An Irish Country Courtship

  Barry frowned. “It doesn’t sound very promising. Not if you’re right about those English bookies. He’ll call your bluff straightaway.”

  “Right, but that’s where the jujitsu comes in. I’m going to set myself up so Bertie thinks he’s beaten me, and in front of an audience. His delight in that will make him vulnerable to what comes next, and my name’s not Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly if I can’t manoeuvre him into putting himself in an inescapable position in front of those witnesses.”

  “You’d not mind looking like an idiot, Fingal?”

  O’Reilly laughed. “It’s in a good cause, and don’t forget the old proverb ‘He who laughs last, laughs best—and longest.’ A Japanese fighter will often let his adversary push him down, but by dragging his opponent with him and exerting just the right pressure, he’ll use the force of the enemy’s shove to hurl him head over heels.”

  Barry laughed. “You’ve something up your sleeve, haven’t you? Something to do with the Cork jockey going to pull the horse?”

  “Right on target,” O’Reilly said, “but I’m keeping that for later. All I want today is to get Bertie to make some promises—in front of witnesses.” They’d reached Shore Road. “Come in, Arthur. Heel,” O’Reilly called.

  The big dog obeyed.

  They crossed the road for the short walk to the Duck. “How in the name of the wee man are you going to get the last laugh, Fingal?”

  “If what I’m planning works, then my being embarrassed today will be only the first step to getting back the lads’ shares in what might suddenly become a valuable animal. And better still, if I’m able to close the trap, I’m going to hit Bertie Bishop where it really hurts.”

  “Where?” Barry asked.

  “Right slap-bang in the middle of his wallet,” O’Reilly said and laughed. “Now come on, we’re nearly there and my tongue’s hanging out for a pint.”

  O’Reilly pushed open the doors to the Duck. “Evening, everybody.” To Mary Dunleavy, who was behind the bar, he said, “Two pints and Arthur’s usual, please.”

  O’Reilly, accompanied by Barry, moved to the bar and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light. He saw Donal with a group of men at the far end of the room. They must be the other shareholders. He knew them all. The most recognisable, Billy Brennan, the district nurse’s elder brother, a man of six foot two, towered over Donal and the rest. Billy sported an old-fashioned crewcut and wore patched blue dungarees. His gallbladder had a habit of flaring up, but the surgeon at the Royal didn’t think he needed to have it out.

  “Doctor O’Reilly.”

  O’Reilly watched as Councillor Bertie Bishop hoisted his bulk from a chair, where he had been sitting at a table. The lit cigar he clutched in his chubby left hand would have cost a bob or two. Opposite him sat a middle-aged man wearing a three-piece brown suit. The newcomer had a bald spot that reminded Fingal of illustrations of Friar Tuck, and a face like a russet potato with bulging red cheeks and a bulbous nose. He’d be Ernie MacLoughlin, the builders’ supplier Donal had mentioned that morning.

  “Doctor O’Reilly. Doctor Laverty. Good evening.”

  “Bertie,” O’Reilly said and inclined his head.

  “Councillor Bishop,” Barry said, and was ignored. Bishop directed his entire attention to Fingal. “Doctor O’Reilly?”

  “Yes, Councillor?”

  “I hope by now you will have accepted my apology for that …” —he coughed—“most unfortunate incident at His Lordship’s.”

  O’Reilly clapped the councillor’s shoulder. “Water under the bridge.” O’Reilly winked at Barry. “Sure accidents can happen to anybody. That old saying’s appropriate, don’t you think? It could have happened to a bishop—Bertie.”

  The councillor’s laughter, a high-pitched, braying noise, echoed from the Duck’s ancient roof beams. “Boys-a-dear,” he finally managed, “you’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself, Doctor.”

  “Probably,” said O’Reilly agreeably. “So what can I do for you?”

  “I thought, seeing you’re for letting bygones be bygones, like, you’d mebbe let me buy you and Doctor Laverty a wee wet?”

  “Delighted,” O’Reilly said. “And don’t forget Arthur.” He turned to the bar. “Are you finished pouring yet, Mary?”

  “Nearly, sir.”

  “Grand,” said O’Reilly. “Bring them over to the councillor’s table. Mr. Bishop’s shout.” O’Reilly positively beamed. He’d anticipated having to make an excuse to strike up a conversation with the councillor. Now here was Bertie treating them like long-lost friends.

  O’Reilly led Barry and Arthur to the table where the balding man in the brown suit sat.

  “Mr. MacLoughlin, I believe?” O’Reilly said. “Don’t get up. I’m only the local GP, not royalty, and this is Doctor Laverty.” O’Reilly lowered himself into a chair and put Arthur under the table.

  “How’s about ye, doctor? And it’s Ernie, so it is.” He stuck out a hand, which O’Reilly shook.

  “Ernie.” Barry sat.

  Mary Dunleavy set a pint in front of O’Reilly. “Councillor Bishop’s bringing yours, Doctor Laverty,” she explained. “My hands was full.” She set Arthur’s bowl of Smithwick’s on the floor and petted the big dog.

  “Here you are, young man.” Bertie handed Barry a pint of Guinness. “And here’s ten shillings, Mary.” He pinched her bottom. “Keep the change.”

  Mary straightened up. She was blushing furiously as she accepted the note and stalked away. O’Reilly was tempted to come to her defence but didn’t want to rock the boat. Not yet. The councillor plumped down between Barry and O’Reilly.

  “Cheers, Bertie,” said O’Reilly, rather than his usual “sláinte.” Bishop, worshipful master of the local Orange Lodge, was unlikely to take kindly to the use of the Irish language.

  Barry and the rest toasted, “Cheers.”

  O’Reilly sank the top third of his Guinness in one swallow and savoured the taste. He grinned. “Thanks, Bertie. Thanks very much. Flann O’Brien, a fine Irish writer, was right: ‘A pint of plain is your only man.’”

  “My pleasure.” Bertie Bishop smiled, then took a draw on his cigar.

  “How’s Mrs. Bishop?” O’Reilly wondered when he’d be given the opportunity to mention the horse.

  Bertie lowered his voice. “Tell you the truth, Doctor, I was all pleased a while back when Doctor Laverty here fixed her up.”

  O’Reilly saw Barry smile, and rightly so. The boy had made a really tricky diagnosis.

  “But no harm to you, Doctor Laverty—”

  O’Reilly smiled at the Ulster precursor to a criticism.

  “—there’s times when she’s running round like a bee on a hot brick I could prefer the old, slow Flo.”

  “Maybe …” O’Reilly said, inwardly thanking Bertie for opening the door to the next remark, “maybe your wee horse could use some of Doctor Laverty’s medicine too.” O’Reilly sank the rest of the pint, turned, and waved to Mary, who clearly understood and started to pull another one. O’Reilly winked and grinned.

  Bishop’s brows furrowed. The hand holding his cigar dropped to his side. “What are you talking about, O’Reilly?”

  “You know very well, Bertie. Flo’s Fancy.”

  Bishop’s frown deepened. “My wee filly? What about her?”

  O’Reilly noticed the proprietory “my.” “I do think,” he said calmly, “we need to have a word with you about her, Bertie. I honestly do.”

  40

  To These Crocodile’s Tears They Will Add Sobs

  Barry watched as Bertie set his whiskey on the tabletop so forcibly that some of the contents of the glass splashed over the rim. He looked O’Reilly right in the eye. “I don’t see why my filly’s any business of yours, O’Reilly, so I don’t.”

  Barry noticed the “Doctor” had vanished.

  “But, Bertie, as I understand it she’s not yours. Eight other men have shares in her.”

  “It’s no secret. All
of them’s grown-ups. Nobody twisted their arms to buy in.”

  “I hear she’s not been doing very well,” said O’Reilly.

  Bishop held both hands in front of him, palms up, smoke from his cigar drifting past his fingers. “I know. It’s bloody awful, so it is.” He leant forward. “I thought I’d bought a real flyer, you know. I was going to sell her for a fortune, so I was. Make me and the lads a great big bundle of the oul’ spondulix on the sale and the betting. I’m right sorry for them, so I am.” He forced a huge sigh. “It’s desperate. I can afford to lose a bit, but they’re all working lads. It’s hitting them right sore.” He put his cigar in his mouth.

  “It is, Bertie,” O’Reilly said calmly, “because you’re acquiring their shares, and I know you’re cheating to get them.”

  Bishop frowned, ripping out his panatela. “Did I hear you right? I’m cheating? Me?”

  “You heard,” O’Reilly said calmly.

  “You’re calling me a cheat, O’Reilly? Are you? Are you?” Bishop’s wattles quivered and his voice rose.

  “You are. The men think they’ve lost because you told them you wagered on their behalf. I don’t think you’ve actually placed a single bet. And instead of their money, you take part of their shares. I’d call that cheating—and lying. You’re swindling them, Bertie. Do you steal sweeties from chisellers too?”

  O’Reilly accepted his second pint, and Mary scuttled away as Bishop roared, “What do you mean by that? What do you mean by that?” His face was rapidly turning puce; his voice was rising. “Are youse accusing me? To my face?”

  Ernie MacLoughlin leant forward, tugged at Bishop’s sleeve, and said in a hushed voice, “Bertie, keep your voice down, for God’s sake. Everybody’s looking.”

  If O’Reilly’s plan had been to get Bishop’s temper up, it was succeeding, Barry thought. He looked down the room. Every eye in Donal’s group was on this table.

  “I don’t give a bugger who’s looking,” Bertie Bishop roared. “That man there, that man there—” He stabbed his cigar at O’Reilly. “He called me a liar—to my face. You’re my witness, Ernie. And you too, Laverty.”

  Barry pursed his lips. Was Bishop thinking of taking legal action for slander? He’d not put it past the man. Barry hoped Fingal knew what he was doing.

  “Do you want more witnesses, Bertie?” O’Reilly asked.

  Bishop struggled to his feet, planted both fists on the table, and leant forward on his braced arms. “Witnesses? Bloody right, I do.” Little drops of spittle flew. “I don’t have to stand here and take this—”

  “But you do, Bertie,” O’Reilly said.

  “Don’t be so feckin’ sure. I demand an apology, so I do.”

  “What for? We’ve done our homework,” O’Reilly said. He looked Bertie straight in the eye. “You’re not betting at all. Not one of the local bookies has ever seen you. I know that. You’re telling lies about it.”

  “Is that a fact?” A flicker of a smile crossed Bishop’s florid face. “Is that a fact?” He lowered his voice. “When I prove you’re wrong, O’Reilly, you will apologise. Won’t you?”

  O’Reilly shrugged. “Naturally. A gentleman would—although I’d not expect you to know that, Bertie.”

  Barry watched the councillor’s face turn a deeper shade. Not surprisingly, after that last remark. Ireland had a long tradition of dueling, and for a split second Barry had a grotesque vision of O’Reilly and the councillor at dawn, at ten paces—with pistols.

  Bishop stood upright and folded his arms on the shelf of his belly. “You’ve gone too far, O’Reilly,” he roared. “Far too feckin’ far.”

  “For God’s sake, Bertie, lower your voice,” Ernie pleaded.

  “I will not. I can prove I’ve been betting, so I can. I’m no liar. And I’m going to do it in front of everyone here, so I am.”

  “I’ll enjoy that,” O’Reilly said. “If you can.”

  And, Barry thought, I know and Fingal knows that Bertie has a trump card if he claims he’s using Ladbrokes.

  “Donal Donnelly,” Bertie yelled. “Bring your friends down here. I want you all to see Doctor Know-all proved wrong.”

  Barry heard the scraping of chair legs as Donal and the rest of the horse-owning syndicate stood and started moving down the bar.

  “Now you’re for it, O’Reilly.” Bishop’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve got you by the short and curlies, so I have.”

  “I doubt it,” O’Reilly said calmly.

  Donal and seven other men formed a half circle around the table. Other patrons, who were standing or sitting further back, craned forward to catch what was happening. Barry smiled at Donal and got a wink back. There was an undercurrent of conversation.

  In the dunes, O’Reilly had said he needed witnesses for his plan to work. His tactic of taunting Bertie Bishop was paying off, and it was Bertie himself, not Fingal, who had called for the little crowd to be assembled.

  O’Reilly raised one hand. “Gentlemen,” he said, “Councillor Bishop and I are having a disagreement about your horse—”

  “Flo’s bloody Fancy,” a deep voice said. “About as much use as tits on a boar.”

  “That’s neither here nor there,” O’Reilly said. “I think Mr. Bishop here’s diddling his shareholders.”

  “I’d not be surprised,” a voice said.

  “Who said that?” Bishop yelled. “Who the hell said that?”

  The silence that followed, Barry thought, was eminently sensible.

  “I tell youse all, right now, I’m not cheating nobody, so I’m not.”

  “And if you’re not,” O’Reilly said, “I will apologise for my remarks.”

  There was a communal in-drawing of breath. Doctor O’Reilly apologise?

  “Before we settle the matter, there is a favour I’d like to ask of Mr. Bishop,” O’Reilly said.

  “You’ll be dead out of luck, O’Reilly,” Bishop snarled. “You’ll get no favours from me.”

  “It’s not for me. I know these men are shareholders, and I’m sure they’d like to ask you some questions.” O’Reilly produced a tiny smile. “It’s possible some of the answers might strengthen your case. I’m all for being fair.”

  Bishop’s eyes narrowed; his brows moved down. “Aye?” he asked.

  O’Reilly nodded. “Might clear the air of any suspicions folks might have too.”

  “Prove I am an honest man, like?”

  O’Reilly said nothing.

  “Fair enough,” Bertie said, seemingly a little calmer. “Fire away.”

  “I know all these men work for you,” O’Reilly said. “Have we your word you’ll not go after any of them for anything they might say now?”

  Bishop hesitated before answering, “You do.” His gaze swept the crowd. “You can ask what the hell you like. I’ve nothing to hide, so I’ve not.” He shoved the half-smoked panatela back between his lips.

  The men continued to stand, glancing at the floor and each other. Billy Brennan was whispering into the ear of the man next to him. Clearly no one wanted to pose the first question, so Barry asked, “Councillor Bishop, we’ve heard you only ever bet to win, never to win or place. Why?”

  Bishop removed the cigar. “Are you a betting man, Laverty?”

  Barry shook his head.

  “If you were, you’d understand. You’ve to double your stake for the place part. Ten pounds to win, twenty pounds to win or place, and you only get a quarter of the odds for a place. Ten to one for a win drops to two and a half to one for a place.” Bishop’s tones were those of a schoolteacher addressing a not very bright pupil. Bishop turned to the little crowd. “If I had done that at twenty pounds a race, all youse men’s money, aye, and a pisspot full of mine too, would have gone twice as fast.”

  Barry heard a muttering, but whether of agreement or disagreement he couldn’t be sure.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Bishop sir.” Billy Brennan, cap held in both hands, stared at the floor. “No harm to ye, but …”—Brennan looked down on B
ishop—“I can understand that, so I can, but she has been placing. We might have got at least a few bob return if you had backed her both ways. Or maybe stopped betting on her altogether?”

  Another voice said, “’At’s right, so it is.”

  Barry saw it was Richard Orr who had spoken, a keen sea angler who’d once come to the surgery with a mackerel hook stuck in his thumb.

  Orr’s remark was followed by a growing swell of grumbling.

  Bertie Bishop held up his hands for silence. “You’re right, Orr. Dead-on, so you are. I’ll not deny it. Mebbe I should have stopped betting, but I just thought she kept coming so bloody close, she was bound to win next time. And look, each time she didn’t win, we got better odds in the next race. I was so sure she was going to come first, I kept the stake down to ten pounds to give us more chances. Not a one of youse would have complained if I’d put ten pounds on for you at ten to one and you’d walked away with one hundred smackers clear, would you?”

  “Fair play,” a voice commented. Barry recognised Tom Curran’s hoarse voice. The man had a ferocious smoker’s cough but staunchly refused to quit. Heads nodded in assent. “Might’ve done the selfsame thing myself, so I might.” The speaker was a stranger to Barry. He watched Bishop. It was as if the man scented success and was determined to drive the message home.

  “And if we had won, wouldn’t it have bought your shares back for you and put a few bob in your pockets too?”

  “You’d have given our shares back to us? Right enough, sir? That would have been quare nor decent,” Donal said.

  Judging by the nods and the looks on their faces, the other men agreed.

  “It would have been the right thing to do.” Bishop smiled. His voice was back at its normal pitch. He puffed on his cigar again.