An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (31 page)

“Aye, just so. Settle down now, settle down. Ladies and gentlemen, as best man it falls to me to be master of ceremonies at this reception to celebrate the wedding of Lieutenant-Commander Fingal O'Reilly and his lovely bride…” He had to wait until a respectful round of applause had died away. “Thank you. His lovely bride Deirdre, now Mrs. O'Reilly.” Angus lifted his glass. “As is naval custom there is no need to rise for the loyal toast. Admiral Creaser, ladies and gentlemen, I give you his Majesty King George the Sixth. The king, God bless him.”

Fingal's voice boomed out with the rest.

Angus said, “You may now smoke.”

Matches scraped, lighters clicked, and flames flared as cigarettes and pipes, including Fingal's, were lit. Smoke twisted up in lazy blue spirals to the high ceiling.

“Now,” said Angus with a bow to Reverend Evans, “let me give you the order of service. At the request of the groom, there will be no speeches.”

Cheers rang out and somebody started singing, “For he's a jolly good fellow,” and the assembly joined in.

“Aye, just so,” Angus said. “As I was saying, all that will be done is as follows. I've here”—he held up a sheaf of paper—“some telegrams from friends and family who cannot be with us today. They will be read. After that, I will propose the toast to the bride and groom, and finally, although it is Surgeon Lieutenant-Commander and Mrs. O'Reilly's big day, I have their permission…”

Fingal nodded.

“Also to propose a toast to the health of Admiral Creaser, who is leaving Haslar after three years of unremitting work and service.” He set all but one telegram on the tabletop. “If you feel like applauding, I'd ask you to wait until every one of these has been read.” He began, “‘Every happiness for your big day and forever. Stop. Welcome new O'Reilly. Stop. Much love. Stop. Mother, Lars, Bridgit.'”

Fingal nodded.

“‘All our love to you both. Stop. May your future burn brightly. Stop. Father, Mother, Dolores.'”

Fingal glanced at Deirdre and saw how her eyes glistened. She'd be missing her family today, he knew.

“‘It's about time you made an honest man of him, Deirdre. Stop. I'd love to give you a big kiss, but duty calls. Stop. Your hotel will be paid for, my gift to you. Send me the bill. Stop. All my love to you both. Stop. Bob Beresford.'”

Typical Bob, Fingal thought, no expense spared—none of the abbreviated sentences usually used because telegrams were charged per word, and a most generous gift. He'd write to Bob first thing tomorrow.

“One from your friends at the Ulster Hospital in Belfast, Mrs. O'Reilly, ‘Our love to you on this happy day. Stop. Party for you when you get back. Stop. All your midwife friends.'”

“That's sweet,” Deirdre said.

“And finally, one from Cromie and Charlie, two more old friends and classmates of the groom. ‘Brandy makes you randy and whiskey makes you frisky but…'” Angus's cheeks reddened. “And I think I'll leave it at that.” As the guests applauded, he handed the telegrams to Fingal. “You may want to keep these as souvenirs.”

“Thank you,” Fingal said, and as Angus got on with toasting the bride and groom, he glanced at his friends' message. Cheeky buggers, he thought, shoving the flimsies into his inner pocket as the crowd shouted, “To the bride and groom,” and someone who may have celebrated rather too much added the wish, mostly heard at ship launches, “May God bless them and all who sail in them.”

The admiral was duly toasted, hugs and kisses exchanged, and Deirdre fled to Fingal's room to change into her going-away outfit. Then it would be Fingal's turn, and then they'd be off in the little Austin that David White, who was now on his way to join HMS
Illustrious,
a new carrier, had sold to Fingal for seven pounds ten. They'd be driving in it to an inn in the New Forest for their one-week honeymoon.

*   *   *

Fingal admired the cut of Deirdre's best suit and the ridiculous product of the milliner's art that perched on the side of her head, adorned with a pheasant's single tail feather. He took her gloved hand and helped her climb into the passenger seat of his recently acquired car. As she climbed in, her skirt rode up and he was granted a glimpse of creamy thigh above a dark nylon stocking top. He made a guttural noise in his throat and hoped that there'd be an enormous four-poster bed in their hotel room.

He closed his eyes and exhaled, shut the door, gave a last wave to the little throng who'd come to see them off, and drove away to a tinny clattering. Someone had tied a string of cans to the back bumper. “Well, Mrs. O'Reilly,” he said, “alone at last,” and he leant over and kissed her cheek. “I have to say I did enjoy our reception,” he said. “I thought Angus did a superb job.”

“It was nice of our friends to send telegrams, and very generous of Bob,” Deirdre said. “I remember him from Dublin days. He's sweet even if he does have an eye for the ladies.”

“He's a very sound man,” Fingal said, “and I'm glad you got a chance to meet Cromie and Charlie before I was called up.”

“They're both lovely men too,” Deirdre said, “but not as lovely as you.” She squeezed his thigh. “How far is it to the hotel?”

“About thirty-five miles. I've made dinner reservations for seven so we've lots of time.” He thrilled to her touch, and in his hurry to get to the inn trod down on the accelerator.

“Perhaps,” she said, “a little more slowly? It's getting dark and the shades over our headlights and no street lights don't help.”

He eased off, saw a lay-by ahead, and pulled over. “Won't be long,” he said as he got out. “I'm getting rid of those cans.” He cut the string and with a surreptitious glance round, chucked the tins over the hedge. The “Just Married” sign went next.

He climbed back in. “Now,” he said, “we're just an old married couple having a little break.” He leant across the car and took her in an enormous hug and kissed her long and hard. “And that's the way it's always going to be, even when we are long married. I love you, Deirdre, and I'll never stop.” He put the car in gear. “Now to paraphrase Queen Victoria, it's to the inn, James, and don't spare the horses.” And her throaty chuckle was music to his ears.

“Tell me what the rest of the last telegram said, Fingal.” And she started to stroke his thigh.

Deirdre was no prude, and given the effects of her stroking, the punch line was entirely appropriate. “All right,” he said. “‘Brandy makes you randy and whiskey makes you frisky, but a stiff Johnnie Walker makes you pregnant.'”

And her peals of laughter rang so loudly as the car passed a village duck pond, that a couple of startled mallard took off in fright.

 

23

As the Smart Ship Grew

O'Reilly inhaled the mouth-watering vapours rising from a casserole simmering on the stovetop.

Kinky was standing with her back to him, untying her apron. It was well past her going home time, but Kinky Kincaid had never been a clock-watcher. She was talking to Arthur Guinness and Lady Macbeth, who lay stretched out in front of the stove. The white cat, presumably having decided to call a truce, was curled up in a ball against Arthur's tummy, which naturally was on the side closest to the warmth. “This is
my
kitchen, so,” Kinky said, “not Bellevue Zoo in Belfast. It does be very kind of himself to bring you in, Arthur Guinness, out of the November cold and damp, but he's been known to call you a great lummox and by all that's holy, that's what you are. A great big lump that's always getting under my feet, so. Now I do be very fond of you, but I need to look in that casserole and you're coming between me and my stove … again.”

O'Reilly had to clap a hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter. Hikers in Canada, he'd been told, were cautioned never to come between a mother bear and her cubs. Doing so to Kinky and her stove could produce much the same response.

Arthur, who presumably knew nothing of the ursine world, opened one eye, regarded Kinky, twitched his eyebrows—and went straight back to sleep.

Apron clutched in one hand, both hands on her hips, Kinky drew in a very deep breath. A storm was about to break.

“Kinky,” O'Reilly said, “Kinky, that smells wonderful.”

“What?” She flinched, turned, pursed her lips, and said, “Doctor O'Reilly, you do be very light on your feet for a big man, but you should not creep up on a body, so. You threw the fear of God into me.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I came to see Barry. I thought you'd have gone home by now. I didn't mean to give you a shock.”

“I'd be very much obliged, sir, if you'd ask your dog to move.”

“Arthur. Here.”

Arthur didn't so much get up as uncoil. He ambled over to sit, tail sweeping the floor, at O'Reilly's feet. Lady Macbeth moved closer to the stove with a look that seemed to say, Mine now. As it normally is and rightly should be.

“Thank you,” Kinky said, leaned over, lifted the lid of the casserole, and sniffed. She gave its contents a good stir with a wooden spoon. She then pointed at a plate nearby as she turned down the heat under the stew pot. “Please have Kitty turn up the heat a bit and pop these suet dumplings in twenty minutes before you'd like to have your beef stew.” She replaced the lid, patted Arthur's head, and said to the big Labrador, “And I did leave a good bit of the scrag end of the stewing steak for your tea…” She gave O'Reilly a dazzling smile, but said to Arthur, “Lummox.” Yet O'Reilly heard the deep affection that Kinky Kincaid had for all members of what, despite the fact that she was married now and living with her husband Archie, she regarded as her household. “Now, sir,” she said, “it's not my place to be nosy, but is there news about Doctor Fitzpatrick?”

He nodded. “He's in the Royal. My friend Mister Greer's taking care of him. The man'll need a clatter of tests before we know exactly what ails him.”

“I hope,” said Kinky, “it all turns out for the best, poor man.”

“Generous of you,” O'Reilly said. “We all want him to get better.”

She shrugged. Clearly for Kinky, the matter was closed.

“Get on home now with you, Kinky,” O'Reilly said. “We'll see you tomorrow.”

“You will, sir, and enjoy your dinner. There's leftover sticky toffee pudding in the fridge for dessert.” And with that she hung up her apron, put on her hat and, carrying her coat and handbag, headed for the hall and the front door.

As O'Reilly crossed the kitchen, Arthur meandered back to the stove, where he stood and looked at Lady Macbeth, who spat once. He clearly decided that discretion was the better part of valour and subsided where he was, big head on outstretched front legs.

O'Reilly knocked on what had for thirty years been Kinky Kincaid's door. Her quarters off the kitchen were now Barry's, and O'Reilly knew the young man was enjoying the extra space.

“Come in.”

O'Reilly stuck his head round the door. “Got a minute?”

Barry had his back to O'Reilly. “Just give me a tick. I'm at a tricky bit. Have a pew.”

“Don't mind me. Take your time.” O'Reilly closed the door behind him. The curtains were drawn, but he could hear the rain of an early November gale pelting against the windows. Better old Arthur was in the house. He spared a thought for Kinky walking home in the downpour, but of course the natives, himself included, were pretty much inured to the Irish climate.

The overhead light made the room bright, a coal fire burned in the grate, and regardless of the weather outside, the room was cosy. Kinky's sampler of the mediaeval Irish poem about a monk's cat named Pangur Bán that she'd started in 1939 and worked on for a year hung above the mantel. She'd left it behind as a parting gift when she'd moved to her own place in April.

Barry was sitting at the table in a pool of light cast by an Anglepoise lamp.

O'Reilly went to an armchair beside the fire and perched on the arm so he could watch the young man at work. His face was screwed up, his eyes narrow. Clearly Barry was focussing all his energies on the task in hand. In front of him a modeller's vise was clamped to the table's edge. It had a flat base and two long, parallel jaws that firmly held the keel of a model boat. Barry had started working on it when he'd come back in January to assume his position as partner in the practice.

“Didn't know you were a modeller,” O'Reilly had said when he'd visited Barry here some months ago and seen the vise holding the keel and a half-finished under hull made of individually applied pine planks.

“I started on balsa wood and paper aeroplanes,” Barry said. “My first was a de Havilland Chipmunk trainer. It flew very well, powered by a twisted elastic band. My last was a Spitfire. Much trickier to build.”

“Ah, the Spitfire. My mother and the marquis's wife raised money to buy them during the war. Marvellous aeroplane,” O'Reilly said, remembering the snarl of Merlin engines when the nearby squadron flew low over Haslar hospital, the grace of their elliptical wings.

“That's what Dad says too. But he knew I was keen on sailing, so when I was fourteen, he suggested I move up from planes to shipbuilding, so he and I built HMS
Bounty
to scale. She's back at Dad and Mum's place in Bangor. I didn't get much chance when I was a student or houseman, but I'm enjoying getting back to it now.”

“Good for you,” O'Reilly had said. “It's very important that you don't become one track and let medicine rule your life. You've got to have outside interests too.”

“I have had,” said Barry, with an edge of sadness in his voice. “One married a surgeon. One found a more interesting bloke in Cambridge.”

Back then, O'Reilly had hoped the schoolmistress, Sue Nolan, might begin to fill that kind of interest for his young friend, and the hopes had borne fruit.