An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea

by Patrick Taylor

  She frowned. “Anything about what?”

  “It seems we need the navy’s permission. I didn’t find that out until last week and was so sure it would be granted I didn’t say anything to you when we made arrangements for you to come here. I should have. I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t scold him or say anything silly like, “They couldn’t refuse you,” but turned her head to one side, tilted it, and said softly, “And they’ve refused?”

  He hung his head, nodded, heard her sudden intake of breath, and looked straight at her while saying, “Yes.” He waited. He knew of girls who would have burst into tears, thrown a hysterical fit, suspected they were being jilted at the last minute on some fabricated excuse.

  “Won’t you come over and play (and play).”

  And the big horse whinnied and made a rubbery noise with its lips.

  Deirdre straightened her shoulders. “Thank you for telling me, darling.” She leant forward and touched his hand. “And there’s no need to apologise. I’d still have come to you. I love you so much.”

  In all of Ulster, all of Ireland, he couldn’t have found such a sensible, loving girl. And his heart swelled. He took her other hand and lifted them both to his lips. “I don’t want to get our hopes up, but—”

  “But?”

  “My boss, Surgeon Captain Mahaddie, thinks there may be a way round. It seems I need a promotion before I can marry. It’s the way they do things in the navy. But he’s going to look into it once the telephones are working again.”

  “But they are,” she said. “Marge was talking to Pip at eight this morning, telling her that Tony Wilcoxson’s ship will be in and he’ll be coming up next weekend.”

  “Fareham must be on a different exchange,” Fingal said. “Nothing was going in and out of Haslar at nine thirty this morning, I’m afraid. We’ll have to be patient.”

  “Darling,” she said, “I can’t pretend I’m not disappointed. I am, bitterly—”

  “I’m so sorry, Deirdre.”

  “No, don’t be, truly. It’s not your fault.”

  How often had he, the professional, said that to a grieving patient?

  “Thank you.” His words were soft.

  “We have to wait until we see what your captain finds out. If we can get married, it will be wonderful.”

  “But if we can’t?”

  She put her arms round his neck. He inhaled her faint perfume.

  “If we can’t, we can’t have a ceremony, that’s all.” She glanced behind to make sure she was standing in such a way that no one could see, then put his hand on her left breast, and said, “Can you feel my heart?”

  He swallowed and said, “Yes.”

  “In there I don’t need a piece of paper. In there and,” she put her hand on his left chest, “and in there, dearest Fingal O’Reilly, we’re as married as any man and woman can be. And always will be.” And then she kissed him.

  He nodded, not wanting to speak.

  “We’ll have to wait for your captain’s answer, but if it is no, I know Marge will let me stay on at her house…”

  “She will,” he said. “She’s already said so.”

  “Good old Marge. She likes having me there. It helps her, what with her husband and Tony being away. You and I can see each other as often as your duty allows. I am not going back to Ulster until your time here is finished.”

  “Hello (hello). Hello (hello).”

  The girls’ voices were accompanied by the creaking of harness and the squealing of what sounded to Fingal like an axle badly in need of oil as the cart moved forward.

  “Thank you,” he said, marvelling at her composure, her willingness to make the most of a bad job if it came to that. “Thank you, darling.” His pulse was slowing but still fast. “If it does come to that, I’m sure we’ll have chances to be alone.”

  “Sure?” she said, and laughed. “I’m bloody well certain.”

  And in the background the soprano finished her song, “But you’re always so far away. (away).”

  “I think,” Deirdre said, “my five minutes are up.”

  “And I’m not so far away,” said Fingal. “I’ll let you know the minute I hear anything and I’m not on duty next weekend so I’ll see you then.” He kissed her and stood for a long moment watching her as she rejoined her work party and took up her pitchfork before he set off to trudge back across this field.

  He was in no hurry as he strode through the pastures, letting the sun warm him and the sweet smell of the hay seep past his nostrils. By the time he’d reached the five-bar gate, he was surrounded by the herd of inquisitive Herefords, lowing and swishing their tails, and for a moment, Fingal O’Reilly felt as if he was back home, crossing such a field in the quiet of the Ballybucklebo Hills. He sighed, wishing he was there—with Deirdre, but he knew that it was early days, Britain was all alone against Hitler and Mussolini, and it seemed as if the war would never end.

  15

  Let Every Puppy Drink

  “Them nice doctors at the Royal Maternity kept me in for near a week, so they did,” said Irene Beggs from where she lay on the examination couch in O’Reilly’s surgery. “That lovely Doctor Holland, him what his friends call ‘Buster,’ was looking after me. He’s called the ‘senior tutor.’ I dunno why. He never taught me nothing. Maybe I’m not senior enough?”

  O’Reilly laughed. Irene was in for her scheduled antenatal visit. And while she was Barry’s patient, Barry had been called out for a home visit to a child with what sounded like croup. “It’s a title given to the most senior of the young doctors at RMH. Doctor Holland has finished all his training and passed all his exams and he’s waiting for a vacant senior post. Part of his job is to teach the more junior doctors.” O’Reilly continued with the routine examination, paying particular attention to the uterus, while Irene prattled on, seemingly unconcerned that he might not be listening.

  “I see,” she said, clearly losing interest in the subject. “Anyroad, they kept me in bed for six days then said everything was lovely, the wean was fine, and I could go home and for til see my own doctor. So I seen Doctor Laverty while you and Mrs. O’Reilly was in Spain. I hear it’s dead lovely at this time of the year. My friend Jeannie Jingles and her man went to Tossa del Mar on one of them package tours. Said it was wheeker, so she did. Maybe me and Davy’ll get to go one day, but not likely, is it? With two at home and this one on the way?”

  “And this one’s doing fine. Wee heart’s going away like the clappers. Today’s October the fourteenth so you’re thirty-three weeks and four days. Your fibroid’s behaving itself, I can hardly feel it.” Which was often the case. Benign tumours tended to soften and flatten as the pregnancy progressed and the uterus enlarged. “Your blood pressure’s fine and there’s nothing in your urine. Will you come in in two weeks and see Doctor Laverty, please?”

  “Aye, certainly.” She started to get dressed. “And do I really have til have the baby in hospital?”

  O’Reilly paused. The art of midwifery that he’d practiced as a young man in Dublin, had, since the war, become much more conservative—and much safer—with the introduction of antibiotics and blood transfusion to treat the two great killers of pregnant women, infection and haemorrhage. If there was any chance of complications, the home was no place to manage them. He didn’t want to frighten Irene. The fibroid did still represent a risk factor for several of those complications, so he simply said, “If that’s what the specialists advised.”

  “Och, dear,” she said, “but I suppose it’ll be for the best.”

  “We’ll do one more antenatal visit here. That’ll save you the trouble of travelling to Belfast, and then when you’re thirty-six weeks, they’ll want to see you at RMH once a week after that.”

  He heard the phone ringing in the hall, and although the ensuing words were muffled, he knew Kinky would be saying in her soft Cork voice, “Hello. Doctor O’Reilly and Doctor Laverty’s practice.”

  “Boys-a-dear,” Irene said, now ful
ly dressed, “all them bus and train trips back and forth to the city.” She pursed her lips, but then smiled. “Och well, it’s all for the good of the wean, isn’t it, sir?”

  “It is that, Irene.” He took off his half-moon spectacles. She was the last patient of the day. “Off you go and we’ll see you in a couple of weeks, and you can call us anytime if you’re worried.” As she left, he pulled out his briar and lit up.

  Immediately the door opened and Kinky came in.

  Oh-oh, he thought, an emergency. “Yes, Kinky.”

  “Can you come to the telephone, sir? It does be that buck eejit Donal. He won’t tell me what the trouble is, and he wants to speak only to yourself, so.”

  What the divil was Donal was up to now? O’Reilly rose. “Thanks, Kinky. I’ll look after it.” He made his way to the hall, Kinky following. As O’Reilly picked up the receiver, Barry came in through the front door. “Hello, Donal?” O’Reilly said. “What’s up?”

  At the mention of Donal’s name, Barry stopped and looked at O’Reilly.

  “You’ve a surprise for me at Dun Bwee? What kind of surprise? Is anybody sick?… That’s a relief. All right, well, no time like the present. I’ve just finished surgery for the day. I’ll be out soon. Right. Good-bye.” O’Reilly chuckled and said to Barry and Kinky, “Donal has a surprise for me, but he wants to keep it hush-hush.” He winked. “Of course he didn’t say a thing about not discussing it with a professional colleague. Maybe, Barry, you should come to give a second opinion?”

  “I always enjoy a visit to Ballybucklebo’s arch schemer, but I’m on call,” Barry said.

  “I’ll know where to find you, sir,” Kinky said. “Off you trot.”

  “Come on then,” said O’Reilly. “And we’ll take Arthur. He and Donal’s Bluebird are great pals. How was your patient? It sounded like croup.”

  “Young Dermot O’Malley? It was croup,” Barry said. “Acute laryngitis. Nothing serious. I gave his mum a prescription for penicillin and sulphadimidine, told her to keep a kettle steaming in his room, and that one of us would visit tomorrow.”

  O’Reilly clapped Barry on the shoulder. “Couldn’t have done better myself. Early retirement looms ever closer now with you to take over, Barry.”

  Barry held the kitchen door open, guffawed, and said, “Retirement? You? Doctor Fingal O’Reilly, away off and feel your bumps. They’ll have to shoot you in harness—and you know it.”

  And laughing together they walked through the sun-dappled back garden, collected a grateful Arthur, and headed to the Rover.

  * * *

  “I agree,” Barry said as O’Reilly put the big car into the hairpin bend. Donal’s lane ran from its crown. “Irene’s fibroid is on the front of the uterus and doesn’t seem to involve the cavity, so the risks of it causing abruptio placentae or interfering with the way the baby lies are pretty remote. It could cause premature labour, but the baby should be all right if Irene can carry for another three or four weeks. She’ll be safe enough staying at home with us keeping an eye on her.”

  “Hang on,” said O’Reilly, indicating for a turn and changing down. He made a sharp left and the car jounced along the lane.

  In the backseat Arthur started his usual throaty mutterings with which he greeted every ride over rough ground. He knew he’d be let out soon.

  “I still think the consultants are right,” Barry said, “about having her give birth in hospital. Fibroids can slow the progress of labour…”

  “And cause problems once the baby’s born, but the afterbirth still has not been expelled and the uterus can’t contract fully to control the big blood vessels that supply the placenta,” O’Reilly said. “Before the war I had to watch a woman bleed to death. She’d given birth at home in the Liberties. Her doctor couldn’t stop the bleeding, of course. There was nothing he could do in that situation back then. She was rushed to the Rotunda. We’d no blood transfusions in those days. All we could offer was a hysterectomy. But it was too late.” He braked outside Donal’s cottage and stared at the sturdy white-stuccoed structure, as if seeking reassurance from its permanence. Because for a moment he’d been back in the maternity hospital in Dublin, the smell of blood and disinfectant thick in his nostrils, the dying woman pale on the operating table clutching his, a young trainee’s, hand and begging, “Please, Doctor,” before she passed out from loss of blood.

  “I think that experience tipped the scale for me,” he said softly. “That was when I decided obstetrics wasn’t for me and that I preferred GP.” He opened his door. “Come on, let’s see what Donal has for us.” He opened the car’s back door. “Heel, Arthur.” The big dog bounded out and tucked in at O’Reilly’s heel. I don’t believe I’ve ever told Kitty about that case, he thought as he waited for Barry to walk round the car, and my decision to pack up obstetrics. He smiled as Barry neared. “Do you know, young Laverty, I do enjoy having you as a partner.” And ignoring Barry’s pleased but puzzled look and the young man’s beginning of a frown, he started to walk round the cottage with its yellow straw thatch and scarlet doors and window frames.

  Donal had come out through the back door even before O’Reilly knocked. He’d clearly been watching for the Rover. What was he up to? “I see you brung Doctor Laverty. Well, that’s all right, for he knows about it, but I don’t want the word getting out just yet. Thanks for coming, sir. I promised I’d let you know when Bluebird whelped.”

  So that’s was this was all about. O’Reilly remembered the conversation in the sand dunes last month.

  Donal shook his head and inhaled. “Two days ago.”

  “I take it that they are not purebred.”

  “Divil the bit,” said Donal. “They’re like no greyhound pup I’ve ever seen, sir. Neither me nor Julie have a baldy notion about what til do with them, and I don’t want no one to know about them.”

  “Why not? Don’t you want to find homes for them?” O’Reilly asked.

  “I do. But I want til think on what to do to see if I can sell them for money. Nobody’s going to pay for a mongrel pup. Can you and Doctor Laverty keep this under your hats for a while, just until I puzzle out what to do?”

  O’Reilly glanced at Barry, who nodded, a trace of a smile on his face. “We can, but I’m not sure there’s much else we can help you with. Who else knows that Bluebird was pregnant?” O’Reilly said.

  “Ever since I caught Brian Boru, the merry Mexican marauder, coming out of Bluebird’s pen, I’ve been worried something like this might happen. So I’ve hardly told a soul. We’re off the beaten track out here and we don’t have many visitors. If I’d been wrong and she’d had purebred pups, everything would have been grand, but now? Only us knows, and you’ll not have told anybody.” Donal sounded anxious.

  “You can trust us,” O’Reilly said, and Kitty, he thought. She was a very experienced nurse and knew not to gossip about any of the practice’s patients.

  “And I’ve had a wee word with Dapper on the QT. He’ll keep mum too.” Donal shook his head. “Honest til God, they’re funny-looking wee craytures.”

  “Can we see them, Donal?” Barry asked.

  “Aye, certainly. They’re with their ma in her run. This way and, Doctor O’Reilly, would you mind putting Arthur back in your motor? Bitches can be very protective of their litters round other dogs.”

  “Of course,” said O’Reilly. “I should have thought of that.” He spoke to Arthur. “Come on, lummox. Back in the car for you, and don’t worry. I’ll give you a good run once I’ve taken Barry home.”

  By the time he’d got Arthur settled and had returned, Barry and Donal were already in the chain-link-fenced run where, close to her kennel, Bluebird lay on her side on the grass. In the concavity of her body a mass of grey and brown dappled puppies, all with their eyes shut, formed a squirming heap. He guessed there must be ten or twelve. Some were latched onto her nipples, some were fast asleep. One, who somehow had become separated and must be feeling the cold, was mewling loudly, and Bluebird twisted her b
ody so she could reach the little creature. She picked it up in her mouth, returned it to the company of its brothers and sisters, and began to wash it.

  O’Reilly unlatched the gate and let himself in.

  Barry said, “I’m no great judge of dog flesh, but as best as I can tell they’re going to have their mother’s long legs, skinny tail, and arched back.”

  “Aye,” said Donal, “and with my luck they’ll probably have their wee git of a daddy’s funny nose, pointy ears, and big, brown sticky-out eyes. They’ll be about as much use as chocolate teapots, so they will.” He shrugged. “Och well, I suppose somebody maybe up in Belfast might want one or two for pets, like. The folks down here won’t. I can’t see these wee buggers being much use to anyone, and a country dog has til work for his keep.” He pursed his lips. “If anything, it’s going to be the other way round.”

  “I’m sorry,” Barry said. “I don’t understand.”

  “Four weeks from now they’ll start wanting solid food. Someone has til buy it and that someone’s me. And the bigger they get, the more expensive it’ll be.”

  “I see,” Barry said. “That is a bit awkward. It looks like there may be as many as a dozen of the little mites.”

  O’Reilly nodded, scratched his head. “I don’t suppose there’d be any point asking Cahal Cullen, the marquis’s shepherd, if they could be trained as sheepdogs. If they have their mother’s legs they should be good runners.”

  O’Reilly had a moment of déjà vu when Donal said, “No harm til you, sir, but away off and feel your bumps.” The same suggestion that O’Reilly should examine his cranium had been made by Barry half an hour ago. “Cahal wouldn’t have the time and I’d not have a clue how til train them myself.” He bent and patted Bluebird’s head. “You poor wee thing,” he said. “You’ll have your work cut out for you for the next while looking after that lot, and God knows how I’m going til find homes for your pups.” He squatted on his hunkers beside her and the gaze from those big liquid eyes never left his face. “Anyroad. Never you worry. That’s my job.” He rose. “Doctors, I think we should leave them be now.” He opened the gate and waited until Barry and O’Reilly were outside before coming through himself and snibbing it shut.