An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea

by Patrick Taylor

  O’Reilly chuckled as he led Lorna along the hall to the surgery. The voice of his senior partner in Dublin’s Aungier Place Dispensary in 1936 seemed to whisper in O’Reilly’s ear, “Never, never let the patients get the upper hand.” “And don’t you worry, Lorna. Piggy won’t be having any injections.”

  She laughed. “No harm til you sir, but you always come on like an ould targe, but don’t all of us know that apart from your shooting, and the half of Ulster countrymen like a shot, you’d not hurt a fly?” She wagged a finger. “And thon Piggy Hogg should mind his manners with his elders and betters, so he should.”

  They went into the surgery and he closed the door. “How are you?” he asked, nodding his head toward the examining couch. Now well into her second pregnancy, she’d be used to the routine of antenatal visits.

  “I’m great,” she said, handing him a small bottle with her urine sample, and climbing up, “and I had the second set of blood tests done last week at Bangor hospital.”

  “I got them yesterday. I’ll explain them when I’ve finished the routine work,” O’Reilly said as he went to the sink, tested the sample for sugar, protein, and acetone. “All clear,” he said, blessing the reagent-impregnated cardboard dipsticks used today for urinalysis. As he went back to the couch, he remembered back to his student days of chemicals, Bunsen burners, and foul smells.

  It took only a few minutes to confirm that her blood pressure was 130 over 80, her ankles were not swollen with fluid called oedema, the uterus’s size was consistent with the duration of her pregnancy as measured in weeks from her last menstrual period, that a single baby lay with its head toward the mother’s pelvis and its back to her right, and that its heart rate was 144 beats per minute. “Everything’s spot-on,” he said. “Tuck in your blouse…” he waited while she did, then helped her down, “and hop up on the scales.” He read the result. “You’ve put on a few pounds since we saw you last, but that’s perfectly natural and nothing to worry about. Now have a pew and I’ll tell you about the tests, what they mean, and what’s going to happen next.” He sat in his swivel chair and popped his half-moon spectacles on his nose. There were lab reports to be read.

  She sat on one of the wooden chairs.

  He made a few notes then picked up a laboratory report form. “All right, we knew that as of three weeks ago, when you had your first set of blood tests, that you’re Rhesus negative and that your husband’s positive. We also know that at that time you had just a trace of antibodies, the things in your blood that would attack a positive baby’s red blood cells. They’d have been left over from your first pregnancy but weren’t at a high enough level to worry about in this one.”

  She frowned. “I understand. But what about the new blood tests?”

  He smiled and said, “I’m getting to that. You’ve been a good lass about taking your daily iron and folic acid because your own blood haemoglobin levels are spot-on. You’re not one bit anaemic.”

  “That’s good,” she said.

  “But, I’m afraid the latest blood tests from last week show that your antibody levels, we call them titres, have doubled from the tests taken three weeks before.”

  She took a deep breath. “And that means that the wean’s being attacked by those antibody thingys?”

  “There’s no easy way to tell you, Lorna, but yes.” He leaned forward and put a hand on her shoulder, fishing out his hanky when she burst into tears.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor,” she said, and hiccupped. “It’s … it’s just the shock.” She looked down and laid her hand on her belly. “It’s hard to believe. I feel fine and the wean seems til be doing rightly.”

  He handed her the hanky to dry her eyes when she was ready. He waited. There was no point mouthing bromides or trying to explain while she was in tears. Nothing would get through.

  She hiccupped, swallowed, blew her nose, and again said, “I’m so sorry, Doctor O’Reilly.”

  “No need to apologise. You’re upset.”

  She nodded, inhaled deeply twice, then said, “So what’s next?” She gave him back his hanky.

  “The next thing is to find out exactly—” He’d been going to say “how badly,” but changed it to “—to what degree the baby’s affected. It’ll mean a trip to the Royal Maternity.”

  “And what’ll they do, sir? An X-ray?”

  He shook his head. “We try to avoid X-raying babies. No. Doctor Whitfield and his team will collect a sample of the fluid that surrounds the baby in your womb—”

  “The waters?”

  “That’s right, the amniotic fluid, and they’ll send it to the laboratory for analysis.” He was trying to avoid going into detail about exactly how the sample was collected. It was all very well to tease Piggy Hogg about needles, but most patients hated them, and the fluid was collected through one with a wide bore. The procedure was called amniocentesis. Nor did he wish to try to explain how the sample was analysed. O’Reilly’s understanding of bilirubin spectrophotometry was shaky. He’d leave that discussion up to the specialists, but it irritated him that he was getting out of date in his knowledge of modern procedures. “I’ll speak to Doctor Bradley about getting you booked in early next week. It’s Friday now, but she has friends in high places.”

  Lorna managed a weak smile. “I’d be very grateful,” she said, and rose. “I know there’s a lot more patients waiting to see you, sir. Thank you for taking the time to explain.”

  He stood. “I’m not daft enough to tell you don’t worry, Lorna, but the folks at the Royal are getting very good results for the babies of patients like you. For the last few years they’ve even been able to give babies a blood transfusion if it looks like their blood cell level is low. While the baby’s still in your womb. That way the babby can get more mature before it’s delivered.”

  “Honest to God? Boys-a-boys, isn’t modern science a wonderful thing?” There was awe in her voice. “I’m sorry I cried back there a wee minute ago, but I was so sure I was going to be fine. It just came as a shock, so it did.” She smiled as she started to walk for the door, O’Reilly by her side. “Anyroad, me and Reggie’ll be at the service with Mister Robinson on Sunday. We’ll just have til pray a bit harder, that’s all.”

  “Do that,” said O’Reilly, “and as soon as I hear from Doctor Bradley, someone will give you a call and tell you where and when to go to the Royal Maternity.”

  She left by the front door and he headed for the waiting room. He surely hoped the specialists could save Lorna’s wean. Time would tell. He stuck his head round the door and called, “Next.”

  Shuey struggled to his feet. “Just in for a quick oil change, Doctor,” he said, and laughed his dry old man’s laugh as he limped toward O’Reilly, who offered an arm. As Shuey took it, O’Reilly noticed that Piggy Hogg was nowhere to be seen. Had the silly boy taken him seriously? He felt a brief pang of remorse, but couldn’t keep a wide grin from splitting his face. What the hell? No one ever died of a head cold and it meant one less customer to see before lunch.

  36

  Hope Springs Eternal

  “I’ll miss you, Fingal,” Angus Mahaddie said. He nursed his small Scotch and leaned closer to the coal fire in the Medical Officers’ Mess. The Scot would be going on a week’s leave tomorrow and wanted to buy Fingal a drink to celebrate both Christmas and the confirmation in the December promotions list of his move from acting to permanent rank. “You’ll be going back to the Med in a couple of weeks.” With Christmas only two days away, the place was practically deserted. A couple of QARNNS nursing sisters sat together several tables away, drinking tea from porcelain cups. “How do you get there?”

  Fingal puffed on his pipe and took a sip of his whisky. “I’ve to join a cargo ship in Southampton carrying six spitfires and a Bristol Blenheim bomber in crates to Takoradi on Africa’s Gold Coast. Then I fly from there in a convoy of already reassembled Hurricanes led by a Blenheim back to Cairo, then on to Alexandria, and Warspite. Much quicker than by troopship round the Cap
e of Good Hope.”

  “Safe travels, Surgeon Lieutenant-Commander O’Reilly.”

  The two men raised their drinks and drank in silence.

  Fingal listened to the gentle murmur of conversation from the nurses, the clinking of their teacups, the rattle of rain against the windows, then took a deep breath and spoke. “It’s hard to know how to thank you, Angus. I’d not be married but for you. I think I’ll be going back to Warspite a reasonably competent anaesthetist, and—”

  “Wheest, laddie,” the little Highland man said, “it was my pleasure on both counts, and you’ve been a good pupil. You’ve done well and you’ll do well back on Warspite. It’s a pity about you and Commander Fraser, but that man…” he lowered his voice, “could sow dissension in a deserted house. Anyway, you’ll be rid of us all in a couple of weeks.”

  “I will,” said Fingal. He looked out through the window as dusk fell over Saint Luke’s and the main hospital. “I will miss Haslar.”

  “Just so, and you’ll miss your wee wifey too. The navy, especially in wartime, is a stern mistress.”

  Fingal grimaced. “I’ll miss Deirdre like blue blazes. It’s going to be hard to leave her in Southampton on the sixth. But I’ll have my memories to take back and maybe I’ll get a chance for more leave. This bloody war can’t last forever. At least she’ll be away from England. Farther from the Luftwaffe bases in France.”

  “That’s true,” said Angus, “and I don’t think we need worry about a raid on Christmas Day. There’s a rumour that both sides have agreed to an unofficial three-day halt to all bombing, so I’ve arranged another wee thing. I’m afraid I will need you to nip in and make rounds for most of the Christmas holidays, and then be on call, but there won’t be many patients. On the day itself, though, there’s no need for you to be there. Be with your Deirdre on Christmas Day. It’ll be one more set of memories for you both. But be back on duty at nine A.M. sharp on Boxing Day.” He grinned.

  “I’m seeing her once I leave here. She will be thrilled, Angus. Thank you.”

  A shadow fell over the two men.

  O’Reilly turned to see a red-faced Surgeon Commander Fraser standing behind the chair. “I believe,” he said, “I’ve told you before, O’Reilly, not to interfere with my decisions.”

  Fingal stood but said nothing.

  “The fingers amputation case.”

  Alf Henson had been back on Whale Island for a week now.

  “I had lunch today with HMS Excellent’s MO. You returned the man fit for duty. Why?”

  “I did.” No “sir.” It was lucky that rank and titles were not used in the mess, because Fingal did not feel like according the man any respect. “Because he is a committed sailor. The navy and especially gunnery are his life. Henson’s instructor, CPO McIlroy, was in for his follow-up yesterday. He told me Henson’s as nimble with a couple of joints missing as he was with a complete hand.”

  “It’s no excuse for disobeying a direct order. I intend to speak directly to the admiral commanding.”

  Suit yourself, Fingal thought, keeping his face expressionless. I’ll be gone in two weeks. Back on Warspite. The thought of Tony Wilcoxson drowning in the icy waters of the North Atlantic, oil and wreckage of his torpedoed ship all around him, hit Fingal like a blow to the solar plexus. That life and that possible death were a damn sight more important than getting his knickers in a knot over a possible reprimand following a complaint by a surgical medical officer whose lack of compassion was stunning. In that moment Fingal renewed his vows, first taken as a student, never to allow any institution, even the navy, to stand between him and what was best for a patient.

  “Did you hear me, O’Reilly?”

  “Yes, I heard you.”

  “Eh, George,” Angus said, “don’t be so hasty.”

  “What?”

  “Simmer down. Take a breather. Fingal’s in my department. Complaints must go through me. You know that.”

  “I’ve complained to you once before. Fat lot of good it did.”

  Angus ignored the remark. “This man, the gunner, he’s doing well, Fingal?”

  Fingal nodded. The question was rhetorical.

  “And the fighter pilot that our sending to East Grinstead got you all tried, George? Any word about him?”

  “Pilot Officer Flip Dennison? I had a letter from him yesterday. I brought it to show you.” Fingal rummaged in his inside pocket. “Here.” He opened the envelope, pulled out a sheet of paper, found the place, and gave the letter to Fraser. “Please read that. From ‘Mister McIndoe has…’”

  Fraser said, “I fail to see—”

  “Humour us, George, please?” Angus said.

  “Oh, very well.” He cleared his throat. “‘Mister McIndoe has done my third operation to give me new eyelids. When they took off the dressing I looked in a mirror and a funny-looking white-faced gorilla looked back.’” Fraser paused. “I don’t see what a gorilla has to do with disobeying an order.”

  “Go on, George. Keep reading.” There was steel in the Scotsman’s tone.

  Fraser raised the letter again, squinted at the writing, and sighed. “‘Great puffy ledges under my eyes to allow for shrinkage of the flesh. Once the grafts have taken, he’ll need to trim them and tidy them to finish making proper eyelids, but I can see now, half close my eyes, and the doctors here reckon I’ll be back in a cockpit in about nine months. I—’”

  “I think that’s enough,” Angus said. “Now, if you wish to lodge a complaint against a young, idealistic officer in my department who is trying to do his very best for the patients, and seems to be succeeding, please come to my office. I’ll be in it next Tuesday.”

  Fraser spluttered and thrust the page at Fingal, who stifled a grin and accepted the piece of paper.

  “And, George,” Angus said, “do try to remember, it’s the season to be jolly. Peace on Earth, goodwill to all men?”

  Fraser shook his head. “You’re a very difficult man to deal with, Angus Mahaddie.”

  “Aye, I ken that very well.”

  “And you, O’Reilly, you are an insubordinate pup. Try to behave for your last few days here.” And with that, he spun on his heel and strode out.

  Fingal blew out his breath. “Thanks again, Angus. You saved my bacon on that one.”

  Angus frowned, shook his head. “No, I did not. In my opinion you were absolutely right and he was wrong. Elizabeth Blenkinsop told me about what you arranged for the gunner with the bust hand. In case you needed support if Fraser found out, she wanted me to know.” He snorted. “Fraser would have amputated. Bloody barbaric.” He looked at Fingal. “And I was impressed that you didn’t come running to me for help. The navy values initiative, you know.”

  “Getting the man to the Zymotic ward was Elizabeth’s idea,” Fingal said.

  “No matter. The gunner laddie’s doing well.” He sipped his drink. “I have a wee notion Surgeon Commander Fraser might be happier with a posting out of here. Maybe doing less clinical work.”

  And less harm, Fingal thought.

  Angus tapped his fingernail on the rim of his glass. “Aye,” he said. “Aye. It might just be time to have another word with my friend in London. I’ll say no more.” His smile was beatific.

  And although he didn’t like Fraser, that smile made Fingal shiver.

  * * *

  “It’s very good of you both to have come,” Marge said, “do come in.” She held the front door open. Strands of silver hair straggled from her usually immaculate chignon, there were bags under her eyes, and they were bloodshot.

  “Any news?” Deirdre asked without moving inside despite the rain bucketing down. “Any word about Tony?” Her words were rushed.

  “I’m afraid not.” Marge shook her head. “Please,” she said, “do come in out of the wet. We can talk better when we’re comfortable.”

  Fingal took Deirdre’s elbow and helped her into the hall. The two women hugged as Fingal took off his wet coat and cap, hung them, and helped Deirdre with
hers.

  “Come through,” Marge said, “the fire’s lit. Make yourselves at home. It’s only Fingal and Deirdre,” she said to Admiral Benbow, “so settle down. Behave yourself.”

  The big dog subsided with a throaty grunt in front of the fire and proceeded to snore.

  “The kettle’s on. Tea?” Marge said as if the rest of her bridge four had just popped in.

  “Please,” Deirdre said, and sat in one armchair as Fingal took the other.

  “I know what you both take,” Marge said, heading for the kitchen. “Won’t be a jiffy.”

  Deirdre whispered, “How can she be so calm?”

  “It’s her way of hanging on. It’s the English way,” said Fingal, as Deirdre bent to stroke one of Benbow’s soft ears. “Try to occupy your mind doing routine things. My own ma used to knit or paint like crazy if she was upset. The day my father died, she sat in our sitting room knitting a navy blue muffler for Lars.”

  “Dear Ma. I miss her. I can see her doing that,” Deirdre said. She nodded to herself and Fingal could imagine her thinking, I’ll remember that in case Fingal—and cut the thought off aborning. There was no need to tempt Providence. “I’ve asked you already,” she said, “but please tell me again,” she was still whispering, “what are Tony’s chances now after two days?”

  “Pretty grim,” he said quietly. “His ship went down off Iceland. When the Titanic sank in similar waters, people only lasted fifteen to thirty minutes because of the cold.”

  “But surely they’d’ve had lifeboats on his destroyer? How long did Shackleton and his men survive in an open boat trying to get to South Georgia? I remember learning about it in school but I can’t recall all the details.”

  “I’m not certain,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure it was more than a fortnight.”

  “We’ll have to tell Marge. She mustn’t give up hope. Not yet. Not until she knows for sure or until it truly is hopeless. He could be safe already and we just haven’t heard.”

  “I love you, Deirdre O’Reilly,” he said. “I love how strong you can be for other people.”