“Good lass,” said O’Reilly.
“I shall bring your lunch, Doctor,” Kinky said, and left.
“I must say,” said O’Reilly, “between the three of us we seem to be managing his practice pretty well. But I don’t think Barry and I could be coping by ourselves. Thank you, Jenny.” He smiled at the young woman, who had not sat down but was still standing, as if waiting for him to finish speaking. “And we’re going to need your help for a while longer now that his operation is still on hold. I keep hoping every day when Kitty comes home that she’ll have news, but…” He shrugged and held out his hands, palms up. The operation that had been planned for last week had run into the kind of day-by-day delays beginning to plague the bigger hospitals. Budget cuts were forcing the emergency cases to shove less urgent ones aside.
Jenny looked down at the tablecloth before looking up and saying, “I’ve been happy to help out and you’ve both been very patient, particularly you, Fingal, while I’ve been making up my mind. Doctor Harley phoned me from the Royal this morning and he wants me to take charge of the well-woman clinic there and—”
O’Reilly choked down a mouthful and leapt to his feet, taking Jenny into a loose bear hug. “That is great news. Congratulations, Doctor Bradley. Richly deserved.” He let her go.
“Well done, Jenny,” Barry said. “We’ll miss you. We really will.”
“And you’ll miss your lunch if you let it go cold,” Kinky said, setting a plate at Jenny’s usual place. “Eat up, Doctor Bradley, and keep up your strength.”
The phone in the hall rang.
“I’d like to know what all this missing Doctor Bradley is about, but I’d better see to that.”
As she left, O’Reilly and Jenny took their places.
“I’ve had a wonderful time working here,” Jenny said. “I’ve taken the liberty of asking Doctor Harley if he could find my replacement—naturally providing she’s acceptable to you two.” She smiled. “I said ‘she’ deliberately. You do have quite a few women who want a woman doctor.”
“And they shall have one,” O’Reilly said, “if Graham Harley can find one as good as you.”
Jenny blushed.
Kinky stuck her head round the door. “It’s your friend Mister Greer, sir.”
O’Reilly leapt to his feet again and bounded to the phone. “Charlie? What’s up?”
“I wanted to let you know at once. Fitzpatrick, who’s nearly going spare with worry and boredom, is about to become an emergency.”
O’Reilly gasped. “Is he getting worse?”
“Not at all, but I know how to work the system. Ronald will be declared an emergency and in the operating room next Tuesday, November the fifteenth, or my name’s not Charlie Greer.”
“Wonderful,” O’Reilly said, “and about bloody time. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Least I could do for a colleague. We used to call it professional courtesy,” Charlie said. “Now I’ve got to go.” He hung up.
“Ha,” said O’Reilly, rubbing his hands, “bloody marvellous.” He went back into the dining room and broke the news to Kitty and his young colleagues, who seemed as pleased as he. “Now,” he said, “Jenny, when will you want to leave?”
“Doctor Harley would like me to start on March the first, but if he can find my replacement sooner?”
“Of course,” said O’Reilly, and took a mouthful of toad in the hole. “Bah,” he said, “damn thing’s cold.” He rose, saying, “I’ll be back,” and headed for the kitchen.
He came back holding a tray with his reheated lunch and Kinky bearing another tray with a bottle of claret and four glasses. “Here,” he said, “you’ve finished, Barry. Uncork this and pour glasses all round. You too, Mrs. Auchinleck. I want us all to toast Jenny’s terrific success.” As he watched Barry pour the rich red wine into the glasses, he thought of the poppies in the lapels and on the wreaths this morning. And he murmured, amid the laughter and congratulations, “We shall remember them.”
34
To Everything There Is a Season
“It’s a lovely little tree, darling, for our first Christmas,” Deirdre said, touching one of its branches lightly.
Fingal caught the wistfulness in her voice as he straightened up from anchoring the four-foot-tall fir in a wooden butter box at the corner of the flat’s living room. “We’ll decorate it on Christmas Eve. Put the prezzies under it. Angus is going to lend me some fairy lights and glass balls.”
“Where did you get it?”
He laid a finger alongside his nose and winked. “What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve over. There’s a stand of small firs behind the hospital near the Paddock. It’s unlikely anyone will notice that the stand is now one tree short.”
She kissed him. “Resourceful you. Thank you,” she said. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without a tree. And Christmas Day is only four days away.” She shook her head. “Where did December go?”
“I think,” he said, thumbing away a single tear that had slipped down her cheek, “I think the winds blew it away.”
She brushed away another tear and turned to once again look at the tree. “Those horrid gales, one after the other, sweeping up the English Channel. But we’ve been so cosy here in our little nest.” She looked around and Fingal could tell what she was thinking. In just sixteen days they would be leaving this place where they had been so happy. Now wasn’t the time to approach the subject that was on their minds. They both wanted Christmas to be a happy time. The weather was a safer subject.
“I reckon the whole of the British Isles must have suffered,” he said, looking out the window. “It’s hard to know for sure with no broadcast weather reports anymore. Why give that information to the enemy gratis? Make them send over and risk their reconnaissance aircraft.”
“There’s been no reports of air raids while the storms were roaring in.”
“The gales keep the German bombers grounded. Bloody good thing too.”
“I just hope,” she said, shovelling slack on the coal fire to bank it, “it wasn’t blowing like that in the North Atlantic.” The small chunks of low-quality coal, the slack, slowed the rate of burning of a coal fire, but it would still be lit and keeping the flat warmish when they returned after shopping this afternoon. “If it was, heaven help the sailors, both naval and mercantile, and, in particular, Tony Wilcoxson. Pip says he’s somewhere between Halifax and Liverpool.”
“Look on the bright side,” Fingal said. “The U-boats’ll have to keep their heads tucked in too. Tony told me that when the gales are screeching the subs can’t mount attacks.”
“I suppose,” she said, giving the fire a last jab with the shovel. But she sounded doubtful. “Anyway, get your cap and coat. I want to change into slacks and then we’ll go.”
Fingal wandered along to the hall. He echoed Deirdre’s question, where did December go? Damn it, the time was going fast. Far, far too fast. He’d be on his way back to Warspite on January the sixth. Sixteen days. He lifted his greatcoat from its peg.
Fingal’s work had settled into a well-worn daily routine in December. With no enemy actions there had been no “all hands on deck” days and nights like his early introduction in October with casualties pouring in and three operating tables running continuously day and night in each of the underground theatres.
So there had been time for Deirdre, wonderful time. Time for breakfasts together when they were both home in the Crescent in Alverstoke. On nights when Fingal was on call, Deirdre stayed with Marge to be ready to go to their Land Army work the next day. It saved petrol. There had been time to take long walks, go to the cinema, and listen to the BBC, still broadcasting even though Broadcasting House in London had been bombed in October and six weeks later damaged further by a delayed-action land mine exploding nearby. They’d simply moved the newsroom to Maida Vale, just round the corner.
He buttoned his coat and set his cap on his head then took her raincoat down to have it ready to help her into.
/> Good old Auntie BBC. Wonderful entertainment on rainy shut-in evenings. Neither of them would miss an episode of It’s That Man Again, better known as ITMA. The title referred to the ubiquitous news headline references to Adolf Hitler in the lead-up to the war. Comedian Tommy Handley’s skits and songs, such as the antics of Colonel “I don’t mind if I do” Chinstrap and Mrs. “Can I do you now, sir?” Mopp, delighted Deirdre. Fingal’s favourite comedy was Much-Binding-in-the-Marsh, a sendup of the RAF. And while her favourite piece of music was still Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, Deirdre always tuned in to Music While You Work if she was home at lunchtime.
Fingal wandered over to the small writing desk in the corner of the living room to collect his keys and saw the war diary he’d kept during his time on Warspite. He’d read excerpts of it to Deirdre since she’d arrived in October. Fingal had stopped keeping it for the past three months. The BBC’s War Report, with correspondents like Richard Dimbleby and Wynford Vaughn-Thomas, aired immediately after the nine o’clock news, usually read by John Snagge or Alvar Lidell. The report, clearly censored, kept the public appraised of the general progress of the war; the Siege of Malta, the campaign against the Italians in the Western Desert, the fighting in Greece and the Balkans, and the Battle of the Atlantic. He resolved to start making entries again once he had left England so he could tell her of his doings on his next leave.
And war be damned, they’d had time for each other, time to talk, to sit quietly together, to giggle over Deirdre’s best efforts at cooking, to have a drink in the pub, to write dozens of the austere, black-lettered “Merry Xmas” cards on plain white paper, and open the incoming ones now sitting on every open surface. Games of Monopoly and Snakes and Ladders had brightened quiet evenings. And there had been time to make love. Lots of time. But now the sands of that time were running out.
Fingal peered along the hall, wishing she’d appear soon. After seven weeks he no longer leant against the door frame to watch her put on her makeup because he resented being away from her even for such a short while, but even now he wanted her close.
“I’m ready, darling.” She appeared and he thought how smart she looked in her headscarf, loose navy blue sweater, beige flannel trousers, and sensible shoes.
Today they’d be looking for gifts for each other and buying food. Small parcels had already gone off to both their families back in Ireland and gifts had been wrapped for Marge and Pip.
“Here.” He held her coat while she shrugged into it.
She took his hand. “Come on then,” she said. “Let’s see what we can find in the Gosport shops.”
* * *
Fingal unlocked the front door of their flat and held it open for her. “Be it ever so humble, there’s no-o place like home,” he sang, letting the door swing shut. “Where do you want these?” He held several paper carrier bags that contained their purchases.
Deirdre switched on the hall light and was taking off her coat and headscarf and setting the umbrella in its stand. “Just pop them on the dining room table, love, and I’ll sort them out once I’ve done the blackout and poked the fire.” She headed for the main room.
“Brrr,” he said, and rubbed his gloved hands together. The room smelled smoky. The little coal fire that they’d banked with slack before they’d gone out was prone to blowdowns if the wind was out of the northwest, and the sash windows, with their fine view over the Solent, could have fitted better. The blackout curtains she’d just closed swayed in the draught.
“That’s better,” Deirdre said as the poker, an old French bayonet, broke through the crust and cheerful flames appeared. “I’ll make us a cup of Oxo,” she said, “as soon as I’ve unpacked.” She grinned at him, blew a kiss, and wagged a finger. “And don’t you dare peek.” She picked up two of the carriers and headed for the bedroom.
They’d shopped for groceries and meat together, but had split up so each could buy the other’s personal gifts.
Fingal removed his cap and gloves but kept his overcoat on and hunkered down in front of the fire. One of his gifts to her, a heavy woollen sweater, was lying in a carrier on the table. His coat pockets held a set of pearl earrings, and a silliness. Last week in a tobacconist’s shop she’d clapped her hands and chuckled over a crystal ball paperweight containing a miniature village complete with a steepled church and fir trees. Some kind of fluid was shot through with white flakes and when you shook the ball, it looked as if there was a blizzard inside. She said it reminded her of Ballybucklebo in a snowstorm. He wanted to see her face when she unwrapped it.
He took off his greatcoat, hung it in the hall, and returned to the fire. Deirdre was singing Jimmy Dorsey’s “Amapola, my pretty little poppy…” He smiled. There had been no sign of her earlier tears during their shopping excursion and now she was back to her usual cheerful self. She must get low sometimes, but usually she kept it for times he couldn’t see it. When he’d been in general practice, lots of patients would come in feeling run down and wanting a “tonic.” As long as Deirdre O’Reilly, née Mawhinney, was around, that was something Fingal O’Reilly would never need.
She came into the room, gave him a quick peck, picked up the rest of her parcels, and headed for the kitchen. “Just be a jiffy,” she said. “Enjoy the fire and smoke your pipe.”
From the kitchen came the clattering of drawers being opened and closed, the strains of, “I’ll get by as long as I have you…” and the whistling of the kettle.
He lit his pipe, stretched out his legs, and let a lovely sense of contentment wash over him.
“But what care I? I’ll get by…”
She handed him a steaming mug of Oxo. “Be careful. It’s hot.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“As long as I have you.” She kissed his ear and took the chair beside him. “Now,” she said, “it’s not very exciting and I know you really like them for breakfast, but how’d you fancy a couple of kippers for your tea?”
“I’d love them,” he said, knowing that even Deirdre would have no trouble grilling a couple of the smoked herrings, “and I love you.” He sipped his Oxo but let his pipe go out. “Come and sit over here.” He set his mug on a nearby table and bent his knees to make a lap.
She came and sat on it, steadying herself with an arm round his neck. His arms encircled her waist and he tasted the beefy tang of the Oxo when she kissed him. He pulled her closer, feeling his pulse quicken. One more kiss then he said, “Oxo is warming, but I think I’ve a better idea.” He inclined his head in the direction of the bedroom.
“Why, Fingal,” she said, “whatever can you mean?” And broke into helpless laughter before standing, taking his hand, and leading the way.
He started to unbutton his shirt as she crossed her arms, grasped the hem of her sweater, and pulled it over her head. Her slacks lay crumpled round her ankles. “Deirdre, you are so lovely…” was as far as he got when the insistent double ringing of the telephone broke the mood.
“I’ll hop in,” she said, turning back the bedclothes. “See who it is and get rid of them, pet.”
“Right,” he said, going back to the hall and lifting the receiver. “Hello? O’Reilly.”
“Fingal? Fingal?”
He recognised Marge’s voice. It was cracking. “Yes, Marge, I’m here.”
“Fingal. It’s Tony.”
Fingal leant against the wall. “Go on.”
“His destroyer was torpedoed off Iceland two nights ago. The Admiralty telegram came this afternoon.”
“My God.”
“There are no reports of survivors.”
Fingal was aware that Deirdre, who had put on a dressing gown, was standing beside him. “It’s Marge. Tony’s ship’s gone down,” he told her. “Marge, is anybody with you?”
“Pip’s here and Renée Lannigan, one of my regular bridge four.”
“Would you like us to come over?”
“Thank you. That is most kind, but no, I shall be all right. I just—I just felt I had to let you kno
w.”
“Thank you.” What else could he say?
“He’s missing, but I’m not willing to believe he’s not safe somewhere. Not yet. I’ll let you know if I hear anything more.”
“Please do.” He felt a tugging at his sleeve. Deirdre was pointing at the phone and to herself. “Deirdre wants to have a word.” He gave her the receiver.
“Marge, I’m so sorry. Is there anything we can do, anything at all?”
Judging by Deirdre’s expression the answer had been “no thank you.”
“All right, all right. Look after yourself. We’ll come and see you very soon. All right. Good-bye.” Deirdre hung up. She went to Fingal and he saw her tears. “Oh, Fingal,” she said, “it’s too awful. Poor Marge—and Pip.”
“We can still hope,” he said, but he knew, in the North Atlantic in midwinter, a man’s chances were slim indeed. “And while I’m not a good Christian, we can pray.”
35
Events in the Womb
“Come on, Lorna. You’re next.” Lorna Kearney sat primly in the waiting room, gazing at the mural of roses created by Donal Donnelly.
“See that there Donal. He’s a quare dark horse, so he is. Imagine him painting such a thing. It’s lovely, so it is. Lifts the spirits.”
“I’m very glad, Lorna. Now,” he said to the seven others, “we’ll not be long and then I’ll be back for whoever’s next.”
“Take your time, Doc. No one’s at death’s door and no one’s in a hurry,” Shuey Gamble said.
“And if you are at death’s door,” said a pimply-faced youth of seventeen called “Piggy” Hogg, wearing wire-rimmed granny glasses and sniffling into a hanky, “go to Doctor O’Reilly and he will pull you through.” He sniggered at his own feeble humour. “He will pull you through. Get it?”
“Or in your case, Piggy,” O’Reilly said, “he’ll find the biggest, bluntest injection needle and make sure you’re cured—of your cold and your cheek, you gurrier.”
The others laughed at Piggy’s discomfiture as he said, “I’m sorry, sir. I was only joking.”