“I know, and I appreciate that very much,” said O’Reilly, “but this is your evening so you two keep on enjoying yourselves. The night’s a pup yet.”
“Arragh,” said Kinky, “but we’ll not overdo it. A shmall-little fire that warms is better than a big fire that burns, so.”
“Jasus,” said O’Reilly with a grin, “you have the wisdom of the ages, Kinky Kincaid. Just enjoy yourself.”
He became aware of something happening near to the door, glanced over, and saw Jenny embracing Terry Baird, who looked to be very cold. O’Reilly made his way across the room. “You made it, Terry. Well done.”
“I let myself in,” he said. Terry’s lips were blue, his teeth were chattering. “I’ll tell you, Doctor O’Reilly,” he said, “I can feel for Captain Scott and his men coming back from the South Pole. My car heater broke down. I’m foundered.” He blew on his fingertips.
“You poor dear,” Jenny said.
O’Reilly glanced round. The little party was in full swing. Nobody would miss him for a few minutes. He put his plate and glass on the sideboard, grabbed a bottle of Jameson, took Terry by the elbow, and said, “Come on, young fellah. Downstairs. Doctors can’t cure the common cold, but they can cure this kind of cold.”
Jenny followed.
Once in Kinky’s kitchen, O’Reilly said, “Jenny, stick a chair for Terry in front of the range.”
As Jenny did, O’Reilly filled a kettle and shoved it on a burner. “Now,” he said, “I’ll soon have your medicine.” He took a tumbler, put in two teaspoonfulls of sugar, a large dose of whiskey, three cloves, and a squeeze of lemon juice. Even down here he could hear voices and footsteps. Things must be heating up upstairs.
He turned. Jenny was helping Terry take off his overcoat and scarf.
The kettle started to whistle, a cheerful sound. O’Reilly grabbed it, poured a measure of boiling water into the glass, and stirred the mixture briskly, making the black cloves spin and dance. The aroma of spiced whiskey was heady. “Here,” he said to Terry, handing him the glass. “Get that into you. I’m told it’ll revive a corpse three days dead.”
“Thank you,” Terry said, accepting the glass and sipping, “I think you’re right, sir. Life is returning.” He laughed.
“Thanks, Fingal,” Jenny said.
“Think nothing of it.” He picked up the whiskey bottle and said, “Keep Terry company, Jenny, then bring him on up. I’d better get back.”
“Fingal,” she said, “before you go, I’ve a question.”
“Fire away,” he said. “I’m all ears.”
“Were you not curious when we were in the dining room with Bertie Bishop and I said, ‘I’m not sure about going’?”
“I bloody well was, but it slipped my mind.” He smiled. “Parties do that to you. So what did you mean?”
She stood, shoulders braced, hands in front of her, fingers laced. “You told me there’d been a group of younger women approach you to see if I could stay.”
“That’s right.”
“And they talked about things like Pap smears.”
“They did.”
“What would you say if I told you Graham Harley’s programme would rent your surgery three half days a week and pay me to do well-woman clinics there? We’ll be the centre for all of the north of County Down outside Belfast.”
“Here?” O’Reilly said. “You mean, here, at Number One Main?” He knew his voice had risen. “Mother of God.” He hugged her. “When?” He let her go. “When can you start?”
She laughed. “There are other details to work out because I might be able to take call occasionally, run a surgery on Saturdays for, saving your presence, women who would be more comfortable with a woman doctor.”
“Details,” said O’Reilly, “can wait. I’ve a party to run so I’m off upstairs. But this is great news, Jenny. We’ve a wheen of talking to do tomorrow to get this organised.”
“Thank you, Fingal,” he heard as he strode out of the kitchen.
Oh Lord, he thought, as he climbed the stairs. Kinky’ll come in and work part time. I’ll have Barry and Jenny as partners, I’ll have more time for Kitty. Our women patients who want to see a woman doctor will be happy. We’ll be helping to prevent a cancer. He danced a little jig from tread to tread. “By the name of all that’s holy I couldn’t ask for better.” And, he thought, sometimes difficulties to which he could see no solution happily solved themselves. It had happened way back in 1936 when a job had opened up for an unemployed cooper, and had happened again today when Jenny announced the answer to keeping on a talented young doctor when there didn’t seem to be enough work for three in the practice. See, he told himself, and grinned, sometimes you flatter yourself that you are the solver of all problems medical and otherwise for your patients. Not so. The universe unwinds in its own good time and often without a shove from Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly.
He went back into the lounge. Good. Nobody seemed to have missed him. His plate of grub was waiting on the sideboard where he’d left it. So was his whiskey. He stood watching a grinning Kinky accepting her friends’ good wishes. Fair play to you, Kinky Kinkaid. Fair play.
Kitty was waving from across the room where she was chatting with Sonny Houston. O’Reilly grabbed his plate and glass and began to make his way in their direction. He passed a group that had formed round Cissie Sloan. Aggie Arbuthnot, Flo Bishop, and Maggie Houston were hanging on Cissie’s every word.
Her voice carried. “Did youse see Coronation Street last night on the telly? Ena Sharples—no, I tell a lie—it was Minnie Caldwell was in the snug at the Rover’s Return, nicer-looking pub than our oul Duck, so it is, no harm til anybody. When in comes Ken, or was it Frank Barlow? Anyroad, your man says, he says, says he … you’d not believe it what he says…”
And a chuckling Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly laughed and laughed. The foundations of his own cosmos, like the ever-loquacious Cissie Sloan, were firmly in place here in Ballybucklebo, the best village in the six Ulster counties of the wee north. He laughed until the tears ran and he reckoned himself the luckiest man in the whole of those six counties, indeed in all the thirty-two counties of Ireland, on the greatest island on God’s green earth.
AFTERWORD
by
Mrs. Kincaid
Well, now the excitement of our engagement party is all over and I’ve a couple of weeks’ breather before I start thinking about Christmas meals, it’s time again to sit in my kitchen and pen some more recipes. It’s what himself wants, so, and I’m happy to oblige. And by the way, he says that when that Taylor fellah told the last story, he left out a couple of things and would I please tell you here so you’ll know? The Dublin story about Doctor O’Reilly when he was much younger and his dispensary job fell through, that story finished before he’d been able to meet with Doctor Andrew Davidson or have his trial match to see if he could play rugby football for his country, stupid rough game if you ask me, bye, but to each his own.
He did well on both counts. He started as a clinical clerk, that’s a junior doctor in training, at the Rotunda Hospital in March 1937. And both Doctor O’Reilly and that nice Mister Greer, the brain surgeon—he was simple Doctor Greer back then—got to play for Ireland together in the ’37 season. They lost to England but beat Scotland and Wales. Himself would never tell you, but Mister Greer told me. Doctor O’Reilly scored a try against Wales. I’ve seen himself’s three caps with their silver tassels and green shamrocks.
And he says—and God bless him, I remember how her death tore the heart out of him, but he says it’s all right to talk about it now—if you want to know about how he met Deirdre, his first wife, how he came here to Ballybucklebo, and what he did in the war, please be patient. That fellah Taylor’s long-winded enough, but he’s a slow storyteller and he’ll not have that one ready until a year after this one comes out.
And that’s enough of that. Now for the recipes.
Recipes
PEA AND MINT SOUP
&nb
sp; ½ stick / 1 oz./ 28 g butter
Small bunch spring onions, chopped
675 g / 1 lb. 8 oz. fresh or frozen peas, shelled
A large handful of mint leaves, chopped
¾ L / 1 pint / 6 oz. chicken or vegetable stock
Salt and pepper to taste
237 mL / 8 oz. / 1 cup cream or crème fraiche
Melt the butter in a large cooking pot and add the spring onions. Sauté gently for a few minutes, until soft. Then add the peas, mint leaves, stock, and seasoning. Boil for 3 or 4 minutes, until the peas are cooked. Remove from the heat and allow to cool. Blend well and chill. Mix in the cream before serving and decorate with mint leaves.
This soup has a coarse texture but if you would prefer it to be smooth you could blend it for longer or push it through a sieve.
And of course on days when the wind is howling like a stepmother’s breath you can serve it hot.
KEDGEREE
700 g / 1½ lb. undyed smoked haddock (or use half salmon and half haddock)
2 bay leaves
40 g / 1½ oz. butter
1 yellow onion, finely chopped
1 heaped tablespoon of medium curry powder
225 g / 8 oz. long-grain basmati rice
3 tablespoons cream
2 tablespoons spring onion, chopped
3 tablespoons chopped parsley
Juice of half a lemon
Freshly ground black pepper
3 hard-boiled eggs, quartered
This quantity will serve about 6 to 8 people and is very good with either my wheaten or Guinness bread. Doctor O’Reilly likes it for breakfast nearly as much as he likes my kippers, but it is also a very appetising lunch dish.
First bring the fish and the bay leaves to the boil in about a pint of water and simmer gently for about 10 minutes. Throw away the bay leaves but don’t discard the cooking liquor, as you will use this to cook the rice. Now flake the fish into bite-sized chunks and make sure that no bones remain.
Melt the butter in a largish pan and fry the yellow onion gently, but don’t let it colour, then add the curry powder, the reserved cooking liquor, and the rice, and cook for about 8 to 10 minutes.
When the rice is cooked, add the cream, spring onion, parsley, lemon juice, black pepper, and finally the flaked fish. Stir gently and place the hard-boiled eggs on top. You can keep this warm in a very low oven, covered with a lid, for about 20 minutes. I like to put it in a silver chafing dish and leave it on the sideboard so that they can help themselves at breakfast time.
Himself is very fond of it and he told me that this was one of those dishes that came from India in Victorian times and had originated as a means of using up leftovers for breakfast before there were refrigerators.
SCOTCH EGGS
225 g / 8 oz. sausage meat
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves, chopped
1 tablespoon parsley, chopped
1 spring onion, chopped
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
4 hard-boiled eggs with shells removed
Seasoned flour (with salt and pepper added to taste)
1 beaten egg
125 g / 4 oz. bread crumbs
Oil for frying
Mix the sausage meat with the thyme, parsley, spring onions, plenty of black pepper, and a little salt, and make into 4 flattened ovals on a floured surface.
Coat each hard-boiled egg with the seasoned flour and wrap the sausage meat mixture round each egg, making sure to seal each egg completely. Coat with the beaten egg and then with the crumbs. Now heat the oil in a deep frying pan or wok to 180–190° C (350–375° F). If you do not have a thermometer you can test the temperature by dropping a small cube of bread into the oil, and if it sizzles and turns golden brown then the oil is hot enough. Please be very careful with the hot oil and never turn your back on it.
Now carefully lower each egg into the hot oil and cook for 8 to 10 minutes until the sausage meat is a nice brown colour and thoroughly cooked. Remove with a slotted spoon and drain on kitchen paper. Serve cool with a salad. They keep well in the fridge for a couple of days. And sure doesn’t himself like to take these in the game bag when he goes on a shoot?
QUEEN OF PUDDINGS (BREAD AND BUTTER PUDDING)
8 to 10 slices of buttered bread
Grated rind of a lemon
100 g / 4 oz. raisins
3 eggs
275 mL / ½ pint milk
135 mL / ¼ pint cream
100 g / 4 oz. sugar
Heat the oven to 180 C°/350 F°.
Arrange the buttered bread in layers in a greased ovenproof baking dish, sprinkling each layer with grated lemon rind and the raisins. Then you whisk the three egg yolks and one of the egg whites in a bowl with the milk, cream, and half of the sugar, and pour this over the layers of bread.
Bake for 30 minutes or until set, and remove from the oven.
Now beat the 2 remaining egg whites until stiff and whisk in the rest of the sugar. Cover the top of the pudding with this meringue mixture and return to the oven for a further 10–15 minutes or until the top is golden. Serve warm with cream or crème fraiche.
Variations
You could use barmbrack (see recipe in An Irish Country Doctor) and omit the raisins.
Or spread the buttered bread with marmalade and omit the lemon rind and raisins.
For a savoury pudding you can omit the meringue topping, raisins, and lemon rind and add about 170 g / 6 oz. of grated cheese between the layers and on top.
Apparently Queen of Puddings dates back to the seventeenth century.
CHEESE STRAWS
250 g / 9 oz. “ready to bake” puff pastry
Mustard, preferably Dijon
200 g / 7 oz.sharp cheddar or Parmesan cheese
1 egg, beaten
Roll out the pastry to make a rectangle of about 20 cm (8 in.) and spread half with mustard. Sprinkle the grated cheese over the mustard half and bring the other half over the cheese. Now seal with the rolling pin and roll out again to about 15 cm (6 in.).
Cut into strips and twist at each end. Now leave in the refrigerator for about half an hour. Brush with egg and bake for about 10 minutes at 190° C / 375° F / gas mark 5.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I’ve never done it personally, but I’ve known many women who have given birth, and sitting here knowing that at last book eight in the Irish Country series is written, I suspect I am feeling a lot like a new mother. Tired, proud of my offspring, relieved not to be carrying it all day every day for nine months—and yet a little lost and sad now it’s all over.
And just as each child of any large family is a unique individual, so is Fingal O’Reilly, Irish Doctor different in its own way from all its siblings in the Irish Country series.
Please let me explain and start by offering new readers cead mile fáilte, a hundred thousand welcomes, and a short note of introduction. This work, by telling two parallel stories separated by twenty-nine years, continues to explore the character of Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly and ask what formed him in his medical youth in 1930s Dublin and turned him into the man he has become in 1960s Northern Ireland. I hope you enjoy the journey with him, and no prior knowledge of him and the other characters in this work is required, so please feel free to climb aboard.
Many regular readers (and welcome back to you, good to see you again) post notes on my Facebook page or write to me through my Web site. Thank you not only for telling me how you’ve enjoyed (or disliked) my work but also for asking such questions as “Will Doctor Barry Laverty marry Sue Nolan? Will Barry come back to work in Ballybucklebo in the ’60s? Why did Fingal and Kitty split up in the ’30s? What career did he choose immediately after he qualified and why did he choose it?” It was from such questions that the framework of this book developed.
Why not, I asked myself, answer those and other questions by telling two stories, one which followed on from A Dublin Student Doctor in Dublin in 1936 and the other set in Ballybucklebo in 1965, picki
ng up where An Irish Country Wedding left off? It seemed to be a reasonable skeleton to work round.
The setting of the Dublin story in the tenements of the Liberties owes much to Dublin Tenement Life: An Oral History by Kevin C. Kearns, to whom I will be eternally grateful. The timing of the story, 1936, allows young Fingal’s character to be shaped by two vital forces: the patients he works with as a G.P. in the dispensary system of the slums, and the primitive but increasingly science-driven medicine of that time, about to be revolutionised by the development of antibiotics.
I hope you will be interested in a short historical note about that subject. In Germany in 1932, a Doctor Gerhard Domagk had been studying aniline dyes produced by his colleague Josef Klarer. Domagk experimented with mice infected with Streptococcus. Those treated with red prontosil survived. Those left untreated died. Further trials seemed promising in humans. The work was done in Wuppertal-Elberfeld, where, as an aside, as a reserve soldier I attended a military summer camp in 1960 and from where we were taken to inspect the Möhne Dam, one target of the famous Dam Busters raid in 1943. In 1935, Domagk’s six-year-old daughter Hildegarde drove an embroidery needle into her palm. A few days later she was dying from septicaemia (blood poisoning), and it was doubtful if even amputation of the infected limb would save her life. Domagk gave her massive doses of Prontosil. Two days later she walked out of the hospital. He did not mention her when he published his findings in 1935, so Fingal would not have known about her. Domagk’s initial report was largely pooh-poohed by the medical establishment at the time. He subsequently was awarded the Nobel Prize.
Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor Page 43
