An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea

by Patrick Taylor

  Kitty laughed and said, “You’re hopeless, Fingal O’Reilly. Go and get me another G and T, please.”

  “Right,” he said, clutching his stick and bundle like the one with which, it was said, the impoverished Dick Whittington had set out for London. There, aided by his trusty cat, he had four times become lord mayor. “Barry, keep an eye on the Kitty-cat, but beware the ides of March.”

  “Will do,” said Barry, who was wrapped in a purple-edged toga, had a laurel wreath encircling his head, and was holding a half-finished pint. “Yond Fingal has a lean and thirsty look.”

  “I don’t know about lean, but definitely thirsty,” said Fingal with a laugh. “I always liked the rest of that speech. ‘He thinks too much,’ your man Caesar says of Cassius. ‘Such men are dangerous.’ Sometimes I wonder if Doctor Ronald Fitzpatrick thinks too much. He’s definitely becoming a danger to himself.”

  “Can’t believe he just walked out on you like that, and before one of Kinky’s crème brûlées? The man is definitely astray in the head. He’s got no wit.”

  “Divil the bit. And it had actually been a pleasant evening up until then.” O’Reilly shook his head. “Anyway, I can do nothing about it tonight. I’m talking shop and this is a party. It was game of you to come out by yourself.”

  “I thought about staying at home,” said Barry, taking a sip of his pint. “I miss Sue and I knew this bash wouldn’t be the same without her. But I think the village expects their physicians to attend these functions—with or without a partner. And besides, I want to be here.”

  “Not just noblesse oblige then?” said O’Reilly. “I’m proud of you, Barry. It shows how well cut out you are for rural GP work.” O’Reilly glanced at the others at the table at one end of the Ballybucklebo Bonnaughts Sporting Club clubhouse. “Anybody else need a refill?” he asked. Jack Mills, Barry’s friend from boarding school and medical school, was a shaggy Robinson Crusoe for the evening, and his partner, Helen Hewitt, well into her second year of medical studies, was a stunningly seductive Cleopatra, complete with rubber asp.

  “No thanks, Fingal. We’re fine. But I’m keeping an eye on old Barry this evening. Didn’t Julius Caesar have an affair with Cleopatra at some point?”

  “Eejit.” Helen hit Jack over the head with the asp and the whole table laughed.

  “I’ll see to the drinks, Kitty. Won’t be long,” O’Reilly said, and started to head toward the bar, but returned to prop his stick and bundle against the table. “Bloody thing gets in the way,” he said, and set off again to skirt the dancers and get Kitty her gin and tonic.

  The hall was decorated with cobwebs, cutout skeletons, cardboard ghosts, and jack-o’-lanterns carved from turnips. The Troggs had been replaced by the Rolling Stones, belting out “Paint it Black.” A steady hum of conversation was punctuated by a descant of children’s laughter and screams coming from a haunted tunnel made of bamboo hoops covered in sacking. The noise was underpinned by the shuffle and thump of feet on the dance floor. Smoke drifted up to the rafters.

  O’Reilly felt something poking into his back and heard a voice say, “Stick ’em up, Doc.” Colin Brown, in a white cowboy suit and a black mask, held a toy revolver with its barrel pressed against O’Reilly’s spine. He raised his hands above his head. “I surrender,” he said.

  “There ain’t no runnin’ from the Lone Ranger, pardner,” Colin said in a remarkably accurate imitation of Clayton Moore, who played the character on TV and had once appeared on stage at Belfast’s Grand Opera House.

  “How are you, Kemo Sabe?” O’Reilly said. “And how’s Murphy tonight?” Colin was daft about the pup he’d been given by Sonny and Maggie Houston.

  “I had to leave him back at the corral with Tonto,” Colin said.

  “Good for you,” O’Reilly said, “but now, pardner, it’s time for me to head to the saloon.” He began to lower his hands slowly.

  Colin laughed and, reverting to his normal tones, said, “You’re great craic, Doctor O’Reilly, so you are.”

  “Och sure, I used to play cowboys and Indians too, but a long time ago. When I was at school.”

  The boy’s eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe that such a thing could ever have happened.

  “And speaking of school, Colin, what was your exam like?” Colin had sat the Eleven Plus, and if he passed would be able to go to grammar school for an education that might lead on to university.

  “I think I done pretty good, you know. They’d all kinds of daft questions like, ‘Spot the odd man out. Apple, pear, golf ball, banana, pineapple.’” He laughed. “You’d have to be soft in the head not til get the answer. Anyroad we’ll be getting the results on the fifth of November.”

  “Good luck to you,” O’Reilly said, but Colin wasn’t paying attention. He was firing his revolver, the caps making sharp cracks and smelling of burnt gunpowder. “Dar. Dar. You’re dead, Art Callaghan.”

  O’Reilly chuckled and made for the bar.

  “Evening, Doc.” Willie Dunleavy, mine host of the Mucky Duck, was serving drink here tonight. “What’ll it be?”

  “Gin and tonic, and another pint, please.”

  Willie at once put a pint of Guinness on the pour, tipped a measure of Gilbey’s gin into a tumbler, and snapped open a small bottle of Schweppes tonic water. “Here you are, sir. That’ll be three shillings.” Willie handed over the gin, bottle of tonic, and pint; Fingal paid and began making his way carefully back to his table.

  He passed Donal Donnelly, a ragged-looking, carrotty-haired Robin Hood, and Julie, her long blonde tresses shining and setting off her Maid Marion outfit. They were deep in conversation with Dapper Frew, the estate agent, and his wife Audrey, who O’Reilly guessed were John Steed and Emma Peel from TV’s The Avengers. “Evening all,” O’Reilly said, and was greeted by the company.

  Donal looked up and grinned, showing his buck teeth. “How’s about ye, Doc?”

  “Grand, thanks, Sir Robin,” O’Reilly said. “Getting ready to take from the rich and give to the poor?”

  Donal’s grin fled. “How the blazes did you know that, Doctor?”

  O’Reilly frowned. “Know what?” His throwaway remark had clearly hit an unsuspected mark.

  “C’mere here, Doc,” Donal said, his tones conspiratorial as he rose. “I’ll be back in a wee minute, so I will,” he said to the others, and headed toward a corner of the room.

  Intrigued, O’Reilly followed.

  Just then Popeye the sailor man hove into view.

  “Ahoy, matey,” O’Reilly said, and beckoned.

  Gerry Shanks, clutching a can labelled SPINACH in one hand and a beer in the other, came over.

  “Do me a favour?” O’Reilly said.

  “Aye, certainly, Doctor.”

  “Do you think you can take this gin and tonic to Mrs. O’Reilly, Puss in Boots tonight, and tell her I’ll be along soon, but I’m having a word with Donal?”

  “I’m your man, Doc.” Gerry stuck the can of spinach in the pocket of his trousers and, juggling his own beer, took the bottle and glass from O’Reilly. “Never you worry,” he said and, still juggling, headed off into the fray.

  “He’s a good head, Gerry,” O’Reilly said.

  “But not too swift,” Donal said. “When it comes to using the loaf, your man would be out of his depth in a playground puddle.”

  O’Reilly thought this was rather rich coming from Donal, but he said nothing, just lifted his pint. “Sláinte. Now, Donal,” he said. “What’s up?”

  Donal lowered his voice. “It’s about them puppies.”

  “The greyhuahuas?”

  “Aye, them. I think between Dapper and me—”

  “I thought you were keeping them hush-hush?”

  “I was trying til, aye, but there could have been one wee flea in the ointment.”

  “Fly, Donal.” O’Reilly hid his smile at another Donalpropism.

  “Aye. Right. Fly. Dapper owns the sire. He can do sums as quick as me and he knew when Bluebi
rd was going til pup. You remember I explained I had til tell him, so I had. He thought on it for a wee while. He’s such a sound man he offered to refund half the stud fee, but a deal is a deal.” Donal stuck out his jaw.

  You’re a sound man yourself, Donal Donnelly, O’Reilly thought.

  “He knows I have til sell the pups and he had this wee notion. In his business, selling houses, he says you can get a brave wheen more money for one if you can persuade buyers who are really warm—”

  “Warm, Donal?”

  “You know, those with lots of the ould do-re-mi.”

  “Right, rich.”

  “Aye. If you can persuade them that some feature is dead unusual—something like a sunk bathtub or a gazebo in the garden. Them things is rare as hens’ teeth in Ireland, so nobody else will have one, and do you know what else?”

  O’Reilly chuckled, wondering what was coming next. “No,” he said.

  “Dapper says not very long after, he’s getting enquiries from their rich friends about how can they get one too?”

  “Aha,” said O’Reilly. “That’s called ‘keeping up with the Joneses.’”

  “Is it?” said Donal. “It’s more like ‘A fool and his money’s soon parted,’ if you ask me.”

  Something at which Donal was skilled. “So you’re going to try to persuade folks that your mongrels are a rare breed?”

  Donal managed to look offended. “Well, they are,” he said. “Damn right they are, sir. They’re the only ten Woolamarroo herding dogs between here and Australia.”

  O’Reilly, who had just taken a mouthful, laughed so hard that Guinness came down his nose. “Where?”

  “Woolamarroo,” said Donal. “We looked up an atlas of Australia. There’s no such place, but it sounds like Wooloomooloo, and that’s in Sydney near King’s Cross and Pott’s Point.”

  “Donal, you absolutely amaze me,” O’Reilly said. “And what do they herd?”

  “Quokkas.” Donal face was deadpan.

  “What in the name of the wee man is a quokka?”

  The 1920s strains of vo-dodie-oh-doh music filled the room as the New Vaudeville Band began to sing “Winchester Cathedral.”

  “We looked that up too. It’s a marsupial about the size of a cat. Only lives on a few islands off Western Australia.”

  “Quokkas? Never heard of them,” said O’Reilly.

  “And you’re one of the learnèd men here, Doctor O’Reilly, so if you haven’t heard of them who else might have, do you think?”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “Damned if I know.”

  “You’re dead on. Nobody, that’s who. And that’s another thing. People who think they’re no goat’s toe don’t like to show their ignorance. Tell them the dogs herd quokkas and they’ll just nod, look as if they understand, smile, and say, ‘Right enough? Good for them.’”

  He’s right, O’Reilly thought. “Damn it all, it might just work. But will people expect pedigrees?”

  “Aye, mebbee,” said Donal. “Dapper an me’s still working out the wrinkles, but we reckon the first step is for til start a rumour that I’m bringing in a clatter of these rare dogs. And anyroad, the pups can’t leave their ma until somewhere after December the fifth, so we’ve loads of time yet to get all our plans in order.”

  “Starting a rumour shouldn’t be difficult here,” O’Reilly said.

  “If you know the Psalms, sir, you’ll know the one ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings.’ Do you mind how the stewards at a greyhound race trusted wee Colin Brown?”

  “I remember it well.”

  “I’m going to tell wee Colin I’m bringing in these rare dogs and ask him til spread the word.”

  “Donal, it’s just daft enough that it might work.”

  “And you’ll keep it til yourself, sir?”

  “Mum’s the word,” and he pictured a wartime poster encouraging people not to indulge in loose talk: “Be like dad. Keep mum.”

  From the speakers came “You stood and you watched as my baby walked by…”

  “I’ll not say anything, except to Doctor Laverty,” said O’Reilly, “but I’m going to be watching you, Donal. Woolamarroo quokka herding hounds, by all that’s holy.” He clapped Donal on the shoulder. “What the hell will you be getting up to next?”

  Donal grinned and started to answer when O’Reilly glanced at the dance floor. “Got to go, Donal.” Puss in Boots was dancing with Robinson Crusoe—a little too close for O’Reilly’s comfort.

  20

  … Would Meet in Every Place

  Collingwood Ward was quiet. Only half the beds were full. Angus had been right. While London continued to receive a nightly pounding, Portsmouth and the surrounding area had been left in peace for nine days—except, of course, for the lone snooper that had shot down Pilot Officer Dennison four days ago. Gunnery Chief Petty Officer McIlroy, the Ulsterman who instructed at Whale Island, had had his operation and been discharged. He’d promised to remember Fingal to Henson.

  The patients, now an officer was on deck, all sat or lay at attention. Two men, who were sitting at the table in the middle of the ward, stopped playing uckers, a board game using dice and round playing pieces that was an obsessive pastime with the lower deck. Even the SBA pushing the beer trolley came to a halt. Beer rounds, when each man was given a bottle of Brickwoods Ale as a tonic, was the high spot of the day. The bottles were called “Little Brickies.”

  Fingal spoke to a leading SBA, the senior rating on duty. “Tell them to stand easy and carry on.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The order was given. Conversations began again. Cigarettes and pipes were lit and the bottles on the beer trolley made a cheerful clinking as it was moved from bed to bed. The mid-October afternoon sun poured in through the big northwest-facing windows.

  The rattle of the uckers dice was drowned by one player calling, “That’s an eight-piecer. I win.”

  Fingal was off duty and on his way to his quarters to change into civilian clothes before meeting Deirdre at the Portsmouth Guildhall. Marge was picking up her son Tony there and would give Deirdre a lift. Fingal had come to say good-bye to the burned pilot, who was being transferred to East Grinstead later today. Angus, without bothering to inform Surgeon Commander Fraser, had simply made a couple of phone calls, spoken to Mister McIndoe himself, and arranged for an ambulance to make the ninety-mile run. Fraser was none the wiser. Yesterday morning he’d had to go up to London on naval business. It was true—what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over. If George Fraser had a heart.

  Now that the shock cage had been removed, the young pilot lay under only his bedclothes. The top blanket, blue and white with a fouled anchor crest, matched every other top blanket on the ward. To Fingal, the man’s face, covered by the black tannic acid coagulum and white eye patches, looked like the reverse of a panda bear’s visage. “How are you feeling today, Flip? It’s me. O’Reilly.” The man’s Christian name was Phillip, but as was practically de rigueur in the RAF, he went by a nickname.

  “Lieutenant O’Reilly?” He turned his head to face where Fingal had taken a seat and spoke, slurring his words because his lips were swollen, although not badly burned. They must have been protected by his oxygen mask. “A bit better, thanks, but to quote Gracie Fields,” his Oxbridge accent faded and he said in thick Lancashire tones, “‘I’m one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit.’”

  “You’re a brave lad, Flip, to joke about it.”

  “It’s been a funny few days,” he said quietly now, “but I’ve hardly noticed them pass. With all the morphine, I’ve done nothing but sleep when they’d let me. But this morning I was feeling a bit more like myself, I suppose. Wanted to know what’s been happening while I’ve been out of it. So I asked Sister Blenkinsop. She said the nurses had been painting my face every two hours. Now it’s every three. Sister says they use camel hair brushes to put on the same stuff they put on during the operation.”

  “It’s tannic acid,” F
ingal said.

  Flip nodded slowly. “The stuff that’s in tea. So I understand. They’ll cut it down to once a day soon, and by day seven the crust should start to peel off.”

  “I hear the tannic acid really does help the burns to heal,” said Fingal.

  “But it won’t give me back my moustache or my eyelids.” There was no hint of bitterness. “I have to wear these eyepads. They get changed during the day.” Fingal heard the catch in the airman’s voice. “When they took them off this morning, I could see. It was blurry, but Sister tells me my sight will keep getting better, thank Christ. I was terrified I was blind. I don’t think I could have taken that.”

  Fingal reached out and took the man’s hand and squeezed. “And you’ll be pleased to know your mitts are perfectly well.” The flames in a plane’s cockpit often destroyed the pilot’s bare hands too.

  “Thank you. I’d kept my gauntlets on, but like a silly clot I’d pushed up my goggles so I could see better.” He wriggled in the bed. “I say, would you do something for me, old boy?”

  “If I can.”

  “I’m gasping for a fag. They’re in the locker.”

  Fingal found a packet of Player’s Navy Cut, took out a cigarette, and tapped its end on the packet to tamp in the tobacco. He put it between his own lips, took out Swan Vesta matches, and lit up. “Here,” he said.

  Flip inhaled deeply and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Lord,” he said, “but that’s better.”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  Fingal turned to see a young VAD standing at the foot of the bed.

  “Yes, nurse?”

  “Sister says can you leave in five minutes, please? We need to get Pilot Officer Dennison ready to go.”

  “Thank you. Of course.” He rose. “I’ll just help him finish his smoke.” Fingal took the cigarette and tapped the ash into an ashtray. “Here.” He replaced it between Flip’s lips. “You’re a lucky man,” he said. “You’re going to the best plastic surgeon in Britain. He’ll rebuild your eyelids and if you want, you’ll be back in a Hurricane in no time.”

  Flip took a deep drag and said, “Not me. I’m fond of the old Hurri; I’m going to ask for a Spitfire. It’s an absolutely marvellous kite.” He handed the half-smoked cigarette to Fingal. “Would you put that out, please.”