An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War by Patrick Taylor Read Free Book Online Page B

éclair in his mouth and glanced at his watch. His train for Larne would be leaving in half an hour. There he would catch the Princess Victoria ferry or her sister ship Princess Maud to Stranraer in Scotland on the first leg of his journey to Greenock. It was a good thing the Midland was a station hotel and he’d have no distance to walk. “Would you like anything else, pet?”
    She shook her head.
    Fingal attracted the attention of a passing waiter.
    â€œYes, sir?”
    â€œJust my bill, please.” He noticed that the man had a distinct kyphoscoliosis, a hunchback.
    Deirdre waited until the man had departed then said, “I’ll write, Fingal. Every day.”
    â€œAnd I’ll write too.” Fingal felt a lump in his throat.
    The quintet had shifted to a version somewhere between andante and adagio of “September Song.”
    He squeezed her hand. “Thank you for saying that you’ll wait.”
    â€œI love you, Fingal,” she said. “I always will.”
    â€œThank you, my love,” he said softly, “and I will come back. Promise.” He wanted to kiss her, but it wasn’t done to be too emotional in public.
    â€œYour bill, sir.” The waiter had returned.
    Fingal consulted it, took out his wallet, and paid. “Keep the change.”
    â€œThank you, sir.” The man hesitated. “May I say something?”
    â€œFire away.”
    â€œWhen I was a wee lad I had TB of my spine.”
    That explained the hunch.
    â€œThey’d not take me for the army, but I’d just like for til say that me and my mates here, us waiters and waitresses, like, all want for til thank you, sir, so we do, for going off til do your bit.” He turned to Deirdre. “And, missus? We all hope your brave sailor-man comes home safe and sound, so he does. Begging your pardon.” The man was blushing.
    â€œThank you,” Fingal said, and felt the lump in his throat grow bigger. “Thank you very much.”
    â€œIf you’ll excuse me, sir?” The waiter began clearing the table.
    O’Reilly rose and held Deirdre’s chair. “Now,” he said to her, “no arguments. I’m getting a taxi for you.”
    â€œThank you, Fingal,” she said, rising. “I’m not good at waving damp hankies on platforms.” He saw how her eyes shone, heard the catch in her voice.
    Bugger convention. O’Reilly, who towered over her, swept her into his arms, lifted her off the floor, and after remarking, “I love you, Deirdre Mawhinney, and we will get married—one day,” kissed her long, hard, and with all the longing in him. He set her down and was amazed by a small round of applause and a man’s voice saying, “Bon voyage, captain.”
    â€œCome on,” he said, “out of here,” and blushing and taking her hand hurried her to the door.
    They collected their coats and his suitcase from the cloakroom and Fingal helped Deirdre into hers. She turned and faced him as he shrugged into the new duffle he’d bought this morning. “Last hug,” she said, then moved into his arms and held him tightly. “Look after yourself. Please.”
    He held her hand and together they went out onto York Street.
    As he settled her into one of the recently established W. J. McCausland’s Auto Taxis and paid the driver, he looked at the love of his life, into sad, brimming blue eyes, at her soft lips, her trim figure, and said, “You look after yourself, darling. I’ll get leave one day and until then I’ll write. I promise.”
    â€œI’ll not say ‘good-bye,’ Fingal,” she said. “Just, ‘until the next time.’ I love you, a cuishle . Take care.”
    And Surgeon Lieutenant Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, not wanting to see her tears, heart like lead in his chest, closed the taxi door, clenched his teeth—and went to war.

6
    Come Cheer Up My Lads,