An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (27 page)

 

20

 … Would Meet in Every Place

Collingwood Ward was quiet. Only half the beds were full. Angus had been right. While London continued to receive a nightly pounding, Portsmouth and the surrounding area had been left in peace for nine days—except, of course, for the lone snooper that had shot down Pilot Officer Dennison four days ago. Gunnery Chief Petty Officer McIlroy, the Ulsterman who instructed at Whale Island, had had his operation and been discharged. He'd promised to remember Fingal to Henson.

The patients, now an officer was on deck, all sat or lay at attention. Two men, who were sitting at the table in the middle of the ward, stopped playing uckers, a board game using dice and round playing pieces that was an obsessive pastime with the lower deck. Even the SBA pushing the beer trolley came to a halt. Beer rounds, when each man was given a bottle of Brickwoods Ale as a tonic, was the high spot of the day. The bottles were called “Little Brickies.”

Fingal spoke to a leading SBA, the senior rating on duty. “Tell them to stand easy and carry on.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The order was given. Conversations began again. Cigarettes and pipes were lit and the bottles on the beer trolley made a cheerful clinking as it was moved from bed to bed. The mid-October afternoon sun poured in through the big northwest-facing windows.

The rattle of the uckers dice was drowned by one player calling, “That's an eight-piecer. I win.”

Fingal was off duty and on his way to his quarters to change into civilian clothes before meeting Deirdre at the Portsmouth Guildhall. Marge was picking up her son Tony there and would give Deirdre a lift. Fingal had come to say good-bye to the burned pilot, who was being transferred to East Grinstead later today. Angus, without bothering to inform Surgeon Commander Fraser, had simply made a couple of phone calls, spoken to Mister McIndoe himself, and arranged for an ambulance to make the ninety-mile run. Fraser was none the wiser. Yesterday morning he'd had to go up to London on naval business. It was true—what the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't grieve over. If George Fraser had a heart.

Now that the shock cage had been removed, the young pilot lay under only his bedclothes. The top blanket, blue and white with a fouled anchor crest, matched every other top blanket on the ward. To Fingal, the man's face, covered by the black tannic acid coagulum and white eye patches, looked like the reverse of a panda bear's visage. “How are you feeling today, Flip? It's me. O'Reilly.” The man's Christian name was Phillip, but as was practically de rigueur in the RAF, he went by a nickname.

“Lieutenant O'Reilly?” He turned his head to face where Fingal had taken a seat and spoke, slurring his words because his lips were swollen, although not badly burned. They must have been protected by his oxygen mask. “A bit better, thanks, but to quote Gracie Fields,” his Oxbridge accent faded and he said in thick Lancashire tones, “‘I'm one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit.'”

“You're a brave lad, Flip, to joke about it.”

“It's been a funny few days,” he said quietly now, “but I've hardly noticed them pass. With all the morphine, I've done nothing but sleep when they'd let me. But this morning I was feeling a bit more like myself, I suppose. Wanted to know what's been happening while I've been out of it. So I asked Sister Blenkinsop. She said the nurses had been painting my face every two hours. Now it's every three. Sister says they use camel hair brushes to put on the same stuff they put on during the operation.”

“It's tannic acid,” Fingal said.

Flip nodded slowly. “The stuff that's in tea. So I understand. They'll cut it down to once a day soon, and by day seven the crust should start to peel off.”

“I hear the tannic acid really does help the burns to heal,” said Fingal.

“But it won't give me back my moustache or my eyelids.” There was no hint of bitterness. “I have to wear these eyepads. They get changed during the day.” Fingal heard the catch in the airman's voice. “When they took them off this morning, I could see. It was blurry, but Sister tells me my sight will keep getting better, thank Christ. I was terrified I was blind. I don't think I could have taken that.”

Fingal reached out and took the man's hand and squeezed. “And you'll be pleased to know your mitts are perfectly well.” The flames in a plane's cockpit often destroyed the pilot's bare hands too.

“Thank you. I'd kept my gauntlets on, but like a silly clot I'd pushed up my goggles so I could see better.” He wriggled in the bed. “I say, would you do something for me, old boy?”

“If I can.”

“I'm gasping for a fag. They're in the locker.”

Fingal found a packet of Player's Navy Cut, took out a cigarette, and tapped its end on the packet to tamp in the tobacco. He put it between his own lips, took out Swan Vesta matches, and lit up. “Here,” he said.

Flip inhaled deeply and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Lord,” he said, “but that's better.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

Fingal turned to see a young VAD standing at the foot of the bed.

“Yes, nurse?”

“Sister says can you leave in five minutes, please? We need to get Pilot Officer Dennison ready to go.”

“Thank you. Of course.” He rose. “I'll just help him finish his smoke.” Fingal took the cigarette and tapped the ash into an ashtray. “Here.” He replaced it between Flip's lips. “You're a lucky man,” he said. “You're going to the best plastic surgeon in Britain. He'll rebuild your eyelids and if you want, you'll be back in a Hurricane in no time.”

Flip took a deep drag and said, “Not me. I'm fond of the old Hurri; I'm going to ask for a Spitfire. It's an absolutely marvellous kite.” He handed the half-smoked cigarette to Fingal. “Would you put that out, please.”

Fingal did. “I'll be off then,” he said. “Good luck, Flip.”

The pilot managed a weak laugh. “It was a few days ago I needed luck. Flaming great Dornier 17. Had him dead to rights. Should have been a wizard prang, but their rear gunner got his squirt in first. Thank God my brolly worked.”

The Brylcreem Boys really did speak a foreign language, Fingal thought.

Flip offered his hand. “Thanks for everything, Lieutenant-Commander O'Reilly, especially coming every day to chat.”

Fingal shook the hand. “If you get a chance, drop me a note. Let me know how you're getting on.” He'd become fond of the disfigured young man and his courage.

“I will and—”

“Lieutenant O'Reilly.” The voice behind him was curt, officious.

Fingal spun and saw an irate-looking Surgeon Commander Fraser.

“What is this man doing here? I left instructions to get him moved yesterday.”

Fingal came to attention. “I'm sorry, sir. Unavoidable delay. He's going in a few minutes.” Fingal's mind raced. It would be so easy to hide behind the fact that Angus, senior in rank to Fingal, had made the arrangements in the best interests of the patient, but, not wanting to prolong the discussion in front of the patient, he held his peace.

“See that he is, and Lieutenant? I'll expect all my orders to be obeyed in future. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

With that, the commander turned on his heel and stamped off.

“I think,” Flip said, “you just got what us RAF types call ‘torn off a strip.'”

“The navy calls it a bottle, but yes, you're right.” And the theatre sister had said that Surgeon Commander Fraser was a man who bore grudges. He sighed. Och well, what can't be cured must be endured. “Good-bye again, Flip. Take care.”

“You too, Doc, and I will write. I promise.”

*   *   *

“Excuse me, sir,” Fingal said to a young lieutenant-commander standing smoking a pipe outside the neoclassical Portsmouth Guildhall. The building, with its Roman temple columns, pediment, and frieze, reminded Fingal of Ulster's parliament buildings at Stormont. He knew the bell tower housed five bells called the Pompey Chimes. Their familiar tones were as much a part of Portsmouth as its busy dockyards. “You're not by any chance Tony Wilcoxson?”

“As a matter of fact I am, actually. How did you know?”

“I'm Surgeon Lieutenant Fingal O'Reilly. Your father was my boss on
Warspite
and I've seen your photo at Twiddy's.” At least, Fingal thought, I've seen your younger self. This man's face was weatherbeaten and the bags beneath his eyes were puffy. The North Atlantic in winter on a small ship was gruelling. “My fiancée's staying with your mother, who should be here any minute to collect you.”

Tony Wilcoxson took Fingal's proffered hand and shook it. “How do you do, Fingal? And how is Dad?”

“He was in fine fettle the last time I saw him, but that was months ago.”

“He's a tough old boy and the navy's his life.” Tony took his pipe from his mouth. “He told me in a letter he was sending you to Haslar. Enjoying it?”

Fingal thought for a moment of his encounter with Commander Fraser, decided to forget it, and said, “Enormously. I'm learning a great deal, sir. Have you just arrived?”

“Mmm.” He stifled a yawn. “Came in to Liverpool from Halifax, Nova Scotia, last night. Bloody awful convoy. We lost one of the escorts, she was torpedoed off Iceland, then sweet bugger all but gales the rest of the way. And please, Fingal, it's Tony, not sir when we're off duty.”

Fingal did not have a chance to reply. A black Ford Prefect slammed to a stop at the kerb near them, and three of the four doors flew open. Pip hurled herself at Tony, who swept her quite literally off her feet. Deirdre gave Fingal a chaste kiss and said, “Hello, darling,” and Marge, standing between the two couples, said, “Nice to see you, Fingal, and, Tony, when you've quite finished ravishing Pip, do give your mother a kiss.”

Tony, still clutching Pip's hand, kissed his mother's cheek. “Hello, Mother, it's good to be home.”

Fingal wondered when he'd get a chance to see his own mother, and berated himself because her last letter was a week unanswered. But at least she knew he was relatively safe in England. And Deirdre, who was a better letter writer than he would ever be, had dropped her a note a couple of days ago.

“And it's good to have you home, dear boy,” Marge said, and Fingal saw how her eyes glistened. Marge cleared her throat and said, “I'm very cross with Deirdre—this is my son, Tony, by the way.”

“How do you do?” he said to Deirdre.

Fingal, who always wanted to ask an Englishman who posed that question “How do I do what precisely?” was proud of her good Ulster reply.

“I'm pleased to meet you, Tony.”

“As I was saying,” Marge said, “I'm cross with Deirdre because she positively refuses to bring Fingal for dinner tonight. It's going to be a treat, a Land Army special, deep-filled homity pie, but she insists it's a family reunion.”

“It is, Marge, and that's final.”

Fingal smiled. That's my girl. Beneath her gentleness, willingness to accommodate other people, lurks a steel backbone when her mind is made up.

Marge rummaged in a voluminous handbag, produced a torch, handed it to Deirdre, and said, “The last train's at eight from Gosport. This thing's shaded, but you'll need it to find your way home in the blackout. I'll leave the door unlocked.”

“Thank you,” Deirdre said. “Now come along, Fingal. Marge says the best places are on Commercial Road just round the corner, and it runs up to Edinburgh Road where there are more shops.” She winked at him. “I know how you love to shop.”

“There's also a good pub restaurant, the Trafalgar, very close by,” said Marge. “So don't despair, Fingal. Now I'd better get my lot home.”

Fingal and Deirdre stood and waved as the little Ford lurched away.

Clearly it hadn't been necessary to say it, but the prospect of a pub dinner held out more interest for Fingal than shopping. Still, if it was what Deirdre wanted to do, then he was ready to do it.

“You look smart in a blazer and flannels,” Deirdre said as they walked hand in hand toward Commercial Road in the heart of Old Portsmouth. The great naval dockyard was a stone's throw away up ahead beneath a flotilla of silvery barrage balloons. The fire brigades had put out all the fires after the last air raid nine days ago, but the smoky smell lingered.

“It saves an awful lot of saluting,” he said as they passed another knot of uniformed sailors. “They'd all have to salute me, and me them, and seeing I'm going shopping with my girl, I'd really like to pretend that I'm not a salty sailor man—at least for a few hours and—”

His words were smothered by a snarling roar, rising to an ear-splitting crescendo. He felt Deirdre clutching his arm, saw her eyes widen, her mouth form a speechless O. Everyone looked up to see a flight of planes in finger-four formation racing over the town and on past the dockyard. The sight of the RAF roundels on their wings, not the black crosses seen on Luftwaffe machines, was reassuring. “Spitfires. Ours,” he said to Deirdre, who smiled and nodded, clearly reassured. The sound of Rolls-Royce Merlin engines faded as the planes moved away. God speed you, he thought, remembering young Flip, and keep their pilots safe from fire.

“Those planes are so graceful,” Deirdre said. “What a shame they have to be used to kill.”

“If they can stop the German planes killing our civilians, if they and others like them can shorten this war, I'm all for it,” Fingal said. “You must have seen some of the bomb damage on your way here. I still wonder if I did the right thing bringing you to England.”

“Fingal O'Reilly,” she said, “there is nowhere on God's green earth I'd rather be. I'm with you and in nineteen days we'll be married. I feel safe with you, Fingal. I know you can't stop the bombs falling if the Germans come back to Portsmouth, but everyone here's so brave, I must be brave too. We're together, that's what's important. So don't ever feel that you did the wrong thing.”