An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea

  “I did not,” said Barry, taking what looked like a restorative gulp.

  “Guglielmo Marconi’s da married an Irish girl,” O’Reilly said, and smiled at Kitty. “Sensible chap. She was Annie Jameson, granddaughter of John Jameson, who owned this distillery.” He raised his own glass. “And by way of an encore, old Guglielmo’s granny was Margaret Haig of the Scotch whisky–making family.”

  “Good Lord. I suppose that would have made him a spirited kind of man?” Barry said. “Whisky was in his blood, so to speak.”

  Kitty laughed and said, “That was terrible, young Laverty.” She looked at O’Reilly. “More to the point, how’s Irene?”

  “On her way to the Royal,” O’Reilly said. “Barry did a great job, making a spot-on diagnosis, and allaying her concerns.” He inclined his head to Barry, who took up the story.

  “We knew she had a fibroid. It’s degenerating, but with any luck will resolve by itself. She should be fine, but she’ll need hospital care for a few days.”

  “I’ll pop in and see her if you’d like,” Kitty said. “Royal Maternity’s no distance from my ward.”

  “The very place where that pig-headed bollix Fitzpatrick should be getting his neuropathy sorted out.”

  “If I can’t persuade him,” Kitty said, “I may have stumbled on another way to try to get him to see sense.”

  “Oh?” said Barry.

  “It was on Z-Cars. The police were trying to get a villain to confess. Bert Lynch and Inspector Barlow cooked up a scheme.”

  “Go on,” said O’Reilly.

  “Bert went at the criminal like a Gestapo interrogator, but then Barlow took over and was all sweetness and light—and it worked. The hard man broke down and confessed.”

  “Probably won’t need to go as far as that,” he said as he wandered over to the window and looked out at the steeple of the church opposite, limned dark against the soft velvet of an Ulster sky. “I’m sure,” he said as he closed the curtains and again pictured Ronald’s bandaged hands, “everything will all turn out fine.”

  8

  Journeys End in Lovers Meeting

  The telegram had come yesterday. ARRIVING FAREHAM MONDAY 12:17. Deirdre was on her way, and Angus Mahaddie, bless him, had agreed to let Fingal leave early this afternoon. David White had even offered the loan of his 1933 Austin Seven “Ruby” motorcar, England’s answer to Henry Ford’s Model T, provided Fingal had petrol ration coupons. He’d made damn sure he did.

  Deirdre was coming. Today. He still had the telegram in his pocket, and he touched it now to assure himself that it was true.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Surgeon Captain Angus Mahaddie said from where he sat on a brass operating stool. He glanced at his watch. “One minute to eight. You are all on time, I am pleased to say, even you, Lieutenant O’Reilly.”

  David was grinning at him and giving him a discreet thumbs-up. Fingal could feel the colour rise in his face. Mahaddie knew better than anyone how difficult it was going to be to put thoughts of Deirdre aside and pay attention to this morning’s introductory session.

  Fingal, David, and four new RNVR surgeon sub-lieutenants stood at attention in a semicircle around their chief in one of Haslar’s underground operating theatres.

  “Please, all stand easy.”

  Feet clattered on the tiled floor and the noise echoed from the walls and ceiling of a large, white-painted, barrel-vaulted room. Fingal had vaguely noticed the operating tables and instrument trolleys. What registered most sharply was the oppressive feeling of the place, despite the bright lighting and the smells of disinfectant and anaesthetic vapours.

  “Welcome to the bowels of Haslar,” Mahaddie said. “We operate down here in the cellars so we are protected during air raids.”

  Just like the way the medical staff was protected deep in the heart of Warspite when the ship was at action stations.

  “The wards, many named for famous admirals, are on the ground floor above us, as you will discover when you are doing your rounds. There are two hundred and fifty surgical beds and two hundred and fifty medical beds served by twenty-four permanent medical staff, plus, of course, trainees. As you can see, the staff here has been busy getting ready for today’s patients.”

  Young women whom Fingal recognised from their uniforms as either members of the Volunteer Aid Detachment (VAD) or the Queen Alexandra’s Royal Naval Nursing Service sisters (QARNNS) went quietly about their duties.

  “We leave the medical patients who don’t need operations to the physicians. Our job—surgically—is to deal with both those conditions that have nothing to do with war injuries, just like a peacetime hospital, and with casualties.” He sighed. “And we’re getting a lot more of those since the air raids started. Originally we were only for navy personnel, but, eh, since Dunkirk we now take soldiers, airmen, civilians, and we treat Germans. It is rumoured that some less-than-charitable sick berth attendants had been telling POWs that we’d not be wasting anaesthetics on them.” There was steel in his voice. “Eh, I put a stop to that. A full stop.”

  Despite the man’s apparent affability, Fingal realized Angus Mahaddie was not one to be crossed.

  “You six have been selected to become better-trained anaesthetists, and I am your chief teacher. Your four-week course will be intense and a simplified form of the one offered in the Nuffield Department of Anaesthesia at Oxford University. It was established in 1937 as the first of its kind in the United Kingdom and was where I was trained by Professor Robert Macintosh.

  “Today I will be briefing you about what to expect, then you will be detailed for individual apprenticeships to one of the surgeon commanders and lieutenant-commanders on the permanent anaesthetic staff. The list is on that notice board.” He pointed to one wall. “You, O’Reilly, because you’ll be staying on for another two months of training, will work with me.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Fingal grinned. He reckoned he’d got the plum assignment.

  Mahaddie smiled, swung his legs back and forth, and then pointed between them. “This stool was here in 1910 when King George V visited the place, but today I’m not going to weary you with Haslar’s history. I’m here to tell you what to expect.

  “You will learn, in short order, the medications we use to prepare patients for anaesthesia, ‘premedication,’ how to start the anaesthetic or ‘induce anaesthesia,’ with intravenous sodium pentothal, a barbiturate first introduced in 1935…” He pulled a contraption on wheels round in front of him. “… and the use of the Boyle’s apparatus.”

  Fingal saw the cylinders, each colour-coded for the gas it contained, flow meters, knurled wheels, corrugated rubber tubes. He remembered a patient the ether anaesthetic had nearly suffocated on Warspite and how Leading Sick Berth Attendant Ronnie Barker had used oxygen from a Boyle’s machine to revive the man.

  “You’ll learn how to use it, what gasses work best, and how to put a tube into the patient’s trachea—‘intubation’—and how to connect it to the machine. I imagine most of you are reasonably happy with the open Schimmelbusch mask”—he reached behind him and lifted one from a trolley—“and ether or chloroform. Still tried and true, but we’ll hone your skills.”

  Fingal nodded. It was the only technique with which he was reasonably comfortable.

  He slipped off the stool and stretched. “So,” he said, “if there aren’t any questions?” He paused but no one spoke. “Right. That’s enough of a lecture today. O’Reilly?”

  “Sir.”

  “Come with me. The rest of you, your duties are on the list.” He began to walk away and Fingal hurried to follow after. “This morning,” Mahaddie said, “we’ll be working with Surgeon Commander Fraser. It’s a routine list; couple of gallbladders, sailors are forever rupturing themselves so we’ve a hernia to do, and a set of varicose veins.”

  They left the operating room, walked along a corridor, and began to climb a staircase. “I want to see the patients and arrange for their premedications. Any ideas about what I mig
ht be using?”

  “I read your article in the Journal of the Royal Naval Medical Service, sir,” Fingal said. “You prefer to give one-third of a grain of omnopon and one-seventy-fifth of a grain of atropine three quarters of an hour before anaesthesia.”

  “Just so, and do you understand about how the drugs of the premed work?”

  “The omnopon’s an opium derivative. It calms the patient, and the atropine dries up their normal secretions so they are unlikely to inhale saliva and mucus.”

  “I see you’ve done your homework, laddie. Don’t suppose you’d be looking for some time off for good behaviour?” Mahaddie said. There was mischief in his deep-set eyes. “And I’ll do my best to get you some. You’re going early today.”

  Fingal grinned, but his grin faded when Mahaddie said, “But we also have to remember the requirements of the service. I may not be able to get you free again until the weekend.”

  “I understand, sir.” Fingal knew he must look crestfallen and tried to compose his features.

  Mahaddie smiled as they emerged into the open air. “Dinnae fash yourself—”

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  The little Highland man chuckled. “I mean, don’t worry. I’ll let you go in good enough time to collect your Deirdre. Any word from the admiral yet about your wedding prospects? I don’t have any influence with him, you know.”

  Fingal shook his head. “I understand, sir.”

  “Aye, just so.” Mahaddie smiled. “But we can hope, can’t we?” He held open a door. “Here we are,” he said. “This is the Admiral Collingwood Ward. Let’s go and see the victims.”

  * * *

  “The Gosport train will be delayed for half an hour due to repair work on the tracks.”

  “Blue, blistering, blasted, blazes.” Fingal had barely been able to make out the distorted words through the loudspeaker system. He didn’t want to think about what was being repaired and why. Deirdre was not going anywhere near London on her trip from Liverpool, but he knew that bomb damage on a line was always a possibility.

  He’d tried to be philosophical. He’d been waiting for months to see her, had parked David’s car outside the railway station a good fifteen minutes before the train was due in the hope that if he was early the train might be too. What difference did another thirty minutes really make? He looked at his watch again, knowing full well that he would not relax until Deirdre was safe in his arms.

  The early-autumn sun was shining, although there was no heat in it today, and the smell of fresh hay was blowing in on a stiff wind from a newly mown meadow. And somewhere in a hedge bordering the railway line, a songbird was making sweet music. Yet the extra wait on the deserted platform seemed like an eternity.

  At last a powerful locomotive appeared round a bend. The smoke from its funnel and the steam from its screeching whistle announced the train’s arrival. Both were blown away by a fresh wind off the Solent. Wheezing, clanking, and shuddering, the engine passed where Fingal stood. Sparks flew from the brake shoes and finally the long train stopped. He knew that most of the carriages would be empty on their way to pick up more recovering patients from Haslar for transfer to other hospitals inland, away from potential air raids.

  Only one door opened and closed and he started to trot. The guard was waving his green flag and blowing his whistle, and with a toot, a chuff-chuff of steam, and a clanking of the driving rods, the locomotive began to draw away on to Gosport, the end of the line. As it did, he saw a female figure, suitcase in one hand, the other clasping a hat to her head.

  He bounded forward. It was her. He roared, “Deirdre. Darling.”

  “Fingal. Fingal.” The wind whipped away her hat as he enfolded her, lifting her off her feet as he crushed her to him, covered her mouth with his own, and tasted the warmth of her, the sweetness of her, of Deirdre. Of his girl.

  Tears ran down her smiling face as finally she laughed and said, “Fingal, you idiot. Put me down.”

  “Sorry,” he said, “but I can’t believe you’re here,” and before she could protest he said, “I love you,” and kissed her again. He heard her drop her suitcase. The kiss broke, he lowered her gently to the ground, then bent to pick up her suitcase. “Your hat,” he said.

  “Never mind the silly thing, darling,” she said. “It’s in Wiltshire by now, and you’re here.” She stood on tiptoes, flung her arms around his neck, kissed him, and then said, “Fingal, I’ve missed you so much. And I do love you, so.” She kissed him again. “It’s taken a while to get here—”

  “And you must be starving,” he said, grabbing her hand. “Come on.” He had her to himself and he wasn’t going to share her with Marjorie Wilcoxson. Not yet. Besides, he thought, she’ll need a little time before she meets Marge, who, for all her kindness, could be a formidable woman. He’d been told of just the place for lunch. A pub with private booths was less than a five-minute drive away.

  He hurried her into the station where the stationmaster, resplendent in a sleeved waistcoat with gilt buttons and a peaked cap, took her ticket. “Welcome to Fareham, Madam. I hope you have a pleasant—”

  “Thank you,” Fingal said, then hustled Deirdre out to David’s car, chucked her suitcase in the back, helped her in, and rushed round to the driver’s side. He’d barely closed the door behind him when he’d leant over and kissed her again. “Darling. Darling. Darling.”

  She smiled at him, that “Slow down, you great Labrador puppy” smile, and said, “I do love you so much, Fingal, but—”

  “But you’ve been on ferries and railway trains forever and would kill for a decent cup of tea?”

  “You’re a mind reader, and a considerate one at that,” she said. “And it’s one of the reasons I love you.” She patted his thigh, sending electric shocks everywhere. If she’d let him, he’d take her now in this cramped little car.

  He looked at her and saw his beautiful girl. But she did look as if she could use a fortifying cup of tea, not a quick tumble in the back of an Austin Seven, and he berated himself for being a randy fool. “Right,” he said. “Right. I’ll have you to a pub in no time.” He started the car and drove off, narrowly missing a cyclist.

  “I can’t believe I’m here with you.” Deirdre stared at him. “You’ve lost weight.” He heard her concern. “You’ve not been sick, have you?”

  “Only lovesick,” he said, “and the grub on the troopship left a certain amount to be desired.” Desired. He managed a glance at her. He knew what he wanted more than life itself.

  “We’re here,” he said, driving across a wide courtyard and braking beside a clematis-covered wall, a few late-season flowers the size of tea plates dotting its thicket of vines. He trotted round, opened her door, helped her down, and took her hand.

  A few paces brought Fingal into a low-ceilinged bar room redolent of tobacco smoke and beer. He led her down two carpeted steps toward a long bar where two men who must have been locals, one wearing a farm-labourer’s smock, sat nursing dimpled pint glasses and playing dominoes. They were keeping score on a cribbage board. A dartboard was studded with darts on a far wall and he tried to remember which ancient English king had decreed that men should play darts on Sundays in lieu of archery practice. The longbowmen had been England’s battle winners, at Crecy and Agincourt.

  “Afternoon, Lieutenant.” The barman who, Fingal guessed, just like Mister Dunleavy back in Ballybucklebo, was probably mine host too, stood behind his counter polishing a glass. The man had a face pocked with acne scars and sported an Old Bill moustache.

  “We wondered if we could get a cup of tea for the lady, and perhaps lunch?”

  The man turned and shouted through a hatch behind him, “Pot of tea, please, Mabel.” He grinned at Fingal then said, “Only be a tick.” He pointed at a chalk-lettered blackboard. “’Fraid the menu’s a bit restricted, sir, but it’s on the board. You’re only allowed to spend five bob each on each meal.” He sighed then said, “Blooming rationing.”

  “Darling?” Fingal sai
d.

  “Let’s order later,” she said. “I’m not very hungry.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m too excited, and a bit…” She covered her mouth with one kid-gloved hand.

  “Are those real Melton Mowbray pies? From Leicestershire?” Fingal asked.

  “That they are, sir.” There was pride in the man’s voice.

  “Pint of bitter for now,” Fingal said, and remembered a promise made in Warspite’s anteroom, to “have a pie” for Richard Wilcoxson.

  “Would you like to have a seat in a booth, sir, and I’ll see to it?” The barman took hold of a beer pump handle and started pulling Fingal’s pint. “We’re a tied house, sir.”

  Fingal understood the expression. Tied houses were controlled by breweries and had to sell that brewery’s beer. Free houses could sell what they liked.

  “I hope you like watered Worthington’s. The government makes the breweries dilute the beer because of the war, and I have to close the bar from three to six thirty.”

  “Fine,” Fingal said. As long as the beer was wet and bitter he didn’t care. His Deirdre was here and that was what mattered. Still holding her hand, he led her to a booth. It was not as ornate as the ones he remembered in Belfast’s Crown Liquor Saloon, but it was in a private nook and overlooked the courtyard.

  She sighed. “Thank you, Fingal. You don’t know how lovely it is to sit on something that’s not moving. I’m afraid I didn’t get much sleep last night. The bunk was damp and lumpy, and the cabin pitched and tossed all night and stank of fuel oil. But I’m here.”

  He’d made Channel crossings from Larne to Stranraer and was familiar with British wartime rail travel too, in crowded compartments or standing in the corridor, but he said, “No. But I do know how lovely it is to sit down,” he took a seat opposite, “and stare at the most beautiful girl in all the world.” The wind on the platform had tossed her hair, she had dark circles under her eyes, and she wore virtually no makeup, but she was the most beautiful girl. His most beautiful girl.