An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea

  The barking cacophony of Warspite’s AA guns almost drowned out the commander’s response. “And I shall ignore your insubordination and impertinence and, like it or not, O’Reilly, I am putting you in for that gong.”

  49

  And Every Dog His Day

  “No,” said O’Reilly. “It won’t do.”

  “What won’t, sir?” Donal asked as he closed the Rover’s passenger-side door. From behind him came a series of high-pitched yips from the excited puppies in the backseat.

  “I don’t think you served in the Irish Guards, did you?”

  “What are you on about, sir? You know fine well I was never in the army, never mind the Guards.”

  “Then you can’t wear their regimental tie in a room full of captains of industry.”

  “But we’re just going to sell some dogs,” Donal said, a note of petulance in his voice. He pulled his tie out from under his tweed jacket and examined it—dark red and dark blue, diagonally striped.

  “Some retired major is going to have apoplexy if he sees you wearing that thing,” O’Reilly said. “You don’t know how jealous some folks can be about who can and who can’t wear certain ties. And you want to get off on a good foot, don’t you?”

  “Aye, certainly. I do that. And I sure don’t want to give no high heenjin apple plexy.”

  “Where did you get it anyway?”

  “This?” Donal’s brows knitted then he smiled. “About a year ago I was doing a wee job for his lordship. Fitting some shelves into his dressing room wardrobe, so I was. My belt broke and my pants near fell down. I asked Mister Thompson, you know, the butler man, for a piece of twine and he give me this instead. Said it was wore out. It had a long tear, but it was right along the seam and Julie sewed it up so’s you can’t see it anyroad. I didn’t know it was special, so I didn’t.”

  “Thompson gave you a regimental tie to hoist up your trousers? He must be mellowing in his old age. Well, go and change it. I’ll keep an eye on the dogs. Which two are they?”

  “Thon one there with the wee top hat’s Boy, short for Wild Colonial Boy of Brisbane. Pedigree dogs have grand names, you know. And the one in the wee bonnet’s Mel, short for Melbourne Miss the Third of Carlton.”

  O’Reilly chuckled. “How the blazes do you think them up?”

  “I don’t sir. Dapper does. He’s quare nor smart, and he wants for the dogs til sell too. Don’t forget as well as the stud fees Dapper gets pick of the litter and he wants the do-re-mi when it sells. Anyroad, hang on and I’ll be back.” He climbed out and both little dogs got up on their hind legs and put their front paws and wet noses on the car’s side window. Both, as well as their ridiculous hats, wore scarlet waistcoats that Julie had sewn.

  How, O’Reilly wondered, do I get myself involved with Donal’s antics? All part of being the kind of local GP I always wanted to be, and let’s face it, every time Donal’s got himself into trouble hasn’t the craic been ninety digging him out? He wished Barry was here to share the fun.

  O’Reilly laughed loudly enough to stimulate a melancholy howling from the backseat. “Wheest, dogs, wheest,” he said, and they quieted at once. Biddable little creatures, and agile too. They might just make good pets.

  Donal climbed back in, this time wearing a paisley tie in bright pinks and fluorescent greens.

  “Right,” said O’Reilly, gasping when he saw the tie. He shook his head. “Off we go. We’re late. But the old Rover has lots of horses under the bonnet and I can put my foot to the floor over the Craigantlet Hills as long as they aren’t too icy.” He roared down the lane fast enough to force Donal to slide down in his seat.

  * * *

  “My God,” Donal said sotto voce. “This is quare nor grand, so it is.” He stood, duncher grasped in one hand, the dogs’ leashes in the other, rooted to the spot at the doorway to Belfast’s Grand Central Hotel ballroom. The hall carpet was plush underfoot.

  O’Reilly stood at Donal’s shoulder surveying the scene. The first guests were beginning to arrive. From the far end came the sounds of the Clipper Carlton Showband as they set up their instruments. Their frontman, Fergie O’Hagan, said into a microphone, “Check, check, check. Microphone check.”

  The words gave O’Reilly a flutter of anxiety in his belly. “Check” repeated twice more had also been the order for Warspite’s guns to cease firing.

  The sounds echoed through the room and across a dance floor to where tables and chairs awaited, loaded with white napery and silver cutlery, light blue china and crystal glasses. Light sparkled from chandeliers with false diamond pendants and a multifaceted mirrored ball spun over the dance floor. The chamber of commerce members and their wives were not going to be eating cruibíns off paper plates. There would be money here tonight. Lots of money. And, he hoped, lots of good people who would treat the funny little creatures well.

  “Do you think Mister Bishop and Mister Ramsey will come soon?” Donal asked.

  O’Reilly said, “Bertie told us to be here at six fifteen so we’re a couple of minutes early.”

  “Aye,” said Donal, “even though you near put the car in the ditch in your hurry, sir.”

  “Black ice,” O’Reilly said, and sniffed. “The skid could have happened to a bishop. Anyway it’s always better to be early in life.”

  “Right, sir. I’ll remember that.” Donal bent to the two leashed dogs. “Sit.” And to O’Reilly’s amazement they did. “I know they’re very young yet, but I’ve been learning them a wee bit,” Donal said. “They’re sharp as tacks.”

  Beside the door, a hotel functionary sitting at a trestle table was taking cards with scalloped edges and black copperplate writing from guests arriving like Noah’s animals two by two, the gentleman in dinner suits, the ladies in cocktail dresses. One woman bent and patted Boy. “Isn’t the little doggy sweet, Henry?” she asked of a moustached, rotund gentleman accompanying her.

  He toyed with an unlit cigar. “Strange-looking beast,” the man said. “I think it might be one of those rare Australian dogs, Woolama-somethings, that Ernie Ramsey was so keen on. Legs are too long for its body.” He handed over his invitation. “Do come along, Sarah. I see the Featherstonehaughs, and Mildred’s waving at us.”

  Sarah gave one last lingering look before following her husband.

  “Now there’s a thing,” said Donal after she’d gone in. “It’ll be the women who do the buying—you mark my words, sir. The craytures’ big brown eyes bring out the mother in women. My Julie’s forever pettin’ the wee fellahs.”

  Had Donal been born into a different social class, O’Reilly was convinced he’d have been a professor of applied psychology. “You could be right,” he said, and wondered if it had been the case, to what precisely would Donal have applied his skills? There’d have been a profit in it, that was for sure.

  “Right on time, Doctor. Donal,” Bertie Bishop said. Flo and the Ramseys were with him.

  Donal made a head bob.

  “Bertie. Flo, you look—” O’Reilly began. She was wearing an orange flared cocktail dress over myriad taffeta petticoats and was giving a fair impression of a ripe pumpkin. “—wonderful.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” she said, and smiled. “Cissie Sloan made my dress. She’s a quare dab hand at the dressmaking.” She looked at the pups. “What lovely little doggies,” she patted Mel, “and such a pretty bonnet. Do you think we should buy one, dear?”

  Bertie adjusted his bow tie, cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and made no comment.

  O’Reilly had the distinct impression that Bertie was biting back a suggestion that Flo should take herself off by the hand, a fine Ulsterism for getting a grip on reality. Perhaps Bertie’s newfound humanity did not extend to the animal kingdom.

  “Doctor, this is Mrs. Ramsey,” Ernie Ramsey said, introducing a slim, dark-haired woman in a black knee-length sheath. “Eileen, Doctor O’Reilly and Mister Donnelly.”

  “Pleased to meet you both,” she said, “and Flo is right. Those big brown
eyes are simply adorable.”

  “We’ll go in,” said Ernie. “I don’t know about you other gentlemen, but my belly thinks my throat’s cut. My tongue’s hanging out.”

  O’Reilly was feeling a certain thirst himself.

  Ernie Ramsey handed in their invitations, made the explanations, and once inside was ushered by a waiter in tails to a table for six in the front row facing the bandstand.

  “This is going til work out very well,” Ernie said. “The doctor and Mister Donnelly can sit with us until the sale’s over, then they’ll be going home.”

  “That’s right,” O’Reilly said.

  “Harry and Jessica’s going to be a wee bit late, so there’ll be seats for them with us when you’ve gone.”

  A waiter hove into view.

  “My shout,” Bertie said. “What’ll it be?”

  All the while, the room was filling. Some guests had taken their seats, others, drinks and canapés in hand, circulated, chatting with old friends. The strains of Kenny Ball’s “Midnight in Moscow” flowed over conversations and laughter, and above all a tobacco haze was forming. From time to time, folks would wander over, admire the dogs, and chat to Donal about the forthcoming sale.

  A stranger to O’Reilly approached the table. “How are you, Bertie?” the man said.

  Very Upper Malone Road accent, O’Reilly noticed.

  “Rightly, Johnny,” Bertie said. “Johnny Henderson here has a linen mill.”

  “And a wife who’s fallen in love with one of these dogs you were telling us about.” He offered a hand. “Mister Donnelly, I presume?”

  “I’m your man,” Donal said, took the man’s hand, and shook it.

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider a presale offer, Mister Donnelly?”

  Donal’s face went into its usual deep thought contortions.

  O’Reilly could almost hear the man thinking, A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush and, I wonder could I bargain?

  “They’re twenty…” Donal stared into the man’s face, “twenty…”

  That was the price he’d quoted in the Duck. Go on, Donal, O’Reilly thought. Go for more.

  “Twenty-two pounds ten each.”

  “Twenty-two pounds and we have a deal.”

  “Twenty-two pounds five, Mister Henderson,” said Donal, and immediately handshakes were exchanged. “Which one do you want?”

  “I’ll take the one in the top hat. He looks like a likely little lad.” The man bent down and gave Boy a gentle pat and a playful chuck under the chin. The dog responded by licking his hand.

  O’Reilly was whisked back to the souks of Alexandria. He was convinced that Egyptian Arabs, renowned for their haggling skills, would have been outdone by Donal Donnelly of Dun Bwee Cottage, Ballybucklebo.

  “He’s called Boy, sir.”

  At the sound of his name the little dog looked adoringly at Donal, then back to Johnny Henderson.

  “You can have him after the sale, for I need to show them off, like.”

  “Certainly, Mister Donnelly. Joyce will be overjoyed.” He wandered off.

  “I think,” said Bertie, “you were dead jammy, Donal, chancing your arm like that.”

  “I don’t think so, Bertie,” O’Reilly said. “Luck had nothing to do with it. Donal took a calculated risk. One down and nine to go.”

  The drinks arrived.

  “Cheers,” O’Reilly said, and took a pull on his pint.

  Another stranger wearing a badge of office came over. “Hello all. I’m Sean Brennan, chairman of the chamber,” he said. “Ernie, it’s time for you to introduce the dog man, Mister—”

  “Mister Donnelly,” Ernie said.

  “Mister Donnelly,” Mister Brennan said, “and get this sale under way.”

  Ernie got to his feet. “Come on, Donal. Bring the bow-wows.”

  “Here, Doctor, please,” said Donal, handing O’Reilly a notebook and a pen. “You take the money, names, addresses, and phone numbers, and tell them I’ll phone on Monday to arrange times for the buyers til come to Dun Bwee.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Donal rose. “Come on, pups.” Wagging tails curved high over their backs, the dogs followed.

  Ernie signalled to Clipper Carlton and the music stopped, then climbed up on the stage and took the microphone. “Drum roll please, maestro.”

  The snare drum rattled merrily away. Conversation died. All eyes were on the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our Christmas party and dinner for 1966. Tonight we will be starting the festivities with something quite different. This is the season for giving, and tonight the Belfast Chamber of Commerce is giving a local man from Ballybucklebo the opportunity to sell something very special, some wee dogs so rare I believe one will make the recipient of such a Christmas present the envy of all. May I present Mister Donal Donnelly and two of his remarkable and unique Woolamarroo quokka herding dogs.”

  As Donal and the dogs mounted the stage, Clipper Carlton’s Showband swung into the chorus of “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window.”

  The music died and Donal stepped forward. He didn’t speak. He gave a quiet order and the two behatted, red-jacketed little dogs rose on their hind legs and each pirouetted, Boy in a clockwise direction and Mel going round the opposite way. Another command and both again stood on four paws.

  The room erupted in applause.

  Donal now took the mike and, as if to the manner born, said, “Thank youse all, ladies and gentlemen, thank youse all, and Mister Ramsey and the Belfast Chamber of Commerce? Thank you for inviting us—me, Wild Colonial Boy of Brisbane and Melbourne Miss the Third of Carlton.” On hearing their names, the dogs each gave one sharp bark.

  Laughter and applause.

  Begob, thought O’Reilly, Donal certainly knows how to play a room.

  Donal squatted with his knees widely separated, commanded, and the dogs jumped up, one onto each thigh, and sat staring at the crowd. He tucked one under each arm, stood and said, “Mister Chairman and Mrs. Chairman if she’s here, ladies and gentlemen, what youse see here is two of the eighth wonders of the world. These here are two of the only Woolamarroo quokka herding dogs north of the equator. All the way from Rottnest Island off the City of Perth in Western Australia.”

  He paused for dramatic effect.

  Silence.

  “Even in that far and fair country full of such exotic animals as marsh soopials and duck billed platty-pussies…”

  Laughter.

  O’Reilly wondered if the Donalapropisms were accidental or deliberate.

  “… there’s only a few Woolamarroo quokka dogs.”

  O’Reilly studied the audience. All were paying rapt attention.

  “Now,” said Donal with a touch of the conspiratorial in his tones, “I don’t need to tell any of youse learnèd ladies and gentlemen what a quokka is.”

  O’Reilly counted at least eight heads nodding knowledgeably to a neighbour and having the nod returned.

  “And I know youse is all familiar with Woolamarroo…”

  More nodding.

  “So I don’t need to explain. What I can tell you is that I have for sale nine of these remarkable dogs, and they’re only twenty-two pounds ten apiece.”

  A man’s voice called, “I’ll take one.”

  “Me too.”

  “Hold your horses,” said Donal. “Doctor O’Reilly, will you please stand.”

  O’Reilly did, and faced the room.

  From behind he heard Donal say, “If youse’ll form a queue in front of the gentleman he’ll take the names and addresses of and all of the first nine comers, and explain how to collect your new pup.”

  At least three chairs were overturned in the rush.

  While he waited for the queue to form, O’Reilly did some quick mental arithmetic. Nine at twenty-two pounds ten shillings, one at twenty-two pounds five, minus Dapper Frew’s pick of the litter, for a total of two hundred and four pounds five shillings, less stud fees and expenses. T
hat would be six months’ wages for Donal Donnelly. You’re a genius, my friend.

  “Now sir,” he said, opening the notebook and uncapping the pen, “that’ll be…”

  “Here. Twenty-two pounds ten. The wife will kill me if I don’t get one.”

  And as O’Reilly began to take the man’s particulars, he realized, I’m a pound better off myself. I’ve won the bet with Barry. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t quite catch the street number.”

  “Sixteen Harberton Avenue,” the man repeated.

  “Right,” said O’Reilly, making a note. One couple were going to be the envy of the Upper Malone Road District, the swankiest part of the city of Belfast. “Thank you, sir,” he said with a vast grin, “and a very merry Christmas.”

  50

  The Sure-Enwinding Arms of Cool-Enfolding Death

  “How are you managing, Fingal?” Richard Wilcoxson asked, looking up from the operating table where he was removing a splinter of steel from a seaman’s thigh.

  Fingal had returned to the for’ard medical distribution station and was still getting his eyes used to the brightness of the operating lights. He’d just made rounds of the dimly lit port mess deck, which was now an improvised hospital ward where men, many groaning, lay on the sole and on mess tables, being tended to by first-aid workers under the supervision of an SBA and comforted by their off-duty mates. Much to Fingal’s relief, Henson, whose half-baked amputation had been completed professionally, was among the recovering men and on the mend—at least physically.

  But seeing to the living hadn’t been Fingal’s only chore. He’d also been counting the wounded, and—the thought pained him—the canvas-covered dead.

  He managed a weak grin. “I’ve been worse, Richard, but not much. I reckon we’re all pretty knackered.” He sat on a folding chair, rubbed the backs of his hands against both eyes, yawned, ignored the stubble on his chin, and forced himself to stay awake. Warspite had been hit on May 22th and the entire staff of the medical department, doctors, the dentist, and the SBAs had not slept for nearly forty-eight hours.