An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War (18 page)

“Thank you, Doctor O'Reilly, Miss Nolan,” Connie said. “I'll show you out—and I'll get you a cuppa and wee jam piece, Lenny, when I come back.”

16

The Hours of Light Return

The sound of the bo'sun's pipes shrilled through the Tannoy system. Fingal, perched at a table in the sick bay doing a job he hated, didn't need to look at his watch to know it was eleven o'clock. While he was filling in requisition forms for pharmaceuticals,
Warspite
's petty officer of the day would be collecting the keys to the spirits room to start the daily ritual of issuing the rum ration: one-eighth of a pint per petty officer and every man over the age of twenty and not under punishment. There was no issue for officers; they had the bar in their mess. The next pipe would be at noon when the measured quantity would be ready for general distribution. O'Reilly smiled at the thought of this arcane practice surviving into the twentieth century. There'd been talk over the years in Parliament of abolishing the men's grog, but nothing had happened. Trust the navy to hang on like the devil to its archaic ways.

Rituals like these had become a fixture of Fingal's life, but today they marked the passage of time aboard ship in an entirely new way. Unless there was some unforeseen event,
Warspite
should be dropping the hook at Tail of the Bank by two
P.M
.—four bells of the afternoon watch. The ship needed maintenance and wouldn't be ready for sea until two weeks after she'd anchored.

Which meant he would start his first long leave, of fourteen days—time enough to get back to Ulster and see Deirdre. Deirdre. He hugged the thought to him. As soon as the first liberty drifter was alongside he'd be off—unless, as Tom Laverty had remarked at breakfast, there was some “excitement.” Although they were nearly home, safety was by no means guaranteed. O'Reilly knew very well that only last month, the minesweeper HMS
Gleaner
had depth-charged and sunk a U-boat here in the seemingly protected waters of the Clyde Estuary,
Warspite
's current home base. The havoc an enemy submarine might have wrought among the ships anchored here did not bear thinking about.

Since O'Reilly had joined the battleship in November, three nearly nonstop months of bleak midwinter convoy escort duty had been his initiation back into the navy. In the final six return runs from Halifax they had lost eight merchantmen to enemy action.

The weeks of ceaseless noise, ship's smells, constant wetness, incessant motion, and sleeps interrupted by calls to readiness or action stations had run one into the other. At least in the medical department, O'Reilly and the rest didn't have to contend with the savage cold on deck or the brutally high temperatures in the engine and boiler spaces. Their lot was treating the endless rounds of cuts, bruises, sprains, and broken bones occasioned by the weather.

The grinding monotony was punctuated by periods of horror when a ship within their convoy was torpedoed or struck a mine. At those times, the sea would stink of bunker oil and men would be tossed into the sea like flotsam or grimly hang on in lifeboats or on Carley floats.
Warspite
was too valuable to risk stopping to rescue survivors—she could be hit by a torpedo too. O'Reilly would pray for the half-frozen men to be picked up by one of the smaller escort vessels.

There was some relief to be had in port with occasional four-hour runs ashore to Greenock, when O'Reilly and Tom and sometimes Davy Jones or the young gunnery officer Wilson Wallace would dine on meals prepared from the limited choice of wartime rationing. Once they had attended a concert given by the singer and comedienne Gracie Fields. O'Reilly still chuckled when he remembered her singing “The Biggest Aspidistra in the World” and “Walter, Lead Me to the Altar.” After these brief shore leaves sick bay would inevitably be busy treating crew members for the damage from bar brawls or doses of venereal disease.

And, once in a while he'd been able to telephone Deirdre. Just hearing her voice had warmed him through.

Then back to sea, where
Warspite
would pitch and roll horribly in force-nine gales, the winds roaring at more than forty knots and the thirty-foot-high Atlantic waves marching across the ocean from horizon to horizon. More often than not, Fingal would be safe belowdecks on the big ship, but sometimes, when the claustrophobia and blighted air would overcome him, he'd go out on deck and watch the wind tearing spindrift off the combers and listen to the banshee keening in the big ship's rigging. She was more than thirty thousand tons, but the seas treated her roughly. It was madness to be at sea in such conditions. But the convoys had to get through or Britain would starve, run out of fuel—and lose the war. All that could be said in favour of the weather was that it made the task of the enemy submarines well nigh impossible.

O'Reilly grumbled to himself, finished the last of the forms, stretched, and stood. “Nearly home,” he said to Ronnie Barker and Bert Fletcher.

“We are that, and if it's all right with you, sir, I think we can let Chief Barker go a little early,” Fletcher said. “I can hold the fort until the afternoon watch comes on if you'd like to get your packing finished.”

“I'd appreciate that, Fletcher,” O'Reilly said. “I'd appreciate it very much. See you both in two weeks.”

“Ta very much, Fletch,” Barker said. “I'll do the same for you soon, and you have fun back home, sir.”

“I will,” O'Reilly said, grabbing his cap and heading for the way out, “believe me I will.”

*   *   *

It had taken the remains of yesterday, last night, and this morning, all the while consumed with impatience, but he'd made it to Belfast. Now, after running half the length of the platform and hurrying through the ticket barrier, O'Reilly couldn't find her in the throng of men in uniform. Like him, they were home on leave and being greeted by family and friends. Belfast's Midland Station was noisy with their joy and laughter, with the hissing of steam and the clattering of iron wheels on luggage trolleys being pushed by uniformed porters across concrete platforms. The incomprehensibly garbled voice over a loudspeaker system presumably was announcing the arrival of the Larne boat train. The air was heavy with the smells of coal smoke and engine oil.

And then he saw her twenty paces away. Deirdre was struggling to get past a portly man and his four small children. She waved and called, “Fingal. Fingal,” and his heart hiccupped.

The other people, the station itself, faded into a misty blur, and all he could see was her face, her eyes smiling, lips open. She was bundled in a long brown overcoat with slightly padded shoulders held shut by a loosely tied belt and her shining hair was tucked up under a silky green scarf.

He dropped one shoulder and, as if he'd been back on the rugby field, battered his way through the scrum, oblivious to a yell of “Watch where the hell you're going, admiral, you great glipe.” As
Warspite
's bows cleaved the ocean, so O'Reilly carved his path. He dropped his suitcase and enfolded her in a huge hug. “Deirdre. Deirdre.” He held her at arm's length, drinking in the wonder of her, then pulled her to him. “I'm home,” he whispered into her hair. And then he kissed her. Damn it, there was a war on and old conventions about displays of emotion in public could go to hell. “I love you,” he said and kissed her again, her lips soft against his.

“I love you, Fingal, and I've missed you terribly.” She kissed him, eyes shining with tears and laughter. “I suppose you better put me down, though. All these people here, and Lars is waiting outside.”

“All right.” He set her down lightly like a man putting fine porcelain on a sideboard, lifted his suitcase, and took her hand. “Come on.” He started striding toward the way out.

“Good Lord, Fingal,” she said, “did you have a drink or two on the train?”

“No,” he said, “why?”

“Because you're swaying as you walk.”

He laughed. “It always happens when we've been at sea. I'll have to get my land legs again and,” he laughed again and said, “we've nearly two whole weeks for me to do it before I have to go back.”

“And I've got two weeks off too,” she said, trying to match his swaying gait with her own.

“Bloody marvellous,” he said, but anything more would have to wait. He squeezed her small hand in his.

“It's wonderful you're here,” she said. “Darling, I've missed you so much.”

They were on York Street in the chill of a damp March afternoon in Belfast, the air sooty from the smoke from the linen mills and factories. O'Reilly's big brother Lars, dapper in a fedora hat, long grey Ulster overcoat, and brown leather gloves, was waiting on the steps. He stripped off his right glove and offered his hand, which O'Reilly shook with vigour. “Welcome home, Finn. How are you?” Lars's narrow moustache, worn in the style of the film stars Errol Flynn and Douglas Fairbanks Jr., curled into a grin. “Good to have you home.”

O'Reilly let go of his brother's hand. “It's good to be home. Good to see you, Lars. How's Ma?”

Lars grabbed his brother's suitcase. “Ma's fine. She'll be feeding you the fatted calf tonight. She and Bridgit have been getting it ready for days when she's not working like Billy-o with Lady MacNeill from Ballybucklebo raising money for the Spitfire fund…”

“Lady MacNeill? I know her husband, the marquis. He's off with his Irish Guards tank regiment, God knows where—”

“Sorry, Deirdre, I didn't mean to monopolize Finn.” Lars, who had dumped the suitcase into the boot, held open the back door of Ma's huge Armstrong Siddeley for her.

She laughed that wonderful contralto chuckle that always melted Fingal. “Lars O'Reilly,” she said, “you and Fingal are family and you've a lot of family stuff to chat about. I'm not family—”

“Yet,” O'Reilly said, “but as soon as the bloody war permits, you will be.”

“I know,” she said, “but for today, Fingal, you sit in front with Lars for the run down to Portaferry. I'm happy just to have you home—and I'm sure neither your mother nor Lars will expect to monopolise your time for the next ten days until you have to start your journey back.”

Ten days with no bugles calling to action stations, no false alarms, no ships torpedoed, no screeching gales, no corned beef sandwiches. O'Reilly heard the promise in Deirdre's voice of time together to come—of laughter, and softness, and love, of walks through little green hills, and lunches in small pubs, dinner at the Widow's in Bangor if he could borrow Ma's car and the petrol ration would stretch. With an enormously contented sigh, he let himself into the passenger's seat. “Home, James—and don't spare the horses.” He half-turned as Lars put the car into gear, and stared at Deirdre. “Apparently Queen Victoria used to say that,” O'Reilly said, and he inhaled deeply when she mouthed, “I love you, Fingal.”

There was nothing left to do but say silently back, “And I love you too.”

17

The Mackerel-Crowded Seas

“Be careful on the last step, Kitty. That green seaweed can be bloody slippy when it's wet.” O'Reilly held on to her left hand and helped her down the final step of the Ballybucklebo jetty.

“Thank you, Fingal.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “An evening's mackerel fishing is exactly what I need. I've had better weeks at work. You've met one of my senior surgeons, Mister John Roulston. Ordinarily he's a sweetheart, but this week? Oh boy. He's had us running round like chickens with their heads cut off.”

“The week's over, love,” O'Reilly said, giving her hand a squeeze, “and Hall's waiting. Let's go and have some fun.”

Hall Campbell had brought Jimmy Scott's thirty-foot open fishing boat to the stone jetty and was now clutching a rusted ring in the granite to hold the craft alongside. He took Kitty's right hand with his free one. While keeping the boat against the step, he took his time waiting for just the right wave to bring the boat's gunwale exactly level with where Kitty stood.

The boat's engine, currently in neutral gear, puttered and gurgled, ejecting intermittent gushes of seawater mingled with exhaust fumes. The sea's surface beneath was rainbow-hued as unburned oil reflected and refracted the sun's rays. O'Reilly could smell the exhaust over the salty tang of the waters of Belfast Lough.

As promised last month in the Duck, Hall had called round at Number One yesterday evening, the second Friday in June, to say that the mackerel were running. Would the O'Reillys like to go out on Saturday evening?

“Bloody right we would,” O'Reilly'd said. “Thanks, Hall. That's very generous of you.” Kitty wasn't the only one who needed a break from patients. Not an hour before Hall had appeared last evening, O'Reilly and Barry had nipped out to the Duck for a quick preprandial. They'd been standing at the bar supping their pints, passing the time of day with Willie Dunleavy, when Lenny Brown had come in.

“Evenin', Doctors,” Lenny said, clearly avoiding meeting O'Reilly's eye.

“Evening, Lenny. How's Connie and Colin?” O'Reilly asked.

“They're grand.” He turned away. “I'm meeting Alan Hewitt, so I am, so if youse'll excuse me?” He quickly headed off down the bar room.

“Away you go,” O'Reilly said to the man's retreating back. “Has Sue said anything about Colin doing the Eleven Plus, Barry?”

Barry shook his head. “I'm afraid not. The Browns have been mum on the subject, and Sue says Colin is quite subdued these days. And you know that's not like Colin.”

“It certainly isn't. I thought as much. If Lenny'd given the go-ahead he couldn't have waited to tell me. And Colin certainly wouldn't have kept it quiet. I think Lenny's dug his heels in. Damn. He sounded like he was coming around when Sue and I talked to him a couple of weeks back.”