Fatty O'Leary's Dinner Party

  Fatty was first to clamber onto the jetty, and, from his position of safety he bent down and gave a hand to Betty, who needed assistance in getting out of the water. Betty grasped his hand and tried to pull herself up, but Fatty, vulnerable in his waterlogged footwear, slipped and toppled over into the lough; so might a hippopotamus fall into the Limpopo, with just such a splash.

  “Oh, Betty!” moaned Fatty, when he broke the surface. “Oh, Betty, I’ve gone and lost my shoes now.”

  Betty tried to help him find his shoes, ducking under the water to do so. But they had churned up so much mud that it was impossible to see through the turbid murk, and so they reluctantly gave up and waded toward the shore. As they staggered out of the water, brushing off the weed and slime that they had acquired on their ignominious journey, they looked up and saw two figures on the lawn of the house. These two had watched the unfolding tragedy from afar, but had been unable to help, given the rapid course of events. Now, however, they strode across the lawns to enquire of the unfortunate couple as to whether they could offer any assistance.

  “My dear Mr. O’Leary,” said Rupert O’Brien, as he tried ineffectively to brush the aquatic detritus from Fatty’s shoulders. “What fearful bad luck! Did you overload that little boat, do you think? Is that what happened?”

  Fatty did not reply to Rupert O’Brien. He was chilled to the bone by his exposure to the cold waters of the lough. He had no shoes. His clothes were covered with waterweed.

  He turned to Betty, who stood shivering beside him, the green linen trouser suit clinging to her every bulge.

  “Come, Betty,” he said, with such dignity as he could muster. “We’ll go and have a hot bath.”

  “But we don’t have a bath,” said Betty. “Not any more.”

  9

  MRS. O’CONNOR APPEARED LARGELY UNCONCERNED about the loss of the boat, just as she had accepted, with remarkable equanimity, the removal of the bath and its apparent abandonment in the courtyard.

  “That boat’s gone down before now,” she said, as Fatty hesitantly explained their dripping and shivering arrival in the entrance hall. “I’ll send Delaney’s boy down to bring it up. He’s a great swimmer, that lad.”

  She surveyed her guests with concern. “But you poor things must be most uncomfortable, and you’ll be needing a good hot bath.”

  Fatty wrung his hands together in an attempt to restore warmth to his frozen fingers. “Our own bath, of course, is still …”

  “Of course,” said Mrs. O’Connor. “How silly of me. You must use my own bathroom. I’ll show you where it is. There’s lashings of hot water and I’ll get you some fresh towels.”

  She led them down a corridor to the bathroom. There, although Fatty took great care to ensure that he did not again become wedged in the tub, they were soon restored to warmth. Then, wearing the bathrobes that Mrs. O’Connor had thoughtfully provided for them, they made their way back to their own room and were soon warmly clad again.

  “It could have been worse,” said Fatty, as he sat in front of their window and gazed out over the lough. “If the boat had capsized when we were way out in the middle then heaven knows what could have happened. We might have drowned.”

  “Oh, don’t speak like that,” said Betty. “I wouldn’t like to drown, Fatty. Would you?”

  Fatty thought for a moment. “No,” he said. “I would not like to drown, Betty,” adding, “on balance.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then Betty spoke.

  “Sometimes I dream that I lose you, Fatty,” she said. “I wake up feeling so sad, as if my whole world had come to an end. Which it would, if I really did lose you.”

  Fatty looked at his wife. He did not deserve her, he thought. Although he had done his best as a husband, he could not believe that he merited the good fortune of having such a devoted wife. And sometimes it occurred to him that all that he seemed to bring her was awkwardness and problems. The Irish trip was an example; the chapter of accidents that had unfolded since their arrival was not Betty’s doing, it was his. She had not lost her luggage; she had not become stuck in the bath; she had not suggested setting forth in that inadequate boat; everything, it seemed, had been his fault.

  “Do you think I’m just accident-prone?” he asked. “There are some people like that, you know. Things just go wrong for them. They don’t ask for it; it just happens that way.”

  Betty, who had been sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair, laid down her brush and came over to Fatty’s side.

  “Of course not, my dear,” she said. “None of this is your fault. You’ve just had bad luck.”

  Fatty looked down at his bare feet. Although he had had a spare set of clothes made up by Mr. Delaney, he had only one pair of shoes and now he would have to try to borrow some from Mrs. O’Connor.

  “I’m just not much good at things,” he said. “No wonder that O’Brien person laughs at me.”

  Betty put her arm about his shoulder. “He doesn’t laugh at you, Fatty. You haven’t heard him laugh at you, have you?”

  “Not to my face,” said Fatty. “But behind my back. He’ll be laughing at me. He’ll be laughing at all the … undignified things that have happened to me.”

  Betty shook her head. “That’s not true, my dear. And, anyway, you’re a better man than he is by a long chalk. Anybody can tell that.”

  Fatty was silent. Something was happening at the edge of the lough and he could not quite see what it was. Rupert O’Brien was bending down at the water’s edge and seemed to be poking at the surface of the lough with a stick.

  “What do you think he’s doing?” asked Fatty, pointing at the distant figure.

  “Heaven knows,” said Betty. “But let’s not worry about him. Let’s go for a little drive in our car. We’ll buy some shoes from Mr. Delaney. Then we’ll have lunch somewhere. How about that?”

  The mention of lunch cheered Fatty up, and he readily agreed to Betty’s suggestion. Together they made their way downstairs, Betty going ahead to consult Mrs. O’Connor about shoes and Fatty treading gingerly on the bare wooden floorboards, lest he pick up a splinter.

  The borrowing of shoes, it transpired, was easily accomplished.

  “Guests leave the most extraordinary things behind,” said Mrs. O’Connor, opening a large walk-in cupboard. “Look in here.”

  Betty saw a cornucopia of effects: walking sticks, umbrellas, coats, books, and various items of clothing, all stacked on shelves. At the bottom, neatly arrayed, were lines of shoes. Her eye alighted on a handsome pair of brogues that looked as if it was the right size for Fatty: size ten, extra broad fitting.

  “That’s a fine pair of shoes,” said Mrs. O’Connor. “I have no idea who left them. But if they fit your husband, Mrs. O’Leary, then he should wear them. It’s an awful pity to waste shoes like that.”

  Fatty, who had now negotiated his way downstairs, took the shoes from Betty, along with a pair of checked men’s socks that Mrs. O’Connor had retrieved from one of the shelves. The fit was perfect, and the shoes were extremely comfortable. He thanked Mrs. O’Connor, and together he and Betty went out to their car and drove off down the drive.

  The shoes made his spirits soar, as fine apparel and the knowledge that one is wearing it tend to do.

  “I feel well-shod,” he remarked to Betty, as the lush countryside rolled past them. “It’s extraordinary how empowering a good pair of shoes can be.”

  Betty nodded. She had read about empowerment, which was something people seemed to talk a great deal about these days. A few months previously, at the Fayetteville Charity Fair, she had paid five dollars to enter a tent intriguingly labelled: Feminist Fortunes – the future as it really is. The fortune-teller, a young woman with unnerving green eyes, had said to her: “Are you empowered?” Betty had been uncertain how to answer, as she was not sure whether or not she was empowered. She had never felt unempowered or disempowered, but this did not mean that she was actually empowered.

  The youn
g woman had smiled at her. “The sisters are with you,” she had said. “They will help you to forget the man who’s been holding you back.”

  Betty looked astonished. Was Fatty holding her back? She thought it unlikely: Fatty always encouraged her to do things and took great pleasure in her achievements.

  “I don’t think a man’s holding me back,” she had said. “Not as far as I know.”

  The young woman had looked at her pityingly. “They all hold us back,” she said. “It’s just that sometimes they’re subtle about it and you don’t know that it’s happening.”

  “But my husband’s a nice man,” she had said. “We love to do things together. We’re very happy.”

  The young woman had shaken her head. “There’s a number on this leaflet,” she said, handing her a folded piece of paper. “Next time he becomes violent, call us.”

  But talk of empowerment seemed inappropriate in this landscape; it belonged to a world of conflict, to a society that seemed to be at war with itself, where people were pitted against one another in prickly distrust. Ireland was not like that, she thought, particularly not this part of Ireland, where strangers waved to one another and everybody seemed content with their lot.

  She looked out of the window. They were passing a field, which was bordered by an unkempt hedgerow; in the field, a small flock of sheep was browsing over the uneven grass; in the distance, behind a cluster of trees, rose a green hillside. The narrow road swung round, and they were at a crossroads, at which a signpost pointed in several directions, its arms loose, its message unclear.

  “Not very helpful,” remarked Betty; but Fatty replied, “It doesn’t matter anyway,” and chose the most interesting-looking road.

  For the next two hours, they travelled round the country, passing through small villages and towns, taking their time and enjoying the vistas that presented themselves at every turn. They knew, in the most general of senses, where they were; as long as they kept the lough in sight, off to the north, they were safe from disappearing into the great central plain of Ireland or slipping off the cliffs of Kerry into the Atlantic. Now that Fatty had his new shoes, there was no need to revisit Nenagh, or Mr. Delaney, and so they meandered purposelessly, at one with their surroundings, empowered, in an entirely Elysian sense, by the soft landscape of Ireland.

  At last, just before five o’clock, they found themselves entering Balinderry, from where they knew well the final few miles home. It had been a triumphant drive; even if they were to leave that very evening, they would be able to say to their friends back home that they had seen Ireland. But now, the car safely parked outside Mountpenny House, they could return to their room and have a short rest before the serving of six o’clock drinks in the large drawing room. Fatty, who had enjoyed the drive immensely, felt that he could even face Rupert O’Brien now, and cope with his overweening attitude. He would not try to compete, Fatty thought; he would let him hold forth as much as he liked and simply let it wash over him. In that way anxiety would be replaced by indifference.

  They were the first down at six o’clock. The late summer sun was low in the sky but it did not reach that side of the building, which made the recently lit fire welcome. Mrs. O’Connor, who had seen them going in, popped her head round the door and took orders for drinks, which she served quickly, and in generous measure.

  “We have another guest this evening,” she told them. “One of our regular people. He often stays when he’s over buying a horse. Lord Balnerry. A very nice man. You’ll like him.”

  Betty caught her breath. She was not at all sure that she would know what to say to somebody called Lord Balnerry. She had, in fact, never met a count or baron, or whatever, although she had always imagined Europe to be peopled by such figures. Fatty, too, was not a little nervous: the name seemed familiar for some reason, and yet he could not quite recall where he had heard it. Had there been a mention of Lord Balnerry in The Irish Tatler, along with Mr. Cosimo Pricolo and Mr. Pears van Eck, or, indeed, with Mr. Rupert O’Brien … The memory suddenly returned. It was Rupert O’Brien himself who had mentioned the peer when he was talking about antiques. He had said – had he not – that he used to help Lord Balnerry sort out his “stuff” at his “place” near Cork.

  Fatty’s heart sank. If Lord Balnerry were a friend of Rupert O’Brien, then his ordeal would be redoubled. He would be faced, he imagined, with a barrage from two directions. The only thing to do, he thought, would be to leave. They could quickly make some excuse and go off and have dinner somewhere else. They had seen a hotel not far away where there was a sign proclaiming a distinguished table. They could go there and have dinner in peace, without having to listen to what would surely be a litany of distinguished names, none known to them.

  As soon as Mrs. O’Connor had left the room, Fatty turned to Betty.

  “I think, my dear,” he began, “that we should perhaps go and have dinner somewhere …”

  He did not have time to finish his sentence. Had he been able to do so, Betty would undoubtedly have agreed to his plan, but before anything more could be said the door so recently closed by Mrs. O’Connor was opened again and a tall, well-built man in a brown tweed suit entered the room. He was wearing no tie, but had a red bandanna tied loosely round his neck. He also wore, as Fatty and Betty both noticed immediately, a large sand-coloured moustache.

  “Well, well,” he said. “Drinks time already. What a relief!”

  He smiled broadly at Fatty and Betty and moved across to greet them, his hand extended.

  Fatty rose to his feet and shook hands. “Cornelius O’Leary,” he said. “And this is my wife, Betty.”

  Lord Balnerry shook hands with Fatty and then gave a small bow in the direction of Betty.

  “Monty Balnerry,” he said.

  Mrs. O’Connor now returned, bearing her drinks tray.

  “I’ve mixed the usual for you, Lord Balnerry,” she said. “Very large whiskey and soda with a dash of extra whiskey for good effect.”

  The drinks were passed round. Fatty, who had felt a momentary sense of being trapped when his proposal had been interrupted by the arrival of the new guest, found himself immediately reassured. Lord Balnerry was clearly going to be easy company.

  “You people American?” asked Lord Balnerry.

  “Yes,” said Fatty. “We’re from Fayetteville, Arkansas.”

  Lord Balnerry smiled. “Marvellous place, Arkansas. I’ve been there several times. I was in Fayetteville a couple of years ago. I loved it.”

  “You’ve been to Fayetteville?” Betty asked incredulously. “Are you sure?”

  Lord Balnerry laughed. “I’m pretty sure I have,” he said. “I stayed with my old friend Rob Leflar. Do you know him?”

  “Of course we do,” said Fatty, beaming with pleasure. “And his father too. A great man, the father.”

  “Of course,” said Lord Balnerry. “Well, well, isn’t that nice that we’ve got friends in common. So much for the oceans that divide us.” He raised his glass to Fatty and Betty and took a large gulp of whiskey.

  “That’s better,” said Lord Balnerry. “I’ve been looking at horses. It’s dry work.”

  Fatty laughed. “Most work is.”

  “And yours, Mr. O’Leary,” said Lord Balnerry. “May I ask you what you do?”

  “I’m an antiques dealer,” said Fatty.

  Lord Balnerry was impressed. “That’s a very demanding business,” he said. “I doubt if I’d be any good at it.”

  “I’m sure you would,” said Fatty.

  “Oh no,” said Lord Balnerry. “I’m not very bright. Peers rarely are.”

  There was silence for a moment. Fatty and Betty were not certain how to take this, but Lord Balnerry continued breezily. “I can remember horses, of course. I cope with that. But concepts are a bit more demanding. Always have been.”

  Betty glanced at Fatty, hoping for guidance, but Fatty himself was perplexed.

  “So,” mused Lord Balnerry. “I’d be out of my dept
h if I had to do your job.”

  Fatty found himself warming more and more to their new companion. There was no pretentiousness about him – unlike Rupert O’Brien, of course – and there was a quality of friendliness which radiated out from the tweed suit and the drooping moustache like an electromagnetic field. But just as he was reflecting on this, the door opened again, and in came Rupert and Niamh O’Brien. Niamh was wearing a long cocktail dress and Rupert O’Brien had donned a lightweight cream jacket from the breast pocket of which emanated a large, red handkerchief. As they entered, their gaze moved immediately to Lord Balnerry, who was standing with his back to the fireplace, his large glass of whiskey in one hand and the other hand tucked into his pocket.

  “Lord Balnerry!” exclaimed Rupert O’Brien. “What a pleasant surprise! Our hostess told us that you might be here. How good to see you again.”

  “Oh,” said Lord Balnerry. “Oh, yes. Of course. Of course.”

  Fatty looked up at the aristocrat and realised immediately that Lord Balnerry had no idea of who it was who was addressing him.

  “This is Mr. O’Brien,” said Fatty confidently. “And Mrs. O’Brien of course. Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien, from Dublin.”

  Rupert O’Brien cast a withering glance in Fatty’s direction.

  “No need to introduce us,” he said. “We’ve known one another for a long time.”

  Lord Balnerry looked briefly at Fatty, who seemed crestfallen. In an instant he assessed the situation, and assessed it correctly. “Oh have we?” he said sharply to Rupert O’Brien. “Forgive me for not recalling your name, sir. In my position I meet so many members of the public that I find I forget them. You must forgive me. What did you say your name was again?”

  Rupert O’Brien stood stock-still, as if he had received an electric shock. When he spoke, his voice sounded uncertain.

  “Rupert O’Brien,” he said. “You may not remember, but I have been to your house, several times.”

  “To do work there?” asked Lord Balnerry. “Tradesman?”

  Fatty thought that he heard the sharp intake of breath from Rupert O’Brien.