An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (20 page)

For a moment no one spoke. Then Kitty rose. She walked to the mantel and placed the figurine upright in the centre. “What do you think of him there, Fingal?” she said.

He turned. “The wee fellah looks right at home, Kitty.” He smiled.

“And every time we see him there, he'll remind us of your wish, Ronald.”

“Well I—that is—”

“I think,” said Kitty, and it was clear to O'Reilly that she was covering the man's shy embarrassment, “that if you gentlemen will bring your drinks, the mushroom soup and hot rolls will be just about ready.”

*   *   *

O'Reilly surreptitiously undid his waistband. The soup had been delicious, Kinky's roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, seasonal vegetables, and roast potatoes things of beauty. Kitty had selected a rich red Burgundy and Fitzpatrick had been persuaded to take a glass, in part because O'Reilly felt it a shame not to complement a great meal with wine, but also in the hope that it might help Fitzpatrick be less inhibited and be more amenable to suggestion. Certainly, the man's conversation had been animated and interesting. Now, between the main and dessert courses, was the time to get down to the real business of the evening—once the right opportunity arose.

Kitty was saying, “I'd missed that. The Allies released Albert Speer from Spandau Prison late last month?”

“And Baldur von Schirach,” Fitzpatrick said. “Both on the thirtieth.”

Throughout the meal O'Reilly had been surprised by the wide range of Fitzpatrick's interests. Apart from collecting
netsuke
and being expert on aspects of ancient Japanese culture, he could converse fluently about Irish politics, orchids—an interest he shared with O'Reilly's elder brother, Lars—folk remedies, and the operettas of Gilbert and Sullivan. It also transpired that he took a very serious interest in current affairs.

Now O'Reilly was looking for an entrée to a discussion of Fitzpatrick's health. He might have found it in the last remark about Spandau, the prison for Nazi war criminals. “That only leaves Rudolf Hess,” O'Reilly said. “I remember when he flew to Scotland in May of '41. Apparently the man is a pathological hypochondriac.” He stole a glance at Kitty, who nodded once. She'd picked up the cue. “He's always going on about vague stomach complaints,” O'Reilly said, and waited.

Fitzpatrick nodded, pulled off, polished, and replaced his pince-nez. “Yet,” he said, “even with malingerers, we cannot afford to ignore our patients' symptoms. Remember, Fingal, when we were students.” He glanced fondly at Kitty. “Doctor Micks told us about the senior consultant coming back from a weekend off and asking the houseman, ‘How are my patients?' ‘All very well, sir, except the neurotic hypochondriac with nothing wrong.' ‘Yes. What about him?' ‘He died, sir.'” Fitzpatrick's titter was like dry pages being crumpled.

Kitty, clearly caught unaware by Fitzpatrick's willingness to tell an ironic story with a moral, chuckled loudly, but O'Reilly had seen his opening. “I agree. It is our responsibility to take people's complaints seriously.” He made his voice as soft as possible. “That's why, Ronald, I wish you'd go and see Charlie.”

Fitzpatrick jolted upright in his chair. His Adam's apple went up and down like a yo-yo. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said,” and O'Reilly put steel into his voice, “go and see Charlie.”

“I believe, Doctor O'Reilly,” the sudden formality was not lost on O'Reilly, “I believe we had considered that matter closed.”

“Maybe you had, but I can't see a fellow human being—” O'Reilly hoped his next sentence might be the edge of the lever that would allow Kitty to get Fitzpatrick to see sense. “—one who could become a friend, a friend, behaving like a rank
omadahn.
”

“I'm sorry, I don't speak Irish.”

“Idiot. Moron. Imbecile. Are those plain enough for you? You're a sick man. For God's sake, get expert advice.” O'Reilly rose, and without waiting for Fitzpatrick's reply, said, “See if you can talk sense into him, Kitty. I'll get the dessert.” As he strode through the dining room door he heard Fitzpatrick gobbling like a turkey.

Caramelizing the sugar was as simple as Kinky had said and took just enough time to give Kitty her opportunity. O'Reilly loaded the three ramekins onto a tray and headed back, but as he walked past the waiting room, he saw Fitzpatrick's coated back, head under a trilby hat, leaving through the front door. It didn't look as if Kitty had had much success.

She shook her head when he entered.

“No luck?”

“I told him, Fingal's only trying to be your friend.”

O'Reilly nodded.

“And that we both care a great deal about him.”

“And?”

“He was on the verge of tears, Fingal. All he said was, ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,' and you saw him go.”

O'Reilly blew out his breath in exasperation. “Eejit,” he said.

“Come and sit down, Fingal,” she said. “I don't think we could have done any more.”

“I know. And I don't think his gift is working.”

She frowned.

“He said his wee Buddha…”

“
Budai
. They're not one and the same.”

“I didn't know. Anyroad, he said his wee fat man was meant to bring inner peace and tranquillity.” He looked at her and saw understanding in those grey eyes. “I'm not feeling one bit peaceful. I'm not even sure I want my pudding. Damn it all, Kitty, I just don't know where to go for corn. I'm stuck. And meanwhile, Ronald is getting sicker by the minute. Did you notice how his right hand has developed a tremor?” O'Reilly took a deep breath. “I suppose all we can do now is wait and see.”

“I did notice his shake,” she said, and then like a mother to a child who has lost at marbles, “and you're right, we can do no more and it's not your fault. Now please sit down.”

He did, and before he could protest, she set a ramekin in front of him and took one herself. “I know it won't make Ronald any better, but I think it would be a shame to let all your culinary work go to waste. Eat up.”

He shook his head and smiled. Kitty O'Reilly, née O'Hallorhan, might not have been able to persuade Ronald Fitzpatrick, but once more she had worked her wiles on Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly and, by God, the
crema Catalana
was as delicious as the ones they'd had in the Crajeco Loco in Barcelona with Consuela. And, O'Reilly thought, always able to find comfort in his grub, there was the extra one that Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick, the
omadahn,
had so ungraciously not bothered to eat.

 

14

Empty Words of a Dream

Fingal was sorry that he'd cut it close and left a cyclist in the ditch, but he didn't want to waste a minute getting to Twiddy's. He wasn't going to prevaricate any longer. Deirdre was entitled to know what was happening, and he knew no matter what, she'd be brave. Deirdre. Sensible, calm, and very beautiful. He pictured her coming downstairs after her nap and her bath on Monday. She'd rearranged her hair and used just enough makeup to highlight her eyes and lips. Her sleeveless, knee-length, cherry-red dress had a neckline verging on the reckless, and together with dark silk stockings and black patent leather court shoes, the effect was stunning. “You look gorgeous,” he'd said.

“Thank you, sir,” she'd said. She'd glided across the room. To Fingal, she'd seemed to be fine as a bee's wing, light as ocean spray. The rest was a blur until Marge had had to go out, leaving them alone, and he'd been holding her, wanting her, loving her.

“Woof.” Admiral Benbow's sharp bark brought him back to the present. It seemed the big shaggy sheepdog was on watch.

“Coming.” It was Marge's voice, not Deirdre's, and Fingal stifled his disappointment.

The door opened. “Fingal. How lovely.”

The new necklace her husband had given her had replaced the—for an Englishwoman of her class—statutory string of pearls. “Is Deirdre here?” he asked, and tried to peer past Marge. “I've got to talk to her. It's important.”

Benbow demanded attention by thrusting his cold nose against Fingal's hand, so he absently patted the dog's head.

“It must be,” Marge said. “Not bad news I hope?”

Fingal pursed his lips. He meant to tell Deirdre before anyone else, but Marge had been so kind, so understanding. The words tumbled out. “I can't get permission to marry.”

“You can't? Oh, Fingal, I'm most dreadfully sorry,” Marge said. “You'll have to break the news to her at once. And Fingal?”

“Yes?”

“Deirdre can stay with me for as long as she likes.”

“Thank you, Marge.”

“Now you must go and see her. You remember we'd talked about me getting her a job as a Land Girl?”

He nodded.

“Your Deirdre isn't one to let the grass grow under her feet. She rested on Tuesday and yesterday, but it was up Guards and at 'em today. It's the end of haymaking season. She's over at Hutchinson's with Pip and some other girls.”

“Oh.” He had to get there. “Can you—?”

“Of course I'll give you directions,” she said—and did.

He shuddered to think what bouncing over the ruts was doing to the springs of David's little car, but according to what Marge had said, Fingal's quickest way of getting to the hayfield was to park at the end of this lane, clamber over a five-bar gate beneath an old oak tree, cross a pasture, and the Land Girls would be working on the far side of a hedge.

There was the gate and the massive oak, laden with acorns. In moments he'd parked, climbed over the gate, and was running, dodging steaming cow claps, across the pasture so fast a herd of brown-and-white Herefords didn't have time to wander over in the way of their kind to investigate the stranger.

Even in early October, the sun was warm and he was sweating when he found the gate in the far hedge.

He let himself through into a field where the grass had been mown in swaths and was losing its greenness. The scent of recently cut hay filled his nostrils. Nearby, up a shallow hill where they'd have been hidden from his view as he crossed the pasture, he saw several young women grouped round a wagon being pulled by a great Clydesdale horse. He heard a sweet soprano singing, “Little sir Echo, how do you do.”

And the girls singing, “Hello (hello). Hello (hello).”

With every repeated hello, they swung their pitchfork loads in unison onto the wagon. He'd never heard a popular song used like a sea shanty before, but it seemed to be effective. He recognised Pip standing up there holding the reins and Deirdre, her hair done up in a scarf knotted over the middle of her forehead, working away with a will. She looked strong, her movements sure and capable, and he realized that the girl he'd always tried to treat like Dresden china was a lot tougher than he'd imagined. “Deirdre,” he called. “Deirdre.” He saw her hesitate, wave, start toward him, then turn back and speak to Pip. Deirdre must be asking permission to stop work. She was in an army of sorts, after all. Then she was running to him.

She came into his arms, kissed him, and stepped back. “Gosh,” she said, “but you're a bristly man.”

“I've been too busy to shave,” he said gently, pulling a strand of hay from her hair, and then gathered her into his arms again and kissed her back.

“Lord, I do love you.” She was smiling. “What brings you here today? I thought you'd be working.”

“I love you too,” he said.

“Do you have a day off? Can you stay for a while? Pip says I've got to be back in five minutes, but we'll get half an hour for elevenses. Fingal, I was so worried about you when the bombs started to fall, but Marge told me they were too far away to be hitting Gosport.” She paused for breath.

“Hello (hello). Hello (hello).” Her fellows were back at work, it seemed.

“I was quite safe,” he said. “Please don't worry.”

“I'll not,” she said, taking his hand.

He took off his cap with the other and wiped the sweat off his brow. “Darling,” he said, “there's something I want to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” she said. She was still smiling.

“I didn't want to worry you—”

“Fingal, you're not sick?” She frowned. “You've not been posted away?”

“Nothing like that,” he said.

“Good,” she said in a very matter-of-fact voice. “Then it can't be too serious.”

“I've not told you anything about our wedding,” and before she could reply said, “I thought I'd have it all sorted out by Tuesday so I didn't want to worry you, and I didn't tell you anything.”

She frowned. “Anything about what?”

“It seems we need the navy's permission. I didn't find that out until last week and was so sure it would be granted I didn't say anything to you when we made arrangements for you to come here. I should have. I'm sorry.”

She didn't scold him or say anything silly like, “They couldn't refuse you,” but turned her head to one side, tilted it, and said softly, “And they've refused?”

He hung his head, nodded, heard her sudden intake of breath, and looked straight at her while saying, “Yes.” He waited. He knew of girls who would have burst into tears, thrown a hysterical fit, suspected they were being jilted at the last minute on some fabricated excuse.

“Won't you come over and play (and play).”

And the big horse whinnied and made a rubbery noise with its lips.

Deirdre straightened her shoulders. “Thank you for telling me, darling.” She leant forward and touched his hand. “And there's no need to apologise. I'd still have come to you. I love you so much.”

In all of Ulster, all of Ireland, he couldn't have found such a sensible, loving girl. And his heart swelled. He took her other hand and lifted them both to his lips. “I don't want to get our hopes up, but—”