An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (11 page)

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 little 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.”

O'Reilly guffawed and choked on his pre-dinner Jameson. When he had wiped his chin with a hanky he said, “That paints a picture that would make a cat laugh.”

Barry fondled Lady Macbeth's head. “Would it?” The little cat squirmed comfortably on his lap and stuck out her pink tongue. “Apparently not,” he said, “but it certainly gave us trouble keeping straight faces when Donal told us.”

“I'm sure,” O'Reilly said, “if Brian is going to be a daddy of little mongrels, Donal will work out some way to salvage matters.”

“If he doesn't, you're going to be two pounds out of pocket,” Barry said. “We shook on it.”

“Least of my worries,” O'Reilly said, and frowned.

Kitty's smile faded. “It's Ronald Fitzpatrick, isn't it? I'm guessing you weren't able to persuade him to see sense,” she said.

“That man wouldn't know wisdom if it bit his backside,” O'Reilly said. “He can be thick as two short planks. I invited him round for tea when we get back from Spain. I can only hope you'll be able to persuade him to—never mind seeing sense. We have to get him to see Charlie, Kitty.”

Kitty smiled at him and said, “I'll try.”

Lord, he thought, if Kitty had flashed her smile at Pharaoh, his hard heart would have melted and the children of Israel would have been given picnic lunches to help them on their way to the Promised Land.

“I'll be happy to have him round and I will do my best,” she said, “but knowing you, Fingal, I'm sure that between now and then you'll have come up with a Plan B—”

A phone on the coffee table shrilled its double ring and all three stared at the device. “Good God,” said O'Reilly. “I keep forgetting that thing is there.” Recently, at Kitty's urging, and not without bitter complaints about the cost, O'Reilly had had the General Post Office install phone extensions so calls could be taken here and in the doctors' bedrooms.

He picked up the receiver. “O'Reilly.” He paused, listening intently. “I see, Mister Beggs. Any bleeding? Labour pains? Right. Keep her in bed. Nothing to eat or drink and someone'll be right out. What? Not at all. You just sit tight.” He replaced the receiver and sighed. “That was Davy Beggs. Irene suddenly complained of a violent pain in her belly and she's thrown up twice. No bleeding and labour pains, but someone's got to get out there. She's your midder patient, but I'm on call tonight,” said O'Reilly.

“I'll go,” Barry said, decanting Lady Macbeth, who looked indignant even before she hit the ground, then stalked off and leapt onto Kitty's lap.

“Fingal, don't forget we still have to finish getting our packing organized for Barcelona on Friday,” she said.

“We will, love. Well before Friday, but I've seen Irene several times, and I'm the one on call,” O'Reilly said. He and Kitty weren't exactly seeing eye to eye on how much and what they should take.

“I don't think you realise how hot it can get even in September,” she said. “You should bring lighter stuff.”