Fatty O'Leary's Dinner Party (11 page)

“Don't worry,” he said quickly. “Mr. O'Brien understands how hard it must be to be a waitress and not spill things. I'm always spilling things myself. I spilled soup over Freddy Guinness once. You won't know him, O'Brien, but he's a very charming man, and he didn't make me feel bad about it, not for one second.”

Over coffee, Rupert O'Brien and Niamh sat in silence. Lord Balnerry continued his easy conversation with Fatty and Betty and, just before he looked at his watch and announced that it was time to retire to bed, he issued his invitation.

“You must come and spend a weekend with me, Cornelius and Betty,” he said genially. “I have a place near Cork. It would be grand to have you over for a weekend,
or even a week if you can spare the time. Please do make a point of it. But anyway, I'll see you tomorrow, as we arranged.”

Fatty and Betty immediately replied that they would love to do this. And then there was a silence. Rupert O'Brien was sitting on the edge of his seat, but nothing more was said. There was no further invitation and Lord Balnerry now rose to his feet and bade goodnight to the assembled company.

“What a charming man,” said Fatty, after Lord Balnerry had left the room.

“Yes,” said Betty. “He was so warm and kind to us. He made us feel so special. What a nice, nice man. And a lord too.”

Rupert O'Brien looked steadfastly at the ceiling.

“Well, good night,” said Fatty, rising to his feet. “We've had a busy day and we have a lot to do tomorrow. Lord Balnerry invited us to accompany him to the horse sales tomorrow. Will you be coming too?”

“No,” said Rupert O'Brien.

In their room, they lay together holding hands across the space between their beds.

“He was such a kind man,” said Betty. “I really felt as if
I had known him for years.”

“That's what people here are really like,” said Fatty. “We should have realised it. After all, think of all the kindness we've met since we came here. That kind Mr. Delaney and then Mrs. O'Connor, and even the plumber. And now Lord Balnerry himself.”

“He made me feel so clever,” said Betty. “He seemed so interested in everything I said.”

“But you are clever, my dear,” said Fatty. “And everything you say really is interesting.”

They lapsed into comfortable, companionable silence. Outside, in the Irish night, an owl swooped across Mrs. O'Connor's lawns, and then disappeared into the woods.

L
ORD
B
ALNERRY
,
WHO HAD DRIVEN
up from Cork in his horsebox, thought there was no point in Fatty and Betty driving their car to the sales when there was ample room in his vehicle.

“I've got three seats in the front,” he said. “And there are three of us. No sense in your trailing behind me. We'll all go together.”

Mrs. O'Connor personally prepared packed lunches for them: duck sandwiches, three generous slices of Melton Mowbray pie, and half a fruit cake lightly soaked in rum. Then, their cameras loaded to record the day's experiences, Fatty and Betty joined Lord Balnerry beside the horsebox. It was a large, grey-painted vehicle, with a narrow, wood-slatted section at the rear where a horse might stand in passable comfort. On the engine grille were lined the insignia of various motoring clubs, gleaming silver badges with crests and symbols, survivors of an easier age of motoring.

Lord Balnerry opened the passenger door and invited Betty to get in. She squeezed herself into the narrow confines of the cab, realising immediately that the seats were far too small for a further passenger, even one of modest girth.

“I'm not sure if we're all going to fit,” she said, trying to slide further over the seat toward the middle. “It's rather cramped in here.”

Lord Balnerry stepped forward and looked through the open passenger door.

“I see what you mean,” he said. “I'm used to carrying jockeys in there. I've had four people in before this, but then you know what jockeys are like. Tiny fellows. You're not exactly …” He stopped, and turned to Fatty.

“Would you mind terribly, Cornelius?” he said. “I often let my nephew travel in the horse's quarters. It's perfectly comfortable back there.”

Fatty hesitated for a moment. It was preposterous to ask somebody to travel in a horse's stall, with all the straw and the smell. Did Lord Balnerry think that he was not worth more than that? Would he have asked another lord to do that? What about Freddy Guinness? Would he have asked Freddy Guinness to subject himself to that? Or was it just because he was merely Fatty O'Leary from Fayetteville, Arkansas, that he thought he could make the suggestion?

Fatty stared at Lord Balnerry, looking for a clue in his expression; perhaps a curl of the lip or an incipient sneer. But there was nothing. Lord Balnerry seemed utterly sincere.

“I'd travel in it myself,” he said, “and let you drive. But this thing is only insured for me and you know how careful we have to be in Ireland now that we've got Brussels breathing down our necks. In the old days nobody bothered about insurance or anything like that. But these days, it's a different story. The Belgians can send you to prison for all sorts of things these days. Even for thinking the wrong sort of thoughts, I should imagine.”

Fatty smiled. “I don't mind,” he said. “I can look out through the slats and see what's going on. I'll be fine.”

“Good man,” said Lord Balnerry, beginning to undo the back gate of the box. “Here we are now. Lots of hay if you get hungry!”

Fatty laughed as he walked up the ramp, but stopped when, from the corner of his eye, he spotted a figure standing at the back door of the house, watching proceedings with a keen interest. Although he turned away quickly and scampered up the last of the ramp, he knew that it had been Rupert O'Brien.

“Would you believe it,” said Rupert O'Brien to Niamh, when he returned to the drawing room. “I've just seen that forgetful Monty Balnerry loading our well-padded American friend into the back of his horsebox – just like a horse! Madly comic, my dear! We have no need of further
entertainment out here, believe me. These rustic types are just too screamingly funny for words. I've got a good mind to write it up in my next column.
The Adventures of a Substantial Man in Ireland, Part One
. The embarrassments to which the flesh is heir. Hah! What about that?”

Niamh tossed aside the magazine she had been reading.

“Nobody would believe it, my dear,” Niamh drawled. “But I'm glad that you're being entertained like this. I find the whole place too excruciatingly boring. I could commit murder for a bit of decent company, not that I'm bored with you, my dear, perish the thought. You're fine, in your way, but you know how it is?”

“Of course I do,” said Rupert, urbanely. “One's spouse's face is always so – how should one put it? – familiar. Just like a pair of old slippers. Not referring to you, my dear, of course. Hah!”

Lord Balnerry closed the doors behind Fatty.

“Hope it's not too dark, Cornelius,” he called out. “You'll get a bit of light through the chinks. Horses usually prefer to travel in the dark. They get less nervous that way.”

Fatty grunted. The straw was quite clean, and he had sat down upon it, resting against the side of the box. It would be comfortable enough, he supposed, even if it was
rather less than dignified. It was not a long journey to the sales – fifteen or twenty minutes, Lord Balnerry had told him – and he could easily put up with this unconventional method of travelling for that length of time. If only that Rupert O'Brien had not seen him. What would he make of it? He would have some snide remark to pass, no doubt.

In the cabin in the front, Betty and Lord Balnerry chatted easily as they drove along the narrow winding lanes.

“I've got a feeling that there are going to be some good horses for sale today,” Lord Balnerry said. “There are one or two I'm strongly interested in. Good runners. Best horses in Ireland, some of them. I'd be very happy to give them a home.”

Betty smiled. She understood enthusiasm for horses, as one of her brothers had married the daughter of a Kentucky stud farmer and had become completely smitten with the pursuit. She knew nothing about horses, of course, but when it came to chickens and to hogs she knew a great deal. People took chickens for granted and could not understand breeding lines, but she knew better. There were chicken lines in Arkansas which were every bit as distinguished as horse lines in Kentucky – less pricey, perhaps, but as important in their own way.

After little more than a quarter of an hour they reached the edge of the town where the horse sales were to be held. A field had been taken over for the purpose and a large white marquee had been erected in the centre. All about the periphery of the field horseboxes very similar to theirs had been parked, and it was at the end of a line of these that Lord Balnerry drew the vehicle to a halt and went to open the doors at the back.

Fatty O'Leary was dead. Or so it seemed to Lord Balnerry, who gave a shout of alarm when he pulled on the spring-loaded door and saw the figure of his friend sprawled out on the straw.

“Oh my God!” said Lord Balnerry. “The poor fellow.”

The flood of light and the sound of Lord Balnerry's voice woke Fatty immediately. Sitting up in the straw, he rubbed his eyes and looked out onto the field full of horses and people.

“Thank heavens!” said Lord Balnerry. “You gave me a terrible fright there!”

“I was tired,” said Fatty, as he rose to his feet and dusted down his trousers. “That straw was as comfortable as any bed. I had a nice little nap, I believe, and here we are at the horse sales already.”

Lord Balnerry helped his guest down the ramp and
then, joined by Betty, they made their way over to the marquee, which served as both office and bar. Lord Balnerry seemed to be known to most of the people present, as he was greeted warmly on every side.

“Amongst friends,” he whispered to Fatty. “Frightfully good occasion, this. Best sort of people in Ireland are here. Horse people. Can't beat them. Salt of the earth.”

Fatty looked about him at the tweed suits and the heavy shoes, at the ruddy faces and the caps and walking sticks and other signs of good, country blood. They were very different types from antiques people, but he understood exactly what Lord Balnerry meant. These people were the opposite of Rupert and Niamh O'Brien, with all their talk of literature and their name-dropping. These people were honest.

They spent a short time in the tent, during which Fatty and Betty were introduced to a number of Lord Balnerry's friends. Then a hand bell was rung at the other end of the field and they drifted over to an area that had been partitioned off and around which racked seating had been erected. This was the show-ring into which the horses would be led for sale.

Fatty and Betty joined Lord Balnerry on one of the benches near the front and waited for the first horse to be
brought into the ring. They had been given a programme for the sale, and they saw that this horse, a slightly nervous bay gelding, had been bred by Mr. Harry McDermott of Finaghy Stud, near Tralee. It had been sired by Round Robin out of Kerry Autumn, and was two years old.

“Dreadful horse,” whispered Lord Balnerry. “Round Robin was well named, if you ask me. Great tub of lard of a horse. Barely get himself over the jumps. Terrible lazy fellow. The only reason I'd buy this horse would be to sell him to the French and let them turn him into a pie.”

Fatty looked at the unfortunate horse; he could not see why Lord Balnerry should be so scathing about him, and he noticed that the bidding had started quite briskly.

“Fools,” whispered Lord Balnerry, as he heard the bids mount up. “That fellow will get nowhere. Fools.”

The horse sold well, as did the following two horses. In each case Lord Balnerry shook his head sorrowfully at the apparent lack of judgement of his fellow Irishmen.

“This would never happen in Kentucky, would it Cornelius?” he said. “Those horses would be laughed out of the sales rings. I know. I've been there.”

These comments were unfortunately overheard by one of the purchasers sitting further along the bench. He turned round and glared angrily at Lord Balnerry, who
smiled and nodded in a placatory way. He was about to say something, when his attention was caught by the entry of the next horse into the ring. He stared hard at it and tapped Fatty on the arm.

“Now, there's a horse,” he said. “Would you look at that fellow, Cornelius. Would you look at that way he carries his head. That's not only a good horse, that's a great horse.”

Fatty and Betty gazed at the horse. It was certainly livelier than the previous ones and its coat shone with health.

“That's a beauty,” said Betty. “That's going to be a winner.”

“Exactly,” said Lord Balnerry. “Never a truer word spoken by an American lady. With a horse like that one could win Ascot. One would romp home against all those fancy French horses at Deauville. And would you look at its name:
Ireland's Hope
. What a find!”

“Are you going to bid for it?” asked Fatty.

“I am that,” said Lord Balnerry. “I don't know how long I'll be able to stay in the bidding, but I'm going to have a stab at it. I could go places with that horse.”

The bidding opened at five thousand pounds. Lord Balnerry waited for a bit while the initial bids were made
but then joined in when the field had narrowed to a man and a woman at the far side of the ring.

“Ten thousand to Lord Balnerry,” called out the auctioneer. “For this fine horse. Any advance on Lord Balnerry's bid of ten thousand?”

The man on the far side of the ring raised his hand and an extra thousand pounds was added to the bid.

Fatty turned to Lord Balnerry, who had now shaken his head.

“Are you going to bid?” he asked.