“Of course,” he said and, beating her to the punch, he handed her a parcel.
She unwrapped the paperweight, clapped her hands, said, “Oh, Fingal,” and shook the ball. The snow inside fell and she laughed and laughed. “I feel like I’m twelve again. Thank you.”
“Merry Christmas,” he said. “You can think of me when you make it snow in the glass ball in July.”
“And,” she said, “you can think of me when you open this.” Her voice was serious.
There was a photo album inside the wrapping. He opened the leather cover and lifted the cellophane protective sheet over the first vellum page. A pressed red rose was held in place with a strip of Sellotape over its stem.
“From my bouquet,” she said.
He turned the pages; wedding snaps taken by her and of the happy couple taken by Angus. He still thought he looked a right eejit in his formal uniform. “I think I should be in the chorus of HMS Pinafore,” he said with a smile.
“Rubbish,” she said. “You looked very handsome.” She moved closer and turned a page. “Aren’t those New Forest ponies little darlings?” Another page. “And those are fallow deer, like the ones we watched drinking.”
“Wherever I am, I just have to open this and you’ll be with me and I’ll feel your love. Thank you, darling.” He kissed her. “Thank you.”
She smiled and leant over and tickled his ear with her tongue. “You might like to follow up on the promise you made that day,” she stared at the photo of the deer, “and even if we don’t start a family tonight you’ll make me so content that this will have been the happiest Christmas of my whole life.”
39
I Am Getting Better and Better
Ronald Fitzpatrick was wearing red-and-white-striped pyjamas and lying propped up on his pillows in the single room on Ward 21. He stared straight ahead. From shoulders to halfway up his neck, he was swathed in a bandage holding a dressing to the surgical wound at the back. That would be where Charlie Greer had made the incision. Two flat aluminium plates, one on the front of Fitzpatrick’s chest and another on his upper back, were connected by straps and braces to each other and to a chin support that encircled his neck and lower jaw. “You asked how I am, Fingal? Well, I can tell you that this thing’s a bloody pain in the neck.” He managed to force a dry, rustling laugh, and O’Reilly realised that for probably only the third time in his life, he was hearing Ronald Fitzpatrick make a joke.
“I’m happy to see you can jest about it,” O’Reilly said, and he could understand why. Charlie had explained to O’Reilly that when he had explored the extent of the lesion, he was delighted to see that he would need to incise only one intravertebral disc of cartilage to get access to the tumour and effect a complete excision. The disc must be given a chance to heal, and for that reason Fitzpatrick’s neck was supported and immobilised by the brace. Although there would be a great deal of discomfort, he was on the road to what must be going to be an almost complete recovery. Humour, even gallows humour, was often the response when a great fear had been assuaged.
“I am a very relieved man, Fingal,” Fitzpatrick said. “I’ve got the use of both my legs back.” To prove it, he wriggled them under the blankets.
“We’re all over the moon,” O’Reilly said. “Kitty’s been keeping me posted. She says Charlie’s very pleased with your recovery. You’ve got a fair bit of feeling back in your fingers too, I believe?”
“I do.” He flexed and extended them. “They’re not as good as new yet, but I don’t think I’ll be burning myself on teapots anymore.” He had to twist his entire body to look O’Reilly in the eye. “I was a very stupid man back in September, not listening to you and Charlie Greer.”
“Water under the bridge,” O’Reilly said, admiring the man’s ability to be honest with himself and admit it. “What’s important is that what ailed you has been fixed. It’s been only a few days since your surgery and already you’re recovering fast. But it’s still going to keep you in here for a while. I know visitors are meant to bring grapes and Lucozade”—both of which adorned the bedside locker, along with a surprising number of get-well cards—“but I reckoned you might be getting bored so I brought you something to read instead. Here.” He handed over a book and a glossy magazine.
“Could you give me my glasses?” Ronald asked. “I was reading the newspaper.” He sighed and said, “I do wish the great powers would stop testing atomic bombs. Did you know that survivors of the Hiroshima atomic bombing subsequently had a high rate of developing meningiomas? The same tumour that, thank goodness, I don’t have anymore?”
“I didn’t,” said O’Reilly, “but then I imagine you keep up more than I do about things in Japan. You haven’t, by any chance, been visiting Japan regularly since the war?”
“No,” Ronald said. “I spent a lot of my young life there.” He grimaced. “But there was no reason for me to go back, and I never will. Thank you, Fingal. You knew I love to read.”
“I did.”
He tapped the book. “I tried this chap’s first book, King Rat, about Japan during the war, a couple of years ago, but I could only get through about half. A little too close to the bone for me. I love the country, its culture, its art, its history. But I’ve tried to put all things about modern Japan away.”
“I’d hoped,” said O’Reilly, wondering if he’d made a terrible mistake, “you might enjoy this. It’s Clavell’s new one. Tai-Pan. Set in Hong Kong, not Japan, during the mid-nineteenth century.”
“I’ll certainly give it a try,” Ronald said. “It was thoughtful of you.” He looked at the glossy magazine. “Country Life?”
“Kitty thought you might like it because—”
“Excuse me, Doctors,” a student nurse came into the room, “but it’s that time again, Doctor Fitzpatrick. Sorry.”
Ah, youth, O’Reilly thought. Blonde, snub nose, green eyes, full lips, and a very trim figure. He wondered if Barry’s friend Jack Mills had ever taken her out or if he was still seeing Helen Hewitt, or, and O’Reilly wouldn’t put it past Ulster’s answer to Lothario, could Jack be seeing them both?
As he mused, she popped a thermometer under Ronald’s tongue, took his pulse, wrapped a cuff round his upper arm and measured his blood pressure. Once she had entered the results in his chart she removed the thermometer, squinted at it, smiled, and said as she shook the mercury down, “All perfectly normal.” She made a quick note, replaced the chart, and said, “You’re coming on splendidly, Doctor Fitzpatrick. You’ll be doing handstands next, so you will. Right. I’ll be off.” She left.
“Cheerful lass,” Ronald said. “Does me good. Grew up in a tough part of East Belfast. Working her way through nursing training.” He looked at the cover of the magazine that featured a smiling daughter of one of England’s landed gentry, one of the famous “Girls in Pearls.” “The Ravenhill Road is a very long way from Belgravia. I don’t mean to be ungracious, Fingal, but I’d have thought all the huntin’, shootin’, fishin’ stuff would be of more interest to you.”
O’Reilly chuckled. “Try the arts section, page fifty-one.” He waited as Ronald found the place.
“Oh my.” Ronald’s eyes widened. “Oh good gracious. ‘Netsuke of the Tokugawa Shogunate.’ How very thoughtful of her. They ruled Japan from 1603 until 1868. I’m sure I’ll find this intriguing.” He sighed. “I’m so grateful knowing that I’m going to get better, but I’m afraid it’s going to be a long, boring recuperation. Physiotherapy,” he pointed at his brace, “weeks in this thing, then a soft Stamm collar for months.” He managed a small smile. “Oh well,” he said, “I suppose I’ll just have to be patient.”
“It’s what the Latin patiens means,” O’Reilly said, “suffering or waiting. It’s why we call our customers patients.”
“Yes, I do know that, Fingal. Now, I wonder if you could help me to move a bit farther up the bed?”
O’Reilly stood, put his hands in Fitzpatrick’s armpits, and pulled him up. “Sit forward,” and when Fitz
patrick did, O’Reilly fluffed up the pillows. “There,” he said, “lie back.”
Fitzpatrick made a little huffing noise as he settled. “That’s better,” he said. “Thank you, and Fingal?”
“Mmmm?” He helped himself to several green grapes and popped them one at a time into his mouth.
“You mentioned patients.”
“And?” O’Reilly choked on a grape seed and coughed. “Sorry,” he said when the paroxysm had passed.
“I should like to express my most sincere gratitude for all that you and Doctors Laverty and Bradley have done.” He picked up a card. “Please read this.”
O’Reilly fished out his own half-moon glasses from the inside pocket of his jacket and read,
Dear Doctor Fitzpatrick. Me and Mrs. Duffy was dead sorry to hear you was sick. She seen Doctor Bradley last week for a woman’s complaint and said the young lady doctor was very nice and all, but she hopes you get better good and quick so she can come to see you again. Respectfully, Hubert Duffy
O’Reilly smiled. “Very nice,” he said.
There was a crack in Fitzpatrick’s voice when he pointed at the other cards and said, “They’re all like that. It’s all very humbling.”
If the man had described himself as humble six months ago, O’Reilly would immediately have had a mental image of a hand-wringing Uriah Heep. Now all he could hear was a deep sincerity. “Aye,” he said, “it is humbling, the amount of trust we get.”
“Yes, that is it exactly. The trust they place in us. I have to make a confession. I was worried that my practice might shrink.”
“And it might have. I’d have been just as worried if the tables had been turned.”
“Would you really? I can’t see why.” He produced a small laugh. “Do you remember a radio character in the ’50s, Gillie Potter?”
“The sage of Hog’s Norton?” O’Reilly said, helping himself to more grapes. “Indeed I do.”
“I’ve always thought of you, Fingal, as the sage of Ballybucklebo.”
Fingal’s laugh rang so loudly he had to remind himself of where he was, and clapped a hand over his mouth.
“Everybody knows you don’t simply look after the sick. You minister to the entire village and townland. I envy your ability. I’d like to be more like that. I’d like really to earn the trust these people have placed in me. And I want to be a better doctor.”
For the first time in a long time, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly was at a loss for words, but there certainly was a lot more to Ronald Fitzpatrick than had originally appeared on the surface.
A stern-looking Kitty walked in. “Doctor O’Reilly,” she said, and he could tell that being his wife was entirely secondary to her being the senior nursing sister. “I’d have expected better of you on a neurosurgical ward. I could hear the guffaws of you in my office. You sounded like a wounded heifer.” There was steel in her voice.
O’Reilly lowered his head. His “Sorry” was meek indeed.
“And,” she said, consulting a round pocket watch pinned to the left shoulder strap of her white apron—all the Royal nurses wore one there—“even if you are a professional colleague, I believe visiting hours are over, and that you have an appointment at the Royal Maternity Hospital with a Doctor Whitfield soon.”
O’Reilly rose. “Thank you, Sister,” he said as he watched her leave the room. She was right. Lorna Kearney would be at RMH at two thirty today for her first amniocentesis and he was going to be there with her. Together they’d take another step along the road to managing the incompatibility between her immune defences and her unborn baby.
“You may be right, Ronald, about me looking after the village as well as the sick. Lately, though, I’ve been wondering if I get a little distracted by it all. Medicine’s changed one hell of a lot since we graduated. I’ve been getting a bit rusty. Not very up on the latest procedures. Take this Rhesus isoimmunisation. Do you know anything about analysing amniotic fluid to predict how seriously a baby might be affected?”
“I was never very good at obstetrics. Pregnant women have always made me somewhat nervous,” Ronald said with a shy smile. “And you’re right. I don’t know anything about amniocentesis.”
“I’m going to watch one. Learn a bit. I’ll tell you all about it next time I see you.” He headed for the door.
“Thank you for coming, Fingal,” Fitzpatrick said, “and will you please thank Mrs. O’Reilly for me for the netsuke article?”
“Of course,” O’Reilly said. “I’ve got to trot,” he said, “but you keep on getting better, and if I can, I’ll pop in again.” Without waiting for a reply, he left and marched straight to Kitty’s office. He poked his head in, saw her sitting at her desk, and shut the door behind him. “Kitty, I really am sorry.”
She shook her head. “You can be a great glipe sometimes, but you’re forgiven.” She raised one eyebrow. “What was so funny anyway?”
O’Reilly chuckled. “He said I was the sage of Ballybucklebo. It hit my funny bone.”
Kitty laughed quietly. “See what you mean,” she said. “You know, I’ve got to know him a lot better since he was admitted. When you get through the armour plating—”
“Sounds like you’re trying to sink a battleship,” and for a moment he vividly recalled what happened on Warspite after the German 250-kilogram bomb had hit.
“You know what I mean. Ronald had built up his protective walls, but inside I reckon there’s a pretty decent human being. It just takes a bit of getting through to him,” she said.
“I agree. Now don’t laugh, but how do you think things might work if we formed some kind of association with Ronald, if only for being on call? He should be back in harness in about another two months, but he’ll need to work into it gradually. We could help. And I’m beginning to think I should be starting to make arrangements for Barry and me to go on regular refresher courses. You went to one in London last year, and if we were affiliated with Ronald, he could get away once in a while too.”
Kitty frowned, pursed her lips. “There is the business of some of our patients preferring a woman doctor…”
“Don’t worry about that. Jenny’s promised to sort that out, and she’s never let us down about anything. There’ll still be a well-woman clinic to run, and the customers all seem pretty happy with Jenny. We do need another woman.”
She smiled at him. “I’ll bet Ronald would be thrilled with the idea now he knows we’re not out to pinch his patients. He’s told me that being ill helped him to see that he wants to be a better doctor. You should talk to him, Fingal.”
“Not now. But soon.” O’Reilly felt a pang of something that felt suspiciously like jealousy and yet at the same time he was happy that Ronald had confided in Kitty as well as in himself. He looked at his watch and suddenly felt weary. “Listen,” he said, “I have to nip over to RMH, but why don’t you and I forget about the practice and Ronald and medicine for tonight? I’ll meet you in the Culloden Hotel about six?” The thought of an evening within the solid stone walls of the old Gothic mansion turned hotel felt like good medicine. “We can have a drink, maybe even dinner if whatever Kinky has prepared could wait until tomorrow? I’ll find that out when I get back to Number One.”
“Sounds good,” Kitty said. “Blow the work. I’ll drive straight there and see you at six, at least for a drink.” And her smile was inviting. “All work and no play make Jack a dull boy—and I’d hate to have to live with a dull Fingal O’Reilly.”
He could still hear her throaty chuckle when he was several yards along the corridor.
40
’Ere the Parting Hour Go By
Fingal had left the flat in the Crescent and taken a shortcut past the Paddock at the west end of the Haslar grounds. To his right he noticed the stand of firs where he’d cut the small Christmas tree, now stripped of its finery and consigned to the rubbish tip this morning, Little Christmas, January the sixth. On this day tradition dictated Christmas decorations should be taken down.
How fast the days had flown.
He realised he was approaching a familiar figure, stiff-backed, neat in her fall, tippet, white apron, and navy blue uniform, who was standing staring over the huge, empty, barren field. He wondered what she was doing. “Elizabeth?” Fingal called.
The woman turned. Senior Sister Elizabeth Blenkinsop smiled a greeting, but her eyes were far away. “Morning, Fingal.”
He caught up. “Morning, Elizabeth. Not a bad day for the time of year.”
“And it’s your last, isn’t it?”
“’Fraid so. We’ll be leaving at noon.”
“I knew you weren’t actually on duty today.”
“I’m not. I’m just going to pop in to say my farewells to the staff.”
“Nice of you. Let’s walk back together.”
“Grand, but before we go, if you don’t mind me asking, what brings you out here?” Fingal said. “There’s not much to see.” Which was true.
“No, there isn’t. It’s a desolate place. But it’s not what I see,” she said. “It’s what I feel.” She frowned. “I’m not a superstitious woman, I don’t believe in the supernatural. But out here I can sense the sadness of all those interred here and”—she straightened her shoulders—“I get a feeling of England’s permanence too.”
Fingal frowned. He wasn’t quite sure he understood. “Please go on,” he said.
She inhaled. “Do you know the history of this place, Fingal?”
“Not really, no.”
“I believe it was 1753 they started using these fields, all nine acres of them, to bury those who died in the hospital. Our historians estimate at least ten thousand people are still buried here. The staff used the Paddock until 1859. Until then apparently there were fleets and fleets of headstones, but the tombstones were all transferred to a garden of remembrance at Haslar and the people in charge established a new naval cemetery at Clayhall.”
“Good Lord,” Fingal said. It was hard to imagine. All he could see was a large, unkempt field with a few detached houses at one side, a long redbrick wall at another.