An Irish Country Courtship

  Barry glanced at O’Reilly, who was hiding a grin behind his hand. With the other he gave Barry a surreptitious thumbs-up, then said loudly enough for all to hear, “All very plausible, Bertie—if you ever placed a bet, which I know you never did. Not a brass farthing.”

  Barry looked at the little crowd. Nothing but frowns. A couple of men had taken a pace toward the plump councillor. “What?” a voice asked. “Never bet?” Every eye was on Bishop.

  “That’s right,” O’Reilly said. All gazes had switched back to him. “I have a witness. A certain bookie has asked around all the others in his trade. Not one of them has seen a stiver from Councillor Bishop.”

  Barry recognised that O’Reilly was protecting Donal by not naming him as the witness. Bishop’s agreement not to exact retribution might only stretch so far.

  “You can keep your witness, O’Reilly. Of course I don’t use the locals.” Bishop started to grin. He removed the cigar.

  The crowd stared at him.

  Here it comes, Barry thought.

  “You’re so bloody clever, Doctor. Did you never hear tell of offtrack betting?”

  “Offtrack—?” O’Reilly’s expression, Barry thought, would have done service on the face of someone who had been blindsided by a truck, or on an actor onstage at Belfast’s Ulster Hall. This was exactly what O’Reilly had predicted Bishop would claim.

  “Ladbrokes, Doctor O’Reilly. Lad-feckin’-brokes.”

  “Ladbrokes?” O’Reilly said.

  Barry was proud of the way O’Reilly recovered his poise. “Prove it,” he said. “Show us a betting slip. You can’t, Councillor, can you?”

  Several other voices muttered, “Show us. Go on.”

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “So we’ve got you, Bertie,” O’Reilly said and grinned.

  “Is ’at a fact?” Bishop turned to the crowd. “Any of youse men bet offtrack?”

  “I do, Mr. Bishop,” Tom Curran wheezed.

  “In the shop in Belfast?”

  “No. On the phone, sir.”

  “Do you get a slip?”

  “Not at all. I have an account with a password and all, and it’s secret, so it is.”

  Bishop held his arms wide at shoulder height, hands palms up. “And that, gentlemen, is why I can’t produce a slip. I bet on the phone. I’m far too busy to go all the way to Belfast to the turf accountant’s.”

  “Honest to God?” Donal Donnelly asked.

  “Honest to God, Donal.” Bishop hadn’t hesitated for as much as a split second in his reply.

  I’m sure he’s lying, Barry thought, but by Ulster convention anyone who said “honest to God” must be believed.

  “I think, Doctor … I think, in front of all these people, an apology perhaps?” Bishop’s voice oozed as greasily as oil slips onto the water from a boat’s leaking fuel tank. His grin was ear to ear.

  Barry looked at O’Reilly, who had turned to the audience. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this isn’t easy for me to admit I was wrong, but fair play. If the councillor’s been using an offtrack bookie, I was wrong to accuse him. Totally wrong.”

  “My God,” an awed voice said. “Himself’s going to say he’s sorry, so he is.”

  Barry wouldn’t have believed his ears if O’Reilly hadn’t explained in advance what he was going to do.

  “Och, sure, only the pope’s infallible,” a voice said.

  “Go on, O’Reilly,” Bishop urged. “More.”

  “I was wrong, Bertie,” O’Reilly said. “I misjudged you. I called you a cheat and a liar. It was indefensible.”

  “Holy Mother of Jesus.” A voice rose above a loud communal inhalation.

  “For which I unreservedly apologise. Unreservedly.” Fingal managed to look contrite.

  Bishop laughed. “All youse men know your Bible. Second Samuel, book one, verse nineteen. ‘How are the mighty fallen.’”

  Silence reigned.

  “I’m sorry, Bertie,” O’Reilly said. “I really am.”

  Barry expected Bishop to clasp his hands above his head like a victorious prizefighter. He looks, Barry thought, like the cat that got the cream. Far too much cream.

  “’Scuse me, Mr. Bishop,” Billy Brennan said. “I think Doctor O’Reilly got it wrong, so he did, but he’s said he’s sorry.” He looked from side to side at the other men. “We’d just like to tell him, you know, we think it was right decent of him to look out for us, even if we never asked him to.”

  There was a murmuring of assent. Barry noticed that Donal was staring at O’Reilly and nodding enthusiastically.

  “And we’re dead pleased we got them questions out of the way, like. Thank you for that, sir.”

  Bishop nodded condescendingly.

  “There’s just one more wee thing, sir,” Billy Brennan continued.

  “And that is?” Bishop’s tone was magnanimous.

  He was behaving exactly as O’Reilly had predicted. Wallowing in his victory and happily playing Lord Bountiful with his audience.

  “Downpatrick’s make-or-break for us, sir. I don’t suppose you’d think about an each-way bet there?”

  “I’m sorry, Billy,” Bishop said. “I’ve already used Ladbrokes. Got our bets down early to get the best odds. I got twenty to one on the nose.”

  O’Reilly winked at Barry.

  “Them’s pretty long odds,” Donal said.

  “Your ten pounds’ll get you two hundred,” Bishop said.

  “If she wins,” O’Reilly said. “Mr. Bishop?” he said. “Just now you told Donal Donnelly that with a win like that you’d keep what was owed from previous bets and give each man back his shares.”

  “’At’s right.”

  “Will you still?”

  “Look, O’Reilly,” Bishop said, “I’m a man of my word. You know that now, don’t ye? Don’t ye?” He looked around the little crowd. “You’re all witnesses to something else now. That’s exactly what I’ll do. You all heard that promise, didn’t ye?”

  “Aye. We did,” Donal said. “Mr. Bishop, sir, I think what you’re doing is dead decent, so I do. I think a lot of us lads’ll remember that, come the next council elections.”

  Bertie smiled.

  “But there is one wee thing more.”

  “Oh?” Bishop frowned.

  “You’ve just told us it’s too late for Downpatrick now, but my Julie says if I put any more money on the gee-gees, one brass farthing more, she’ll kill me, so she will.”

  A wave of laughter swept the pub, but when it subsided, Donal ploughed on. “Could we maybe agree, if we do get our shares back, like, not to use them to bet with anymore after Downpatrick?”

  “I think,” said O’Reilly, “I think your stock would go very high if you agree, Bertie.”

  “Aye,” said Bishop thoughtfully. “Aye, it would.”

  “Please, sir?” Donal asked, to a loud groundswell of agreement.

  “Fair enough. No more betting with your shares after this race,” Bishop said. “You’ve my word on that too.”

  The sound was muted but it was a cheer.

  Bertie Bishop, arms still outstretched, basked in the applause and played the room like the seasoned politician he was, head bobbing, eyes seeking eyes. Then to Barry’s amazement Bishop spat on the palm of his hand and offered it to Donal, who spat on his own. That handshake was as binding as a High Court order.

  Barry saw the gleam in O’Reilly’s dark eyes, the single thumb once more cocked up. O’Reilly rose. “Come on, Barry,” he said. “Drink up. Time for home.” He turned to the councillor and said, “Bertie, we started off with you apologising to me and finished with me apologising to you. I think we’re quits.”

  Bishop’s “All right” was sulky.

  Barry noticed neither man offered to shake hands.

  “We’ll be off,” O’Reilly said. “Bye, Ernie.”

  “Bye yourself, Doctor. Nice to have met yiz both,” the man in the brown suit said.

  “Just got to settle up for my la
st pint and say good-bye to the lads,” O’Reilly said. “Take Arthur and wait for me outside.”

  It wasn’t long before he appeared. “Home,” he said.

  “You won, Fingal,” Barry said. “You got most of what you wanted.”

  O’Reilly strode briskly. “Most? What did I forget?”

  “You said you wanted to hit Bishop in his wallet too.”

  O’Reilly grinned. “Bertie was magnanimous in there because, one, he was delighted to have called my bluff and to believe he’d won, so he let his guard down, answered questions, and made those concessions. Two, all his promises were piecrust—made to be broken. They only kick in if the horse wins at Downpatrick. He’s already arranged for her to lose; we know that from Kinky.”

  “Of course.” Barry frowned. “So why didn’t you tell him you knew he was fixing the races and demand he give the men their money back? They’d have been no worse off and you’d have saved face.”

  “I want Bertie to think he’s about to own the animal from appetite to arsehole, because once he does he’s not risking anything more. He’ll be rid of his syndicate unless we can stop him, and as soon as he is, she’ll win. You watch. She’ll start winning. He’ll bet on her at long odds and win, collect big prize money for coming first, and eventually sell her for a huge profit.”

  Barry shook his head. “Money is the root of all evil,” he said.

  “No,” said O’Reilly, “‘The love of money is the root of all evil’—First Timothy 6:10—and it’s my ambition to see Bishop’s love blighted. Now if we can get the wee filly to win fair and square … and I’ve a notion that a word with the marquis and Eugene Power might work wonders.”

  Barry laughed.

  “And,” said O’Reilly, “if, as I’m convinced, all Bertie’s talk about betting at Ladbrokes is only blether, that he’s done no such thing, guess who’s going to have to pay his shareholders when she wins?”

  “Bertie himself, because he just swore in front of witnesses that he had wagered. He is in that ‘inescapable position.’”

  “Up to his neck,” said O’Reilly. “He’s sworn he’s bet eighty pounds, the eight men’s stake, so when the horse wins, they’ll believe that Ladbrokes will pay Bertie eighty times twenty on their behalf and that’s sixteen hundred pounds.”

  “But you’re sure he’s been nowhere near the bookies?”

  “Not within a beagle’s gowl. But he’ll still have to pay up, out of his own pocket, and it’s a brave wheen of money. We have to subtract the seven hundred and twenty pounds of gambled-away shares he’s promised to reinstate, but it still leaves—”

  “Eight hundred and eighty pounds to be paid out.” Barry whistled. “That’s more than twice my annual pay.”

  “And it’ll be going up in July—if you stay,” O’Reilly said.

  Barry was unsure how to answer.

  “Right now, however,” said O’Reilly, opening the gate and letting Arthur into the back garden, “let’s see what Kinky has for our dinner.” He glanced down at Barry’s damp trousers and laughed. “And what she has to say about your pants.”

  It was pleasantly warm in the kitchen. Kinky was slicing a loaf of what, judging by the yeasty aroma, was freshly baked wheaten bread. She looked up. “Not again, Doctor Laverty.” She shook her head. “I despair, so.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No matter.” She turned to O’Reilly and said, “While you two were out, sir, Miss Kitty did phone from London. She’ll be in her hotel until 7:30. I’ve her number on the pad by the phone.”

  “Will she, begod?” said O’Reilly. He charged for the hall with a grin on his face that Barry thought would have lit up the Ballybucklebo Hills at midnight.

  41

  Let Me Be Dress’d Fine

  On the following Wednesday, Barry set out to walk to the Ballybucklebo Boutique. It had been eighteen days since the rupture of Alice Moloney’s liver abscess, and she had been discharged home that morning from the Royal. He was bearing a thermos of Kinky’s hot beef tea. She’d sworn it would give Alice strength.

  “Sure in County Cork, Doctor Laverty,” she’d said as he was leaving, “couldn’t my ma’s beef tea revive people half-frozen in a blizzard, and it’s the same recipe in the thermos, so.”

  She did not explain further, but did add with a spark in her dark eyes, “And try not to pour any on your clean pants.” Halfway to his destination, Barry was still marvelling at what a good-natured woman Kinky Kincaid was.

  By what was now the last week in February there was less bite to the wind, although as O’Reilly had remarked earlier, they weren’t going to get rich today by opening a heat-stroke clinic. The skies were a deeper shade of blue. In another six weeks they would be full of swooping swallows returned from wintering in North Africa.

  Well before the birds came back, Barry was going to have to make up his mind about staying with Fingal, who today was up at Aldergrove Airport meeting Kitty’s flight, or going to Ballymena for a taste of specialist work. He had until next Monday to decide. He’d studied Hamlet at school when he was fifteen. At the time he’d been unsympathetic to the Melancholy Dane and his “To be or not to be,” seeing the man as nothing more than a haverer. Now Barry felt more empathy with the prince’s dilemma and his to-and-fro emotions.

  “Hello, Doctor Laverty.” Julie Donnelly was coming out of the butcher’s shop, stuffing a brown paper–wrapped parcel into her shopping bag. “This here’s some nice brisket I’ve bought for Donal’s supper, so I have.”

  “Hello, Julie. How are you?” She had a discrete bump under her fawn coat. It was a good thing Bertie Bishop’s cousin the photographer was only interested in her hair. The final choice of the winning photographs would be made in two days, on Friday. “Getting nervous about the contest?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Sure, like I told youse doctors, I can’t lose even if I’m only second. I’m more anxious for Donal and his mates on Saturday. He’s cheered up a bit because he knows if the wee horse wins he’ll get his shares back—but he doesn’t think she will win.”

  “I wish I could promise you she’ll do it.”

  “Och, sure,” she said. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. We’ll be all right, no matter.”

  Barry, impressed by her imperturbability, smiled. “We’ll know in a couple of days.”

  “We will. And will Donal see you at Downpatrick, Doctor?”

  “Indeed. Both me and Doctor O’Reilly. Are you not coming?”

  She shook her head. “Donal doesn’t want me getting excited.” She patted her tummy. “He says I’ve to get lots of rest.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  “Anyway,” she said, “he’ll be busy working as Mr. McArdle’s runner, but Donal’s particularly anxious to tell Doctor O’Reilly how thankful everybody was last Tuesday at the Duck for everything the doctor tried to do. He’s given them back a chance.” She hitched the basket up her arm. “I’ve to be running on now. I need to get some vegetables too.” Her smile was angelic when she said, “And I’m getting him some meringues for a wee treat for afters. He just loves meringues, so he does. Bless him.”

  Barry felt the love in those words. Julie, who was going to be stuck for life in Ballybucklebo, seemed perfectly happy with her lot. She didn’t need broader horizons like a certain civil-engineering student. Of the two women, he wondered who would be the more content ten years from now.

  He walked on, thinking about how last week a still-grinning O’Reilly, following a thirty-minute telephone conversation with Kitty O’Hallorhan, had explained his further plans over dinner. As Flo’s Fancy would not be running until the seventh race on Saturday, there’d be lots of time in Downpatrick before that to have those words with the marquis and Eugene Power. O’Reilly was convinced that if the filly was given her head in a fair race, she could win and very decidedly upset Bertie Bishop’s applecart.

  O’Reilly did not want there to be the slightest hint that he and Barry were hatching such a plan, so
for a while longer Donal and his friends were to be kept in the dark.

  Barry had barely shut the door of the Ballybucklebo Boutique when Cissie Sloan, who was standing at the counter, turned and said, “Doctor Laverty dear, is it yourself? Am I glad to see yourself, so I am, sir. I’m having terrible trouble—”

  “I’ll be in the surgery tomorrow, Cissie,” Barry said, hoping to avoid hearing about it here.

  “Nooo,” she said, “not doctoring trouble, like. Sure didn’t you fix me up last summer?”

  Barry nodded. He had.

  “Them wee thingys you gave me is racing round in me like motorbikes at Dundrod.”

  She’d certainly taken very literally his explanation of hormones circulating in the bloodstream. In motorcycling circles, the Dundrod Circuit Ulster Grand Prix was as famous for the breakneck speeds of its competitors as were the Isle of Man Tourist Trophy races. Barry had to laugh. Although he had tried to duck becoming embroiled in one of Cissie’s endless conversations, he couldn’t help himself. “So what can I do for you, Cissie?”

  She turned to the counter. “See them two dresses there?” She held up a handful of a blue one and a handful of a red one. “My cousin Aggie Arbuthnot. You know, Doctor, the one—

  “I do.” Barry quickly headed her off.

  “She was meant to be here for to help me choose a new dress for the Downpatrick Races on Saturday, so she was. I can’t think where she’s got to. Maybe … nah. She does that on Mondays. I know that. She’s more likely to—” She tutted and frowned. “On the other hand—”

  Barry coughed. Loudly. “Cissie,” he said, “what can I help you with?”

  “Can you wait ’til I try each one on, like? Have a gander at them?”

  Sally, who was normally shy, interposed, “I think Doctor Laverty’s a bit too busy to look at you modelling the dresses, Mrs. Sloan.”

  Barry could have hugged the girl.

  “Right enough,” Cissie said to Sally. “I suppose he is. Och, well.” She turned to Barry. “Just mebbe then, Doctor, which … which colour do you like the best? Honest to God now?”

  Barry had a quick image of Rubens’s painting The Judgement of Paris. The poor divil had to choose between three goddesses and determine the most beautiful. No matter who Paris picked, he’d have made mortal enemies of the other two. Barry frowned, cocked his head, and said, “They’re both very pretty colours.” He sensed the door opening and turned.