"What?" She tensed and raised her shoulders.

O'Reilly's grin was huge. "You, Mrs. Kinky Kincaid, you've done all the work, and we've not had a chance to thank you yet."

Her shoulders sagged, and Barry could sense her relief.

"So, Kinky"-he poured a gla.s.s of wine-"take that in your hand." He reached over and moved a chair by the sideboard to the table, dislodging Lady Macbeth for a second time. "Come round here and sit for a minute. I want you to have a drink with us, and here"-he handed her an envelope-"that's a wee tangible thank-you from Doctor Laverty and me."

Kinky bobbed and sat on the chair O'Reilly held out for her. "Thank you both."

Barry wondered how much money was in the envelope-and how much his yet-unasked-for share was. d.a.m.n it, he didn't begrudge her a penny. He looked at Patricia. To have her here to share Kinky's Christmas feast was all he could have wanted. Whoever had said, "Money isn't everything," was right. He reached under the table and took Patricia's hand, feeling its cool softness.

O'Reilly, who was still standing, bent and filled his gla.s.s, then raised it. "Now everybody, Kitty, Barry, Patricia"-he peered under the table-"and you, Your Ladyship, and you lummox, Arthur Guinness, here's to Kinky Kincaid."

Barry reckoned that four people saying, "Kinky Kincaid," in unison, accompanied by "Aaaaghow" from Arthur, made a very respectable noise. It certainly stimulated Lady Macbeth, who leapt onto the table, only to be deposited on the floor by O'Reilly.

Kinky blushed and stuttered her thanks.

O'Reilly inclined his head. "Now get that wine into you, Kinky. I'll carve the turkey and the ham, and while I'm at it, will you tell us all exactly what's on the plate and in the bird?" He picked up the carving knife and fork. "White or dark meat, Kitty?"

"Both, please."

He nodded and began to carve the breast. "Come on now, Kinky. Tell us all."

Kinky took a sip of her wine. "Well," she said, "around the plate are roasted potatoes and parsnips. Those little thingys are chipolata sausages. In the neck end of the bird I've put pork and chestnut stuffing, and in the vent end my usual sage and onion and breadcrumbs, so."

"That's amazing," Kitty said. "However do you get it all done, Kinky?"

Kinky took a sip of her wine. "It's just a matter of planning."

So, Barry thought, was the D-day invasion. One h.e.l.l of a lot of planning.

Patricia took the words from his mouth. "I think you're a marvel, Mrs. Kincaid."

"Think?" said O'Reilly. "I b.l.o.o.d.y well know it. Have done for years." He handed a plate to Kitty. "Help yourself to the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. Patricia?"

"Just a teeny helping, please. I've already had one Christmas dinner today, Mrs. Kincaid."

Barry sat patiently waiting for O'Reilly to serve Patricia, then him. O'Reilly's own helping, Barry thought, would have fed two. Barry added bread sauce and vegetables to his own already heaped plate.

Kinky finished her wine and rose. "I'll be leaving-"

"Not just yet, please," Barry said. He got to his feet "I have a toast of my own." He hesitated, trying to find exactly the right words for what he wanted to say.

"Get on with it," O'Reilly called. "Your dinner's getting cold."

"All right." He bowed his head, then spoke clearly. "Here's to Kinky Kincaid, the best housekeeper in all Ireland . . ."

"Hear, hear," O'Reilly said.

"To Fingal O'Reilly, my colleague . . . and my friend . . ." He stared at O'Reilly, who was nodding a silent agreement.

"To Kitty O'Hallorhan. May Number One Main Street see lots more of her next year . . ."

"Thank you, Barry." Kitty was smiling at O'Reilly.

"To Arthur and Her Ladyship. May their Christmas truce persist . . ."

No luck with that one. As if on cue, Lady Macbeth took a swipe at Arthur's nose, but missed. Barry had to wait until O'Reilly had finished laughing before he could continue. "And to Patricia. May her studies go from strength to strength . . ." He stared at her and smiled. "And may the road between Cambridge and Ballybucklebo rise up to meet her when next she makes the journey . . ."

"At Easter, and I will book in time. I promise."

He nodded in agreement.

"And to us all in this room. May nineteen sixty-five be the best of New Years and the happiest."

And happy and at peace with the world, Barry Laverty sipped his wine, and inside he smiled.

AFTERWORD.

by

Mrs. Kincaid.

Dia dhuit. h.e.l.lo. It's December the twenty-sixth, and I've a chance to take more of a breather than usual. All my life, because my mother drilled it into us children, Boxing Day was the day that thank-you letters had to be written, even if one was to an auntie who lived next door and had given you a string vest that you didn't want in the first place. So here I am sitting at my kitchen table with a pen in my fist and this writing tablet before me, but it's not for thank-you letters.

This year, glory be, I'm going to break with that tradition. Doctor O'Reilly says I can use the telephone to talk with anyone I don't feel like writing to. He did say there was a condition, so. I was to use the time saved to sit down and give you some more of my recipes.

He says that Taylor fellah who spins these yarns has had a lot of letters since I put my recipes in his first two books. One nice lady from America said she'd tried my mock turtle soup, and by the hokey it was better than the recipes she'd got from four other cookery books, so.

I have the time to do it because I'll not be cooking today. My doctors are away to Flo Bishop's hooley, and when they come home I've a fridge full of cold turkey and ham. I took the meat off the bones this morning, and the carca.s.s and the hambone are boiling away so I can make stock. Ould Arthur'll get the hambone later, and I've some turkey treats put aside for Her Ladyship. The wee dote.

Himself says for me to give you a clatter of Christmas recipes, and that's not as silly as it sounds even if Christmas Day is over. Of the things I'm going to tell you about, Christmas puddings and the Christmas cake are traditionally made the year before in Ireland. I made my Christmas cake last August, but ever since the pudding ate my steel bowl, I'm not so sure about doing them too soon either. I think they can wait a while.

You'll see when you read on that this year I'm making a change from just giving you quant.i.ties in pounds and ounces, cups and spoonfuls. Your man Taylor's first book was translated into German, Dutch, and Russian-how in the name of the wee man you translate "not come within a beagle's gowl" is beyond me-but there's been a request for me to use these newfangled grams for the sake of the continentals. Now I can't convert measures, but when that nice schoolteacher lady Miss Nolan comes back next term I'll get her to give me a hand.

Whether you follow the old measures or the newfangled ones, here are the recipes. I hope they turn out well for you.

Ulster Christmas Recipes.

SWEET MINCE.

225 g/8 oz/1 cup vegetarian suet 225 g/8 oz/1 cup Bramley apples, peeled, cored, and chopped finely (These apples are grown in County Armagh, so if you cannot find any, use any apples that you like.) 115 g/4 oz/ cup candied peel, chopped 225 g/8 oz/1 cup each of seedless raisins or yellow raisins 225 g/8 oz/1 cup currants 175 g/6 oz/ cup demerara sugar 1 teaspoon mixed spice or allspice zest and juice of an orange 60 ml/2 fluid oz brandy Mix all the ingredients together. Pack into sterilised jars and seal. Store in a cool dark place until you want to use it.

This makes about 1.8 kg/4 lb/8 cups of sweet mince, a traditional Irish filling for individual mince pies, served warm at Christmas. It has been used in my family down through the ages, and originally it did contain meat. Now the only meat present is in the suet, and for the sake of vegetarians like Miss Moloney I have used vegetarian suet.

BRANDY b.u.t.tER.

Here's another wee Christmas speciality of mine which goes down a right treat with your mince pies or your Christmas pudding, and it's made in no time at all.

115 g/4 oz/1 stick unsalted b.u.t.ter, softened 115 g/4 oz/ cup confectioner's sugar 2 tablespoon boiling water 3 tablespoon brandy Cream together the b.u.t.ter and the icing sugar. Beat in water and brandy until smooth. Chill until needed, and serve with hot mince pies or Christmas pudding.

CHRISTMAS CAKE.

225 g/8 oz/2 sticks b.u.t.ter 225 g/8 oz/1 cup soft brown sugar 225 g/8 oz/1 cup plain or all-purpose flour 225 g/8 oz/1 cup each: currants, raisins, muscatel raisins, and seedless raisins 115g/4 oz/ cup each: glace cherries and mixed peel 55g/2 oz/ cup ground almonds 1 teaspoon mixed spice or allspice teaspoon cinnamon teaspoon salt 4 eggs grated rind of one lemon and one orange Preheat oven to 140 C/275 F/gas mark 1. Grease and line an 8-inch cake tin so that the paper extends above the sides by 1 inch.

Cream together the b.u.t.ter and brown sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, beating in well. Stir in the almonds, flour, salt, and spices. Finally add the cherries, dried fruit, and rinds. Pour the mixture into the prepared tin. Bake for 3 hours. Check for readiness by inserting a thin skewer. When it comes out clean, the cake is done. Cool on a wire rack, and store in an airtight container until you are ready to ice it.

ROYAL ICING.

3 egg whites 575 g/20 oz/2 cups confectioner's sugar, sieved 1 teaspoon liquid glycerine (optional) 3 teaspoon lemon juice Lightly whisk the egg whites, adding the sugar at intervals. Beat well until the icing reaches soft peaks. Add the glycerine (if using) and the lemon juice.

MARZIPAN.

150 g/5 oz/ cup ground almonds 140 g/5 oz/caster or white sugar juice of lemon glycerine, 10 drops approximately almond or vanilla essence, to taste Mix together the ground almonds and sugar. Gradually add the lemon juice and glycerine until you get a marzipan texture. Flavour to taste with almond or vanilla essence.

ICING THE CAKE.

Place the Christmas cake on a cake plate or foil board. Dust hands with flour and work surface with a little icing sugar. Knead the marzipan (see accompanying recipe) until soft. Roll out half of it to fit the top of the cake and the rest to fit round the sides. Brush the cake with warmed apricot jam and place the marzipan on top. Cover with a tea towel, and leave for four days before covering with the royal icing (see accompanying recipe).

You can buy marzipan and royal icing or make your own. But whichever you do, please make sure that after you put the marzipan on the cake, you leave it for four days to dry out before you go putting on the royal icing, or you'll spoil it, so.

CHRISTMAS PUDDING.

175 g/6 oz/ cup soft bread crumbs 400 ml/1 cups milk 300 g/10 oz/1 cups castor or white sugar 250 g/9 oz/1 cup suet 175 g/6 oz/ cup plain or all-purpose flour teaspoon salt 1 teaspoons nutmeg 175 g/ cup grated carrot 250 g/9 oz/1 cup currants 250 g/9 oz/1 cup raisins 175 g/6 oz/ cup mashed potato 75 g/2 oz/ cup candied peel 3 eggs, beaten 4 teaspoons treacle or mola.s.ses Heat milk to boiling point and pour over crumbs in a very large bowl. Add the sugar and leave to soak for hour. Mix in all the other ingredients, except eggs and treacle, mixing very well. Finally add the eggs and treacle and beat very well. Put mixture into greased bowls, cover and steam for 4 hours. Continue to add boiling water from time to time to ensure that it does not boil dry. Makes one very large (1 litre) pudding or two small ones (2 litre).

You can use special bowls with their own lids, or else cover the bowl with aluminium foil. I use greaseproof paper, then brown paper, and I tie it on with string, making a handle with the string. If you haven't got a doctor handy, you do need to be very careful with the boiling water, so.

The pudding matures and tastes much better if you can remember to make it one year to 6 months before you need it.

On Christmas day steam for a further 2 hours. Turn out and garnish with a sprig of holly.

BRANDY SAUCE.

55 g/2 oz/4 tbsp b.u.t.ter 55 g/2 oz/ cup plain or all-purpose flour 570 ml/20 fl oz/2 cups milk 55 g/2 oz/ cup castor or white sugar cup brandy Melt the b.u.t.ter and stir in the flour. Cook for 2 minutes and stir in the milk. Bring to the boil, stirring all the time. Simmer gently for 10 minutes. Stir in the brandy and sugar, and serve with Christmas pudding.

Now, that's that done. I'm going to have a nice cup of tea and read a book I got for Christmas from my sister Ailech, who lives in Rosbeg in County Donegal. It's called The Reivers and it's by William Faulkner. I did so enjoy his As I Lay Dying.

And to you I wish success with your cooking and an Athbhliain shona dhuit, a Happy New Year to you all. No doubt you'll be hearing from me again soon. Sometimes I wonder if that Taylor fellah's ever going to dry up. He's as chatty as Cissie Sloan.

Slan agat.

Farewell, MRS. KINKY KINCAID.

Housekeeper to Doctor Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly, M.B., B.Ch., B.A.O.

1, Main Street, Ballybucklebo County Down.

Northern Ireland.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

Doctors Taylor, Laverty, and O'Reilly, Mrs. Kinky Kincaid, and their friends and patients are very pleased to welcome back readers who are already acquainted with Ballybucklebo. They hope that you will enjoy meeting old friends and making fresh ones, visiting familiar places, and exploring new ones. You have seen the townland in summer and autumn. This time it is winter, Christmas is coming, and the geese are getting fat.

For readers new to rural Ireland in 1964, perhaps a word of explanation from the author might be helpful. To you I offer the following.

I had just finished a novel, Pray for Us Sinners, a follow-up to Only Wounded, a collection of short stories, both concerning the 19691994 Ulster Troubles.

Concurrently I had been writing a monthly humour column in St.i.tches: The Journal of Medical Humour, where Doctor Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly and the residents of Ballybucklebo first appeared in 1995. My editor at Insomniac Press read my column and suggested that the characters might form the foundation of a novel. The idea of writing about something lighter than internecine strife was appealing, so An Irish Country Doctor began to take shape.

Once it was finished, I completed Now and in the Hour of Our Death, the sequel to Pray for Us Sinners, but when that was done I discovered that I was much more fond of pre-Troubles Ballybucklebo than I was of sectarian strifetorn Belfast and County Tyrone. I decided to follow the further doings of the cast of Doctor with An Irish Country Village. An Irish Country Christmas is the third volume of the series.

In writing the series I have used the Ulster dialect. It is rich and colourful, but often incomprehensible to one not from that part of the world. For those who may have difficulty, I have taken the liberty of appending a glossary (page 485). I have been sparing in my use of the Irish language, which is not spoken by most of the citizens of Northern Ireland.

The setting is Ballybucklebo, a fictional village in County Down, my own home county. The name came from my high-school French teacher who, enraged by my inability to conjugate irregular verbs, yelled, "Taylor, you're stupid enough to come from Ballybucklebo." Those of an etymological bent may wish to know what the name means. Bally (Irish, baile) is a townland-a mediaeval geographic term encompa.s.sing a small village and the surrounding farms; buachaill means "boy"; and bo is a cow. Thus Bailebuchaillbo, or Ballybucklebo, means the townland of the boy's cow.

Since the publication of the first two novels I have been amazed by the number of my Ulster friends who insist on trying to pinpoint Ballybucklebo as a real village in North Down. It is clear that the old Irish pastime of chasing moonbeams is not yet dead.

In my darker works I strove to make the setting and events historically accurate. The Irish Country stories take some liberties, and in Ballybucklebo time and place are as skewed as they are in Brigadoon.

The purist will note that the southern sh.o.r.e of Belfast Lough is devoid of sand dunes. Further round the County Down coast at Tyrella, there are dunes aplenty. No salmon river called the Bucklebo flows through North County Down. The nearest is the Shimna River in the Mourne Mountains, not far from Tyrella. Everything else is as accurate as extensive reading and memory permit.

I have also taken liberties with Ulster politics. Some say fiction is an outward expression of the author's wishes. In this work I have portrayed a tolerant place that the majority of people in the north of Ireland would have wanted. Sadly, in that small country in the sixties it could not have existed. The ec.u.menical spirit exhibited by those on either side of the sectarian divide in Ballybucklebo had little chance to flourish in Northern Ireland-although it could have, but for the bigotted intransigence of a very few people. Fortunately, as I write, it seems that those days are gone forever.

I will not miss them, but I do miss the rural Ulster I have portrayed and the Ulster people; indeed I missed one so much that I have returned to Ireland after thirty-seven years in Canada to be with her.

I know the place I have come back to has changed. The farms and villages still look much as they did, but the simplicity of rural life has been banished by the Troubles and the all-pervasive influence of television. The automatic respect for their learning shown to those at the top of the village pecking order-doctor, teacher, minister, and priest-is a thing of the past, but men like O'Reilly were common when I was a very junior doctor. And on that subject, may I please lay to rest once and for all a question I am frequently asked? Barry Laverty and Patrick Taylor are not one and the same. Doctor F. F. O'Reilly is a figment of my troubled mind, despite the efforts of some of my Ulster friends to see in him a respected-if unorthodox-medical pract.i.tioner of the time.

Lady Macbeth does owe her being to a demoniacally possessed white cat, Minnie. Arthur Guinness is a reincarnation of a black Labrador with the same name, now long gone, but who had an insatiable thirst for Foster's lager. All the other characters are composites, drawn from my imagination and from my experiences as a rural GP.