An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War (31 page)

“Perhaps I will,” he said, deliberately leaving it vague about whether he'd smoke with her or would object to sharing the mouthpiece, and returned her smile. Come on, he told himself, a bit of flirting's all right. She's fun to be with.

“Let me show you the view,” she said, leaning forward to undo a lower snib on the French windows. Fingal's eye was drawn to her décolletage and he looked quickly away. He followed her onto a balcony. The air was warm on his face, the Alexandrine smells no longer a novelty.

“Below us is Saud Zaghloul Square. The flat faces west.”

He looked over a footpath, a row of palm trees, and a narrow grassy park lined with benches, more palms, then a terrace of similar houses on the far side. Although he could still hear the distant hum of traffic, there were only a few pedestrians, no vehicles, and no animals—a peaceful counterpoint to the bustle in other parts of the city.

“Out that way,” she pointed north, “you can see the East Harbour on the far side of the Corniche. It's only about six minutes from here to the dockyard. Very convenient for Chris getting to and from his work.”

Funny, Fingal thought, how lightly she referred to what her husband did as “his work.” As if it was as humdrum as going to an accountant's office. Chris's workplace, like Fingal's, could at any time turn into a raging inferno of bursting high explosives and screaming splinters of steel or a watery tomb.

She turned. “Now,” she said, “drinkies. Goodo,” and headed back into the room where John and Michelle were standing at the living room end. Each had a glass in both hands.

“Here you are, Elly,” Michelle said, handing her hostess a cut-glass tumbler.

“One Paddy whiskey, Fingal,” John said. “No water.”

“Thanks,” Fingal said.

“Let's everybody sit,” Elly said.

Fingal lowered himself onto a sofa and was not surprised when Elly sat beside him. There were bowls of figs, dates, and kumquats on the table.

She raised her glass. “To new friends.” She looked directly at Fingal, who with the others echoed the toast and drank. “Now,” she said, “Michelle and I will be going shopping tomorrow. I imagine you two salty sailor men will be at your work. You're a bachelor, Fingal—”

“Actually, he's engaged,” John said.

“Your fiancée here?” Michelle asked.

“'Fraid not,” Fingal said. “Deirdre's back in Ireland.” And he wished she
were
here. If that was the case, he'd not be finding Elly Simpkins so devilishly attractive.

“If you're alone, then,” Elly said, “is there anything you'd like me to get for you, Fingal? It'll be no trouble and now you know where I live I hope you'll not be a stranger.”

“That's very kind, Elly,” Fingal said, “but just at the moment I can't think of anything I want or need.” Liar. He'd been having fleeting erotic images ever since she'd shown him that enormous bed and made the remark about “lots of room for romping.” A glowering Presbyterian minister and a line from a childhood hymn flashed into his mind: “Yield not to temptation, for yielding is sin.”

“Let me know,” she said, “if you change your mind.” And he felt her move a little closer.

“I will.” He sat back, sipped his whiskey, and was content to listen to the conversation of the three old friends.

*   *   *

Hanif, now hatless but wearing a short white cotton jacket and white gloves, came in. “If you wish, madam, I am ready to start serving the soup. The Gewürtztraminer's chilled and the claret has been decanted.”

“Splendid,” Elly said. “Please do, and we'll start with the white.” She rose. “Please follow me.”

Fingal brought up the rear on the short trip to the table.

“We'll not play head-of-the-table games. John and I will sit over on that side in the middle and Michelle and Fingal together on this side.”

Fingal sat facing Elly and felt a certain relief to be a little distant from his hostess.

A glass of white wine stood beside each place setting. Elly pointed to the dishes. “Those are plates of pita bread and mint yoghurt. If you'd prefer…” she offered a plate to Fingal, “you might like to try some
tehina
. It's sesame paste with lemon juice and garlic.”

He scooped some of the
tehina
up with a piece of pita and popped it into his mouth. “That,” he said after he'd swallowed, “is very tasty.” He sipped his wine.

Hanif appeared with a steaming tureen. “
Molokheyyah
,” he said.

“Please serve, Hanif,” Elly said, and as the manservant ladled the green liquid into soup plates she explained for Fingal's sake, “
Molokheyyah
is made from stock, mallow leaves, garlic, and coriander. In Alexandria, the chefs add shrimp, but in Cairo rabbit is preferred. I usually start dinner parties with it because if anybody's going to kiss anybody later they'll all have eaten garlic.” She laughed.

Fingal nearly choked on his first mouthful of soup.

“Really, Elly,” Michelle said, “you'll embarrass Fingal. Pay no attention to her. Elly Simpkins is the greatest tease in Alexandria. And she's daft about Chris and the boys.”

“You and Chris have children…” Fingal was tempted to say “Mrs. Simpkins” to restore a little formality to the conversation, but instead stuck to “Elly.”

“Two perfectly rambunctious sprogs,” she said. “Martin's nine and Geoffrey's eight. They both board at a frightfully expensive prep school back in England and spend the hols with my mummy and daddy.”

“You must miss them,” John said.

“I do, but Chris needs me here and it's always been the fate of us British in foreign parts to send the kids home for schooling. You get used to it.” She smiled at Fingal. “Chris's
Touareg
's at sea quite a lot too. It does rather leave one with time on one's hands, if you know what I mean. One can get a trifle bored.” She sipped her wine.

I'm bloody well sure I know what you mean, he thought.

Hanif began setting dishes for the fish course on the table. “I've prepared some
samak makly
fried local fish. The grouper was still alive when I bought it in the
souk
this morning and there is also some
calamari
.”

“Thank you, Hanif,” Elly said.

Fingal's nose was assailed by the most wondrous aromas.

“Help yourself, everybody,” Elly said.

Fingal waited for Michelle to serve herself then took a portion of fish and several pieces of calamari, which he knew to be squid. The flesh of the fried grouper was white and flaky with a delicate flavour and contrasted nicely with the rubbery squid. “This is wonderful,” he said.

“Glad you're enjoying it, Fingal,” Elly said, “and there's lots more to come.”

Little was said as the fish course was devoured.

“Now,” said Elly, “would anybody like to smoke before the next course?”

“Funny isn't it?” Michelle said. “The very idea used to be so
infra dig,
but ever since we found out Queen Elizabeth does, it's all the rage now.”

John offered his Player's.

Fingal shook his head. “Anybody mind a pipe?”

“Go right ahead,” Elly said, helping herself to a cigarette and fitting it into an ivory cigarette holder.

“Just like Marlene Dietrich,” John said.

“Not a bit,” Elly said, and let go a blue puff. “I've never boxed in a Turkish trainer's gym in Germany, and I much prefer men to women.” She smiled at Fingal.

“Rumour has it,” Michelle said, “she had an affair with James Stewart.”

“Now,” said Elly, “there's a boy whose slippers I'd not mind finding under ‘the field.'”

“You are incorrigible, Elly,” Michelle said, and laughed. “Pay no attention to her, Fingal. She'd flirt with her shadow. Everyone knows Elly's a one-man woman.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” he said, but he wondered, and asked himself, did he really want to find out if it were untrue?

As Fingal sat quietly letting the small talk pass him by, Hanif began bringing in more dishes. Each was covered by a silver dome. He cleared the dirty plates on his return trips to the kitchen and finished by placing a decanter of red wine in the centre of the table beside the vase of Egyptian lotus flowers.

“Shall I pour the claret?” John asked.

“Please do,” Elly said. “It should be passable. It's a Chateau Lafite Rothschild.”

Typical English understatement, Fingal thought.

“Now,” said Elly, stubbing out her smoke, “main course time,” and lifted the first dome. “
Kebda Iskandarani
,” she said. “Seasoned fried liver.”

“It smells delightful,” Michelle said.

“And that's deep-fried
falafel
,” John said when Elly lifted the lid from a plate piled with brown balls. “Ground chickpeas if you've not had it before, Fingal.”

“Pretty much all new to me,” Fingal said, smiled, finished his second glass of white, and sipped his red. It was exquisite.

“And those are lamb kebabs,” Michelle said. “They should be cooked over charcoal, but Hanif does something magical in the kitchen.”

“He's a gem without price,” Elly said. “Now, this is your vegetable course,” and she uncovered a tureen. “
Mashi
, which is seasoned rice stuffed into aubergines and put in this pot and covered with lemon juice.”

Fingal's tummy rumbled. “It certainly beats naval cooking. It's my first real taste of the local cuisine. Thank you, Elly.” He swallowed more claret.

She inclined her head to him, smiled, and said, “Now everybody tuck in.”

As plates were being filled, John said, “Just be grateful you're having your first taste in a civilised house. A few of us went out into the desert and were entertained by an Abadan sheik.”

“Abadan?” Fingal said.

“They're a Bedouin tribe,” Elly said.

“I see.” Fingal bit into a mouthful of the liver. Wonderful. Perhaps if he got the recipe from Hanif, Mrs. Kincaid would be able to make the dish. Doctor Flanagan's housekeeper in Ballybucklebo was a good cook and Fingal fully intended to return to the practice post-war.

“They invited us to dinner—the Beduoins are renowned for their hospitality,” John said. “You all sit in a huge tent on carpets round an enormous circular brass plate piled high with rice. Everybody uses their right hand to indulge themselves in a kind of lucky dip into the rice. It is considered polite to give delicacies to guests and very impolite to refuse.” He paused.

Fingal had just pulled a piece of lamb from the kebeb skewer and popped it in his mouth.

“I truly cannot recommend sheep's eyeballs,” John said in a deadpan voice. “Not one bit.”

For the second time that night, Fingal nearly choked on his food. He looked up to see Elly smiling at him and felt a pressure on his foot, then his ankle. “I'm not sure I'd like eyeballs,” she said, “but I do think it is polite for the host or hostess to offer the best the house has to offer.”

Perhaps it was the whiskey and three glasses of wine, perhaps it was the faint taste of her perfume, the pressure on his ankle, the invitation in her voice, or a simple physical longing, but before he could stop them the words were out. “I believe, John, you did say it would be considered impolite to refuse.” And as he spoke, he lifted his other foot and placed it on top of Elly's.

29

Scare Me with Thy Tears

O'Reilly took the stairs of Number One two at a time. He had come back from Belfast after another meeting with Charlie and Cromie to sort out more last-minute arrangements for the reunion at Dublin's Trinity College and Shelbourne Hotel in September. Barry was on call and downstairs in his quarters, and Jenny out with her young lawyer, Terry Baird.

He charged into the upstairs lounge. “I'm home, love,” he said, heading for the decanter of Jameson on the sideboard. “How was your day?”

Kitty had pulled a chair into the bay of one of the bow windows and was sitting with her back to him, apparently enjoying the view over the church steeple, the village, on over Belfast Lough, and beyond. She half-turned to him and said, “It could have been better.” Her voice was flat. She turned back to face the window.

He crossed the room, ignoring Lady Macbeth, who was curled up in front of an unlit fire, and stood behind Kitty, hands on her shoulders, gently massaging. “One of those ‘Mother said there'd be days like this' days, pet? Nursing can be pretty tough sometimes. I know. Did you lose a patient?”

She looked up and he saw a tear slip down her cheeks as if in a hurry to get away and hide its embarrassment. Her eyes were red so she must have been crying, and that wasn't like Kitty. Whatever was troubling her was a damn sight worse than the way she'd said, “It could have been better.”

“Darling, what's wrong?” O'Reilly moved round the chair and hunkered down in front of her as he would have with a frightened child. He clasped one of her hands in both of his and looked straight into her grey eyes.

She said quietly, “Fingal, I got a letter today…” Her voice trailed off then she said, “It gave me quite a shock.”

“A letter?” O'Reilly frowned. Whatever was in it must have indeed been upsetting, but why had it taken Kitty until now to weep? The post was delivered in the morning.

“It had been addressed to the old Bostock House nurses' home on the grounds of the Royal. I used to live there during and after the war, before the Broadway Towers flats opened a couple of years ago. All mail for the hospital site goes to a central mail room. Someone there had used her head, knew me by sight, guessed who it was for, and brought it to Ward 21 just before I left for home. The letter had a Spanish stamp.”