An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (10 page)

Donal sighed mightily, but said nothing.

“Donal?” O'Reilly said. “Is there something we can do for you?”

“It's Bluebird, Doc,” Donal said. “I think she's pregnant. And I'm dead worried, so I am. I paid Dapper Frew a quare clatter of the oul' do-re-mi for his Athlone Racer—he's by Breckonhill Brave out of Loughbrickland Lass—for til stand at stud. That's quite a pedigree, you know.”

“So why are you worried? The pups'll be worth a fortune, surely?” Barry said.

Another great inhalation. “I dunno. You see, she come on heat eight weeks ago. I've had her in her dog run ever since. The local doggy Romeos have been round, but I didn't think they could get near her. I started putting Dapper's dog with her every other day from six days after she started, but she'd not accept him for another six days after that.”

“But,” Barry said, “I thought when a bitch was on heat she was receptive to dogs?”

Donal shook his head. “Nah. Early on it's just to signal she's getting ready til ovulate. If a dog goes near a bitch that's getting going, she'll simply plant her arse on the ground and snap at the fellah.”

“Like ‘Not tonight, dear, I have a headache'?” Barry said.

“You're dead on, sir,” Donal said, “but once the bitch has ovulated she'll let a male serve her.”

O'Reilly was impressed. Donal sounded like a professional canine reproductive specialist. “So how do you know when she's ready?”

“You don't, because heat can last anywhere from five til twenty-one days. What we do is put the sire in with her every other day after six days since she started showing signs. She'd no interest in the Racer until twelve days from when she started.”

“Well, everything should be all right,” Barry said with a smile.

“Aye. Mebbe,” said Donal. “I dunno.”

O'Reilly was distracted by the plaintive cry of a curlew as the brown, curve-billed bird glided overhead. He always wondered if they were in permanent mourning.

“Why don't you know, Donal?” Barry asked.

Donal glanced all around as if fearing to be overheard and then lowered his voice so that Barry and O'Reilly had to crane forward to hear his next words. “See that there Mary Dunleavy? See her? No harm til her, but…”

From that line alone, O'Reilly knew the publican's daughter was about to come in for criticism.

“See thon Brian Boru of hers, that Mexican mariachi dog? She lets him wander. The wee bugger.”

O'Reilly's mouth opened. He glanced at Barry. Both his eyebrows had shot up. “You don't mean—?”

“I do. In soul I do. I caught the wee rodent wriggling out from under the wire of Bluebird's pen the day before she stood for Dapper's Athlone Racer. I'd swear the randy wee bollix had a grin from one sticky-up ear til the other. And them innocent big brown eyes don't fool me.”

“And you're worried—”

“I am that, so I am.”

“But surely a wee Chihuahua couldn't—?”

“Could he not? Could he not? He's a feisty wee weasel. I've seen how he used to browbeat poor ol' Arthur Guinness there, drinking his Smithwick's right out from under his nose…”

“Actually,” said O'Reilly, “they're quite good friends now.”

“Is that fact?” The intelligence didn't seem to interest Donal.

O'Reilly, picturing the coupling and the look, as described by Donal, on Brian Boru's face, had very great difficulty controlling his laughter.

Donal's features adopted the screwed-up set of contortions they always assumed when he was wrestling with a thorny intellectual problem. “And there's no way til tell until she's pupped, and that'll be about the week of October the sixteenth.”

O'Reilly frowned. “I understand. If she has greyhound whelps—”

“I'm in like Flynn.” Donal rubbed his hands and smiled. “Grues can have as many as twelve pups.”

O'Reilly had never understood why Ulsterfolk called greyhounds “grues.”

“Dapper gets pick of the litter—that's always part of the stud fee, and wait til youse see what I'll get for Julie and Tori for Christmas when I've sold the others. There'll be grue-men queuing up from my house at Dun Bwee til Crawfordsburn Village making offers, so there will.” He rubbed his hands together, much as O'Reilly pictured Ebenezer Scrooge doing as he gloated over his pile of gold.

“But if thon wee bugger has got til her first.” Donal's indrawing of breath was vast. “After paying Dapper, I'll not have two stivers to rub together. I'll have to do something, because who the hell's going to want to buy—I don't know what they'd be. Greyhuahuas? Chihuahounds? I don't suppose either one of youse would have any notions?”

Barry frowned before saying, “Not right off the top of my head, Donal. Canine fertility wasn't one of the subjects I studied in zoölogy in first year at Queens. Any ideas, Doctor O'Reilly?”

“Leave it with us, Donal. Maybe a notion will occur, but for now I think you're just going to have to be patient.”

“Och, thanks for listening, Docs.”

“Let's hope you've nothing to worry about and we'll soon hear that mother and children, of the right breed, are doing well,” O'Reilly said. “You'll let us know, won't you?”

“Aye, I will,” said Donal. “Come on, girl.” And he and the
enceinte
Bluebird, who might well soon be the mother of the strangest-looking puppies ever seen in Ballybucklebo, headed off along the beach.

“Heel, Arthur,” O'Reilly said. “Home, Barry.” And started to walk.

“Have you any ideas what Donal could do if he's stuck with a bunch of hybrids?” Barry asked.

“Not one iota of a notion,” O'Reilly said, “but I don't think we need worry.”

“Why not? Without the money from the sale of the pups, he's lost the cash he paid to Dapper.”

O'Reilly shook his head and laughed out loud before saying, “I'll bet you a pound that if the worst does happen, Donal Donnelly, probably as good a con man as Ferdinand Demara, the Great Imposter, will come up with a solution himself, and probably have more money at the heels of the hunt than if Bluebird has purebred whelps.”

Barry tilted his head, closed one eye, and scrutinised O'Reilly. “All right,” he said at last, “you're on.” He held out a hand to seal the bargain, but withheld a shake until he'd said, “But knowing Donal, I want odds of two to one.”

 

6

My Flesh Also Longeth After Thee

In a private booth in the corridor of the medical officers' mess, Fingal O'Reilly stood a-tremble, ear glued to the telephone receiver. He'd been trying to get through since six, but his call had had to be rerouted through several telephone exchanges because the bombing had so disrupted service. Now Fingal was listening to a distant double ring, a voice that he was sure was Deirdre's saying “Hello,” and a long-distance operator stating in a monotone, “I have a person-to-person call from Lieutenant O'Reilly to Nurse Deirdre Mawhinney.”

“Speaking.” It was her. It was her. The trembling worsened.

The operator's voice contained all the enthusiasm of a shopkeeper ordering rolls of toilet paper. “You are connected, Haslar.”

“Thank you,” the WREN on the Haslar switchboard said. “You may go ahead, sir.”

Clicking and clacking and hissing on the line then, “Fingal? Fingal? Is it really you?”

“Darling. Deirdre. It is. I'm here in Gosport.” The trembling had stopped. “I'm here. I've missed you. I love you.”

“Fingal, my love…” the words poured in a torrent, “I thought you were never going to get there. It's been forever. I was over the moon when your mother spoke to me yesterday, thought six o'clock tonight would never come, but you've made it. I'm so, so happy. I do love you so much. When can I see you? How soon?”

He heard the catch in her voice and had to control the one that was damn near starting in his own. Deirdre. Deirdre. “Very soon, pet. Just as quickly as you can get here.” And he'd hold her, kiss her, breathe her in. God bless Marge Wilcoxson and her offer of a place to stay for his dear girl. “Now listen, I've only got three minutes so I have to be quick. I'm asking you to take some risks when you come.” He wanted her here, even if it was selfish, but he had to at least warn her, if only for the sake of his conscience. “The Germans have been bombing Portsmouth. It's lessening, but I don't think it's going to stop. Gosport's not been hit as hard—”

“I know. We've been listening to the BBC broadcast bulletins every day. Bombing?” She laughed and said, “I don't care. I want to be with you. Matron here's a pet. She's arranged for me to have leave until January.”

That was when his orders instructed him to travel back to
Warspite.

“We can have three whole months together. It'll be wonderful.” It would. He hardly dared imagine how wonderful, lest his heart should burst.

“And I'm not going to let any silly war or stupid German bombs interfere with that time. I'd come to you even if you begged me to stay here in Belfast. I'd come, Fingal. I'd come.”

He loved her for her bravery. “I'll take care of you, darling.” Which was an idiotic thing to say. How the hell could he?

“I know you will, sweetheart. Because you love me.”

That stifled any more quibbling with himself, and their minutes were ticking by. “I hate to have to be so practical, but have you thought about how to get here?”

Lord, but he'd missed the throaty chuckle he now heard coming through the receiver. “I spent my last weekend off in Portaferry with Ma—that's what she wants me to call her now, seeing I'll soon be her daughter-in-law.”

Fingal clenched his teeth. Perhaps. It all depended on the admiral. Even before Fingal had picked up the phone, he had decided to say nothing about a possible snag in their wedding plans. There was no point worrying her now, and all might be resolved by the time she arrived. Loving concern or moral cowardice? He shrugged. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

“We spent hours at the dining room table…”

Fingal could picture the room and the old bog-oak table with its high-backed chairs—and Ma. Practical, helpful. Already he'd seen some of Ma in Marge Wilcoxson.

“… poring over maps, ferry sailings, railway timetables. I can get the Liverpool boat from Belfast, train to Southampton, and change there for Gosport.”

Fingal wished that whoever had issued his travel warrant had been as thorough in his planning. Apparently there'd been no need for his hellish ride across the breadth of England, although in fairness ever since the start of the Blitz delays and rerouting trains past damaged tracks was becoming routine. “Terrific,” he said, “so you'll not have to go to London.”

He didn't want her anywhere near that bombers' magnet. The capital had suffered several massive daylight raids beginning on September 7, and the Luftwaffe had come back every night since. Citizens stoically went down into the tunnels of the London Underground, huddled in air raid shelters, cellars. Bombs rained down. Civilians, firemen, and those whose duties kept them out of shelters died or were maimed. The last place he wanted her was in that nightmare.

“And you'll not need to go as far as Gosport,” he said. “I want you to get off at the stop before, in a place called Fareham. I'll meet you there. I'll explain where you'll be staying when I see you.”

“Oh, Fingal, I do love you so much. Thank you,” she said. “I'll book my tickets tomorrow and I'll wire you when to expect me. Wire me back to let me know everything's all right at your end.”

“I will, darling.” He'd get time off even if he had to go adrift, AWOL.

A woman's voice interrupted, “Your permitted three minutes will soon be up, sir.”

“I love you, Deirdre.” To hell with the Haslar operator overhearing if she was still on the line.

“I'll telegraph. I love you, Fingal. I'll see you soon, and I'll bring the black nightie I didn't get a chance to wear when we were in—” The line went dead.

O'Reilly chuckled. He thought, and damn the operator if she heard that too. His thoughts raced to their loving last night together in Belfast's Midland Hotel seven months ago, and the erotic longing to hold her, kiss her, breathe in her scent, caress her, almost gave Fingal O'Reilly apoplexy. And she'd be here soon. Soon, but God, the days were going to drag until she was.

He started to leave the phone booth, only to be pulled up short. In his reverie he'd quite forgotten to replace the receiver and was still grasping it in his right hand.

*   *   *

Fingal let himself into the well-furnished anteroom with several tables occupied by fellow officers wearing mess kit. The sweet music of Deirdre's voice was still in his ears, and he barely noticed the muted hum of conversation, the heavy aroma of pipe tobacco filling the air. None of the men were known to him. Two white-jacketed civilian stewards circulated, taking orders, serving drinks. He felt out of place in his everyday working rig, but, as he'd told the admiral, his formal dining gear was following him.

His eye was taken by a lithograph of a semicircle of uniformed, bewhiskered military men surrounding a bonneted, round-faced woman with an enormous bustle in the rear of her skirt. She was pinning something to the jacket of an officer in a wheelchair. The caption read,
Queen Victoria presents Commander Purvis with the Egypt Medal. Haslar Hospital; 1882.

Not far from the picture was a small, red-haired, florid-faced man wearing the insignia of a captain, the four rings separated by the scarlet of the medical branch. Fingal took note of a miniature DSO along with some campaign medals adorning the senior man's mess jacket. It must have been awarded in the First World War for some deed of outstanding gallantry. Fingal was curious, but it would be plain bad manners to enquire. The captain smiled and beckoned to Fingal.