Close Call

by John McEvoy

  It was still light when the two men walked down the two flights of wooden stairs to the beach. Sheila stayed in the house, helping the maid as she cleared the dinner dishes, then calling her parents to check on her son. “To tell you the truth,” she’d confided to Doyle, “I’m uncomfortable having servants. I don’t like even calling them that.”

  The dark waters of the Irish Sea touched gently on the shore and the night sky was speckled with stars. “One of our finer nights, Jack,” Hanratty said. “Our summer at its best.” As they continued walking, Hanratty asked about Doyle’s career background. Doyle responded with a very summarized, somewhat sanitized version, Hanratty watching him out of the corner of his eye as they walked.

  In turn, Doyle asked Hanratty how he’d “gotten so far, so fast, in such a tough business?” The bookmaker replied, “Long hours spent outthinking the competition. Longer hours putting my plans to work.” He offered no more.

  “Do you know where any of your folks hailed from over here?” Hanratty asked.

  “No,” Doyle said, “I’m sorry to say I don’t. People on my father’s side fought in our Civil War, I know that. One of my great-great-great uncles, Pete Trainor, ‘gave a leg for the Union cause,’ as family lore has it.”

  Hanratty said, “So, they were probably Famine People.”

  “That’s probably the case. But I don’t have any idea how those early relatives even entered the U. S. An aunt of mine could find no written records of their entrance. She speculated that they were probably what was called Two Boaters.”

  “And what’s that?” Hanratty said.

  “Many people from Ireland took ships that landed them in Canada. Later, they crossed over into New England, or upstate New York, by taking canoes or small boats on the St. Lawrence River.”

  “Two Boaters,” Hanratty laughed. “That’s a new one.”

  He turned serious a few minutes later when he pointed up the cliff to what he said was “part of the Famine Walk. It was where the poor starving devils walked when they were on their way to the famine ships in Kinsale harbor. Maybe that’s where some of your people walked.”

  Doyle said, “I wouldn’t know about that. All I know is that they got the hell out of here.”

  “Mine didn’t. Mine stayed. They toughed it out.” Hanratty took a final puff on his cigar before grinding it out in the wet sand. “A million and a half people died here back during that terrible time,” he said softly, “either of starvation or fever. Families were broken apart forever. Another million got the hell out. But not mine.”

  They had a nightcap in the library of the big, now mostly dark house, a room with walls lined with shelves of racing books and papers. Other shelves held works of fiction and poetry, some biographies scattered among them. Several pieces of expensive equine art—Jack admired a Stubbs and two Munnings paintings—added color to the large room.

  Doyle said, “Do you do much reading, Niall?”

  “Sheila’s always been the reader. Early on in my life, I was too busy carving out a living. I didn’t have much time for schooling. But I’ve done a good bit of catching up myself in recent years.” Hanratty nodded toward the book shelves. “You had a wonderful novelist in your country who wrote about mine. Thomas Flanagan. I have first editions of all his novels. And there’s much of Yeats that I enjoy. Do you know his poem ‘At Galway Races’? Some lovely lines.

  And we find hearteners among men

  That ride upon horses.

  “Myself, of course,” he added, “I find more ‘hearteners’ among men who bet on horses.”

  When the maid brought in their drinks, Irish coffee for each, Doyle took a swallow and, seconds later, felt his scalp tingle and begin to moisten. “Did the maid put four or five shots in here?” he said, placing the cup down on the table next to him and reaching for a water glass.

  Hanratty smiled. “They must not provide you with proper proportions over in the states.

  “Sheila tells me you’re not averse to a bit of local music, Jack. There’ll be a session tonight at a pub not far from us. Even with your great interest in jazz, I think you also might have a feeling for some music coming out of our own people.”

  “Try me, Niall.”

  Chapter 21

  Hanratty drove the three of them in his BMW some five miles down dark, narrow, tree-lined roads to an intersection that had a closed petrol station on one corner, a one-story building surrounded by cars on another. The lighted sign above the door read Sheridan’s Pub. Noting the large number of parked vehicles, Doyle said, “Where do all these people come from? I haven’t seen a house for miles.”

  “Oh, from various places around the area,” Sheila said. “The band that’s on tonight has quite a following.”

  “Evening, Mr. Hanratty,” the bartender said with a wave as they followed a waitress to the only empty table in the large, jam-packed room. The table sat beneath a poster with black and white photos of Joyce, Yeats, O’Casey, and Shaw, under which someone had scrawled in ballpoint pen The Holy Trinity Plus One. To the right side of the poster was an autographed color photo of a young, grinning, bleary-eyed Brendan Behan, a half-full pint in hand.

  The waitress took their drink orders. Doyle looked around the room. Above the long bar, color television sets showed soccer matches from various venues. A half-dozen men surrounded a pool table being used by two silent, very intent players. There was a sizeable cadre of senior citizens at the far end of the room. Jesus, Doyle thought, concentrating on one small, male, pipe smoking figure in their center, it looks like the ghost of Barry Fitzgerald.

  At the front of the tables, wheelchair placed aside one, Doyle saw a young man he thought he recognized. He nudged Niall. “That’s your premier customer up there, right? Maurice Banion.”

  “None other. Poor lad used to be star fiddler before his Parkinson’s took over.” As if he’d been privy to their conversation, Banion looked back at them and raised his glass, smiling broadly. Hanratty toasted him back. “It’s a blessing, you know, that Maurice has his gambling to distract and amuse him.” Hanratty took a sip of his pint. “He dropped eight thousand Euros in my Kinsale shop this afternoon.”

  The band was called The Nolans, its leader Ciaran Nolan, a tall, slim, fortyish man with full black beard that threatened to lay across the strings of his fiddle once he began to play. Ciaran his five colleagues were snugged into a U-shaped corner of the room. The four other men, on guitar, concertina, banjo, and tin whistle, were built like football linemen. In their midst stood a slender girl with long black hair, a fiddle in her hand. “That’s Ciaran’s sister Blathnaid,” Sheila informed Doyle. “Ciaran and Blathnaid are from Listowel. Blathnaid married a lad from near here, Martin Murphy, the fella with the guitar.”

  Suddenly, without a word of introduction, music leapt off the instruments, a fulsome sound that rippled through the room without need of microphone. Tempos were quick. One melody seemed to Doyle to float effortlessly into another. No one danced, all the listeners leaning forward, some with their eyes fastened on the musicians, others with their eyes closed, heads nodding. Almost all, including Doyle, were tapping feet to the lilting beat. For a moment Jack envisioned Celia in this setting. He pictured her, with graceful legs and long red hair, dancing to the lovely strains of music he knew he’d never heard before, yet somehow recognized.

  His reverie ended when Sheila gave him a nudge. She was pleased by his obvious appreciation of the Nolans’ music.

  “You have a far away look, Jack,” Sheila said. “Where are you now?”

  “Not far away. I think I’m home.”

  ***

  The band played without break for almost an hour. When they finally laid their instruments down, bowing to their enthusiastic audience, and moved to a table where drinks awaited them, Doyle tapped Hanratty on the arm. “That was fantastic, Niall. Great stuff. But I have a question. Why doesn’t the leader, Ciaran, ever announce the titles of the songs? I’d like to kn
ow what they were. But the band just seems to glide from one number into the next. Am I right?”

  “That’s the way they do it, right,” Hanratty smiled. “It’s a tradition around here. The assumption is that everyone already knows the songs. With the exception of the occasional visitor from America, of course, that is the case.”

  Hanratty downed his pint, signaling the waitress to refill the glasses on his table and those on the table where the band sat. “All right, then,” Hanratty said, “they started off with three jigs, ‘Petticoat Loose,’ ‘The Geese in the Bog,’ then ‘O’Sullivan’s March.’ Next, they slid in one of the slow, sad, old rebel songs, ‘The Wind That Shakes the Barley.’ You might have noticed how quiet it got in here during that number. A meaningful song. They followed with some reels, ‘Lucy Campbell’ and ‘Tarboltin’ and ‘The Repeal of the Union.’

  “Finally, at my request,” Niall said, leaning closer and whispering, “the lad on the flute finished up the set with ‘The Piper Remembered.’ It’s one of Sheila’s old favorites.” Doyle had glanced at the Hanrattys during the playing of that song, seeing Sheila listening with her eyes closed, nodding along to the slow rhythm of the sweet melody, Niall’s large hand clasping hers.

  ***

  Two music-packed hours later Sheila, who had been drinking only sparkling water throughout their stay at Sheridan’s Pub, drove them home. “They’ve cracked down something fierce on drinking drivers in Ireland, even out here in the country,” Niall said, “Garda lying in wait outside pubs at night.” He sighed. “I suppose it’s just as well. Before all the money rolled in, and the cars, we just staggered home at night like proper upright citizens. Or weaved our way in cars not going fast enough to make a decent dent in anything. It’s all changed now.”

  Two miles down the road from the pub Niall said, “Sheila, pull over there to the side for a bit.” When she’d done so, Niall rolled down his window. He reached out to wave at the Garda car that was half-hidden alongside a tall, thick hedge. The Garda driver flashed his headlights in response. “Nice fellas, those two,” Niall said as Sheila put the BMW in gear. “They bet a lot of hurling with me.”

  Doyle said, “Have you ever gotten a speeding ticket from those fellows, Niall?”

  “I received a speeding ticket the first month I ever owned a car. Up in Dun Laoghaire it was. I was on my way to collect Sheila for a movie. That was more than twenty years ago. I’ve not got one since. I don’t believe in them. A completely unnecessary expense.”

  There were hurried good nights once they arrived at the Hanratty home. Sheila gave Doyle a hug, Niall a strong handshake before they went upstairs. In the guest room Doyle undressed quickly, brushed his teeth, and fell gratefully, happily into bed. “I’m starting to get a good feeling about Niall,” he murmured before easing into sleep.

  Chapter 22

  The next day dawned as beautiful as its predecessor. Jack, Sheila, and Niall breakfasted early and well, Jack hoping that Niall would be forthcoming with his decision about Monee Park. But that was not the case. Realizing this, Doyle concentrated on the food. His appetite had never betrayed him, and it didn’t now. He worked his way through two servings of rashers, scrambled eggs, bangers, black pudding, baked tomato halves, three slices of wheat toast with blackberry jam, and half a pot of coffee before offering “my compliments to the cook. That was great.” Sheila had watched him with wonder, then appreciation, as he ate. “Sure, it’s a marvel you don’t weigh fifteen stone the way you put it away,” she said with a laugh. “I have a formidable metabolism,” Doyle responded, reaching for another scone.

  An hour later, driving northeast out of Kinsale, Hanratty pointed out the car window at a run-down property. The old house looked as if it hadn’t been inhabited in many years. The acre plot was overgrown with weeds, its few trees holding straggly, nearly leafless limbs. Hanratty said, “A place like that was considered to be worthless until a few years back. There were dozens of such places in this area. Now, most have been sold, knocked down, and replaced with homes worth a half-million Euros and upward. The old folks around here can hardly believe it. Neither can I, for that matter.”

  Hoy sped over the bypass at Cork City, the one leading to Dublin. Doyle said, “I’ve read quite a bit about the economic boom here. One article said net worth had grown more than three-hundred and fifty percent in the past ten years. And a great deal of that new money has gone into property investment.”

  “I’m sure that’s accurate. The last report I read said the average house in Dublin now goes for more than 600,000 Euros. It’s amazing, it is,” Hanratty said with a laugh.

  As they continued on their ride, Hanratty spent much of the time on the phone, discussing business with various of his employees around the country. Doyle stifled his urge to bring up his own business, not wanting to appear overly eager. Between phone calls, they spent most of the time talking horses.

  Doyle leafed through the numerous pages of the Racing Post that were devoted to Irish racing. He was envious of the extensive newspaper coverage the sport received not only in the trade papers but in the national dailies. After looking at the schedule of upcoming Irish racing meetings, he turned to his host, who had completed his most recent phone ccnversation. “Niall, how is it that these Irish meetings are so short? Some of them, I see, are only one or two days per year. I know the Curragh is open a few weeks a year, although not in a row. But how do these other, abbreviated meets make it?”

  “How do you mean, Jack?”

  Doyle shrugged. “I guess I don’t understand how they are open for so few days and make it financially. In the States, there’s hardly a track that isn’t open a minimum of thirty days. Monee Park runs all summer and part of the fall. We’ve got more than a thousand horses on the grounds, housed in barns that also include living quarters for some of the backstretch workers. Heartland Downs, the big Chicago track, races ninety-five days. They’ve got more than two thousand horses on their grounds throughout that period.”

  He pointed down at the Racing Post in his lap. “I’m looking here at the Irish racing schedule. There’s just four days at Killarney. Four days at Punchestown. Only one day at Tipperary. How do they staff these places with maintenance workers, mutuel clerks, concession people, and so on?”

  “It’s an entirely different situation here, Jack. The only horses on the grounds of any of our tracks are the ones that are to race that day, maybe one-hundred thirty or so at the big tracks, eighty to a hundred at the smaller ones. They are vanned in from their trainers’ yards, or farms. So, there’s no huge capital investment in barns or dormitories as in the States. As a result, permanent staff is kept small. The totalisator system is owned by a semi-State organization called Horse Racing Ireland and moves with its own staff from track to track.”

  Doyle said, “Is this setup profitable?”

  “Not really. I doubt there’s a handful of tracks in Ireland that are making an adequate return on capital investment. However, for the most part, the tracks are owned by groups who have the interests of the sport at heart. Essentially, all profits are re-invested. Prize money, or purse money as you call it, is funded entirely by owners, commercial sponsors, and Horse Racing Ireland. Some sixty million Euros of government funds was channeled into the industry last year.”

  “Government subsidies,” Doyle said wistfully. “What our tracks, especially a struggling enterprise like Monee Park, wouldn’t give for something like that.”

  “Remember, most people in Ireland are still only one or two generations removed from rural communities. There is a great, continuing affinity among the people for the horse and all that goes with it. We love our racing.

  “But,” Hanratty continued, “most of our racecourses were built by wealthy owners many years ago. Some of the current generation of owners may not have the same interest in the sport as their forebearers. They’re now facing the option of keeping the courses open without enjoying any real financial return, or selling out
to real estate developers for big bucks.”

  “That sounds familiar,” Doyle grunted.

  “I thought it would. It probably would to Cousin Celia now, wouldn’t it.”

  Doyle thought Hanratty’s last remark would segue into a declaration of his intentions regarding Monee Park. Instead, the bookmaker made another call on his cell phone, then said, “Are you a bettor, Jack?”

  “On occasion.”

  “Then I suggest you make one of those occasions the third race this afternoon. All the smart lads are pounding in bets on a two-year-old named Long Kinch, a first-time starter from one of our top stud farms. The word is that he’s a proper flier.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Doyle said.

  Their destination, the Curragh, one of the world’s famous racetracks and site each year of the Irish Derby, was located some thirty miles southwest of Dublin. “They started racing horses at the Curragh in 1741,” Hanratty said. “It sits on a limestone plain near many breeding farms. The belief is that the land is the best bone-making land for raising thoroughbreds.”

  “Curragh, what does the name mean?”

  Hanratty said, “It means ‘place of the running horse’ in Gaelic.”

  Doyle looked with interest at the massive stands so visible in this rural setting. White rails swept around the huge, grass-covered oval. Cars were streaming into the parking lots. There was no wind, and huge white clouds sat like dumplings in the summer air.

  Hoy pulled up to the main entrance, letting the two of them out, then driving away to park after Hanratty had said, “Five sharp, here, Barry.”

  Hanratty was waved through the entrance after being enthusiastically greeted by its attendant. “Let me show you a bit of the place,” he said to Doyle, steering him toward the large paddock, which was now filling up with horses for the first race.