An Irish Country Courtship

  He looked over to where the on-track bookies were plying their trade. Each had his own platform, with wooden arms rising vertically from the sides of a tall, Dickensian, stand-at desk. Blackboards with the horses’ names and prices in chalk were attached to one of the poles. The struts supported a sign bearing in garish colours and flourishing script the name of the bookmaker: Honest Sammy Dolan, Best Odds; William McArdle and Sons, Turf Accountants.

  Men stood behind their desks taking money and issuing betting slips as each bettor reached the head of the queue and handed over a wager.

  “There’s Willy’s stand, Kitty,” O’Reilly said. “Tell him Doctor O’Reilly says thanks for the help he gave Donal, and after you put on the bets, very quietly tell Willy I say to lay off early on Flo’s Fancy. Then head on back to the private stand and meet John. We’ll see you there.”

  “Don’t be long,” she said, then turned and walked away.

  “Sorry, Fingal, but I think I’ve lost the thread. Were you asking Kitty to tell Willy to shorten the odds early or to lay off, stop taking bets completely?” Barry asked.

  “Not at all. Every small bookie protects himself by taking a proportion of all money wagered on any horse he thinks might win or place and then betting on that animal with a bigger bookie. It’s called laying-off. That’s one of the jobs of a bookie’s runner.”

  “Going and phoning in bets?”

  “Right. It’s all go, Barry. Odds change all the time as each bookie calculates how the punters are betting and studies the intelligence relayed by his tic-tac man. Look—” He pointed to where some distance away a man wearing white gloves was whirling his hands around like a semaphore. “That lad’s sending signals to Donal. See him there beside Willy?”

  “Hard to miss Donal’s thatch.” Barry saw Donal say something to his boss, who immediately wiped Longford Lad’s odds of twenty to one off the blackboard and replaced them with ten to one. “I suppose the tic-tac man’s sent some info.”

  “You suppose right,” O’Reilly said. “So Willy’s shortened the odds. That’s why I want him to take my advice and lay off on Flo’s Fancy early. He can make a bundle if she wins, and he’s covered if a lot of other people bet with him on that filly today, even if she has been losing at other meets.”

  “Why would they bet on her? A losing horse?”

  “Sentiment. Our people, out of pride, will back a local horse at long odds even if its form isn’t very good. When they do, you’ll see the odds shorten here, and there’ll be more laid off against her with bigger bookies, so the odds will shorten off-track too. I just want Willy to be able to get the best he can on Bertie’s horse, probably with Ladbrokes. We owe him that much. We’d not be halfway home in the beat-Bertie-Bishop stakes without Willy’s help.”

  O’Reilly drew up short at the side of the weigh room and pointed over at the entrance to the betting ring. “There goes Donal, heading for the phone. Kitty’ll have repeated my message. He’ll be making that lay-off call for McArdle.”

  A loudspeaker boomed tinnily, “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen, welcome to Downpatrick Races. It is now fifteen minutes to the start of the first. The horses are moving to the track.”

  Barry watched the handsome animals being led from the parade ring to line up for the start. Their jockeys, small men all, riding boots firmly in stirrups, knees bent almost on level with the horse’s back, sat solidly in their light English saddles, reins held loosely. Each wore the brightly coloured silks of the horse’s owner.

  O’Reilly’s timing of their arrival at the adjacent weigh room was perfect. Fergus Finnegan came out wearing the marquis’ colours of green and scarlet squares and carrying his saddle.

  “Fergus,” O’Reilly boomed.

  “Doctors.” Fergus grinned. “Good to see youse. What’s the word?”

  “Can you introduce us to Eugene Power?”

  “Aye, certainly. I’ll get him.”

  “Before you go, Fergus, I want you to understand … it’s only fair to tell you, if Doctor Laverty and I can make what we’re planning work, you may not have a winner in the seventh.”

  “Myrna’s Magic get beat?” Fergus narrowed his eyes. “Doctor O’Reilly sir, I know you’re up to something, and as long as it’s on the level, what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.”

  “You’ve my word it’s all honest.” O’Reilly offered his hand, which was duly taken and solemnly shaken by Fergus. “And Fergus, we’d not be able to do this if you hadn’t given us the tip about Bishop’s jockey. Thank you for that.”

  Fergus winked. “Donal’s a right good head, so are his mates, and it’s not right what Bishop’s doing. I was pleased to help, so I was. I’ll be happy to give the wee animal a fair chance, like”—he became serious—“but I’ll not pull my horse. Bishop’s’ll have to win fair and square.”

  “I’d have expected no less of you,” O’Reilly said. “Off you go. Bring back Power.”

  “I’ll get the Corkman for you, and then I’m off. Flo’s Fancy’ll still get a bloody good race from me—and we’ll see who’s got the best horse, so we will.” Fergus headed back into the weigh room.

  The tinny speakers bellowed, “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen, the first race, the McCoubrey Stakes for a purse of two hundred pounds, will be twice round the track, two and a half miles over the jumps.”

  Barry stopped paying attention to the voice when Fergus reappeared followed by another jockey. He was short, narrow-faced with deep-set black eyes, a lopsided smile, and locks of auburn hair straggling from under his peaked, black velvet–covered hard hat. He wore the Bishop syndicate’s colours, silks of a light red that clashed horribly with a series of superimposed pink circles. He carried his saddle under one arm.

  “Eugene Power,” said Fergus, “this here’s Doctor O’Reilly and this here’s Doctor Laverty.”

  “Pleased to meet you, so.”

  Barry heard the gentle Cork inflection, so like Kinky’s.

  “I’m off,” Fergus said. “I want to have a wee word with my mount Battlecruiser before the fourth. Tell him about the fences, like.”

  Barry did not miss his quick wink to O’Reilly, who inclined his head to Fergus.

  “See you in the seventh, Eugene,” Fergus said.

  Power turned to O’Reilly. “Fergus says you’ve a question for me, bye.”

  “I have,” Fingal said. “Are you happy riding for Councillor Bishop?”

  “It’s a job.” His voice was flat.

  O’Reilly said, “It must be frustrating to have such a great wee horse and never have a win.”

  The little man took a step back and had to grab at his saddle when he nearly dropped it. His mouth opened and shut.

  Barry studied Power’s face. The man must be wondering, exactly what did Fingal know?

  Power looked at the ground. “She’s been unlucky, that’s all.” He looked back up at O’Reilly. “It does be hard on her other owners. I’m terrible sorry for them, so.” He looked as if he really meant it.

  So, Barry thought, this man has a conscience.

  “Would you like Flo’s Fancy to win today?”

  Power shook his head. “I’d like that well enough. Wouldn’t any jockey want to ride a winner? I just dunno. On her form I can’t see her making it at all, at all.” He sighed and looked O’Reilly straight in the eye. “But she’s a lovely wee craythur. It would be grand, so, if she was able to win.”

  “I’ve heard something,” said O’Reilly. “His Lordship would like to see you tomorrow, Eugene.”

  The Corkman’s eyes widened. “The Marquis of Ballybucklebo? Wants to see me? Me? What for?”

  “He told me not ten minutes ago he’s looking for someone else as well as Fergus to ride for him—”

  Before O’Reilly could continue, the speaker brayed, “They’re under starter’s orders.”

  “The marquis needs another rider?” Power cocked his head.

  “That’s right, isn’t it, Doctor Laverty?”
r />   “Indeed it is.”

  “He mentioned you by name, Eugene. There’ll be a job for you, all right.”

  “Me?”

  “Indeed. He reckoned if Flo’s Fancy won today you should go round and see him tomorrow.”

  “And the marquis’d have a job? For me?”

  “I promise you,” O’Reilly said. “And I think you might need one. I’m not convinced Councillor Bishop would be overjoyed by a win—if you get my drift.”

  Power’s hand on the saddle was shaking. “I am not convinced myself, in soul I’m not. Doctor O’Reilly?” The Corkman held O’Reilly’s gaze, then lowered his voice. “You doctors have to keep secrets?”

  “We do,” O’Reilly said.

  Eugene’s face crumpled. Barry thought he looked close to tears. “You’ll not tell anybody?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I once did a silly thing in England—once, bye.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and Barry had to strain to hear. “I pulled a horse.”

  “We all make mistakes,” O’Reilly said, “and confession is good for the soul.”

  “Aye, so, and I swore to myself I’d never do it again. But Mr. Bishop found out; he said he’d tell the Jockey Club if—”

  “Eugene,” O’Reilly said gently, “say no more. He can’t tell the Jockey Club now because I know he’s been blackmailing you. The club would marmalise him if we told them. What I want to hear is that now you know for certain you’ll have a job with the marquis, will you give Flo’s Fancy her head today?”

  “I’d love for to see her win,” he said wistfully. “Just the once.” He looked from O’Reilly to Barry and back to O’Reilly again. “And that’s true about the marquis and a job? Because if she wins, Mr. Bishop will fire me as sure as eggs are eggs.”

  “You’ve my word,” Fingal said. “I’d not worry about the councillor.”

  The Cork jockey grinned broadly. “Thank you, sir. Thank you and, by God, bye, Myrna’s Magic is a grand fast horse, but so’s Flo’s Fancy. I’ll just need keep up with the leaders, then let her out in the last furlong and give her a taste of the crop.”

  “I’m sure you know your business,” O’Reilly said, and he clapped the little man on the shoulder.

  There was a wickedness to the Corkman’s laugh before he said, “You’re going to see a race the likes of which hasn’t been seen since before or after Arkle beat Mill House for the Cheltenham Gold Cup last Saint Paddy’s Day.”

  46

  They’re under Starter’s Orders

  “Bertie Bishop,” O’Reilly called. He had left his seat in the VIP section and was on his way out of the stands behind Kitty and Barry.

  Councillor Bishop spun in his seat.

  “I’m off,” O’Reilly said, “to have a flutter on your Flo’s Fancy in the seventh. It’s the last race of the day, but I reckon it’s been worth waiting for.”

  Bishop beamed. “Do like I done, Doctor,” he said. “Don’t waste your money betting to place. Go for a win. I got twenty to one for me and the lads, so I did. You know ’at.”

  “I will and I do,” said O’Reilly, thinking, at least that’s what you told everybody. “Myself and the half of Ballybucklebo will be betting on her. It’ll be like a Roman triumph when she pulls it off.”

  “Ah, now,” said Bertie, “there’s many a slip between—”

  “Cup and lip. If there wasn’t, horse racing’d be no fun.”

  “Fingaaal” pealed out over the general hubbub. Good Lord, thought O’Reilly. That was Barry yelling at him. “If you don’t come on we’ll not have time to go to the parade ring and then place our bets.” Touché. It had been himself roaring at Barry to get a move on all morning.

  O’Reilly hurried along the row and down the steps to the concourse. “Right,” he said, when he joined Barry and Kitty, “let’s go.” He shouldered his way past sandwich-munching punters, workingmen holding pints of stout and arguing over the Racing Form, women with what he guessed would be glasses of port and brandy, and kids chewing toffee apples and candy floss.

  He sang a snatch of “The Galway Races”:

  And gingerbread and spices to accommodate the ladies,

  and a big crúibin for thruppence to be pickin’ while you’re able.

  Kinky would enjoy a crúibin, a pickled pig’s trotter eaten cold with vinegar. So would Eugene Power. Crúibins were much appreciated in County Cork.

  A woman was standing by a baby in a pram, the infant clad in tiny racing silks and a miniature hard hat. A small knot of her friends bent over the pram making clucking noises and admiring the wean. Jasus, he thought, but wasn’t a day at the races just what the doctor ordered? Sure there was the excitement of watching the horses, the exhilaration of a winning bet. But it wasn’t just the money that made you feel good; it was the easygoing craic with friends and neighbours that really made the day. Along with céilis, and parties, a night at the Duck, a day shooting pheasants, aye, and even a funeral and the meal after, racing was one of the rituals that bound Ulster folks together in tight communities that O’Reilly wouldn’t swap for the keys to the kingdom of heaven. Long may it continue, he thought. And, begod if I’d a glass in my hand I’d drink to that.

  He was lucky to find space in the scrum at the rail of the parade ring. “In here, Kitty,” he said, making room for her to stand in front of him, his arms on each side of her, his hands on the rail. A tiny whiff of her musky perfume tickled his nostrils. There was just room for Barry to tuck in sideways by O’Reilly’s shoulder.

  The stablehands were leading the seven thoroughbreds around the ring so the punters could admire and size up each animal. O’Reilly inhaled the familiar smells of leather, horse sweat, and horse apples. They masked Kitty’s perfume.

  Now at five o’clock the day was chillier, and the horses’ breath came in puffs of vapour that hung like phantasms in the still air. One filly tossed her head and whinnied loudly. The groom had to strain on her head rope to control the animal.

  “What do you make of Flo’s Fancy, Kitty?” he asked, as the chestnut horse was led past, daintily stepping, ears twitching, head nodding as she chewed on her bit.

  Kitty narrowed her eyes and studied the filly. “That’s a well set-up little horse,” she said, as the animal approached. “Nice gait. About fourteen hands. Deep breast, so her wind should be sound. Heavy quarters. Good gaskins.”

  O’Reilly inclined his head. “Impressive,” he said. “Gaskins. Muscles like the human calf. Did you do veterinary medicine as well as nursing?” He chuckled.

  “No, I just like horses. My da was very keen too. He taught me.” She looked more closely. “I like that look in her eyes. Fierce … fighting,” she said. “Like you, Fingal, when someone challenges you or you get your dander up.”

  He squeezed her gently with his encircling arms and whispered, “And I will get my dander up if you go back on last night’s promise.”

  She chuckled. “Not one chance, eejit. Not one.”

  Fingal took a deeply contented breath. He heard Barry ask, “Fingal, I’m no judge of horseflesh, but I’ve looked at Flo’s Fancy and Myrna’s Magic. I like that blaze on Magic’s forehead. And she seems bigger than Flo’s Fancy. Do you think she could beat Bishop’s horse?”

  “Anything can happen in a horse race, Barry. They both look like good animals. So’s that one.” He consulted his racing programme. “Glen Lady. Good Lord, if I’m not mistaken, isn’t that our schoolteacher leading the horse?”

  “Sue Nolan. Her uncle’s the owner. Sue often exercises her.”

  O’Reilly noted how quickly Barry had responded, how he’d waved to her and how she’d smiled and waved back. Her black stirrup pants were neatly tucked into knee-high leather boots. The horse’s graceful strides were complemented by the ease of Sue’s walk, her hips swaying in harmony with her charge’s tail. O’Reilly glanced sideways to see that Barry’s head was moving from side to side in rhythm with the horse’s steps and Sue Nolan’s backside, a well-shaped one at th
at. O’Reilly cleared his throat. “Betting time,” he said, backing away from the rail. And still protecting Kitty with his outstretched arms, he cleared a way to the concourse and headed for the bookies. “Jesus,” said O’Reilly, “would you look at the scrum in that ring?”

  Queues stretched from every bookie’s stand, and judging by the number of people he recognized, everyone in Ballybucklebo and the townland was here. “Right,” he said, “I’ll get in a queue and I’ll bet for us, Kitty. What do you fancy, Barry?”

  “Can I bet on two horses?”

  “Of course.” O’Reilly shook his head. Barry Laverty must be the only man in this horse-mad country who was an innocent abroad on a racetrack. “You really don’t follow the horses, do you?”

  Barry shook his head. “I went to a boarding school from thirteen to seventeen, and nobody there cared. It was all rugby and cricket. Then medical school. A couple of lads in my class bet regularly, but I’d never enough money.”

  “So I’m leading your feet from the paths of righteousness?” O’Reilly clapped Barry’s shoulder. “Just tell me what you want. You can give me the money later.”

  “Five pounds on Flo’s Fancy to win—”

  “Good lad.”

  “And five,” Barry said, with a wry smile, “on Glen Lady to place.”

  “Done,” said O’Reilly, who had a pretty shrewd idea of what had provoked that bet—and the smile. “Now, Barry, you escort Kitty back to the stand. I’ll catch up once I’ve finished.” He turned, pushed into the ring, and joined the line in front of Willy McArdle. The odds on Flo’s Fancy had shortened to five to one. All the bookies must be taking lots of wagers on her.

  It took a while, but Fingal was finally at the head of the queue, facing the florid face of Willy McArdle. The man’s oiled black hair glistened under a bowler hat.

  “Jesus Murphy, are youse back again, Doctor? It’s me for the poorhouse, so it is, what with your wins on Luke’s Point Lass in the first, Battlecruiser in the fourth—”

  “Sure didn’t I lose on him at the Balybucklebo point-to-point?”