An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (5 page)

He set his suitcase down and fumbled in his inside pocket, withdrew an envelope containing his orders and a sealed confidential report. He reread his orders instructing him to report to the Surgeon Rear Admiral T. Creaser, M.D., KHP (Honorary Physician to the King), RN.

Fingal hefted his case in his left hand, clutched his orders and report in his right, and strode under the arch and into the tunnel. A uniformed sick berth attendant coming the other way came to attention and saluted. Damnation. The compliment must be returned. Fingal stopped, set his case down, and did so.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Please. I'm looking for the office of the medical officer in charge.”

“Come with me, sir.” The man picked up Fingal's case and marched along the tunnel, through a doorway on the left, along a short corridor, and halted in front of a closed door. “In there, sir, and the admiral is in.” He returned Fingal's case.

“Thank you,” he said. “Carry on.” And as the man saluted and left, Fingal knocked on the door.

A voice from inside said, “Come in.”

Encumbered by his case and the orders, Fingal managed, at the expense of crumpling the envelope and papers inside, to open the door. He stepped over the threshold into a small, simple room. The floor was of polished wooden planks, the walls painted white. A central fireplace was surmounted by a massive coat of arms flanked by wooden plaques embellished with rows of names in gold lettering. He guessed they were the previous commanding officers.

A middle-aged man, on his cuffs a broad gold stripe surmounted by a narrow one with a curl, sat behind a kneehole desk positioned sideways to a window. He frowned as he scrutinised Fingal, then shook his head. The expression on the man's face was one of sadness, resignation.

Fingal could practically hear the admiral thinking to himself, Oh well, there is a war on, and whoever this is he's Royal Navy Reserve, not regular navy. We must make allowances.

Fingal came to attention—the navy does not salute indoors—and leant forward to proffer his orders. “Surgeon Lieutenant O'Reilly reporting for—” He got no further. A small rug under his feet slid on the polished wooden floor and Fingal pitched forward, ramming the envelope at the admiral as a fencer might deliver a lethal epée thrust to the heart.

Admiral Creaser rapidly moved his head and upper body to one side to avoid the blow.

By the time Fingal had grabbed the desk, arrested his forward movement, and managed to be standing at some semblance of attention, the admiral was once more sitting upright, not a hair out of place. “Now, Lieutenant O'Reilly,” he said, holding out his right hand, “shall we try this again?” Not the faintest of smiles played on his lips, and his voice was stern.

Fingal handed over the envelope and orders.

“Hmm,” said the admiral after he'd read both the sealed and the unsealed documents. “Hmm. Interesting.” The senior man looked up. “Stand at ease.”

Fingal did.

“There's a chair. Be seated and take off your cap. You should have before you came in.”

“Thank you, sir.” Fingal sat and took off his cap, well aware that he needed a haircut.

The admiral glanced up and, by the look on his face, seemed to be registering the same thought. “I see you are being sent here to learn anaesthesia and trauma surgery. We had a signal about you so we've been expecting you,” said the senior medical officer. “Our next course will start on Monday, September the thirtieth, so you're a couple of days early. That's good. We appreciate punctuality here.”

Fingal said nothing.

“I've read your confidential report from Richard Wilcoxson. He's a very good man. Fine judge of character.” The admiral cocked his head sideways and pursed his lips. “Richard says you are a first-class physician. Perhaps you get a bit too involved with your patients—but you are young yet—”

“I'm almost thirty-two, sir.”

“If I want information, O'Reilly, I'll ask for it.”

“Yes, sir.” I hope I'll never get old, Fingal thought, if it means not treating patients like human beings.

“Richard also says that you are more interested in your trade than naval customs and dress, not shy about questioning a senior's decisions if you think it's in the patient's best interests?”

Fingal said nothing, even though the last sentence had been posed as a question. I'd question His Majesty himself were he a doctor and not giving his patients his best, he thought.

The admiral coughed. “I don't think Richard means that as a criticism, although perhaps he should have. I know that he does not run what we'd call a taut ship. I think he's suggesting to me that I should warn you that here we run this place along strict naval lines, and I can see what he means. You look a disgrace to the uniform.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“We'd appreciate it if in future you try to pay a great deal more attention to those matters.”

Fingal was tempted to snap out a sarcastic salty, “Aye aye, sir,” but simply nodded.

“Good. And he says I've to remind you to visit his wife at Fareham.”

“Yes, sir.” Fingal suddenly had an overwhelming need to escape this small, stuffy room. He started to rise, then realized he hadn't been dismissed. “W-will that be all, sir?”

“No, it will
not
be all,” said the admiral. “And you have not been dismissed. Now we've dealt with the formalities, let me welcome you to Haslar. All newcomers get the lecture.”

“Thank you, sir.” This admiral was a bad-tempered bear, Fingal decided. One to be avoided as much as possible during Fingal's stay here. Maybe he could get the information he needed from a friendly surgeon captain and not bother this man.

The admiral rose, but said, “Don't get up,” and walked to a picture hanging on a wall beside the window. “These are Haslar's first architectural plans. They were published in
The Gentleman's Magazine
. It's a venerable old building, you know. The foundations were laid in 1746 and the first patients admitted in 1753.”

“I'm impressed, sir,” Fingal said, and he was. He was fascinated by history.

“And the place has some pretty famous alumni. James Lind, who discovered that lime juice prevents scurvy; Sir John Richardson, who had been to the Arctic with Franklin looking for the northwest passage. T. H. Huxley was an assistant surgeon here. Do you know what they called him in his later years?”

“Yes, sir. ‘Darwin's Bulldog,' because he defended Darwin's theory of natural selection.”

“Well done.”

Fingal lowered his head, but was warmed by the praise. Perhaps he was making some reparation for getting off on the wrong foot.

“Now, would you know who Edward Atkinson might be? He was once the vaccinator in the pathology department here.”

Fingal debated. He did know the answer exactly, but didn't want to seem cocky. “I think, sir,” he said, “Atkinson might have been on Scott of the Antarctic's last expedition?”

“Well done again.” The admiral hitched his backside onto a corner of the desk, crossed his arms across his chest, leant back, and regarded Fingal before saying, “Good man. I've always thought us doctors tend to be too specialised. You strike me as well rounded—”

“Thank you, sir.” Fingal instantly regretted his interruption.

“—if a trifle impertinent to your seniors, and remarkably scruffy. All right. Enough history. We have accommodation arranged for you at the hospital in the medical officers' mess. I would suggest you go there and get yourself looking like an efficient naval officer.”

“Sir.”

“You might want to get a bit of rest too. It's a bloody awful train journey from Liverpool to here. I do know, and I go first class.”

The words were spoken as a kindly uncle might address a favourite nephew. Was the admiral intimating that he understood why Fingal looked like something pulled through a hedge backward and wasn't quite as angry as he had originally seemed?

“I imagine you might be a bit peckish, too. The officers' mess steward will find you something. By the way, we do dress for dinner. Just because there's a war on is no need to let standards slip.”

“My mess kit is being sent on, sir.”

“Very well. We'll make allowances. The working rig here is the same for everybody. It's called ‘Tiffies' rig. The officers, petty officers, and warrant officers have gold buttons, and please understand we are a shore establishment, but run as a ship. Right is starboard, left port, and the lavatories are the heads. When we leave the premises we ‘go ashore.'”

“I'll tr—” Fingal cut himself off from saying “try to” sarcastically and simply said, “I'll remember, sir.”

“Good. Now, your course won't start until Monday, so I suggest you familiarise yourself with the setup here. The leader of your course is Surgeon Captain Angus Mahaddie. He's a highland Scot and eats Sassenachs for breakfast, but he might warm to a fellow Celt.”

“I'll try to keep on his good side, sir.”

“See that you do. And use your free days to attend to your non-naval duties. Letters home are a good idea. And each officer is permitted three phone calls through the switchboard during the week of their arrival.”

Deirdre and Ma and Mrs. Marjorie Wilcoxson. The calls he'd promised on his last day on
Warspite
—to Tom Laverty's wife Carol to congratulate her on the birth of a son, Barry, and to Wilson Wallace's parents in Portstewart—would have to wait. Once “ashore” he'd find a pay phone and fulfil his obligations.

“Getting about in Portsmouth and Gosport can be a chore, so most young officers own a small motorcar, or at least buy shares in one. You can get a used one for about ten or fifteen pounds. Petrol is rationed, but a gallon of the lowest grade only costs ten pence.”

“Thank you, sir. That's good to know.”

“And don't forget, boy, you've to visit Mrs. Wilcoxson. Fareham's not that far. There's a train.”

“Yes, sir.” Another bloody train.

“And that's it, unless you have something to ask?”

Fingal blurted, “I want to get married, sir.”

“Do you indeed? Do you have someone in mind, or is this just a sudden fancy since arriving in England?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I do have someone in mind. Very much, sir. We got engaged last July and would have been wed by now, but…”

“For the war. I understand.” The admiral stroked his chin with the web of his hand. He muttered, “Uh-huh,” nodded his head, glanced at his watch, picked up the phone, dialled, and said, “Leading Sick Berth Attendant Willis, come to my office, please,” and replaced the receiver.

What the hell had that to do with Fingal's request? He fidgeted in his chair and waited.

“You're young to be thinking of marriage. It can inhibit a junior officer's prospects.”

Fingal took a deep breath. He'd have to risk his superior's good opinion further. “With all due respect, sir, I'll be thirty-two in a few weeks, and although I am RNR, the navy's not my career. There's got to be some—” He almost stamped his foot.

“Young man.” The admiral slipped off the desk and stood looking down on the seated Fingal. “Do not presume to tell the navy that there has ‘got to be' anything.”

Fingal clenched his teeth, tried to calm himself. This wasn't a boxing match to be won by battering his opponent into submission. Admirals did not submit to mere lieutenants. Ever. Diplomacy was required. “I'm sorry, sir. With your permission, may I rephrase that?”

The colour that had flushed the senior officer's cheeks seemed to be subsiding. “Very well, you may try.”

There was knocking on the door.

“Wait outside, Willis.”

A faint, “Aye aye, sir.”

“I know the navy does nothing without a good reason, and I'm sure that for career officers, suggesting that they delay marriage until they reach a certain rank is probably wise.”

“It is.”

“But this is wartime and I'm not a career officer. Is there not some way round it?” Fingal held his breath and crossed his fingers.

“What was your rank when you were called up?”

“It had been sub-lieutenant when I did my year on HMS
Tiger
back in 1930, but in view of my time since qualification as a doctor, the Admiralty gave me a lieutenancy—with four years' seniority, sir.”

“Did they? Interesting.” The admiral raised his voice. “Come in, Willis.”

The door opened and a man entered. “Willis, take Lieutenant O'Reilly's case and show him to the officers' mess.”

Rank titles would be used in front of other ranks here. Nothing as informal as
Warspite
's medical branch, Fingal thought.

“Aye aye, sir.” The man moved to obey.

Fingal rose. “But sir—”

“You are dismissed, Lieutenant O'Reilly,” the admiral said, “and I'm late for a meeting.”

Fingal's shoulders sagged. He took a deep breath and began to follow the SBA when a voice from behind him, the same avuncular voice of moments ago, said, “I make no promises, Lieutenant O'Reilly, but I'll see what I can do. The navy has a drill for everything—and that includes promotion.”

 

3

Gentlemen of Japan

“Not far to the boozer now,” said O'Reilly to Charlie, and lengthened his stride, forcing his friend to keep up as they left the Trinity College grounds and walked through the throng along Nassau Street. The two men had attended the Saturday morning lectures while Kitty and Pixie, Charlie's wife, enjoyed an exhibition organised by the Royal Hibernian Academy in the premises of the National College of Art on Thomas Street. The women were to meet their husbands in the pub.

Overhead, starlings whirled against the patches of blue that could be seen between the roofs of the eighteenth-century buildings. Pigeons strutted along the gutters. The stink of vehicle exhaust fumes filled O'Reilly's nose and, just as in the old days, the westerly wind bore the faint smell of roasting grain from the Guinness Brewery at Saint James's Gate.