An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (61 page)

Although most of the fire in the battery had been extinguished, leaving nothing but blackened debris and, he flinched, charred bodies, flames producing greasy black smoke still sprang up from the remains of number-four gun. Two seamen were playing a hose on a man wearing an antiflash hood and gauntlets who lay facedown on the deck and whose left arm vanished at the wrist under a huge piece of twisted steel.

The flames were creeping toward him. No time to lose.

Fingal tightened his grip on his satchel and steeled himself to advance when a voice said, “O'Reilly. Glad you're here. Anything you need?”

Fingal turned to see the executive officer. “Only a man to help me,” he said, but thought, Yes. I need to be anywhere but here.

“AB Phillips. Bear the surgeon a hand. Lively now.”

“Aye aye, sir.” A young seaman dropped a hose and stepped forward.

Fingal handed him the satchel. “Hold that, keep it open, and stay close to me.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Fingal filled a syringe with a quarter grain of morphine. He got on his knees and, shielding his face from the blaze with one arm, crept forward. Steam rose from the gunner's soaking clothes and Fingal, feeling the heat, wished that he himself had something more than tropical rig, shorts and a shirt, to protect him. The flames were nearly beating him back but he gritted his teeth and crept on.

“Soak the doctor and Phillips too.”

Fingal heard the exec order and welcomed the relief afforded as cold water hit his bare arms and legs. A hand to the man's throat confirmed that he had a pulse. He was breathing, but unconscious. There was no time for niceties. Fingal drove the hypodermic needle through the gunner's overall sleeve into the big muscle over the shoulder, the deltoid, and injected.

“I'll be asking you for what I need, Phillips. Give me that bottle of brown fluid.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The seaman passed Fingal the Dettol, which he poured over the wrist of the trapped hand.

“See that rubber tubing?”

“This, sir?”

“Thanks.” Fingal slipped it under the arm below the elbow and knotted it tightly for a tourniquet.

“See the scalpel?”

“This it, sir?”

“Good man.” Fingal accepted the surgical knife. He couldn't manipulate the arm so he'd have to cut straight through skin and flesh, worry about making proper flaps later back in the operating theatre, deal with the bone, then the flesh and sinews of the underside. The patient moaned and tried to writhe, but was held fast by his hand.

Fingal felt a tugging at his sleeve. “What is it?”

The rating pointed to a small river of oily fluid that was running from the wrecked gun and forming a pool under Fingal's knees. Dear God. Hydraulic fluid. If that went up … Fingal took one deep breath, shouted, “Give me the satchel and bugger off.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The rating did and fled.

Despite himself, pictures of Flip Dennison's charred and scarred face kept flashing into Fingal's mind. His hand started to tremble.

The executive officer yelled, “Leave him. Save yourself, Doctor. That's an order. Our hoses are useless on hydraulic fluid. And we haven't got enough medical staff. We can't afford—”

Fingal heard the shout as a distant command, a wasp buzzing, distracting him from his purpose of completing the amputation and getting the man to safety. Sod it. He slung the bag by its strap over one shoulder and bent to his work. He willed his hands to behave. Firm scalpel strokes soon revealed the forearm bones. There was virtually no bleeding because of the tourniquet. The saw bit and soon had done its work. From the corner of his eye he saw tiny flames like the ones on a brandy-soaked Christmas pudding begin to dance on the surface of the pool in which he knelt. Every fibre screamed
run
.

He dropped the saw, picked up the scalpel, and severed the remaining tissue. He got the semiconscious man in a fireman's lift and as the fluid erupted with a loud
whoomp
scorching Fingal's face and burning off his eyebrows and the hair on the front of his head, he ran to the far side of the battery to the cheers of the fire-fighting crew and a couple of stretcher-bearers who had appeared.

Fingal set the man down with his back to a bulkhead and ripped off the gunner's antiflash hood. No. Och, no. Dear God, not Alf Henson. Not Alf. No time for those thoughts now. Fingal grabbed Gamgee and bandages and fashioned a crude dressing.

He straightened to find himself looking into the eyes of Commander Sir Charles Madden. “That, O'Reilly,” the commander said, “was one of the bravest things I've ever seen. You should have run.”

Fingal simply shook his head. Tried to stop seeing himself charred into the foetal position like one of the ash-preserved bodies from Pompeii.

“I shall be recommending you for the DSC.”

Fingal lost control. “Sir,” he said, and his voice was icy. “I don't want your flaming medal. Give Henson back his hand.”

Whether from the relief at knowing he'd not been roasted alive or the realisation that all he and Elizabeth Blenkinsop had tried to do for Alf Henson had been futile, Fingal found himself laughing. Hysteria. He brought it under control. “You two,” he pointed at the stretcher-bearers, “get Leading Seaman Henson on the stretcher and take him to the for'ard medical distribution station. I need to fashion a stump so we can get him fitted with an artificial hand when he's healed up.”

The barking cacophony of
Warspite
's AA guns almost drowned out the commander's response. “And I shall ignore your insubordination and impertinence and, like it or not, O'Reilly, I
am
putting you in for that gong.”

 

49

And Every Dog His Day

“No,” said O'Reilly. “It won't do.”

“What won't, sir?” Donal asked as he closed the Rover's passenger-side door. From behind him came a series of high-pitched yips from the excited puppies in the backseat.

“I don't think you served in the Irish Guards, did you?”

“What are you on about, sir? You know fine well I was never in the army, never mind the Guards.”

“Then you can't wear their regimental tie in a room full of captains of industry.”

“But we're just going to sell some dogs,” Donal said, a note of petulance in his voice. He pulled his tie out from under his tweed jacket and examined it—dark red and dark blue, diagonally striped.

“Some retired major is going to have apoplexy if he sees you wearing that thing,” O'Reilly said. “You don't know how jealous some folks can be about who can and who can't wear certain ties. And you want to get off on a good foot, don't you?”

“Aye, certainly. I do that. And I sure don't want to give no high heenjin apple plexy.”

“Where did you get it anyway?”

“This?” Donal's brows knitted then he smiled. “About a year ago I was doing a wee job for his lordship. Fitting some shelves into his dressing room wardrobe, so I was. My belt broke and my pants near fell down. I asked Mister Thompson, you know, the butler man, for a piece of twine and he give me this instead. Said it was wore out. It had a long tear, but it was right along the seam and Julie sewed it up so's you can't see it anyroad. I didn't know it was special, so I didn't.”

“Thompson gave you a regimental tie to hoist up your trousers? He must be mellowing in his old age. Well, go and change it. I'll keep an eye on the dogs. Which two are they?”

“Thon one there with the wee top hat's Boy, short for Wild Colonial Boy of Brisbane. Pedigree dogs have grand names, you know. And the one in the wee bonnet's Mel, short for Melbourne Miss the Third of Carlton.”

O'Reilly chuckled. “How the blazes do you think them up?”

“I don't sir. Dapper does. He's quare nor smart, and he wants for the dogs til sell too. Don't forget as well as the stud fees Dapper gets pick of the litter and he wants the do-re-mi when it sells. Anyroad, hang on and I'll be back.” He climbed out and both little dogs got up on their hind legs and put their front paws and wet noses on the car's side window. Both, as well as their ridiculous hats, wore scarlet waistcoats that Julie had sewn.

How, O'Reilly wondered, do I get myself involved with Donal's antics? All part of being the kind of local GP I always wanted to be, and let's face it, every time Donal's got himself into trouble hasn't the
craic
been ninety digging him out? He wished Barry was here to share the fun.

O'Reilly laughed loudly enough to stimulate a melancholy howling from the backseat. “Wheest, dogs, wheest,” he said, and they quieted at once. Biddable little creatures, and agile too. They might just make good pets.

Donal climbed back in, this time wearing a paisley tie in bright pinks and fluorescent greens.

“Right,” said O'Reilly, gasping when he saw the tie. He shook his head. “Off we go. We're late. But the old Rover has lots of horses under the bonnet and I can put my foot to the floor over the Craigantlet Hills as long as they aren't too icy.” He roared down the lane fast enough to force Donal to slide down in his seat.

*   *   *

“My God,” Donal said sotto voce. “This is quare nor grand, so it is.” He stood, duncher grasped in one hand, the dogs' leashes in the other, rooted to the spot at the doorway to Belfast's Grand Central Hotel ballroom. The hall carpet was plush underfoot.

O'Reilly stood at Donal's shoulder surveying the scene. The first guests were beginning to arrive. From the far end came the sounds of the Clipper Carlton Showband as they set up their instruments. Their frontman, Fergie O'Hagan, said into a microphone, “Check, check, check. Microphone check.”

The words gave O'Reilly a flutter of anxiety in his belly. “Check” repeated twice more had also been the order for
Warspite
's guns to cease firing.

The sounds echoed through the room and across a dance floor to where tables and chairs awaited, loaded with white napery and silver cutlery, light blue china and crystal glasses. Light sparkled from chandeliers with false diamond pendants and a multifaceted mirrored ball spun over the dance floor. The chamber of commerce members and their wives were not going to be eating
cruibíns
off paper plates. There would be money here tonight. Lots of money. And, he hoped, lots of good people who would treat the funny little creatures well.

“Do you think Mister Bishop and Mister Ramsey will come soon?” Donal asked.

O'Reilly said, “Bertie told us to be here at six fifteen so we're a couple of minutes early.”

“Aye,” said Donal, “even though you near put the car in the ditch in your hurry, sir.”

“Black ice,” O'Reilly said, and sniffed. “The skid could have happened to a bishop. Anyway it's always better to be early in life.”

“Right, sir. I'll remember that.” Donal bent to the two leashed dogs. “Sit.” And to O'Reilly's amazement they did. “I know they're very young yet, but I've been learning them a wee bit,” Donal said. “They're sharp as tacks.”

Beside the door, a hotel functionary sitting at a trestle table was taking cards with scalloped edges and black copperplate writing from guests arriving like Noah's animals two by two, the gentleman in dinner suits, the ladies in cocktail dresses. One woman bent and patted Boy. “Isn't the little doggy sweet, Henry?” she asked of a moustached, rotund gentleman accompanying her.

He toyed with an unlit cigar. “Strange-looking beast,” the man said. “I think it might be one of those rare Australian dogs, Woolama-somethings, that Ernie Ramsey was so keen on. Legs are too long for its body.” He handed over his invitation. “Do come along, Sarah. I see the Featherstonehaughs, and Mildred's waving at us.”

Sarah gave one last lingering look before following her husband.

“Now there's a thing,” said Donal after she'd gone in. “It'll be the women who do the buying—you mark my words, sir. The craytures' big brown eyes bring out the mother in women. My Julie's forever pettin' the wee fellahs.”

Had Donal been born into a different social class, O'Reilly was convinced he'd have been a professor of applied psychology. “You could be right,” he said, and wondered if it had been the case, to what precisely would Donal have applied his skills? There'd have been a profit in it, that was for sure.

“Right on time, Doctor. Donal,” Bertie Bishop said. Flo and the Ramseys were with him.

Donal made a head bob.

“Bertie. Flo, you look—” O'Reilly began. She was wearing an orange flared cocktail dress over myriad taffeta petticoats and was giving a fair impression of a ripe pumpkin. “—wonderful.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, and smiled. “Cissie Sloan made my dress. She's a quare dab hand at the dressmaking.” She looked at the pups. “What lovely little doggies,” she patted Mel, “and such a pretty bonnet. Do you think we should buy one, dear?”

Bertie adjusted his bow tie, cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and made no comment.

O'Reilly had the distinct impression that Bertie was biting back a suggestion that Flo should take herself off by the hand, a fine Ulsterism for getting a grip on reality. Perhaps Bertie's newfound humanity did not extend to the animal kingdom.

“Doctor, this is Mrs. Ramsey,” Ernie Ramsey said, introducing a slim, dark-haired woman in a black knee-length sheath. “Eileen, Doctor O'Reilly and Mister Donnelly.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” she said, “and Flo is right. Those big brown eyes are simply adorable.”

“We'll go in,” said Ernie. “I don't know about you other gentlemen, but my belly thinks my throat's cut. My tongue's hanging out.”

O'Reilly was feeling a certain thirst himself.

Ernie Ramsey handed in their invitations, made the explanations, and once inside was ushered by a waiter in tails to a table for six in the front row facing the bandstand.