An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War (32 page)

“Spanish? From someone you knew in Tenerife?” O'Reilly frowned.

She swallowed and nodded. “Sort of. I didn't open it until I got home. I'd just finished reading it as you came in.”

He could see two light blue sheets of air mail notepaper clutched in her right hand. Perhaps one of her colleagues from the orphanage where she'd worked during the Spanish Civil War or one of the orphans, who would be in their thirties now, was in trouble? “Do you want to tell me what it's about?” he said.

She nodded, pulled a hanky from her sweater's sleeve with her free hand, dried her eyes, blew her nose, and straightened her shoulders. “Yes. Yes, I do. It's about a past that I thought was long forgotten—” She took a deep breath. “—but it's not.”

O'Reilly frowned but kept his voice low. “Kitty,” he said, “I love you. If something's bothering you I want to know what it is.” He squeezed her hand, and waited.

“And I love you, Fingal. I'd not hurt you for the world. It's a long story and I'm not particularly proud of it. But what's done is done.”

The backs of O'Reilly's knees were starting to hurt, but he didn't want to stand up. Not yet. Give her time, he told himself.

“When I left you in 1936 I was hurt, angry. I hid in my work. The children needed love, I did too, and looking after them filled my days and my nights when I was on duty. San Blas, where the orphanage was, is on the southeast corner of Tenerife. It was only a tiny place. There wasn't much to do when I was off duty.” She looked him in the eye. “There was a fishing village, Los Abrigos, about a mile away. I used to walk there along the coast. It was such a pretty little place with the houses painted in bright colours and the fishing boats all reds and blues. There was a good fish restaurant … it was always busy, overlooking the harbour…” She managed a smile. “I don't suppose you've ever had
bocarones
?”

He returned her smile. “You'd be right.”

“They're filletted anchovies pickled in vinegar, them and a plate of
gueldes
—you'd have had them here as whitebait, deep-fried herring fry straight from the sea—and a glass of local
vino blanco
…” She sighed.

O'Reilly wondered where all this was leading, heard one knee creak, but hung on waiting. He sensed that the preamble was how Kitty was readying herself to tell him what she must. She was like a wild duck that had been offered bread, swimming from side to side, drawing up the courage finally to dart forward and take it.

“… and some of the sunsets over the Atlantic. I've never seen anything like them.” She stared at the floor. “I'd been in Tenerife for a year, still missing you, but perhaps not quite as much as at first.”

And although that wounded O'Reilly's pride, he recognised that it should not. Their romance had been well and truly over. She had been free to do exactly as she saw fit. He was able to say, “I understand.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Anyway, I was in Los Abrigos. I'd finished my meal and was having a second glass of wine. I remember it so clearly. The sky was all reds and scarlets shot through with chrome yellow and topped by these little dove-grey clouds. The sky above them was velvety and there was one tiny star alive.” She smiled and made a huhing noise before saying, “I know it must sound corny to you, Fingal, but the owner of the restaurant used to sing and play a guitar. That night he was singing a Mexican song, “Granada” …”

And something important happened, O'Reilly knew. He knew. People rarely remember any given moment in such minute detail unless, unless there's a damn good reason. And he realised that it must be a man. Had some man written to Kitty? After all these years? To his surprise, the thought rattled O'Reilly.

“A voice said,
‘Disculpe Señorita, no hay más asientos, aqui estoy mtired. ¿Puedo sentarme en su mesa?'
I looked up. It was a dark-haired man who had piercing brown eyes and a scar beneath the right one. By then I knew enough Spanish to understand that he was asking if he could sit at my table.”

She does remember the exact details, O'Reilly thought, after thirty years, and he sighed.

“He seemed to be terribly out of breath. He was a complete stranger.” A smile came and went on her lips fast as the flicker of a candle in a breeze. She took a deep breath.

O'Reilly stood, perhaps because the ache in his knees was becoming unbearable; perhaps, he recognised, he needed to step back emotionally to prepare himself for what might be? No, damn it, what was going to be coming next. And that need was stupid, he told himself. She owed you nothing. Nothing. So why is your hand trembling?

“I said,
‘Si señor, pero yo no hablo mucho Español
.
Soy Irlandés.'
He sat and said, ‘Thank you. I speak English, but no Irish.' That made me laugh. He introduced himself, ‘Mañuel Garcia y Rivera.' He had a lovely smile and he really was having trouble breathing. I thought he might be asthmatic.” She sighed. “It all seemed so innocent.” She stood. “Fingal,” she said, “I want to tell you everything, but…”

He frowned. But what?

“I'd like you to take me for a walk on the beach and I'll try to explain it to you there.” She rubbed the back of one hand across her eye. “I got such an immediate jolt about what I read in the letter it made me cry and I still feel … I feel hemmed in … I need to get some fresh air. Will you give me five minutes, darling, to wash my face then we'll go? I'll tell you all about it then.”

“Of course,” he said.

She pecked him and fled.

He shook his head. This Garcia y Rivera must have played a pretty important part in her life, and he resented that. He'd no right to, but he did. O'Reilly nodded. He hated to see anyone upset, and Kitty O'Reilly, née O'Hallorhan, wasn't just anybody. He glanced at the sideboard to where a two-thirds-full decanter of Jameson's whiskey stood. He shook his head. His pre-dinner tot was going to have to wait. They were going for a walk. Now don't, he told himself, let your imagination run riot until Kitty's ready to explain. She knew a man in Tenerife years ago. She's had a letter from someone in Spain and the letter has upset her. That's all you know. It might not be from him. And she's not keeping anything from you. Don't go putting two and two together and getting five. There's probably some perfectly innocent explanation and, anyway, you're going to find out the whole truth very soon. So why are you pacing up and down in front of the fireplace not even bothering to light your pipe, disturbing Lady Macbeth?

Grateful for the distraction, he watched as the little cat yawned, stood, arched her back, stretched her front paws out in front of her, lifted her haunches, and stuck her tail straight up in the air before taking a few leisurely paces, jumping onto an armchair, and curling up to fall fast asleep.

“There,” Kitty said. She'd put on a head scarf and a light cardigan. “That didn't take long.” She managed a small smile.

“You look grand,” he said, which wasn't entirely true. Although she had repaired her makeup and brushed her hair, the telltale red lines had not left the whites of her eyes. “Are you ready, and are you sure you'd not rather stay here?”

She nodded.

He kissed her and said, “Come on then,” and held the door for her. “I think,” he said when they reached the hall and he moved to the front door, “perhaps we should leave Arthur at home.” There might be some serious things said and O'Reilly wanted no distractions.

“No, Fingal. He hasn't had his walk today. We should bring him.”

He smiled, said, “Fair enough,” and thought, You are a considerate woman, Kitty. O'Reilly turned and headed for the back door.

30

Merely Innocent Flirtation …

“Oh, dear,” said Elly, regarding the empty decanter as everyone finished their main course, “I do think the claret's
kaput
again. What would everyone like with dessert? Something sweet?”

The pressure of her foot increased on Fingal's ankle. He cleared his throat and told himself, Slow down on the drink, boy. He had a vivid picture of a naval signal flag, quartered in red and white for the letter U. It meant, “You are standing into danger.” Even so, it was amusing and indeed arousing to be flirted with by such an attractive woman—provided it went no farther.

“A nice Château d'Yquem Sauternes
,
perhaps?”

“Sounds lovely,” Michelle said.

“Have we one chilled, Hanif?”

“Of course, madam.” The manservant vanished, only to reappear with a bottle. He showed the label to Elly, who nodded, waited for Hanif to uncork the bottle, sniffed the cork, and sipped the splash he put into her glass. “Splendid,” she said, poured for Michelle, and continued, “Hold out your glass, Fingal.”

“Um,” he said, “I hope you don't mind, Elly, but to be honest I've never really liked sweet wines.” Which was true. He had always thought them sickly.

“Oh dear, Fingal,” she said, and the pressure of her foot lessened. She canted her head to one side. “You know, ‘Fingal' seems dreadfully formal. I think I'll call you Finn.”

Fingal could imagine her in a pet shop admiring a puppy and remarking, “I think I'll call you Fido.” “The only one who does is my elder brother,” he said with a smile, “but your Eleanor has been shortened to Elly, so why not?”

“Thank you, Finn, and as you don't like sweet wines, is there anything else I can tempt you with?”

The trouble, Fingal thought, with double entendres is that they only ever have one meaning. “I think,” he said, “I'll have a little rest”—she took her foot away—“but if we're going to have a nightcap, I'm sure I could manage another Paddy a bit later.” He thought about “later” as he watched Hanif filling the others' wineglasses. Elly had pointed out the servant's quarters. If this man lives in, it will be hard for her to get any further than she has already. Not with an in-house chaperone. Fingal patted his tummy and sighed contentedly.

“Splendid,” she said. “Pour, please, for me and the others, Hanif, then bring in the desserts.”

“I don't suppose you'll have had either of these, Fingal,” Michelle said when the plates were set on the table. “That one's
basbousa,
semolina soaked in sugar syrup topped with almonds. The other one's my favourite,
luqmat al-qadi.
They're round doughnuts that are crunchy on the outside, syrupy inside.”

“I'm going to have a bit of both,” John said. “Perhaps it'll slow me down a bit. Give you a better chance at our next squash game, Fingal.”

“I think,” said Fingal, “if I'm going to play any more games, I'd better think about trying to get fit.”

He felt the pressure on his ankle again as Elly said, “I'm sure we can arrange all kinds of exercise for you, Doctor.”

Fingal swallowed and moved into shallower waters. “But for now, I'm going to keep up with you, John, and try all the desserts.” He helped himself. Michelle was right about the
luqmat.
Delicious. He took two more.

“What,” said John, “has anybody heard from home since last we met?”

Fingal stopped chewing. Ma's recent letter had been full of her work for a charity for unwed mothers. Lars had brought Fingal up to date with the state of a new orchid that was being cultivated in his greenhouse. Hardly earth-shattering intelligence. He'd had a letter from Deirdre two days ago. It had been dated May 19, before the Dunkirk evacuation. It was the usual much-hungered-for mix of uncensorable chitchat and professions of her love, her yearning for his return next month. And broad hints about how she was going to make things up to him for their forced separation once they were married. He should think of that rather than be welcoming Elly's shin-stroking under the table, but the very thought of making love to Deirdre seemed to make Elly more desirable. He started chewing again, tried to ignore Elly, and paid attention to what was being said.

“Mummy managed to get tickets to see the new flick
Gone With the Wind
in the West End,” said Elly. “She said Vivien Leigh was marvellous as Scarlett O'Hara, Leslie Howard was quite dishy as usual, and Clark Gable wonderfully wicked as Rhett Butler.”

“I wonder if it'll ever get to Alex?” John said.

“I wonder if Clark Gable will ever get to Alex, more to the point,” she said with a chuckle. “Everybody ready for coffee?”

Heads, including Fingal's, nodded.

“Hanif, please,” she said, “then when you've tidied up you can run along home.” She grinned at Fingal, who sat upright.

“Let's,” she said, “take our coffee and liqueurs on the balcony. John, will you see to the drinks? Finn,” she said, with emphasis, “would like another Paddy and I'll have a Hennessy XO. You know where everything is.” She rose and the others followed suit.

Elly led the way through a second set of French windows into the dark of an Egyptian night. A sliver of waxing moon was beginning to set. This second balcony was furnished with rattan chairs and a circular table. Elly lifted a box of Swan Vesta matches from the tabletop and lit two candles inside glass globes. “Sunset in June,” she said, “is about an hour earlier than back home.” She plumped down in a chair and said, “Come and keep me company, Finn.”

He sat by her side with Michelle on his other flank.

“Where is home for you, Elly?” said Fingal, taking a sip of the whiskey.

“John and I were stationed in Portsmouth before the war, but home for me is Bishop's Stortford in Hertfordshire. Daddy's the vicar, but mummy's family have a bit of cash so I was packed off to Cheltenham Ladies' College when I was thirteen.”

“That's a famous girls' school,” Fingal said, impressed.