An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War

by Patrick Taylor

  “I should think she’d have to be, to hold her own against the likes of young Colin Brown,” said Kitty with a grin.

  Barry nodded. “I went to a boys’ school and I had to learn to fight my own corner too. And the cooking’s been great fun. I make a wheeker pot roast and I’m going to graduate to steak Béarnaise next week. Remember when Kinky got sick last year? The well-known culinary team of O’Reilly and Laverty might have got some horrible deficiency disease if it hadn’t been for the kindness of neighbours. That’s when Sue thought a few cooking lessons might be in order.”

  “Good for you and Sue, Barry,” Kitty said, and looked sideways at O’Reilly.

  “No. Thank you, but no. I’m too old a dog to learn new tricks. Between Kinky and you, Kitty, I’m as well fed as any man can and should be. Now if only I could say the same about this thirst.”

  “Oh all right, you old bear,” Kitty said, and took his hand. “You’d probably burn the kitchen down trying to make a pot roast anyway.”

  As they passed back the way they had come, it was clear that the afternoon was drawing to its close. The crowds had thinned out and shadows were moving round. The Punch and Judy man was striking his tent. The roundabout was still going round, its steam organ happily piping “I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts,” but more than half the herd of carved and garishly painted horses, each rising and falling on its pole, was riderless.

  “Before we get our drinks, there’s something I want to tell you and Kitty,” Barry blurted out as they passed the Bring and Buy table. “It’s about Sue and me. We don’t spend all our time running a friendly ‘war between the sexes.’”

  “That sounds like the caption for a James Thurber cartoon,” O’Reilly said, then saw that his young friend was looking like a mooncalf with a grin from ear to ear.

  “I’m a lucky fellah. It’s not every girl that’s as smart as Sue Nolan, can sail as well, has a great seat on a horse, and is so restful on the eye too, if you don’t mind me saying so, Kitty?”

  “It’s only the truth, Barry Laverty,” Kitty said, turning to him. “Sue is a lovely-looking lass and what woman doesn’t like a sincere compliment?”

  “She’s certainly all of those things and very beautiful to boot, and we know you love the girl dearly, so why haven’t you asked her to marry you, you buck eejit?” O’Reilly said.

  “Fingal. Really,” Kitty said, stifling a laugh. “Sometimes you go at things like a bull in a china shop. It’s none of your business.”

  “Yes, it is.” He knew Kitty meant well, but the hare had been started from its form, the depression in the grass where it liked to lie, and O’Reilly meant to course after it until the finish. “Well, are you going to—”

  “Hush, Fingal. There’s Donal,” said Kitty.

  “Bout youse, Doctors? Mrs. O’Reilly?” A bored-looking Donal Donnelly was idly pushing his wheel of fortune back and forth and making the flap go tap-tap-tap. “Fancy another go, Doctor O’Reilly, sir?”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “Ten bob was enough, Donal. We’re heading for the refreshment tent. I’ve a thirst that would drain the Bucklebo River.”

  Donal winked, then said, “I’m sure you’d be luckier this time, Doc. Honest to God. And what about you, Doctor Laverty? This marrying business is expensive. A little extra do-re-mi could come in handy.”

  O’Reilly saw Barry’s eyes widen as the lad took a step back. “Donal Donnelly, how in the hell did you know? Good Lord. I haven’t even told Doctor and Mrs. O’Reilly yet. I was just going to.”

  Donal grinned his buck-toothed grin. “How long back is it since you first asked me for directions to Doctor O’Reilly’s house, sir?”

  Barry frowned. “That was in the summer of ’64.”

  “Aye,” said Donal, “so if we subtract the six months you spent in Ballymena, you’ve had eighteen months til get used til Ballybucklebo.” He picked at a tooth with the nail of his little finger. “I’m not too good with the scriptures, but I seem to remember a bit about not even a sparrow could fall—”

  “Without your Father’s permission,” O’Reilly said.

  “Aye, well this here place is like that too. Not much goes on but it’s through the place like grease through a goose,” Donal said. He scratched his head. “I think the women here have some kind of institution, so I do.”

  Barry shook his head and laughed. “I think you mean intuition, Donal, and, yes, you’re spot on. We’re going to get married. I did propose last week and—” Barry took an enormous breath, smiling all the while. “—and Miss Nolan said yes. But we were going to wait before we make it public.”

  “I doubt,” said Donal, “the cat’s not so much out of the bag as halfway through the back door by now. But if it’s any comfort til you, sir, the news isn’t likely til get til Broughshane, where Miss Nolan’s people are from. And it isn’t likely til get all the way to Australia, so it’s not. Isn’t that where your da and ma are?”

  Barry laughed, shook his head. “Can you give me their address there too?”

  Donal became serious. “Not the day, but if you’ll give me a week, sir.”

  “You’re a hopeless case, Donal Donnelly,” O’Reilly said, and chuckled. “You keep all this under that hat of yours so that informed speculation doesn’t turn into fact. You hear me, Donal?”

  “I do, Doctor. I do. And that’s just what Doctor Laverty and Miss Nolan—”

  “Enough. Now,” O’Reilly said, eager to change the subject, “how’s that little lass of yours? Tori’s well? Over her German measles?”

  “Och aye. She’s her wee self all over again, so she is. She made a full remuneration.”

  “Remu—? Aye. Right. Good. I’m glad to hear it. Say hello to Julie for us, Donal. Now we’d best be moving on to the refreshment tent. I’m as dry as one of Mister Robinson’s Sunday sermons.”

  After they’d put some distance between them and Donal, Kitty said, “It’s wonderful news, Barry. We’re delighted, aren’t we, Fingal?”

  “Damn right.” He stuck out his hand and he and Barry shook. “Every happiness to you, my boy. But why the hush-hush? Surely you’re not going to elope or anything like that, are you?”

  “No. Nothing like that. It’s just that Sue is pretty ambitious about her work and she’s got this great opportunity. She’s been awarded a teacher exchange. A teacher from Marseilles will be coming to Ballybucklebo and Sue’ll be going there. I’m all for it.”

  “Why, that’s wonderful, Barry,” Kitty said.

  “Isn’t it?” He grinned. “She’ll take up her position in mid-September and she’ll stay for six months. We’ll be able to have a holiday there together and we’ll get wed when she gets back. Not much point being married if you both have jobs hundreds of miles apart, but get home for Christmas.”

  “Makes sense.” O’Reilly decided there was nothing to be gained by telling Barry that it was exactly what had happened to him during the war. “But there’s still one thing.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t understand why that’s stopping you giving her a ring now. I’d want my fiancée to be wearing one in a city full of randy Frenchmen. And a bloody great big ring at that.”

  “She will,” Barry said, and laughed. “But Donal was absolutely right. My dad and mum are still in Australia. They’ll not be coming home to Bangor until August, so we thought we’d announce our engagement then and then go up to Broughshane to tell Sue’s people.” His smile was rueful. “That is if Ulster’s answer to the jungle telegraph hasn’t got the word there already. I think,” he said, “I’d better have a word with Sue about letting our parents know right away. I’d not want them to think we were being devious.”

  “That would be wise. I’ve known your father for years, Barry. He’s a very sound, straightforward man and expects others to be the same. Give them a call.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Barry said. “I will. And I’m sure Sue’ll be pleased that the word’s out. She says she’s never been very good at keepin
g secrets.”

  “Well,” said O’Reilly, “no time like the present. There she is.” He pointed to where Sue was waving at them through the open flap of the refreshments tent. “Now about that drink…”

  Barry waved back at her. “She’s been reading up on Marseilles. I think you know Sue’s a bit of a revolutionary at heart so she’s been learning all about ‘La Marseillaise,’ France’s national anthem. It means ‘the song of Marseille.’ That scene in Casablanca where everyone in Rick’s Bar starts singing it is a favourite of hers and—”

  “Interesting,” O’Reilly said, “and in the light of your recent marvellous news, Kitty and I are buying today,” he clapped Barry on the shoulder, “but, and I think I might be quoting Humphrey Bogart when I say, ‘What does it take for a man to get a drink in this town?’”

  28

  Temptations Both in Wine and Women

  The lift would only hold two. “Come along, Fingal,” Elly Simpkins said. “I’ll take you up to the flat and then we’ll send the lift back down for John and Michelle.”

  Fingal followed her into the little wrought-iron cage with its concertina folding door. She shut the door with a clang and as pulleys and cables whirred and creaked, the lift ascended to the third floor of 16B Saad Zaghloul Square, a four-storey house in a north–south-aligned terrace of similar houses.

  Fingal became aware of her scent. The nearness of her in the small lift. She and Michelle had showered and changed at the club. Elly was now in a sleeveless, knee-length dress whose plunging neckline was a little on the far side of decorous.

  “Here we are,” she said, opening the door. “After you.”

  Fingal got out, then waited until she had sent the little cage back down and joined him. The lift shaft was in the middle of a square landing. Each wall had its own door. “This one,” she said, crossing the hall, unlocking and opening a door. “Do come in.”

  He followed her into another hall and immediately removed his cap. It wasn’t done for men to wear their hats indoors except on armed forces property.

  “Whirlwind tour,” she said, guiding him along the hall and opening and closing doors to their left as she passed, but merely pointing at doors to their right. “Guest bedroom opposite the servant’s quarters.” She moved ahead. “Main bedroom.” Fingal peered over her shoulder to see a large carpeted room with dressing tables, a couple of chairs, a huge full-length mirror, and an enormous bed. “Chris and I call that the field. Lots of room for romping.” She laughed.

  Fingal swallowed and took a deep breath.

  “The bathroom’s between it and the guest bedroom. Kitchen opposite.” She pointed to an open doorway from which came a mixture of heady scents. Fingal recognised the sharpness of lime and the pungent aroma of garlic with perhaps a hint of coriander. She called, “We’re home, Hanif.”

  A small, brown man, dwarfed by a mushroom-shaped chef’s hat and wearing a white apron, was wiping his hands on a tea towel as he came into the hall. “Welcome home, Mrs. Simpkins. Dinner is coming along splendidly.” His English was barely accented.

  She said, “Shukran, Hanif,” which Fingal had learnt meant “thank you.” “This is Surgeon Lieutenant O’Reilly.”

  “I am very pleased to meet you, effendi.” He bowed and his hat jiggled as he straightened. “Please let me take your cap.”

  “Thank you.” Fingal handed it over.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Excuse me,” Hanif said, and went to let in John and Michelle Collins.

  “You two know your way,” Elly said. “John, be a pet and make the drinks. You know what us locals take. Fingal?”

  “Do you have an Irish whiskey?”

  “Would Paddy do?”

  “Lovely,” he said. “Neat, please.”

  She led him through a bead curtain hanging in an archway. The beads rattled as he passed into a spacious living-cum-dining room. Overhead, a long-bladed electric fan whirled noiselessly. To his right an expansive table of polished mahogany surrounded by eight chairs occupied most of that end of the room. The floral centrepiece drew his gaze: a vase filled with flowers of many pointed lilac-coloured petals enclosing a stellar flare of yellow stamens in their centres.

  “The flowers are pretty,” he said.

  “Mmm,” she said. “Egyptian lotuses, the country’s national flower. Only plant as far as I know that has flowers and fruit at the same time.”

  “Interesting,” he said.

  Past the table and set against the wall was an enormous Welsh dresser. To his left two sofas and two armchairs were arranged in a semicircle around a low coffee table. An ornate rug, which he guessed was probably Persian, was hung on the wall. Fingal peered at what he recognised as a water pipe in a corner. “Who uses the hookah?”

  She laughed. “I do. Apparently a Persian physician, Abul-Fath Gilani, invented it in the sixteenth century. I smoke a flavoured tobacco called sheesha.” She looked at him and smiled. “You really have to try it. I’ll not mind sharing the mouthpiece if you’ll not.” She led him across the room to a pair of tall French windows in the far wall.

  “Perhaps I will,” he said, deliberately leaving it vague about whether he’d smoke with her or would object to sharing the mouthpiece, and returned her smile. Come on, he told himself, a bit of flirting’s all right. She’s fun to be with.

  “Let me show you the view,” she said, leaning forward to undo a lower snib on the French windows. Fingal’s eye was drawn to her décolletage and he looked quickly away. He followed her onto a balcony. The air was warm on his face, the Alexandrine smells no longer a novelty.

  “Below us is Saud Zaghloul Square. The flat faces west.”

  He looked over a footpath, a row of palm trees, and a narrow grassy park lined with benches, more palms, then a terrace of similar houses on the far side. Although he could still hear the distant hum of traffic, there were only a few pedestrians, no vehicles, and no animals—a peaceful counterpoint to the bustle in other parts of the city.

  “Out that way,” she pointed north, “you can see the East Harbour on the far side of the Corniche. It’s only about six minutes from here to the dockyard. Very convenient for Chris getting to and from his work.”

  Funny, Fingal thought, how lightly she referred to what her husband did as “his work.” As if it was as humdrum as going to an accountant’s office. Chris’s workplace, like Fingal’s, could at any time turn into a raging inferno of bursting high explosives and screaming splinters of steel or a watery tomb.

  She turned. “Now,” she said, “drinkies. Goodo,” and headed back into the room where John and Michelle were standing at the living room end. Each had a glass in both hands.

  “Here you are, Elly,” Michelle said, handing her hostess a cut-glass tumbler.

  “One Paddy whiskey, Fingal,” John said. “No water.”

  “Thanks,” Fingal said.

  “Let’s everybody sit,” Elly said.

  Fingal lowered himself onto a sofa and was not surprised when Elly sat beside him. There were bowls of figs, dates, and kumquats on the table.

  She raised her glass. “To new friends.” She looked directly at Fingal, who with the others echoed the toast and drank. “Now,” she said, “Michelle and I will be going shopping tomorrow. I imagine you two salty sailor men will be at your work. You’re a bachelor, Fingal—”

  “Actually, he’s engaged,” John said.

  “Your fiancée here?” Michelle asked.

  “’Fraid not,” Fingal said. “Deirdre’s back in Ireland.” And he wished she were here. If that was the case, he’d not be finding Elly Simpkins so devilishly attractive.

  “If you’re alone, then,” Elly said, “is there anything you’d like me to get for you, Fingal? It’ll be no trouble and now you know where I live I hope you’ll not be a stranger.”

  “That’s very kind, Elly,” Fingal said, “but just at the moment I can’t think of anything I want or need.” Liar. He’d been having fleeting erotic images ever since she’d
shown him that enormous bed and made the remark about “lots of room for romping.” A glowering Presbyterian minister and a line from a childhood hymn flashed into his mind: “Yield not to temptation, for yielding is sin.”

  “Let me know,” she said, “if you change your mind.” And he felt her move a little closer.

  “I will.” He sat back, sipped his whiskey, and was content to listen to the conversation of the three old friends.

  * * *

  Hanif, now hatless but wearing a short white cotton jacket and white gloves, came in. “If you wish, madam, I am ready to start serving the soup. The Gewürtztraminer’s chilled and the claret has been decanted.”

  “Splendid,” Elly said. “Please do, and we’ll start with the white.” She rose. “Please follow me.”

  Fingal brought up the rear on the short trip to the table.

  “We’ll not play head-of-the-table games. John and I will sit over on that side in the middle and Michelle and Fingal together on this side.”

  Fingal sat facing Elly and felt a certain relief to be a little distant from his hostess.

  A glass of white wine stood beside each place setting. Elly pointed to the dishes. “Those are plates of pita bread and mint yoghurt. If you’d prefer…” she offered a plate to Fingal, “you might like to try some tehina. It’s sesame paste with lemon juice and garlic.”

  He scooped some of the tehina up with a piece of pita and popped it into his mouth. “That,” he said after he’d swallowed, “is very tasty.” He sipped his wine.

  Hanif appeared with a steaming tureen. “Molokheyyah,” he said.

  “Please serve, Hanif,” Elly said, and as the manservant ladled the green liquid into soup plates she explained for Fingal’s sake, “Molokheyyah is made from stock, mallow leaves, garlic, and coriander. In Alexandria, the chefs add shrimp, but in Cairo rabbit is preferred. I usually start dinner parties with it because if anybody’s going to kiss anybody later they’ll all have eaten garlic.” She laughed.