Fatty O'Leary's Dinner Party by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

really is interesting.”
    They lapsed into comfortable, companionable silence. Outside, in the Irish night, an owl swooped across Mrs. O’Connor’s lawns, and then disappeared into the woods.

10
    L ORD B ALNERRY , WHO HAD DRIVEN up from Cork in his horsebox, thought there was no point in Fatty and Betty driving their car to the sales when there was ample room in his vehicle.
    â€œI’ve got three seats in the front,” he said. “And there are three of us. No sense in your trailing behind me. We’ll all go together.”
    Mrs. O’Connor personally prepared packed lunches for them: duck sandwiches, three generous slices of Melton Mowbray pie, and half a fruit cake lightly soaked in rum. Then, their cameras loaded to record the day’s experiences, Fatty and Betty joined Lord Balnerry beside the horsebox. It was a large, grey-painted vehicle, with a narrow, wood-slatted section at the rear where a horse might stand in passable comfort. On the engine grille were lined the insignia of various motoring clubs, gleaming silver badges with crests and symbols, survivors of an easier age of motoring.
    Lord Balnerry opened the passenger door and invited Betty to get in. She squeezed herself into the narrow confines of the cab, realising immediately that the seats were far too small for a further passenger, even one of modest girth.
    â€œI’m not sure if we’re all going to fit,” she said, trying to slide further over the seat toward the middle. “It’s rather cramped in here.”
    Lord Balnerry stepped forward and looked through the open passenger door.
    â€œI see what you mean,” he said. “I’m used to carrying jockeys in there. I’ve had four people in before this, but then you know what jockeys are like. Tiny fellows. You’re not exactly …” He stopped, and turned to Fatty.
    â€œWould you mind terribly, Cornelius?” he said. “I often let my nephew travel in the horse’s quarters. It’s perfectly comfortable back there.”
    Fatty hesitated for a moment. It was preposterous to ask somebody to travel in a horse’s stall, with all the straw and the smell. Did Lord Balnerry think that he was not worth more than that? Would he have asked another lord to do that? What about Freddy Guinness? Would he have asked Freddy Guinness to subject himself to that? Or was it just because he was merely Fatty O’Leary from Fayetteville, Arkansas, that he thought he could make the suggestion?
    Fatty stared at Lord Balnerry, looking for a clue in his expression; perhaps a curl of the lip or an incipient sneer. But there was nothing. Lord Balnerry seemed utterly sincere.
    â€œI’d travel in it myself,” he said, “and let you drive. But this thing is only insured for me and you know how careful we have to be in Ireland now that we’ve got Brussels breathing down our necks. In the old days nobody bothered about insurance or anything like that. But these days, it’s a different story. The Belgians can send you to prison for all sorts of things these days. Even for thinking the wrong sort of thoughts, I should imagine.”
    Fatty smiled. “I don’t mind,” he said. “I can look out through the slats and see what’s going on. I’ll be fine.”
    â€œGood man,” said Lord Balnerry, beginning to undo the back gate of the box. “Here we are now. Lots of hay if you get hungry!”
    Fatty laughed as he walked up the ramp, but stopped when, from the corner of his eye, he spotted a figure standing at the back door of the house, watching proceedings with a keen interest. Although he turned away quickly and scampered up the last of the ramp, he knew that it had been Rupert O’Brien.
    â€œWould you believe it,” said Rupert O’Brien to Niamh, when he returned to the drawing room. “I’ve just seen that forgetful Monty Balnerry loading our well-padded American