An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (32 page)

The rattle of a lump of coal falling more deeply into the grate distracted O'Reilly, who glanced at the fire then back to Barry and his work. The eighteenth-century, twenty-gun, three-masted frigate that Barry had told him was a replica of the real HMS
Rattlesnake
had come on apace since that conversation. Barry was spending even more time working on it since Sue had gone to Marseilles as part of a teacher exchange. The under hull was now covered in mahogany planks, each held in place by tiny brass nails. The upper strakes had been sanded and varnished and the lower hull and keel painted white. The upper works, fo'c'sle, gangways, main deck, and quarterdeck too were completed. The muzzles of ten black cannons on each side poked through the open gun ports.

O'Reilly watched as Barry manipulated two sets of surgical forceps using the same technique he would have to tie a knot when suturing. He finished lashing down the tiny longboat he had built plank by plank. It now sat firmly on chocks in the centre of the main deck.

“Got it,” Barry said, and straightened up. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Fingal, but I've just spent ten minutes working on that lashing.”

“Your patience amazes me, Barry,” O'Reilly said. “And such finicky work.”

“It's fun,” Barry said, picking up a miniature oar in his forceps and manoeuvring it into the longboat. “And with Sue in France it keeps me away from bad company…”

O'Reilly could understand that a young man, full of vim and vigour, could be tempted when his fiancée was away for six months, particularly when he had a friend like Jack Mills, whose genetic makeup must have DNA strands from Don Juan, Casanova, and a Grecian satyr.

“And yes, I do mean Jack,” Barry said, and laughed.

“I didn't say a word.” Fingal raised his hands, cocked his head.

“Jack jokes about how it's the perfect time to play the field a bit, before Sue and I get married. That what the eye doesn't see—”

“The heart doesn't grieve over. I know.” Yet O'Reilly also knew that nothing would distract Barry. In all his time here, he had consistently shown he was a young man who believed that a promise was a promise.

“Anyhow, you have my attention now,” Barry said. “What's up with Fitzpatrick?”

“I'm just back from running him up to the Royal. He's in there now with an as-yet-undiagnosed neurological disorder. Probably high spinal. Fair play to the man; not only was he terrified about what his medical future would hold, he also had the worry about what would happen to his patients in his absence. Medically there's nothing us GPs can do. That's up to Charlie Greer and his staff.”

“And does your friend Mister Greer have any notion, Fingal?”

O'Reilly nodded. “He reckons something's going on between the base of the skull and the fourth or fifth cervical vertebrae. They'll be running tests tomorrow. Should have a better idea by the afternoon. I intend to go up to see Fitzpatrick later in the day. The poor divil has no family and I don't think he's got many friends.”

Barry shook his head. “He's not the friendly type.”

“That's partly why I'm going to go,” O'Reilly said. “And I'm curious to learn what's wrong. Then, regardless of the diagnosis, hopeful or hopeless, we have to do our bit for him in the short term. He has patients out there who need care. I've promised Fitzpatrick that we'd cover his practice.”

“Least we can do,” Barry said at once. “And I'm sure we can count on Jenny.”

“Good for you.” Barry's immediate response pleased O'Reilly. He'd known doctors who, when faced with an increased caseload, would complain and try to avoid the work. Barry Laverty didn't merely work as a doctor, he was one from head to toe. “I'll ask her first thing tomorrow. I'm sure we can work out the details and cope for a while anyway.”

“Anything you say, Fingal. I know you'll organize things fair and square.” Barry lifted a miniature capstan, inspected it, and unscrewed the lid of a tube of glue. He held the capstan in his forceps and put a tiny drop of glue on its bottom, then placed the capstan gently down in the centre line of the foredeck. “One thing occurs to me about Fitzpatrick's patients, though.”

“Let's hear it.”

“What about getting their medical records?”

O'Reilly frowned. “I hadn't thought of that. I'll talk to Ronald about it tomorrow. I'm sure there'll be a way.”

“I'll leave it with you, but it would help to have them.” Barry made a fine adjustment to the capstan's positioning.

“I think you've got that spot-on,” O'Reilly said.

Barry cocked his head to one side and inspected the now-installed capstan. “Pretty much.” He set down the forceps. “The extra work. It'll put a bit of a crimp in my boatbuilding, but I'm not on any deadline to finish it.” He recapped the glue tube. He sighed. “I'll be honest though, Fingal. If Sue was here and not in France, I'd not be so keen to do more medicine. I'd do it, but—”

“You're missing her, aren't you?”

Barry nodded. “A lot. Sue's fun to be with and we love spending time together, but she also seems to understand that I have a demanding mistress—medicine—and doesn't mind. She has interests of her own. But she also doesn't let me make it all-consuming.”

Like it was for a certain rural GP until Kitty O'Hallorhan came back into his life, O'Reilly thought.

“What you said earlier this year about doctors needing other interests? I'd given up my sailing all the years I was at medical school. I've just been able to start again in the summers with Sue as part of the crew. It's been wonderful. And I'm back to doing this.” He pointed at the ship. “I read, do crosswords, take Arthur out for walks, but they're all pretty solitary pursuits. Sue makes me do new things, and with her they're all exciting. You'd be amazed how interesting archaeology is, and how much Neolithic stuff there is all over Ireland. Just before she left, Sue and I visited the Norman motte at Holywood and Carrickfergus Castle over on the Antrim shore. It was built in 1177.”

O'Reilly laughed. “You'd be amazed how much I've learned about wines, oil painting, even a bit of cooking since Kitty and I got married. Before that, listening to my records, reading, and wildfowling … and you're right, they are solitary.” Which is all I wanted after Deirdre. But, close as he and Barry were becoming, and even though he had explained a bit about his first marriage to Barry, O'Reilly did not want to dwell on that today.

“Three more months before she's home,” Barry said. “It'll seem like an eternity.”

“It'll pass. And the practice will keep you busy,” O'Reilly said.

Barry smiled. “At least,” he said, “I may be able to finish old
Rattlesnake
here.”

“How long before you start on the rigging? It must be a pretty fiddly job.”

Barry got off his chair. He went to a small desk, came back, and unfolded a large sheet of paper, which he laid on the tabletop. “Come and have a look at this. It's the rigging plan.”

O'Reilly crossed the floor. The page showed the hull cut off at deck level. The masts, bowsprit, and the assorted yards, the horizontal poles from which the square sails would be set, were drawn in. From them and to them ran a veritable spider's web of lines, blocks, and tackles. He laughed and said, “The rigging's a lot more complicated than on my old
Warspite,
but it's not as jumbled up as it looks, because, like everything else in the Royal Navy, they had a system. The fore and main masts each had three sections. The lowest that was set on the keel and came out through the deck was the mast. The next was the topmast, and the highest the t'gallant mast. Some supporting ropes ran fore and aft. The main stay went to the main mast, the main topmast stay to the second of the vertical poles, and the main t'gallant stay to the t'gallant mast.”

“I'm impressed,” Barry said. “Did you have to learn about square riggers in the war?”

“No.” O'Reilly shook his head. “No, we'd no time for learning useless arcana. I've loved C. S. Forester's ‘Hornblower' books about Nelson's navy since I was a lad.”

“My dad has them too. They're terrific,” Barry said. He glanced back at the plans. “It's going to be a lot of work, rigging her, but there's a shortcut.” He winked at O'Reilly. “All the standing rigging, the ropes that held the masts up, as opposed to the running rigging used to control the sails, is meant to be dyed black. It takes forever, but I have a source of great black thread of exactly the right size.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. Jack Mills pinches surgical silk sutures for me.”

“Does he, by God?”

Barry nodded.

“Young Laverty,” O'Reilly said, “I think you've been in too close contact with Donal Donnelly.”

The two men laughed, then O'Reilly said, “I just heard Kitty come in. Why don't you finish up whatever you need to do to your ship then join us for a predinner drink? We can tell her how we're going to help Fitzpatrick and his patients so she can brief him tomorrow when she goes to work. That'll maybe take a bit of a load off the poor man's mind before he goes for all the delights,” O'Reilly shuddered, “of lumbar punctures and myelograms.”

 

24

By the Oak Trees' Mossy Moot

“Penny for the Guy, guv?” Two scruffy kids, both in short flannel pants, grey shirts, and raggedy V-neck pullovers, were dragging a two-wheeled handcart containing a straw-stuffed effigy of a man with a thin moustache, vandyke beard on his painted face, and a pointed black hat. The boys stopped Fingal and Deirdre as they strolled hand in hand along the single-lane High Street of Lyndhurst in the centre of the New Forest. The houses on each side were of different heights, most with second storeys fronted with white stucco and black half-timbering in the Tudor style. Fingal could picture a gunpowder plotter feeling quite at home here if the cars were replaced by horses.

“Where are you two from?” Fingal asked. “Guv,” short for governor, was London slang.

“Me and my brother Fred's from Wapping near London Docks. We're wot's called ‘vacuees.' Been here since September.”

Thousands of children had been evacuated from the bigger cities to the countryside to protect them from air raids, and given the pasting the London Docks had taken, a bloody good thing, too.

“We always had a big party on Guy Fawkes Night back home…” the bigger boy sounded sad, “and I didn't want Fred to miss it too like he's missing Mum and Dad, so penny for the guy, guv.”

“You'll have to sing for it,” O'Reilly said with a grin, “and tell us who Guy Fawkes was.”

“Ready, Fred?” They chanted rather than sang, their high voices in unison,

Remember, remember the fifth of November, gunpowder treason and plot

We see no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.

Deirdre laughed and clapped her hands. “Well done, boys. Now, do what you've been asked, tell us who Guy Fawkes was. We're from Ireland and we don't have Guy Fawkes Night there.”

The taller said, “Righty-o, missus. In 1605, a bunch of men plotted to kill King James the First. One was called Guido Fawkes. They hid gunpowder under the House of Lords in London to blow the king up. But their plot got found out and…” He bared his clenched teeth, widened his eyes, and scrunched his shoulders, before saying in a quavery voice, “The plotters was hung, drawn, and quartered.” The boy stopped to draw in a breath, clearly relishing the grisly fate of the men. “Ever since, us English have celebrated the saving of King James by having bonfires and letting off fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night, the fifth of November.”

“But we can't let off any fireworks or have any bonfires,” said his brother, “'cos of the bleeding blackout. Bloody Hitler…”

“But me and my brother reckoned we could still try to collect a few bob today just like before the war to help remember, like, and remember Wapping—” He broke into a wide grin. “And we've got some sweetie coupons.”

“Good for you,” Fingal said. “Here. Here's sixpence.” He handed Fred, the smaller boy, the little silver coin.

“Oooh. Thanks, guv,” the taller one said, and tugged his forelock. “Come on, Fred.” And off they trotted down the street, dragging their cart behind them.

Fingal and Deirdre continued at their leisurely pace toward their hotel, the New Forest Inn on Emery Down. After a simple lunch at the White Rabbit on Romsey Road, they'd strolled along the High Street, passing the imposing, redbrick Saint Michael and All Angels Church, high on a mound overlooking the village, its towering spire of silvery slate glinting in the sun.

“Kids,” Deirdre said, and laughed. “Shall we have lots, Fingal?”

He chuckled. “Many as you like,” he said. “I've always fancied being a daddy, Mrs. O'Reilly.” He lowered his head to be nearer her ear and added, “And it's lots of fun trying. Shall we try again when we get back to our room? It's only about half a mile to go.” And he wrapped himself in the glow of their honeymoon, now five days old. Fingal O'Reilly had never been more content, more happy, more hopelessly in love in all his thirty-two years.

Deirdre looked up into his eyes and said sternly, “You, Surgeon Lieutenant-Commander O'Reilly, are a typical sailor man if all reports about them are true. You're turning into a satyr, or if you prefer Ulsterese, a randy old goat. What you need is a bit of exercise to work down your lunch.”

“Aaaaaw,” he said, turning his lips down to twenty to four. Could the girl who had blinded him with her responsiveness, her sometimes furious, sometimes languorous, always loving, lovemaking be tiring? Or was she teasing him?

“And calm your ardour too. Do you remember the day in September last year when you proposed to me?”