An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea

by Patrick Taylor

  She wasn’t exactly snoring, but rather making little whiffly noises like the ones she’d made when she’d fallen asleep in the pub the day she’d arrived. Then she grunted, opened her eyes, stared at him, and started to laugh. “Fingal,” she said, “your hair is sticking up like a haystack after a gale.”

  “Good morning to you too,” he said, and grinned. He ran a hand over his head as she rolled away from him, then rolled back holding a sprig of mistletoe over her head. She was giggling.

  Tradition demanded that anyone under mistletoe at Christmas should be kissed, and who was he to ignore tradition? He wrapped her in an enormous hug and kissed her firmly. “Merry Christmas, my love,” he said.

  “Merry Christmas, Fingal darling,” and she kissed him back, then again …

  They breakfasted very late that morning, and agreed to postpone their Christmas dinner until midafternoon.

  While she had her bath and dressed, Fingal happily washed the dishes, then wandered back to the living/dining room. He admired how, despite the war and all the shortages, she had done everything possible to have their flat looking Christmassy. While he’d been at the hospital yesterday, she’d made cheerful coloured crêpe-paper chains and draped them over the frames of the dull, navy-issue pictures hanging on the walls. Sprigs of holly with little balls of cotton wool for imitation snow sat in splendour on the mantel above a cosy fire. A potted pink chrysanthemum was a centrepiece for the dining table.

  They’d trimmed the tree last night with the lights and decorations Angus had lent them, and she’d giggled with delight when he’d crowned the little fir with a golden star and switched on the lights. They’d “listened in” to the radio and the Kentucky Minstrels singing “Bless This House” and “Star of Bethlehem,” and before bed, Fingal had put the presents under the tree.

  “How do I look?” she said, appearing from the bedroom and doing a pirouette.

  He looked at her shining blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, wide smile, just a touch of makeup. “Ravishing,” he said. “You’d be the belle of the Christmas ball—if there was one.” He hugged her, pecked her cheek, and said, “And ball or no ball, you’ll always be the most beautiful girl in the world for me.”

  “Thank you, pet,” she said. “I hope it makes up for my being such a terrible cook.”

  “Rubbish,” he said. “That meatloaf you made last Saturday was a thing of beauty.” He smiled and thought, there’s an old saw about love being blind; it should also say love has no taste buds.

  She sounded dubious. “I hope I’ll do a good job with dinner today. Most of it is ready. I just have to put it in the oven.”

  “I’m sure you will, so no worrying. Now,” he said, bending and picking up two parcels from under the tree addressed to Lieutenant-Commander and Mrs. O’Reilly and marked DO NOT OPEN BEFORE DEC. TWENTY-FIFTH. Both had Northern Ireland postmarks. “Let’s get these opened.” He handed her the softer of the two.

  “It’s from Mummy and Daddy,” she said, unwrapping two multicoloured six-foot-long woollen mufflers. The enclosed card read, To keep you and Fingal warm. Much love and merry Christmas. Mum and Dad.

  She wrapped her scarf several times round her neck. “Toasty,” she said. “I can picture Mummy in the green velvet armchair by the fire knitting these in the evening. It does make me feel homesick.” But she was smiling as she said it, and fingering the soft wool around her neck. “Do you like yours?”

  He grabbed the other one and looped it around his head, almost covering his face. “How do I look?”

  “Eejit,” she said, laughing.

  “It’ll be just the job on a cold night on deck.” He handed her the second gift. “Go on. What’s in there?”

  She unwrapped the brown paper to reveal a long, pale, wooden box. “Here,” she said. “Open it.”

  He slid off a lid. The thing was stuffed with colourful silk hankies, but there was something hard beneath. “Mother of—” He cut himself short and lifted out a bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey. “Mother’s milk,” he said. “Now we can really drink to a merry Christmas after dinner.”

  “What’s in the envelopes?” Deirdre said.

  Three lay at the bottom of the box. The first was a Christmas card from Ma and Lars, the second a war bond for ten pounds from him. The third held another war bond and a letter from Ma.

  “‘All our love and a merry Christmas to you both,’” he read. “‘Deirdre, we hope you like the hankies. Life does tend to be a bit drab these days and we hope they will brighten things up a bit.’”

  “They’re lovely,” Deirdre said, picking up a lavender one sprigged with yellow flowers.

  “‘I’m sure you’ll know what to do with the whiskey, son.’” He laughed and continued reading. “‘There’s been a lot of publicity urging people to give war bonds as Christmas presents, and Laura MacNeill and I seem to have become joint chairmen of the local committee, and one must lead by example.’”

  “Typical Ma,” he said.

  “Your mother,” Deirdre said, “is definitely one of a kind, and Lars is such a lovely man. I’ll get thank-you letters off first thing tomorrow.”

  Fingal returned to the tree and, bending down, picked up the largest parcel. “Merry Christmas, pet.”

  “For me?” she said, laughing. In turn, she handed him something that felt as if it were in a box.

  “You first,” he said, and waited.

  She undid the string and carefully unwrapped and folded the paper. “Oh,” she said, and gasped, holding the midnight blue sweater by its shoulder seams against her own shoulders. “Oh, it’s beautiful, Fingal. Thank you.”

  “It’ll keep you warm back in draughty old Belfast,” he said. “Santa Claus brought it.”

  “I’m very fond of Santa,” she said. “He’s the patron saint of sailors and I’ve told him to keep a special eye on you.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and nearly remarked that Tony Wilcoxson could have used a bit of saintly protection. But not wishing to spoil the moment for her, he stifled the comment and handed her another, smaller parcel. “Now this.” He waited.

  “Pearls? Pearls?” Her eyes widened. She held the two earrings gently in the palm of her hand. One round pearl was attached to a pear-shaped pearl by a delicate gold bar. “I know I shouldn’t ask, but how on earth could you possibly afford—”

  “Ssh,” he said. “Let’s just say the navy has bases in Aden on the Red Sea, where the natives are expert divers. A friend had to visit there and did me a favour before I came back to Pompey. A goldsmith in Alex did the rest.”

  “Oh, Fingal. How wonderful,” she said. “You were getting my Christmas present six months in advance. Thank you. Thank you. I’ll just be a minute.” She dashed off into the bathroom and appeared moments later, wearing the earrings. “They’re perfect, darling. Perfect.” She kissed him, hard. “Thank you.”

  Her obvious joy filled him, and he smiled.

  She pointed at his gift. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Paper off. Box opened. It was a pipe. But what a pipe. The stem was light brown polished briar and the bowl rough blackthorn. They were joined by a silver band engraved with his initials, and the crowning glory was a conical, perforated, hinged silver lid.

  “I found it in an ancient tobacconist’s in Belfast,” she said.

  “So I wasn’t the only one thinking ahead,” he said.

  “That’s right,” she said, and smiled. “The man in the shop said that blackthorn is sacred to the Irish fairies, the sidhe. You’ve to ask their permission to cut it, and if they grant it they put a protective spell on the wood for whoever smokes the pipe. I want it to protect my Fingal,” she said, and for a moment her eyes glistened, but she brightened and said, “And I thought it would stay alight better when you are on deck.”

  He took her in a bear hug. “What a wonderful girl you are,” he said.

  “Because I love you, Fingal. Very much.”

  “And I love you. Now”—he pointed to the two remaini
ng parcels—“let’s leave those two until after our dinner.”

  “All right,” she said.

  The phone rang. He looked at her. “Marge?”

  “With good news I hope,” she said, and clenched her fists.

  He answered. “O’Reilly.”

  “Doctor Fingal O’Reilly? Will you accept a person-to-person call from a Mrs. O’Reilly in Portaferry?”

  “Yes, please. It’s Ma,” he said to Deidre, and he saw her relax.

  “Go ahead, Mrs. O’Reilly. You have three minutes.”

  “Fingal. It’s Ma. Lars is here, and Deirdre’s parents. They’ve come for the day. We wanted to surprise you both and we’ve had a trunk call booked for ages. How are you and Deirdre?”

  “We’re both fine, Ma. And you? And Lars and Bridgit and the Mawhinneys?”

  “All fine. Missing you. Merry Christmas, son. And thanks for the presents. A second edition of Pride and Prejudice? How wonderful.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, Ma, and everybody there. Glad you like the book. And thanks for the bonds and the medicine.”

  He heard her laugh. “To be taken in small doses,” she said. “All my love to you both, son. Here’s Lars.”

  “Are you well, Finn? Merry Christmas, and thanks for the orchid book. I’ve started it already. How’s your first Christmas as a married man?”

  “I’m a lucky man, Lars. Very lucky. Thanks for the bond. Now, nearly half the time’s up. Put on Deirdre’s folks. Here. Your mum.” He handed her the phone.

  “Mummy, is that you? Merry Christmas. We love our scarves … and you all liked your prezzies…? Good. I wish you could have come to the wedding … It was lovely. You got the snaps … Daddy? Lovely to hear your voice.”

  Fingal listened, smiling, watching her face through her laughter and tears as she spoke to her father.

  “Tell everyone we love them and Fingal wants to say—Oh.” Her face fell and a buzzing came from the receiver. “Our three minutes were up. But wasn’t that lovely?” Deirdre sighed. “I only wish it could be a merry Christmas for Marge and her family.”

  He nodded. “It’ll be pretty grim, I’m sure. But she won’t be alone. She’ll be with Pip’s people. Do you think we should give her a call later?”

  “Let’s, but right now I think it’s time for the king’s Christmas message on the BBC.”

  They listened as King George VI spoke with cautious optimism and promised that the nation’s feet were firmly planted on the path to victory.

  “By God,” said Fingal. “I hope so. I really hope so.”

  * * *

  The Christmas chicken had been a little undercooked and the small ham overcooked, but Deirdre had done justice to the vegetables from Marge’s garden. His dear wife must have scrimped and saved on their rations to have been able to put rashers of bacon on the chicken breast and have butter and cream to make champ. There was a tiny Christmas pudding—a gift from Angus Mahaddie’s wife, who, like her Ulster counterparts, was in the habit of laying down next year’s puddings the year before, and there’d been no rationing back then. No crackers, no sweet mince pies—dried fruit was practically unobtainable—but Fingal had sweet-talked Elizabeth Blenkinsop into slipping him half a dozen of the beers provided to the ward so they would have a drink with the meal. Ma’s gift guaranteed a nightcap for later.

  He savoured the thought of a glass of whiskey by the fire, curled up with Deirdre, as he set down his napkin. “I think you’ve worked wonders, darling,” Fingal said. “Thank you very much.”

  “Thank you, you old flatterer,” she said, “but I did try.” She grimaced. “It’ll only be tinned tomato soup and ham and chicken sandwiches for tea, I’m afraid,” Deirdre said, “but I thought we might have fun with these now.” She handed him a paper bag. “Spanish chestnuts, for roasting over the fire. We collected them in the forest on our honeymoon. Remember?”

  “Indeed I do. We got them on our way back to the hotel the day we saw the deer drinking and we decided to try to have a kid.” He smiled at her. “That was a good decision,” he said. “I know you’ll have to quit your job once you’ve got good news and tell your matron about it, but I’ll be happier knowing you’re in the country and out of Belfast.”

  “It is the rules, I’m afraid. In fact we’re meant to retire when we get married, but matron’s turning a blind eye. She’s the only one who knows, but pregnancy is different. I really will have to go if and when I start to show, then I’ll move back in with Mummy and Daddy on the farm in Fivemiletown.”

  “Could you go sooner? Like once a pregnancy’s confirmed?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. With you hundreds of miles away I’ll be happier working as long as I can. You’ll not get to meet your firstborn for who knows how long.”

  “Darling, we’ve talked about this. I’m not a young man now. I was thirty-two in October. The war could last for years. I don’t want to be starting to be a daddy close to my forties. Be sixty before the youngster’s twenty. You really want a baby. I really want a baby. It’s the right decision.”

  “Thank you, Fingal,” she said. “I do know we’ve talked about it and agreed, but I wanted to be certain you were sure.”

  He rose and went to stand over her, putting both hands on her shoulders. “I am not sure. I’m absolutely bloody positive.” He squeezed her shoulders and said, “And it was a lovely try this morning before we got up, pet.”

  She smiled. “Wasn’t it?” she said, and covered one of his hands with hers.

  He loved how she was no prude.

  “And maybe tonight?” Her left eyebrow rose.

  He shook his head and laughed. Prude? She was a libertine—and he was a very lucky man.

  “Let’s get roasting, and while we’re at it, I have one more wee prezzy for you.”

  “And I’ve a special one for you too. We’ll leave the dishes. I’ll get the frying pan. You stoke up the fire.”

  She giggled every time a chestnut popped.

  We’re like a couple of kids, he thought, and why not?

  When they’d eaten the last one, Deirdre went to the kitchen to put on the kettle so they could have a cup of tea when they opened their last presents.

  He was so relaxed by the fire he jumped in his seat when the front doorbell started ringing. Who the hell could that be? “Bloody blue blazes,” he said, getting to his feet and hurrying to the door.

  “Marge. Come in.” Before she could answer he yelled over his shoulder, “Darling, it’s Marge.”

  “And it’s Tony,” Marge said. “He’s alive.”

  “Alive. Hooray!” Fingal’s cheer probably scared seagulls on the Isle of Wight. “Come in. Come in.” He hustled her into the hall, shut the door, and took her on into the main room. “Tony’s been found,” he said to Deirdre, who was coming from the kitchen.

  “Oh, Marge, what a relief.” She embraced Marge and said, “Come and sit down. Tell us about it.”

  Marge unbuttoned her coat as she took a chair. “I heard a couple of hours ago. The port admiral sent an officer to tell me. I’ve been trying to phone you, but I couldn’t get a line so I decided to drive over. I nearly fainted when the butler ushered a lieutenant into the Gore-Beresfords’ sitting room, but he was all smiles so I guessed it was all right even before he spoke. And there’ll be a telegram sent to Alexandria for Richard too. The navy looks after its own.” She beamed at Deirdre then at Fingal. “Pip’s over the moon. What a Christmas present for us.”

  “Thank you for letting us know,” Deirdre said. “We’ve been so worried, and we’re delighted, aren’t we, Fingal?”

  “We are that. Are there any details?”

  “He and some of his crew got onto a Carley float and drifted for a day, frozen to the bone. Some men … died overnight,” she said, looking down at her hands and fingering her wedding ring. “The survivors, including Tony, were picked up by an Icelandic trawler and taken to a hospital in Reykjavik. They’ll be flying him back soon in a long-range Sunderland t
o the UK.”

  Fingal couldn’t help shuddering at the image that had haunted him since getting the news: the wild North Atlantic seas, the fuel-oil-soaked men clinging to a wood-and-canvas life raft in those icy waters. “If ever anything called for a drink, this is it. We have some whiskey.”

  Marge shook her head. “Thank you. I very much appreciate the offer, but it’s dark out and it’s a bugger driving in the blackout. I’ve no wish to have my family mourning for me because I was a bit tiddly and crashed on my way home. I couldn’t rest, because I know how much you care and how it must be spoiling your Christmas, so I simply had to let you know.” She rose. “But now I’ll be running along. Thank you both for helping me hold on, and merry merry Christmas to us all.”

  “I’ll see you to the door,” Fingal said, and took her along the flat’s hall.

  “Good night, dear boy,” she said, and went along the landing to the staircase.

  Fingal closed the door and hurried back to Deirdre. “Dear Mother of God,” he said, “Such news. Such wonderful news.” He grinned from ear to ear. “Marge may not have wanted one, but…?”

  “Put water in mine, darling,” Deirdre said. “Bring the drinks and hurry back.”

  When he returned, she was in front of the fire, sitting like the little mermaid, legs tucked up and supporting herself on one arm. He sat beside her and gave her her drink. “I know it’s Wednesday, but Tuesday’s toast is appropriate. Our men, all of them, and in particular Tony Wilcoxson.”

  She smiled into his eyes and said, “And Surgeon Lieutenant-Commander Fingal O’Reilly, my only love.” And all her relief for Tony’s safety and her love for Fingal was in that one kiss. “I’m so happy for them—for Marge and Pip and Tony, of course,” she said.

  “And Richard. He’ll find out soon too if he doesn’t already know.” For a second Fingal wondered where his old Warspite might be. If at sea for any length of time, the first telegram might not yet have reached her. One thing was for sure now. Richard would find out that his son was safe within moments of the battleship dropping anchor.

  “Can we do the presents now? And there’s something I want to say,” Deirdre said.