Fatty O'Leary's Dinner Party (10 page)

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 depth 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.

“Certainly not,” said O'Brien. “I'm with the
Irish Times
.”

“Don't read it,” said Lord Balnerry.

It was fortunate, perhaps, that Mrs. O'Connor returned at this point with drinks for the O'Briens. They took their glasses in shaking hands and sat down.

“Anyway,” said Lord Balnerry, “as I was saying to my friend Mr. O'Leary, it's remarkable how small the world is. He and I find that we have a very good friend in common.”

Rupert O'Brien appeared to rally. “Of course,” he said, jovially. “And you and I have many friends in common too. Senator Cuilhain, for example. He and I are very close.”

“He's a shocker,” said Lord Balnerry. “I wouldn't get too close to him if I were you. He's no friend of mine. Sorry.”

Rupert O'Brien decided to treat this remark as a joke. “Oh, very droll,” he said. “A shocker! Poor old Paddy Cuilhain.”

“I wasn't joking,” said Lord Balnerry. “I meant it, Mr. O'Sullivan.”

“O'Brien,” corrected Rupert O'Brien.

“Another shocker,” said Lord Balnerry.

The conversation drifted, with Rupert O'Brien trying, quite unsuccessfully, to turn it to his advantage. At last, on the verge of despair, he turned to Fatty and said: “I retrieved your shoes from the lough, Mr. O'Leary. They
floated, and I fished them out with a stick. They're drying outside.”

Everybody looked at Fatty's feet.

“But I see that you brought another pair with you,” went on O'Brien. “That was wise.”

Fatty noticed that Lord Balnerry was staring at his new brogues. “Funny,” said Lord Balnerry. “I had a pair just like that, but I left them somewhere …”

Fatty's heart thumped wildly within him. He must, at all costs, divert attention from his shoes. But how to do it?

Rupert O'Brien chipped in. “I have a wonderful shoemaker in Dublin. He takes a last of your feet and then keeps it forever. He made a pair for my father and I'm still wearing them. Wonderful shoes. Can you wear your father's shoes, Lord Balnerry?”

Lord Balnerry's gaze moved from Fatty's shoes.

“He only had one leg,” he said curtly. “Therefore he only had one shoe.”

Rupert O'Brien blushed. “I'm so sorry,” he said.

They went through for dinner, Lord Balnerry taking Betty's arm and courteously accompanying her, while Fatty walked on his other side. Rupert and Niamh O'Brien followed, both with angry, furrowed brows. The smoking
jacket, so elegant on first appearance, now seemed a less secure fit, and Niamh's bearing, previously haughty and remote, was marginally less self-assured.

Lord Balnerry took it upon himself to arrange the seating at the table. Betty was invited to sit on his right, and Fatty on his left. The O'Briens were left to take the remaining seats. Once seated, though, Rupert O'Brien seemed determined to make up lost ground. Taking the menu, he scrutinised it carefully. “Let's see what Mrs. O'Connor is tempting us with,” he said. “Ah! I see we are to start with gravlax with mustard sauce. That's delightful. We had that, did we not, my dear, at Antoine's in Dublin the other day. You know the place, Lord Balnerry?”

“Yes,” said Lord Balnerry. “I know it.”

“Wonderful chef, Antoine,” said Rupert O'Brien, now getting into his stride. “We often have a little chat with him afterward. He sometimes even tells Niamh his recipes, which these great chefs can't stand doing, you know. They regard them as a trade secret. That's why you must never ask a chef for his recipe. It's a terrible thing to do.”

“Oh, but I do,” said Lord Balnerry. “I always ask.”

“Ah!” said Rupert O'Brien. “I'm sure you know when you can ask. I didn't say that you should
never
ask. I just said that you shouldn't. You'll know when you can.”

“But I always ask,” said Lord Balnerry. “All the time.”

“Ha!” said Rupert O'Brien. “Well, there you are. No matter. Antoine doesn't like it, but he always gives Niamh a tip about some dish or other. He used to cook for Freddy Guinness before he started his own restaurant. You know Freddy Guinness?”

“My cousin,” said Lord Balnerry. Then, turning to Betty, he said: “You have a very good restaurant in Fayetteville. My friends took me there. Everything is so pleasant in Arkansas.”

“Thank you,” said Betty, beaming with pleasure.

“You been to Arkansas, Mr. O'Brien?” asked Lord Balnerry.

“No,” said Rupert O'Brien. “But–”

“Pity,” said Lord Balnerry. “It's a charming state. You should go there.”

“Well,” said Rupert O'Brien. “I'm often in New York, you know.”

Lord Balnerry reached for his glass of water. “Never go there myself.”

The meal progressed. The waitress, who was the same waitress who had given Fatty and Betty the sandwiches she had made for the O'Briens, seemed very fond of Lord Balnerry and responded well to his suggestion that she give
generous helpings to their “American friends” so that they should return home with a positive impression of Irish hospitality. It was a concomitant of this, of course, that there was less for the O'Briens, whose plates arrived barely covered, while Fatty and Betty received large mounds of delicious food. And then, entirely accidentally, at the end of the meal she spilt the remnants of a raspberry sorbet over Rupert O'Brien's white jacket, for which accident she apologised profusely, but was defended stoutly by Lord Balnerry.