An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War (10 page)

“At ease, Stewart,” Wilcoxson said. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty bloody peely-wally, sir.”

Fingal heard the lowland Scots burr. “Peely-wally” was not a strange expression to him. Ulster folk also used it to mean feeling rotten.

“This is Surgeon Lieutenant O'Reilly,” Wilcoxson said, then sat on the cot and stopped it swinging by bracing his foot on the ship's sole. “CPO O'Rourke's been telling me you've not got any better since this morning.”

“I have not, sir. My belly's awfully sore there.” He pointed to his epigastrium, the inverted V where the lower ribs and breastbone met.

Wilcoxson nodded. “Have you thrown up?”

“No, sir. But I could not eat a gnat.”

“Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

Wilcoxson turned. “Lieutenant O'Reilly? Opinion?”

“ERA Stewart,” Fingal said, and smiled at the man. He didn't want the patient to feel as if he were being discussed like an anonymous lump of illness. “I'm sorry you're not feeling too sharp.”

“Aye, it's not so grand, sir, but I think I'll live.”

The lad had spirit. “I've no doubt you will, and I have to say”—he divided his attention between the ERA and the principal medical officer—“I'm not sure what ails you, Stewart. There are absolutely no other symptoms?”

Wilcoxson shook his head. “Nary the one.”

“Would you like me to examine him, sir?” Although what he was hoping to find was unclear to Fingal.

“I examined him fully this morning. Really nothing to go on,” Wilcoxson said, and stood. “I don't expect there'll be anything new to find.”

Vague pains in the belly could presage a host of developing disorders, Fingal thought, and any discussion of them would take place out of the patient's hearing.

Wilcoxson turned to Paddy. “Keep an eye on him and let us know if anything important changes. You'll know where to find me, Mister O'Rourke.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

It was important to be formal in front of the patients, and CPOs, less formally called Chief, were entitled to the title of Mister.

“Just try to rest, Stewart.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Right, Lieutenant O'Reilly, come with me.”

They had to walk halfway across the sick bay to get to the door leading to the lobby outside and the companionway up. Once they were out of the patient's hearing, Wilcoxson said, “Stewart's apparently a good lad. I've spoken with his divisional officer and we don't think he's swinging the lead, trying to be excused duties. I think he is sick.” He stopped for a moment. “Are you a betting man, Fingal?”

Fingal laughed. “I've been known to risk a bob or two.”

“Right then, a pink gin says he's going to blow up acute appendicitis before midnight.”

“You're on, Richard.” Fingal offered a hand, which was shaken. He agreed with his senior's opinion, but thought the price of a pink gin worth it, if only to further an early developing friendship.

“Good.” Richard opened the door. “We'll settle that bet later, once we've made a final diagnosis. For the time being, when we get to the wardroom anteroom I'll introduce you to my other staff. And as a welcome aboard, the first drink's on me.”

Fingal grinned. From what he'd already seen of his senior, it would seem unlikely he'd take umbrage at a request for something other than the naval officers' preferred tipple of sweet Plymouth gin with a hint of Angostura bitters. “I don't suppose you'd be willing to buy me a Jameson instead?”

“Bloody bog-trotter,” Richard Wilcoxson said, but his grin was relaxed and natural. “I think Paddy was right, Fingal.” He produced a mangled stage-Irish impersonation. “Fair play 'til you, sir. I t'ink you'll fit in here, grand altogether.”

9

He Had a Fever

“Four pints, please, Willie,” O'Reilly said, “and can you bring them over when they're ready?” He inclined his head to where Barry, Donal, and Rory Auchinleck sat in the midst of the packed pub. Saturday evening and every table in the Mucky Duck was taken, with men standing shoulder to shoulder at the bar. The hum of conversation, bursts of laughter, clinking of glasses on the bar and on tabletops rose and fell.

“Aye certainly, Doc.” Willie Dunleavy had to raise his voice to be heard. He started to pour the black ale into four straight glasses. “Did youse get Kinky moved in all right, the day?”

“We did indeed.” O'Reilly smiled. The only way to keep anything confidential in Ballybucklebo was to tell no one but yourself … and even then it might get out.

“That's good. Councillor Bishop come in earlier for a wee jar. He was blowing til everybody how he'd loaned youse a van for free. He's not the boy til hide his light under a bushel, so he's not. Mind you,” Willie lowered his voice until it was just audible, “and no harm til Mister Bishop, but he's been a much nicer man since he took that wee turn last Halloween and scared the living bejasus out of himself.” Willie let the Guinness in the glasses settle.

O'Reilly laughed. “Bertie isn't a shy man. He's always believed in credit where credit's due—particularly when it's due to him.” He fished out his briar and lit up, adding to the tobacco fug that struggled with the smell of beer for supremacy in the low-ceilinged single room. “I'd better get back to my table, Willie.”

“Run you away on, Doctor.” Willie made the second pour into each glass. “I'll bring them over the minute they've settled and are ready.”

O'Reilly passed a table where Gerry Shanks was telling a joke to his friends. Gerry nodded to O'Reilly but didn't break his stride. “… so there's your mountaineer man on a ledge a hundred feet down, both arms broken, and this other climber higher up throws him down a rope and says he, ‘Grab you on til that there with your teeth and I'll get you up here, so I will.'”

O'Reilly saw the grins on the men's faces, heard their chuckles already beginning. Gerry had a reputation as a storyteller.

“So the one at the top starts pulling away and pulling away.” Gerry accompanied his words with the motions of a man hauling hand over hand on a rope. “He's working like blue blazes.”

O'Reilly had to hear the punch line.

“And then, as your other man's head appears level with the safe ground, the one pulling gasps, takes a big deep breath, and says, ‘Are you all right, Paddy?'

“‘I aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam,' says Paddy,” and as Gerry spoke he let his voice fall from a yell to a whisper.

Every man in the group guffawed loudly. So did O'Reilly.

“That was a right cracker, Gerry. Nice one.” Charlie Gorman, Gerry's best friend, banged his nearly empty pint glass on the table, allowed a suitable pause to let everybody relish the humour, and said, “Now, did youse all hear the one about the fellah from Alma Street?”

“Is Alma that wee narrow back street off the Falls Road in Belfast?” Fergus Finnegan, the bowlegged jockey, asked.

“Aye, you're dead on. Well, your man gets a powerful skinful and wins an elephant at the coconut shy at the August Lammas Fair in Ballycastle—”

“An elephant,” said Gerry, rolling his eyes and looking sceptical. “Pull the other leg. It has bells on.”

“Come on, Gerry, we all know there's about as much chance of seeing an elephant as there is of a grown man hanging on to a rope with his teeth, but that's what made your yarn work. Now give me a chance, it's only a gag, so hould your wheest.”

“Fair play,” said Fergus. “Give Charlie the floor.”

“Go ahead, Charlie,” Gerry said.

“Thank you, and you'll all have to be patient. This is a bloody good story and takes a wee while til tell right. Soooooo, anyroad, your man brings this bloody great pachyderm back til Alma Street and tethers it til a lamppost and goes off til bed…”

O'Reilly chuckled. When some Ulstermen got into competive storytelling it was like two gunslingers in the Wild West shooting it out. He'd have liked to hear the end of the yarn, but his friends were waiting.

O'Reilly'd barely taken his seat when Willie, pursued by Brian Boru, the pub's feisty Chihuahua, appeared with the pints. O'Reilly paid with a ten-shilling note, which would exactly cover the cost.

“Cheers, Fingal,” Barry said, and raised his glass to the accompanying toasts of two of the others. Rory nodded but did not drink.

“Sláinte,”
said O'Reilly, drinking and relishing the beer's bittersweet taste. “And thank you all for your help.”

Barry simply smiled, but Donal said, “No bother, and sure wasn't it a great pleasure to see the Auchinlecks settled? I mind how excited Julie and me was when we moved intil our wee house.” He chuckled. “You all know about the Stone-Age grave on the site at Dun Bwee? The National Trust have it open til the public now—and I got permission from one of their highheejins for her to do it, so Julie's going a humdinger selling afternoon teas in the back garden for the visitors, so she is, and I'm carving wee hairy-looking men with spears and clubs for the customers til buy for souvenirs, like. And I've another wee sideline going too.” He winked at O'Reilly.

O'Reilly laughed. Trust Donal to find a potential for profit. He wondered what the “wee sideline” might be, but refrained from asking.

Charlie Gorman's voice could be heard over the buzz, and by his inflection it sounded as if he'd finally got to the punch line. “‘Och, missus,' says your elephant man who's woke up with a ferocious headsplitter, ‘don't be ridiculous. My elephant couldn't possibly do that to your wee pussy cat.' And she says, ‘It did so.'” Charlie paused for effect. “‘It took its big foot and went—'” He stamped his foot on the floor to a momentary pause, then gales of laughter and a round of applause.

O'Reilly laughed. He'd missed too much of the story to understand the joke, but the laughter of the Ulsterfolk was terribly infectious.

“Your man Charlie Gorman's the quare gag, so he is. He'd make a cat laugh,” Donal said.

“He's a comedian, all right,” Barry said, “but you're no slouch yourself when you're telling a story, Donal. I still remember the one about the Kerryman and the dead greyhound.”

“Away off and chase yourself, Doctor Laverty,” Donal said, but O'Reilly could tell by the man's buck-toothed grin he was delighted to be complimented.

O'Reilly sank another third of his pint.

Rory said nothing, barely raised a smile, and toyed with his pint.

For a moment, O'Reilly wondered if Archie's son was all right. He'd been sluggish about lifting boxes back at the Auchinlecks' home and had nearly declined O'Reilly's offer to come for a pint.

O'Reilly looked more closely. Rory was sweating like a pig and pale as parchment, but before Fingal could ask how he was feeling, a man stopped at the table and said, “Excuse me, Doctor O'Reilly.”

O'Reilly recognised Hall Campbell, the fisherman who'd moved here from Ardglass last year and was buying Jimmy Scott's fishing boat. Jenny had made a very astute diagnosis of patent ductus arteriosus, a congenital heart defect, which had been successfully repaired surgically. “Yes, Hall?”

“I've not seen Doctor Bradley about the place for a brave wee while, but I heard tell she's come back to us. When you see her, would you tell her I'm going round like a liltie since I got over the operation and say thanks very much.”

“I'll do that. She was off taking a course, but she's back now. She'll be pleased to hear.”

“She done me a power of good, so she did, sir. I've more energy than I've had for years.” He laughed. “I need it. The herring's running great this year, so they are, and we've been netting the odd mackerel this week. They should be coming in in shoals soon too.”

“I'm very glad to hear it, Hall. Very glad,” O'Reilly said.

“Aye,” said Hall. He tilted his head to one side. “Jimmy tells me you like an evening at the mackerel fishing, sir.”

O'Reilly, who had just finished his pint, said, “I do that.”

“If you'd like I'll let you know when they're in and I'll take you out.”

“That would be wonderful,” O'Reilly said, “and if it would be all right I'll bring Mrs. O'Reilly too?”

“More the merrier,” said Hall. “I'll be running on now, sir, but I'll see you soon.”

Now that was something to look forward to. An evening out on Belfast Lough, lines in the water trolling for the silver-and-blue fish—and they were great eating too. He glanced at his watch. Better not be late for dinner.

Another roar of laughter came from Gerry Shanks's table and Charlie Gorman yelled, “Five more pints, Willie.” An adjoining table had been pushed over to join Gerry's and the evening was beginning to develop the attributes of a spontaneous party. A voice said, “Maybe we'll get Alan Hewitt to give us a tune?”

O'Reilly'd not mind hearing Helen Hewitt's dad. He had a great voice. There might be time to listen and have another pint before Kitty expected them home. O'Reilly was about to signal Willie, but Rory said, “Excuse me, sir, I don't want to spoil the fun—”

The man's pint was hardly touched.

“—but could Donal maybe run me back to barracks? I just come over funny there now. I thought it was just a wee turn. Jasus,” he said, “I'm weak as a bloody kitten. I was feeling grand this morning so I'd no reason to go on sick parade, but I'm bollixed now, so I am.”

O'Reilly reflexively reached for the man's wrist to take his pulse. The skin was hot and clammy and when he counted for fifteen seconds and multiplied by four, Rory's pulse was 112 instead of a steady 88. “You have a fever, Rory.”

The noise from the party, the people at his own table, seemed to have vanished as O'Reilly concentrated on trying to discover how sick Rory was.