An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War (19 page)

“So what are you going to do?”

“Damned if I know—yet. But we still have a few weeks.”

“Come on ahead now, Mrs. O'Reilly, don't wait any longer,” Hall Campbell was saying. “This wave's just the job.” O'Reilly watched as his wife stepped onto the boat with the grace of a dancer. “There you are, ma'am. Dead on. Just like a pro,” Hall said, guiding her over the gunwale and into the cockpit. “Nice til have you aboard, Mrs. O'Reilly.” Hall turned. “Take a hold of that there, sir.” He offered his hand to O'Reilly.

“I'm all right,” O'Reilly said, “I was in plenty of boats in my navy days.” He planted one foot on the boat's side and pushed off with the other, only to have it skid on the very eel grass he'd been at pains to warn Kitty about. The force of trying to regain his balance shoved the vessel away from the quay and broke Hall's grip on the iron ring. As the ship-to-shore gap widened, O'Reilly began to do an ungainly split, which could only have one soggy and frigid outcome. “Hoooooly thundering mother of—” He whirled his arms like a demented semaphore signaller and managed to totter over the side and into the boat's cockpit, grabbing at Kitty as he tumbled aboard.

The action dumped them both in a heap and the little boat tossed and bobbed like a Flower-class corvette in a force-eight gale.

His stream of profanity, caused partly by his embarrassment and partly by his concern for Kitty, was cut short by her laughter as she hauled herself to her feet. She offered him her hand and helped him stand. “Welcome aboard, admiral,” she said, and to her credit, O'Reilly thought, refrained from making any more obvious remarks about his assurance that he'd been in plenty of boats.

“You'd not be the first to slip on them there steps, sir,” Hall said. “I think maybe if you and Mrs. O'Reilly got yourselves sat down?” He indicated a bench that ran round the inside of the hull to provide seating round the cockpit. The fore end, one-quarter of the length of the clinker-built wooden boat, was decked over to provide some shelter and storage space for nets and fishing gear beneath. O'Reilly was aware of the strong smell of fish coming from the forepeak.

Hall took the tiller, bent to the gear stick, and moved it to “ahead.”

O'Reilly heard the change in the engine note and felt the thrust of the propeller pushing the boat through a swell, which she rode easily.

The wind of their passage ruffled his great mop of shaggy hair sticking out from under his tweed Paddy hat. He had no idea where Kitty had bought her peaked navy blue skipper's cap, but sitting at a jaunty angle it suited her. Just the right touch to set off her white Arran sweater and her navy blue stirrup pants.

“Where the hell did you get that hat, Kitty? Very fetching if I do say so.”

“Where did I get it? That's for me to know and you to find out,” she said, inclining her head and raising an eyebrow. “A woman has to have some secrets, you know.”

In other words, he thought, none of your business, O'Reilly. He chuckled.

She let a few seconds lapse, then said, “Fingal, you great glipe. Do you not remember buying it for me in that wonderful outdoor market in Rhodes, just a few blocks from our hotel?”

“Did I now? I'll be damned. I must have had other things on my mind during our honeymoon.”

He heard a great guffaw from Hall, who was studiously looking out to sea. “Where are you taking us, Hall?” O'Reilly asked, smiling at Kitty.

Hall Campbell pulled out a packet of Capstan Full Strength cigarettes, politely offered one to Kitty while saying to O'Reilly, “I know you smoke a pipe, sir.” After she refused he took one and lit it with a Zippo lighter. “My da got that there,” he said, showing them the lighter, “from a Yankee GI when they were here waiting for D-Day in 1944. It's a great yoke. Even if it's blowing a half gale it lights.” He let go a cloud of smoke that was dispersed by the wind. “Where are we going, sir?” Hall said. “Well, there's been a brave run of herring fry for the last week. The mackerel are after them and they've been coming in near Grey Point, so we'll head down thonder.” He pointed ahead. “If you could mebbe steer, sir? I'll get the fishing lines ready for you and the lady.”

“Fair enough.” O'Reilly slid aft and took the tiller while Hall went for'ard. “This'll be your first time out in the lough, Kitty,” O'Reilly said. “Enjoying it so far?”

“A lot,” she said, “but I'd like to know where we are.”

“Right. We've just left Ballybucklebo and are heading east. Directly across to port if you look over the waters to the far shore…”

Tonight the lough was lightly rippled and a deep blue, reflecting the sky's summer shade. An oil tanker so laden and low in the water that her deck was nearly awash made her way to the Port of Belfast. Overhead, puffy clouds played a slow-motion game of follow-my-leader.

“Those are the Antrim Hills that we can see from our lounge.”

“And I know that's Carrickfergus Castle,” Kitty said, pointing to the massive motte-and-bailey edifice that had squatted grim and menacing on the Antrim shore since Norman times.

“Right. Now if you look astern past me—” He'd already glanced back to see a fleet of racing Fairy-class yachts. Their multihued spinnakers ballooned and collapsed, only to fill again on the light airs as the boats raced downwind. “Those fellahs are out of Royal North of Ireland Yacht Club in Cultra and it's on our side of the lough.”

“I know Barry and Sue sail,” she said, “but they race out of Royal Ulster down in Bangor.”

“Which is a fair stretch up ahead, past where we're going.” He nodded his head in that general direction. “Now to your right, to starboard, is the County Down coast. Those big houses with the long rambling gardens running down to shore are where some of the better-off live, including Bertie and Flo Bishop. And that big pile inland, halfway up the hills, is the Culloden Hotel.”

“We've been there,” she said. “Funny how things look so much different when you see them from out here.” She smiled up at him. “It really is a lovely evening to be afloat.”

Kitty had to grab the gunwale as the wake from the tanker hit the boat beam on and it rolled four times before settling on an even keel.

The motion didn't bother O'Reilly. It had been more than twenty years since he'd served on
Warspite,
but it was as if no time had gone by at all, so well he knew this feel of the pitch and roll of the deck. “Pity old Arthur couldn't come.”

“It's no fun for a dog on a boat. Let's take him down to Strangford tomorrow,” she said. “The forecast's good and Barry's on call. I'll make a picnic. There's some cold roast beef in the fridge and I'll have time to make some Scotch eggs in the morning.”

“Done,” he said. “I think I've a bottle of claret.”

“Do you know, Fingal,” she said, “I think for a picnic I'd prefer a couple of bottles of Harp lager.”

“Then you shall have them, madam,” he said, and smiled, damn sure she'd prefer wine, but knew his tastes. He'd bring both.

Hall had reappeared from under the covered forepeak. “I know you know what to do, Doc, but mebbe I should show Mrs. O'Reilly?”

“Go right ahead.” O'Reilly watched as Hall set two mackerel fishing hand lines on the bench.

There was neither rod nor reel, but rather a square frame made from four pieces of wood laid so the ends of each overlapped by a couple of inches. Wound round the frame were numerous turns of grey whipcord, to the end of which was tied a wicked-looking barbed hook. There was no fine leader between the stout line and the hook as there would have been on a trout or salmon rig. Belfast Lough fishermen had used the simple setup for as long as anyone could remember.

“There's nothing complicated, Mrs. O'Reilly,” Hall said, taking out his packet of cigarettes and removing the silvery foil that lined the packet. He folded it into a strip half an inch wide and four inches long. “The mackerel thinks that this here's a herring fry.” He ran the barbed end of the hook twice through the shiny strip close to one end.

“I see,” Kitty said. “Clever.”

Interesting the things you could use as bait, O'Reilly thought. Just took having the right appearance and many a fish would be hooked.

“Now.” Hall lifted a heavy oval-shaped lead weight with split copper rings at each end. He worked the whipcord through the rings so the weight was now attached to the line about four feet from the hook. “Nearly all set.”

O'Reilly reckoned he'd better pay attention to his steering. Coming up ahead was Grey Point, which jutted out into the lough, and the sea itself was not uncluttered. Hall Campbell had no monopoly on fishing for the migratory mackerel. Four herring boats like Hall's, several small cabin cruisers, and even a red-and-white half-open kayak were all trolling off the point. He passed close enough to the kayak to see that the young man in it, who needed both hands to paddle to maintain trolling speed, had taken a turn of whipcord round his naked big toe. Presumably he'd be made aware of a strike by the sudden tug on his toe.

Behind the boats, a flock of herring gulls, the adults grey and white, the adolescents tawny and speckled, hovered over the wakes, swooping and screeching. Periodically they would alight upon the water to bicker over the fish guts that had been thrown overboard from boats already cleaning their catch. Gliding above the herring gulls, a solitary black-backed gull, too aloof to indulge in petty squabbles, waited until one of the smaller birds tried to fly away with a beakful of food. The big robber swooped on its victim until the terrified bird opened its beak, at which point the scavenger caught the entrails in midair and made off.

“Put her out til sea past everybody else, Doc,” Hall said.

O'Reilly put his helm down and swung the boat's head.

“Do you know about Grey Point, Mrs. O'Reilly?” Hall said. “We're just passing it.”

“Please tell me.”

“Used til belong til Lord Dufferin, but the army bought it and built a fort there in 1907. They put two breech-loading six-inch guns in for til defend Belfast Lough. They only ever fired once in two world wars, and that was a warning dummy shell across the bows of a Belfast-bound freighter that hadn't been warned about the guns and didn't pay attention til a challenge from the fort.”

“The folks who lived round the lough'll tell you the guns made ferocious rows practising twice a week shooting at drogues towed by tugs,” O'Reilly added.

“Aye. And apparently they usually missed them,” laughed Hall. “The powers that be took the guns out in the '50s and closed the fort.” He lifted the prepared fishing set. “Now, Mrs. O'Reilly,” he said, “we're on the fishing ground. Time for work. There's only one important thing til remember. Always,
always,
put the hook in the water first. Never the weight. If it goes in and you're holding the line between it and the hook, the pressure of the flow of water on it will rip the line through your fingers and you'll hook yourself. And we don't want that.”

“No, we don't,” she said. “I may be a nurse, but I wouldn't have the faintest idea how to remove a fishhook.”

“Hall told Jenny Bradley last year how to do it. It sounded painful.”

“Sit here, Missus,” Hall said, indicating a place on the bench at the stern on the port side. When she did, he took the gear, put the hook over the side, then the weight, then unreeled about thirty feet of line. He handed her the line. “Hold you that there and if you feel a tug, jerk hard to set the hook, then haul the line in hand over hand.” He stood beside O'Reilly. “I'll take her now, Doc. We'll get you set up, sir, once Mrs. O'Reilly catches her first fish.”

O'Reilly surrendered the tiller, happy to let Hall deal with bringing the boat on a parallel course with all the others yet avoiding the other boats and the lines that, like Kitty's, would be streaming out behind. O'Reilly watched Kitty sitting facing aft, hand held in front of her, the line running from the wooden square, up through her fist, and out over her bent index finger. He smiled to see the look of concentration on her face.

She whipped her arm back so her hand was level with her ear. “Got one.” Her smile was enormous and she bent to hauling in the line hand over hand, letting the wet coils fall into the boat's cockpit. The lead weight came over the taffrail, the highest plank of the vessel's stern.

O'Reilly glanced into the water to see a silver, torpedo-shaped fish being pulled along, then leaving the water as Kitty hauled. Its silver scales flashed brilliantly and its dorsal stripes were that intense blue-green seen only on a mackerel or the head of a mallard drake in bright sunlight.

She boated the fish at Hall's feet. It thrashed, making a rattling noise on the deck, and gasped. Single scales like sparkling sequins patterned the deck's planks. Hall bent and thumped it once on the head with a short wooden cudgel that O'Reilly knew was loaded with lead at its tip and known locally as a “priest” because it gave fish the last rites. The mackerel lay still. “Nice fish, Mrs. O'Reilly,” Hall said.

“Golly,” Kitty said, “that was exciting.” She grinned, then her smile faded. “I can't help feeling just a bit sorry for the fish, though.”

“Aye,” said Hall, “but you'll get used to it, Missus, particularly after you've grilled one or had it smoked and eaten it cold.”

“We'll ask Kinky,” Kitty said. “We didn't catch many mackerel down in Tallaght, so I don't have a clue.” She must have seen Hall's puzzled look. “It's an inland suburb of Dublin where I grew up.”

“I heard you were a Dubliner, Mrs. O'Reilly. Well, welcome to the wee north,” said Hall, then looked at O'Reilly. “Can you steer again, Doc?”

O'Reilly took the tiller, and Hall unhooked Kitty's mackerel, then produced an old Erinmore Flake tobacco tin and from it took a single safety razor blade. The silver paper on the hook was in tatters so he ripped it off and threw it away. He used the razor blade to slice two thin strips from the fish's silvery belly, put one on Kitty's hook and gave the other to O'Reilly. “You know what to do, sir.”