An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (62 page)

“This is going til work out very well,” Ernie said. “The doctor and Mister Donnelly can sit with us until the sale's over, then they'll be going home.”

“That's right,” O'Reilly said.

“Harry and Jessica's going to be a wee bit late, so there'll be seats for them with us when you've gone.”

A waiter hove into view.

“My shout,” Bertie said. “What'll it be?”

All the while, the room was filling. Some guests had taken their seats, others, drinks and canapés in hand, circulated, chatting with old friends. The strains of Kenny Ball's “Midnight in Moscow” flowed over conversations and laughter, and above all a tobacco haze was forming. From time to time, folks would wander over, admire the dogs, and chat to Donal about the forthcoming sale.

A stranger to O'Reilly approached the table. “How are you, Bertie?” the man said.

Very Upper Malone Road accent, O'Reilly noticed.

“Rightly, Johnny,” Bertie said. “Johnny Henderson here has a linen mill.”

“And a wife who's fallen in love with one of these dogs you were telling us about.” He offered a hand. “Mister Donnelly, I presume?”

“I'm your man,” Donal said, took the man's hand, and shook it.

“I don't suppose you'd consider a presale offer, Mister Donnelly?”

Donal's face went into its usual deep thought contortions.

O'Reilly could almost hear the man thinking, A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush and, I wonder could I bargain?

“They're twenty…” Donal stared into the man's face, “twenty…”

That was the price he'd quoted in the Duck. Go on, Donal, O'Reilly thought. Go for more.

“Twenty-two pounds ten each.”

“Twenty-two pounds and we have a deal.”

“Twenty-two pounds five, Mister Henderson,” said Donal, and immediately handshakes were exchanged. “Which one do you want?”

“I'll take the one in the top hat. He looks like a likely little lad.” The man bent down and gave Boy a gentle pat and a playful chuck under the chin. The dog responded by licking his hand.

O'Reilly was whisked back to the souks of Alexandria. He was convinced that Egyptian Arabs, renowned for their haggling skills, would have been outdone by Donal Donnelly of Dun Bwee Cottage, Ballybucklebo.

“He's called Boy, sir.”

At the sound of his name the little dog looked adoringly at Donal, then back to Johnny Henderson.

“You can have him after the sale, for I need to show them off, like.”

“Certainly, Mister Donnelly. Joyce will be overjoyed.” He wandered off.

“I think,” said Bertie, “you were dead jammy, Donal, chancing your arm like that.”

“I don't think so, Bertie,” O'Reilly said. “Luck had nothing to do with it. Donal took a calculated risk. One down and nine to go.”

The drinks arrived.

“Cheers,” O'Reilly said, and took a pull on his pint.

Another stranger wearing a badge of office came over. “Hello all. I'm Sean Brennan, chairman of the chamber,” he said. “Ernie, it's time for you to introduce the dog man, Mister—”

“Mister Donnelly,” Ernie said.

“Mister Donnelly,” Mister Brennan said, “and get this sale under way.”

Ernie got to his feet. “Come on, Donal. Bring the bow-wows.”

“Here, Doctor, please,” said Donal, handing O'Reilly a notebook and a pen. “You take the money, names, addresses, and phone numbers, and tell them I'll phone on Monday to arrange times for the buyers til come to Dun Bwee.”

“Fair enough.”

Donal rose. “Come on, pups.” Wagging tails curved high over their backs, the dogs followed.

Ernie signalled to Clipper Carlton and the music stopped, then climbed up on the stage and took the microphone. “Drum roll please, maestro.”

The snare drum rattled merrily away. Conversation died. All eyes were on the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our Christmas party and dinner for 1966. Tonight we will be starting the festivities with something quite different. This is the season for giving, and tonight the Belfast Chamber of Commerce is giving a local man from Ballybucklebo the opportunity to sell something very special, some wee dogs so rare I believe one will make the recipient of such a Christmas present the envy of all. May I present Mister Donal Donnelly and two of his remarkable and unique Woolamarroo quokka herding dogs.”

As Donal and the dogs mounted the stage, Clipper Carlton's Showband swung into the chorus of “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window.”

The music died and Donal stepped forward. He didn't speak. He gave a quiet order and the two behatted, red-jacketed little dogs rose on their hind legs and each pirouetted, Boy in a clockwise direction and Mel going round the opposite way. Another command and both again stood on four paws.

The room erupted in applause.

Donal now took the mike and, as if to the manner born, said, “Thank youse all, ladies and gentlemen, thank youse all, and Mister Ramsey and the Belfast Chamber of Commerce? Thank you for inviting us—me, Wild Colonial Boy of Brisbane and Melbourne Miss the Third of Carlton.” On hearing their names, the dogs each gave one sharp bark.

Laughter and applause.

Begob, thought O'Reilly, Donal certainly knows how to play a room.

Donal squatted with his knees widely separated, commanded, and the dogs jumped up, one onto each thigh, and sat staring at the crowd. He tucked one under each arm, stood and said, “Mister Chairman and Mrs. Chairman if she's here, ladies and gentlemen, what youse see here is two of the eighth wonders of the world. These here are two of the only Woolamarroo quokka herding dogs north of the equator. All the way from Rottnest Island off the City of Perth in Western Australia.”

He paused for dramatic effect.

Silence.

“Even in that far and fair country full of such exotic animals as marsh soopials and duck billed platty-pussies…”

Laughter.

O'Reilly wondered if the Donalapropisms were accidental or deliberate.

“… there's only a few Woolamarroo quokka dogs.”

O'Reilly studied the audience. All were paying rapt attention.

“Now,” said Donal with a touch of the conspiratorial in his tones, “I don't need to tell any of youse learnèd ladies and gentlemen what a quokka is.”

O'Reilly counted at least eight heads nodding knowledgeably to a neighbour and having the nod returned.

“And I know youse is all familiar with Woolamarroo…”

More nodding.

“So I don't need to explain. What I can tell you is that I have for sale nine of these remarkable dogs, and they're only twenty-two pounds ten apiece.”

A man's voice called, “I'll take one.”

“Me too.”

“Hold your horses,” said Donal. “Doctor O'Reilly, will you please stand.”

O'Reilly did, and faced the room.

From behind he heard Donal say, “If youse'll form a queue in front of the gentleman he'll take the names and addresses of and all of the first nine comers, and explain how to collect your new pup.”

At least three chairs were overturned in the rush.

While he waited for the queue to form, O'Reilly did some quick mental arithmetic. Nine at twenty-two pounds ten shillings, one at twenty-two pounds five, minus Dapper Frew's pick of the litter, for a total of two hundred and four pounds five shillings, less stud fees and expenses. That would be six months' wages for Donal Donnelly. You're a genius, my friend.

“Now sir,” he said, opening the notebook and uncapping the pen, “that'll be…”

“Here. Twenty-two pounds ten. The wife will kill me if I don't get one.”

And as O'Reilly began to take the man's particulars, he realized, I'm a pound better off myself. I've won the bet with Barry. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn't quite catch the street number.”

“Sixteen Harberton Avenue,” the man repeated.

“Right,” said O'Reilly, making a note. One couple were going to be the envy of the Upper Malone Road District, the swankiest part of the city of Belfast. “Thank you, sir,” he said with a vast grin, “and a very merry Christmas.”

 

50

The Sure-Enwinding Arms of Cool-Enfolding Death

“How are you managing, Fingal?” Richard Wilcoxson asked, looking up from the operating table where he was removing a splinter of steel from a seaman's thigh.

Fingal had returned to the for'ard medical distribution station and was still getting his eyes used to the brightness of the operating lights. He'd just made rounds of the dimly lit port mess deck, which was now an improvised hospital ward where men, many groaning, lay on the sole and on mess tables, being tended to by first-aid workers under the supervision of an SBA and comforted by their off-duty mates. Much to Fingal's relief, Henson, whose half-baked amputation had been completed professionally, was among the recovering men and on the mend—at least physically.

But seeing to the living hadn't been Fingal's only chore. He'd also been counting the wounded, and—the thought pained him—the canvas-covered dead.

He managed a weak grin. “I've been worse, Richard, but not much. I reckon we're all pretty knackered.” He sat on a folding chair, rubbed the backs of his hands against both eyes, yawned, ignored the stubble on his chin, and forced himself to stay awake.
Warspite
had been hit on May 22th and the entire staff of the medical department, doctors, the dentist, and the SBAs had not slept for nearly forty-eight hours.

Now, after two days of incessant aerial attack, she had anchored in Alexandria's West Harbour in the small hours of the morning of May 24th. Belowdecks, the long list of those needing treatment was coming to an end. Above deck, dockyard maties had already swarmed aboard to determine whether the ship's wounds could be treated here where she lay at anchor or whether she should be patched up before being sent to a bigger, better-equipped yard.

“I've got the butcher's bill,” Fingal said. That grim naval expression for the list of dead, wounded, and missing dated back to Nelson's day, and from the start of casualties being brought down, he'd been detailed off to keep a running tally.

Richard sighed and said, “Let's be having it.”

Fingal produced his war diary. “Twenty-four missing. Some men were blown overboard and the exec reckons it'll be a week before they've recovered the last body lost from the starboard mess deck. Eight dead,” he inhaled deeply, “they'll be buried ashore, and I've seen about a dozen I don't think will make it. Sixty-nine wounded, including your patient there, who I am pleased to tell you is the last man who's going to need surgery.”

“Hear that, Paddy?” Richard asked CPO Paddy O'Rourke, who was giving the anaesthetic.

“Hold the lights. I'm delighted,” Paddy said. “I'm so feckin' tired I could sleep standing up—on a milk bottle.”

“We're all pretty done in,” Richard said, “but at least we'll be able to ship all but the less-severe walking wounded to the base hospital here.” He arched his shoulders and yawned. “Last stitch,” he said. “You can start waking him up.” He stepped from the table and stripped off his rubber gloves. “Right, Paddy. You're the senior SBA here. Arrange for your crew to clean up and get ready in case we get bombed in harbour, then one of you'll have to stay on duty for a couple of hours. I'll leave the details of the SBAs getting some kip in your hands.”

“Aye aye, sir. I'll take the first watch.”

“Fingal. I want you to find the exec, give him the figures, then make one last round on the mess deck. The shore parties from the base hospital should be here very soon to get patients evacuated.”

“Right.”

“Then you're off-watch for eight hours.”

“What about you?”

Richard made a kind of grunty laugh. “I'm heading aft to the other distribution station, get everybody organised there, then I'm going to the sick bay on-call cot. I'll be on watch from there for eight hours. You can tell your relief where to find me, Paddy.”

Fingal shook his head. Old Hippocrates, what his staff affectionately called him behind his back, was indeed a man of steel.

*   *   *

Fingal waited under the blue Alexandrine skies as the early-morning sun climbed toward its noon zenith. He'd found a haggard, unshaven executive officer, Commander Sir Charles Madden, on the upper deck, deep in conversation with a man in civvies who held a clipboard and was pointing out some figures. They were both staring down the great hole where a four-inch gun and its crew had been until the bomb hit. Wisps of smoke drifted out. An overwhelming array of smells overcame the usual odour of bunker oil: the stench of burnt paint, the hydraulic fluid that two days ago could have turned him into a human torch, scorched metal, and something Fingal recognised, having first smelled it at Narvik, but preferred to try to ignore.

“I'm afraid so, sir,” the civilian was saying, “our preliminary examination's pretty conclusive. We can patch her up, but she'll have to go in to dry dock for complete repairs, I'm afraid, and we can't do that here.”

“Very well. I'll report that to the captain. Thank you, Mister Robbins.”

“I'll send a full written report as soon as I can, but I'll be off now.” The man left.

“Yes, O'Reilly.”

“The PMO sent me, sir. I have the casualty figures.” Fingal handed over the ruled notebook. “I haven't had time to use a proper report form.”

“None of us have,” said the exec. He scanned the numbers. “Could have been worse, I suppose. I'll let the skipper know.” He yawned, stared out over the harbour, and absentmindedly started flipping over the notebook's pages. He looked down, scanned, and frowned. “Keeping a diary?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don't suppose you got much chance to get any info other than the Tannoy reports of what was happening to us over the last few days.”