Fatty O'Leary's Dinner Party (12 page)

“Past my limit,” whispered Lord Balnerry. “That's me out.”

“Eleven thousand to Mr. O'Malley over here,” said the auctioneer. “Eleven thousand for this fine young horse with all his future ahead of him. Any advance on eleven thousand pounds?”

Fatty was suddenly aware of Lord Balnerry's hand on his elbow.

“My goodness,” said Lord Balnerry. “Isn't that Mrs. O'Connor over there waving to you? Give her a wave, Cornelius.”

Fatty looked across the ring and saw Mrs. O'Connor standing near the entrance to the ring. Instinctively he raised his hand and waved.

“Twelve thousand,” said the auctioneer. “Twelve thousand over there. Do you want to reply, Mr. O'Malley?”

O'Malley shook his head and the auctioneer raised his hammer and hit his desk, causing the horse to start skittishly.

“Sold at twelve thousand to the gentleman sitting next to Lord Balnerry. Your name, sir?”

Fatty, whose attention had been focused on Mrs. O'Connor, now swung his head round and saw the auctioneer pointing directly at him.

“Your name, sir?” repeated the auctioneer.

Confused, Fatty called out: “Cornelius O'Leary.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the auctioneer. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, the next horse is a very interesting little filly from Fermanagh of all places. A long way from home, but a very fine prospect for next year's flat season …”

“Oh dear me,” said Lord Balnerry. “I'm afraid you bought that horse, Cornelius. He must have thought you were bidding when you waved to Mrs. O'Connor over there. What a terrible mix-up.”

Fatty felt the blood drain from his face. He turned to Betty, whose expression was one of mute alarm.

“I'll have to tell them,” he said. “They'll have to sell it again.”

“Oh they'll never do that,” said Lord Balnerry. “It's strictly against the rules at these sales. Buy a horse, you've got a horse. That's the exact wording of the rules of sale, I believe.” He paused, and patted Fatty on the forearm. “Still, you've got a wonderful horse. A beautiful horse, in fact.”

“But I don't want a horse,” said Fatty. “This is Ireland. It's an Irish horse. I live in America. What would I do with a horse over here?”

“You could take him back with you,” said Lord Balnerry. “You could sell him over there. Your racing people like Irish horses. Expensive, mind you. They have to have a veterinary surgeon on the flight. Costs about five thousand to send a horse over.”

Fatty let out a moan; a sound that seemed to be half way between a sigh and a cry of despair.

“I don't want it,” he said. “I just don't want a horse.”

Lord Balnerry now gripped his arm firmly and pulled him to his feet.

“I've got a idea,” he said. “I'll buy the horse from you. That means that I get the horse and you don't, which is probably what we wanted in the first place. How about that?”

Fatty felt the despair lift from his shoulders. Of course,
that was the solution. He would sell the horse to Lord Balnerry on the spot: what a neat solution to what had seemed a nightmarish situation.

“That's a fine idea,” he said. “In fact, the simplest thing is for you just to go and pay. Then no money changes hands. Simple.”

Lord Balnerry coughed politely.

“Well, not quite that simple, I'm afraid,” he said. “Fact is, I don't have twelve thousand at hand. Most I can manage is about five. If you wouldn't mind taking five now, and then I can note you down for a share of future winnings. In a year or two we'll get the seven back to you. Who knows?”

He smiled at Fatty, and reached into his jacket pocket to extract a battered cheque book.

“Here,” he said, scribbling in the cheque book. “You put the horse on your American Express card and I'll give you this cheque for five thousand. Bank of Ireland. Safe as houses. Here you are.”

Fatty took the cheque in trembling hands and tucked it into his pocket.

“I don't want to stay for the rest of the sale,” he said quietly. “Do you mind if we go now?”

“Of course not,” said Lord Balnerry. “We'll pay, pick
up the horse, and get back to the hotel.”

In the tent, the auctioneer's assistant took Fatty's card and gave him a receipt for twelve thousand pounds. Then, with a stable boy leading
Ireland's Hope
, they made their way back to the van. The horse was put inside and the door closed.

“Well,” said Lord Balnerry. “That's that, then.” He paused. “Oh dear, the horse is in your place, Cornelius, and there are only two seats in the cab. What are we going to do?”

“I can sit on his lap,” said Betty. “I'm not leaving my husband here.”

“Of course we wouldn't leave him,” said Lord Balnerry. “I wasn't thinking of that. Are you sure that you'll be comfortable?”

“We've done it before,” said Betty. “I used to sit on Fatty's lap when we were courting.”

“Ah, the romance of youth,” said Lord Balnerry cheerfully. “Well, off we go.”

They drove back slowly, so as not to frighten
Ireland's Hope
. Speed would have been undesirable for other reasons: Betty was pressed hard up against the windscreen and every bump pressed her against the glass and then back against Fatty. On the final approach to Mountpenny
House, the van hit a pothole in the ground that Lord Balnerry did not spot in time, and Betty shot up toward the roof and fell heavily back against her husband.

“Oh!” shouted Fatty. “My ribs! Oh!”

When they alighted outside the house, Fatty felt a sharp pain in his side. It was severe enough to make him stop in his tracks and clutch at his chest.

“Fatty!” exclaimed Betty. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“I feel as if I have a broken rib,” moaned Fatty. “There's a terrible pain right there. Oh my goodness, it's sore.”

They went inside and Fatty lay down on his bed. Betty gave him a painkiller that she had obtained from the housekeeper and then waited at his bedside for the arrival of the doctor.

“It's a cracked rib, most likely,” said the doctor, after he had completed his examination. “Very common sort of fracture, and not one we can do much about. I suggest that you just rest for a few days and let it get better. I'd say that you were in a nice peaceful place out here.”

He looked at Fatty for confirmation, but Fatty was silent.

After the doctor had gone, and Fatty and Betty were alone together, Fatty looked up at Betty.

“I want to go home, my dear,” he said. “Please take
me home, Betty. Please take me home to America. I'm a dollars and cents man. I want to go home.”

“You shall, Fatty,” said Betty soothingly. “Ireland hasn't been very kind to you, has it?”

Fatty closed his eyes, and then opened them again to let a tear trickle down his cheek.

A
S
F
ATTY SAT ON HIS PORCH
, his feet up on his favourite stool, the branches of the oak tree planted by his grandfather scraping in their familiar way against the shingle of his roof, he reflected on how although travel may broaden the mind it also made one sharply aware of the charms of home. The wider world was a large and exciting place, but ultimately there was nowhere to match Fayetteville, Arkansas. The trip to Ireland had satisfied his curiosity, but it had convinced him that the badges of identity so glibly bandied about were exactly that: glib. He had been taught to describe himself as Irish, but he was not really Irish, or he was only Irish in the most attenuated sense. Ireland had offered him nothing but hurt and embarrassment, from the humiliations of the flight and the loss of his luggage to the final, painful ride in Lord Balnerry's horsebox. Even Lord Balnerry, charming though he undoubtedly was, seemed to have profited at Fatty's expense. Fatty had ended up buying him half a horse – for that is what it amounted to – and he could not help wondering whether this had not been engineered from the beginning. Why was Mrs. O'Connor at the sales, and why did she stand on the other side of
the ring and wave to him at exactly the crucial moment in the bidding? He had considered the possibility that Lord Balnerry and Mrs. O'Connor were in league, and that her presence at the sales had been orchestrated by Lord Balnerry. But if that was the case, then he had been taken advantage of by the very man whom he thought had treated him so courteously in the face of the onslaught from that awful Rupert O'Brien. But perhaps even that was part of the larger plot. It could be that Rupert O'Brien and Lord Balnerry were in fact close friends and that Lord Balnerry was only pretending to snub him in order to win Fatty's trust. That was an awful possibility, and the mere thought of it made Fatty depressed.

But whatever conclusion he reached, he was determined to keep it private. Betty may eventually have realised that he was unhappy, and indeed it was Betty who arranged for their early return home, but even with Betty he was determined to put a positive construction on the whole matter and to say that the trip, although disappointing in some respects, had been, on the whole, a success. Certainly this was the approach he took with his friends Tubby O'Rourke and Porky Flanagan. They and their wives called on Fatty and Betty for dinner a few days after their return and were shown photographs of
Mountpenny House and the surrounding villages.

“We must go there too,” said Porky Flanagan. “Perhaps all Irish people should go to Ireland at least once. Like Muslims to Mecca or …”

“Hindus to the …” suggested Tubby. “Hindus to the river.”

Porky stared at the photograph of Mountpenny House that Fatty had taken from the entrance to the walled vegetable garden.

“Who's that?” he asked, pointing to a figure standing in the doorway of the main house.

Fatty looked at the photograph. He had not studied it closely before, and now that he did so he saw the unmistakeable figure of Rupert O'Brien, smiling at the camera from a distance. The photograph was ruined, of course, and would have to be thrown away; but that could come later.

“One of the other guests,” said Fatty. “A man called O'Brien. A literary critic, I believe.”

“My!” said Hibernia Flanagan. “You sure moved in smart circles over there.”

Fatty did not reply. He took the photograph from Porky and slid it under the bottom of the pile.

“Now, this one here,” he said, extracting a photograph
of Lord Balnerry that he took at the horse sales (before the disaster). “This one here is our friend Lord Balnerry. We went to the horse sales together didn't we, Betty?”

“We sure did,” said Betty.

“Did you buy a horse then?” laughed Tubby O'Rourke.

There was a moment's silence. Fatty glanced at Betty, but she had just risen to her feet to attend to something in the kitchen and she did not catch his glance. He looked down at his feet.

Tubby looked puzzled. “Did I say something?”

“Yes,” said Porky. “You asked Fatty if he bought a horse. A damn stupid question, if you ask me. Why would Fatty buy a horse? You wouldn't buy a horse, would you, Fatty?”

Fatty opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Tubby.

“I didn't mean it seriously,” he interjected. “I know that Fatty wouldn't be so stupid as to buy a horse. You wouldn't buy a horse, would you, Fatty?”

Fatty swallowed. “Why would I buy a horse in Ireland?” He laughed, adding, insouciantly: “Why would I buy a horse anywhere?”

“I don't know,” said Tubby. “People buy horses for all sorts of reasons. You never know.”

“But that's not the point,” persisted Porky. “The question is not why people in general buy horses, but why Fatty would have a reason to buy a horse. You wouldn't buy a horse, would you, Fatty?”

Fatty looked at Porky. His friend's expression was earnest, and showed confidence in his good judgement, but he wished that Porky would let the matter drop.

“Well,” he said, chuckling, “I don't know about you, but horses don't mean very much to me. Not that I'm against them or anything like that. It's just that horses don't interest me.”

“Well, why go to a horse sale, then?” asked Tubby. “It seems a bit odd to me.”

Fatty sighed, as if explaining a simple situation to one whose grasp of it was dubious.

“The reason why I went to the horse sale,” he said, “was because Lord Balnerry – this man in the photograph – who was a lord we met in Ireland, well, he asked us to the sale. He wanted to buy a horse. Betty and I went because we wanted to see what happened at an Irish horse sale. That's why.”

Betty now entered the room, carrying a plate of sandwiches.

“Did Fatty tell you about his horse?” she asked brightly.

Again the room became silent. Tubby looked up at Betty, and then transferred his gaze to Fatty. Porky looked at Fatty, and then at Tubby. Fatty looked down at his shoes.