An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War (20 page)

“I do in soul,” said O'Reilly.

“I'll take her,” Hall said, reaching for the helm.

O'Reilly set to work baiting his hook. Soon he and Kitty had their lines in the water. “Thanks for taking us out, Hall,” O'Reilly said. He felt the steady pressure of line on finger, the gentle motion of the boat, heard her engine and the cries of the gulls, both plaintive and belligerent. In the cusp of the low hills of both sides of the lough, the waters and all they contained lay calmly waiting for the soft gloaming as the summer sun slid down the gentle sky. The last quarter of a waning moon swung gently, waiting in the wings to play her bit part after the night had come. “Got one,” O'Reilly yelled as the line jerked and tugged at his finger.

As he happily hauled his first fish in he thought, All it takes is the right technique and the right bait. Then a kernel of an idea began to form. He'd come here to relax to put the concerns of the practice behind him for a few hours and had done, but it was the second time he'd thought of bait, and fish weren't the only animals that might be lured.

The shining, twisting mackerel had mistaken a strip of belly for a herring fry and been hooked.

How could O'Reilly devise a bait that would catch Lenny Brown and get it through his stubbornness that the best gift ever he could bestow on Colin was the opportunity for a scholarly education? He'd been off to meet Alan Hewitt last night. Alan was a workingman, but his daughter, Helen, was a medical student who'd just completed her first year. Could that be used in any way?

O'Reilly boated his fish and thumped it with the priest. And if bait wouldn't work with Lenny, he thought, might there be another way to drive sense into his head?

18

Fathom Deep I Am in Love

Ma wore a green cardigan over a ruffle-fronted white blouse. She and the armchair she was in were as straight-backed as the Victorian lady she was. “Come and sit beside me by the fire, Deirdre. It's horrid outside,” Ma said.

The burning turf was cosy and filled the lounge with a peaty smell that pleased Fingal. All the electric lights were on to banish the gloom.

“Thank you, Mrs. O'Reilly.” Deirdre moved from Fingal's side where they had been standing in the bow window of Ma's lounge watching the gale. It was blowing through the old elms at the bottom of her garden, making them thrash and fight back with bare-clawed branches that tried to rake the lowering sky.

“It's been so nice having you, Deirdre, and you, Fingal, to stay. It's just terrible how the time flies. I can't believe it's been nearly two weeks since you came.”

Fingal was back in uniform for the first time in ten days. “It has, Ma,” he said, listening to sheets of rain rattling against the panes. The sound reminded him of
Warspite
's quadruple half-inch machine gun mounts letting go. “And it's been ten wonderful days of your cooking and Bridgit's. I'm going to miss that…” And, he thought, I'm going to miss pre-dinner pints with brother Lars in the Portaferry Arms. Two brothers, old friends, catching up. Eleven marvellous nights in a soft bed, no bugle calls and alarms in the middle of the night, no stink of fuel oil. Nothing tossing and pitching underfoot. “And I'm going to miss you, Ma.”

“Thank you, son,” she said.

And ten wonderful days with Deirdre. Fingal looked at her sitting demurely, knees together, feet firmly on the ground, her hands in the lap of the grey skirt of her tailored suit. She'd not been so demure when they kissed and caressed on their long walks over the drumlins and round the shore. They'd cuddled in the back stalls of the Art Deco Tonic Cinema in Bangor where they'd gone to see
The Dawn Patrol
with Errol Flynn and David Niven and
The Ghost Goes West
with Robert Donat and Jean Parker.

He sighed then smiled as he pictured her delight on the day when they'd startled a pair of teal from a brown peat pool practically underfoot. In return the birds' sudden noisy appearance had startled Deirdre. Their wings had clattered as they sprang into the air, the little drake with his chestnut head and iridescent green teardrop round his eye venting his displeasure with a harsh quacking. Deirdre'd squealed, then clapped her hands, and giggled like a ten-year-old getting an ice cream. God, he thought, but I'm going to miss how she takes limitless pleasure from the simplest thing. How she can laugh at herself.

“Your father used to say it, Fingal, usually at the end of a holiday, ‘All good things must come to an end.'” Ma inhaled deeply. “He was right of course, but I hate you having to go back to the war.” She pursed her lips and looked at an ormolu clock on the mantel. “Lars should be here soon.”

Fingal walked to Ma's chair and dropped a hand on her shoulder. “You'll still have Lars and Bridgit and all your new friends here, and your work with Lady MacNeill.”

Ma nodded, brightened, then said, “We'll be presenting a Spitfire to 602 (City of Glasgow) Squadron, next month. You've both seen the newsreels of what those horrid stukas did in Poland last year. Laura and I think raising five thousand pounds to buy a first-class fighter is well worth it.”

“Good for you, Ma,” Fingal said. “From what I've read and heard on the radio, not much is happening except at sea. Our side call it the ‘Phoney War' and the Nazis the ‘Sitzkreig.' But Hitler's going to have to move against France soon and when he does we'll need all the fighter planes we can get. Thank you, Ma.”

“Don't thank Laura and me. Thank all the others who've contributed time and money to our Spitfire fund,” she said, turning to Deirdre and changing the subject. “I hope, Deirdre, while Fingal's away, you'll not be a stranger even if it is a fair journey from Belfast to Portaferry. There'll always be a bed for you here.”

“I will try to get down, I promise,” Deirdre said.

The phone in the hall rang. Brigit would answer it, Fingal knew.

“I think,” Ma said, looking Fingal straight in the eye, “that you are a very lucky young man. I'm just sorry you'll not be able to make me a mother-in-law soon, but I understand.”

Fingal looked at Ma then to Deirdre. “It's a sentiment we all share, Ma, and we've been talking about it. Haven't we, pet?”

Deirdre nodded. “Fingal's hoping to be sent on a course to learn about anaesthetics. He might be home, at least in England, for three months and—”

“Seize it,” Ma said. “Life's too short. If you mean to get married then, do it. Do it the minute you can.” She cocked her head and grinned at Fingal. “The sooner you make me a granny the better.”

He swallowed. Was Ma, straight and proper Ma, was she hinting what he thought she was?

She became serious. “Being in love is wonderful and everything, and I mean everything, about love is wonderful. I envy you young people. Don't waste it.”

Fingal nearly whistled. He certainly blushed. Ma could hardly have been more explicit if she'd said, “Hurry up and make love to the girl.” He said, “Thanks for everything, Ma,” and was relieved when Bridgit, who was now more a companion for Ma than a maid, came into the room and said, “Mister Lars was on the telephone. He is coming in his motorcar to run the lieutenant and Miss Mawhinney to Belfast.”

Fingal didn't want Deirdre to go back to the nurses' home tonight. They could breakfast together tomorrow before he caught the boat train to the morning ferry. The plan was for Lars to drive straight to Belfast today, where Fingal had reserved two rooms at the Midland Hotel. It would be unreasonable to expect his brother, in these days of petrol rationing, to make the detour to Ballybucklebo where Fingal and Deirdre were going to visit Fingal's old principal Doctor Flanagan. Once they had registered, he and Deirdre would take the train. Fingal wanted to keep his option open to return to the practice after the war, and was very aware that the old adage “Out of sight, out of mind” was true.

Bridgit said, “He says it's still bucketing down out so he'll honk when he arrives and will you please go straight out.”

“Thank you, Bridgit,” Fingal said.

She shyly offered him a brown-paper-wrapped parcel. “It's one of my cold pork pies, sir,” she said. “It'll maybe do for your lunch, bye, on the train in Scotland, hey.” That soft Antrim brogue she'd never lost was in pleasing familiar contrast to the Babel of English and Scottish accents on
Warspite
to which he would be returning.

“That's very thoughtful, Bridgit,” O'Reilly said. “Thank you again.”

She smiled and bobbed her lace-capped head.

Ma stood. “Give me a kiss, Deirdre.”

Deirdre rose, hugged Ma, and pecked her cheek. “I will come and see you, I promise, Mrs. O'Reilly.”

“And I think,” said Ma, “we know each other well enough by now. Please call me Mary.”

“Thank you—Mary.”

Fingal hugged his mother. “So long, Ma. I hope it won't be too long until I get home again. I'll write.”

“See you do.”

There was a blast of a car's horn from outside.

“Now run along and both of you take care of yourselves.”

As Fingal stood aside to let Deirdre go first, he heard his mother say sotto voce so only he could hear, “And I meant what I just said. Don't waste time. There's a war on.”

*   *   *

“Doctor Fingal O'Reilly, as I live and breathe, and Miss Mawhinney.” Deirdre had been invited to Doctor Flanagan's home several times for a meal since Fingal and she had become engaged in July. “As welcome as rain in a summer of drought you are, so.”

“Mrs. Kinkaid,” Deirdre said. “How are you?”

“Grand, so.” Mrs. Kinky Kincaid, Doctor Flanagan's housekeeper from County Cork, stood in the open doorway of Number One, Main Street, Ballybucklebo. Her silver hair, as ever, was done up in a tight chignon, her floral pinafore dusted with flour and, Fingal thought, the beginnings of a double chin seemed to have increased since he'd left here last November. She beamed, and dimples came to her cheeks as her agate eyes looked Fingal up and down from head to toe, frowned, then said, “But those uniform trousers could use a pressing, bye.”

Fingal laughed and shook his head. “They'll need it a lot more after I've been on the Scottish train for hours, and anyway, Deirdre and I came to visit Doctor Flanagan and yourself, not to have my trousers ironed.”

“Well, come in. Come in.” She stood aside, closed the door after them, and helped hang their sodden hats and coats on the coatstand. “Doctor Flanagan was so pleased when you phoned yesterday and he'll be sorely vexed that he's missed you, sir,” she remarked. “He said to apologise, but you'll remember Agnes Alexander?”

Fingal frowned then said, “Red-haired lass. I saw her once or twice last year. Early on in a pregnancy. Husband's Fred, a shipyard plater?”

“That's right, sir. You've a powerful memory, so. Anyroad, she did go into labour six hours ago and the midwife sent for Doctor Flanagan an hour since.”

“Oh,” said Fingal, rather at a loss. He had wanted to pay his respects to his senior colleague, but not spend too long. This, after all, was his last time with Deirdre and he wanted her to himself. No one could predict how long a labour might take, so there was not much sense hanging about for what could be hours. Perhaps they'd made the trip for nothing.

“And you've come all the long way from Belfast City by train.” Kinky shook her head and tutted.

It was only about six miles, but to country folk, who mostly walked or cycled, it would seem a long way, and he knew from experience that villagers always found the big city intimidating.

“But I knew what time to expect you, so, and I have the kettle on and it'll only take a shmall-little minute to toast and butter the barmbrack. I only baked it this morning. If himself gets finished soon you might still see him, but there'll be a Belfast train in about forty minutes so if he's not back you could catch that.”

And be back at the Midland Hotel with Deirdre all to myself before high teatime, Fingal thought. “That would be wonderful, Kinky,” he said, and hesitated. It was not customary for servants to dine with guests of the master, but in the months Fingal had worked here he'd come to know big, motherly Kinky Kincaid as much as a friend as the housekeeper. “Will you sit down with us, Kinky?” he asked. “We'd really love to hear what's been going on in the village since I left.”

She frowned and said, “I would like that, so, but only if I could entertain you in my kitchen, sir. It does not be my place to dine in the master's quarters.”

“That would be lovely, Kinky,” Deirdre said.

“Lead on,” said Fingal, and took Deirdre's hand.

Past the surgery, the waiting room, and into the big warm kitchen where amazing cooking smells were coming from a pot bubbling on a black cast-iron range and a kettle was coming to the boil.

Kinky pulled out three chairs from her wooden table and said, “Please sit down.” Fingal held Deirdre's chair. He was aware of her faint perfume and longed to have her to himself. As he took his own seat he noticed a needlework frame over which was stretched mesh canvas. Already the hull of a Spanish galleon had been completed in coloured wools which must have come from a nearby box of threads and needles.

Deirdre must have noticed it too. “That's a beautiful tapestry you're stitching, Mrs. Kincaid,” she said.

“Thank you, Miss Deirdre.” Kinky finished making the tea. “I intend it for a fire screen that'll sit in front of the hearth in my quarters when the fire's not lit. It does be of the
Falco Blanco
from the Spanish Armada. She went aground in Galway Bay.”

“In 1588, I believe,” Fingal said. “Eight years before the first
Warspite
was built. The finished tapestry is going to be lovely.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kinky said, setting the teapot, sugar, milk, and three cups on the table.