Malta 2 – Royal Navy Hospital at Mfarta

The young man sitting next to me on the number 51 bus to Mfarta said he was a local and would tell me where to get off for the Royal Navy Hospital. He added that his sister had been born there before it closed, and it was not a place usually visited by tourists. I explained that my late husband, who was Scottish, had spent ten months at the hospital, as a dietary cook, when doing his national service years ago.

It would, in fact, have been hard to miss the hospital – the building is huge. It looked sadly deserted, with a tall wire fence as if to keep people out, but I noticed there were cars parked in the grounds and the gate was open, so I took this as an invitation to enter. I prowled around the front of the building first of all, looking for anything that might relate to Bill’s experience, and was startled to find this etched on the wall:

1950 happens to be the year Bill served at the hospital and so my discovery gave me quite a tingle. (In retrospect, of course, the date probably relates to work that was done on this wall.)

The Royal Navy Hospital was built before World War I and later became the main hospital for military personnel in the eastern Mediterranean. Its name was changed to The David Bruce Royal Naval Hospital some time in the 1950s and that is still the name above the main entrance.

Having entered, I found that the huge building, which would have buzzed with doctors, nurses, patients, military personnel when Bill was here, was seemingly deserted. I walked the corridors, discouraged to see whole wings closed off. Then I climbed some stairs and found an area that was not only renovated but had a receptionist. I explained my mission and asked if he had any idea where the hospital kitchens might have been. ‘Yes’, he said. ‘We were shown the hospital plans recently. I think the kitchen was at the foot of the stairs you’ve just climbed up.’ He assured me I could view the plans for myself if I went to the National Archives in Rabat, a short bus trip away. He wrote down the address for me, and also satisfied my curiosity as to the nature of the business he represents – it is educational, and there are a few other such businesses in the building.

I found nothing resembling a kitchen at the foot of the stairs, but I was reluctant to leave the complex and so I wandered the grounds, taking photographs. This photo shows two of the hospital wings, with Mfarta in the background.

 On alighting from the bus in Rabat, I realised I would need to ask for more directions. (Would Google Maps loaded onto a smartphone have helped geographically-challenged me? Unlikely – and besides, that would reduce the number of interesting people interactions.)  I stepped into a small shop with an ‘information sign’ outside. The proprietor was patiently working on the stuck zip of a tourist’s shoulder bag. When it was my turn to be served, I posed my question and he took me outside and pointed to a narrow street between tall white buildings on the far side of the square. He said to ask for St Francis if I got lost.

The National Archives, housed in a building with the name of a saint above the door, and a discreet sign in Maltese announcing archives, were not easy to find. Once inside, however, and having presented my credentials, I was able to view detailed plans of the hospital – plan after digitised plan. And yes, here at last was the kitchen where Bill would have spent much of his time – not just a kitchen, but a whole block. The kitchen, bread store, milk store, milk pasturing area, all had white marmor terrazzo floors. Within the kitchen was a beef tea extractor, an open roaster and a carving table. The block also featured a scullery, vegetable scullery, grocery store, cooks’ room, cooks’ cloaks, not to forget specialised yards outside. Bill would have been well used to kitchens that were on a grand scale. He had spent the years 1946-1948, at ages fifteen to seventeen, as a commis chef at the North British Hotel in Edinburgh.

I could have purchased these plans on CD, but I contented myself with making a sketch. I had got the feel of the place, seen plans for the kitchen block and the rest of the complex, and I was satisfied.

Postscript:

About a month before he died, Bill had a yen for kedgeree. He said that one of the nursing sisters at the hospital, who had spent much time in India, used to ask him to make it for her. Kedgeree wasn’t part of my repertoire – Bill was the chef in our marriage – but I tried several variations including Delia Smith’s. Bill appreciated my efforts, but I could see that none of my kedgerees lived up to his memory of the consummate dish.

The following year, 2016, I did a poetry course for beginners, and we were asked to write a poem beginning with the words ‘So Much Depends Upon’. This was my effort:

The elusive kedgeree

So much depends on

the butter

Ruth said when I asked

for the secret

of melt in the mouth

kedgeree.

Use lashings of butter

folded right through.

My husband when dying

had craved the dish

he'd once served

to military nurses in Malta.

At his memorial service

I learned at last

what to do.

Bon appétit,  mon amour.

Yes, I got the butter tip too late, but as I said, Bill appreciated my efforts.

This blog post is by Ann Barrie, author of 'Deserter : a novel based on true events'.