An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea

  Fingal was hesitant to sit before she did.

  “… and for goodness’ sake, do sit down. We were talking about families. Tell me about yours, please.”

  He obeyed. “My father was a professor of Classics and English at Trinity College Dublin. He died of leukaemia four years ago…”

  “I am sorry. My condolences.”

  “Thank you. My elder brother Lars is a solicitor. He and my mother live in a small place called Portaferry about thirty miles outside Belfast. I spoke to Ma on the phone last night. She sounded well and says Lars is too.”

  “That will be a relief,” she said.

  “It was, and—”

  “Forgive me for interrupting, but can I get you something before we eat? Richard taught me to like pink gin years ago, and don’t look so worried. I know things are rationed, but the landlord of the Crown is kind to his special customers.”

  Fingal would have loved a decent pint of Guinness. He’d not had one for months, but said, preferring not to drink spirits so early in the day, “I’ll take a small sherry, if you have it?”

  “I’ll see to it,” she said, “and please do carry on while I get the drinks.”

  “That’s my immediate relatives,” he said, “but I’m engaged to a wonderful girl, called Deirdre Mawhinney.”

  Glass chinked on glass as she said, “I certainly hope you’ve spoken to her.”

  Fingal shook his head. “She lives in the nurses’ quarters of the Ulster Hospital for Women and Children in Belfast. Unless I know when she’s off duty, there’s no point calling.”

  “Mmm. Tricky, that.” She handed him sherry in a small stemmed glass.

  “Thank you.”

  Holding a cut glass with her pink gin she took the other chair, crossing her legs and, with her drink-free hand, smoothing her grey, pleated skirt. “Cheers, or as Richard might say on a Friday, ‘A willing foe and sea room.’”

  Fingal smiled. He’d not taken long to learn the traditional naval daily toasts. “Cheers.”

  They drank.

  “You were telling me about your fiancée and it being tricky to phone her?”

  “Ma worked out a way to deal with it,” he said. “She phoned, spoke to an off-duty nurse, who then got Deirdre to phone Ma as soon as possible. She asked Deirdre to send me a telegram telling me the best time to phone. I’m going to this evening.” He hugged the thought to himself and took another sip of the rich, dry sherry.

  “Good for Mrs. O’Reilly. We mothers do rather come in handy sometimes. I’m delighted for you,” she said. “I’m sure you can hardly wait.” She lifted a photograph in a silver frame from the nearby coffee table.

  Fingal saw a man in his late twenties wearing an open-necked white shirt and a naval officer’s cap set askew, grinning at the photographer.

  “Tony,” she said, “our only offspring. We’re very proud of him. He always tries to phone me when his ship’s in, but it’s not always easy. I’m afraid the bombs have cut a lot of lines.”

  “He looks like a sound man,” Fingal said, but his mind was suddenly filled with the possibility that he wouldn’t get through to Deirdre tonight.

  “You Irishmen. Always adding new expressions to a perfectly good language. Tut.” But she was smiling. “Sound?”

  “I’m sorry. It means reliable, trustworthy, an all-round good type.”

  “I like that. Sound. He is.” He could hear the fondness in her voice. “He has his own destroyer. Convoy work.” And then the worry overlying the fondness.

  “Mrs. Wilcoxson…”

  “No,” she said, “if I am to call you Fingal you must call me Marge if we’re going to be friends.” Her smile was wide. “Now,” she said, “Richard tells me he has sent you to Haslar to study for three months.”

  “That’s right and”—Fingal rummaged in his pocket—“he asked me to give you this.” He held out a little parcel, which she took. “And I’ve to tell you he’s fit and well, or was when I last saw him, and to tell you that he misses you and loves you very much.”

  “His last letter came two days ago. He’s still fit and well.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it.”

  “And I think you are a very nice man, Fingal O’Reilly.” Her smile was wry.

  “I beg your pardon, but how so?”

  “My reticent old curmudgeon of a husband would no more say such a personal thing in public as fly that old warship to the moon. Much too stiff an upper lip, but you knew I’d like to hear it, and little white lies, I’ll bet, are part of your stock in trade to make your patients feel better.”

  Fingal blushed. This was a very perspicacious woman and one not to be fooled easily. He’d withdraw any reference to her being ditsy.

  She patted his knee as his own mother might have done and said, “I think it was very sweet of you. Thank you. Now, I must see what’s in here.” She unwrapped the parcel, carefully folding the paper, opened the box, and took out a gold and amethyst necklace. “Why, it’s lovely,” she said, “and with an easy clasp.” She removed her pearls, set them on the table, opened the new necklace, and reclasped it behind her neck.

  “It looks charming,” Fingal said.

  “Thank you.” She took a small card from the box, read it, and said nothing, but her eyes glistened. She sat very still, fingering the necklace and staring out the window, then cleared her throat and said, “Please forgive me.”

  Fingal became aware of a commotion near the fireplace. He turned in time to see Admiral Benbow struggling to his feet. A small rotund animal with a pointed nose and beady black eyes was scuttling across the carpet.

  “Benbow. Leave it,” she called, but it was too late. The dog had lumbered forward, lowered his muzzle, and was trying to sniff the creature which had instantly curled into a tight ball so that it presented nothing but spines sharp as needles to its would-be attacker. Benbow must have made the discovery, because he backed off, ululating, shaking his head, and repeatedly drawing his left forepaw over his nose while licking it at the same time.

  “Silly boy,” she remarked, leaping to her feet, crossing the room, and simultaneously comforting the dog while gingerly scooping up the hedgehog. “Never a dull moment with animals. This is Riddle. He has a much more highly developed sense of adventure than the others—Good Lord,” she said as they both turned to the sound of a rapid knocking on the front door. “See who that is, will you, like a good chap?”

  Fingal set his drink down, went and opened the front door.

  “Tony, Tony, you’re ho—” A petite, green-eyed girl hurled herself at Fingal, only managing to pull up short at the last minute. Her honey-blonde hair was barely restrained by a headscarf and she filled her Land Army uniform green sweater rather well. She had been flushed and panting for breath and now, clearly, she was blushing. “I-I-I’m most dreadfully sorry. I was mowing hay in the field there and I saw a young naval officer. I ran the whole way and I—”

  “Thought I was Tony?”

  “Well, yes, actually. I do apologise.” Her blush, which Fingal found most attractive, was fading, replaced by a look of dread. He knew what she was thinking.

  “I’m Fingal O’Reilly,” he said quickly, “a friend of Richard’s. I was visiting Mrs. Wilcoxson. Won’t you come in.”

  “Oh. No,” she said, “no thank you, I should be getting back to the horse,” and with that she turned on her Wellington-booted heel and strode away.

  She was, he reckoned, still confused, but at least she knew he wasn’t here to deliver bad news. He admired the sway of her hips beneath her regulation corduroy jodhpurs. He closed the door and went back to find Benbow asleep and Marge standing waiting.

  “I’ve got Riddle tucked up, poor little thing. He was all atremble,” she said. “Now, who was at the door?”

  “A blonde Land Girl who was a bit disappointed that I wasn’t your son. She left.”

  Marge chuckled. “I think,” she said, “you just met the Honourable Philippa Gore-Beresford. Her father, Lord Finisterre
, is the local lord of the manor. Old naval family.”

  The title “honourable,” Fingal knew, was given to daughters of barons or peers of the realm of even higher rank.

  “Lovely girl, usually answers to ‘Pip.’ She’s daft about my Tony and he’s daft about her.”

  “Lucky Tony,” Fingal said.

  Marge nodded. “They’ve known each other for donkeys’ years. I keep hoping he’ll pop the question, but war and his destroyer are both stern mistresses.” She began to turn. “Anyhow,” she said, “I think it’s time we ate.”

  She went to the dining end, he followed, and when she indicated his place he stepped behind her chair, pulled it out, and seated her before taking his own. “Looks wonderful,” he said.

  “Prawn cocktails,” she said. “Fish, including shellfish, aren’t rationed,” she said, “and I know one of the Solent fishermen. The lettuce is from what used to be my flower garden. Now don’t be shy, and eat up.”

  He tucked in. The Marie-Rose sauce was piquant and the prawns crisp. “Delicious,” he said.

  She acknowledged the compliment with an inclination of her head.

  Conversation during the main course had been restricted to remarks like, “May I pass you the salt?” “A little more rabbit pie?” “This Chianti is excellent, thank you,” and “I couldn’t eat another bite, honestly.”

  After clearing the table she had served coffee in front of the French windows. “I’m afraid it’s only Camp chicory essence, but…”

  Fingal echoed her words as she quoted a popular slogan, “Blimey. Ain’t you heard? There’s a war on.” They both laughed.

  “Lord,” said Fingal, “it’s been lovely to forget about it for a while. Thank you so much. I’m staying in the medical officers’ mess. Your cooking was perfection.”

  “It was my pleasure, and I hope I’ll be seeing more of you, obviously making allowances for the requirements of the service.”

  “I’d like that,” Fingal said, but thought about the requirements of the service and what they might mean to him and Deirdre. As he set his cup on the table he wondered when the Wilcoxsons had married. “Marge, may I ask you a personal question?”

  “Of course.”

  “How easy was it for you and Richard to get married?”

  “Not very,” she said, “but then between the wars the navy was still pretty Victorian in its attitudes. We had to wait until Richard was promoted to lieutenant-commander.”

  This was not encouraging news. Fingal was a mere lieutenant.

  “You’re frowning,” she said. “Now it’s my turn to enquire if I might question you?”

  “Please do.”

  “Are you considering marriage?”

  “Yes. I want Deirdre to join me here, but if the navy are going to say we can’t get—”

  “She shall join you here regardless.” Marge’s voice was firm and she had squared her shoulders. She stood and put a maternal hand on Fingal’s shoulder. “Just as quickly as you can get her here.”

  “But how?”

  “She’ll stay with me, of course. I and the menagerie would love the company. She’ll be expected to get a job…”

  “She’s a trained nurse and midwife, but I’d rather she found something else.” He grimaced. “If both of us are working on on-call rotas we might as well be living in separate countries.”

  “Yes, I can see the difficulty. You going off duty just as she’s going on,” Marge said. “No, that won’t do at all. But I can sort that. I’m an officer in the Land Army, and the work can be flexible. She and Pip will be of an age. I’m sure they’ll be pals while you’re working. Company for each other.”

  Fingal looked at this proper English matron in her proper grey worsted suit and threw convention out the nearest casement window. He stood up, hugged her, and spun her in a half-circle. “I love you, Marge Wilcoxson,” he said as he released her. “Can you really put her up, get her a job?”

  “Young man,” Marge said stiffly, “now that you have allowed me to stop giving my impression of a whirling dervish…” She was trying to keep her voice stern but she soon began to giggle. “You do love her very much, don’t you?”

  And with everything in his soul Fingal said, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “So,” she said, “it’s settled then.” She looked wistful. “I envy you your youth,” she said, “but on a more practical note, have you taken any steps to see if you can get married?”

  Fingal inhaled, blew out his breath. “I should have thought about it months ago, but I’m a civilian at heart. Simply never occurred to me to ask anybody. I spoke with Rear Admiral Creaser yesterday. He said he could see difficulties, but he’d see what he could do, but that’ll take time and I am dying to see her.”

  “The admiral is a bit like one of my hedgehogs. Prickly on the outside, but what did you call my Tony?”

  “Sound.”

  “The admiral is a very sound man. If it can be arranged, he’ll arrange it.”

  That was music to Fingal’s ears. He couldn’t stop grinning. “She’s expecting me to phone her tonight at six o’clock. I’ll tell her, Marge, so please start getting things arranged. I don’t know how to thank you enough, and if there’s anything I can do for you in return—”

  “I was going to have you help me wash the dishes,” she said with a chuckle, “but if you’ve to be back at Haslar for six you’d better get going for the station. The next train will come in half an hour and then there’s not another one until eight.” She headed for the hall. He followed. She gave him his cap, coat, and gas mask. As soon as he was dressed she ushered him out, forestalled his thanks by saying, “Don’t waste time thanking me, young man. Get on with you and let me know when to expect her,” and with that she shut the door.

  Fingal leapt up, clicked his heels, landed, and strode down the path. He began singing,

  We’ll meet again, don’t know where don’t know when,

  but I know we’ll meet again …

  The big hit of 1939 by Vera Lynn, the Forces’ Sweetheart. And what was better, he did know where and when. On Portsmouth Station platform just as soon as Deirdre could get here.

  His reverie was interrupted by an eldritch moaning, the rising and falling notes of air raid sirens. He knew he was meant to take shelter, but damn it, he couldn’t afford to miss the train. He broke into a run, his gas mask bouncing on his hip.

  Overhead he heard the thrumming noise of unsynchronised aero engines, the hallmark of German Heinkel 111 and Dornier 17 bombers. And the answering feral snarling of Rolls-Royce Merlins that powered the RAF’s Hurricane and Spitfire fighters as they climbed in pursuit of their prey. The machine guns firing sounded like tearing calico. He stopped for a moment and, craning his neck, peered skyward. Four miles up, vapour trails were being formed against the cerulean sky. From Portsmouth came the crack of shore- and ship-mounted antiaircraft guns. They added their black shell bursts like jet beads to the hairnet tracery of the narrow clouds. And there, over the sea, a flame dragged a smoky trail behind it and a parachute, as seemingly tiny as a dandelion seed, floated down.

  But at six o’clock Fingal would place his call and tell Deirdre to pack and come to him, and—he took one last glance up before running again—not Adolf Hitler, not Reichsmarschall Herman Goering, nor the whole bloody Luftwaffe was going to keep them apart.

  5

  … My Poor Nerves

  A muttering Arthur Guinness in the back of the Rover sniffed the air and thrashed his tail. “Settle down, sir,” said O’Reilly, reaching behind him to chuck the dog under the chin. “You’ll get your run later.” He started to open his door, saying, “Thanks for coming with me, Barry. I think I need the moral support.”

  “Happy to, Fingal. I’m feeling at loose ends these days.” He turned and gave Arthur an absent-minded pat, stroking one of the dog’s long ears. “With Sue in Marseilles on this damn teacher exchange, I won’t be seeing her until the Christmas holidays.”

  “And then wedding
bells ringing in March for you two, is that right?”

  Barry nodded. “Feels like a long time.”

  “Patience, my boy, patience.” O’Reilly understood all about prenuptial patience. “Right. It’s four thirty. Time to beard the lion—”

  “In his den,” Barry said, opening his door. “If I remember correctly, that’s exactly what you said the last time we were here, before Christmas ’64. Is Doctor Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick still a lion?” At the sound of the door opening, Arthur began his antics again, clearly hoping for a walk.

  “You stay, lummox.” Sighing like a barrage balloon deflating, Arthur stopped thrashing his tail and subsided on the seat as O’Reilly heaved himself out of the car.

  Barry walked round to join him on the driver’s side and O’Reilly inhaled the tang of the sea. Someone had scattered bread crumbs on the cement walk outside Number Nine, the Esplanade, and gulls pitched and wheeled, making crash landings, squabbling over the pickings.

  “I thought perhaps he’d mellowed over the last few years, but his reaction to Charlie and me on Sunday was anything but mellow. There was Ronald, who ordinarily wouldn’t say shite if his mouth was full of it, banging his fist on the table, gobbling like a turkey, and yelling, ‘And there’s not a blooming thing wrong with me. Nothing. Leave me alone. Go away.’ And I quote.” O’Reilly tightened his lips, blew out his breath.

  “I’m no psychiatrist,” Barry said, “but that’s called denial.” He looked down, then back up at O’Reilly. “It’s going to be an uphill fight to get him to change his mind.”

  “I know, but something has to be done about the man’s refusal to seek help. He’s not my favourite person in the world, but I’m still worried about him.”

  They walked side by side along the path as the gulls hopped and flapped out of their way. The nondescript three-storey grey stucco house, according to the signs outside, had solicitors’ offices and a dentist on the first floor and a group of chartered accountants on the second.

  “Since we worked out between us all the neurological conditions that might be at the root of Ronald’s symptoms, I haven’t been able to come up with any more causes. Have you thought of other possibilities?”