An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (45 page)

Fingal grimaced. “I'll miss Deirdre like blue blazes. It's going to be hard to leave her in Southampton on the sixth. But I'll have my memories to take back and maybe I'll get a chance for more leave. This bloody war can't last forever. At least she'll be away from England. Farther from the Luftwaffe bases in France.”

“That's true,” said Angus, “and I don't think we need worry about a raid on Christmas Day. There's a rumour that both sides have agreed to an unofficial three-day halt to all bombing, so I've arranged another wee thing. I'm afraid I will need you to nip in and make rounds for most of the Christmas holidays, and then be on call, but there won't be many patients. On the day itself, though, there's no need for you to be there. Be with your Deirdre on Christmas Day. It'll be one more set of memories for you both. But be back on duty at nine
A.M
. sharp on Boxing Day.” He grinned.

“I'm seeing her once I leave here. She will be thrilled, Angus. Thank you.”

A shadow fell over the two men.

O'Reilly turned to see a red-faced Surgeon Commander Fraser standing behind the chair. “I believe,” he said, “I've told you before, O'Reilly, not to interfere with my decisions.”

Fingal stood but said nothing.

“The fingers amputation case.”

Alf Henson had been back on Whale Island for a week now.

“I had lunch today with HMS
Excellent
's MO. You returned the man fit for duty. Why?”

“I did.” No “sir.” It was lucky that rank and titles were not used in the mess, because Fingal did not feel like according the man any respect. “Because he is a committed sailor. The navy and especially gunnery are his life. Henson's instructor, CPO McIlroy, was in for his follow-up yesterday. He told me Henson's as nimble with a couple of joints missing as he was with a complete hand.”

“It's no excuse for disobeying a direct order. I intend to speak directly to the admiral commanding.”

Suit yourself, Fingal thought, keeping his face expressionless. I'll be gone in two weeks. Back on
Warspite
. The thought of Tony Wilcoxson drowning in the icy waters of the North Atlantic, oil and wreckage of his torpedoed ship all around him, hit Fingal like a blow to the solar plexus. That life and that possible death were a damn sight more important than getting his knickers in a knot over a possible reprimand following a complaint by a surgical medical officer whose lack of compassion was stunning. In that moment Fingal renewed his vows, first taken as a student, never to allow any institution, even the navy, to stand between him and what was best for a patient.

“Did you hear me, O'Reilly?”

“Yes, I heard you.”

“Eh, George,” Angus said, “don't be so hasty.”

“What?”

“Simmer down. Take a breather. Fingal's in my department. Complaints must go through me. You know that.”

“I've complained to you once before. Fat lot of good it did.”

Angus ignored the remark. “This man, the gunner, he's doing well, Fingal?”

Fingal nodded. The question was rhetorical.

“And the fighter pilot that our sending to East Grinstead got you all tried, George? Any word about him?”

“Pilot Officer Flip Dennison? I had a letter from him yesterday. I brought it to show you.” Fingal rummaged in his inside pocket. “Here.” He opened the envelope, pulled out a sheet of paper, found the place, and gave the letter to Fraser. “Please read that. From ‘Mister McIndoe has…'”

Fraser said, “I fail to see—”

“Humour us, George, please?” Angus said.

“Oh, very well.” He cleared his throat. “‘Mister McIndoe has done my third operation to give me new eyelids. When they took off the dressing I looked in a mirror and a funny-looking white-faced gorilla looked back.'” Fraser paused. “I don't see what a gorilla has to do with disobeying an order.”

“Go on, George. Keep reading.” There was steel in the Scotsman's tone.

Fraser raised the letter again, squinted at the writing, and sighed. “‘Great puffy ledges under my eyes to allow for shrinkage of the flesh. Once the grafts have taken, he'll need to trim them and tidy them to finish making proper eyelids, but I can see now, half close my eyes, and the doctors here reckon I'll be back in a cockpit in about nine months. I—'”

“I think that's enough,” Angus said. “Now, if you wish to lodge a complaint against a young, idealistic officer in my department who is trying to do his very best for the patients, and seems to be succeeding, please come to my office. I'll be in it next Tuesday.”

Fraser spluttered and thrust the page at Fingal, who stifled a grin and accepted the piece of paper.

“And, George,” Angus said, “do try to remember, it's the season to be jolly. Peace on Earth, goodwill to all men?”

Fraser shook his head. “You're a very difficult man to deal with, Angus Mahaddie.”

“Aye, I ken that very well.”

“And you, O'Reilly, you are an insubordinate pup. Try to behave for your last few days here.” And with that, he spun on his heel and strode out.

Fingal blew out his breath. “Thanks again, Angus. You saved my bacon on that one.”

Angus frowned, shook his head. “No, I did not. In my opinion you were absolutely right and he was wrong. Elizabeth Blenkinsop told me about what you arranged for the gunner with the bust hand. In case you needed support if Fraser found out, she wanted me to know.” He snorted. “Fraser would have amputated. Bloody barbaric.” He looked at Fingal. “And I was impressed that you didn't come running to me for help. The navy values initiative, you know.”

“Getting the man to the Zymotic ward was Elizabeth's idea,” Fingal said.

“No matter. The gunner laddie's doing well.” He sipped his drink. “I have a wee notion Surgeon Commander Fraser might be happier with a posting out of here. Maybe doing less clinical work.”

And less harm, Fingal thought.

Angus tapped his fingernail on the rim of his glass. “Aye,” he said. “Aye. It might just be time to have another word with my friend in London. I'll say no more.” His smile was beatific.

And although he didn't like Fraser, that smile made Fingal shiver.

*   *   *

“It's very good of you both to have come,” Marge said, “do come in.” She held the front door open. Strands of silver hair straggled from her usually immaculate chignon, there were bags under her eyes, and they were bloodshot.

“Any news?” Deirdre asked without moving inside despite the rain bucketing down. “Any word about Tony?” Her words were rushed.

“I'm afraid not.” Marge shook her head. “Please,” she said, “do come in out of the wet. We can talk better when we're comfortable.”

Fingal took Deirdre's elbow and helped her into the hall. The two women hugged as Fingal took off his wet coat and cap, hung them, and helped Deirdre with hers.

“Come through,” Marge said, “the fire's lit. Make yourselves at home. It's only Fingal and Deirdre,” she said to Admiral Benbow, “so settle down. Behave yourself.”

The big dog subsided with a throaty grunt in front of the fire and proceeded to snore.

“The kettle's on. Tea?” Marge said as if the rest of her bridge four had just popped in.

“Please,” Deirdre said, and sat in one armchair as Fingal took the other.

“I know what you both take,” Marge said, heading for the kitchen. “Won't be a jiffy.”

Deirdre whispered, “How can she be so calm?”

“It's her way of hanging on. It's the English way,” said Fingal, as Deirdre bent to stroke one of Benbow's soft ears. “Try to occupy your mind doing routine things. My own ma used to knit or paint like crazy if she was upset. The day my father died, she sat in our sitting room knitting a navy blue muffler for Lars.”

“Dear Ma. I miss her. I can see her doing that,” Deirdre said. She nodded to herself and Fingal could imagine her thinking, I'll remember that in case Fingal—and cut the thought off aborning. There was no need to tempt Providence. “I've asked you already,” she said, “but please tell me again,” she was still whispering, “what are Tony's chances now after two days?”

“Pretty grim,” he said quietly. “His ship went down off Iceland. When the
Titanic
sank in similar waters, people only lasted fifteen to thirty minutes because of the cold.”

“But surely they'd've had lifeboats on his destroyer? How long did Shackleton and his men survive in an open boat trying to get to South Georgia? I remember learning about it in school but I can't recall all the details.”

“I'm not certain,” he said, “but I'm pretty sure it was more than a fortnight.”

“We'll have to tell Marge. She mustn't give up hope. Not yet. Not until she knows for sure or until it truly is hopeless. He could be safe already and we just haven't heard.”

“I love you, Deirdre O'Reilly,” he said. “I love how strong you can be for other people.”

“What,” said Marge, bringing in the tea things on a tray, “are you two whispering about?” She lifted the silver teapot and set it in the hearth. “I'll let it stew for a while.” She put the tray on a table and took the third armchair.

Fingal, usually able to invent a story quickly if the need arose, found himself at a loss for words.

“I can guess, of course,” she said, “and I believe you're both very sweet. You were worrying about me, weren't you?”

“Yes,” said Deirdre, “we were, and Pip, and of course Tony.”

“I feel sick with worry. Sick. What mother wouldn't be? I'm afraid I got very little sleep last night. But I've been through it once before with my husband, Richard.”

This news about his superior on
Warspite
came as a shock to Fingal.

“I shall tell you about it after I've poured,” and with no more ado, as if the only difficulty in her life was the awful rain outside, she prepared and handed out three cups. “Richard, like Tony, was on a destroyer, but at Jutland in 1916,” she said, and sipped her tea. “HMS
Turbulent
. She was sunk in the night action.”

Fingal was going to explain to Deirdre that Jutland had been a titanic, inconclusive clash between the British Grand and German High Seas fleets in the First World War when he realised that not a child in the United Kingdom hadn't heard about it in school.

“I didn't know for three days, then a telegram said he was missing in action.”

Deirdre gasped and stared at Fingal.

“That must have been hellish for you, Marge,” Fingal said.

She nodded. “It was. For five weeks I thought him dead.” She swallowed. “My lovely knight, drowned. It was very hard to bear. I tried to be brave, but I'm afraid I cried an awful lot.” A single tear coursed down her cheek, then another. She dashed them away. She inhaled, straightened her shoulders. “Then I had a telegram from the International Red Cross. He'd been picked up by a boat from a German cruiser and was in a prisoner of war camp in Germany. He'd lost the tip of a toe from frostbite, but was otherwise all right.”

And he'd not said a word about it to Fingal in all the time they'd been together on
Warspite
. It was true most veterans of the Great War kept mum about their experiences.

Deirdre rose and went to stand by Marge. The younger woman put her hands on the older's shoulders. “And now you're reliving it and fearing for your son.”

Fingal saw the glistening in Deirdre's eyes and felt for them both.

Marge looked up at Deirdre, but said to Fingal, “I want to thank you, Fingal, for getting my pigheaded son to see daylight about Pip and propose to the gel.”

How, he thought, how can she be so calm?

“Pip's frightfully cut up, but when she was here for lunch today she told me how great a comfort it was to her to know that they were going to be married at last. She's treasuring that.”

Fingal looked down. Poor Pip. He remembered meeting her on that first day in September. How the girl had launched herself into his arms on the front step of the cottage, thinking he was Tony.

“And,” Marge said, “the navy has been very good. They can't send a message directly to
Warspite,
she's somewhere at sea, but there'll be a telegram waiting for Richard when she returns to Alex.”

Fingal, no stranger as a doctor to death and grief, wondered how Richard would take the news, although Fingal could guess. Publicly with stoic acceptance, but privately? His only child gone? His son? Privately, Richard would know his own guts had been torn out. Fingal tried to sip his tea, but it had gone cold. “Is there anything we can do?” he asked.

Marge said, “Yes, please.”

Which surprised Fingal. She always seemed such a private, self-sufficient woman.

“You will be on duty tomorrow, Fingal, so you'll need to get back to Alverstoke tonight, but I'd truly appreciate it if you could stay, Deirdre. I'd only the animals for company last night and I'd rather not be alone tonight.”

“Of course,” Deirdre said. “You don't mind, Fingal, do you?”

He shook his head and felt guilty because they had so few nights together left that he'd almost said he did.

“Damn tea's gone cold,” Marge said. “I'll get some hot water.”

“Let me,” said Deirdre, who was already on her feet. She left.

For a while there was silence, then Fingal said, “We really are sorry for your troubles, Marge…”

“But I should hope for the best but prepare for the worst, is that it?”

“How did you know I was—”

“I am married to a doctor, you know. I've heard the line before.”

“I know it's trite,” Fingal said, “but what else can we say?”

She smiled at him. “Do you believe that lightning never strikes twice?”