An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (23 page)

“Please. I'm Surgeon Lieutenant O'Reilly, temporarily attached to Haslar. My fiancée, Nurse Mawhinney,” he nodded to Deirdre, “and I will be married in three weeks. We've been advised to enquire about getting a furnished flat here.”

“You've come to the right place, sir. We do have a number of vacancies. If you'd like to inspect one?”

“Very much.” Fingal felt Deirdre give his arm an almighty squeeze.

“Here's the keys to number 2B. It's the best of the lot,” the man said. “Up that left-hand staircase, then turn to your left, and it's the fourth door on the right. It's a front-facing one so you'll have a bit of a view over the Solent. You can watch the Fishbourne-Portsmouth Ferry go by.”

“Thank you,” Fingal said, accepting the keys and thinking that while the ferry must be a delightful sight to see, in moments he was going to have Deirdre all to himself in private, with the door closed.

As soon as it was shut, he enfolded her in a massive hug and kissed her with all the longing deep in him. She kissed him back, lips on lips, tongue on tongue, a long, yearning kiss that made him shudder, but then she moved back.

“I want you so much, darling,” she said, “but not here. Not yet.”

He couldn't speak, simply stood holding her hand, waiting for his breathing to come under control, his heart to stop pounding.

“I do love you so, Fingal,” she said. “Later.”

And he wondered how much later?

“Can we have a look around?” she said, and began to lead him along a narrow hall.

He was less interested in the physical surroundings. The place was clean with no musty smell, and a small hall led to a combined sitting room and dining room. Doors led to bedrooms, one on either side of the hall.

“Look, Fingal. A double bed,” she said.

“Splendid.” Vivid images of lovemaking filled his mind.

“And a coal fire. We can roast chestnuts at Christmas.” And make love in front of the fire. He pictured that too.

She disappeared through a door at the side of the dining area. He heard drawers being opened and shut, the clanking of pots and dishes. When she reappeared she said, “I'm sure it's a lovely kitchen, but I'm not much of a cook. I'll have to buy a cookbook.”

Images of home-cooked meals fled and he laughed. “Well, if we're stuck, I'm sure we'll be able to get a bite next door in the hotel.”

“The hotel,” she said, and he was surprised by the huskiness of her voice. She came back into the main room, composed again, her voice matter-of-fact. “Have you any idea what you have to do to get a flat here?”

He laughed again. “Well, that CPO didn't look like someone who'd take a bribe. He did say there were vacancies. I'm sure people are always coming and going. I reckon if we go through the proper channels, Mrs. O'Reilly-very-soon-to-be, and we're good little boys and girls, the navy will let us stay here.” He hugged her again and kissed her, but gently.

“Not too good, I hope. Do please try to get it for us, Fingal.” She stared out the window over the street, a few low houses, a green space, and out to the grey, choppy Solent and the Isle of Wight beyond. “And I love the view,” she said. “It's not quite the same as looking across Belfast Lough to the Antrim Hills, but it does remind me of home. I can hardly wait until November the first. Shall we have a honeymoon?”

“Angus has promised me a short bit of leave.”

“Wonderful,” she said. “We must ask Marge's advice about where to go.”

“All right,” he said.

“Now, did someone suggest a meal at the Anglesey?”

“Marge said they do a decent supper,” he said.

“And she told me that Queen Victoria used to sleep there on the way to her house on the Isle of Wight.” She began a slow, inviting smile as she rummaged in her handbag. “It must be nice to sleep there, in the Anglesey,” she said, and that husky tone was back.

What was she hinting? Fingal wondered. Even in wartime, English hotels, at least the reputable ones, would demand evidence that a couple was married. His eyes widened. Good Lord.

Deirdre had produced a shiny, narrow, gold-coloured ring and slipped it on the ring finger of her left hand. “I believe,” she said, “you're not on duty again until Monday, and I'm perfectly sure the man at reception will never have seen either of us.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips.

Fingal shuddered, took a very deep breath, and, trying to control a slight tremble in his voice, said, “But we've no luggage. They'll still not believe us.” Amazing how the war had brought so many social conventions tumbling down. The desk staff were still duty-bound to go through the motions of insisting that a couple be married before they could get a room, but young people, driven by the very real fear that the man might never come back, were determined to seize life—and love.

“Oh, Fingal,” she said, moved against him and kissed him long and hard. “I'm sure you have a suitcase in your quarters and it's only two miles there and back.” Her next kiss was harder, her tongue on his, her firm breasts against his chest. “I'm certain a walk would do us good, and I'm sure it'll help us work up quite an appetite.” Her wink was slow.

So that's what “later” had meant. And Fingal O'Reilly laughed as if he'd never stop, then held her and said, “I love you, Deirdre Mawhinney. And I'll love you to the grave and beyond.” He tugged her toward the door. “Come on,” he said, “let's go for a walk.”

 

17

The Bird Is on the Wing

“There you are, John.” O'Reilly handed the Marquis of Ballybucklebo a prescription for hydrochlorothiazide. “One tablet twice a day'll keep the old blood pressure under control for another six months.”

“Thanks, Fingal,” the marquis said, “and I appreciate your coming out to the house to examine me, particularly on such a miserable day.” There was a tired note to his voice.

The October drizzle had started after Kitty and O'Reilly had finished their lunch, just before she'd headed off to her third-Saturday-of-the-month painting group in Belfast and he'd collected Arthur and driven out here. Jenny, who still hadn't made up her mind about leaving, was on call, and Barry had gone with Helen Hewitt to watch Jack Mills play rugby.

Raindrops coursed down the mullioned windows of his lordship's study.

“A bit of rain never hurt anybody,” O'Reilly said, and laughed. “And we can't expect the lord of the manor to sit in my waiting room with the peasantry. I was passing anyway. I'm going snipe shooting at the Kearney farm.”

“Are you, by Jove?” The marquis looked wistful. “I envy you.”

“With all your pheasant on the estate and grouse up on your moors above the Glens of Antrim?”

The marquis frowned and sighed. “Your rough shooting doesn't cost you a penny. I spent all day yesterday with the estate manager, going over my expenses for the last quarter.”

O'Reilly waited but was not surprised when the marquis left the matter hanging in midair. He was not the kind of man to wash his dirty linen in public, even if that public was his friend and trusted physician. That notwithstanding, O'Reilly inferred that John MacNeill was worried about money—again. Since the institution by the Asquith government in 1914 of heavy death duties on big estates, running one had become a burden for many titled landowners. O'Reilly knew his friend was still paying off the duties occasioned by the death of his father. “Got you worried?” he asked.

The marquis pursed his lips. “I'll have to start cutting back somewhere. Didn't sleep too much last night trying to decide where.”

O'Reilly hesitated. His formal medical training told him to ask a leading question, try to get the man to talk more about his concerns. His knowledge of John MacNeill suggested a different approach. “Would an afternoon out with me and Arthur in the bog cheer you up? I'm sure the Kearneys won't mind if I bring you along.”

The marquis smiled, then sobered. “You're quite sure I wouldn't be intruding on your privacy?”

“Not at all. Arthur and I would enjoy your company.”

“Do you know,” he said, rising, “I think it would work wonders. I really do. Blow away the cobwebs. Give me a minute, Fingal. I'll get myself organised. And thank you.”

He tugged a cord that would make a bell ring in the servants' quarters. “Will we need another dog? I can bring Sophie.”

“No need. It's not a big piece of cover and with two dogs we'd be finished in no time. I want Arthur to earn his keep today. It's his idea of doggy heaven pushing up and retrieving game.”

“Fair enough.”

Thompson, the valet/butler appeared. “My lord?”

“Thompson, I'm going snipe shooting with Doctor O'Reilly.”

“Yes, sir, and good morning, Commander O'Reilly.”

“Morning, Thompson.” The man had been a CPO gunner on
Warspite
in the Med. He always used O'Reilly's naval title.

“The twenty bore with number eight cartridges and your game bag, sir?” Thompson said.

“Precisely,” the marquis said, “and if you'll excuse me, Fingal, I'll just be a minute changing into my shooting gear, then we'll be off.”

And the lift in his voice, the grin on his face were all that it took to convince O'Reilly that he had indeed prescribed the right medicine for his old friend.

*   *   *

O'Reilly knocked on the door to the Kearneys' farmhouse. Blue smoke straggled up from a chimney and the air was redolent of burning turf. He turned up the collar of his Barbour waterproof jacket. The rain wasn't heavy, but was, as the locals said, the kind that wets you. And the temperature was down. If it sank a couple more degrees, O'Reilly reckoned the drizzle would turn to snow.

Arthur, seemingly uncaring of the cold, sat and stared up at his master. His otter tail made lazy trips back and forth across the flagstones of the path.

Lorna opened the door. She stood with one hand supporting the small of her back. Her thirty-week pregnancy was obvious now. “Doctor O'Reilly.” She smiled and glanced at the game bag slung over O'Reilly's shoulder, the open double-barrelled twelve-bore shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm. “Come for a shot at the snipe?”

“If that's still all right with you and Reggie and—”

Her eyes widened and she dropped a curtsey as the marquis walked from the car, bent to give Arthur a quick pat, and stood at O'Reilly's side. “My lord,” she said.

“I hope you and Reggie won't mind if his lordship keeps me company,” O'Reilly said.

She stood and spoke to the marquis. “It would be a great honour, sir,” she said.

“It would be very gracious of you and your husband,” the marquis said, “and I shall be most grateful.”

“You tear away, sirs…” She frowned, pursed her lips, inhaled.

Clearly, O'Reilly thought, she's trying to work out the correct thing to do. By her smile, she'd arrived at a decision.

“And if you're cold when you're done, call in for a cup of tea in your hand,” she smiled, “or maybe you'll be ready for a wee hot half-un?”

“It would be a very great pleasure,” the marquis said, “and please do not go to any trouble. I know I should be delighted to have a whiskey.”

“Ah,” said O'Reilly, “mother's milk. I'll take you up on that too.” Clever of the marquis, he thought, asking for whiskey. If there'd been any suggestion of a cup of tea, she might have spent the rest of the afternoon baking, getting out the best china, probably washing and ironing her best tablecloth.

“We'll head on,” O'Reilly said.

“Rather you nor me,” she said, and shivered. “You'd think as a good Ulsterwoman I'd be used til the rain, but, och.” She hunched her head down into her shoulders. “I'd rather curl up in front of the fire with a good book. I've just started on
Some Experiences of an Irish RM.
Them two what wrote it were quare gags, so they were.”

She's got over her shock at seeing the marquis, O'Reilly thought. John MacNeill had a knack for putting folks at their ease.

“Sommerville and Ross,” the marquis said. “As I recall they were cousins, two women actually. And weren't they funny indeed. Very funny. I believe my father met them several times, fox hunting.”

“Honest to God, your lordship?”

“Mmm.”

“Sometimes,” said O'Reilly, “I think one of their characters, the ever-scheming Flurry Knox, was a model for our Donal.” O'Reilly wondered how Bluebird's pups were doing.

“Donal? One of a kind, but with a heart of corn.” She moved a step back. “Anyroad, I'd keep you colloguing all day, sirs, so away you on and enjoy your sport. Just walk in when you get back. I've for til go til my sister's, but Reggie'll be here and he'll see til youse.”

O'Reilly blinked raindrops from his eyelashes, pulled the brim of his Paddy hat down, said, “Thank you, Lorna. Come on, John,” and began to walk. “Heel, Arthur.”

The marquis walked at O'Reilly's shoulder and the big dog tucked in.

As they walked in silence, O'Reilly pictured Lorna going round like a liltie getting the living room redd up and prepared for a visit from a peer of the realm. She'd boast about it to her friends for months. He reckoned she'd been too overawed by meeting the marquis to enquire about the blood tests. Which was probably all to the good. The results were back and her husband Reggie was Rhesus positive, and nothing more could be done until about thirty-four weeks, when further testing would be needed to see if the baby was affected.

They climbed over a stile in a low drystone wall and into a field that sloped gently down to marshy, low-lying land. Ahead in the distance, the battleship grey of the waters of Belfast Lough fused with the darker Antrim Hills whose tops seemed to have been welded to the pewter-coloured sky.