An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea

by Patrick Taylor

  “Have you decided what to call the, um, breed?” Barry asked.

  “I suppose Greyhuahua’ll have to do,” Donal said, “and if I can’t come up with something, I’ll give them away, so I will. Maybe young Colin would like another wee dog.”

  “You’ll keep us posted, Donal?” O’Reilly said.

  “Aye, certainly, sir,” Donal said. “Now, Julie’s inside with wee Tori. She asked me til ask you if you’d like a wee cup of tea in your hand?”

  “That’s very kind, Donal,” O’Reilly said, “but we have to be running along. Doctor Laverty’s on call so we’ve no time for tea. We’ll just pop in to say hello and then be on our way.”

  And when O’Reilly and Barry had spent a little time with Julie and the chattering little Tori, they took their leave. As the car jolted along the lane, O’Reilly contentedly singing, “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog,” he heard Barry say, “I am truly sorry for Donal, but that two pounds you’re going to owe me when Donal doesn’t figure out a way to sell the pups is getting closer and closer.”

  To which O’Reilly could only answer, in song, “‘You ain’t never caught a rabbit and you ain’t no friend of mine,’ and my boy, we’ll just have to see about the bet, won’t we. Time will tell. Time will tell.”

  16

  A Dream Come True

  “And how are we this bright and breezy morning, Surgeon Lieutenant-Commander O’Reilly?”

  There had been a knock on Fingal’s door on Saturday morning and there had stood Surgeon Captain Angus Mahaddie, grinning like the Cheshire cat and offering a handshake.

  “Who?” Fingal shook the man’s hand but then took a step backward, not sure he’d heard correctly. “Lieutenant-commander? You’re serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious. Now, are you going to leave me standing out here in the hall, or are you going to invite me into your palatial accommodation?” Angus looked around at the iron-framed single bed, freestanding wardrobe, and plain table with two wooden chairs. “Aye, I’d forgotten how small these rooms are. The sooner you’re out of here and into married quarters, the better.”

  “Good God, Angus, I don’t know how to thank you enough. Come in. Come in.” Fingal motioned his senior into the cramped room and closed the door. “But how did you do it?”

  Angus took a chair, but Fingal remained standing. He knew he’d not be able to keep still. He wanted to rush to the nearest telephone.

  “A department head—that’s me—can apply, in an emergency, for promotion of a lieutenant to acting lieutenant-commander in his unit if the best interests of the service demand it. And the rank, once approved, becomes effective immediately.”

  “You mean … you mean…”

  “Just so.” The little Scot’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve set the wheels in motion to have it confirmed. And given our recent workload, I honestly believe the service does demand it. I’ve had a word with Admiral Creaser, who says he’s delighted with the idea and he is sorry he didn’t think of it himself. He’s approved so it’ll go up through channels like a rocket. It might take a week or two before you can put up your extra half ring but,” the Scot winked and said, “the admiral says Nelson’s not the only one with a blind eye. We’ll not quibble over the exact date of your promotion. He reckons our chaplain, John Wilfred Evans, could probably do the deed in Saint Luke’s Church on Friday, November the first. Eh, that’s just over three weeks away.”

  Fingal paced to the far wall. He stared out the window to see the side of the chapel in the foreground and the administrative block in the distance. They looked utilitarian and drab in the greyness of the October day. Barely trusting himself to speak, he then turned and said, “Bless you, Angus.”

  “Now I imagine you’d like to pass the word to your fiancée.” Fingal heard the naval “pass the word,” and was reminded of how Haslar really was run as a ship at sea, even here in this great redbrick hospital complex on its peninsula between Haslar Creek and the Solent. Angus glanced at his watch. “It’s nine thirty. There’ll be a transfer train taking recovering patients from Gosport Station, leaving in—”

  Fingal was already grabbing for his cap and gas mask.

  “—half an hour. If you ask the driver, he’ll make a stop for you in Fareham. They’re pretty accommodating with Haslar staff.”

  Angus’s words were already growing faint as Fingal tore through the door yelling, “Thank you,” over his shoulder.

  * * *

  “My goodness, Fingal, you’re out of breath,” Marge said, “and we weren’t expecting you until lunchtime, but do come in. Deirdre and I were having coffee. I’m afraid it’s only that awful chicory Camp stuff, but if you’d like a cup?”

  “Please,” Fingal said, trying to control his panting. He’d run all the way from Fareham station. And admit it, he told himself, you’re not as fit as you were when you were playing rugby football. He followed her into the now-familiar room where Admiral Benbow, lying by the fire, barely deigned to glance through his fringe and blow out his breath as if to say, Huh. Him again.

  But Deirdre gave a yelp of delight when she saw him, leapt up from her seat, and rushed to him. “You’re early, Fingal. Terrific.”

  He took her in his arms, kissed her, and said, “Darling. I’ve got some wonderful news.”

  “Pay no attention to me,” Marge said as she poured him a cup of coffee. “But do sit, Fingal, and tell the girl. By the way, do you take sugar? I’ve forgotten.”

  “Please.” Fingal, holding on to Deirdre’s hand, was happy to be led to one of the armchairs. As they walked he said, and loudly enough for Marge to hear, “If it would suit you, we can tie the knot on November the first.”

  She stopped dead, forcing him to do the same. Deirdre had, since they’d confessed love for each other, put an unshakeable trust in him that was humbling. “Darling, that is wonderful news,” she said, “isn’t it, Marge?”

  “I am overjoyed,” Marge said, “if only because I’ll get my spare bedroom back.” Her words sounded uncaring, but Fingal had rapidly become accustomed to the English upper class’s refusal to show emotion in public, and anyway, her grin belied the coldness of her words. “Here you are,” she said. “Coffee … of a kind.”

  Fingal accepted the cup and sat beside Deirdre. “Thank you.” He drank in the coffee and the bright sparkle in her eyes. Bless you again, Angus Mahaddie. “We’ll have to make arrangements,” he said.

  “In a minute or two, Fingal,” Deirdre said. “I just want to get used to the idea that in no time I’ll be Mrs. O’Reilly. At last. It’s wonderful. I’m so happy.”

  Fingal looked more deeply into her eyes. “Me too,” he said, and in his head he could hear the lyrics he’d known since he was a boy.

  Oh no, ’twas the truth in her eyes ever shining

  That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.

  “I’m very happy for you both,” Marge said. “Is there anything at all I can do?”

  “Yes.” She said the word in a happy sigh, but the words that followed were practical, down to earth. “None of our families will be able to come over from Ulster.”

  Fingal nodded. Bloody war.

  “I’d be deeply honoured if you’d be my matron of honour, Marge, and do you think Pip would be my bridesmaid?”

  Marge leaned over and lightly kissed Deirdre’s cheek. “It would give me enormous pleasure, my dear. But I can’t speak for the Honourable Philippa Gore-Beresford. You can ask her yourself. I’m sure she’ll say yes.”

  “I will, Marge. I will. We’ve become such friends since I came. She’s been so kind,” Deirdre said.

  “That’s our Pip,” Marge said. “Now, you shall need somewhere to live. Have you thought about that, Fingal?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. The Crescent in Alverstoke has quarters for married naval officers. WREN officers who work at HMS Hornet, the Motor Torpedo Boat base, live there too. It’s only about a mile’s walk to the hospital.”

  “I’d suggest you pay them a v
isit this afternoon. Try to get a spot,” Marge said, “and you’ll be able to get, within wartime constraints, a decent supper in the Anglesey Hotel. It’s part of the terrace.”

  Deirdre said, “Let’s do it, darling. Let’s go and see if we can find our first home together.”

  And that prospect so filled Fingal with delight that, if it would not have been impolite, he’d have forgone lunch and headed to Alverstoke at once.

  * * *

  “Looks pretty Georgian to me, all those Doric pillars holding up a first-floor balcony and those chimneys on the roof,” Fingal said. “I’ve been to Bath and the old Roman Aquae Sulis. There are more curved terraces like this there.”

  As he and Deirdre stood looking at the grubby white three-storey crescent of terrace houses, three WREN officers, talking animatedly, left through what must be the entrance—a narrow set of six columns in the middle of the terrace that ran almost to the roof and supported a small roof of their own. The women were headed in Fingal and Deirdre’s direction.

  He pointed to his right at the four-storey Anglesey Arms. “That’s the hotel,” he said. “The staff at Haslar uses it quite a lot as their local, they tell me.”

  “Looks like somewhere that should have serious-looking mutton-chopped admirals coming in and going out, making sure Britannia still rules the waves.”

  He laughed, but had to come to attention and return the compliment as the WRENs passed and saluted. When they’d gone he took Deirdre’s hand and led her toward the entrance. “I’m told,” he said, “that a couple of current admirals live in houses at the far end of the Crescent.”

  The buildings were separated from the road by a low redbrick wall, and even if there was a war on someone had found time to trim a privet hedge that stood behind the wall. He wondered if the red bricks had been left over from the time of Haslar’s construction. The clay for making them had been taken from the very grounds where the hospital was built. “Marge said we should ask at the hall porter’s. I think it’ll be in there.”

  He led her into an echoing foyer with a tiled marble floor, very high ceilings, and staircases to either side. Two potted aspidistras, looking limp and dejected, sat in one corner, and a chief petty officer, looking marginally more lively, sat in a glass-fronted cubicle in the other. He was a man of about sixty, probably ex–Royal Navy called back for noncombatant work by the “requirements of the service,” and Fingal blessed them. The man rose, but as he was uncovered, did not salute. Nor did Fingal.

  “Can oi be of assistance, zur?” His accent placed him at once as a Westcountryman. Probably from Somerset.

  “Please. I’m Surgeon Lieutenant O’Reilly, temporarily attached to Haslar. My fiancée, Nurse Mawhinney,” he nodded to Deirdre, “and I will be married in three weeks. We’ve been advised to enquire about getting a furnished flat here.”

  “You’ve come to the right place, sir. We do have a number of vacancies. If you’d like to inspect one?”

  “Very much.” Fingal felt Deirdre give his arm an almighty squeeze.

  “Here’s the keys to number 2B. It’s the best of the lot,” the man said. “Up that left-hand staircase, then turn to your left, and it’s the fourth door on the right. It’s a front-facing one so you’ll have a bit of a view over the Solent. You can watch the Fishbourne-Portsmouth Ferry go by.”

  “Thank you,” Fingal said, accepting the keys and thinking that while the ferry must be a delightful sight to see, in moments he was going to have Deirdre all to himself in private, with the door closed.

  As soon as it was shut, he enfolded her in a massive hug and kissed her with all the longing deep in him. She kissed him back, lips on lips, tongue on tongue, a long, yearning kiss that made him shudder, but then she moved back.

  “I want you so much, darling,” she said, “but not here. Not yet.”

  He couldn’t speak, simply stood holding her hand, waiting for his breathing to come under control, his heart to stop pounding.

  “I do love you so, Fingal,” she said. “Later.”

  And he wondered how much later?

  “Can we have a look around?” she said, and began to lead him along a narrow hall.

  He was less interested in the physical surroundings. The place was clean with no musty smell, and a small hall led to a combined sitting room and dining room. Doors led to bedrooms, one on either side of the hall.

  “Look, Fingal. A double bed,” she said.

  “Splendid.” Vivid images of lovemaking filled his mind.

  “And a coal fire. We can roast chestnuts at Christmas.” And make love in front of the fire. He pictured that too.

  She disappeared through a door at the side of the dining area. He heard drawers being opened and shut, the clanking of pots and dishes. When she reappeared she said, “I’m sure it’s a lovely kitchen, but I’m not much of a cook. I’ll have to buy a cookbook.”

  Images of home-cooked meals fled and he laughed. “Well, if we’re stuck, I’m sure we’ll be able to get a bite next door in the hotel.”

  “The hotel,” she said, and he was surprised by the huskiness of her voice. She came back into the main room, composed again, her voice matter-of-fact. “Have you any idea what you have to do to get a flat here?”

  He laughed again. “Well, that CPO didn’t look like someone who’d take a bribe. He did say there were vacancies. I’m sure people are always coming and going. I reckon if we go through the proper channels, Mrs. O’Reilly-very-soon-to-be, and we’re good little boys and girls, the navy will let us stay here.” He hugged her again and kissed her, but gently.

  “Not too good, I hope. Do please try to get it for us, Fingal.” She stared out the window over the street, a few low houses, a green space, and out to the grey, choppy Solent and the Isle of Wight beyond. “And I love the view,” she said. “It’s not quite the same as looking across Belfast Lough to the Antrim Hills, but it does remind me of home. I can hardly wait until November the first. Shall we have a honeymoon?”

  “Angus has promised me a short bit of leave.”

  “Wonderful,” she said. “We must ask Marge’s advice about where to go.”

  “All right,” he said.

  “Now, did someone suggest a meal at the Anglesey?”

  “Marge said they do a decent supper,” he said.

  “And she told me that Queen Victoria used to sleep there on the way to her house on the Isle of Wight.” She began a slow, inviting smile as she rummaged in her handbag. “It must be nice to sleep there, in the Anglesey,” she said, and that husky tone was back.

  What was she hinting? Fingal wondered. Even in wartime, English hotels, at least the reputable ones, would demand evidence that a couple was married. His eyes widened. Good Lord.

  Deirdre had produced a shiny, narrow, gold-coloured ring and slipped it on the ring finger of her left hand. “I believe,” she said, “you’re not on duty again until Monday, and I’m perfectly sure the man at reception will never have seen either of us.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips.

  Fingal shuddered, took a very deep breath, and, trying to control a slight tremble in his voice, said, “But we’ve no luggage. They’ll still not believe us.” Amazing how the war had brought so many social conventions tumbling down. The desk staff were still duty-bound to go through the motions of insisting that a couple be married before they could get a room, but young people, driven by the very real fear that the man might never come back, were determined to seize life—and love.

  “Oh, Fingal,” she said, moved against him and kissed him long and hard. “I’m sure you have a suitcase in your quarters and it’s only two miles there and back.” Her next kiss was harder, her tongue on his, her firm breasts against his chest. “I’m certain a walk would do us good, and I’m sure it’ll help us work up quite an appetite.” Her wink was slow.

  So that’s what “later” had meant. And Fingal O’Reilly laughed as if he’d never stop, then held her and said, “I love you, Deirdre Mawhinney. And I’ll love you
to the grave and beyond.” He tugged her toward the door. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go for a walk.”

  17

  The Bird Is on the Wing

  “There you are, John.” O’Reilly handed the Marquis of Ballybucklebo a prescription for hydrochlorothiazide. “One tablet twice a day’ll keep the old blood pressure under control for another six months.”

  “Thanks, Fingal,” the marquis said, “and I appreciate your coming out to the house to examine me, particularly on such a miserable day.” There was a tired note to his voice.

  The October drizzle had started after Kitty and O’Reilly had finished their lunch, just before she’d headed off to her third-Saturday-of-the-month painting group in Belfast and he’d collected Arthur and driven out here. Jenny, who still hadn’t made up her mind about leaving, was on call, and Barry had gone with Helen Hewitt to watch Jack Mills play rugby.

  Raindrops coursed down the mullioned windows of his lordship’s study.

  “A bit of rain never hurt anybody,” O’Reilly said, and laughed. “And we can’t expect the lord of the manor to sit in my waiting room with the peasantry. I was passing anyway. I’m going snipe shooting at the Kearney farm.”

  “Are you, by Jove?” The marquis looked wistful. “I envy you.”

  “With all your pheasant on the estate and grouse up on your moors above the Glens of Antrim?”

  The marquis frowned and sighed. “Your rough shooting doesn’t cost you a penny. I spent all day yesterday with the estate manager, going over my expenses for the last quarter.”

  O’Reilly waited but was not surprised when the marquis left the matter hanging in midair. He was not the kind of man to wash his dirty linen in public, even if that public was his friend and trusted physician. That notwithstanding, O’Reilly inferred that John MacNeill was worried about money—again. Since the institution by the Asquith government in 1914 of heavy death duties on big estates, running one had become a burden for many titled landowners. O’Reilly knew his friend was still paying off the duties occasioned by the death of his father. “Got you worried?” he asked.