“Run you away on, Doctor.” Willie made the second pour into each glass. “I’ll bring them over the minute they’ve settled and are ready.”
O’Reilly passed a table where Gerry Shanks was telling a joke to his friends. Gerry nodded to O’Reilly but didn’t break his stride. “… so there’s your mountaineer man on a ledge a hundred feet down, both arms broken, and this other climber higher up throws him down a rope and says he, ‘Grab you on til that there with your teeth and I’ll get you up here, so I will.’”
O’Reilly saw the grins on the men’s faces, heard their chuckles already beginning. Gerry had a reputation as a storyteller.
“So the one at the top starts pulling away and pulling away.” Gerry accompanied his words with the motions of a man hauling hand over hand on a rope. “He’s working like blue blazes.”
O’Reilly had to hear the punch line.
“And then, as your other man’s head appears level with the safe ground, the one pulling gasps, takes a big deep breath, and says, ‘Are you all right, Paddy?’
“‘I aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam,’ says Paddy,” and as Gerry spoke he let his voice fall from a yell to a whisper.
Every man in the group guffawed loudly. So did O’Reilly.
“That was a right cracker, Gerry. Nice one.” Charlie Gorman, Gerry’s best friend, banged his nearly empty pint glass on the table, allowed a suitable pause to let everybody relish the humour, and said, “Now, did youse all hear the one about the fellah from Alma Street?”
“Is Alma that wee narrow back street off the Falls Road in Belfast?” Fergus Finnegan, the bowlegged jockey, asked.
“Aye, you’re dead on. Well, your man gets a powerful skinful and wins an elephant at the coconut shy at the August Lammas Fair in Ballycastle—”
“An elephant,” said Gerry, rolling his eyes and looking sceptical. “Pull the other leg. It has bells on.”
“Come on, Gerry, we all know there’s about as much chance of seeing an elephant as there is of a grown man hanging on to a rope with his teeth, but that’s what made your yarn work. Now give me a chance, it’s only a gag, so hould your wheest.”
“Fair play,” said Fergus. “Give Charlie the floor.”
“Go ahead, Charlie,” Gerry said.
“Thank you, and you’ll all have to be patient. This is a bloody good story and takes a wee while til tell right. Soooooo, anyroad, your man brings this bloody great pachyderm back til Alma Street and tethers it til a lamppost and goes off til bed…”
O’Reilly chuckled. When some Ulstermen got into competive storytelling it was like two gunslingers in the Wild West shooting it out. He’d have liked to hear the end of the yarn, but his friends were waiting.
O’Reilly’d barely taken his seat when Willie, pursued by Brian Boru, the pub’s feisty Chihuahua, appeared with the pints. O’Reilly paid with a ten-shilling note, which would exactly cover the cost.
“Cheers, Fingal,” Barry said, and raised his glass to the accompanying toasts of two of the others. Rory nodded but did not drink.
“Sláinte,” said O’Reilly, drinking and relishing the beer’s bittersweet taste. “And thank you all for your help.”
Barry simply smiled, but Donal said, “No bother, and sure wasn’t it a great pleasure to see the Auchinlecks settled? I mind how excited Julie and me was when we moved intil our wee house.” He chuckled. “You all know about the Stone-Age grave on the site at Dun Bwee? The National Trust have it open til the public now—and I got permission from one of their highheejins for her to do it, so Julie’s going a humdinger selling afternoon teas in the back garden for the visitors, so she is, and I’m carving wee hairy-looking men with spears and clubs for the customers til buy for souvenirs, like. And I’ve another wee sideline going too.” He winked at O’Reilly.
O’Reilly laughed. Trust Donal to find a potential for profit. He wondered what the “wee sideline” might be, but refrained from asking.
Charlie Gorman’s voice could be heard over the buzz, and by his inflection it sounded as if he’d finally got to the punch line. “‘Och, missus,’ says your elephant man who’s woke up with a ferocious headsplitter, ‘don’t be ridiculous. My elephant couldn’t possibly do that to your wee pussy cat.’ And she says, ‘It did so.’” Charlie paused for effect. “‘It took its big foot and went—’” He stamped his foot on the floor to a momentary pause, then gales of laughter and a round of applause.
O’Reilly laughed. He’d missed too much of the story to understand the joke, but the laughter of the Ulsterfolk was terribly infectious.
“Your man Charlie Gorman’s the quare gag, so he is. He’d make a cat laugh,” Donal said.
“He’s a comedian, all right,” Barry said, “but you’re no slouch yourself when you’re telling a story, Donal. I still remember the one about the Kerryman and the dead greyhound.”
“Away off and chase yourself, Doctor Laverty,” Donal said, but O’Reilly could tell by the man’s buck-toothed grin he was delighted to be complimented.
O’Reilly sank another third of his pint.
Rory said nothing, barely raised a smile, and toyed with his pint.
For a moment, O’Reilly wondered if Archie’s son was all right. He’d been sluggish about lifting boxes back at the Auchinlecks’ home and had nearly declined O’Reilly’s offer to come for a pint.
O’Reilly looked more closely. Rory was sweating like a pig and pale as parchment, but before Fingal could ask how he was feeling, a man stopped at the table and said, “Excuse me, Doctor O’Reilly.”
O’Reilly recognised Hall Campbell, the fisherman who’d moved here from Ardglass last year and was buying Jimmy Scott’s fishing boat. Jenny had made a very astute diagnosis of patent ductus arteriosus, a congenital heart defect, which had been successfully repaired surgically. “Yes, Hall?”
“I’ve not seen Doctor Bradley about the place for a brave wee while, but I heard tell she’s come back to us. When you see her, would you tell her I’m going round like a liltie since I got over the operation and say thanks very much.”
“I’ll do that. She was off taking a course, but she’s back now. She’ll be pleased to hear.”
“She done me a power of good, so she did, sir. I’ve more energy than I’ve had for years.” He laughed. “I need it. The herring’s running great this year, so they are, and we’ve been netting the odd mackerel this week. They should be coming in in shoals soon too.”
“I’m very glad to hear it, Hall. Very glad,” O’Reilly said.
“Aye,” said Hall. He tilted his head to one side. “Jimmy tells me you like an evening at the mackerel fishing, sir.”
O’Reilly, who had just finished his pint, said, “I do that.”
“If you’d like I’ll let you know when they’re in and I’ll take you out.”
“That would be wonderful,” O’Reilly said, “and if it would be all right I’ll bring Mrs. O’Reilly too?”
“More the merrier,” said Hall. “I’ll be running on now, sir, but I’ll see you soon.”
Now that was something to look forward to. An evening out on Belfast Lough, lines in the water trolling for the silver-and-blue fish—and they were great eating too. He glanced at his watch. Better not be late for dinner.
Another roar of laughter came from Gerry Shanks’s table and Charlie Gorman yelled, “Five more pints, Willie.” An adjoining table had been pushed over to join Gerry’s and the evening was beginning to develop the attributes of a spontaneous party. A voice said, “Maybe we’ll get Alan Hewitt to give us a tune?”
O’Reilly’d not mind hearing Helen Hewitt’s dad. He had a great voice. There might be time to listen and have another pint before Kitty expected them home. O’Reilly was about to signal Willie, but Rory said, “Excuse me, sir, I don’t want to spoil the fun—”
The man’s pint was hardly touched.
“—but could Donal maybe run me back to barracks? I just come over funny there now. I thought it was just a wee turn. Jasus,” he said, “I�
�m weak as a bloody kitten. I was feeling grand this morning so I’d no reason to go on sick parade, but I’m bollixed now, so I am.”
O’Reilly reflexively reached for the man’s wrist to take his pulse. The skin was hot and clammy and when he counted for fifteen seconds and multiplied by four, Rory’s pulse was 112 instead of a steady 88. “You have a fever, Rory.”
The noise from the party, the people at his own table, seemed to have vanished as O’Reilly concentrated on trying to discover how sick Rory was.
The man’s teeth chattered. “I have something, sir, for I’m bloody well frozen.” He shivered.
Probably a summer flu, O’Reilly thought. It wouldn’t take long to run him up to Holywood and get him under the care of his regimental doctor, but something made O’Reilly ask, “Have you ever had anything like it before?”
“Aye, twice now.”
“When?”
Rory made a brrrrr noise, shivered, and said, “The regiment’d been back from thon peacekeeping in Cyprus for about two months, that’s about ten months ago. The doc said it was flu. I was like this for four or five days. I’d sweat something ferocious at night—”
O’Reilly made a mental note of that.
“—then about six months ago I’d another go for about a week, just like the one before. We’d a new MO then, young fellah just out of Queens and basic army training. He said it was flu too.” Rory shivered again. “And this attack’s come on like the first two.”
“Everything all right, Fingal?” Barry asked.
“No. Rory has a fever. I’m trying to sort him out. Just be a minute.” That he was doing it in a pub was irrelevant. A sick patient needed care on the spot, be it in a familiar pub or outside a blazing bomb crater on a stricken battleship. “We may have to take him back to Number One, so hang on a tic, please.” O’Reilly concentrated on the job in hand. Two recent attacks of flu? This would be a third bout in less than a year. That wasn’t right. “You were in Cyprus for how long?” he asked.
“A year, sir.”
“Been stationed anywhere else abroad?”
“No, sir.”
If Rory had been, O’Reilly would have suspected malaria, whose victims kept on having relapses, but to his knowledge there was no malaria in Cyprus. Still, three bouts of flu? He shook his head. He supposed a poker player could fill three full houses in three consecutive deals, but he’d not bet on it. “As I see it,” O’Reilly said, “you may have flu, but it could be something else.” Recurrent fever, rapid pulse and chills, and night sweats over a short time frame after returning from the Mediterranean? O’Reilly had a fair idea of what was wrong. “You need to be examined properly.”
“You’re the doctor, sir.” Rory shuddered.
“I can nip home, get my car, run you up to the barracks, let your MO take care of you, or, and it’s closer, head for my surgery, get a good look at you and see if we can work out what ails you.”
“I’d like that, sir.” He took a deep breath and said, “And if you’d have an aspirin, sir? My head’s pounding fit to beat Bannagher.”
“I have in the surgery,” said O’Reilly. “Can you stand up?”
“Aye.” Rory staggered to his feet and O’Reilly put an arm round the man’s waist. He was heavy and O’Reilly recognised that he was going to need help getting Rory to Number One. He lowered Rory back into his seat. “Donal, Barry, Rory’s not well and I want to get him to the surgery. Donal, fetch the van and come right up to the front door.”
“Right, sir.” Donal, presumably believing in waste not, want not, sank the remains of his pint and trotted off.
“We’ll give Donal a few minutes, Barry, then you help me oxtercog Rory out to the van.”
“Right.”
“I’ll explain what I’m thinking once we get him home.”
“Fair enough,” Barry said, clearly stifling his professional curiosity.
“Willie. Gentlemen,” O’Reilly roared in his best force-ten-gale voice, “your attention please.” He was not going to submit Rory to the spectacle of being half-dragged out of the Mucky Duck without an explanation. Otherwise it might be all over town the next day that Rory had been stocious. And the poor man hadn’t even had a sip of his beer. The conversations died. Every eye was on O’Reilly.
“Rory here’s not very well—”
A chorus of “och” and “oh dear” and “poor lad” sounded throughout the pub.
“He’s not infectious so you’ve nothing to worry about and Doctor Laverty and I can manage, so don’t let us spoil your fun. But I just wanted you all to know.” He nodded to Barry and between them they each got one of Rory’s arms round a shoulder, lifted him to his feet, and with him trying to take short steps headed for the doors that Gerry was holding open.
By the time they had Rory loaded into the van O’Reilly too, was sweating, but not sufficiently to distract him from trying to formulate a diagnosis. It was the combination of Rory’s having been in the Mediterranean followed by three apparent bouts of flu that had given the clues. Lord knew O’Reilly’d seen enough cases when Warspite had left the Atlantic and been based at Alexandria in Egypt later in the war. A few confirmatory physical findings and a simple blood test he could do at Number One would clinch the diagnosis—and to do so would get Rory on the road to recovery and give a great deal of professional satisfaction to a simple country GP.
10
My Belly Was Bitter
“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen,” Richard Wilcoxson said from a few feet away. “Finish what you’re saying, but then can I have a word, Fingal?”
Fingal, his first glass of Jameson in hand, had been in the middle of a lively conversation with Bangorman and old friend Lieutenant-Commander Tom Laverty, Warspite’s navigating officer. Tom had worn well, his fair hair thick but cut short, his eyes blue and alert. There were deep lines at their angles. The one thing that had changed was that Tom had married in March 1938, but that was as far as the two men had got on personal matters in the crowded room.
“Excuse me, Tom, Davy.” Surgeon Lieutenant David Jones, the other member of the conversational trio, was a dark-haired Aberystwyth native and a fierce supporter of the Welsh rugby team. Quite naturally, the Welshman answered to “Davy” and took good-naturedly the inevitable jokes about his mythical Davy Jones’s locker, where it was believed dead sailors fetched up. Sometimes, Davy had told Fingal, it was even suggested that sailors might end up there with a bit of help from a certain sawbones of the same name.
The mess anteroom he crossed was furnished and functioning like a gentleman’s club with a highly select membership, which in many ways in the peacetime navy it was. There was, O’Reilly thought, something essentially British about having a piano in a room near the aft main fifteen-inch armament, and that an Oërlikon antiaircraft gun was mounted on the deck immediately overhead. They’d be some percussion section when they opened up, an event which sooner or later was going to happen. In late 1939, the war was fairly static, but things were bound to start heating up. “Yes, Richard,” Fingal said, after taking a few steps away to where the senior waited.
“Paddy O’Rourke’s been along to tell me that Stewart’s taken a turn for the worse.”
“So you’d like me to go and see him?” Fingal coughed. His pipe was adding to the tobacco smoke fug in the room. The wardroom anteroom and immediately adjoining wardroom for officers above the rank of sub-lieutenant was on the port side on the upper deck just ahead of X turret. Sub-lieutenants, midshipmen (known as snotties), and clerks had their own mess on the same deck on the starboard side. The anteroom hummed with the pre-dinner chatter of the off-duty officers, many of whom Fingal had now met and most of whose names had already become lost. No matter. In the weeks and months to come, he’d be getting to know them better.
Richard smiled. “Both of us will go. Judging by the report, I think I’ll be getting that pink gin from you later. Seems he’s chucked up and says the pain’s in his right lower belly now.”
“S
ounds like appendicitis.” There were other diagnostic possibilities, but as one of Fingal’s teachers used to remark, “If you saw a bird on a telegraph wire in Dublin, it was more likely to be a sparrow than a canary.” Common things occurred most often. Fingal was glad that, contrary to his usual approach, he had sipped his first Jameson slowly, knowing he might have to work.
“I’ve told Paddy and Leading Sick Berth Attendant Barker to prepare the operating theatre. It’ll take a minute or two, but we’d better get back to the sick bay, take a look at the patient. I’m pretty sure we’ll be operating.” He turned to David Jones. “You stay and enjoy yourself, Davy, and try to get an early night. I want you to take the morning watch tomorrow. Give Fingal a chance for some shut-eye and with a bit of luck, you’ll not be disturbed between four and eight A.M. You’ve earned a breather, Davy. Fingal and I can manage between now and then.”
Fingal was sure that they could. He’d not eaten since breakfast and with only a small amount of whiskey aboard his knees felt a bit rubbery, but he knew he was far from drunk. If he had been, he’d have apologised to Davy Jones—but asked him to do the work.
Wilcoxson turned back to Fingal. “You can anaesthetise, can’t you?”
Fingal swallowed. Certainly as students they’d all been made to give a few, but he was no expert. “Yes.” He tried to sound confident. He’d assumed he’d be assisting.
“No rest for the wicked, eh, Fingal?” Tom Laverty said. “Nor for me. I’m going to be busy tonight, then I’ve got a week’s leave. My wife Carol’s staying in a boarding house here in Greenock…”
Fingal’s friend needed to say no more and he envied him. “Lucky devil,” Fingal said. “Enjoy your leave, give my love to Carol, and we’ll get a chance for a blether once you’re back. A lot’s happened to both of us since the year of our Lord 1931. I want to hear what you’ve been up to.” Fingal put down his unfinished drink. He turned to the PMO. “Ready when you are, Richard.”
An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War Page 8
