An Irish Country Courtship

  “But you didn’t bet with me, sir, on that one.”

  “True,” O’Reilly said. He was always amazed by how bookies could remember.

  McArdle grinned. “Sure amn’t I only taking a hand out of you, Doctor? You done me a right good turn when you told the lady to give me the nod, so you did.” He bent forward and, speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the crowd, confided, “I’m well covered at Ladbrokes even if the whole of Ballybucklebo bets on Flo’s Fancy in this race. I owe you one.”

  “No, you don’t,” said O’Reilly, thinking that Donal and his syndicate certainly owed Willy McArdle one. “You will do though, when I come for my winnings.” He placed the bets, waited for Willy to pop the notes in his leather satchel, and took the slips. “Where’s Donal?” O’Reilly asked.

  “He’s gone to get me a glass of lemonade—I’ll not take a jar while I’m at me work.”

  “Sensible,” said O’Reilly. “Could I ask you—”

  “Would youse get a move on?” a voice said from behind. “I want to get my bet down before the feckin’ race is over.”

  “Take your hurry in your hand, Ronan O’Rourke, and watch your language. I’ll take your money even if the race has started, all right? The doctor wants to ask me something.”

  O’Reilly ignored O’Rourke’s muttering. “Would you ask Donal to go to my Rover in the car park after the race?”

  “I will, and I’ll send over your winnings with him—if, of course, there are any.” McArdle winked. “Least I can do, Doc.”

  “Thanks.” O’Reilly stepped aside as the bookie said, “Now, Ronan, what’ll it be?”

  When O’Reilly heard the loudspeaker announce, “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen, the seventh and final race will start in five minutes. Five minutes,” he broke into a heavy trot. He was short of breath by the time he’d wiggled past Barry and settled between Kitty and the marquis. “Made it,” he gasped, as the speaker announced, “They’re under starter’s orders.”

  Fingal strained forward. His view of the track was unimpeded, and he could easily pick out Eugene Power by his colours and Fergus Finnegan by his. The jockeys and their mounts were milling around behind the tape, vying for best position in the starting line.

  The start itself was positioned some distance past the finishing post, which stood directly in front of the stand. In the four or five minutes it would take the horses to complete two circuits on the turf and pass the post for a second time, they would have galloped exactly two miles, one furlong, and 172 yards. O’Reilly glanced down at Bertie Bishop sitting directly beneath him in the tier below. In just five minutes, if all went according to plan, a certain chubby councillor was going to be knocked off his high horse—by his own little horse. O’Reilly rubbed his hands together and grinned mightily.

  He craned forward. Eugene Power had managed to position Flo’s Fancy beside the rail, with Myrna’s Magic alongside. Glen Lady was in the middle of the other four horses behind the tape. The crowd had grown silent in anticipation of the start, and Glen Lady’s whinnying echoed across the track as she reared, pranced sideways, and disrupted the line. It would be a few more minutes before order was restored.

  In the hush, O’Reilly clearly overheard Bertie saying to Flo, “I’ve just checked up and the odds is way, way down on Flo’s Fancy, so they are. Wasn’t I quare nor smart putting on our bets early at twenty to one?”

  “Yes, dear,” Flo said, “and everybody’s seen how you done your very best for the lads. It’ll be grand if she wins, so it will.”

  O’Reilly had to smile. Flo had no idea exactly how grand.

  “Once more they’re under starter’s orders,” the speaker announced.

  The official was on his raised platform outside the boundary fence and level with the tape. He held a flag aloft. The man snapped the flag down, the tape was dropped, and the speaker roared, “They’re off.”

  47

  But One Receiveth the Prize

  This, thought O’Reilly, is it, by God. A tight bunch of seven horses jostled for position until halfway down the back straight, when Flo’s Fancy moved ahead with Myrna’s Magic hard beside her. A length separated Glen Lady from the two leaders, and she had two lengths on the remaining four.

  From the loudspeakers the voice kept up a running commentary. “And as they go into the first bend, it’s Flo’s Fancy … Flo’s Fancy, by half a length over Myrna’s Magic. Glen Lady’s closing the gap …”

  The crowd was fairly quiet. Too early in the race for anyone to get excited—yet. O’Reilly glanced past Kitty to see Barry staring into the distance to where two separate groups of seemingly toy horses rounded the curve and started on their first pass along the home straight. They grew until Fingal had no difficulty seeing the blur of the leaders’ hooves pounding on the turf and throwing up divots. He could hear them coming, a low drumming, growing in intensity, until as they thundered past him almost halfway home, he could hear them snorting, see the sweat that lathered their shoulders and the mud clinging to the jockeys’ silks.

  Around the bend and into the back straight for the second time.

  “And as they go away it’s still Flo’s Fancy, but Myrna’s Magic has closed the gap to just over a head and has half a length over Glen Lady, Glen Lady …”

  “Keep it up, Flo’s Fancy,” O’Reilly roared. He knew full well Eugene Power couldn’t possibly hear him, but the act of yelling was a kind of safety valve releasing the excitement that was starting to build.

  He glanced down to see Bertie Bishop craning forward. His copy of the Racing Form was twisted into a tight spiral between two tightly clenched hands.

  “And halfway down the back straight, it’s Flo’s Fancy, Myrna’s Magic, but Glen Lady is coming on the outside. Glen Lady is coming …”

  O’Reilly twisted forward and raised himself on his toes to see better.

  “And they’re into the final turn. And it’s Glen Lady, Glen Lady, Flo’s Fancy …”

  It’s what? O’Reilly leapt to his feet, roaring, “Get a bloody move on, Flo.” He was aware that Flo Bishop was staring up at him. “Not you, dear. The flaming filly.”

  He glared down the track to where four widely separated horses were still in the distant bend, but three were pounding down the undulating, uphill, home straight. The jockeys were hunched over their horses’ necks, moving fluidly with their mounts’ strides, riding crops rising and falling, the horses’ nostrils flaring, jetting steam, their great heads rocking up and down, and sweat flying like sea spume.

  It was impossible to tell who was in the lead.

  Kitty and Barry were now standing. Kitty grabbed O’Reilly’s arm. “Come on, Flo’s Fancy,” she yelled.

  Barry leant so far forward he almost fell into the lower tier on top of Cissie Sloan. “Come on—” The lad was frowning, clearly torn between his two horses.

  O’Reilly looked down to the track. He heard the hooves, the spectators’ roars of encouragement drowning out the loudspeaker, his own voice screaming, “Come on, Flo’s Fancy. Come ooooon.” As three horses passed the post seemingly as one, the camera flashed.

  “Holy mother of God,” O’Reilly yelled, letting his quarterdeck roar soften slightly. “Who in the hell won?” He glanced down at Bertie. The man’s face was puce. He’d torn the Racing Form in two.

  “It’s a photo finish,” the speaker intoned, “and in fourth place Drumshanbo Darling …”

  Down on the track the jockeys had reined in their mounts and were letting them canter to a stop before turning them and walking them back. O’Reilly saw a man standing at the track rail, tearing up his betting slip. No joy for him today. The deafening roar that had greeted the finish had been replaced by a subdued muttering as the crowd waited for the announcement of the results. Many punters were staring expectantly at the pole-mounted loudspeakers, waiting, O’Reilly thought irreverently, for the word from on high.

  There was a rattling all around as people in the stand sat in their folding-down se
ats. O’Reilly remained standing, as did Kitty, still holding onto his arm. Bertie Bishop shifted from foot to foot and let the torn papers fall.

  “Begod,” O’Reilly called to Barry, “it’s going to be how the Iron Duke described Waterloo.”

  “The nearest run thing you ever saw,” Barry said. “I’m sure Donal and his mates are on eggs.”

  “So,” said O’Reilly, inclining his head forward and down, “is someone else.”

  Bertie Bishop was still shifting from foot to foot like a man trying for purchase in quicksand.

  “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen,” the voice said, “thanks to the magic of the strip camera we have a winner …”

  The announcer paused for effect, and Fingal, who could cheerfully have strangled the man for doing so, muttered, “Get on with it.”

  “By a nose …”

  “Get bloody well on with it.”

  “In a tightly run race …”

  “For the love of Jasus and all the apostles, will you come on?”

  “… is Flo’s Fancy.”

  “Right.” O’Reilly punched one fist into the air above his head. Kitty swung and, taking him by surprise, kissed him. Barry was clapping his hands. Kinky, dear old Kinky, had both hands clasped above her head like a victorious prizefighter. The seated marquis yelled, “Thanks for the tip, Fingal.” It was hard to hear him above the general pandemonium that forced the announcer to pause before continuing: “And it’s a dead heat for second place between Glen Lady and Myrna’s Magic.”

  “You’ll be a rich man, Barry,” O’Reilly said. “A winner and a place. Fair play to you.”

  Barry grinned and held up one thumb.

  O’Reilly looked down. Bertie Bishop’s face was a deeper puce. He stood ramrod stiff, arms clamped shut across his chest, jaw stuck out. His scowl held pure vitriol, and his voice rasped above the general noise. “I demand a bloody recount. That result’s not feckin’ right, so it’s not.”

  O’Reilly squatted and leant forward so his mouth was level with Bertie Bishop’s ear. “Bertie, it’s not an election and you can’t recount a photo finish. I’d have thought you’d’ve been very happy with a win.”

  “Happy? I’m out of pocket by near a thousand pounds, and I’ve to give the lads’ shares back to them, and—”

  “I’m sure the lads’ll be happy to have their shares returned,” O’Reilly said, then lowered his voice. “But I’d keep my voice down, Bertie, if I were you.”

  “What the hell for, O’Reilly?” Bertie roared.

  “Because,” Fingal said very quietly, “at the moment your stock is up. You’ve been very decent to eight local men.”

  Bertie didn’t lower his voice. “I don’t give a thundering—”

  “Stop shouting, dear,” Flo yelled, in a voice that O’Reilly reckoned could have cut tin.

  “Yes, dear.” Bishop’s decibel level did diminish, and it seemed to O’Reilly that the councillor had shrunk in stature. A good moment to rub the message home.

  “It’s not you personally out of pocket nearly a thousand pounds. It’s Ladbrokes, isn’t it? You told everybody at the Duck you’d bet there.”

  “Aye, well …” Bertie’s voice tailed off.

  “If you didn’t, Bertie, perhaps my apology wasn’t merited. Perhaps you never bet at all, ever?”

  Bishop spat. “I did, in soul I did, so I did. Every bloody time. So there, O’Reilly.”

  Fingal stared into Bishop’s eyes. The pupils were black pinpoints, and hadn’t Fingal recently read a paper in a medical journal that correlated contraction of the pupils with telling a lie? That was all Fingal needed to confirm his suspicions. “So,” he said beaming, “in that case—and who am I to doubt you, Bertie?—my apology stands.” Fingal wondered if his own pupils had just contracted.

  “I should bloody well think so.”

  “Och,” said O’Reilly, “my saying sorry is worth eight workingmen getting their shares—and their winnings. It’s what you promised in front of all those people, Bertie.”

  Bertie shook his head so forcibly his wattles shivered, and he made strangly, growly noises in his throat.

  “Cheer up,” said O’Reilly. “You’ll still own twenty percent of a great wee horse, you’ll get your cut of the prize money today, and in future if she keeps winning and you sell her for a big profit, you’ll get your share of that too.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You will,” said O’Reilly beaming, “and your reputation for decency is solid now.”

  “’At’s right.” Bertie managed a weak smile.

  O’Reilly moved his head closer and lowered his voice to barely a whisper so only Bertie could hear. “And your share of the prizes and the eventual sale might just make up the thousand pounds that I know and you know is as likely to be coming from Ladbrokes as whiskey from a hedgehog.”

  Bishop hung his head.

  “Don’t worry, Bertie. All of that’s between you and me and the wall.”

  Bertie mumbled, “Thank you, Doctor O’Reilly,” then turned his back and grabbed his wife by the arm. “Come on, Flo. Say good-bye to your friends. We’ve to go down to the parade ring and accept our prize on behalf of our syndicate”—his little eyes narrowed—“and have a word with that eejit of a Cork jockey.”

  48

  He That Bringeth Glad Tidings

  O’Reilly held Kitty’s hand, led Barry and Kinky out through the gates of the racecourse, and waited to cross the road to the car park. Lord Jasus, what a day. What a day.

  Barry, judging by the lightness in his step and the smile on his face, must think so too. “Thanks for bringing me, Fingal,” he said, as they moved ahead surrounded by the now thinning crowd as people made their way to cars or to the nearest bus stops. It took a while to cross the road because so many bicycles were being wheeled along by folks who’d mount up as soon as they could.

  “Fingal,” Kitty said, “there’ll be lots of cyclists on the way home. You’ll be careful?”

  “Of course, dear.” O’Reilly ignored Barry’s raised eyebrow and said to him, “Aren’t you glad we came?”

  “I am.”

  “I’d not have let you miss it, Barry. It might not be Royal Ascot—”

  “Maybe not, but I’ve had as much fun here as I’d have had at Ascot, probably a lot more. And I’m ahead thirty quid.”

  “Between us, Kitty and I are up sixty pounds.”

  “You’re a good judge of horseflesh, Fingal,” Kitty said and smiled at him.

  “I do have an eye for the fillies.” He winked at her and they laughed.

  “I hope,” Barry said, turning to Kinky, “you enjoyed your day, too.”

  “It was altogether grand, so. Altogether.” She showed her handbag. “And Flo and Cissie, even in her new red dress, were most impressed, so thank you, Miss Kitty.”

  “We need to thank you, Kinky Kincaid,” said O’Reilly. “It wouldn’t have been such a lovely day without you and your brother Tiernan.” He lowered his voice. “No hint of him got to Eugene Power.”

  “Tiernan will be grateful, so. Cork road bowling is a shmall little, closed world, and he’d not want to be thought badly of by his friends. Thank you, sir. I saw you watching the race, then talking to that Councillor Bishop,” she said with a grin. “I could tell he was fit to be tied. He’d a face on him like a bulldog that had licked piss off a nettle.”

  O’Reilly had heard Kinky use the expression before, but clearly Kitty and Barry had not. It would have been worth paying admission just to see the astounded looks on their faces. He saw Donal waving and slowed until Donal caught up and silently fell into stride beside him.

  “So are you a happy man, Donal Donnelly?” asked O’Reilly.

  “By jizz, Doctor O’Reilly, sir, there’s not a happier man in the whole Six Counties, except maybe my seven mates.”

  “There might be one more,” O’Reilly said, glancing at Kitty, “but go on.”

  “Before I do, sir, Willy said for to give you th
is here.” Donal handed over an envelope. It was satisfactorily fat. “Thank you.” O’Reilly slipped it into an inside pocket. He’d give Barry his winnings back at Number 1. “Now, Donal, you were saying you and your mates are the happiest men in Ulster.”

  “We are that. We got our shares back and a wheen of spondulix in our pockets—the bet winnings and our share of the prize money, you know. Who’d not be happy?”

  “And what about Julie, Donal?” Kitty asked. “Did she win yesterday?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to tell youse, with all this blether about celebrating Flo’s Fancy and all. Julie come second.”

  “I’m disappointed, Donal,” Kitty said. “Really and truly. We were all so sure she’d win.”

  “That’s very kind, Miss O’Hallorhan, you know, but no harm ’til ye, Julie and me’s quare nor satisfied.” He looked down, then back up at her. “To tell you the truth I’d rather not have thousands of people gawping at her photo.

  “And with that two hundred and fifty pounds and the oul’ do-re-mi from today, the pair of us can buy a wee house and my wages can pay a mortgage dead easy, so they can. Might even pay it off completely when the syndicate sells the wee filly.”

  “I’m delighted,” O’Reilly said, “and I hope you and your mates will be down at the Duck tonight to celebrate. We’ll leave that nice young cardiologist to run the shop, Barry, and we’ll drop in later.”

  “You’ll be very welcome, sirs, and you too, Miss O’Hallorhan,” Donal said. “The lads and Willy Dunleavy won’t mind having a lady there, even it is a public bar. Tonight’s special, so it is.”

  “Thank you, Donal,” Kitty said, “and will Julie be coming too?”

  “I’ll ask her if she wants to, but she’s been off the drink ever since she started expecting.” Donal grinned. “I want to get home to her, make sure she’s comfy, like. I’m not on the oul’ pushbike today. I’ve borrowed a motorbike.”

  “Go on then,” O’Reilly said, “and try not to ride into the ditch.”

  Donal laughed. “No harm to ye, sir, but after what yourself done to the Rover? That’s rich, so it is.”