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

used strawberries, honey, sugar, and cinnamon, and for your hair, a whole chest of gold
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    The words of longing and admiration rose up to the ceiling of the bathroom. Inside the room, Betty smiled with pleasure; Fatty had explained to her that this song was, in his mind, about her; that she was his Concetta. She liked to hear Fatty singing, particularly after somemoment of setback or trial. His singing on this particular morning was a sign that his spirits were undented by the difficulties of the previous day. And here they were, in the lush heart of Ireland, with the sun streaming in through their half-open window and a gentle, balmy breeze nudging the curtains.
    Fatty luxuriated in the bath until the water began to cool. Now it was time for breakfast and he began to ease himself up. But he did not get far. He tried again, but his effort seemed only to wedge him further in. He was stuck in the bath.
    He called out to Betty, who rose from the bed and padded into the bathroom.
    â€œI seem to be stuck, Betty,” moaned Fatty. “I can’t move.”
    Betty rushed to his side and took hold of one of his arms.
    â€œI’ll give you a little tug, Fatty,” she said. “That’ll dislodge you. Don’t worry.”
    She pulled at his arm, her hands slipping along Fatty’s wet flesh. It seemed to make no difference.
    â€œI’ll pull out the plug,” she said. “If the water drains out, it might make things easier.”
    It did not. Indeed, the absence of the water seemedto lodge Fatty’s hips even more firmly into the trap. Nor did soap, liberally applied to the side of the bath, seem to make any difference.
    â€œIt’s hopeless, Betty,” Fatty moaned. “Nothing seems to help. I’m just stuck.”
    Betty stood back and wiped her brow.
    â€œI shall get you a towel,” she said. “That will preserve your modesty while I call Mrs. O’Connor.”
    Betty draped a towel across Fatty’s midriff, donned her dressing-gown, and left the room. Once downstairs, she unsuccessfully sought their hostess in the kitchen, but found her at last in the dining room, leaning against a sideboard and engaged in conversation with the pianist from the previous evening. To her displeasure, she noticed that Rupert and Niamh O’Brien were already seated at a table in the window, tucking into large helpings of kedgeree. Rupert O’Brien looked up briefly from his plate, noticed Betty’s dressing-gown, and gave a disapproving frown.
    Mrs. O’Connor could tell from Betty’s expression that something was wrong.
    â€œNot another bed problem,” she said, with concern.
    Hearing this, Rupert O’Brien raised an eyebrow.
    â€œNo,” whispered Betty. “It’s my husband. He’s stuckin the bath.”
    Rupert O’Brien dug his fork into his kedgeree with renewed vigour. Niamh looked out of the window, her hand at her mouth.
    â€œOh dear,” said Mrs. O’Connor. “What a terrible thing. I shall come up immediately.”
    They left the dining room and were soon confronting the unfortunate Fatty, still firmly lodged in the bath, a damp white towel across his middle.
    â€œGood morning, Mr. O’Leary,” said Mrs. O’Connor cheerfully. “This is a sad to-do, so it is.”
    â€œGood morning, Mrs. O’Connor,” Fatty replied. “I’m sorry about this. I can’t move.”
    â€œWe’ll both give a wee tug,” suggested Mrs. O’Connor, moving to the head of the bath. “I’ll pull on his feet here, Mrs. O’Leary, and you can pull on his arms. The two of us might shift him, so we might.”
    The two women seized an extremity of Fatty and began to pull vigorously. But even their combined strength made no impression on the immobile Fatty, and after one or two further efforts, with much huffing and puffing, they abandoned their effort.
    Mrs. O’Connor thought for a few