An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea

by Patrick Taylor

  6

  My Flesh Also Longeth After Thee

  In a private booth in the corridor of the medical officers’ mess, Fingal O’Reilly stood a-tremble, ear glued to the telephone receiver. He’d been trying to get through since six, but his call had had to be rerouted through several telephone exchanges because the bombing had so disrupted service. Now Fingal was listening to a distant double ring, a voice that he was sure was Deirdre’s saying “Hello,” and a long-distance operator stating in a monotone, “I have a person-to-person call from Lieutenant O’Reilly to Nurse Deirdre Mawhinney.”

  “Speaking.” It was her. It was her. The trembling worsened.

  The operator’s voice contained all the enthusiasm of a shopkeeper ordering rolls of toilet paper. “You are connected, Haslar.”

  “Thank you,” the WREN on the Haslar switchboard said. “You may go ahead, sir.”

  Clicking and clacking and hissing on the line then, “Fingal? Fingal? Is it really you?”

  “Darling. Deirdre. It is. I’m here in Gosport.” The trembling had stopped. “I’m here. I’ve missed you. I love you.”

  “Fingal, my love…” the words poured in a torrent, “I thought you were never going to get there. It’s been forever. I was over the moon when your mother spoke to me yesterday, thought six o’clock tonight would never come, but you’ve made it. I’m so, so happy. I do love you so much. When can I see you? How soon?”

  He heard the catch in her voice and had to control the one that was damn near starting in his own. Deirdre. Deirdre. “Very soon, pet. Just as quickly as you can get here.” And he’d hold her, kiss her, breathe her in. God bless Marge Wilcoxson and her offer of a place to stay for his dear girl. “Now listen, I’ve only got three minutes so I have to be quick. I’m asking you to take some risks when you come.” He wanted her here, even if it was selfish, but he had to at least warn her, if only for the sake of his conscience. “The Germans have been bombing Portsmouth. It’s lessening, but I don’t think it’s going to stop. Gosport’s not been hit as hard—”

  “I know. We’ve been listening to the BBC broadcast bulletins every day. Bombing?” She laughed and said, “I don’t care. I want to be with you. Matron here’s a pet. She’s arranged for me to have leave until January.”

  That was when his orders instructed him to travel back to Warspite.

  “We can have three whole months together. It’ll be wonderful.” It would. He hardly dared imagine how wonderful, lest his heart should burst.

  “And I’m not going to let any silly war or stupid German bombs interfere with that time. I’d come to you even if you begged me to stay here in Belfast. I’d come, Fingal. I’d come.”

  He loved her for her bravery. “I’ll take care of you, darling.” Which was an idiotic thing to say. How the hell could he?

  “I know you will, sweetheart. Because you love me.”

  That stifled any more quibbling with himself, and their minutes were ticking by. “I hate to have to be so practical, but have you thought about how to get here?”

  Lord, but he’d missed the throaty chuckle he now heard coming through the receiver. “I spent my last weekend off in Portaferry with Ma—that’s what she wants me to call her now, seeing I’ll soon be her daughter-in-law.”

  Fingal clenched his teeth. Perhaps. It all depended on the admiral. Even before Fingal had picked up the phone, he had decided to say nothing about a possible snag in their wedding plans. There was no point worrying her now, and all might be resolved by the time she arrived. Loving concern or moral cowardice? He shrugged. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

  “We spent hours at the dining room table…”

  Fingal could picture the room and the old bog-oak table with its high-backed chairs—and Ma. Practical, helpful. Already he’d seen some of Ma in Marge Wilcoxson.

  “… poring over maps, ferry sailings, railway timetables. I can get the Liverpool boat from Belfast, train to Southampton, and change there for Gosport.”

  Fingal wished that whoever had issued his travel warrant had been as thorough in his planning. Apparently there’d been no need for his hellish ride across the breadth of England, although in fairness ever since the start of the Blitz delays and rerouting trains past damaged tracks was becoming routine. “Terrific,” he said, “so you’ll not have to go to London.”

  He didn’t want her anywhere near that bombers’ magnet. The capital had suffered several massive daylight raids beginning on September 7, and the Luftwaffe had come back every night since. Citizens stoically went down into the tunnels of the London Underground, huddled in air raid shelters, cellars. Bombs rained down. Civilians, firemen, and those whose duties kept them out of shelters died or were maimed. The last place he wanted her was in that nightmare.

  “And you’ll not need to go as far as Gosport,” he said. “I want you to get off at the stop before, in a place called Fareham. I’ll meet you there. I’ll explain where you’ll be staying when I see you.”

  “Oh, Fingal, I do love you so much. Thank you,” she said. “I’ll book my tickets tomorrow and I’ll wire you when to expect me. Wire me back to let me know everything’s all right at your end.”

  “I will, darling.” He’d get time off even if he had to go adrift, AWOL.

  A woman’s voice interrupted, “Your permitted three minutes will soon be up, sir.”

  “I love you, Deirdre.” To hell with the Haslar operator overhearing if she was still on the line.

  “I’ll telegraph. I love you, Fingal. I’ll see you soon, and I’ll bring the black nightie I didn’t get a chance to wear when we were in—” The line went dead.

  O’Reilly chuckled. He thought, and damn the operator if she heard that too. His thoughts raced to their loving last night together in Belfast’s Midland Hotel seven months ago, and the erotic longing to hold her, kiss her, breathe in her scent, caress her, almost gave Fingal O’Reilly apoplexy. And she’d be here soon. Soon, but God, the days were going to drag until she was.

  He started to leave the phone booth, only to be pulled up short. In his reverie he’d quite forgotten to replace the receiver and was still grasping it in his right hand.

  * * *

  Fingal let himself into the well-furnished anteroom with several tables occupied by fellow officers wearing mess kit. The sweet music of Deirdre’s voice was still in his ears, and he barely noticed the muted hum of conversation, the heavy aroma of pipe tobacco filling the air. None of the men were known to him. Two white-jacketed civilian stewards circulated, taking orders, serving drinks. He felt out of place in his everyday working rig, but, as he’d told the admiral, his formal dining gear was following him.

  His eye was taken by a lithograph of a semicircle of uniformed, bewhiskered military men surrounding a bonneted, round-faced woman with an enormous bustle in the rear of her skirt. She was pinning something to the jacket of an officer in a wheelchair. The caption read, Queen Victoria presents Commander Purvis with the Egypt Medal. Haslar Hospital; 1882.

  Not far from the picture was a small, red-haired, florid-faced man wearing the insignia of a captain, the four rings separated by the scarlet of the medical branch. Fingal took note of a miniature DSO along with some campaign medals adorning the senior man’s mess jacket. It must have been awarded in the First World War for some deed of outstanding gallantry. Fingal was curious, but it would be plain bad manners to enquire. The captain smiled and beckoned to Fingal.

  Fingal frowned, pointed at his chest, and the little captain nodded. As Fingal approached their table, he took a quick look at the man’s table companion, a young surgeon lieutenant-commander. Receding fair hair, pale blue eyes behind rimless spectacles, strong chin. A livid scar ran from the corner of his left eye to his lower lip, which had a permanent droop.

  “Eh, you’d be O’Reilly, I’m thinking,” the captain said. “Fingal, aye, ‘the fair Gael’ O’Reilly.” His voice was soft, lilting.

  “I am, sir.”

  “Aye. Just so.” />
  The J of “just” was rendered as ch, “chust so,” the mark of the Highlander’s speech. Fingal guessed that this must be his course leader.

  “Angus Mahaddie. Admiral Creaser told us to expect you and to forgive your undress until your kit arrives. I’ve been instructed to take you and five other officers under my wing. Teach you modern anaesthesia. This is David White, one of your classmates.”

  The young man with the scarred face rose and offered his hand, which Fingal shook. “Pleasure to meet you, O’Reilly,” he said. Very definitely English public school, and his surgeon lieutenant-commander’s rings were solid. He, like the surgeon captain, was regular navy.

  “My pleasure,” said Fingal.

  “Aye, now, sit you down, my boy, and I’ll get you a welcoming drink,” said Mahaddie.

  “Thank you, sir.” O’Reilly sat facing his new colleagues.

  “Aye. Just so, and remember there are no sirs in the mess. It’s Angus, Fingal.”

  “I’m sorry, sir—” Fingal was relieved to see that his senior was laughing. “Angus.”

  “And what will it be?” He lifted an arm to attract the attention of a mess steward.

  “Jameson’s whiskey, neat please,” Fingal said.

  The older man shook his head. Sighed. “I wish I could say, ‘Certainly.’ We’ve plenty of beer, Plymouth gin, a cellar full of good claret from before the war, but when it comes to the uisce beatha.” He cocked his head at Fingal as if expecting a reply.

  “The water of life, or aqua vitae, if you prefer the Latin.”

  The small man clapped his hands in apparent delight. “So a lot goes on in that head of yours, Fingal?”

  “I hope so, sir, I mean, Angus.”

  “Good. You’ve both got a lot to learn. The usual anaesthetic course is four weeks, and I know you’ll be staying longer with us, Fingal. I intend to work you hard.”

  “It’s what we’re here for,” David said. “It scares the living daylights out of me pouring ether on a mask and watching a patient turn blue. Naval colour, I’ll admit, but it really doesn’t suit people who should be—well, pinkish.”

  “Och,” said Mahaddie. “Anaesthesia’s the stiff discipline, right enough. Most of the time we’re bored stiff with no one to talk to…” He took a long pause, then, “And every so often scared stiff when an anaesthetic goes wrong.” He laughed at his own little joke, then continued. “Just so, but it’s going to be my job to make sure you and others like you have as few scared stiff moments as is humanly possible.”

  Fingal nodded. He could still remember being terrified in Greenock last year when the ether he’d given had nearly suffocated a sailor who was having his appendix removed.

  The steward appeared.

  “Another pink gin, and two Johnnie Walkers please, Sutton.”

  The steward left.

  “I’d sell me soul for a glass of the Dalmore. It’s a single-malt whisky distilled not far from where I come from, Inverness, but … rationing.” He shrugged. “Now,” he said, “I have just met David and I’d like to learn a bit about my new juniors. Your turn, Fingal.”

  It took little time for him to outline his career from the Merchant Navy, then Trinity School of Physic, until the present when he expected to stay at Haslar for three months, the last two to learn more about trauma surgery or, if not enough cases presented, to further his anaesthetic studies. During this telling, the steward brought the drinks and Captain Mahaddie signed a mess chit. Fingal finished his potted autobiography.

  “Aye aye.” Mahaddie nodded, looked at Fingal from under bushy eyebrows, and said, “But you’re not telling us that you were an Irish rugby player.”

  “I didn’t think it had much to do with medicine.”

  “It doesn’t, but when it comes to my officers I want to know about the man as well. The person.”

  Fingal nodded. He was beginning to think he could warm to this little Highlander.

  “And you’ve seen all your service on Warspite?”

  “Apart from a year on Tiger in, ’30, ’31…” Fingal laughed. “And a short stint on HMS Touareg this year. I got there by breeches buoy. I can’t recommend that.”

  “Just so. At least you kept yourself dry.” The Scot’s voice became serious. “David here was on Glorious. He got rather wet.”

  “Were you, by God?” Fingal whistled. The aircraft carrier had been sunk by the Scharnhorst and Gneisenau while trying to retrieve planes from the failed Norway campaign that had followed the second battle of Narvik. More than a thousand men had been lost.

  The younger man’s hand went unconsciously to his scar and he smiled. A clearly forced grin. “Bit chilly, the Sea of Norway, even in June,” he said. Then changed the subject. “I hear our four classmates will all be arriving from the RNVR shore base HMS King Alfred at Hove.”

  Fingal could understand why David would not want to dwell on what must have been a hellish experience, when Glorious went down. He studied the man’s face. A tiny nervous tic that Fingal hadn’t noticed before caused the left lower eyelid to twitch.

  “Aye,” said Mahaddie. “Fresh from medical school and straight through ten weeks of navy training learning ‘officer-like qualities,’ and a smattering of seamanship, but in four weeks you—and they—will be as fine a group of anaesthetists as I can make you. You’ll report for duty at eight o’clock on Monday in the number one operating theatre. It’s in the cellars for protection against air raids.”

  Deirdre. He hoped to God he was doing the right thing bringing her here. He reached into his trousers pocket and touched the green silk scarf, the talisman, she’d given him the day he’d left to journey to Warspite for the first time.

  “What is it, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Surely air raids are nothing new to you after being on a bloody great battleship?”

  “No, no, it’s not that, sir.” He paused. His new senior seemed an approachable man, and perhaps here in the informal atmosphere of the anteroom, before matters became very professional on Monday, would be as good a time as any to get some questions answered. He sipped his whisky. “Angus, may I ask you a question?”

  “Aye.”

  “I got engaged, more than a year ago.” He rummaged in his inside pocket, produced a creased photo. “My fiancée, Deirdre.” He handed it to Mahaddie.

  The little man smiled. “Aye. She’s one very bonnie lassie, Fingal. May I show her to David?”

  Fingal smiled and nodded.

  “Quite, quite lovely,” David said, and returned the snap.

  “I know it’s early to be asking, but she’s coming over from Ulster very soon and we hope to get married.”

  Mahaddie frowned. “Have you told the medical officer in charge?”

  Fingal nodded. “He said there might be a snag, but he’d see what he could do.”

  Mahaddie nodded slowly and said in a soft voice, “Aye, just so, just so.” He looked straight at Fingal. “Admiral Creaser is a very fair man. He’ll keep his word, but—” He pursed his lips. “The navy is the navy. We’ll have to see. In my day, och, but Morag MacDonald was worth waiting for.” He really had an impish smile, Fingal decided.

  “Hasn’t been a problem for me,” David White said, “but then I never was much good with girls. And now with this…” His hand went to his scar as he cleared his throat.

  Being utterly at sea around members of the fair sex had been a common weakness among men of his generation who’d been to all-boys boarding schools and were innocents abroad by the time they left at eighteen. The practice produced many a “confirmed bachelor.”

  “I understand, sir—Angus.”

  “Sir Angus. Oh, aye, just so. I do like that. Sir Angus. But why stop there? How about a full peerage—Lord Strathtattiebogle of Deeside. Now there’s a title with a ring.” All three laughed. But then the little man’s bantering ceased when he said, “As for you, David White, no need to be self-conscious about that scar. It’s healed well and time will fade it. And women like their men a l
ittle battle-scarred. You earned it honourably and bravely.”

  “Thank you, sir.” David White was looking intently at a spot on the floor.

  “Now, Fingal, I don’t mean to be pessimistic about your plans. If you can get permission, then I’ll put on my kilt and sporran and dance at your wedding.”

  Fingal could see himself and Deirdre exchanging vows. It was so real.

  “And if it does come to pass once the four-week course is over, I’ll grant you leave.”

  For a honeymoon. Better and better. That black nightie she’d mentioned sprang to mind. Fingal finished his whisky. “Time for another?” He’d spoken to Deirdre; she was coming. Already encouraged by Angus, he felt he could start to plan.

  “Aye,” Mahaddie said. “I’ll take a drink with you, laddie.”

  “Not for me, thanks, Fingal. Two’s my limit,” David said.

  Fingal was about to try to attract the steward’s attention when Mahaddie said, “I like fine to see young men happy, Fingal, but before you get carried away, remember what I said. The navy is the navy. Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.”

  But Fingal was busy ordering drinks, didn’t want to believe what his superior, who after all was a career naval officer, was saying. Surely to God in 1940 a bunch of regulations formulated during Queen Victoria’s reign couldn’t stand between him and Deirdre. They couldn’t—could they?

  7

  Great Balls of Fire

  Kitty had kicked off her shoes and was nursing a sherry after a long day at the hospital. She sat curled up in her favourite chair and started to chuckle—at what, O’Reilly hadn’t the faintest idea. “Tell,” he said. He was leaning against the mantel of the upstairs lounge. Barry sat in an armchair beside Kitty.

  “I was thinking of what you told me a couple of minutes ago about Donal’s Bluebird and Mary’s Brian Boru,” Kitty said. “I’m reading Hemingway—For Whom the Bell Tolls—because we’re going to Spain soon, and I suddenly got a notion of wee Brian asking, ‘But did thee feel the earth move?’ It certainly must have for him.”