“And,” she said softly, “nearly all of them were far from home, lonely, afraid.” She looked him straight in the eye. “That’s the sadness I feel. Their sadness.” She touched his arm. “I’ve watched you, Fingal, and I know you think the way I do. Every single patient needs to feel they are cared for as an individual, and sometimes when I’ve been dog tired or we’ve been rushed off our feet, not able to do that, I come out here, think of all those terrified boys, and remind myself of what I ought to be trying to do.”
Fingal swallowed the lump in his throat, said nothing, but realised that for many nursing spinsters, their patients filled the place of the families they never had. Not all, though, felt the same sense of duty as Elizabeth Blenkinsop.
“A lot of England’s history is here, too,” she continued, her voice hardening. “A sense of going on. When the Royal George capsized in 1782 at Spithead, six hundred drowned sailors were buried here. There are typhus and dysentery victims from Sir John Moore’s retreat to Corunna during the war in the Iberian Peninsula, veterans who fought with Nelson at the Nile and Trafalgar, soldiers from Waterloo.” She smiled. “I remind myself what we’re fighting for, defending England from that horrid little Austrian corporal and his bullies.” Fingal watched as the normally restrained nurse actually stamped her foot. “All of our fighting troops deserve the very best care we can give. That is our duty, and sometimes I need to remind myself of that.” She turned and began to walk. “Now,” she said, her voice lightening, “you’ve heard the sermon from a garrulous woman. Let’s go to Collingwood Ward, perhaps Angus will drop in, and I’ll make us a cup of tea.”
* * *
“We shall miss you, Fingal,” Elizabeth Blenkinsop said as she poured him a second cuppa.
And as she’d suggested he might, Angus had dropped in too. “Just so,” he said, shifting his weight on the plain wooden chair, “and we wish you well, and trust you’ll keep in touch.” Fingal and Deirdre had dined with him and Morag on Saturday night to say a proper good-bye.
The door flew open. “Do you know anything about this, Mahaddie?” Surgeon Commander Fraser stormed into the room, brandishing a letter. “Do you? It has your hallmark all over it. Yours and O’Reilly’s.” The surgeon did not acknowledge Elizabeth’s presence in the room.
“Eh, and a good morning to you too, Surgeon Commander. And what would this be, exactly?” The Highlander allowed one bushy eyebrow to arch.
“The most ridiculous order I’ve ever received.” A vein throbbed at Fraser’s temple and his face was puce.
“You’re not in my department, Surgeon Commander.”
While Fraser had dropped both his and Angus’s rank, the little Scot was being punctilious.
“And unless you tell me what the order is, it would be hard for me to say if I knew anything about it, now wouldn’t it?” His voice was calm, quiet, and held a touch of the sardonic. “You’re getting yourself awfully fashed.”
“Speak English, for God’s sake. Of course I’m blazing. Reykjavik. Bloody Reykjavik. To leave on a Sunderland flying boat from a water aerodrome in northern Scotland next week. I won’t stand for this, Mahaddie.”
“Well, then, maybe it’s the admiral you should be having a wee word with?”
“I fully intend to have more than a ‘wee word’ with Admiral Bradbury.” The man spun on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
“Och, the poor wee man. Looks like he’s got a posting he doesn’t much like.” Angus shook his head. “You’ll remember we invaded Iceland on the tenth of May last year?”
“I do indeed,” Elizabeth said, “to keep the Germans out. U-boat and long-range bomber bases there would have been disastrous. They would have straddled the North Atlantic convoy routes.” Despite the seriousness of the information, Sister Blenkinsop was clearly having trouble keeping a straight face.
“Warspite was preoccupied then in the Sea of Norway and at Narvik,” Fingal said, remembering how three days later, the great battleship and her escort destroyers had stormed into Westfjord, all guns blazing.
“It seems,” said Angus, “we’re strengthening the Iceland garrison. They must have need of a naval medical officer. Probably in an administrative capacity. I’m guessing, of course.” The hint of a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. He rose and offered his hand.
Fingal rose and shook it. “I’ll write,” he said. “And thanks for everything.”
“Aye. You’ll do fine back on your ship. I can teach you no more about giving anaesthetics, and remember me to Richard Wilcoxson.” And with that the little Scot broke the handshake, said, “I’ll be off, Elizabeth,” and left.
“Sit down, Fingal, and finish your tea,” she said, and burst out laughing before saying, “Never play poker with a Highland man. I don’t know how Angus kept a straight face. It’s the kind of thing he’d want to keep to himself. No hint that he’d taken any part.” She chuckled. “I don’t know for certain, but Angus has a very close friend in the Admiralty. A vice admiral, in charge of things like promotions and postings.”
And Fingal remembered Surgeon Captain Mahaddie’s words in the mess before he went on a week’s leave before Christmas. “It might just be time to have a word with my friend in London.”
She stopped chuckling. “It doesn’t happen often, but Angus had a drop too many one night a couple of years ago. We were having a drink together in the mess. He said he was drinking to old comrades and asked me if I knew what the day’s date, April the twenty-third, meant. I hadn’t a clue. He told me on that day in 1918, the Royal Navy tried to seal the Belgian port of Zeebrugge by sinking blockships there. The Germans were using the harbour as a U-boat base. We lost more than five hundred men.” She glanced down at her desk, then back at Fingal. “I don’t think he’d mind me telling you he won his DSO there by saving a man’s life.” She smiled. “That man, a vice admiral in London now, is the one who got your promotion through and I’m damn certain has arranged a frosty future for a certain surgeon commander of our acquaintance. And he can moan all he likes to our officer commanding, but vice admirals outrank rear admirals.”
“I know.” Fingal struggled and managed to stay expressionless. “Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving chap, could it?” he said.
They were both still chuckling when he finished his tea, pecked Elizabeth’s cheek, said his good-byes, and left Collingwood Ward for the very last time. He was glad he’d be seeing Deirdre in a few minutes, but sad at leaving Haslar, just as he had been sad to leave Sir Patrick Dun’s Hospital in Dublin, the Aungier Place Dispensary, and the Rotunda Hospital. At least once the war was over he’d have his own surgery in Ballybucklebo, and Deirdre, to return to.
* * *
“It’s been a lovely flat, darling,” Deirdre said. “Our first home. I’ll never forget it.” She was sitting in her usual chair, but wearing her coat, hat, and gloves. Without the glow from the coal fire the living/dining room was chilly. Her two suitcases stood in the hall along with his. Marge had agreed to pick them up at twelve and take them to Gosport Station. Deirdre was to travel to Liverpool to catch the ferry to Belfast. They’d part in Southampton where a cargo ship would take him to Takoradi on Africa’s Gold Coast.
“Marge should be here shortly,” Deirdre said.
He could see she was struggling to sound cheerful, just as she had last night at Twiddy’s where Marge had insisted they come to say good-bye to her and the animals. Pip couldn’t join them. She was staying with a school friend in Cirencester to be near Tony, who was convalescing in a rest home there. “Well out of the way of the Hun bombers,” Marge had said.
“I’ve told you this before, pet,” he said, “but I’m so glad we decided not to let the Blitz change our plans to have you join me here. I’ve had the best months of my life since you came. I love you very much, Mrs. Fingal O’Reilly.”
“I told you, I’d’ve come anyway. And I love you, Fingal.” She blew him a kiss, which he blew back.
He left the
chair where he’d been sitting and walked to the window to stare out across the roofs to the Solent, grey and choppy, and on to the fields of the Isle of Wight. He turned and looked back into the room. Two months and already this place was full of memories; of a ruined sausage and sultana pie, of roasting chestnuts on Christmas Day, her girlish delight over a glass ball and its snowscape. Of lovemaking tender or fierce and always languorous after, lying in each other’s arms content, at peace, in love. He knew the Book of Life was a Jewish term for a book where God inscribed the names of all those bound for heaven, but Fingal had chosen to appropriate the expression to describe the place in his heart where he kept his most precious memories: meeting her off the Fareham train and their wedding day had their own pages, as did the coming of the deer to drink from a stream. And today would be in there, a day he’d never forget, even if it was a sad one. There was always the promise of more blank pages to be filled with her—later.
And there was another image. One he really didn’t want, but it had been so powerful he knew he would never erase it. This morning she’d used an old copy of the Daily Mail for added protection to wrap her glass snow ball. On the newspaper’s front page was a photograph of St. Paul’s Cathedral nine days ago. The great dome and a spire to its left were defiant islands surrounded by a sea of smoke. Dense black clouds towered in the foreground as high as the colonnades that supported the dome. All around the foul stuff writhed and boiled, and above the dome, brilliantly illuminated even in the black-and-white picture, the undersides of the clouds threw back reflections of the flames raging below. God help the firemen and the heavy rescue squads that night. When would the lunacy end?
He looked over to Deirdre. She was staring into the fireplace, her face in profile. God, but she was lovely.
He took a deep breath, turned, and went to stand in front of her.
She had to tilt her head back to look up into his face. “I know,” she said. “Hanging about waiting’s the worst part of saying good-bye, isn’t it?” Her chuckle sounded forced, embarrassed. “I never know what to say.”
The doorbell rang.
“Marge,” they said in unison. “It’s open,” Fingal shouted.
Marge bustled in, looking from Fingal to Deirdre. “‘Morning, Fingal. Wilcoxson landau service at your service.” She bent and hugged Deirdre. “Ready, dear gel?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She thrust a parcel at Fingal. “Few sandwiches and some bikkies to eat on the train. I imagine you’ll be able to get tea between Southampton and Liverpool, Deirdre.”
It was all so matter-of-fact, Fingal thought and, fair play to Marge, good-byes were always miserable affairs.
“I’m afraid one of you’ll have to share the back of my Prefect with Admiral Benbow,” she said. “The old thing has started getting quite distraught if I go out and leave him alone. Now,” she turned and started to head for the door, “I’ll trot on down. Give you two a minute.” She hefted two suitcases and closed the door behind her.
He stood looking at his lovely young wife. Slowly she rose from the chair to face him. Neither spoke for long moments, then Deirdre said, “I’m no good at waving a tear-stained hanky from the window as my train pulls away, Fingal. We’ll part in Southampton, I know, but let’s be sensible about it there.” She moved closer to him. “Hold me, Fingal,” she said, and he did. Her kiss was long, soft, loving. Then she said, “This isn’t good-bye, it’s just beannacht De agat, God go with you, darling, and keep you until you come back safe to me.”
“I will,” he said, his voice breaking, and in their last kiss went all the longing in the big man’s great heart.
41
He Might Enjoy the Things Which Others Understand
The smell of antiseptics greeted O’Reilly as he walked into the long room in the Royal Maternity Hospital. The odour was identical here in the antenatal clinic to the one he’d left behind in the neurological ward of the Royal Victoria, a short walk away. Dettol’s overpowering astringency was quickly replacing the outdoor smell of coal smoke and vehicle exhaust in his nostrils. Hushed conversations were interrupted only by the squeaking of the wheels of a midwife’s trolley, the rap of her shoes on the linoleum floor, and the rattling of curtain rings as privacy curtains were opened and closed. Pregnant women waiting their turn sat on chairs beneath a row of windows. The place was bright and airy.
The opposite half of the room was hidden by a system of curtains hanging from overhead rails. It divided the area into a series of examining spaces, each equipped with a table and sphygmomanometer.
Like the figures on Munich’s town hall clock, doctors in white coats and midwives in navy blue dresses and white aprons appeared and disappeared behind the curtains as patients left clutching lab requisitions or were summoned to be examined.
A midwife weighed each newly arriving patient, noted it on her antenatal chart, then tested the urine sample.
O’Reilly, although impressed with the obvious efficiency of the clinic in full swing, wondered if each patient ever saw the same doctor twice during the course of her pregnancy. He may have been feeling behind the times lately, but he still much preferred medicine his way, where every customer was an individual.
He approached the sister midwife in charge at her desk near the door. “Excuse me. I’m Doctor O’Reilly. Doctor Whitfield’s doing an amniocentesis for one of my patients in a few minutes. Can I have a word with him?”
She smiled and rose. “That would be Lorna Kearney. Come with me.”
He followed her through a door into a small, more private, windowless room with beige walls, a washbasin against one, and an instrument trolley covered in a green towel. Lorna, wearing a pale blue hospital gown, the kind with a split back that O’Reilly always called the “de-dignifier,” sat on a chair near a stretcher trolley. She smiled at him but said nothing. She was clearly overawed by the scrum of people in the place.
O’Reilly counted three male and one female medical student identifiable by their short “bum freezer” white coats; two presumably junior doctor trainees, one a young woman; two midwives; and an older physician who turned when the sister midwife said, “Doctor Whitfield, this is Mrs. Kearney’s GP, Doctor O’Reilly.”
Doctor Whitfield, a man of about forty, with dark curly hair, bushy eyebrows, and dark eyes set above a sharp nose, smiled and said, “What can we do for you, Doctor O’Reilly?”
“I’d like to sit in on Lorna’s procedure, if I may. I did a bit of obstetrics in the Rotunda in 1937, but things have changed a lot since then. I’d like to learn more about Rhesus too.”
“Happy to have you, and once we’ve finished with you, Mrs. Kearney,” he said, speaking directly to her, “I’ll take Doctor O’Reilly up to my office and give him as much information as he wants.”
O’Reilly approved. He’d seen hospital consultants discussing patients in front of them as if they weren’t even there.
“Then when we get the results sent to him, he can explain them to you. All right?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and smiled at O’Reilly.
“Right,” said Doctor Whitfield, “let’s get going. Whose turn is it to do the procedure?”
“Mine, sir,” a young man answered.
“This is Doctor Sproule, Mrs. Kearney. He’s a registrar in training to be an obstetrician. He’ll be explaining the procedure to you and the students as he goes along,” the senior lecturer said.
“Pleased til meet you,” she said. “And it’s all right, Doctor Sproule. Youse all have til learn your trade, so youse do,” she said. “I understand that.”
“And I’ll be here,” Doctor Whitfield said. “Masks on, everybody.” He handed one to O’Reilly, who tied it to cover his nose and mouth. The senior lecturer turned to a midwife. “Can you help Mrs. Kearney onto the trolley?”
Lorna was soon lying on her back, head supported by a pillow, a blanket over her legs, its upper edge at the level of her pubic symphysis.
“Let’s have a look at you
r tummy,” Doctor Sproule said, and tucked her gown up to her ribs’ lower edges. He stood on her left side facing her feet. It took moments for him to complete his examination and listen to the baby’s heart with a fœtal stethoscope. “Your uterus is the right size for your length of pregnancy,” he said, “and your baby is in a longitudinal lie, in the left occipito-anterior position. The head is not engaged. Fœtal heart one forty-four.”
Doctor talk for the learners, O’Reilly understood.
“That means, Mrs. Kearney, that the wean’s in your womb with its wee back parallel to yours, the rear of its loaf is to the right and,” he clapped a hand to the back of his own head, “this part of it, called the occiput, is exactly where it should be. The widest part of the baby’s head hasn’t gone into the birth canal yet, not engaged, and nor should it be at this stage of the pregnancy, and its wee heart is going ninety to the dozen at just the right rate. So we’re all set.” He turned to the other learners. “You know all about it, but it’s important to explain to Mrs. Kearney too. Remember that when you’re in practice.”
There was a muttering of assent from the class and O’Reilly smiled. He liked young Sproule.
Doctor Sproule put his hand on the right side of Lorna’s lower abdomen over the uterus. “It’s important to test the fluid in your womb,” he said. “The baby’s curled up a bit, but just underneath there,” he put his finger on the spot where he was going to put in the needle to obtain the sample, “will be a hollow between its legs, tummy, chest, and arms. We’ll get our specimen here.” He used a ballpoint pen to draw a small X.
O’Reilly watched how her gaze never left his eyes. “All right, Doctor,” she said.
“I’m going to go and wash my hands. Put on rubber gloves. Then I’ll come back and I’ll paint your tummy here with antiseptic. I’ll put in some freezing, wait for it to work, then I’ll take another needle and pass it through your tummy and through your womb to where there’s fluid, take a small sample, take the needle out, and pop a dressing on the wee hole left behind. It’ll only take a few minutes. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”