“Hear hear,” O’Reilly said, and finished his Jameson in one swallow.
“You’ve both been very good to me,” Jenny said, returning to her armchair.
“Nonsense,” O’Reilly said. “You’re a terrific asset to the practice.” He wondered, Does this mean she’ll leave? He hoped not. “And your well-woman clinic is working a treat.”
Jenny frowned. “I have to be honest,” she said, “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stay on once we’re married. Terry has just been given a partnership in his law firm in Belfast.”
“Good for him,” Kitty said. “You must be proud of him.”
“I am,” Jenny said, “very, but you can see how difficult it would be for him to leave and move here, and my job is really only part-time.” She looked straight at O’Reilly. “I know that it makes life a lot easier for you and Barry when I share call. I think at least at the start, if I could still have the attic, I could drive down at night, give you both extra time off.”
O’Reilly took his drink, wandered over to the mantel, and said, “Jenny, you are on your way to see the man you love, take his ring, and have a wonderful night out. Why don’t we worry about the details of the practice in a couple of days?”
“Fingal’s right,” Kitty said. “Off you trot and enjoy your evening. I’m sure it will all work out.”
Jenny finished her sherry. “Thank you both.” She stood. “I really don’t want to leave the practice.”
O’Reilly put an avuncular hand on her shoulder and said, “I thank you for telling us so we can be prepared if you have to leave, but as I am very fond of saying—”
Kitty made her voice deep and gruff, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
He and Kitty were both laughing as Jenny said, “Thank you both,” and left.
“Now,” said O’Reilly, striding over to the curtains and looking up, “I’ll get this blasted cat down and you go and attend to your toilette before our guest arrives.”
* * *
Once the greeting pleasantries with Kitty were finished and O’Reilly had ushered the man into the upstairs lounge, Doctor Fitzpatrick moved to stand in front of the fireplace. His gold-rimmed pince-nez shone in the setting sun’s rays and his Adam’s apple bobbed. He proffered a small, neatly wrapped parcel to Kitty, who sat in one armchair, Lady Macbeth, now returned to her usual composed self, curled up in her lap. “I’ve brought you a small gift, Mrs. O’Reilly,” he said.
“Why thank you, Ronald,” Kitty said, accepting the parcel, “and please, it’s Kitty.”
“And while Kitty’s opening it and you’re taking a pew,” O’Reilly indicated the other armchair, “what can I get you to drink, Ronald?”
“Um. I’m not one for a lot of alcohol, but seeing it’s a special occasion could I possibly have a small shandy?” He sat perched on the edge of a chair.
O’Reilly had to open the sideboard to find a bottle of Bass beer and one of Cantrell & Cochrane’s white lemonade. He busied himself pouring a half-and-half mixture into a glass tumbler. “Here you are,” he said, handing it to Fitzpatrick. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” said Fitzpatrick, and sipped, “and thank you for inviting me to your lovely house.”
“Should have done it months ago,” O’Reilly said, parking his ample backside on a pouffe and turning when he heard Kitty’s cry of pleasure.
“Ronald, he’s quite beautiful,” Kitty said. She offered a tiny carved figure to O’Reilly. “Look, Fingal. Isn’t he exquisite?”
O’Reilly took from her a three-inch figurine. It was a small man with a bald pate, infectious grin, exaggerated ear lobes, breasts, and a potbelly hanging over a loin cloth. He wore an open robe and carried a sack. The facial features were Oriental. The material looked like discoloured ivory. This must be an example of the netsuke that Kitty and Fitzpatrick had discussed so knowledgeably at the lunch in Davy Byrnes back in September. Somehow “exquisite” wasn’t quite the word O’Reilly might have used, but then he was no art aficionado. He’d been at sea with a lot of the more modern works in the Picasso Museum in Barcelona. “Delightful,” he said, and handed it back.
“I believe he’s Hotei,” Kitty said.
“Well done.” Fitzpatrick nodded rapidly. “Hotei in Japanese, or Budai in Chinese. He represents contentment. The Japanese call it wa, a sort of inner peace and tranquillity.” The man stared at the floor, then looked up at Kitty and said softly, “Which I wish always for this house.”
O’Reilly heard the sincerity in the man’s voice and was touched.
Fitzpatrick took another drink. “I hope you don’t mind my wishing that?”
Kitty reached out, touched Fitzpatrick’s hand, smiled, and said, “I think it’s the most charming gift and the loveliest sentiment. Thank you, Ronald. Thank you very much.”
Fitzpatrick blushed beet-red.
O’Reilly had been forced to stand and walk to the window so neither Kitty nor, more importantly, Fitzpatrick could see the shine on O’Reilly’s eyes. With his back still turned, he said, “Thank you, Ronald. It was most gracious of you.” Damn it, this awkward, infuriating man had revealed such a thoughtful side they must be friendlier to him in the future, and for now it was even more important that he and Kitty find a way to get him to see Charlie Greer. They’d agreed to let that hare sit until the break between the main course and dessert.
For a moment no one spoke. Then Kitty rose. She walked to the mantel and placed the figurine upright in the centre. “What do you think of him there, Fingal?” she said.
He turned. “The wee fellah looks right at home, Kitty.” He smiled.
“And every time we see him there, he’ll remind us of your wish, Ronald.”
“Well I—that is—”
“I think,” said Kitty, and it was clear to O’Reilly that she was covering the man’s shy embarrassment, “that if you gentlemen will bring your drinks, the mushroom soup and hot rolls will be just about ready.”
* * *
O’Reilly surreptitiously undid his waistband. The soup had been delicious, Kinky’s roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, seasonal vegetables, and roast potatoes things of beauty. Kitty had selected a rich red Burgundy and Fitzpatrick had been persuaded to take a glass, in part because O’Reilly felt it a shame not to complement a great meal with wine, but also in the hope that it might help Fitzpatrick be less inhibited and be more amenable to suggestion. Certainly, the man’s conversation had been animated and interesting. Now, between the main and dessert courses, was the time to get down to the real business of the evening—once the right opportunity arose.
Kitty was saying, “I’d missed that. The Allies released Albert Speer from Spandau Prison late last month?”
“And Baldur von Schirach,” Fitzpatrick said. “Both on the thirtieth.”
Throughout the meal O’Reilly had been surprised by the wide range of Fitzpatrick’s interests. Apart from collecting netsuke and being expert on aspects of ancient Japanese culture, he could converse fluently about Irish politics, orchids—an interest he shared with O’Reilly’s elder brother, Lars—folk remedies, and the operettas of Gilbert and Sullivan. It also transpired that he took a very serious interest in current affairs.
Now O’Reilly was looking for an entrée to a discussion of Fitzpatrick’s health. He might have found it in the last remark about Spandau, the prison for Nazi war criminals. “That only leaves Rudolf Hess,” O’Reilly said. “I remember when he flew to Scotland in May of ’41. Apparently the man is a pathological hypochondriac.” He stole a glance at Kitty, who nodded once. She’d picked up the cue. “He’s always going on about vague stomach complaints,” O’Reilly said, and waited.
Fitzpatrick nodded, pulled off, polished, and replaced his pince-nez. “Yet,” he said, “even with malingerers, we cannot afford to ignore our patients’ symptoms. Remember, Fingal, when we were students.” He glanced fondly at Kitty. “Doctor Micks told us about the senior consultant coming back from a weekend off and asking the houseman, ??
?How are my patients?’ ‘All very well, sir, except the neurotic hypochondriac with nothing wrong.’ ‘Yes. What about him?’ ‘He died, sir.’” Fitzpatrick’s titter was like dry pages being crumpled.
Kitty, clearly caught unaware by Fitzpatrick’s willingness to tell an ironic story with a moral, chuckled loudly, but O’Reilly had seen his opening. “I agree. It is our responsibility to take people’s complaints seriously.” He made his voice as soft as possible. “That’s why, Ronald, I wish you’d go and see Charlie.”
Fitzpatrick jolted upright in his chair. His Adam’s apple went up and down like a yo-yo. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said,” and O’Reilly put steel into his voice, “go and see Charlie.”
“I believe, Doctor O’Reilly,” the sudden formality was not lost on O’Reilly, “I believe we had considered that matter closed.”
“Maybe you had, but I can’t see a fellow human being—” O’Reilly hoped his next sentence might be the edge of the lever that would allow Kitty to get Fitzpatrick to see sense. “—one who could become a friend, a friend, behaving like a rank omadahn.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Irish.”
“Idiot. Moron. Imbecile. Are those plain enough for you? You’re a sick man. For God’s sake, get expert advice.” O’Reilly rose, and without waiting for Fitzpatrick’s reply, said, “See if you can talk sense into him, Kitty. I’ll get the dessert.” As he strode through the dining room door he heard Fitzpatrick gobbling like a turkey.
Caramelizing the sugar was as simple as Kinky had said and took just enough time to give Kitty her opportunity. O’Reilly loaded the three ramekins onto a tray and headed back, but as he walked past the waiting room, he saw Fitzpatrick’s coated back, head under a trilby hat, leaving through the front door. It didn’t look as if Kitty had had much success.
She shook her head when he entered.
“No luck?”
“I told him, Fingal’s only trying to be your friend.”
O’Reilly nodded.
“And that we both care a great deal about him.”
“And?”
“He was on the verge of tears, Fingal. All he said was, ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ and you saw him go.”
O’Reilly blew out his breath in exasperation. “Eejit,” he said.
“Come and sit down, Fingal,” she said. “I don’t think we could have done any more.”
“I know. And I don’t think his gift is working.”
She frowned.
“He said his wee Buddha…”
“Budai. They’re not one and the same.”
“I didn’t know. Anyroad, he said his wee fat man was meant to bring inner peace and tranquillity.” He looked at her and saw understanding in those grey eyes. “I’m not feeling one bit peaceful. I’m not even sure I want my pudding. Damn it all, Kitty, I just don’t know where to go for corn. I’m stuck. And meanwhile, Ronald is getting sicker by the minute. Did you notice how his right hand has developed a tremor?” O’Reilly took a deep breath. “I suppose all we can do now is wait and see.”
“I did notice his shake,” she said, and then like a mother to a child who has lost at marbles, “and you’re right, we can do no more and it’s not your fault. Now please sit down.”
He did, and before he could protest, she set a ramekin in front of him and took one herself. “I know it won’t make Ronald any better, but I think it would be a shame to let all your culinary work go to waste. Eat up.”
He shook his head and smiled. Kitty O’Reilly, née O’Hallorhan, might not have been able to persuade Ronald Fitzpatrick, but once more she had worked her wiles on Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly and, by God, the crema Catalana was as delicious as the ones they’d had in the Crajeco Loco in Barcelona with Consuela. And, O’Reilly thought, always able to find comfort in his grub, there was the extra one that Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick, the omadahn, had so ungraciously not bothered to eat.
14
Empty Words of a Dream
Fingal was sorry that he’d cut it close and left a cyclist in the ditch, but he didn’t want to waste a minute getting to Twiddy’s. He wasn’t going to prevaricate any longer. Deirdre was entitled to know what was happening, and he knew no matter what, she’d be brave. Deirdre. Sensible, calm, and very beautiful. He pictured her coming downstairs after her nap and her bath on Monday. She’d rearranged her hair and used just enough makeup to highlight her eyes and lips. Her sleeveless, knee-length, cherry-red dress had a neckline verging on the reckless, and together with dark silk stockings and black patent leather court shoes, the effect was stunning. “You look gorgeous,” he’d said.
“Thank you, sir,” she’d said. She’d glided across the room. To Fingal, she’d seemed to be fine as a bee’s wing, light as ocean spray. The rest was a blur until Marge had had to go out, leaving them alone, and he’d been holding her, wanting her, loving her.
“Woof.” Admiral Benbow’s sharp bark brought him back to the present. It seemed the big shaggy sheepdog was on watch.
“Coming.” It was Marge’s voice, not Deirdre’s, and Fingal stifled his disappointment.
The door opened. “Fingal. How lovely.”
The new necklace her husband had given her had replaced the—for an Englishwoman of her class—statutory string of pearls. “Is Deirdre here?” he asked, and tried to peer past Marge. “I’ve got to talk to her. It’s important.”
Benbow demanded attention by thrusting his cold nose against Fingal’s hand, so he absently patted the dog’s head.
“It must be,” Marge said. “Not bad news I hope?”
Fingal pursed his lips. He meant to tell Deirdre before anyone else, but Marge had been so kind, so understanding. The words tumbled out. “I can’t get permission to marry.”
“You can’t? Oh, Fingal, I’m most dreadfully sorry,” Marge said. “You’ll have to break the news to her at once. And Fingal?”
“Yes?”
“Deirdre can stay with me for as long as she likes.”
“Thank you, Marge.”
“Now you must go and see her. You remember we’d talked about me getting her a job as a Land Girl?”
He nodded.
“Your Deirdre isn’t one to let the grass grow under her feet. She rested on Tuesday and yesterday, but it was up Guards and at ’em today. It’s the end of haymaking season. She’s over at Hutchinson’s with Pip and some other girls.”
“Oh.” He had to get there. “Can you—?”
“Of course I’ll give you directions,” she said—and did.
He shuddered to think what bouncing over the ruts was doing to the springs of David’s little car, but according to what Marge had said, Fingal’s quickest way of getting to the hayfield was to park at the end of this lane, clamber over a five-bar gate beneath an old oak tree, cross a pasture, and the Land Girls would be working on the far side of a hedge.
There was the gate and the massive oak, laden with acorns. In moments he’d parked, climbed over the gate, and was running, dodging steaming cow claps, across the pasture so fast a herd of brown-and-white Herefords didn’t have time to wander over in the way of their kind to investigate the stranger.
Even in early October, the sun was warm and he was sweating when he found the gate in the far hedge.
He let himself through into a field where the grass had been mown in swaths and was losing its greenness. The scent of recently cut hay filled his nostrils. Nearby, up a shallow hill where they’d have been hidden from his view as he crossed the pasture, he saw several young women grouped round a wagon being pulled by a great Clydesdale horse. He heard a sweet soprano singing, “Little sir Echo, how do you do.”
And the girls singing, “Hello (hello). Hello (hello).”
With every repeated hello, they swung their pitchfork loads in unison onto the wagon. He’d never heard a popular song used like a sea shanty before, but it seemed to be effective. He recognised Pip standing up there holding the reins and Deirdre, her hair done up in a scarf
knotted over the middle of her forehead, working away with a will. She looked strong, her movements sure and capable, and he realized that the girl he’d always tried to treat like Dresden china was a lot tougher than he’d imagined. “Deirdre,” he called. “Deirdre.” He saw her hesitate, wave, start toward him, then turn back and speak to Pip. Deirdre must be asking permission to stop work. She was in an army of sorts, after all. Then she was running to him.
She came into his arms, kissed him, and stepped back. “Gosh,” she said, “but you’re a bristly man.”
“I’ve been too busy to shave,” he said gently, pulling a strand of hay from her hair, and then gathered her into his arms again and kissed her back.
“Lord, I do love you.” She was smiling. “What brings you here today? I thought you’d be working.”
“I love you too,” he said.
“Do you have a day off? Can you stay for a while? Pip says I’ve got to be back in five minutes, but we’ll get half an hour for elevenses. Fingal, I was so worried about you when the bombs started to fall, but Marge told me they were too far away to be hitting Gosport.” She paused for breath.
“Hello (hello). Hello (hello).” Her fellows were back at work, it seemed.
“I was quite safe,” he said. “Please don’t worry.”
“I’ll not,” she said, taking his hand.
He took off his cap with the other and wiped the sweat off his brow. “Darling,” he said, “there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” she said. She was still smiling.
“I didn’t want to worry you—”
“Fingal, you’re not sick?” She frowned. “You’ve not been posted away?”
“Nothing like that,” he said.
“Good,” she said in a very matter-of-fact voice. “Then it can’t be too serious.”
“I’ve not told you anything about our wedding,” and before she could reply said, “I thought I’d have it all sorted out by Tuesday so I didn’t want to worry you, and I didn’t tell you anything.”