A Dublin Student Doctor (52 page)

She stood up, and with her back to Donal, puckered and blew him a kiss.

O’Reilly’s step was light as he entered the ward kitchen where Charlie had already poured two cups of tea. He handed O’Reilly a cup and an envelope. “Read that,” Charlie said. “I got it on Friday. I’d like your opinion.”

Australian stamps. Fingal thought he recognised the writing.

Dear Charlie,

I am so sorry not to have kept in touch better, but my job here as consultant cardiologist at Royal North Shore Hospital in Sydney keeps me busy, that and rearing two sports-mad boys, one of whom recently married, an Irish girl at that, from Blackrock.

It got me thinking back to Dublin and Trinity. Do you know it’s nearly thirty years since we qualified? How would you and some of the lads who stayed behind feel like organising a reunion in Dublin? I’d certainly be delighted to travel home for one.

Please let me know your thoughts, and if you see Fingal O’Reilly, give The Big Fellah my regards.

  
Sincerely,

  
Hilda Bronson (née Manwell) M.D., F.R.C.P.(I)

“I’ll be damned,” O’Reilly said. “Little Hilda. I didn’t know she’d gone to Oz. We’ve lost track of so many folks.”

“So what do you think of her idea?” Charlie said.

“It’s bloody brilliant. Let’s do it, you, and me, and Cromie. I’d love to rehash the old days.” He sipped his tea. It was time the last three of the Four Musketeers started seeing more of each other, and a reunion would take some putting together. “It would be grand to see the old faces. Well, most of them.”

Charlie chuckled. “I can hear you thinking, O’Reilly, and yes I know he’s practising in the Kinnegar up the road from you, but we have to invite Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick too. Couldn’t leave him out.”

“Och sure, I’d not mind. I even heard him telling a joke last Christmas. He’s mellowed with time.” Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly took a sip of his tea. “With time,” he repeated. “Who’d have thought it back in 1934 when we were dressing up Gladys in her undies then heading to Davy Byrnes for a few pints? Four youngsters full of the joys of spring. Look at us now. Cromie’s bald as a coot, but he’s a sober upstanding Knight of the Realm. You don’t boast about it, but I know you were given the Lister Medal by the Royal College of Surgeons two years ago for outstanding contributions to the discipline.”

“Well I—that is—”

O’Reilly sensed his friend’s discomfort and continued. “I’ll bet old Bob would have won that Nobel I teased him about, and me? Me? I’ve not got any gongs, Sir Fingal sounds as right to me as Lord Paddy Keogh of the Liberties, even if he was a noble wee man, but I’m happy as a pig in shite in Ballybucklebo and I’m about to settle down.”

Charlie Greer took a sip of tea and smiled. “I guess Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick isn’t the only one who’s mellowed with time.”

O’Reilly yawned, stretched, and nodded. “Haven’t we all, Charlie? Haven’t we all?”

A
FTERWORD

by
Mrs. Maureen Kincaid

Hello again. It’s me, Maureen “Kinky” Kincaid, so, back here at Number One. Himself, Doctor O’Reilly, has only just got home. He walked up from the Belfast train. You’d think after all the excitement of yesterday at the Downpatrick Races and him staying at the Royal Victoria Hospital all last night with poor Donal—Lord be praised he’s on the mend, so—the doctor’d be content enough to get home and have his brunch.

He’s done that. You should have seen the way he tucked into my freshly squeezed orange juice, a whole grapefruit, four poached kippers, toast, marmalade, and two pots of coffee.

There he was sitting at the top end of the big mahogany table with that wee dote Lady Macbeth sitting on his lap begging for scraps. You know what cats are like.

“Kinky,” says he, “I’m going to ask you for a favour.”

“Fire away,” says I, “but I can guess what it is.”

“Oh,” says he, “and what might it be then?”

“You’re going to tell me that Patrick Taylor fellah has spun another yarn about us folks here in Ballybucklebo, aren’t you, sir?”

He shakes his head—Lord knows that man could use a haircut, but it’s not my place to say so. Maybe Miss Kitty can get him to change his ways—more power to her wheel.

“This one’s not about the village,” says he. “It’s about a bunch of medical students I once knew, back at Trinity College in Dublin.” He slips Lady Macbeth a bit of kipper and pretends I didn’t see him do it.

“Indeed,” says I. “Rapscallions to a man, I’ll bet.”

He laughed. “I suppose we were rascals—then,” he says, “but I think we’ve mellowed.” He started on his fourth kipper. It gladdens the soul to see a body’s cooking appreciated. “So, Kinky,” he says, “it’s just like I asked you to do after the last five of Taylor’s stories. Could you please put some more of your recipes on paper?”

To tell the truth, it does please me to think there’s folks out there trying the way I cook, mostly taught by my ma back in Beál na mBláth in County Cork, so, but sometimes I do like to try something new. “I will, sir,” says I, “I have three traditional Irish dishes in mind and one for a sauce your brother Mister Lars brought back with him from Villefranche last year.”

“That would be wonderful,” says he.

Did you ever see the look on the face of a kiddie playing marbles with bigger boys and they’ve taken his last one? I swear to God that’s how himself looked when he realised he’d finished the final kipper. It was an expression that would have softened Pharaoh’s hard heart. “Will I do you another, sir?” says I.

“Not at all,” says he, and patted his tummy, “but thanks for the notion.” He buttered toast. “Kinky, when I’ve finished I’m going to take Arthur Guinness for a walk, drop in at the Mucky Duck, then come home. Could you maybe get the writing done while I’m out?”

“Bless you, sir,” says I, brushing crumbs from his tie, “they’ll be done by the time you get back.”

So here I am at my kitchen table, pen in hand. Funnily enough, they’ll be having tomato soup with Guinness bread, then roast stuffed pork fillets tonight for their tea when Doctor Laverty gets home. My friend who’s been to America, and helps me with the differences between Irish and American measures, tells me pork fillet is called tenderloin in the U.S., and it is a tender cut. Pity sauce Béarnaise doesn’t go with pork—but my apple sauce will, and I’m sure all you chefs out there know how to make that even if you can’t get real Bramley apples.

T
OMATO
S
OUP

1 tablespoon olive oil

2 medium onions, peeled and chopped

1 carrot, peeled and chopped

1 medium potato, peeled and chopped

2 pounds ripe tomatoes, skin taken off, or equivalent weight in tinned tomatoes

1 clove garlic crushed

1 teaspoon sugar

1½ pints/850 ml vegetable stock (good-quality stock cubes are grand for this)

Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

A little basil or parsley and cream to garnish

If using fresh tomatoes, immerse them in boiling water for a few minutes as this makes it easy to peel off the skin. When I am in a hurry, I like to use the tinned tomatoes instead. Heat the oil in a saucepan, add the onions, carrot, and potato. Cover with a lid and cook gently for about 10 minutes until softened. Add the chopped tomatoes and cook for a further 10 minutes. Then add the garlic, sugar, and stock and simmer for about 15 minutes. Blend ’til puréed, season to taste, and serve with a swirl of cream and chopped basil or parsley.

G
UINNESS
B
READ

280 g/10 oz plain flour

280 g/10 oz whole wheat flour

170 g/6 oz oats

50 g/2 oz sunflower seeds

4 tablespoons brown sugar

3 teaspoons salt

440 ml/15 fluid oz Guinness

2 tablespoons cooking oil

2 tablespoons treacle or molasses

300 ml/8oz/1 cup approx. milk

3 teaspoons baking soda dissolved in the milk

First prepare the baking tins by greasing them well and lining with greaseproof parchment. Turn on the oven to 200°C/400°F. Mix all the dry ingredients in a large bowl, make a well in the centre, and add the Guinness followed by the oil, treacle, and lastly the milk. You add the milk last because sometimes you may need to add more or less depending on the brand of flour used or even the weather conditions. However, what you are aiming for is a nice soft dropping consistency. Divide the mixture between 2 loaf tins (I use a large 2lb and a smaller 1lb size for this quantity of mixture and as it freezes well I always have one for an emergency). Bake in the oven at 200°C/400°F for 10 mins, then turn the oven down to 180°C/350°F and bake for a further 35 to 45 mins.

S
AUCE
B
ÉARNAISE

6 egg yolks

75 ml/2½ oz white wine vinegar

200g/7 oz melted butter

1 tablespoon chopped tarragon (or ½ teaspoon dried)

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

This is probably one of the most difficult of all the French sauces to make, but I think this recipe is quite foolproof.

First you blend the egg yolks (I use the Sunbeam Mixmaster Doctor O’Reilly bought me in 1960 and it makes life a lot easier than whipping things by hand), for about one minute or so. Then with the mixer still running, add the vinegar very slowly and follow by gradually adding the butter. To finish, add the tarragon and the salt and pepper and serve immediately.

S
TUFFED
P
ORK
F
ILLET
(T
ENDERLOIN
)

1 pork tenderloin weighing about 450 g/1 lb

4 or 5 strips of bacon

Stuffing

25g/1 oz butter

1 medium onion, chopped finely

85g/3 oz mushrooms, chopped finely

½ teaspoon thyme (dried)

2 teaspoons parsley

110g/4 oz breadcrumbs

Pinch salt and ground pepper

Preheat the oven to 180°C / 350°F/gas mark 4.

Prepare the tenderloin by splitting it lengthwise. Then using a rolling pin or a meat mallet, batter it on both halves to flatten it.

To make the stuffing, melt the butter in a pan, then fry the onion gently for a few minutes until it is transparent and soft but not coloured. Add the mushrooms and finally the herbs. Cook for a few minutes and add the breadcrumbs and seasoning.

Spread the stuffing on one side of the pork and place the other half of the fillet on top. Wrap the strips of bacon around the pork and finally place on a piece of buttered parchment or foil and close loosely by scrunching the top and sides. Bake at the top of the preheated oven for about 1 hour. Open the paper or foil about 10 mins before the end of cooking time.

It will slice more easily if kept warm and left to rest for 10 mins or so.

This is very good served with apple sauce or apple fritters.

G
LOSSARY

To each of the five previous Irish Country books I have appended a glossary. Judging by the letters I receive the explanations are appreciated. The English spoken in Ireland not only differs much from standard English, but the language of the regions is diverse. Belfast and Dublin dialects are as far apart as those from the Bronx, New York, and Lubbock, Texas, yet many of the expressions in Ireland are shared, so in this glossary by preceding the definition with “Dublin” or “Ulster” I have identified those more likely to be heard in Davy Byrnes pub in the city on the Liffey and those prone to crop up in the Crown Liquor Saloon near where the Lagan flows. Without those modifers, expressions are fairly universal in the Emerald Isle.

I spent October 2007 to May ’10 there and frequently visited Dubh Linn, the Black Pool, or as it is properly known in Gaelic, Baile Atha Cliath, the Town of the Ford of the Hurdles, where I expanded my vocabulary. In my years in the north of Ireland I had never heard expressions like “gameball,” evincing great approval. My northern versions would be “wheeker” or “sticking out a mile.” “Mind your house,” exhorting a sports team to be on the lookout for a tackle from behind would be translated by us roaring, “Behind, ye.” A scruffy individual in Dublin would be “in rag order.” Up north they would have looked as if “they’d been pulled through a hedge backwards,” or “like something the cat dragged in.”

But, not all is different. North and south we’d both “go for our messages” when running errands, wonder what that “yoke” (thingummybob) was for and might end up “shitting bricks” (very worried) because our pal had got himself “steamboats” or “elephants” (utterly inebriated).

Our speech in the north sounds harsh and has gutturals like “och” and “lough.” We often sound as if we are clearing our throats. Dubliners have a nasal accent all their own. Ordinarily I avoid attempting to render speech phonetically. The “Oim Oirish, sorr, faith and begorrah,” Paddywhackery is not for me, but I have made two concessions when it comes to the Dublin dialect. The letter
G
does not exist in the syllable
ing
so I have written words like “drinking” as “drinkin’.” I hope the apostrophes are not annoying.
H
(pronounced “haitch” in Dublin) is always dropped from
th
so “thing” becomes “t’ing,’ “brother,” “brudder.” As I worked I kept hearing a Dublin friend of very long standing, Henry Galvin, saying, “Did you know, Pat, by the same token, if you divide one hundred by t’ree you get t’irty t’ree and a turd?”

And a caveat. Dublin English, like most inner-city discourse, is not for the faint of heart. Blasphemy is de rigueur, Jasus (Jesus), Mary (Holy Mother of God), Joseph, and the saints are frequently invoked. To devout Christians I apologise, but I have striven for accuracy in all things, which is why along with those exclamations a variant of the
F
word will be found in these pages.

“Feck” is a verb meaning to have intercourse, to steal, “I fecked fifty pounds,” or to run away, “I fecked off in jig time.” “Feck off, you eejit.” It may express extreme denial. “The feck I did,” and is also used as a modifier of almost anything as in “I was feckin’ terrified,” to the extent of being used as a hyphen. “I’d terrible dia-feckin’-rrhoea.” No one who knows the true Dubliner would believe me if I left it out of the direct speech of some characters and my remit is to bring to the page people as true to life as I can make them.