An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea

by Patrick Taylor

  “What,” said Marge, bringing in the tea things on a tray, “are you two whispering about?” She lifted the silver teapot and set it in the hearth. “I’ll let it stew for a while.” She put the tray on a table and took the third armchair.

  Fingal, usually able to invent a story quickly if the need arose, found himself at a loss for words.

  “I can guess, of course,” she said, “and I believe you’re both very sweet. You were worrying about me, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Deirdre, “we were, and Pip, and of course Tony.”

  “I feel sick with worry. Sick. What mother wouldn’t be? I’m afraid I got very little sleep last night. But I’ve been through it once before with my husband, Richard.”

  This news about his superior on Warspite came as a shock to Fingal.

  “I shall tell you about it after I’ve poured,” and with no more ado, as if the only difficulty in her life was the awful rain outside, she prepared and handed out three cups. “Richard, like Tony, was on a destroyer, but at Jutland in 1916,” she said, and sipped her tea. “HMS Turbulent. She was sunk in the night action.”

  Fingal was going to explain to Deirdre that Jutland had been a titanic, inconclusive clash between the British Grand and German High Seas fleets in the First World War when he realised that not a child in the United Kingdom hadn’t heard about it in school.

  “I didn’t know for three days, then a telegram said he was missing in action.”

  Deirdre gasped and stared at Fingal.

  “That must have been hellish for you, Marge,” Fingal said.

  She nodded. “It was. For five weeks I thought him dead.” She swallowed. “My lovely knight, drowned. It was very hard to bear. I tried to be brave, but I’m afraid I cried an awful lot.” A single tear coursed down her cheek, then another. She dashed them away. She inhaled, straightened her shoulders. “Then I had a telegram from the International Red Cross. He’d been picked up by a boat from a German cruiser and was in a prisoner of war camp in Germany. He’d lost the tip of a toe from frostbite, but was otherwise all right.”

  And he’d not said a word about it to Fingal in all the time they’d been together on Warspite. It was true most veterans of the Great War kept mum about their experiences.

  Deirdre rose and went to stand by Marge. The younger woman put her hands on the older’s shoulders. “And now you’re reliving it and fearing for your son.”

  Fingal saw the glistening in Deirdre’s eyes and felt for them both.

  Marge looked up at Deirdre, but said to Fingal, “I want to thank you, Fingal, for getting my pigheaded son to see daylight about Pip and propose to the gel.”

  How, he thought, how can she be so calm?

  “Pip’s frightfully cut up, but when she was here for lunch today she told me how great a comfort it was to her to know that they were going to be married at last. She’s treasuring that.”

  Fingal looked down. Poor Pip. He remembered meeting her on that first day in September. How the girl had launched herself into his arms on the front step of the cottage, thinking he was Tony.

  “And,” Marge said, “the navy has been very good. They can’t send a message directly to Warspite, she’s somewhere at sea, but there’ll be a telegram waiting for Richard when she returns to Alex.”

  Fingal, no stranger as a doctor to death and grief, wondered how Richard would take the news, although Fingal could guess. Publicly with stoic acceptance, but privately? His only child gone? His son? Privately, Richard would know his own guts had been torn out. Fingal tried to sip his tea, but it had gone cold. “Is there anything we can do?” he asked.

  Marge said, “Yes, please.”

  Which surprised Fingal. She always seemed such a private, self-sufficient woman.

  “You will be on duty tomorrow, Fingal, so you’ll need to get back to Alverstoke tonight, but I’d truly appreciate it if you could stay, Deirdre. I’d only the animals for company last night and I’d rather not be alone tonight.”

  “Of course,” Deirdre said. “You don’t mind, Fingal, do you?”

  He shook his head and felt guilty because they had so few nights together left that he’d almost said he did.

  “Damn tea’s gone cold,” Marge said. “I’ll get some hot water.”

  “Let me,” said Deirdre, who was already on her feet. She left.

  For a while there was silence, then Fingal said, “We really are sorry for your troubles, Marge…”

  “But I should hope for the best but prepare for the worst, is that it?”

  “How did you know I was—”

  “I am married to a doctor, you know. I’ve heard the line before.”

  “I know it’s trite,” Fingal said, “but what else can we say?”

  She smiled at him. “Do you believe that lightning never strikes twice?”

  “It’s pretty rare if it does.”

  “But,” she said, “it did once with Richard. I’d waited five weeks. I think I can give Tony a few days more, don’t you?”

  He was full of deep admiration for the woman’s spirit, while still understanding the terrible odds against her son. “Deirdre and I will help you wait for as long as we can, Marge. That’s a promise.”

  She leaned over and squeezed his knee. “Thank you, Fingal,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

  37

  Filled the Tree and Flapped

  “Oh, sir, please can you come at once into the back garden. There’s an emergency, so.” Kinky, not even waiting for an answer, fled from the dining room.

  O’Reilly left the newspaper in a crumpled heap on the table. The story he’d been reading about today’s atom bomb test in Nevada would have to wait. He tore through the kitchen, trying to ignore the smell of the halibut being cooked for lunch, and into the garden where Kinky stood, hands on hips, staring up to where the branches of a leafless, fruitless apple tree were etched against a cloudless sky. His gaze followed Kinky’s up to the highest branches, where Lady Macbeth was perched on the topmost branch, alternating between spitting and making a piteous caterwauling.

  “Bloody hell. Not again.” He had a brief recollection of the feisty Brian Boru treeing the little white cat, not once but twice, earlier this year. In that very tree. Then he looked down about four feet. And stared at what he saw. This was different. Very different. “Having fun, Barry?” he called.

  “If there wasn’t a lady present, Fingal, I’d give you some physiologically impossible advice,” Barry called back from where he stood on the first rung of a stepladder propped up against the tree. His shoulders were level with the cup formed by the lower branches, where Arthur lay cradled, all legs dangling in space about six feet above the ground. “I was coming home from one of Fitzpatrick’s patients and I saw this.” He pointed. “I’m trying to get the poor fellow down. He must have climbed up the ladder.”

  As if to agree, the big dog made a mournful moan.

  “And I suppose Lady Macbeth invited him up?”

  “Och, the poor wee dote,” Kinky said, wringing her hands. “Can you not do something, sir?”

  He could, he supposed, summon the Bangor fire brigade. Firemen were adept at rescuing stranded cats. However, he wasn’t sure he wanted the whole village and townland to know that his dog had stranded himself in a tree. And he could tell by the look on Arthur’s face that the dog certainly didn’t. Shame and remorse were both there in the peak of his eyebrows. Surely between him and Barry they should be able to cope?

  “We’ll have to get the lummox down first, and there’s no simple command to help him.” He went over to the foot of the ladder. Gundogs are well trained to heel, sit, lie down, hey on out, push ’em out, and leave it. But in Arthur’s training there had been no “turn around backwards and put your hind paws on the top rung of the ladder.” Even if it were possible to tell him what to do, the dog’s paws could not get purchase on anything. He was stuck. “We’re going to have to get him into a position so that he can jump down,” O’Reilly said. “H
e’s leaped those kind of heights before.”

  “Any brilliant suggestions?” Barry asked.

  “No,” said O’Reilly, “but come you down. I want to get up there and take a gander.”

  Barry climbed down. “Best of British luck,” he said.

  “Do you take care, sir,” Kinky said. “You are no spring chicken, so.”

  “Mmgh,” said O’Reilly, taking off his jacket and tie, rolling up his sleeves, and starting to climb. “Thank you, Kinky,” he said stiffly. He may have been feeling his age lately, but he was still quite capable of climbing a stepladder. Or a tree, if it came to it. Kinky and Kitty were the only people in the entire world who could get away with a comment like that.

  He felt a warm, damp tongue on the back of his hand that now gripped one of the lower branches. Arthur was stretching himself as far forward as possible. The sad look in his brown eyes would have melted Pharaoh’s hard heart. O’Reilly knew the big Labrador was trying to say, “Sorry, boss. I’ve been very silly, but that white demon tempted me.”

  “Aye, you have been gormless, you buck eejit,” O’Reilly said, but he kept his voice soft, low. The animal would be terrified. “I thought you and her ladyship were friends?” O’Reilly stepped onto the bough that supported Arthur’s chest and surveyed the situation. If he could move Arthur forward far enough, it might be possible to lift his hind legs onto another limb. Then, if his forequarters could be hoisted high enough, his front paws should land on another bough. With a stable platform to push off from, he’d be able to jump down. It was worth a try.

  An eldritch howling came from above. “You, madame,” O’Reilly said, staring up, “will have to wait your turn. And you’re a cat, for God’s sake. You’re meant to be nimble. The Lord helps those who help themselves. Stop bellyaching and give it a try.”

  Lady Macbeth had the courtesy to shut up, but merely crouched with her tail wrapped round her.

  “Barry,” O’Reilly called, “do you think you can get up a couple of rungs and support Arthur’s chest if I can pull him forward?”

  “I’ll give it a go,” Barry said, climbed, and planted his feet on the rung. “Ready when you are.”

  O’Reilly crouched. “Lie still, Arthur,” he said, and could have sworn that the big dog nodded his head. His eyes never left O’Reilly’s face. He took a deep breath and, like a weightlifter, neck veins bulging, every sinew straining, managed to haul Arthur forward.

  “Got him,” Barry said, “and please, Arthur, stop licking my face.”

  O’Reilly hauled in great lungfuls then stepped onto the next limb and pulled Arthur’s hind legs until both paws were firmly on the bough. “Right,” O’Reilly said, and with his forearm wiped sweat from his brow as he crossed back. “Can you give him a shove up, Barry?” O’Reilly grabbed two handfuls of Arthur’s fur at the scruff of his neck and with Barry’s help managed to get the dog’s forepaws onto the branch.

  Kinky applauded.

  “Call him,” O’Reilly yelled to her.

  “Here, Arthur,” she shouted. “Here, boy.”

  The big dog looked at O’Reilly for permission.

  “Hey on out.”

  And like a massive flying squirrel, Arthur simply hurled himself from the tree, landed with a whump, picked himself up, and with a great grin on his face, wagged his tail.

  O’Reilly, now back on the ground, said, “Thanks, Barry, Kinky.”

  “Huh,” Barry said, “I’m sorry, Kinky, but it’s like old times. My trousers are covered in moss from the trunk.”

  “Och sure that’s all right. Give them to me after we’ve got her ladyship down and I’ll give them a sponge and a press.”

  O’Reilly bent over, hands on knees, trying to get his breath back.

  “Fingal, are you okay?”

  “Fine, I’m fine.”

  “Dear Lord in heaven, you’re not having a heart attack, are you, sir?”

  “No, Kinky, I am not having a heart attack. But I wonder, Barry, if you could climb up and get her ladyship. I’m not sure whether those thin upper branches will support my weight.”

  “Your weight, sir, and the weight of my lunches since you’ve absolutely refused to eat any more salads.” Kinky tutted and shook her head.

  O’Reilly was searching for the right bit of repartee when he heard the musical squeak of the back gate opening and Jenny walked in. It must be almost time for her to start her clinic.

  Lady Macbeth mewed and everyone looked up. O’Reilly and Kinky “push-wushed” like Billy-oh, but the little cat refused to budge.

  “You seem to have a problem,” Jenny said, kicking off her shoes and handing her jacket to O’Reilly.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” said Barry. “The other half is right there.” He pointed to Arthur.

  To their amazement, like one of Nelson’s topmen, Jenny swarmed up the tree, gently grabbed Lady Macbeth, and shinnied down again. She handed the cat to Kinky, who scolded the little animal in tones so soft and forgiving that she began to purr.

  “I’ll be taking her inside, the poor wee pet, and getting the lunch ready too,” Kinky said, and left.

  “Where in the name of the wee man did you learn to climb like that, Jenny Bradley?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Started when I was five. My mother was quite an athlete,” she said. “I was on the Queen’s team when I was a student. Gymnastics. Comes in handy now and then.”

  O’Reilly and Barry laughed.

  O’Reilly started to retie his tie. “I’d like you and Barry to come in handy about something else,” he said.

  “Oh?” Jenny said.

  “Lorna Kearney was in this morning. Her antibody titre’s doubled.” He rolled down his sleeves.

  “I’ll phone Royal Maternity,” Jenny said, putting on the jacket of her navy blue suit. “Doctor Whitfield’s a good head. He’ll accommodate Lorna. When I was being trained to run my clinic, I’d often have chats with him at lunchtime. His team likes to analyse the amniotic fluid in patients like Lorna at thirty-two to thirty-four weeks and then repeat the test in two weeks’ time. That lets them see a trend and decide how much longer it will be safe to wait so the baby can be as mature as possible before delivery.”

  “And is the amniocentesis safe? I’ve never seen one done. Have you, Barry?” O’Reilly said.

  He nodded. “Quite a few, and one of Doctor Whitfield’s team, Doctor Ron Livingstone, has found that less than four percent of patients go into labour within five days of the test, so it’s pretty safe.”

  “Thanks, you two,” O’Reilly said. “Jenny, I will be grateful if you make the arrangements.”

  “After the clinic,” she said. “I’m going to be running late as it is.” She trotted to the kitchen door, waved to Kitty, who had a half day today and was just coming into the garden, and disappeared into the house.

  Kitty waved back and called, “Fingal, Barry, I’ve got great news.”

  O’Reilly smiled. He would have fun telling her about the great animals-up-the-apple-tree caper at lunch.

  “We got Ronald’s pathology report today.”

  “And?” Reilly said.

  “And it’s a benign meningioma. Charlie reckons that he got it all, so there’s only a ten percent chance of recurrence.” She looked around. “What are you two doing out here?”

  “It’s a long story. But that is excellent news. I’m delighted and I’m sure Ronald is too,” he said, feeling waves of relief wash over him. He hadn’t realized until this moment how much Ronald’s illness had reminded him of his own mortality. The chill air was starting to seep through his damp shirt and he shrugged into his jacket.

  “He is that and he’s getting back a fair bit of function already. His legs are working now and he can feel some heat and pain in his fingers. Charlie’s delighted with the progress. Reckons Ronald will be ready for discharge soon.”

  “I am pleased,” O’Reilly said as he bent, patted Arthur’s head, and ordered, “Kennel, sir.” The big dog, tail betwe
en his legs, slunk off. O’Reilly hated punishing an animal, but bad behaviour simply could not be rewarded. “Now,” he said. “Lunch,” and led the others to the house. As they walked, he asked, “Reckon you could manage on your own for an afternoon next week, Barry?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “I’d like to take a run-race up to the Royal, see Ronald.”

  “He’ll appreciate that,” Kitty said.

  “And,” he said, “I could pop over to Royal Maternity and observe Lorna’s amnio.” O’Reilly opened the kitchen door. He didn’t like this feeling of being behind the times. If another patient needed the same procedure, he didn’t want to feel irritated by his own ignorance. Getting older was no excuse for not being up on the latest technology. He stopped in his tracks. “Kinky Auchinleck, what are you doing?”

  She was sitting on a chair, little cat on her lap, feeding Lady Macbeth slivers of halibut. “Her ladyship did have a terrible scare, so. It’s only a bit of comfort food. I’d be doing the same for yourself, sir, if you’d’ve fallen out of that tree.”

  O’Reilly roared with laughter, and sang, “If you’re ever up a tree, phone to me.”

  “What tree? What scare?” Kitty asked, looking from Kinky to O’Reilly.

  “Och,” said O’Reilly, “Kitty, you’ll never believe the adventures we’ve all just had with the animals.”

  “Will I not?” she said, and laughed. “When it comes to you, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, I’d believe almost anything.”

  38

  We’ll Keep Our Christmas Merry Still

  Fingal blinked the sleep from his eyes, shook his head, yawned—the alarm said ten to nine—and looked at the tousled blonde head on the pillow next to his. It was the morning of the second Christmas of the war, but no church bells were pealing their usual tidings of happiness. They had been silenced all over the United Kingdom after the evacuation from Dunkirk last May so that their ringing would be an instantly recognisable signal if the Germans invaded. But bugger the war, it was the first Christmas of his life married to Deirdre, who had been Mawhinney and was now O’Reilly, and he was determined to make it the merriest Christmas ever for both of them.