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

greatdeal about these days. A few months previously, at the Fayetteville Charity Fair, she had paid five dollars to enter a tent intriguingly labelled:
Feminist Fortunes – the future as it really
is. The fortune-teller, a young woman with unnerving green eyes, had said to her: “Are you empowered?” Betty had been uncertain how to answer, as she was not sure whether or not she was empowered. She had never felt
unempowered
or
disempowered
, but this did not mean that she was actually empowered.
    The young woman had smiled at her. “The sisters are with you,” she had said. “They will help you to forget the man who’s been holding you back.”
    Betty looked astonished. Was Fatty holding her back? She thought it unlikely: Fatty always encouraged her to do things and took great pleasure in her achievements.
    â€œI don’t think a man’s holding me back,” she had said. “Not as far as I know.”
    The young woman had looked at her pityingly. “They all hold us back,” she said. “It’s just that sometimes they’re subtle about it and you don’t know that it’s happening.”
    â€œBut my husband’s a nice man,” she had said. “We love to do things together. We’re very happy.”
    The young woman had shaken her head. “There’s a number on this leaflet,” she said, handing her a foldedpiece of paper. “Next time he becomes violent, call us.”
    But talk of empowerment seemed inappropriate in this landscape; it belonged to a world of conflict, to a society that seemed to be at war with itself, where people were pitted against one another in prickly distrust. Ireland was not like that, she thought, particularly not this part of Ireland, where strangers waved to one another and everybody seemed content with their lot.
    She looked out of the window. They were passing a field, which was bordered by an unkempt hedgerow; in the field, a small flock of sheep was browsing over the uneven grass; in the distance, behind a cluster of trees, rose a green hillside. The narrow road swung round, and they were at a crossroads, at which a signpost pointed in several directions, its arms loose, its message unclear.
    â€œNot very helpful,” remarked Betty; but Fatty replied, “It doesn’t matter anyway,” and chose the most interesting-looking road.
    For the next two hours, they travelled round the country, passing through small villages and towns, taking their time and enjoying the vistas that presented themselves at every turn. They knew, in the most general of senses, where they were; as long as they kept the lough in sight, off to the north, they were safe from disappearinginto the great central plain of Ireland or slipping off the cliffs of Kerry into the Atlantic. Now that Fatty had his new shoes, there was no need to revisit Nenagh, or Mr. Delaney, and so they meandered purposelessly, at one with their surroundings, empowered, in an entirely Elysian sense, by the soft landscape of Ireland.
    At last, just before five o’clock, they found themselves entering Balinderry, from where they knew well the final few miles home. It had been a triumphant drive; even if they were to leave that very evening, they would be able to say to their friends back home that they had
seen
Ireland. But now, the car safely parked outside Mountpenny House, they could return to their room and have a short rest before the serving of six o’clock drinks in the large drawing room. Fatty, who had enjoyed the drive immensely, felt that he could even face Rupert O’Brien now, and cope with his overweening attitude. He would not try to compete, Fatty thought; he would let him hold forth as much as he liked and simply let it wash over him. In that way anxiety would be replaced by indifference.
    They were the first down at six o’clock. The late summer sun was low in the sky but it did not reach that side of the building,