“Please forgive me, Colonel, but ever since you were at Ballybucklebo House for dinner three weeks ago, I’ve been puzzled by some things you said, and I find I cannot get them out of my mind. I wondered if you might help me clear up the mystery, as it were.”
“I will certainly try.”
“Very good. I was surprised when you said, for example, that you’d gone to Dulwich School in London and had been in Drake House.”
Mullan, who had taken up a position behind a wingback chair as if it might offer him protection, smiled. “That’s easy to explain. I went to the local Cookstown College until I was thirteen.” He puffed out his chest. “I won a scholarship to Dulwich. I attended from 1921 until 1925.”
“But surely Drake is a day boy’s house?”
“It is. The scholarship only paid for tuition and school supplies. I stayed with a London cousin of my father’s during term time. On Pickwick Road near the Sports’ Ground, and I don’t see—”
“I’m sorry. Please don’t think I’m hinting that you may have been untruthful.”
Yet, O’Reilly thought. It won’t be a mere hint when John does.
“I should hope not.”
The marquis smiled. “Just a couple more things, please. You attended the Royal Military College Sandhurst next?”
“I did, but I fail to see what is so mysterious about that. Why have you and O’Reilly come to interrogate me? He and I are not on the best of terms.”
“Don’t worry about me, Oliver,” O’Reilly said. “I’m just keeping his lordship company. Give him the answers and we’ll be off.”
“Oh, very well.” Mullan stepped away from the wingback and pulled a straight-backed armless chair from against a wall, positioned it facing O’Reilly and the marquis, sat, and folded his arms. “Please be brief—sir.”
“So you left Sandhurst when?”
“In 1929.”
“When you were commissioned into the Royal Ulster Rifles as a second lieutenant?”
Mullan nodded, but he fidgeted on his chair.
“Fine regiment. You surprised me when you said their march-past is ‘The South Down Militia.’”
Mullan shook his head and grimaced. “Did I actually say that? Silly me. I’m hopeless with music. It’s our slow march. Our march-past is ‘Off, Off, Said the Stranger.’”
He stopped fidgeting. He’s getting cocky again, O’Reilly thought.
John MacNeill crossed his legs, glanced out the window and back to fix Mullan with an unblinking stare. “It’s no good, Mullan. However you explain away these cracks in your façade, I’m afraid I know the truth. That under the Army Act, section 44, you were court-martialled, spared prison, but cashiered in 1936 for embezzling mess funds when you were stationed in Victoria Barracks in Belfast. That automatically debarred you from ever serving the monarch in any capacity. You could not reenlist in the ranks and try to regain your good name. You couldn’t even be a postman.”
“Absolute rubbish.” Mullan got to his feet. He shouted, “If you are going to make such vile, unfounded accusations, I must ask you to leave my home at once.”
The marquis kept his voice level. “Please, Mister Mullan, don’t try to deny it. I have senior friends in the Judge Advocate General’s Office of the Ministry of Defence. I can have a transcript of your court-martial mailed by making one phone call.” The marquis, with complete ruthlessness, continued. “Impersonating a military officer as you are now doing is also a criminal offence.”
“But you don’t have the transcript.”
Now there was steel in the marquis’s voice. “No, Mullan, I don’t, but unlike you, I am not a liar. You can trust my word on this.”
Mullan’s face crumpled and he collapsed into the chair. “I’m ruined—again.”
Much as he had come to dislike the man, O’Reilly squirmed for Mullan’s humiliation.
When the marquis spoke, his voice again was one of reason. “Mister Mullan, if you will explain to us why you did it, we might be able to find some extenuating circumstance. If we can understand and if you promise to behave as we tell you, Doctor O’Reilly and I might be persuaded to turn a blind eye.”
Mullan lifted his head, looked from the marquis to O’Reilly, and back to the marquis. He inhaled, shook his head, took out a hanky, and blew his nose.
O’Reilly said in his most consoling voice, “Come on, man. Spit it out. You’ll feel better once you have.”
Mullan half turned to look out a side window onto a gnarled beech dripping with rain. “Very well. It’s nearly all been a lie. My father was in linen. I was honest about that.” Mullan made a huhing sound. “He was a warehouseman at a mill.” Mullan, when he looked at O’Reilly, had the eyes of a chastised Labrador. “I was smart, you see, perhaps too smart. I wanted a better life than my parents, living on a housing estate in County Tyrone. Our minister knew that some public schools did grant scholarships to working-class pupils so Daddy asked if he could help. He did all the paperwork. Arranged for me to go there and sit the exams. I won one. My daddy was so proud.” Mullan inhaled deeply. “When it came time to go, I was sad about leaving Ulster, but I grew out of it.”
“You got off to a good start,” O’Reilly said.
Mullan shook his head impatiently. “There was no future for me until I won that scholarship to Dulwich. I joined the Combined Cadet Force there, the infantry sub-unit. The CCF didn’t play at soldiers. We took training just like the adult regulars, went to summer camps. I loved the life. I was promoted to cadet colour sergeant in my last year. I loved everything to do with it.”
O’Reilly was impressed. Very few boys gained that distinction.
“In fifth form I asked the careers master how I’d go about joining the Regular Army as an officer. They put me in the army class that groomed boys for the Sandhurst officers’ training school entrance exams. Passed my first try. Then off to Wiltshire to be grilled by the Army Officer Selection Board at Westbury. I got in. Because it was on His Majesty’s service, the fees were subsidised. I don’t know how my father and mother did it, although he’d been promoted to foreman by then. They managed. They were proud of me.” He stopped abruptly. “They’re gone now.”
The drizzle had been increasing steadily, and in the quiet house the sound of the rain beat like a frenzied roll on a side drum.
“Entry into the Royal Military Academy isn’t easy,” the marquis said quietly. “I remember my own selection board.”
Perhaps that grain of understanding from Lord MacNeill had emboldened Mullan to continue.
“There’s more,” he said. “When I was at Dulwich I used to go to the drawing room comedies at the Whitehall Theatre. I’d lost my Ulster accent and found I was very good at impersonating the upper crust in school dramatics.”
O’Reilly refrained from comment but was beginning to understand.
Mullan’s smile was dreamy, wistful. “My dreams came true when I was commissioned.” The smile fled. “The Rifles weren’t a swank regiment like your Irish Guards, my lord, or some of the cavalry, but I’d no personal funds other than my officer’s salary. My folks had just been able to help with my fees at Sandhurst. And by then I had completely hidden my working-class, Irish roots. One had to keep up appearances at formal mess dinners, race meetings, things like that. You know all about that, my lord.”
“Unfortunately I do, but I could afford it.”
“I couldn’t, but I was stupid. Yes, I stole the money. I’m a thief.” He fished out a hanky and blew his nose. “I’m sorry,” he said.
O’Reilly wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for the tears clogging his nose or the fact that he’d stolen money to pay for his fictional persona.
“So what did you do?” John MacNeill asked. “Life isn’t easy for a cashiered officer.”
“What you said, sir. I tried to enlist in the Black Watch under a false name as a working-class Ulsterman with a Scottish father, but they found out. Their medical officer who did my entry medical, a Scot who had been with the
Rifles, had asked for a transfer to the Gallant Forty-twa.”
“What terribly bad luck,” said John MacNeill. “So what did you do then?”
Typical of the man, O’Reilly thought, to have sympathy for the scoundrel.
“I auditioned at the Whitehall Theatre, got a small part. I was with them when Basil Dean and Leslie Henson founded E.N.S.A. in 1939.” He sniffed. “I still wanted to serve my country. Do you remember the Kipling story?”
John MacNeill nodded.
“I was in that E.N.S.A. sketch as the sergeant because I can,” he dropped into broad Belfast, “make a bloody cat laugh when I take off a Belfast docker, so I can,” his accent became more nasal, “and people say, ‘hold the feckin’ lights’ at my Dublin Northsider.”
O’Reilly had difficulty stifling a grin. “Take off,” Belfast for “to imitate,” and the man was spot on with both Irish accents and nearly perfect with his usual Oxbridge too.
“After the war I went back to the Whitehall Theatre. I was too young for a colonel so I played a major when I wasn’t at the theatre. Gave me an entrée into a much better class of society.” O’Reilly had heard enough. He looked at John MacNeill. “I think I’ve had enough, sir.”
The marquis raised a hand, a gentle admonishment. “Nearly enough. An actor can’t make a great deal of money or have much of a pension. Where did you get the money to buy this house?”
“That’s the really sad part. When I met Margaret Pearson in 1958 I started off trying to impress her. We met quite by chance. I’d gone to Lords’ to see the MCC play cricket,” he hesitated, “against Sandhurst. Silly, I know, but I took the chance. She was sitting beside me and we got chatting. She was most knowledgeable about the game. At close of play at six I took her for an early dinner and, unusually for me with my memory, I quite forgot who won the match, I’d become so entranced with her. She was five years older than me, a wealthy widow with two children—”
O’Reilly wondered if she had been the only one to whom Mullan had paid court. Probably not.
“We fell in love. I’d wanted to marry for money, I’ll admit it, but we were in love.”
And despite the fact that Mullan was a self-confessed liar and impostor, O’Reilly believed the man.
“We married and I moved into her house in Mayfair. I left the Whitehall Theatre. Margaret was so proud of my having been an officer, I had to keep on pretending.”
O’Reilly understood.
Mullan took a very deep breath, swallowed, and said, “Then five years ago—” He hesitated, shook his head, inhaled. “Oh, God, it was all so stupid. She was driving home alone after visiting an old friend I didn’t like much and so I had stayed at home. A drunk driver hit her car head on. They said she died instantly. Didn’t suffer.” Deep breath. “But I did. Still do.”
“Och, Jasus,” O’Reilly said, unable to control himself.
“I rattled around in London, trying to decide what to do. I had money now. Much of the estate went to the children but Margaret had provided for me quite generously. But Margaret was gone and suddenly it all seemed so pointless. I decided to come home, to Ulster. Buy somewhere in the country, but not too far from Belfast, that still left me enough to get by in reasonable comfort from the interest on the remainder. I looked at several properties, and apart from the nearness to the sporting club, this seemed ideal. And seeing it had worked before, to gain acceptance and be reasonably high up in a local social scene, I gave myself a rank, but this time lieutenant-colonel. Another façade, but”—he was like a chastened small boy trying to find something virtuous he had done—“I have been working on my memoirs. My E.N.S.A. memoirs.” He managed a tiny smile. “I know our nickname was Every Night Something Awful because there were some pretty second-rate acts, but a lot of the awful was hilarious and I met quite a few famous people. I have an agent and he says he’s sure he can sell it.”
“But surely,” the marquis said, “if you do, people will realise you were not in the war. Not a lieutenant-colonel.”
A slyness crept into the man’s smile. “Who was George Orwell?”
The marquis frowned. “The chap who wrote 1984?”
O’Reilly said, “His real name was Eric Arthur Blair.”
“Exactly. If all works out, the author will be one Al Cotton, a combination of Al Bowlly and Billy Cotton, who were E.N.S.A. members. I knew them both.”
O’Reilly said, “You really do live in a make-believe world, don’t you?”
The smile fled and Mullan nodded and hung his head. He looked from the marquis to O’Reilly. “But I try not to hurt people. I loved Margaret and I was a good husband. Sometimes, yes, I make a mess of things. Doctor O’Reilly, I know that, and you know I behaved badly with Miss Moloney. You were there. I lied to her about India. I’ve never been, but I’ve become adept at learning plausible background details. After a while you begin to believe your own stories. And telling people about detached service fended off a lot of awkward questions. Added a touch of glamour.” He paused to gulp down some air. “I’ve—I’ve been so lonely.” The last word was broken and prolonged.
It took all of O’Reilly’s resolve to say nothing, rather than try to comfort the man. He looked over to John MacNeill.
“Very well. We understand now. Doctor O’Reilly, if you concur, might I suggest that, as we are the only ones other than Mullan who know this, we say nothing to anyone?”
Mullan’s eyes widened.
“If certain conditions are fulfilled and promises kept. Break one and we’ll expose you and file a complaint with Constable Mulligan. I want a full, sincere apology to Alice Moloney and Doctor Fitzpatrick, and a solemn promise never to annoy her again.”
Mullan nodded rapidly.
“You will withdraw your complaint to the borough council about the sporting club being noisy and never complain again.”
“I will, sir.”
“And you’ll tell everybody that as the war’s been over for quite a while you are relinquishing your military title, Mister Mullan.”
“I will, sir.” Mullan managed a weak smile. “To tell the truth, I was getting tired of the constant pretending.” He stood. “My lord, Doctor O’Reilly, I offer you both my most sincere apologies. I will mend my ways. I may leave Ballybucklebo. I don’t know. I’ve had a great shock, been terrified, ashamed, and relieved. You were right, Doctor O’Reilly, I do feel better now, but I’m all a-tremble. I’d really like to be alone.”
John MacNeill rose and so did O’Reilly, who said, “We’ll be going, but we’ll be keeping an eye on you. We’ll let ourselves out.” As O’Reilly closed the door to the living room he half turned.
Mister Oliver Mullan was sitting, trembling, and his tears freely flowed. You poor bastard, O’Reilly thought. You poor soul.
He joined the marquis beside the pitch. The game was over and the sun was peeping through the parting clouds. The rain had stopped.
“Jasus, John. It was tough on Mullan. I had set out wanting to gut him, but—”
John MacNeill smiled. “Very Hippocratic of you, my friend. I too, felt great discomfort, but on the brighter side, he is going to change his ways. I don’t think he’s harmed anyone but himself impersonating an officer, so no complaint to the police. We’ve achieved the goals we wanted. As soon as I get home, I am president after all, I’m going to give the ten days’ notice required and convene that extraordinary general meeting. I can’t foresee any difficulties and we should be able to get functions started in very short order after it.”
O’Reilly grinned. “Mister Mullan’s downfall will be the sporting club’s victory. There’s a certain rightness in that. Indeed there is.”
28
He Saved Others; Himself He Cannot Save
December 3, 1963
Barry signed off on the chart he’d been writing, dated his notes December 3, 1963, and put his feet up on the desk in the staff room. He glanced into the hall, wondering if he dared close his eyes for a few minutes. While the pace on 5 and 6 hadn’t
been as gruelling as the work on casualty, at least there you’d known when you were off call. Here you could be summoned at any time, and he had been, twice, last night in the small hours.
During the last month he’d helped John Geddes deal with three in-hospital cases needing defibrillation in the coronary care unit on ward 6. The cardiac ambulance had arrived three weeks ago and had already proven its worth. John had told Barry how he’d taken his team to the home of a woman who had suffered a myocardial infarction. Treatment of her condition had been started there and then. Fortunately she had not fibrillated, but had she, the defibrillator had been on the spot and ready to go. She’d been admitted, and discharged eight days later.
He heard a phone ringing, and in a moment the door flew open, and Sister Kearney stuck her head in. “Barry, looks like you’re finally going to get your time in the cardiac ambulance. John is over in Royal Maternity looking after a woman with mitral valve disease who’s in labour. The GP, Doctor Halliday, has had a call about a man with severe chest pain. The doctor called our hotline and is already on his way. I’ve called the ambulance depot and the driver’s on his way to pick up your team. You’ll have to go. Now.”
“Right.” He dropped the chart and tore after her to meet a staff nurse and a senior medical student in the hall. “Come on.”
With Barry leading, they charged out through the plastic doors, down the stairs, along a corridor, outdoors past the tennis courts, across a car park, and there waiting for them was the Daimler the colour of Devonshire clotted cream, its back doors wide open. This was as close as it could get to 5 and 6. Barry, followed by his team, piled aboard. The medical student slammed the doors and headed for one of two fold-down seats on the bulkhead between driver and cabin. In moments, Barry was seated facing into the cabin, at the head of a centrally placed stretcher on wheels. He smiled at the nurse in her seat on the opposite side of the trolley.
“Go,” Barry yelled to the driver through a connecting sliding door.
The driver switched on his siren and took off. Barry held on and felt a small smile on his lips as the excitement inside him built. Perhaps the acceleration wasn’t quite as powerful as the rocket sleds NASA used to simulate blastoff, but it rocked him as he clung to the hinged seat. “God,” he said over the racket, “it’s all go.”
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