An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (48 page)

“Alive. Hooray!” Fingal's cheer probably scared seagulls on the Isle of Wight. “Come in. Come in.” He hustled her into the hall, shut the door, and took her on into the main room. “Tony's been found,” he said to Deirdre, who was coming from the kitchen.

“Oh, Marge, what a relief.” She embraced Marge and said, “Come and sit down. Tell us about it.”

Marge unbuttoned her coat as she took a chair. “I heard a couple of hours ago. The port admiral sent an officer to tell me. I've been trying to phone you, but I couldn't get a line so I decided to drive over. I nearly fainted when the butler ushered a lieutenant into the Gore-Beresfords' sitting room, but he was all smiles so I guessed it was all right even before he spoke. And there'll be a telegram sent to Alexandria for Richard too. The navy looks after its own.” She beamed at Deirdre then at Fingal. “Pip's over the moon. What a Christmas present for us.”

“Thank you for letting us know,” Deirdre said. “We've been so worried, and we're delighted, aren't we, Fingal?”

“We are that. Are there any details?”

“He and some of his crew got onto a Carley float and drifted for a day, frozen to the bone. Some men … died overnight,” she said, looking down at her hands and fingering her wedding ring. “The survivors, including Tony, were picked up by an Icelandic trawler and taken to a hospital in Reykjavik. They'll be flying him back soon in a long-range Sunderland to the UK.”

Fingal couldn't help shuddering at the image that had haunted him since getting the news: the wild North Atlantic seas, the fuel-oil-soaked men clinging to a wood-and-canvas life raft in those icy waters. “If ever anything called for a drink, this is it. We have some whiskey.”

Marge shook her head. “Thank you. I very much appreciate the offer, but it's dark out and it's a bugger driving in the blackout. I've no wish to have my family mourning for me because I was a bit tiddly and crashed on my way home. I couldn't rest, because I know how much you care and how it must be spoiling your Christmas, so I simply
had
to let you know.” She rose. “But now I'll be running along. Thank you both for helping me hold on, and merry merry Christmas to us all.”

“I'll see you to the door,” Fingal said, and took her along the flat's hall.

“Good night, dear boy,” she said, and went along the landing to the staircase.

Fingal closed the door and hurried back to Deirdre. “Dear Mother of God,” he said, “Such news. Such wonderful news.” He grinned from ear to ear. “Marge may not have wanted one, but…?”

“Put water in mine, darling,” Deirdre said. “Bring the drinks and hurry back.”

When he returned, she was in front of the fire, sitting like the little mermaid, legs tucked up and supporting herself on one arm. He sat beside her and gave her her drink. “I know it's Wednesday, but Tuesday's toast is appropriate. Our men, all of them, and in particular Tony Wilcoxson.”

She smiled into his eyes and said, “And Surgeon Lieutenant-Commander Fingal O'Reilly, my only love.” And all her relief for Tony's safety and her love for Fingal was in that one kiss. “I'm so happy for them—for Marge and Pip and Tony, of course,” she said.

“And Richard. He'll find out soon too if he doesn't already know.” For a second Fingal wondered where his old
Warspite
might be. If at sea for any length of time, the first telegram might not yet have reached her. One thing was for sure now. Richard would find out that his son was safe within moments of the battleship dropping anchor.

“Can we do the presents now? And there's something I want to say,” Deirdre said.

“Of course,” he said and, beating her to the punch, he handed her a parcel.

She unwrapped the paperweight, clapped her hands, said, “Oh, Fingal,” and shook the ball. The snow inside fell and she laughed and laughed. “I feel like I'm twelve again. Thank you.”

“Merry Christmas,” he said. “You can think of me when you make it snow in the glass ball in July.”

“And,” she said, “you can think of me when you open this.” Her voice was serious.

There was a photo album inside the wrapping. He opened the leather cover and lifted the cellophane protective sheet over the first vellum page. A pressed red rose was held in place with a strip of Sellotape over its stem.

“From my bouquet,” she said.

He turned the pages; wedding snaps taken by her and of the happy couple taken by Angus. He still thought he looked a right eejit in his formal uniform. “I think I should be in the chorus of HMS
Pinafore,
” he said with a smile.

“Rubbish,” she said. “You looked very handsome.” She moved closer and turned a page. “Aren't those New Forest ponies little darlings?” Another page. “And those are fallow deer, like the ones we watched drinking.”

“Wherever I am, I just have to open this and you'll be with me and I'll feel your love. Thank you, darling.” He kissed her. “Thank you.”

She smiled and leant over and tickled his ear with her tongue. “You might like to follow up on the promise you made that day,” she stared at the photo of the deer, “and even if we don't start a family tonight you'll make me so content that this will have been the happiest Christmas of my whole life.”

 

39

I Am Getting Better and Better

Ronald Fitzpatrick was wearing red-and-white-striped pyjamas and lying propped up on his pillows in the single room on Ward 21. He stared straight ahead. From shoulders to halfway up his neck, he was swathed in a bandage holding a dressing to the surgical wound at the back. That would be where Charlie Greer had made the incision. Two flat aluminium plates, one on the front of Fitzpatrick's chest and another on his upper back, were connected by straps and braces to each other and to a chin support that encircled his neck and lower jaw. “You asked how I am, Fingal? Well, I can tell you that this thing's a bloody pain in the neck.” He managed to force a dry, rustling laugh, and O'Reilly realised that for probably only the third time in his life, he was hearing Ronald Fitzpatrick make a joke.

“I'm happy to see you can jest about it,” O'Reilly said, and he could understand why. Charlie had explained to O'Reilly that when he had explored the extent of the lesion, he was delighted to see that he would need to incise only one intravertebral disc of cartilage to get access to the tumour and effect a complete excision. The disc must be given a chance to heal, and for that reason Fitzpatrick's neck was supported and immobilised by the brace. Although there would be a great deal of discomfort, he was on the road to what must be going to be an almost complete recovery. Humour, even gallows humour, was often the response when a great fear had been assuaged.

“I am a very relieved man, Fingal,” Fitzpatrick said. “I've got the use of both my legs back.” To prove it, he wriggled them under the blankets.

“We're all over the moon,” O'Reilly said. “Kitty's been keeping me posted. She says Charlie's very pleased with your recovery. You've got a fair bit of feeling back in your fingers too, I believe?”

“I do.” He flexed and extended them. “They're not as good as new yet, but I don't think I'll be burning myself on teapots anymore.” He had to twist his entire body to look O'Reilly in the eye. “I was a very stupid man back in September, not listening to you and Charlie Greer.”

“Water under the bridge,” O'Reilly said, admiring the man's ability to be honest with himself and admit it. “What's important is that what ailed you has been fixed. It's been only a few days since your surgery and already you're recovering fast. But it's still going to keep you in here for a while. I know visitors are meant to bring grapes and Lucozade”—both of which adorned the bedside locker, along with a surprising number of get-well cards—“but I reckoned you might be getting bored so I brought you something to read instead. Here.” He handed over a book and a glossy magazine.

“Could you give me my glasses?” Ronald asked. “I was reading the newspaper.” He sighed and said, “I do wish the great powers would stop testing atomic bombs. Did you know that survivors of the Hiroshima atomic bombing subsequently had a high rate of developing meningiomas? The same tumour that, thank goodness, I don't have anymore?”

“I didn't,” said O'Reilly, “but then I imagine you keep up more than I do about things in Japan. You haven't, by any chance, been visiting Japan regularly since the war?”

“No,” Ronald said. “I spent a lot of my young life there.” He grimaced. “But there was no reason for me to go back, and I never will. Thank you, Fingal. You knew I love to read.”

“I did.”

He tapped the book. “I tried this chap's first book,
King Rat,
about Japan during the war, a couple of years ago, but I could only get through about half. A little too close to the bone for me. I love the country, its culture, its art, its history. But I've tried to put all things about modern Japan away.”

“I'd hoped,” said O'Reilly, wondering if he'd made a terrible mistake, “you might enjoy this. It's Clavell's new one.
Tai-Pan.
Set in Hong Kong, not Japan, during the mid-nineteenth century.”

“I'll certainly give it a try,” Ronald said. “It was thoughtful of you.” He looked at the glossy magazine. “
Country Life
?”

“Kitty thought you might like it because—”

“Excuse me, Doctors,” a student nurse came into the room, “but it's that time again, Doctor Fitzpatrick. Sorry.”

Ah, youth, O'Reilly thought. Blonde, snub nose, green eyes, full lips, and a very trim figure. He wondered if Barry's friend Jack Mills had ever taken her out or if he was still seeing Helen Hewitt, or, and O'Reilly wouldn't put it past Ulster's answer to Lothario, could Jack be seeing them both?

As he mused, she popped a thermometer under Ronald's tongue, took his pulse, wrapped a cuff round his upper arm and measured his blood pressure. Once she had entered the results in his chart she removed the thermometer, squinted at it, smiled, and said as she shook the mercury down, “All perfectly normal.” She made a quick note, replaced the chart, and said, “You're coming on splendidly, Doctor Fitzpatrick. You'll be doing handstands next, so you will. Right. I'll be off.” She left.

“Cheerful lass,” Ronald said. “Does me good. Grew up in a tough part of East Belfast. Working her way through nursing training.” He looked at the cover of the magazine that featured a smiling daughter of one of England's landed gentry, one of the famous “Girls in Pearls.” “The Ravenhill Road is a very long way from Belgravia. I don't mean to be ungracious, Fingal, but I'd have thought all the huntin', shootin', fishin' stuff would be of more interest to you.”

O'Reilly chuckled. “Try the arts section, page fifty-one.” He waited as Ronald found the place.

“Oh my.” Ronald's eyes widened. “Oh good gracious. ‘Netsuke of the Tokugawa Shogunate
.
' How very thoughtful of her. They ruled Japan from 1603 until 1868. I'm sure I'll find this intriguing.” He sighed. “I'm so grateful knowing that I'm going to get better, but I'm afraid it's going to be a long, boring recuperation. Physiotherapy,” he pointed at his brace, “weeks in this thing, then a soft Stamm collar for months.” He managed a small smile. “Oh well,” he said, “I suppose I'll just have to be patient.”

“It's what the Latin
patiens
means,” O'Reilly said, “suffering or waiting. It's why we call our customers patients.”

“Yes, I do know that, Fingal. Now, I wonder if you could help me to move a bit farther up the bed?”

O'Reilly stood, put his hands in Fitzpatrick's armpits, and pulled him up. “Sit forward,” and when Fitzpatrick did, O'Reilly fluffed up the pillows. “There,” he said, “lie back.”

Fitzpatrick made a little huffing noise as he settled. “That's better,” he said. “Thank you, and Fingal?”

“Mmmm?” He helped himself to several green grapes and popped them one at a time into his mouth.

“You mentioned patients.”

“And?” O'Reilly choked on a grape seed and coughed. “Sorry,” he said when the paroxysm had passed.

“I should like to express my most sincere gratitude for all that you and Doctors Laverty and Bradley have done.” He picked up a card. “Please read this.”

O'Reilly fished out his own half-moon glasses from the inside pocket of his jacket and read,

Dear Doctor Fitzpatrick. Me and Mrs. Duffy was dead sorry to hear you was sick. She seen Doctor Bradley last week for a woman's complaint and said the young lady doctor was very nice and all, but she hopes you get better good and quick so she can come to see you again. Respectfully, Hubert Duffy

O'Reilly smiled. “Very nice,” he said.

There was a crack in Fitzpatrick's voice when he pointed at the other cards and said, “They're all like that. It's all very humbling.”

If the man had described himself as humble six months ago, O'Reilly would immediately have had a mental image of a hand-wringing Uriah Heep. Now all he could hear was a deep sincerity. “Aye,” he said, “it is humbling, the amount of trust we get.”

“Yes, that is it exactly. The trust they place in us. I have to make a confession. I was worried that my practice might shrink.”

“And it might have. I'd have been just as worried if the tables had been turned.”

“Would you really? I can't see why.” He produced a small laugh. “Do you remember a radio character in the '50s, Gillie Potter?”

“The sage of Hog's Norton?” O'Reilly said, helping himself to more grapes. “Indeed I do.”

“I've always thought of you, Fingal, as the sage of Ballybucklebo.”