Read Online Fatty O'Leary's Dinner Party by Alexander McCall Smith - Free Book Online

over the edge.
    â€œSorry about this, Mr. O’Leary,” he said. “We’ll have to leave you here for a minute or two while we go and deal with those cows. You just wait now.”
    â€œWhat else can I do but wait?” said Fatty petulantly. “I can hardly go anywhere.”
    â€œWell, now, that’s probably true,” said the plumber. “But don’t you worry. We’ll be back in no time.”
    Fatty closed his eyes and tried again to imagine that this simply was not happening. Ever since he had set out for Ireland, he had been subjected to a series of misfortunes and humiliations, one after the other. There had been that awful flight, with all its indignities; there had been the embarrassment of having to wear a duvet cover into town; and then, last night, there had been the disaster with the bed. But all of these events, acutely embarrassing as they might have been, were nothing when compared with the sheer indignity of being dumped, covered only by a small towel, in the middle of the courtyard. Fortunately there was nobody about, although at any moment somebody might appear. What if that dreadful O’Brien person decided to take a stroll and walked out into the courtyard to find a large white bathtub, apparently abandoned, and Fatty stuck inside itat the mercy of any passer-by? Fatty stared up at the sky and uttered a small prayer to Saint Martha, the patron saint of cooks, and with a secondary patronage of the overweight, but, halfway through, switched, quite wisely, to an appeal to Saint Eustace, patron saint of difficult situations.
Dear Saint Eustace, who wrought such wonders, please raise your faithful servant, CORNELIUS PATRICK O’LEARY, from his plight, and return him to his room in the hotel. Amen
. In the distance he heard vigorous shouts and calls coming from the men as they chased the cows; no immediate help would be forthcoming from that quarter, it seemed.
    Fatty took a deep breath. Perhaps I should be entirely philosophical about this, he thought. Things can hurt us only if we allow them to hurt us; if we think of them as trials over which we can easily triumph, then their sting is drawn; so he had been taught, all those years ago at Notre Dame, when they had studied the Stoics. And matters could be worse. One only had to think of the sufferings of the saints to know that. They were subjected to the most terrible tortures and pains, and they bore them as if they were the lightest of glancing blows. He would do the same. To be stuck in a bath was nothing to the arrows that pierced Saint Sebastian, for example, or the kindledconflagration that consumed Saint Joan.
    As he lay in silence, feeling the cold grasp of the bathtub, he heard the door into the courtyard open and the sound of footsteps.
    â€œWhat on earth is that?” said a voice. With a sinking heart, Fatty recognised that the voice belonged to Rupert O’Brien.
    The footsteps grew louder and there, peering over him, was the face of the famous critic, wide-eyed with surprise. Behind him, but taking only a quick glance before withdrawing from view, was the face of Niamh.
    â€œMr. O’Leary! You poor fellow!”
    Fatty grimaced. “I’m stuck,” he said. “The plumber was taking me to his workshop and he had to go off and chase some cows. I can’t move till they come back.”
    â€œBut you poor fellow, what a shame,” said Rupert O’Brien, stretching out to touch the side of the bath in sympathy. “They should not have deserted you like that. I shall stay here and talk to you. Niamh, you go back inside. It’s embarrassing enough for Mr. O’Leary to be out here with virtually no clothes without ladies being present.”
    â€œI’m quite all right,” said Fatty hurriedly. “Don’t worry about me.”
    â€œBut of course I shall worry,” said Rupert O’Brien,perching himself on the edge of the bathtub. “I suppose you were