“Leave them here with the Duggans and take the Rover home. I’ll walk to the Duck and home’s no distance after that, then I’ll get the car, and come back for the bags.”
“Then we’ll toast the new arrival.” She smiled. “It’s a very satisfying thing bringing a new life into the world. Thank you, Doreen, for letting me help.”
“Thank you, Mrs. O’Reilly,” an obviously tired Doreen said, “and you, sir too, and tell my man not til be too long. We need to give—” She smiled over to where the youngest Duggan was gurgling in his drawer. “The babby a name and…” She hesitated. “I know Dougie has a thing for the letter D and is thinking on David, but, Mrs. O’Reilly, would you mind if we gave him the second name Kit, like?”
“David Kit Duggan. That’s a lovely name and I’d be extremely flattered,” Kitty said, and the colour in her cheeks heightened.
“And I’ll be off,” O’Reilly said. “See you at home soon, Mrs. O’Reilly.”
* * *
At four thirty on a Thursday afternoon the Duck was relatively empty. Mary Dunleavy, newly washed glass in one hand, tea towel in the other, stood behind a deserted bar counter. The usually thick tobacco fug was more of a mist than a pea souper, and the hum of conversation was muted. It was still early in the day and the Duck didn’t usually start filling up until about five thirty. Besides, the workingmen who were the pub’s regulars would be enjoying their holidays, for this was the Twelfth Fortnight and many would have gone to places like Bangor and Newcastle in County Down, Portrush in County Antrim, and Portstewart in County Derry. A few might even be giving the Costa Brava a go. Donal Donnelly had become a less frequent Duck attender since the birth of his daughter and anyway it was early for Donal too. And since his heart attack Bertie Bishop, good Lord, O’Reilly thought, as his eyes became accustomed to the room’s dim lighting, there Bertie was, bold as brass sitting with Alan Hewitt, Dougie Duggan, and, the man O’Reilly was after, Lenny Brown. Each of the four had a nearly full pint in front of him.
“Good afternoon to this house,” O’Reilly said. “Pint, please, Mary. Your dad get home all right?” He replied to the “Afternoon, Doctor,” and “How’s about ye, sir?” coming from the occupied table with “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Aye, sir,” Mary said. “I’ve him tucked up in bed with a couple of pillows on each side of his sore foot til keep the bedclothes off, so I have.” She poured one-third of a glassful, letting the stout run down the inclined inside of the straight glass. “He says that’s more comfy for his poor ould toe.”
“Good lass,” said O’Reilly. “He’ll start getting better soon. Keep making him drink water and take his pills. If you’re worried you’ll let me know?”
“I will, sir.” She set the glass on its base to let the foamy beer settle. “If you’re going to join the other men, I’ll bring it over when it’s poured,” she said.
“Grand,” said O’Reilly, left half a crown on the counter, and wandered over to the table. “Gentlemen.”
“Have a pew, Doc.” Alan Hewitt vacated his and pulled over a straight-backed wooden chair from another table.
O’Reilly planted himself on the new chair and started fishing round for his briar.
“And?” big, open-faced Dougie asked. “And? Is it a boy or a child?”
“It’s a wee brother for Daphne. And before you ask, Dougie, he’s got all his fingers and toes and the girls of the village will be looking worried in about sixteen years.”
“Younger than that if he’s anything like his daddy was,” Alan said.
Dougie grinned, grabbed O’Reilly’s paw, and began pumping it like someone drawing water from a hundred-foot well. “Och, thanks, Doc. A wee boy? That’s grand. Thanks a million. Let me buy you a pint. I’m a daddy again and I have a wee boy.” He clasped his hands above his head like a victorious prizefighter.
“Thanks”—O’Reilly shook his head—“but I’m just in for the one and it’s on the pour and paid for.”
“Good for you, Dougie,” Alan said, raising his glass and clapping the proud papa on the back. “Any ould tinker can put a hole in the bottom of a bucket…”
In unison four voices supplied the follow-up line, “… but it takes a craftsman to put a spout on a teapot.”
There was general laughter, amid which Mary delivered O’Reilly’s pint and quietly retired.
“Well done you, Dougie,” Lenny Brown said. “And you rear him right. Get him apprenticed to a good trade.” He caught O’Reilly’s eye and inclined his head.
So that’s the way the land lies about Colin, O’Reilly thought. Now what can I do? He raised his glass. “Sláinte.”
There was a chorus of “Cheers,” then Dougie said, “Maybe you’re right, Lenny, but never mind his job. That’s years away. When he’s only a bit grown, him and me can kick a soccer ball about and I’ll have him supporting Glentoran.”
Clearly a career for the newest Duggan was miles from Dougie’s thoughts.
“And tell him about the Orange Order,” Bertie said. “We’re always on the lookout for new—” He stopped. “Alan, I’m sorry. I’d forgotten you dig with the left foot.”
“Never you worry, Mister Bishop,” Alan said. “Us Catholics don’t mind the local Orangemen. There’s never been no trouble in Ballybucklebo, and it’s just a parade you have, and it’ll be next Tuesday. Sure it’s always great craic. The kiddies love the bands. You mind a couple of years back Donal Donnelly’s kilt fell down and—?”
“And Seamus Galvin put a tenor drumstick right through my front window?” O’Reilly said, and laughed.
“And me dressed as King Billy and all, and the bloody horse threw me. The whole thing was a quare gag that year.”
It had been a cause for great hilarity, but for Bertie Bishop to laugh at himself—and in public? Mirabile dictu, O’Reilly thought. Would wonders never cease? Perhaps Bertie really is a changed man since his heart attack last Halloween.
“Now never mind parades. See you rear that wee lad up right, Dougie Duggan.” Bertie wagged a finger at Dougie and said, “Flo and me never had none.” He sounded sad. “Wee boys need to be brought along. When they grow up, they’ll be the men of the house.”
O’Reilly took a pull on his pint and kept an eye on Lenny Brown, who, up till now, had been silent except to offer his congratulations and imply that Colin was not going to get his chance at the Eleven Plus. Let’s see what Bertie’s opinion on another subject is, and let’s see if it leads anywhere. “Do you think wee girls need bringing along too, Bertie?” O’Reilly was pretty sure he knew what Bertie’s answer would be to that.
“Wee girls isn’t the same,” Bertie said, shaking his head and slipping one thumb under the lapel of his blue serge suit jacket.
He is now calling this meeting to order, O’Reilly thought. Bertie is going into his public speaking mode. “And why are they not the same?”
“Because most wee girls’ jobs is til find a good husband. I used til think we spent a lot of taxpayers’ money on giving them too much learning, so I did.”
Time to give the pot a little stir, O’Reilly thought, still watching Lenny. “Do you agree with that, Alan? You’ve a wee girl.”
“Helen’s not so wee.” He took a pull on his pint. “And saving your presence, Councillor, no harm til ye, but I think your head’s full of hobby horse shite, so it is.”
O’Reilly hid his grin. Bully, he thought, for the Irish pub where any one man’s opinion was as good as the next.
“Why do you say that?” Lenny asked.
“Because if Mister Bishop thinks it’s a waste of money, he’s dead wrong. My wee girl got her Eleven Plus. I wanted all of mine educated. I didn’t want any of my kids, boys or girls, ending up like me … only a builder’s labourer.”
“And a bloody good one,” Bertie Bishop said, and drank.
“Thank you,” Alan said. “But—”
“I think,” said Lenny, “a wee lad should go intil his daddy’s trade.”
/> “You mean like Jesus?” Dougie asked. “He was a carpenter like his daddy.” Dougie was starting to sound slurred, which was permissible for a brand-new father, but it was hardly going to make him a stellar debater.
“Carpentry’s an honourable trade,” O’Reilly said, nudging the conversation along. He took a long pull on his stout and lit his pipe.
“You see, Doctor, that’s what I was trying to tell the missus, and you, and Miss Nolan.”
“Tell them what?” Alan asked.
Lenny took a deep breath. “They want my Colin to sit the Eleven Plus.”
For a moment nobody spoke, then Alan Hewitt said quietly, “My Helen got it, Lenny. My Helen went on til grammar school.” He raised his voice and pointed at his own chest. “And me a labourer, but see her? See my Helen?” His eyes shone and his voice took on the tones of a man who had won a gold medal. “My Helen’s going for til be a doctor. Nobody wasted any money on her, so they didn’t. I reckon if you’re looking for value for money you just take a quick gander at my Helen.” He frowned and shook his head at Lenny. “Give your wee lad a chance too, Lenny. It’ll not cost you nothing. Nothing.”
“My wee lad’s going til be a plater like his daddy.”
Bertie Bishop said, “You’re daft, Lenny.”
O’Reilly spun to see Bertie Bishop scowling and shaking his head. “I never got no proper education, but I bettered myself.”
“So can Colin. He doesn’t need no fancy exams.”
To O’Reilly, Lenny was now like a boxer being backed into a corner. Still defending himself but losing confidence.
Bertie’s nostrils flared. He was not a man who suffered fools gladly. “Look,” he said, “I was fourteen when I had til leave school.” He looked pensive. “I wanted til be an engineer, but the family needed the money.” He shrugged.
Lenny frowned. “But you’ve done very good, Mister Bishop, with your construction company and all.”
“Aye,” said Bishop. “I’ve had til work sixteen-hour days, be a mean man with a penny, work the likes of you, Alan, bloody hard.” He spread his arms wide. “And where did it get me? I bloody near died last year and I’ve had time til think since then. I made money. I made a name for myself here.” O’Reilly heard the man’s wistful tones. “But I never got for til be an engineer and that’s what I wanted. I wanted to build more than houses. I wanted to build bridges and factories, maybe even one of them glass-and-steel skyscrapers. Think on that, Lenny Brown. You think bloody hard.”
O’Reilly realised his mouth was hanging open. Bertie had confessed to that? “That’s a big mouthful, Bertie,” he said. “Took a lot of guts to say it. I’m proud of you.” He put his pipe mouthpiece back between his teeth and inhaled.
“Aye. Well,” Bertie said. “And maybe I’m wrong about girls too, Alan. More power to your Helen and other lasses like her. It was that wee lady doctor Bradley that saved my life, so it was.”
“You’ve me convinced anyroad, Mister Bishop,” Dougie said. “My wee David, that’s what we’ll call him, my wee David can grow up til be what he likes, so he can.” He pointed an unsteady finger at Lenny. “Your Colin deserves a chance too.”
“Hear, hear,” said Alan Hewitt. “This is 1966. There’s no reason why anybody can’t rise above their station … if they get themselves learned right.”
“You’ve been very quiet, Doctor,” Bertie said.
“And it’s not like himself,” Dougie said, clearly fortified by the drink.
“What’s your opinion, Doctor?” Bertie wanted to know.
O’Reilly thought about the evening he and Kitty had spent mackerel fishing, when he wondered what bait might lure Lenny Brown into changing his mind. Had the opinion of his two friends here and the confession of Councillor Bishop done the trick? “Lenny knows my opinion…”
“Aye. I do, so I do.”
Lenny Brown’s voice was even less resolute, and yet he was a stubborn man and if O’Reilly didn’t bring the point home, this might all come to nothing. Come on, he said to himself, find something more. He smiled. Lenny and Alan liked the grues. “I’ll give you two-to-one on a five-pound note that if you let Colin sit he’ll pass.”
“Doctor O’Reilly, sir. I may not want him to sit the exam, but if you think I’m going to bet against my own son—”
“O’Reilly, go away and feel your head. Lenny, I can do better than that,” Bertie Bishop said. “You don’t need to bet nothing if you admit it’s the best thing for Colin, like it would have been for me, til get properly learned and give him a better chance? Are you a big enough man to do that?”
Lenny sighed, hung his head, and looked up. Then he clasped his hands, glanced from eye to eye, and took a deep breath. “Well, I … I mean…” The words came in a rush. “Maybe … maybe I’ve been thinking more of myself, not wanting til have a clever son looking down on me, seeing the family tradition of us at the shipyards dying, but,” he stretched out a hand to Bertie, which was taken and shaken, “thank youse all for getting me for til see what I’ve to do for my son. He can sit the bloody thing and if he passes, I’ll drive him til Bangor Grammar School myself.”
The other four men applauded.
Lenny finished his pint in one swallow and for the first time since O’Reilly had come in, Lenny Brown grinned then laughed out loud and said, “D’you know, Alan, I hope one day I’ll be as proud of my wee divil Colin as you are of your Helen.”
“Well done, Lenny,” Bertie said, “and well stated. Now you never let me finish what I was going to propose.”
“Go right ahead, sir,” Lenny said.
“I’m a wealthy man. I’ve no one til leave my money til.” He turned to O’Reilly. “Would fifty pounds a year til he’s finished help a young lad through university if that’s what he wants four or five years from now?”
For the second time, O’Reilly realised he must be looking like a stunned mullet with his mouth wide open. “By God, it would, Bertie,” he said.
“All right then, Lenny. You call round at my office tomorrow and we’ll have my solicitor draw up the papers. And before you give me any bull about not wanting to take charity, this is not charity. This is an investment, an investment in a young lad’s future and in my future. Let me do this for him.”
“I don’t know what til say, Mister Bishop,” Lenny said.
“I do,” said Alan, who was renowned for his voice.
“Me too,” said Dougie, and despite the law prohibiting singing in Ulster pubs they started, “For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow…”
And Lenny—and Fingal O’Reilly, who wondered if he hadn’t witnessed the nearest thing to a miracle that was ever going to happen in Ballybuckebo—joined in.
39
Full Fathom Five
“We therefore commit their bodies to the deep, looking for the general resurrection in the last day, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ; at whose second coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, the sea shall give up her dead…”
Fingal stood with his head uncovered in a light northwesterly wind under the nearly midday sun as the captain intoned the final prayer for Surgeon Lieutenant Peter Fenwick, Lieutenant Chris Simpkins, and Able Seaman Brinsden. The bodies, each sewn into a sad canvas bundle weighted with a 4.7-inch shell, lay under Union Flags and on top of planks at the edge of the ship’s afterdeck. He wondered if, as had been the custom in Nelson’s day, a final stitch had been taken through each dead man’s nose. When the captain finished the prayer, he and the other officers put on their caps and saluted, the burial party upended the planks, the bosun’s whistles shrilled. Fingal heard three splashes. Sic transit gloria mundi, he thought. Poor buggers. By now the wounded Vixen would be well on her way to Alex, bearing the news to the next of kin.
“Burial party, on hats. Dismiss,” the CPO in charge of the detail ordered, and that was that. Typical naval efficiency, a drill for every conceivable occasion.
Touareg had for t
he duration of the ceremony flown her ensigns at half-mast but had made no effort to heave to or deviate from her course. There was a good reason.
At breakfast one of the destroyer’s officers had informed Fingal that the British fleet was southwest of Greece and that the enemy fleet was about 150 miles away, fifty miles from the toe of Italy. It was Admiral Cunningham’s intention to place his ships between the Italians and their base at Taranto in Italy’s heel to force a battle.
When Fingal arrived on the bridge at noon, there had been a flurry of signalling between Warspite and the rest of the fleet. Flags soared up halliards; Aldis lamps clacked and flashed. Radio silence was the order of the day. Touareg was one of five destroyers attached to the flagship’s close escort and was steaming off the battleship’s starboard beam about four cables, or two-fifths of a mile, away.
“This,” said Captain Huston-Phelps, reading a message he’d been handed by the signals yeoman, “promises to be interesting, Doctor. I’m glad you’ve taken up my invitation of last night. You’re welcome to stay on the bridge unless we have more casualties for you to attend to. We’re within ninety miles of the enemy now and they are heading this way.” Before Fingal could answer, the skipper said to the first lieutenant, “Course two seven oh. Speed twenty knots, number one. Conform to Warspite’s movements.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The ship’s first lieutenant repeated his instructions to ensure there had been no misunderstanding, then passed the necessary orders to the cox’n who stood at the ship’s wheel, eyes fixed on the compass and said, “Course two seven oh degrees, sir. Wheel’s amidships. Steady as she goes.”
They were not yet at action stations, but once they were, the cox’n would go to the armoured steering position below the bridge.
“Very good.” The first lieutenant focussed his field glasses and stared ahead.
Ninety miles? Fingal was no navigator, but that seemed pretty close. It might not be long before the fleets were in sight of each other and, he swallowed, in range too. From this vantage point he’d be able to see the battle. How had he thought of it after witnessing the gunnery practice? The grappling of the fleets? He’d wondered then, as he wondered now, how he’d feel. He was certainly still a bit rocky after being dangled like a puppet on a string over a roiling ocean, performing surgery on a moving deck, and burying the husband of a woman he’d almost slept with.