An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War (45 page)

“I think you're being very brave,” he said, remembering what she'd told him about how she and Chris had been perfectly happy for each to see other people. He wondered if her gaiety was in fact a cover for indifference to his death or a stiff-upper-lip façade hiding real grief. “And I'm so dreadfully sorry. If it helps for you to know, I was at his burial at sea. It was very dignified, with full military honours. The captain told me Chris died instantly. Didn't suffer. We should be grateful for that at least.”

“I know,” she said. “I'd a nice letter from Captain Huston-Phelps.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette and blew out smoke. “Apparently I'll be getting a widow's pension.”

“That's good.” Fingal knew he was struggling for words. He'd come expecting to be offering comfort to a grieving widow. Instead he was talking to a woman who seemingly was taking everything practically. “Um … have you told your sons yet?”

She nodded. “I sent Daddy a telegram. He is very sweet. He'll have taken Mummy and gone and broken the news to them at school. And I'm…” She looked round the flat. “… getting to hell out of here and back home as soon as I can get a berth on a ship.”

“I think that's wise. The boys will need their mother.”

Her smile and her façade cracked as did her voice when she said, “They do. And I need my man. I can't believe he's not coming back. Ever.” She dashed away tears and said, “I—I know this is going to sound crazy but are they absolutely sure he's dead? I mean, I just can't believe it. It seems unreal. As if there's something I could do to bring him back if only I knew what it was.”

The doctor in him told him it was normal for people to try to deny the truth, want to do something, anything. “I'm afraid there's nothing you can do, Elly.”

She smashed out her cigarette, seemingly unconscious of what she was doing. “Damn it all,” she said, “it's not fair. I'm only twenty-nine.” She looked up at Fingal. “It's just not bloody well fair. I'm far too young to be a flaming widow.”

Anger was all part of grieving and he knew that what Elly Simpkins needed most was someone who would listen and offer her a human touch. “It's desperately unfair, Elly,” he said, and moved to the edge of the couch beside her, taking her hand in both of his. “I don't have an answer. I'm truly sorry.” She was crying again, the anger forgotten, it seemed, as the tears came. He put an arm round her shoulders and, as he would have with an injured child, gently brought her head down onto his chest, and with his other hand stroked her hair. “It's all right. It's all right.” He felt her shuddering and her sobs. She turned her face up to him, and said, “Please, keep holding me, Finn,” she said. “Just hold me. Just for a minute.”

He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't, but she needed to be hugged, he told himself, and it would be inhuman not to. His other arm went round her and she put her head on his shoulder. He felt the softness of her against him. A warm tear fell on his neck and he inhaled the woman's scent of her and knew, despite her being the widow of a fellow officer, that he was becoming excited by her nearness.

She pushed herself away, dashed a forearm across her eyes, straightened her back. “I'm sorry,” she said and took a deep breath, and with an edge to her voice said, “This is nonsense. I'm over tears. I've cried enough for Chris.”

“Perhaps,” he said gently, “you need to cry a little for Elly?”

“Why? For the poor grieving widow?” She pursed her lips. “I've done the public show. I didn't say a moment ago I needed Chris. I said I needed my man. I'm a woman. I have a woman's needs and since he took up with that creature…” She shook her head and put it back on his shoulder, her arms round his neck, her lips to his. He resisted, knowing he must continue resisting, yet wanting her and to hell with her being recently widowed. He began to respond, but she moved her lips away and looked at him, her gaze never leaving his eyes. “Look at me, Finn. Want me, Finn. Make love to me.” He sat, staring, lusting for the woman. He was honest enough to strangle the thoughts that she needed to be comforted, that it was his duty as a human being. Comfort be damned. Duty be damned. He'd been celibate for months. He wanted Elly Simpkins and it was no good deed he'd be doing. His conscience could wrestle with the facts later. His breath came in short bursts and he knew his pulse was racing.

“Your fiancée is thousands of miles away. No one need ever know…”

Deirdre, whose letter was in his pocket, between Fingal and Elly's soft breast. As he moved toward her knowing what must happen, he heard a voice, Deirdre's voice in a hotel room in Belfast saying, “I want you to make love to me, Fingal … I want to own you and you to own me.” And Fingal O'Reilly swallowed, sat stock-still, disentangled Elly's arms, then stood and took a pace back. “I want to own you.” Soft, gentle, loving Deirdre. “And I want you to own me,” and it had been a shining gift she had given, a benificence too radiant to tarnish with the satisfaction of a few moments' craving. “Elly,” he said, keeping his voice low, neutral, “you are a very beautiful woman. A very desirable woman…”

“Then take me.” She moved toward him, but he said, “I can't.” And the heat in him had cooled. “I can't, Elly, and I mustn't.”

“Damn you,” she yelled. “Damn you to hell.” Her eyes blazed. “Damn you, Fingal O'Reilly,” but now her words were softening and her tears flowed, and his heart ached in him for her. “I'm sorry,” she said and he barely heard her whisper. “I'm sorry. I'm just so tired, so desperately tired.”

“Come on,” he said, taking her hand, “you need to sleep.”

She followed him into the bedroom, making no demur when he turned back the bedclothes, removed her shoes, and tucked her in still fully dressed. “Thank you, Finn,” she managed before she rolled on her side and grabbed a stuffed teddy bear that had been lying on the pillow. “I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. Please don't think badly of me, Finn.”

“I don't,” he said softly. How he felt about himself was a different matter. He waited until her sobbing stopped and he was certain she was sleeping soundly, then bent, dropped a tiny kiss on her hair, and said, “Sleep well, you poor thing. Sleep well.”

Fingal walked softly from the room, his doctor's training taking over. She mustn't be left alone, but he had to get back to
Warspite
.

In a very short time he had phoned HMS
Nile,
spoken to John Collins, and arranged for him to have Michelle interrupt whatever she was doing. He'd wait until she arrived, then head back to
Warspite.
He glanced round the big room and saw something on an armchair. He picked it up from the cushion. This time he'd not forget his cap.

41

The Bomber Will Always Get Through

“You, O'Reilly,” said Tom Laverty, “look like the cat that got the cream. Can't say I blame you. Have a good time in Portsmouth, and we'll try to keep the old girl afloat without you.”

The anteroom was not busy at two thirty on a Wednesday afternoon. Richard and Tom, who were remaining on
Warspite,
were standing farewell drinks for Fingal and Wilson Wallace, who were not. The former lieutenant had been promoted lieutenant-commander into HMS
Neptune,
a
Leander
-class light cruiser and would be joining her in a week. To replace Wilson, a junior gunnery officer, apparently another Ulsterman called Phillip Nolan, had been promoted from HMS
Liverpool
and he and the new MO would be coming out on the liberty boat to join
Warspite
.

“I wonder what you'll find when you get back to Blighty,” Wilson said. “What news we've got by BBC relay says some air attacks are starting.”

Tom Laverty's brow furrowed and he sat back in his seat. His imitation of the prime minister's delivery was near perfect. “‘The Battle of France is over. I expect the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilisation.' That's what Mr. Churchill said in his address to the House of Commons last month. Sounds pretty grim to me.”

“He might just be right,” Richard said, “and for the last four days there have been reports of the Luftwaffe attacking our convoys in the English Channel and our side sending up Spitfires and Hurricanes to shoot down the attackers.”

Fingal thought of Ma and Lady Laura, the Marchioness of Ballybucklebo, with their posters of an airman, a Spitfire fighter, and the slogan, “I'll fly it if you'll buy it.” The accompanying collection boxes were all over County Down, and the two women's Spitfire fund, one of many throughout the United Kingdom, had raised the necessary five thousand pounds. He wondered where the fast and lethal fighter was stationed now. He hoped it was where it and its fellows could wreak the greatest havoc amongst the attacking German bombers.

Richard looked at his glass. “Time will tell, but the English Channel is a pretty effective antitank ditch and if the Germans have any plans to invade they'll have the chief of Fighter Command, ‘Stuffy' Dowding's Fighters, and the Home Fleet to contend with.”

Fingal heard the pride in the man's voice, a pride that he, Fingal, echoed.

Richard clapped Fingal on the knee. “Let's hope you have a safe trip home and that you're not going from the frying pan into the fire. The Luftwaffe had a go at Portsmouth on the eleventh of July when we were still at sea. Aimed for the dockyard, but some overshot. My favourite pub, The Blue Anchor at Kingston Cross, was hit. I know because I heard it on a BBC bulletin. Still, the missus should have been all right. She lives at Fareham, about six miles from where you'll be working. If you're interested, when he was a boy ABC spent three years as a pupil at Foster's School there preparing for Dartmouth Naval College. Anyway, I think she's pretty safe from air raids, but it's a concern.”

“Six miles doesn't seem very far,” Fingal said. “I'd have thought somewhere deeper in the country would be better and safer.” And he wondered with a start if it would be wise to bring Deirdre to live near Portsmouth. The vital naval facilities were bound to be the targets of many attacks.

Richard grinned and said, “Marjorie's a tough old bat.”

Fingal heard the wistfulness and understood how Richard Wilcoxson was feeling. He also recognised the stiff-upper-lip English reticence that forbade any public shows of emotion.

“Fareham's deep enough in the wilds for her. She's working in the Women's Land Army there…”

“Is that what they're calling the group of women who've volunteered to work on farms because the men are at war?” Wallace asked.

“It is,” Richard said. “The programme was started in the last war. Apparently today one thousand alone of them work as rat catchers. If you could see my Marjorie when she's riled. Mister Hitler should be grateful she'll be working at home and not going to be in the front line once we get one reestablished.” He laughed. “She volunteered on September the fourth, '39.” He laughed. “I thought us sailors had some pretty ripe expressions. What she said about the Nazis as she went off to volunteer made me blush.”

All the men laughed.

“And…” His tones conveyed an admixture of pride and concern. “She wants to be near our only son, Tony…”

It was the first time Richard had discussed his family in such detail. Perhaps Fingal and Wilson's leavetaking was having the same effect as when Fingal's boarding school broke up for the summer holidays and friends began confiding secrets they'd kept to themselves all term. Why that had always happened he'd no idea, but it had. He listened.

“He's like you, Wilson. Career Royal Navy.”

“A chip off the old block,” Tom said.

Richard nodded. “I'm very proud of him. He's just got his first command. A destroyer. Her home port is Portsmouth so when she's in, Marjorie can see as much as possible of him.” A frown creased Richard's open brow. “I just wish he wasn't on North Atlantic convoys. The U-boats are starting to take a much greater toll than when
Warspite
was on that run.”

“It was mainly the weather we had to fight with,” Fingal said.

“I'm sure he'll be fine, Richard,” Tom Laverty said. “And, well, I didn't want to take attention away from Fingal and Wilson, but speaking of sons…” His grin was vast. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled telegram. “‘Last night'—that was two nights ago—‘bouncing baby boy. Stop. Mother child doing well. Stop. Love Carol. End.'”

Three voices in unison said, “Congratulations, Tom.”

Tom Laverty grinned. “We're going to call him Barry, after my dad, and I've had a word with the skipper. He's going to ask ABC if there's any chance I might get some compassionate leave.”

“We hope you do, Tom,” Wilson said.

“Bugger the farewell drinks,” Fingal said. “Steward, same again, please. We need to wet the baby's head.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Barry,” Fingal said. “From the Gaelic. Means fair-haired or sharp like a spear. Has a good ring to it. I'll give Carol a phone call in Bangor, Tom. Congratulate her properly.” Fingal tapped his left chest. “Phone number's in my diary.”

“Thanks, Fingal.”

“And I'll look Mrs. Wilcoxson up as promised,” he said. He nodded at his suitcase. “I've got your gift for her in there, Richard.”

“Thank you, Fingal. Tell her I miss her…”

Fingal had seen the simple, elegant, gold and amethyst necklace Richard had selected for his wife and thought Marjorie Wilcoxson was a lucky woman. His boss might have been reticent about showing his feelings, but his choice of gifts spoke of his love and devotion.

Richard glanced down. “And have a decent pint of bitter for me, will you, and a Melton Mowbray pie if you can get one?”