An Irish Country Village

by Patrick Taylor

  Barry saw one send a series of frantic gestures, and immediately Honest Sammy Dolan took a damp cloth and a piece of chalk and altered the numbers beside Breckonhill Brave’s name from evens to one to two.

  “Aha,” said O’Reilly, “someone’s got inside information about that horse. The odds have lengthened.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin, finished his Bass, and immediately opened another bottle. “Have you had enough?”

  Barry nodded.

  “Right.” O’Reilly shoved the wreckage of their lunch into the hamper and closed the boot. “Let’s take a run-race down to the paddock and see if Fergus Finnegan’s about the place.”

  Barry followed O’Reilly down the hill, their progress constantly interrupted by having to stop and exchange pleasantries with this one and that one. He was pleased to see how many strangers clearly knew who he was and by how they all seemed to treat him with good-humoured civility.

  Vendors selling racing-form bills, soft drinks, ice cream, and sandwiches threaded their way through the crowd.

  More words of the song O’Reilly had been singing ran in Barry’s head.

  And it’s there you’ll see confectioners with sugarsticks and dainties,

  The lozenges and oranges, the lemonade and raisins,

  Gingerbread and spices to accommodate the ladies,

  And a big cruibin for thruppence to be suckin’ while you’re able.

  The noise of voices grew as the two doctors approached the space in front of the bookies’ stations. There queues of bettors, each studying his copy of the racing form from the sports pages of last night’s Belfast Telegraph, waited to lay their wagers. Money and tickets changed hands with great rapidity.

  Barry saw a familiar figure approaching. He’d not mistake the carrotty hair and buck teeth nor, he smiled, the green rubber boots the man was wearing.

  “Donal,” boomed O’Reilly, “how the hell are you?”

  “Seamus and me got the day off from the roof job at Sonny’s. It’s coming on a treat, by the way. We finished putting up the frames and the rafters yesterday, and we’ll start on the slates on Monday, so we will. I reckon another two weeks’ll see us done.”

  “Good,” said O’Reilly, with a glance at Barry, “but Sonny’ll need somewhere to stay until it’s ready.”

  “Like enough, but sure he’s all right in that place in Bangor.”

  O’Reilly grunted.

  “Anyway,” said Donal, “great to see the pair of youse, but I’ll have to run on. I’m powerful busy, so I am. I’ve a job as bookie’s runner for Willie McCardle. I’m making a few more bob for Julie and me.”

  “How is she?” Barry enquired.

  Donal frowned. “She’d a wee tummy upset this morning when I popped in to see her, but she says it’s normal. Is it?” He looked at O’Reilly.

  “Indeed.”

  Barry remembered that he’d had some concerns about the size and feel of Julie’s uterus last week, but before he could ask Donal anything O’Reilly had grabbed the man by the arm and was asking, “Have you found any Englishmen yet, Donal?”

  Donal put a hand in his pocket, and Barry heard a clinking noise. “Not yet, but if I do I’m ready.” He winked at O’Reilly.

  “Good. Doctor Laverty and I may just know the fellah you’re looking for. Where can he find you?”

  “At Willie’s stand . . . unless I’m away off again on the phone to Ladbrokes laying off covering bets.”

  “I’ll send him along if I see him,” O’Reilly said.

  “Great.” Donal scurried away.

  “Ladbrokes?” Barry was puzzled. All of this was new to him.

  “Biggest bookmakers in the United Kingdom,” O’Reilly explained. “The small bookies cover their bets if they’re getting too many wagers on a horse by making counterbets. If the horse wins, their own winnings with the big company allow them to cover their debts to the punters.”

  “I see.”

  “And,” O’Reilly rubbed his hands, “if Fergus sees us right, it is my sincere hope that a certain Honest Sammy Dolan won’t remember taking my bet on Donal’s Bluebird last month, but will have himself covered and be well prepared to shell out again later today.”

  “You made four hundred pounds on that, Fingal.”

  “Money well earned,” said O’Reilly. “And if you remember, I gave the same tip to His Lordship. He won something too. That was the night I asked him if you could have a day’s fishing on his trout stream.” O’Reilly turned to walk on, but then stopped and said, “And speak of the devil and he’s sure to turn up.”

  Barry saw two men approaching: Captain O’Brien-Kelly and an older gentleman with a mop of ill-trimmed grey hair sticking out from under a Paddy hat, yesterday’s stubble on his cheeks. He looked like a gardener dressed as he was in a darned, red woollen cardigan, collarless shirt, corduroy pants—the knees of which Barry noticed were shiny with wear—and a pair of mud-splattered Wellington boots.

  “Afternoon, O’Reilly,” the older man said. “Grand day for the event, isn’t it? There seems to be a very good turnout.” Barry heard the gentle inflections of a public school–educated Ulsterman. Although the harsh edges of Ulster speech had been smoothed, there was no aping the accents of the English upper classes, no mistaking the man’s origins. He stretched out his hand, which O’Reilly shook. “I think you’ve already met my guest, from my son’s regiment.” He indicated the captain, who smiled weakly at O’Reilly and ignored Barry. “And you must be Laverty?”

  Barry frantically tried to remember the correct form of address for a Marquis and settled for “Yes, sir.”

  “I hope you’d a good day on my water last month.”

  “Yes, thank you, sir.”

  “Please feel free to take your rod up anytime . . . and you, Fingal, we’ll be beating the outer coverts in a couple of weeks. The pheasants have done very well this year. Would you be able to get free and bring your gun and Arthur Guinness?”

  O’Reilly’s smile was bright enough to eclipse the sun that had just appeared from behind a small cloud. “I’d love to.” He glanced at Barry. “And I’m sure Doctor Laverty won’t mind taking care of the practice for a day.”

  “If I’m—”

  “Och, you’ll be ready by then.” He spoke with absolute certainty, and Barry smiled.

  Before Barry could reply, he heard a high-pitched whinny coming from Captain O’Brien-Kelly. “I say, Bewtie,” he addressed the Marquis. “Can’t we twot on? I’d weally like to put something on that filly in the first.”

  Barry saw the marquis frown. Clearly he disapproved of bad manners, but he said, “You run along. I want to spend a little more time with the doctors.”

  “Wighty-ho.”

  “Captain,” O’Reilly said softly, “the last time we met I told you there’d be a fellah here you should meet, another Arkle fancier. That’s him there. Donal Donnelly.” He pointed to where Donal was thrusting through the throng on his way back to the bookie’s stand. “You really should have a word with him. Tell him I sent you, but you’ll have to speak slowly.” O’Reilly’s tone became confidential. “He’s a bit dim. One of the local peasantry.”

  “Slowly? Wather. I’d weally enjoy having a chat . . . after I’ve made my bet.”

  “Don’t let me detain you,” O’Reilly said, “and give my regards to Mr. Donnelly.”

  “Will do.” The captain hurried off.

  “Like a lamb . . .” O’Reilly let the rest hang.

  “To the slaughter,” Barry muttered under his breath, as his lips twitched into a smile.

  “Getting on well with the young man?” O’Reilly asked.

  The Marquis sighed. “He’s my son’s company commander. When Sean asked if I’d let the man come over for a few days, it was very difficult to refuse.”

  Typical, Barry thought. The man was too much of a gentleman to criticize his guest, but his evasive answer spoke volumes.

  “He’s staying in the gate lodge, I believe,” O’Reilly said.
r />   “That’s right.”

  “Your Lordship, I’ve an odd kind of request.”

  Barry frowned. What was O’Reilly going to ask for?

  “Please?”

  “Have you met Sonny?”

  “The recluse who lives in his car?”

  “That’s him.”

  The marquis smiled. “Yes, indeed. He’s a most interesting man. Marvellous chess player, and he knows more about early Nabataean civilization than anyone else I’ve met. They’re the chappies who built Petra.”

  “Ah,” said O’Reilly, “the ‘rose-red city half as old as time.’ ”

  “Fascinating people,” His Lordship went on, warming to his theme. “They’ve been an interest of mine ever since I was up at Caius.”

  Barry’s shoulders slumped. Gonville and Caius College. The marquis had attended Cambridge University—now that was a place he did not want to think about today.

  “That’s Sonny,” O’Reilly said. “He’s stuck in a home in Bangor, and I’m looking for temporary accommodation for him.”

  “And you’re wondering if I can help?”

  O’Reilly nodded.

  The Marquis frowned. “Ordinarily I’d be delighted, but we’ve a big house party this weekend—folks over for the races. But if any of them go home early, I’ll let you know.”

  “That’s very generous of you, sir.”

  “Nonsense,” said the Marquis. “I’d much prefer Sonny’s company to . . .” He inclined his head to where Barry could see the captain deep in conversation with a grinning Donal Donnelly.

  Barry was so intent on watching the scene unfold he didn’t notice the Marquis leaving. Soon Barry saw Donal give something to the captain and in exchange accepted what appeared to be a number of banknotes.

  “Come on, Barry,” O’Reilly said. “The one-thirty’s just about ready to start. We’ll watch it, and then . . .”—he rubbed his hands together and his eyes narrowed—“we’ll go and see Fergus Finnegan. He said he’d have the word for us for the third.”

  Half a League, Half a League, Half

  a League Onward

  O’Reilly gave what Barry thought was a splendid imitation of an icebreaker in loose pack ice, shouldering his way through the throng milling round the near side of the start line. The spectators shoved and shouldered their way close to the fence, but a miraculously created sea-lane appeared in front of Fingal. Barry followed in his wake.

  He heard snatches of conversation.

  “Sorry, Doc . . .”

  “You fancy Whinney Knowes at ten to one, Huey? Your head’s a marley . . .”

  “Jesus. Shove over, Paddy. You’d make a better door than a window. I can’t see nothing.”

  “How’s about you, Doctor Laverty?”

  Barry smiled to acknowledge the greeting.

  As far as he could tell, the people down here at trackside were mostly working-class. Their betters—their self-perceived betters—had vantage points higher up the hillside. The scrum that surrounded Barry was a far cry from the Cecil Beaton–dressed lords and ladies in the Ascot scene he’d watched in My Fair Lady a few days before.

  “Tuck in there,” said O’Reilly, indicating a space beside him at the white painted fence.

  Barry leant on the wooden railing. He had a better view of the track from here. It was clear that the first couple of hundred yards were fenced; then the fairway ran between chest-high, boundary hedges and led to the first jump.

  “That,” said O’Reilly, pointing to the far side, “is the finishing post. If we wait here, we’ll be able to see the start and the finish.”

  Barry had to strain to hear the words over the din. He wrinkled his nose. The turf of the track’s grass had been mowed recently, and no one could mistake the odour of horse droppings.

  A rope stretched between the starting post and a raised platform surrounded by low railings. He watched as a figure in a cloth cap and long coat climbed a ladder to the platform.

  “Starter,” said O’Reilly. “Won’t be long. Here they come.”

  Barry saw a procession of eight horses approaching in single file. Each was led by a groom. The jockeys, all small men, sat upright in their saddles. All wore high leather boots, corduroy jodhpurs, and black velvet–covered, peaked hard hats. Every one carried a crop, but each rider sported a different coloured shirt, his racing silks. Every stable and every owner had their own pattern.

  “See that fellah on the big gelding?” O’Reilly indicated a rider whose shirt was divided into four equal squares, two green, two scarlet. Barry nodded, but in truth he couldn’t tell the difference between a gelding and cob if his life depended on it.

  “Those are the marquis’ colours.”

  “Oh.”

  The grooms led their charges to the starting rope, where the animals lined up shoulder to shoulder. The crowd was quieter now, and Barry could hear the jingling of tack, horses snorting, hooves stamping on the turf. The biggest animal, a chestnut, wrenched its head sideways and tried to bite its neighbour. The victim sidled away, the chestnut’s jockey sawed at the reins, and both horses whinnied.

  Barry was intrigued by the fierce intensity in all the animals’ huge liquid brown eyes.

  He saw the man on the platform raise a red flag.

  “They’re under starter’s orders,” O’Reilly said.

  Every jockey, reins grasped in his hands, feet firmly in the stirrups, crouched forward, gaze fixed on the track ahead. The bent figures reminded Barry of the position a fetus assumes in the uterus.

  He heard the jangling of a bell, saw the starter slash his flag down. The rope was dropped and the horses flew forward. The sound of hooves thundering on the turf was as deafening as the row of a half battery of artillery using drumfire. Great divots flew from behind the animals. The earth where Barry stood shook underfoot. Already one had taken the lead.

  Barry craned forward to watch the leader and then the pack hurl themselves at the first hurdle. The first horse flew over, pursued by several others. An unhorsed jockey cleared the jump with feet to spare, while his mount, reins trailing, had already started to nibble the grass on the near side. Barry involuntarily braced himself for the thump of a body hitting the ground, and hoped no limbs would be broken.

  “Whinney Knowes at ten to one, Huey?” a voice from behind him remarked scornfully. “The only ten his jockey would get would be for artistic merit in a diving competition.”

  “Away off and fuck yourself.”

  Barry had to laugh. He’d just heard the classic Ulster rebuttal to any form of criticism.

  The sound of hooves faded, but the rising and falling yells of encouragement from the spectators moved along the track like an ocean wave heading to and receding from a beach. The cheering died as the horses headed out into the countryside.

  Barry could see across the track railings and over a ploughed field to a row of widely spaced larches. The trees marched along inside what must be the fence marking the far side of the track. In what seemed like no time, the field, now more spread out, charged past the larches, vanishing behind the trunks and reappearing like frames from a stop-action film.

  Barry turned, stared back along the track, and waited. Already he could hear the distant hammering of hoof on grass, horses snorting, breakers of cheers rushing back to the finish-line shore. Above the perimeter fence he could see the tops of jockeys’ and horses’ heads pounding rhythmically as they rounded the final turn to gallop to the last fence. Up and over, up and over, up—and then, crashing, half the fence flattened, horse and rider struggling through the wreckage.

  Two animals were neck and neck. Their jockeys crouched, belabouring their mounts with their crops, straining forward in the saddles as if by sheer physical force they could urge their mounts ahead. The horses’ nostrils flared, foam flew from their flanks, and the air stank of horse sweat. Barry half expected Eliza Doolittle to yell, “Come on, Dover! Move your bloomin’ arse!”

  From where he stood it appeared as if the large
r horse had won, and its jockey wore the green and scarlet of the marquis.

  The rest of the field straggled in, but there were fewer beasts than had started. The course had taken its toll.

  “ ‘Then they rode back, but not, not the six hundred,’ ” said O’Reilly.

  “Tennyson,” said Barry. “Charge of the Light Brigade.”

  “True,” said O’Reilly, grinning. “That’s a very satisfactory result to the first. His Lordship should be pleased. Pity about the filly.”

  “What filly, Fingal?”

  “Whinney Knowes. She refused at the first.” His voice held a tiny hint of sadness that belied his grin.

  “Do you know her owner?”

  “Not at all,” said O’Reilly, “but I do know someone who was in a hell of a hurry to put a bet on her. I hope his losses were nothing trivial.” He guffawed. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer man.”

  And Barry remembered Captain O’Brien-Kelly.

  “Come on,” said O’Reilly, shoving his way away from the fence. “Let’s go and find Fergus.”

  A field had been set aside to serve as a paddock. A steward stopped Barry and O’Reilly at the gate. “No admittance,” he announced, squinting at them.

  “Balls, Liam Loughridge,” O’Reilly growled.

  “Sorry, Doctor O’Reilly,” the steward said, knuckling his forehead, “I didn’t recognize yourself, sir.”

  “No bloody wonder. You’ve not been and got fixed up with those glasses I told you you needed, have you?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Get on with it. They’ll not cost you a penny. Spectacles are free on the National Health.”

  “I will, sir, honest to God.” He opened the gate. “Come on in.”

  Barry followed O’Reilly into a meadow. Already the entrants from the first race were returning. As the jockeys dismounted, the grooms took off the saddles, curried the horses’ flanks, draped them with blankets, and led them to waiting horseboxes.

  “There’s Fergus,” O’Reilly announced, striding across the grass. “Afternoon, Fergus. How’s the eye today?”