An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (28 page)

“Thank you,” he said, loving her calm, no-nonsense courage. She squeezed his arm and smiled and they continued down Commercial Road arm in arm.

*   *   *

Fingal pushed his empty plate away—he'd had that Melton Mowbray pie Richard Wilcoxson had asked him to have for him on that last day on
Warspite
. “If we finish up our cups of tea in about twenty minutes, it's only a short walk from here back to Guildhall Walk.
Stagecoach
with John Wayne and Claire Trevor is on at the New Theatre Royal there. We'd have time to see it and catch the ferry back to Gosport and get you to the station.”

“That would be lovely,” Deirdre said, and smiled at him across their table in the crowded Trafalgar pub restaurant. Conversations were muted and tobacco smoke filled the air. Her purchases, mostly of “women's things” for her trousseau, were in a number of paper bags with sisal carrying loops. She'd set the bags on one of the two extra chairs at their table. “You were very good about me dragging you round all those shops. Wartime shortages don't make finding things you want easy. And I do like Claire Trevor.”

He shook his head and laughed. He understood exactly what she was saying, but not out loud. You've paid your dues this afternoon, Fingal darling, and were quite bored to death, I know. I'm not very fond of Westerns, but if it's what you want, pet, I'm happy to oblige.

“Good,” he said. “That's settled then.” And like a schoolboy on a first date, he hoped the back stalls were very dimly lit.

There was the loud creak of a spring hinge and a draft as the pub door opened. Fingal reflexively glanced over to see who had come in, not expecting it to be anyone he knew. He was wrong. In walked Leading Seaman Alf Henson with a petite blonde on his arm. She wore a red suit with padded shoulders and a pale blue beret tilted to one side of her head. The headgear had a large satin bow on its front. There was a slightly sallow tinge to her complexion. The rating was smartly turned out in his best shoregoing square rig: circular hat set at a slight tilt, tally ribbon round it and bearing the letters HMS knotted over his right eye, flat collar with its edge of alternating blue and three white stripes hanging behind the neck of his regulation jumper. The stripes were, erroneously, believed to celebrate Nelson's three victories. The bellbottoms of his trousers had five razor-sharp horizontal creases. If Henson had been taller there would have been seven. He carried a standard-issue Burberry raincoat over his arm.

Henson looked round and was clearly disappointed that he could not find a place. Fingal knew Deirdre would not mind company, and although the navy frowned on fraternisation between officers and men, Fingal was not in uniform. It would be the decent thing to do to offer to share the table. He rose. “Henson. Henson.”

The Yorkshire man looked round, saw Fingal, and immediately came to attention. “Sir.”

“Belay that ‘sir,'” Fingal said. “Stand easy, bring your young lady over here and have a pew. We'll be leaving in a few minutes.” He stood up.

A battle raged across the man's open face as he clearly struggled with a great desire to get his girlfriend seated and his awe of an officer, even a mere lieutenant.

Meanwhile Deirdre had set her shopping bags on the floor.

Henson approached. “If you're sure it's all right, sir.”

Fingal grinned and said, “I'd like you to meet my fiancée, Nurse Deirdre Mawhinney. Deirdre, this is Leading Seaman Henson. He was the first man to welcome me aboard
Warspite
in the Clyde last year.”

Deirdre smiled her generous, welcoming smile and said, “So you and Lieutenant O'Reilly are shipmates?”

“Yes, miss.”

“And who's your charming friend?”

“Elsie Gorman,” Henson said, the pride in his voice obvious. “She's a right bobby-dazzler, isn't she?”

Fingal thought it impolite on such short acquaintance to agree that she was indeed very lovely. Instead he said, “Well, Elsie, if you don't sit down soon, my tea's going to get cold.” He held a chair for her.

“Ta ever so much,” she said, and sat. “Come on, Alf. The nice officer won't bite.”

Henson sat at attention.

“Having a run ashore, Henson?” Fingal asked, remembering that all of the navy's shore establishments, “stone frigates,” were organised as if they were ships at sea.

“I am that, sir,” Henson said.

“Good for you. So am I.” Fingal noticed that Deirdre had already drawn Elsie into conversation by showing the girl one of the afternoon's purchases.

“And begging your pardon, sir, it was kind of you sending your regards with CPO McIlroy.” Henson sat less stiffly. “He's a right good bloke, for an Irishma—” Henson must have recognised the enormity of what he had just said. Wasn't his lieutenant one? He blushed beetroot red, muttering, “Sorry—”

“He is,” Fingal said with a grin, fully understanding that the huge regional mix in
Warspite
's crew brought inevitable rivalries. He followed up in kind. “And you're not a bad lad—for a Yorkshire tyke.” His voice became more serious. “And I took no offence, Henson. So don't worry.”

“That's right decent of you, sir, and I do apologise.”

“Accepted.” The poor man was trembling. “So tell me, because I'm certainly having fun learning new things,” move the conversation along, “how's your course going?”

Henson's smile was the vast gap-toothed one Fingal remembered from
Warspite
. “I couldn't be happier, sir. All the instructors want us to learn. I told you that I'm career navy. The chief reckons I'm going to come out top of my class.”

“Excuse me, sir?” a waitress in frilly apron and starched white cap said to Henson. “Would sir like to order?”

“Yes, please. Two cream teas.”

“And could I have our bill?” Fingal finished his tea.

“Certainly, sir.”

Henson explained to Fingal as the waitress left, “Elsie and me made up our minds before we came in that's what we wanted. We come here quite a lot. Anyway, he reckons if I go on like I am, I can expect to be a petty officer soon. And I'll be going back to
Warspite
.”

“Me too,” Fingal said.

Lord knew what the two women had found so funny, but peals of laughter rang out.

“If you don't mind me saying, sir, your fiancée is very lovely.”

“I don't mind one bit. So's your Elsie.”

Henson lowered his voice. “She's a bomb girl.”

That explained her sallow complexion. Girls were now doing men's jobs, and young Elsie Gorman would be spending her days, and perhaps nights, filling shells with highly explosive cordite and sulphur in a munitions factory in some hush-hush location. The chemicals in the explosives turned hair and skin permanently yellow.

“I worry about her all the time.” He looked down at the tabletop. “There was an accident at her factory last week. Two girls killed. They have to be so careful, one spark and…” He looked fondly yet with concern at her. “I'm daft about her. I've not bought the ring yet, but she says she'll wait and once I am a petty officer and can afford it and the war is over…”

And Fingal's heart went out to the ambitious, lovesick young man. “I'm sure everything will work out perfectly,” he said. “They're a bloody brave lot, those girls. Miss Mawhinney's doing her bit in the Land Army…”

“Your bill, sir,” the waitress said.

Fingal looked at it, produced a ten-shilling note, and said, “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, sir.” She turned to Henson. “And your teas will be here in a minute, luv.”

Fingal rose. “I wish you the best of luck, Henson, on your course. Keep on working hard because I know you're going to succeed.” And that wasn't a platitude. Fingal was cheering for the man to do well. “I'll look forward to seeing you back on our ship, and your getting a petty officer's two fouled anchors and a crown on your sleeve, and, for goodness' sake, man, don't get up.”

As Henson retook his place, Fingal said, “Deirdre, time we were off.” He helped her to pick up her purchases.

Now a lady was standing, Henson did rise. “Thank you very much, sir, for sharing your table and for the encouragement. I know I'm going to do well. I just know it.” His enthusiasm shone.

“So do I.” Fingal smiled at Elsie and said, “Nice to have met you, briefly. Enjoy your tea.”

She bobbed and said, “Thank you.”

“Good-bye, sir,” Henson said. “Safe home.”

Fingal held the door for Deirdre and they walked together along blacked-out Edinburgh Street.

She held his hand, made him stop, and kissed him. “Fingal O'Reilly,” she said, “I think that was the sweetest thing inviting a rating and his girlfriend to join us. I don't think many officers would have.”

Fingal frowned and said, “He's a nice, hard-working, ambitious young man; we had spare seats. It seemed natural. I discovered he's in love.”

“Elsie told me. Elsie's really funny, I was perfectly happy to have them, but you are a lieutenant and there is naval protocol.”

“Bugger protocol,” he said. “And I'll not be a lieutenant for long,” he said, and kissed her. “And when I'm a lieutenant-commander, I'm going to marry the most beautiful girl in the world.” He started to walk and tugged her hand. “Now,” he said, “let's go and see John Wayne shoot the bad guys—and for just a bit longer forget there's a war on.”

 

21

I Will Make Thee a Terror to Thyself

O'Reilly ignored the ringing of the telephone and, putting down his newspaper, said to Barry, “I see they're forecasting there might be floods in Florence and Venice by tomorrow.”

“Worrying,” Barry said. “But, of course, as Robert Benchley telegraphed to David Niven about Venice: ‘Streets full of water. Advise.' So it shouldn't change much there at least.”

O'Reilly's chuckle was cut short by a “Doctor O'Reilly” from the hall.

There was something different in Kinky's voice.

“I think you'd better come to the phone, sir. Now.”

This wasn't the amused tolerance of a couple of weeks ago when she'd asked him to speak to Donal Donnelly. She was disturbing him in the middle of lunch to speak directly to a patient. Something serious was going on. He left Barry to finish his meal and galloped to the hall where the usually unflappable Kinky stood, hand over the mouthpiece, eyes wide, and saying sotto voce, “It's that Doctor Fitzpatrick, sir. Something's very wrong and he won't tell me what. I do not like the man at all, but he sounded mortal petrified, so.” She offered O'Reilly the receiver.

“Ronald? Fingal here. What's wrong?”

The man's voice came over the line. “Fingal, can you come to my surgery at once, please? Please?” The tones were quavering. The man did sound terrified.

“Do you want to tell me what's up?” O'Reilly said. He lifted his shoulders at Kinky and widened his eyes in question.

“Please just come. I'm—I'm frightened.”

“Leave the front door open. I'm coming,” O'Reilly said and, not waiting for an answer, put the phone down. “Doctor Fitzpatrick's in some kind of trouble.” O'Reilly called through the dining room door, “Barry, will you make my home visits this afternoon? I have to rush round to Fitzpatrick's. I've no time to explain.”

“Sure,” came back the answer. “Never worry.”

Blessing Barry's good-natured willingness, O'Reilly grabbed his bag from the surgery and charged through the house and back garden yelling a quick “stay” at Arthur.

He piled into the big Rover, started the engine, slammed the car into gear, let out the clutch—and promptly stalled. “Jasus Murphy,” he said aloud to himself.
“Festina lente.”

Once on Ballybucklebo's Main Street he had no choice but to make haste slowly. Thursday was market day, and even in early November it was a busy time. Cars and carts were parked higgledy-piggledy at the sides of the road, reducing traffic flow to one lane, which was creeping along behind a farmer on a rusty bicycle, and his border collie driving a small herd of Jersey cows up the middle of the road. Attar of cow clap mingled with car exhaust in the sea-misty air. O'Reilly sat pounding his fist on the steering wheel and yelling, “Come on. Come on.” Fortunately, the cattle were going his way and were no respecters of traffic lights. They meandered on through the green, amber, and red, which gave him the chance to turn right onto Station Road and, thirty-mile-an-hour speed limit be damned, roar on to the Kinnegar.

He only wished his Rover had a siren and flashing lights like the police cars driven by TV's Sergeant Joe Friday of
Dragnet
. Whatever neurological disorder ailed the man, it must have worsened.

He parked by the seawall on the Kinnegar's Esplanade, grabbed his bag, piled out, and tore through Fitzpatrick's hall and on into his surgery.

Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick sat behind his desk on the raised dais with his elbows on the desktop, his forehead resting on the palms of his hands. He looked up and Fingal saw that beneath the gold pince-nez were tear tracks down the man's hollow cheeks.

“Fingal,” he said, “thank God you've come.” He sniffed, swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed. “It's my legs,” he said. “My legs.” His voice quavered. “I can hardly move them.” He stared into O'Reilly's eyes. “Help me. Please.”

“Of course.” Fingal stepped up on the dais and, very sure of the importance of human touch to a man in distress, laid a companionable hand on Fitzpatrick's shoulder, handed him a hanky, and said, “Here. Blow your nose. You'll feel better.”

“Thank you.” Fitzpatrick sniffed and honked.

O'Reilly's mind was racing like one of those newfangled IBM computers. Add weakness of the legs to lack of pain and heat sensation in the hands and almost certainly something ominous was happening in the spinal cord. Probably at the place where it left the brain to run down the spinal column and provide the body with its controlling nervous system that conveyed messages to and from the brain. The range of potential causes was large, and the investigation, diagnosis, and correct treatment—if the causative condition were to be treatable—were far beyond the capabilities of a rural GP.