An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (22 page)

“Can we see them, Donal?” Barry asked.

“Aye, certainly. They're with their ma in her run. This way and, Doctor O'Reilly, would you mind putting Arthur back in your motor? Bitches can be very protective of their litters round other dogs.”

“Of course,” said O'Reilly. “I should have thought of that.” He spoke to Arthur. “Come on, lummox. Back in the car for you, and don't worry. I'll give you a good run once I've taken Barry home.”

By the time he'd got Arthur settled and had returned, Barry and Donal were already in the chain-link-fenced run where, close to her kennel, Bluebird lay on her side on the grass. In the concavity of her body a mass of grey and brown dappled puppies, all with their eyes shut, formed a squirming heap. He guessed there must be ten or twelve. Some were latched onto her nipples, some were fast asleep. One, who somehow had become separated and must be feeling the cold, was mewling loudly, and Bluebird twisted her body so she could reach the little creature. She picked it up in her mouth, returned it to the company of its brothers and sisters, and began to wash it.

O'Reilly unlatched the gate and let himself in.

Barry said, “I'm no great judge of dog flesh, but as best as I can tell they're going to have their mother's long legs, skinny tail, and arched back.”

“Aye,” said Donal, “and with my luck they'll probably have their wee git of a daddy's funny nose, pointy ears, and big, brown sticky-out eyes. They'll be about as much use as chocolate teapots, so they will.” He shrugged. “Och well, I suppose somebody maybe up in Belfast might want one or two for pets, like. The folks down here won't. I can't see these wee buggers being much use to anyone, and a country dog has til work for his keep.” He pursed his lips. “If anything, it's going to be the other way round.”

“I'm sorry,” Barry said. “I don't understand.”

“Four weeks from now they'll start wanting solid food. Someone has til buy it and that someone's me. And the bigger they get, the more expensive it'll be.”

“I see,” Barry said. “That is a bit awkward. It looks like there may be as many as a dozen of the little mites.”

O'Reilly nodded, scratched his head. “I don't suppose there'd be any point asking Cahal Cullen, the marquis's shepherd, if they could be trained as sheepdogs. If they have their mother's legs they should be good runners.”

O'Reilly had a moment of déjà vu when Donal said, “No harm til you, sir, but away off and feel your bumps.” The same suggestion that O'Reilly should examine his cranium had been made by Barry half an hour ago. “Cahal wouldn't have the time and I'd not have a clue how til train them myself.” He bent and patted Bluebird's head. “You poor wee thing,” he said. “You'll have your work cut out for you for the next while looking after that lot, and God knows how I'm going til find homes for your pups.” He squatted on his hunkers beside her and the gaze from those big liquid eyes never left his face. “Anyroad. Never you worry. That's my job.” He rose. “Doctors, I think we should leave them be now.” He opened the gate and waited until Barry and O'Reilly were outside before coming through himself and snibbing it shut.

“Have you decided what to call the, um, breed?” Barry asked.

“I suppose Greyhuahua'll have to do,” Donal said, “and if I can't come up with something, I'll give them away, so I will. Maybe young Colin would like another wee dog.”

“You'll keep us posted, Donal?” O'Reilly said.

“Aye, certainly, sir,” Donal said. “Now, Julie's inside with wee Tori. She asked me til ask you if you'd like a wee cup of tea in your hand?”

“That's very kind, Donal,” O'Reilly said, “but we have to be running along. Doctor Laverty's on call so we've no time for tea. We'll just pop in to say hello and then be on our way.”

And when O'Reilly and Barry had spent a little time with Julie and the chattering little Tori, they took their leave. As the car jolted along the lane, O'Reilly contentedly singing, “You ain't nothing but a hound dog,” he heard Barry say, “I am truly sorry for Donal, but that two pounds you're going to owe me when Donal doesn't figure out a way to sell the pups is getting closer and closer.”

To which O'Reilly could only answer, in song, “‘You ain't never caught a rabbit and you ain't no friend of mine,' and my boy, we'll just have to see about the bet, won't we. Time will tell. Time will tell.”

 

16

A Dream Come True

“And how are we this bright and breezy morning, Surgeon Lieutenant-Commander O'Reilly?”

There had been a knock on Fingal's door on Saturday morning and there had stood Surgeon Captain Angus Mahaddie, grinning like the Cheshire cat and offering a handshake.

“Who?” Fingal shook the man's hand but then took a step backward, not sure he'd heard correctly. “Lieutenant-commander? You're serious?”

“Of course I'm serious. Now, are you going to leave me standing out here in the hall, or are you going to invite me into your palatial accommodation?” Angus looked around at the iron-framed single bed, freestanding wardrobe, and plain table with two wooden chairs. “Aye, I'd forgotten how small these rooms are. The sooner you're out of here and into married quarters, the better.”

“Good God, Angus, I don't know how to thank you enough. Come in. Come in.” Fingal motioned his senior into the cramped room and closed the door. “But how did you do it?”

Angus took a chair, but Fingal remained standing. He knew he'd not be able to keep still. He wanted to rush to the nearest telephone.

“A department head—that's me—can apply, in an emergency, for promotion of a lieutenant to acting lieutenant-commander in his unit if the best interests of the service demand it. And the rank, once approved, becomes effective immediately.”

“You mean … you mean…”

“Just so.” The little Scot's eyes twinkled. “I've set the wheels in motion to have it confirmed. And given our recent workload, I honestly believe the service does demand it. I've had a word with Admiral Creaser, who says he's delighted with the idea and he is sorry he didn't think of it himself. He's approved so it'll go up through channels like a rocket. It might take a week or two before you can put up your extra half ring but,” the Scot winked and said, “the admiral says Nelson's not the only one with a blind eye. We'll not quibble over the exact date of your promotion. He reckons our chaplain, John Wilfred Evans, could probably do the deed in Saint Luke's Church on Friday, November the first. Eh, that's just over three weeks away.”

Fingal paced to the far wall. He stared out the window to see the side of the chapel in the foreground and the administrative block in the distance. They looked utilitarian and drab in the greyness of the October day. Barely trusting himself to speak, he then turned and said, “Bless you, Angus.”

“Now I imagine you'd like to pass the word to your fiancée.” Fingal heard the naval “pass the word,” and was reminded of how Haslar really was run as a ship at sea, even here in this great redbrick hospital complex on its peninsula between Haslar Creek and the Solent. Angus glanced at his watch. “It's nine thirty. There'll be a transfer train taking recovering patients from Gosport Station, leaving in—”

Fingal was already grabbing for his cap and gas mask.

“—half an hour. If you ask the driver, he'll make a stop for you in Fareham. They're pretty accommodating with Haslar staff.”

Angus's words were already growing faint as Fingal tore through the door yelling, “Thank you,” over his shoulder.

*   *   *

“My goodness, Fingal, you're out of breath,” Marge said, “and we weren't expecting you until lunchtime, but do come in. Deirdre and I were having coffee. I'm afraid it's only that awful chicory Camp stuff, but if you'd like a cup?”

“Please,” Fingal said, trying to control his panting. He'd run all the way from Fareham station. And admit it, he told himself, you're not as fit as you were when you were playing rugby football. He followed her into the now-familiar room where Admiral Benbow, lying by the fire, barely deigned to glance through his fringe and blow out his breath as if to say, Huh. Him again.

But Deirdre gave a yelp of delight when she saw him, leapt up from her seat, and rushed to him. “You're early, Fingal. Terrific.”

He took her in his arms, kissed her, and said, “Darling. I've got some wonderful news.”

“Pay no attention to me,” Marge said as she poured him a cup of coffee. “But do sit, Fingal, and tell the girl. By the way, do you take sugar? I've forgotten.”

“Please.” Fingal, holding on to Deirdre's hand, was happy to be led to one of the armchairs. As they walked he said, and loudly enough for Marge to hear, “If it would suit you, we can tie the knot on November the first.”

She stopped dead, forcing him to do the same. Deirdre had, since they'd confessed love for each other, put an unshakeable trust in him that was humbling. “Darling, that is wonderful news,” she said, “isn't it, Marge?”

“I am overjoyed,” Marge said, “if only because I'll get my spare bedroom back.” Her words sounded uncaring, but Fingal had rapidly become accustomed to the English upper class's refusal to show emotion in public, and anyway, her grin belied the coldness of her words. “Here you are,” she said. “Coffee … of a kind.”

Fingal accepted the cup and sat beside Deirdre. “Thank you.” He drank in the coffee and the bright sparkle in her eyes. Bless you again, Angus Mahaddie. “We'll have to make arrangements,” he said.

“In a minute or two, Fingal,” Deirdre said. “I just want to get used to the idea that in no time I'll be Mrs. O'Reilly. At last. It's wonderful. I'm so happy.”

Fingal looked more deeply into her eyes. “Me too,” he said, and in his head he could hear the lyrics he'd known since he was a boy.

Oh no, 'twas the truth in her eyes ever shining

That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.

“I'm very happy for you both,” Marge said. “Is there anything at all I can do?”

“Yes.” She said the word in a happy sigh, but the words that followed were practical, down to earth. “None of our families will be able to come over from Ulster.”

Fingal nodded. Bloody war.

“I'd be deeply honoured if you'd be my matron of honour, Marge, and do you think Pip would be my bridesmaid?”

Marge leaned over and lightly kissed Deirdre's cheek. “It would give me enormous pleasure, my dear. But I can't speak for the Honourable Philippa Gore-Beresford. You can ask her yourself. I'm sure she'll say yes.”

“I will, Marge. I will. We've become such friends since I came. She's been so kind,” Deirdre said.

“That's our Pip,” Marge said. “Now, you shall need somewhere to live. Have you thought about that, Fingal?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. The Crescent in Alverstoke has quarters for married naval officers. WREN officers who work at HMS
Hornet,
the Motor Torpedo Boat base, live there too. It's only about a mile's walk to the hospital.”

“I'd suggest you pay them a visit this afternoon. Try to get a spot,” Marge said, “and you'll be able to get, within wartime constraints, a decent supper in the Anglesey Hotel. It's part of the terrace.”

Deirdre said, “Let's do it, darling. Let's go and see if we can find our first home together.”

And that prospect so filled Fingal with delight that, if it would not have been impolite, he'd have forgone lunch and headed to Alverstoke at once.

*   *   *

“Looks pretty Georgian to me, all those Doric pillars holding up a first-floor balcony and those chimneys on the roof,” Fingal said. “I've been to Bath and the old Roman Aquae Sulis
.
There are more curved terraces like this there.”

As he and Deirdre stood looking at the grubby white three-storey crescent of terrace houses, three WREN officers, talking animatedly, left through what must be the entrance—a narrow set of six columns in the middle of the terrace that ran almost to the roof and supported a small roof of their own. The women were headed in Fingal and Deirdre's direction.

He pointed to his right at the four-storey Anglesey Arms. “That's the hotel,” he said. “The staff at Haslar uses it quite a lot as their local, they tell me.”

“Looks like somewhere that should have serious-looking mutton-chopped admirals coming in and going out, making sure Britannia still rules the waves.”

He laughed, but had to come to attention and return the compliment as the WRENs passed and saluted. When they'd gone he took Deirdre's hand and led her toward the entrance. “I'm told,” he said, “that a couple of current admirals live in houses at the far end of the Crescent.”

The buildings were separated from the road by a low redbrick wall, and even if there was a war on someone had found time to trim a privet hedge that stood behind the wall. He wondered if the red bricks had been left over from the time of Haslar's construction. The clay for making them had been taken from the very grounds where the hospital was built. “Marge said we should ask at the hall porter's. I think it'll be in there.”

He led her into an echoing foyer with a tiled marble floor, very high ceilings, and staircases to either side. Two potted aspidistras, looking limp and dejected, sat in one corner, and a chief petty officer, looking marginally more lively, sat in a glass-fronted cubicle in the other. He was a man of about sixty, probably ex–Royal Navy called back for noncombatant work by the “requirements of the service,” and Fingal blessed them. The man rose, but as he was uncovered, did not salute. Nor did Fingal.

“Can oi be of assistance, zur?” His accent placed him at once as a Westcountryman. Probably from Somerset.