my mother and she used to win prizes at village fairs with it.”

  “It really is top hole,” David said.

  Fingal glanced over at David. Pretty rotten. Top hole. These bloody English public school boys all sounded like something out of the fictitious Greyfriars School created by Frank Richards, or Kipling’s Stalky and Co.

  He must have seen Fingal’s scowl, realised the enormity of his waxing lyrical over shortbread when his friend had received bad news. “Dreadfully sorry, Fingal,” he said. “I really am.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Fingal said. He shrugged. “I appreciate the sympathy and I know in the grand scheme of things, there’re worse things happening—” He gestured out the door to the ward. “But the damnable thing is, I—well, I haven’t told Deirdre yet. I feel like a bloody fool. I was so sure it would be all right. I’ve had no time since the raid, and now the phones are out.”

  “So the admiral didn’t say anything about—”

  Fingal leaned forward in his seat. He knew he must look like a cat ready to p
ounce. “Yes?”

  “Eh, I’m sorry, lad. I shouldn’t be getting your hopes up,” Angus said, and frowned. “It’s just that I’m surprised the boss didn’t think of it, but running this place since the Blitz started has been a hell of a job—”

  “Didn’t think of what?” Fingal remembered the towering stack of files on the man’s desk.

  “And he never loses control, but he must be constantly preoccupied. He’s being relieved next month by Admiral Bradbury. The old man’ll need a rest.”

  “But what didn’t he think of?” Fingal was close to shouting.

  “There may just be a way to speed up your promotion.”

  “What?”

  “May be, and I don’t want to get your hopes up, but if I can get hold of a friend of mine in London.”

  “Come on, Angus, tell me,” Fingal said. “What way?”

  Angus shook his head. “Just bide for a wee while until the phones come back on. Sister tried about ten minutes ago, but our switchboard can’t get through.” He looked at his watch. “Nine thirty. I tell you what, seeing as how you can’t phone your lassie, would it help if I let you go out for a couple of hours? Things are slow again now.” He looked at David. “You’ll not mind filling in for Fingal?”

  “My pleasure,” David rushed to say, clearly trying to make amends for his earlier lack of sensitivity. “And if you want the car…” He offered the keys.

  Fingal jumped up and had to restrain himself from grabbing them out of David’s hand.

  “Be back for twelve thirty,” Angus said. “The phones may be working by then, and when they are I’ll start making enquiries. But, laddie?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll not be saying anything until I have the answer cut and dried.”

  13

  Friendly Persuasion

  Kinky’s sniff was of such force that O’Reilly was sure the kitchen walls would move inward. “It does be a very charitable thing you and Kitty are doing, sir, having that man Fitzpatrick for dinner this evening.” She gave the bread dough she was kneading a punch. O’Reilly reckoned it could have flattened the current world heavyweight champion, Muhammad Ali. Kinky sighed mightily. “I do understand that you are very concerned about his health, but I cannot warm to that man at all, so.”

  O’Reilly remembered back to the day in December 1964 when Fitzpatrick had called Kinky “my good woman.” O’Reilly had had a nasty chest cold and had told Kinky “no visitors.” But Fitzpatrick had always had a peremptory air about him, and he had been determined to see O’Reilly. He had ordered Kinky to step aside as if she were a mere skivvie. And her response had been sub-Arctic, her defiance like that of Horatius at the bridge.

  “I’ve had no time for him since we were students together,” O’Reilly said, “but Kitty and I learned some things about him when we were in Dublin last month. I think they can explain to a degree why he is the man he is today.” He pulled up a stool to the counter and sat down. “He was born and brought up as an only child in Japan, sent back to Dublin in 1931 for his medical education, and never ever saw his missionary parents again. Now add to that that he’s not a well man.”

  “If you say so, sir, and that would all be very sad. The poor little spalpeen. And I’m sure you’ll help him over his illness, so.” She tutted as she packed the dough into several small compartments in two baking tins. “I’ll leave this to rise for a second time and have it in the oven later so you and your guest can have fresh rolls with your mushroom soup.”

  “Thank you, Kinky.” Clearly the Corkwoman was not overly interested in what O’Reilly had learned in Dublin about Fitzpatrick, but then Kinky was not one who’d listen to any kind of gossip. He’d not been surprised that her expression of sympathy had been tinged with a lingering disrespect. “Little spalpeen” was not a term of affection.

  She set the dough-filled tins aside, dusted off her hands on her apron, and turned her attention to three ramekins, each containing a base of her own rich custard flavoured with orange zest. “Seeing both young doctors will be out tonight I’ve only made three desserts. Kitty tells me they call this crema Catalana in Barcelona.”

  “The French call it crème brûlée.”

  “And when I was taught to make it, we just called it burnt cream, so.” She chuckled. “I’d like to have seen the look on my own face when my teacher caramelised the sugar—” She indicted a bowl of nearby brown sugar. “—with a shmall-little blowtorch. I thought she’d taken leave of her senses. She’d worked in a posh London place, the Café de Paris, before the war.”

  O’Reilly pursed his lips. “Aye, the war. If I recall correctly, that place was hit by a bomb in 1941. A band leader called ‘Snakehips’ Johnson was among those killed.”

  “‘Snakehips’? He’d not get a name like that in Ireland. Saint Patrick drove those creatures out.”

  O’Reilly chuckled.

  Kinky said, “By 1941, thank the Lord, my friend Emer was working at Ballybucklebo House for the marquis’s father, God rest them both,” Kinky said. “Now, tonight I’ll be home with Archie,” her smile was beatific, “so Kitty’ll have to finish off the desserts before serving. And the little torch and matches are there, sir,” she pointed. “I’m sure Kitty will manage fine, so.”

  “I’m sure she will,” O’Reilly said, thinking how well things had turned out since Kinky’s marriage and feeling rather satisfied with his lot. Then he was struck by an idea. If, by the end of the meal, he and Kitty had been forced to use the tactic she’d seen on Z-Cars and he had taken Fitzpatrick severely to task, then coming down here to do the caramelizing would give Kitty a chance to try to work her gentle wiles on the previously softened-up victim. He liked the notion. “Kinky?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Show me how to put on the sugar and use the torch, please.”

  Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped.

  He laughed. “Now come on, Kinky,” he said. “It’s not as if I’ve not done a bit of cooking.”

  “No, it is not, sir.” She smiled. “Your curried canned corned beef that you learned in the war is a thing to behold, and cooking does be a thing more men should do. I’m teaching Archie simple recipes. He’s a dab hand now with a boiled egg, and his cheese and scallion omelette could be fluffier, but he’s getting the hang of it, so.” She lifted the sugar bowl and began. “You only need to make a thin little crust, so.”

  * * *

  O’Reilly poured himself a Jameson. It was five thirty and Barry had given Kinky a lift home on his way to Belfast for a night out with his pal Jack Mills, the budding general surgeon. Kitty would be home any time now.

  “Hello, Fingal.” Doctor Jenny Bradley came into the upstairs lounge. “I’m just heading out. I’m having dinner with Terry in the Causerie.” Her voice seemed to hide a chuckle, like a stream bubbling over its bed on a summer day.

  “Jenny,” he said, “you look lovely.” And she did. Her shining blonde hair was nearly covered by a pillbox fur hat and her double-breasted grey wool suit had a shawl collar of the same fur. The skirt was mid-thigh—Mary Quant’s miniskirt had taken the world of fashion by storm and Jenny’s shapely legs in sheer dark tights suited the length well.

  “Thank you, Fingal,” she said. “I want to look my best tonight.”

  “And you do.” What was it about her, he wondered, that was so special tonight? She certainly was wearing more makeup than she would at work. False eyelashes were all the rage and her lipstick was bright. But it was something about the lightness of her voice, her tread, her great beaming smile. Something was making Jenny Bradley very happy. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Mmm. Small sherry, please,” and she sat in one of the armchairs as he poured. Immediately Lady Macbeth leapt up on Jenny’s lap.

  “Here you are.” He handed her the glass and took the other chair. “Sláinte.”

  “Cheers.” She sipped and said, “Fingal, there’s something I want to tell you.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Te
rry has asked me to marry him,” she said in a rush. “And I’ve said yes, and he’s giving me the ring tonight.”

  O’Reilly let a roar out of him like a wounded banshee. “He what? Oh lovely, bloody lovely. Well done, girl.”

  Lady Macbeth screeched, flew off Jenny’s lap, and, as she always did in times of great stress, went straight up the curtain to crouch on the pelmet and hurl feline vituperation at the world.

  O’Reilly leapt to his feet, hauled Jenny to hers, and gave her an enormous hug. “I’m absolutely, bloody well delighted.”

  “About what, pray tell? I heard the bellows of you, Fingal O’Reilly, when I was still outside in the street,” Kitty said as she came in. “And as I recollect about a year ago, you promised something about forsaking all others.”

  O’Reilly looked over Jenny’s shoulder at Kitty’s scowl and knew she was teasing him. Releasing Jenny, he grabbed his wife in an equally ferocious hug that lifted her off the ground, kissed her, and roared, “Terry and Jenny are getting married.”

  “Put me down, Fingal,” Kitty said with a laugh. “And Jenny, pay no attention to your senior. He has no sense of decorum.”

  “Decorum? Decorum? Are you deaf, woman? Jenny’s getting married. We need to celebrate. What would you like?” He nodded at the sideboard.

  “I’d like,” Kitty said, turning to Jenny and giving her a gentle hug, “to wish Terry and Jenny every happiness.”

  “Thank you, Kitty.”

  “A small sherry, I think, Fingal.”

  “Which you shall have.” O’Reilly went to pour.

  “I’d also like to remind you that our guest will be here in fifteen minutes. I’m afraid one of the night shift nurses didn’t show up and it took a while for me to get a replacement. I have time for a quick drink and then I must change. I’m sure Kinky has things well in hand in the kitchen.”

  “Blast,” said O’Reilly. “I’d forgotten about Fitzpatrick.” He sighed, then grinned. “Even so, there’s time enough to lift our glasses to the happy couple.”

  “To you and Terry. We wish you much joy and contentment in your marriage, Doctor Jenny Bradley,” Kitty said, and drank.