An Irish Country Courtship

  “Doctor dear,” said Maggie Houston, “I knew we’d see you here. I was just saying to Sonny—”

  “Good afternoon, ladies … gentlemen,” said Sonny Houston, tipping his hat to Kitty and Kinky.

  “—we’re sure to see the doctors here this afternoon,” Maggie continued. Maggie’s hatband held two roses, one more wilted than the other. She smiled and everyone could see that in honour of the occasion she was wearing her teeth.

  “You’re looking very lovely today, Miss O’Hallorhan,” Sonny said. “Quite …”—he struggled for the word—“radiant.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.” Kitty favoured Sonny with a wide smile.

  Barry noticed how she looked at Fingal—and how Fingal looked back.

  “And is that a new handbag, Mrs. Kincaid?” Sonny enquired.

  Maggie leant over and peered at it. “Thon’s a humdinger, so it is, Kinky. New, like?”

  Kinky smiled. “It is. I’m glad you like it. It did be a gift from Miss Kitty, so.”

  “Did you get it locally, Miss O’Hallorhan?” Maggie wanted to know.

  “In Belfast,” Kitty said. “Miss Moloney was unwell.”

  “Was,” said Maggie. “Was. We were in with her and her sister yesterday. Miss Alice Moloney’s up and doing quite nicely now, and she said to be sure if we saw you doctors today to tell you how grateful she is.”

  O’Reilly inclined his head.

  Barry smiled. “Pleased to hear it, Maggie.”

  Maggie became conspiratorial. “Miss Moloney give me a pound for a flutter, you know, and her so proper, who’d have thought she liked a bet?” She lowered her voice. “Doctor O’Reilly sir. What’s nap today?”

  “Nap?” Barry asked.

  “It’s short for Napoleon, reputedly because he always bet on sure things in battles,” O’Reilly said. “In track lingo it means what do the experts suggest as the very best bet for any given day.” He lowered his voice to match Maggie’s and said, “I reckon Flo’s Fancy in the seventh.”

  “Thank you, sir. We’ll remember that, won’t we, dear?”

  “Of course we will,” said Sonny. “Flo’s Fancy. That’s the councillor’s animal.” He inclined his head to Kitty and Kinky. “And now, if you’ll excuse us, we must be running along.”

  “We’ll be close behind,” O’Reilly said. “It’s half past one and the first race starts at 2:15.”

  Barry watched him eyeing the uneaten Scotch egg. Kitty, unbeknown to Fingal, was also watching him, clearly ready to head him off at the pass if he made a move. Kinky was taking no chances. After stealing one quick glance at O’Reilly, she grabbed the egg and rewrapped it in greaseproof paper. “If everybody’s had enough?” she said, and without waiting for a reply started packing up the picnic hamper.

  O’Reilly looked disappointed, but clearly it would take more than being denied the pleasure of one of Kinky’s Scotch eggs to dampen his spirits today. When she was finished, he shoved the hamper into the boot and closed the lid with a crash. “Right,” he boomed. “It’s off to the races with us.”

  * * *

  Barry found himself last in the queue of O’Reilly, Kitty, and Kinky at one of the turnstiles of Downpatrick Racecourse. There was a bank of ticket wickets and long lines of people stretched from each.

  “How’s about ye, Doc?” Gerry Shanks asked from where he stood in the next line with a man Barry recognised as Charlie Gorman. “My Mairead has Angus and Siobhan over with Gertie Gorman today, so I come on down here with my pal Charlie for a bit of craic.”

  O’Reilly had delivered Gertie’s breech baby last year, and the Shanks’s daughter’s meningitis was still fresh in Barry’s mind. “Your Siobhan’s well, Gerry?” he asked.

  “Fit as a flea.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” It was pleasant knowing how your patients were doing.

  “Still supporting Linfield, Charlie?” Barry asked.

  “No team like the Blues,” Charlie Gorman said.

  “Pay you no attention ’til him, Doctor,” Gerry said. “Your head’s cut, Charlie. They couldn’t beat their way out of a wet paper bag. Glentoran’s the team to watch, so it is.” Gerry shook his head. “More important, Doctor, how do you reckon Councillor Bishop’s wee horse is going to do today?”

  “I think,” said Barry, “from what I’ve been hearing, everybody from Ballybucklebo is asking the same question.”

  He was next at his wicket. He held out a pound note, but the ticket seller shook his head. “Thon big fellah, him with the bent nose and bullock’s lugs, he’s paid, so he has.”

  Champagne on ice, O’Reilly paying for their entrance? The big fellah was in crackling form today.

  “Come on, Barry,” O’Reilly yelled. “Begod, but it’s like Paddy’s market here. Quite the turnout.”

  There was hardly elbow room in the concourse between the turnstiles, various buildings, enclosures, and the outer track railings. Men in hacking jackets and cavalry twill pants, most sporting cravats and camel-hair peaked caps—these were the horsey fraternity—mingled with plainly dressed farmers, artisans, and women in their Sunday best. There was constant movement in and out of several buildings to his right. If the number of folks clutching drinks was anything to go by, one at least, must be a bar. The stands stood to his left, and a large marquee was further off past them.

  “Hello, Barry.”

  He turned to see Sue Nolan.

  “Hello, Sue.” An emerald head scarf complemented her burnished copper hair. “What brings you here?”

  “My uncle from Broughshane has a filly in the seventh. Glen Lady.”

  “I’ll be watching for her. Are you on your own?” He found he was hoping she was.

  “No—”

  It was a pity, Barry thought.

  “I’m with my uncle.” She pointed to the big tent. “I’m meant to be joining him over there.”

  Barry smiled. “I’ll mebbe run into you through the afternoon.” He wanted to keep her talking. “No more ringworm at school?”

  She shook her head. “Not one. And Colin’s back in class. You’d not believe what he did on Tuesday—”

  From ahead he heard O’Reilly yelling, “Barry. Get a move on.”

  “Sorry, Sue,” he said. “That was His Master’s Voice, and I don’t mean the record company.”

  “Doctor O’Reilly?”

  “Himself. Gotta go, but I really want to hear about Colin.”

  “If I don’t see you today, why not—”

  “Barry.”

  “—give me a call? I’m in the book,” Sue said.

  “I will.” He caught up with his party in front of the stand. O’Reilly was saying, “Kinky, I know you want to find Flo Bishop and Cissie Sloan. I’d try the top bar off to the right.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And Kinky, if you decide to stay with your friends, that’s quite all right. Meet us back at the Rover after the races.”

  Kinky looked happily at her handbag and said, “I’ll be doing that, sir. I hope you all enjoy the meet, and if you are seeing Mr. Power, I’d take it kindly if you’d not mention what Tiernan told me the wee jockey said.”

  “Naturally,” O’Reilly said. “Off you trot, and come on, you two. The marquis’ll be in the private marquee.” O’Reilly headed off, holding Kitty’s hand. Barry was walking at his shoulder.

  “Quite the meet,” Barry said.

  “Quite the track,” O’Reilly replied. “It’s the oldest in Ireland. The first race was held here in 1685. The course is a mile and two furlongs long and is set up for both National Hunt races, with six fences on the outer-rail side, and for flat racing along the inner rails. The—”

  Barry lost the end of the sentence when a large man forced his way past. Barry dodged more people, then caught up with O’Reilly, who stood outside a canvas marquee talking to a man wearing a brown grocer’s coat and sporting a red armband.

  “I do understand,” O’Reilly said. “VIPs only.”

  It dawned
on Barry that this was not Ballybucklebo and that in the rest of Ireland, except perhaps in rugby circles, O’Reilly’s local godlike status did not apply.

  “I’m looking for the Marquis of Ballybucklebo,” O’Reilly continued.

  “I can’t help it … I’m sorry, sir. VIPs only. Them’s the rules, so they are.”

  Barry felt someone jostle past his shoulder and then try to pass Fingal. “Out of my way, O’Reilly.” Barry had no trouble recognising the portly figure of Bertie Bishop.

  “I suppose you’re an owner and that makes you a VIP,” O’Reilly said quietly.

  “’At’s right.”

  “Good for you, Bertie.” O’Reilly looked around. “Where’s Flo?”

  “Back at the grandstand colloguing with your Mrs. Kincaid and Cissie Sloan. I heard Flo invite them to come with us for the racing. I’ve space in the private stand.”

  The unspoken “And you don’t, O’Reilly” was clear to Barry.

  “Och,” said O’Reilly, “anywhere I see your wee horse win, it’ll be exciting.” He glanced at the doorkeeper, who stood with his arms folded, florid face impassive. “I wonder, Bertie,” O’Reilly said, “if you’d do something for me?”

  “What?” His eyes narrowed.

  “If the marquis is inside, would you tell him I’m here and would like a word?”

  Bishop pulled in a deep breath. He grinned. “I could, so I could.” Barry knew that Bishop was forcing O’Reilly to plead. Barry saw the muscles at the corners of the big man’s jaw tighten before he said calmly, “I’d be most grateful, Bertie.”

  “All right.”

  “Thank you and good luck in the seventh. We’re all cheering for Flo’s Fancy.”

  Bishop ignored O’Reilly and strutted inside. Barry watched him greeting this one and that, then noticed a young woman with copper hair under an emerald scarf. Damn it, he would phone her.

  Distracted by Sue Nolan, Barry lost sight of Bertie Bishop. But John McNeill, Marquis of Ballybucklebo, shock of greying hair nodding, had turned, detached himself from a group, and was heading to where Barry, Kitty, and O’Reilly stood.

  “Miss O’Hallorhan? Fingal? Young Laverty?” The marquis’ words were as clipped as his moustache. “Why on earth did you have to send Bertie Bishop to ask me to come out?”

  O’Reilly pointed to the doorman. “Your man there thinks he’s Leonidas guarding the pass at Thermopylae.”

  “Wouldn’t let you in? Never mind.” The marquis bowed to Kitty. “Miss O’Hallorhan, I’d be delighted if you and your gentlemen friends would join me soon in the private stand. I’ll tell the steward there to expect you.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said.

  “I’ve already told you. It’s John.”

  “Kitty,” she said, and Barry saw the marquis smile before he turned to O’Reilly. “Now, Fingal, what can I do for you?”

  O’Reilly pointed to a space over by the fence. “Can we go over there, John?”

  “For a bit of privacy? Certainly.”

  “Is Fergus riding for you today?” Fingal asked, as they crossed the ground to the fence.

  “In the fourth and the seventh.”

  O’Reilly looked thoughtful. “The fourth? That’s the Ulster Grand National, over the fences.”

  “It is,” the marquis said. “My Battlecruiser’s running.”

  Barry smiled, remembering the huge steeplechaser’s performance at the Ballybucklebo point-to-point in August.

  “Good luck to him,” O’Reilly said, “but it’s the seventh we need to talk to you about, John. Another horse in that last race.”

  The marquis looked thoughtful. “Bishop’s animal?”

  “We’ve reason to believe he’s ordered the jockey to nobble her.”

  “What? Pull the horse?” The man’s brow creased.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Good God. Can you prove it? We’ll have them up before the Jockey Club—”

  “’Fraid we can’t do that. We’ve only got hearsay evidence. It was told to Kinky’s brother in strict confidence too. She’s asked me not to get her brother involved. I’m sure you understand, John.”

  “Of course.”

  “I really don’t care about the jockey anyway. It’s Bertie I’m after,” O’Reilly said.

  “Pulling a horse? Why would Bishop do a thing like that?” Barry heard the puzzlement in the marquis’ voice.

  “It’s to do with robbing shareholders of their ownership of the animal,” O’Reilly said.

  “Has it, by Jove?”

  Barry expected the marquis’ frown to deepen, but instead he smiled. “And knowing you, Fingal O’Reilly, you’ve a plot to stop him.”

  “With your help, John.”

  “What can I do?”

  O’Reilly laughed. “First, don’t bet on your own horse to win. If we can bring this off, the best she’ll do is come second and I’d hate to see you lose any money.”

  “Because you’re making sure Flo’s Fancy will win.” The marquis’ smile was gone. “You’ll not be trying to persuade Fergus to slow down. My Myrna’s Magic is the favourite, you know.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “Divil the bit, John. What I’m trying to do is make sure the wee filly gets a fair run at it, that’s all. From what Donal Donnelly has told me, she’s a really fast horse and she’ll eat your mare alive.”

  “As long as it’s in a fair race, I’ll have no complaints.”

  O’Reilly pursed his lips, cocked his head to one side, and said, “For the sake of the men Bertie’s trying to diddle, I almost would try to fix things with Fergus to make sure. But when she wins by her own efforts it’s going to cost Bertie a lot, and I want him to take that tumble with no chance of appeal. It’s simply got to be a fair race.”

  “It’s what I’d have expected of you, Fingal.” His Lordship’s chuckle was deep and throaty. “Cost Bertie Bishop a lot of money? I don’t even want to know the details. Anyone who’d pull a horse, never mind shoot at a walking pheasant, must be punished, and if we can’t prove his wrongdoing and go through the Jockey Club—”

  “We must invoke divine intervention,” O’Reilly said innocently, “and just give the Big Fellah”—he jerked his head upward—“a little shove. I will explain exactly what Bishop’s been up to over a wee half, John, but for now I want to know what I can promise Bishop’s jockey, Eugene Power, you’ll do for him after he wins. Bishop is bound to fire him for disobeying orders and queer his pitch with other owners.”

  “Vindictive little man, Bishop. He would, wouldn’t he?”

  “He would.”

  The marquis frowned. “And you’ll vouch for this Power fellow, Fingal?”

  “I will. I have it on impeccable authority that ordinarily he’s a fine rider, but he’s being threatened—”

  “By Bishop, no doubt?”

  “Who else?”

  The marquis nodded. “Fine. Tell Power to come and see me tomorrow at the Big House. I’ll make some telephone calls. If he brings that filly home first today, he’ll never want for a mount, I promise.”

  “Thank you, John,” O’Reilly said. “And there is one other thing.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The word about Bishop is going to go around among the trainers, stable lads, and jockeys, and it may be difficult for him to get another jockey. Nobody likes to ride for a crooked owner.”

  “It’ll serve him right.”

  Barry had to agree.

  O’Reilly shook his head. “I mentioned shareholders. If they get their shares back, they stand to make a decent profit if Flo’s Fancy wins a few more races after today. And from what I hear, she should if she’s ridden properly.”

  “I see … I quite see.” The marquis frowned, pinched his nose, and then said, “Fergus … Fergus Finnegan. He could use a few wins. No reason I can’t ask him to ride for Bishop for a while. Fergus won’t like that, but he can tell his pals he’s doing it on my orders. My guess is that once Bertie does sell Flo’s Fancy, he’
ll get out of racing altogether.”

  O’Reilly sighed. “Och, Jasus, and what a loss that would be.”

  The marquis chuckled. “I’ll speak to Fergus tomorrow before I see your chap … Power, you said? He could ride for me.”

  “Bless you, John,” O’Reilly said. “We’re well on our way to the downfall of Bertie, and if you’ll excuse us, I have to nip over to the weigh room and get a word with the Corkman Eugene Power to make sure it happens.”

  45

  Are Said to Understand One and Other

  “He really is a sweetheart, your marquis,” Kitty said, as she linked her arm with O’Reilly’s, and the pair of them accompanied by Barry started to walk away from the marquee. She cocked one eyebrow. “Single, I believe?”

  O’Reilly chuckled and Barry heard something in the big man’s voice when he replied, “And out of bounds, Miss Caitlin O’Hallorhan.” It was a tone and a sentiment Barry could only describe as possessive. Fair play to you both, he thought.

  The three of them passed the grandstand and headed to the betting ring. They forced their way through the mob to where the on-track bookies had their booths. The enclosure was sited between the stand, the track behind it, and the parade ring off to the right.

  “Kitty,” O’Reilly said, “will you do me a favour?”

  “If I can.”

  “You know Barry and I have to see a man about a horse.”

  “I do.”

  Barry was eager to see how Fingal was going to handle the Cork jockey.

  “Will you go and find Willy McArdle and put that on Luke’s Point Lass on the nose in the first?” O’Reilly handed her a five-pound note. “For us both. We’ll split the winnings.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, taking the money. “Luke’s Point Lass on the nose.”

  And by the sound of things, Barry thought, O’Reilly was backing the favourite. Above the noise of the crowd, the stuttering of a distant petrol generator, and the occasional whinny, Barry could hear the bookies calling the odds, “Luke’s Point Lass, two to one on. Evangeline, six to five. Mossbridge Racer, two to one. Longford Lad, twenty to one. Ballina Brave, a hundred to one. Five to one, the field. Five to one, the field.”