An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea

  Fingal did. “I’ll be off then,” he said. “Good luck, Flip.”

  The pilot managed a weak laugh. “It was a few days ago I needed luck. Flaming great Dornier 17. Had him dead to rights. Should have been a wizard prang, but their rear gunner got his squirt in first. Thank God my brolly worked.”

  The Brylcreem Boys really did speak a foreign language, Fingal thought.

  Flip offered his hand. “Thanks for everything, Lieutenant-Commander O’Reilly, especially coming every day to chat.”

  Fingal shook the hand. “If you get a chance, drop me a note. Let me know how you’re getting on.” He’d become fond of the disfigured young man and his courage.

  “I will and—”

  “Lieutenant O’Reilly.” The voice behind him was curt, officious.

  Fingal spun and saw an irate-looking Surgeon Commander Fraser.

  “What is this man doing here? I left instructions to get him moved yesterday.”

  Fingal came to attention. “I’m sorry, sir. Unavoidable delay. He’s going in a few minutes.” Fingal’s mind raced. It would be so easy to hide behind the fact that Angus, senior in rank to Fingal, had made the arrangements in the best interests of the patient, but, not wanting to prolong the discussion in front of the patient, he held his peace.

  “See that he is, and Lieutenant? I’ll expect all my orders to be obeyed in future. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With that, the commander turned on his heel and stamped off.

  “I think,” Flip said, “you just got what us RAF types call ‘torn off a strip.’”

  “The navy calls it a bottle, but yes, you’re right.” And the theatre sister had said that Surgeon Commander Fraser was a man who bore grudges. He sighed. Och well, what can’t be cured must be endured. “Good-bye again, Flip. Take care.”

  “You too, Doc, and I will write. I promise.”

  * * *

  “Excuse me, sir,” Fingal said to a young lieutenant-commander standing smoking a pipe outside the neoclassical Portsmouth Guildhall. The building, with its Roman temple columns, pediment, and frieze, reminded Fingal of Ulster’s parliament buildings at Stormont. He knew the bell tower housed five bells called the Pompey Chimes. Their familiar tones were as much a part of Portsmouth as its busy dockyards. “You’re not by any chance Tony Wilcoxson?”

  “As a matter of fact I am, actually. How did you know?”

  “I’m Surgeon Lieutenant Fingal O’Reilly. Your father was my boss on Warspite and I’ve seen your photo at Twiddy’s.” At least, Fingal thought, I’ve seen your younger self. This man’s face was weatherbeaten and the bags beneath his eyes were puffy. The North Atlantic in winter on a small ship was gruelling. “My fiancée’s staying with your mother, who should be here any minute to collect you.”

  Tony Wilcoxson took Fingal’s proffered hand and shook it. “How do you do, Fingal? And how is Dad?”

  “He was in fine fettle the last time I saw him, but that was months ago.”

  “He’s a tough old boy and the navy’s his life.” Tony took his pipe from his mouth. “He told me in a letter he was sending you to Haslar. Enjoying it?”

  Fingal thought for a moment of his encounter with Commander Fraser, decided to forget it, and said, “Enormously. I’m learning a great deal, sir. Have you just arrived?”

  “Mmm.” He stifled a yawn. “Came in to Liverpool from Halifax, Nova Scotia, last night. Bloody awful convoy. We lost one of the escorts, she was torpedoed off Iceland, then sweet bugger all but gales the rest of the way. And please, Fingal, it’s Tony, not sir when we’re off duty.”

  Fingal did not have a chance to reply. A black Ford Prefect slammed to a stop at the kerb near them, and three of the four doors flew open. Pip hurled herself at Tony, who swept her quite literally off her feet. Deirdre gave Fingal a chaste kiss and said, “Hello, darling,” and Marge, standing between the two couples, said, “Nice to see you, Fingal, and, Tony, when you’ve quite finished ravishing Pip, do give your mother a kiss.”

  Tony, still clutching Pip’s hand, kissed his mother’s cheek. “Hello, Mother, it’s good to be home.”

  Fingal wondered when he’d get a chance to see his own mother, and berated himself because her last letter was a week unanswered. But at least she knew he was relatively safe in England. And Deirdre, who was a better letter writer than he would ever be, had dropped her a note a couple of days ago.

  “And it’s good to have you home, dear boy,” Marge said, and Fingal saw how her eyes glistened. Marge cleared her throat and said, “I’m very cross with Deirdre—this is my son, Tony, by the way.”

  “How do you do?” he said to Deirdre.

  Fingal, who always wanted to ask an Englishman who posed that question “How do I do what precisely?” was proud of her good Ulster reply.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Tony.”

  “As I was saying,” Marge said, “I’m cross with Deirdre because she positively refuses to bring Fingal for dinner tonight. It’s going to be a treat, a Land Army special, deep-filled homity pie, but she insists it’s a family reunion.”

  “It is, Marge, and that’s final.”

  Fingal smiled. That’s my girl. Beneath her gentleness, willingness to accommodate other people, lurks a steel backbone when her mind is made up.

  Marge rummaged in a voluminous handbag, produced a torch, handed it to Deirdre, and said, “The last train’s at eight from Gosport. This thing’s shaded, but you’ll need it to find your way home in the blackout. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

  “Thank you,” Deirdre said. “Now come along, Fingal. Marge says the best places are on Commercial Road just round the corner, and it runs up to Edinburgh Road where there are more shops.” She winked at him. “I know how you love to shop.”

  “There’s also a good pub restaurant, the Trafalgar, very close by,” said Marge. “So don’t despair, Fingal. Now I’d better get my lot home.”

  Fingal and Deirdre stood and waved as the little Ford lurched away.

  Clearly it hadn’t been necessary to say it, but the prospect of a pub dinner held out more interest for Fingal than shopping. Still, if it was what Deirdre wanted to do, then he was ready to do it.

  “You look smart in a blazer and flannels,” Deirdre said as they walked hand in hand toward Commercial Road in the heart of Old Portsmouth. The great naval dockyard was a stone’s throw away up ahead beneath a flotilla of silvery barrage balloons. The fire brigades had put out all the fires after the last air raid nine days ago, but the smoky smell lingered.

  “It saves an awful lot of saluting,” he said as they passed another knot of uniformed sailors. “They’d all have to salute me, and me them, and seeing I’m going shopping with my girl, I’d really like to pretend that I’m not a salty sailor man—at least for a few hours and—”

  His words were smothered by a snarling roar, rising to an ear-splitting crescendo. He felt Deirdre clutching his arm, saw her eyes widen, her mouth form a speechless O. Everyone looked up to see a flight of planes in finger-four formation racing over the town and on past the dockyard. The sight of the RAF roundels on their wings, not the black crosses seen on Luftwaffe machines, was reassuring. “Spitfires. Ours,” he said to Deirdre, who smiled and nodded, clearly reassured. The sound of Rolls-Royce Merlin engines faded as the planes moved away. God speed you, he thought, remembering young Flip, and keep their pilots safe from fire.

  “Those planes are so graceful,” Deirdre said. “What a shame they have to be used to kill.”

  “If they can stop the German planes killing our civilians, if they and others like them can shorten this war, I’m all for it,” Fingal said. “You must have seen some of the bomb damage on your way here. I still wonder if I did the right thing bringing you to England.”

  “Fingal O’Reilly,” she said, “there is nowhere on God’s green earth I’d rather be. I’m with you and in nineteen days we’ll be married. I feel safe with you, Fingal. I know you can’t stop the bombs fall
ing if the Germans come back to Portsmouth, but everyone here’s so brave, I must be brave too. We’re together, that’s what’s important. So don’t ever feel that you did the wrong thing.”

  “Thank you,” he said, loving her calm, no-nonsense courage. She squeezed his arm and smiled and they continued down Commercial Road arm in arm.

  * * *

  Fingal pushed his empty plate away—he’d had that Melton Mowbray pie Richard Wilcoxson had asked him to have for him on that last day on Warspite. “If we finish up our cups of tea in about twenty minutes, it’s only a short walk from here back to Guildhall Walk. Stagecoach with John Wayne and Claire Trevor is on at the New Theatre Royal there. We’d have time to see it and catch the ferry back to Gosport and get you to the station.”

  “That would be lovely,” Deirdre said, and smiled at him across their table in the crowded Trafalgar pub restaurant. Conversations were muted and tobacco smoke filled the air. Her purchases, mostly of “women’s things” for her trousseau, were in a number of paper bags with sisal carrying loops. She’d set the bags on one of the two extra chairs at their table. “You were very good about me dragging you round all those shops. Wartime shortages don’t make finding things you want easy. And I do like Claire Trevor.”

  He shook his head and laughed. He understood exactly what she was saying, but not out loud. You’ve paid your dues this afternoon, Fingal darling, and were quite bored to death, I know. I’m not very fond of Westerns, but if it’s what you want, pet, I’m happy to oblige.

  “Good,” he said. “That’s settled then.” And like a schoolboy on a first date, he hoped the back stalls were very dimly lit.

  There was the loud creak of a spring hinge and a draft as the pub door opened. Fingal reflexively glanced over to see who had come in, not expecting it to be anyone he knew. He was wrong. In walked Leading Seaman Alf Henson with a petite blonde on his arm. She wore a red suit with padded shoulders and a pale blue beret tilted to one side of her head. The headgear had a large satin bow on its front. There was a slightly sallow tinge to her complexion. The rating was smartly turned out in his best shoregoing square rig: circular hat set at a slight tilt, tally ribbon round it and bearing the letters HMS knotted over his right eye, flat collar with its edge of alternating blue and three white stripes hanging behind the neck of his regulation jumper. The stripes were, erroneously, believed to celebrate Nelson’s three victories. The bellbottoms of his trousers had five razor-sharp horizontal creases. If Henson had been taller there would have been seven. He carried a standard-issue Burberry raincoat over his arm.

  Henson looked round and was clearly disappointed that he could not find a place. Fingal knew Deirdre would not mind company, and although the navy frowned on fraternisation between officers and men, Fingal was not in uniform. It would be the decent thing to do to offer to share the table. He rose. “Henson. Henson.”

  The Yorkshire man looked round, saw Fingal, and immediately came to attention. “Sir.”

  “Belay that ‘sir,’” Fingal said. “Stand easy, bring your young lady over here and have a pew. We’ll be leaving in a few minutes.” He stood up.

  A battle raged across the man’s open face as he clearly struggled with a great desire to get his girlfriend seated and his awe of an officer, even a mere lieutenant.

  Meanwhile Deirdre had set her shopping bags on the floor.

  Henson approached. “If you’re sure it’s all right, sir.”

  Fingal grinned and said, “I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Nurse Deirdre Mawhinney. Deirdre, this is Leading Seaman Henson. He was the first man to welcome me aboard Warspite in the Clyde last year.”

  Deirdre smiled her generous, welcoming smile and said, “So you and Lieutenant O’Reilly are shipmates?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “And who’s your charming friend?”

  “Elsie Gorman,” Henson said, the pride in his voice obvious. “She’s a right bobby-dazzler, isn’t she?”

  Fingal thought it impolite on such short acquaintance to agree that she was indeed very lovely. Instead he said, “Well, Elsie, if you don’t sit down soon, my tea’s going to get cold.” He held a chair for her.

  “Ta ever so much,” she said, and sat. “Come on, Alf. The nice officer won’t bite.”

  Henson sat at attention.

  “Having a run ashore, Henson?” Fingal asked, remembering that all of the navy’s shore establishments, “stone frigates,” were organised as if they were ships at sea.

  “I am that, sir,” Henson said.

  “Good for you. So am I.” Fingal noticed that Deirdre had already drawn Elsie into conversation by showing the girl one of the afternoon’s purchases.

  “And begging your pardon, sir, it was kind of you sending your regards with CPO McIlroy.” Henson sat less stiffly. “He’s a right good bloke, for an Irishma—” Henson must have recognised the enormity of what he had just said. Wasn’t his lieutenant one? He blushed beetroot red, muttering, “Sorry—”

  “He is,” Fingal said with a grin, fully understanding that the huge regional mix in Warspite’s crew brought inevitable rivalries. He followed up in kind. “And you’re not a bad lad—for a Yorkshire tyke.” His voice became more serious. “And I took no offence, Henson. So don’t worry.”

  “That’s right decent of you, sir, and I do apologise.”

  “Accepted.” The poor man was trembling. “So tell me, because I’m certainly having fun learning new things,” move the conversation along, “how’s your course going?”

  Henson’s smile was the vast gap-toothed one Fingal remembered from Warspite. “I couldn’t be happier, sir. All the instructors want us to learn. I told you that I’m career navy. The chief reckons I’m going to come out top of my class.”

  “Excuse me, sir?” a waitress in frilly apron and starched white cap said to Henson. “Would sir like to order?”

  “Yes, please. Two cream teas.”

  “And could I have our bill?” Fingal finished his tea.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Henson explained to Fingal as the waitress left, “Elsie and me made up our minds before we came in that’s what we wanted. We come here quite a lot. Anyway, he reckons if I go on like I am, I can expect to be a petty officer soon. And I’ll be going back to Warspite.”

  “Me too,” Fingal said.

  Lord knew what the two women had found so funny, but peals of laughter rang out.

  “If you don’t mind me saying, sir, your fiancée is very lovely.”

  “I don’t mind one bit. So’s your Elsie.”

  Henson lowered his voice. “She’s a bomb girl.”

  That explained her sallow complexion. Girls were now doing men’s jobs, and young Elsie Gorman would be spending her days, and perhaps nights, filling shells with highly explosive cordite and sulphur in a munitions factory in some hush-hush location. The chemicals in the explosives turned hair and skin permanently yellow.

  “I worry about her all the time.” He looked down at the tabletop. “There was an accident at her factory last week. Two girls killed. They have to be so careful, one spark and…” He looked fondly yet with concern at her. “I’m daft about her. I’ve not bought the ring yet, but she says she’ll wait and once I am a petty officer and can afford it and the war is over…”

  And Fingal’s heart went out to the ambitious, lovesick young man. “I’m sure everything will work out perfectly,” he said. “They’re a bloody brave lot, those girls. Miss Mawhinney’s doing her bit in the Land Army…”

  “Your bill, sir,” the waitress said.

  Fingal looked at it, produced a ten-shilling note, and said, “Keep the change.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She turned to Henson. “And your teas will be here in a minute, luv.”

  Fingal rose. “I wish you the best of luck, Henson, on your course. Keep on working hard because I know you’re going to succeed.” And that wasn’t a platitude. Fingal was cheering for the man to do well. “I’ll look forward to seeing you ba
ck on our ship, and your getting a petty officer’s two fouled anchors and a crown on your sleeve, and, for goodness’ sake, man, don’t get up.”

  As Henson retook his place, Fingal said, “Deirdre, time we were off.” He helped her to pick up her purchases.

  Now a lady was standing, Henson did rise. “Thank you very much, sir, for sharing your table and for the encouragement. I know I’m going to do well. I just know it.” His enthusiasm shone.

  “So do I.” Fingal smiled at Elsie and said, “Nice to have met you, briefly. Enjoy your tea.”

  She bobbed and said, “Thank you.”

  “Good-bye, sir,” Henson said. “Safe home.”

  Fingal held the door for Deirdre and they walked together along blacked-out Edinburgh Street.

  She held his hand, made him stop, and kissed him. “Fingal O’Reilly,” she said, “I think that was the sweetest thing inviting a rating and his girlfriend to join us. I don’t think many officers would have.”

  Fingal frowned and said, “He’s a nice, hard-working, ambitious young man; we had spare seats. It seemed natural. I discovered he’s in love.”

  “Elsie told me. Elsie’s really funny, I was perfectly happy to have them, but you are a lieutenant and there is naval protocol.”

  “Bugger protocol,” he said. “And I’ll not be a lieutenant for long,” he said, and kissed her. “And when I’m a lieutenant-commander, I’m going to marry the most beautiful girl in the world.” He started to walk and tugged her hand. “Now,” he said, “let’s go and see John Wayne shoot the bad guys—and for just a bit longer forget there’s a war on.”

  21

  I Will Make Thee a Terror to Thyself

  O’Reilly ignored the ringing of the telephone and, putting down his newspaper, said to Barry, “I see they’re forecasting there might be floods in Florence and Venice by tomorrow.”

  “Worrying,” Barry said. “But, of course, as Robert Benchley telegraphed to David Niven about Venice: ‘Streets full of water. Advise.’ So it shouldn’t change much there at least.”