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

sometimes it occurred to him that all that he seemed to bring her was awkwardness and problems. The Irish trip was an example; the chapter of accidents that had unfolded since their arrival was not Betty’s doing, it was his. She had not lost her luggage; shehad not become stuck in the bath; she had not suggested setting forth in that inadequate boat; everything, it seemed, had been his fault.
    â€œDo you think I’m just accident-prone?” he asked. “There are some people like that, you know. Things just go wrong for them. They don’t ask for it; it just happens that way.”
    Betty, who had been sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair, laid down her brush and came over to Fatty’s side.
    â€œOf course not, my dear,” she said. “None of this is your fault. You’ve just had bad luck.”
    Fatty looked down at his bare feet. Although he had had a spare set of clothes made up by Mr. Delaney, he had only one pair of shoes and now he would have to try to borrow some from Mrs. O’Connor.
    â€œI’m just not much good at things,” he said. “No wonder that O’Brien person laughs at me.”
    Betty put her arm about his shoulder. “He doesn’t laugh at you, Fatty. You haven’t heard him laugh at you, have you?”
    â€œNot to my face,” said Fatty. “But behind my back. He’ll be laughing at me. He’ll be laughing at all the … undignified things that have happened to me.”
    Betty shook her head. “That’s not true, my dear. And, anyway, you’re a better man than he is by a long chalk. Anybody can tell that.”
    Fatty was silent. Something was happening at the edge of the lough and he could not quite see what it was. Rupert O’Brien was bending down at the water’s edge and seemed to be poking at the surface of the lough with a stick.
    â€œWhat do you think he’s doing?” asked Fatty, pointing at the distant figure.
    â€œHeaven knows,” said Betty. “But let’s not worry about him. Let’s go for a little drive in our car. We’ll buy some shoes from Mr. Delaney. Then we’ll have lunch somewhere. How about that?”
    The mention of lunch cheered Fatty up, and he readily agreed to Betty’s suggestion. Together they made their way downstairs, Betty going ahead to consult Mrs. O’Connor about shoes and Fatty treading gingerly on the bare wooden floorboards, lest he pick up a splinter.
    The borrowing of shoes, it transpired, was easily accomplished.
    â€œGuests leave the most extraordinary things behind,” said Mrs. O’Connor, opening a large walk-in cupboard. “Look in here.”
    Betty saw a cornucopia of effects: walking sticks, umbrellas, coats, books, and various items of clothing, all stacked on shelves. At the bottom, neatly arrayed, were lines of shoes. Her eye alighted on a handsome pair of brogues that looked as if it was the right size for Fatty: size ten, extra broad fitting.
    â€œThat’s a fine pair of shoes,” said Mrs. O’Connor. “I have no idea who left them. But if they fit your husband, Mrs. O’Leary, then he should wear them. It’s an awful pity to waste shoes like that.”
    Fatty, who had now negotiated his way downstairs, took the shoes from Betty, along with a pair of checked men’s socks that Mrs. O’Connor had retrieved from one of the shelves. The fit was perfect, and the shoes were extremely comfortable. He thanked Mrs. O’Connor, and together he and Betty went out to their car and drove off down the drive.
    The shoes made his spirits soar, as fine apparel and the knowledge that one is wearing it tend to do.
    â€œI feel well-shod,” he remarked to Betty, as the lush countryside rolled past them. “It’s extraordinary how
empowering
a good pair of shoes can be.”
    Betty nodded. She had read about empowerment, which was something people seemed to talk a