Loopy (33 page)

Now all that remained was the challenge of staying on the wagon and baiting the banks, especially in the person of Leo. What O'Hara had told Loopy about his earlier experiences was absolutely true. In O'Hara's hometown all those years ago, the three big buildings were the church, the police station, and the bank. He realized he was probably cutting off his nose to spite his face where his hatred of banks was concerned, but he was, he told himself bitterly, too old to change. About the banks, of course, he corrected himself hurriedly. Not too old to swear off the drink, though, even if it meant an endless vista of cups of coffee and the regulars in Foley's Bar sniggering behind their hands. He had already heard one of them that very morning muttering to a crony, “O'Hara off the drink? You must be joking. There's no way you can teach an old dog like that new tricks, just mark my words!”

Well, O'Hara told himself, he would do just that. He would mark their words and show the bastards who was right in the end. That, however, was not going to make things any easier in the meantime. He had briefly considered joining Alcoholics Anonymous but decided against it on the grounds that he wasn't quite ready to put his hand in the air and relate the story of his life to a collection of total strangers. Not just yet, anyway, he decided.

Then there was Amy. She had told her father that very morning of an offer from Allied Banks of Ireland to join their PR team. Her report on the Maltings had so impressed Sir Andrew Villiers-Stewart that, wearing his banker's cap, he had almost
begged
her to join the newly formed Public Relations Bureau at Allied Banks of Ireland. Apparently, most of the older PR types at the bank had been posted elsewhere, though why this had happened, no one had yet explained. The only thing stopping her from snapping up the offer there and then was that the job was based in Dublin. Though that was closer to Trabane than her present job in London, it was still too far away from Loopy now that she realized how much she loved him.

Even Edward Linhurst himself, the man who supposedly had everything, felt a vague sense of loss. He couldn't explain it, but as he walked off the last green, he felt like a dog that had lost its bone. With the work on his house completed, time was already weighing heavily on his hands. The long walks along the beach suddenly seemed less invigorating than before, and his golf game was not improving quite as much as he had hoped. He realized with a start that he had been unwittingly linking his future with that of Loopy. With directorships in the city and friends in many of the better golf clubs in England, he could have secured invitations for his young protégé to play in tournaments that would otherwise have been closed to him. Without realizing it, he had been casting himself in the role of Loopy's manager and mentor, a dual role that might go some way toward dispelling the dark cloud of boredom that was threatening to engulf him.

LAST CHAPTER

“… And to those of our critics who claim that we are getting too big for our boots, I can only say…”

With every fiber of his being, Pat O'Hara wanted to bellow the word
bollocks,
but his being sober caused a loss of nerve. Instead he contented himself with a deep sigh and put a hand over his mouth to hide his utter disgust.

“… that Allied Banks of Ireland has grown from within. Not by taking over our competitors who are left free to compete, as indeed they should be, in a free market…”

O'Hara wanted to shriek,
What about Lisbeg?
but restrained himself. Could he be getting mellow, he asked himself, or was his still being on the wagon what sparked this unusual display of self-control? He couldn't help but notice that the rest of the crowded marquee were drinking in Leo's honeyed words. They had wined and dined at the expense of ABI and were loath to see their hosts in anything but the best of light. Even O'Hara could not have accused those who'd sponsored the Gala Dinner of stinting in any way. Drink flowed all evening and Linda had excelled with an array of lobster and cold cuts that had the buffet table groaning under their weight.

Loopy and Brona sat in the place of honor at the top table, on a podium that looked out on two hundred or more merrymakers. They were flanked on one side by Leo and Rosa, Joe and Linda, and on the other by Edward and Amy, who sat next to Sam and Tim Porter. The PR man for the bank and O'Hara were side by side at another table on the lower level, facing the stage and not twenty feet away from Leo.

Sir Andrew Villiers-Stewart had sent his regrets, but the PRO who had given Leo such a hard time during The Atlantic was sent in his place to keep an eye on things.

“… It is therefore my pleasant duty to welcome you all here on behalf of Allied Banks of Ireland. As you all know, this dinner was organized at very short notice, and I would like to congratulate Linda on the wonderful job…”

Leo's praise was swamped by a wave of applause. As soon as it died down, he resumed, “Her husband, Joe, who has coached our hero of the hour…”

Even louder applause, accompanied by the stamping of feet and shrieks of “Good man yourself, Lynch!” When quiet returned, Leo intoned, “Young Larry Lynch…”

More applause, louder than ever, followed this. It was a full minute before Leo could make himself heard: “In whose honor we are all gathered here tonight.”

Another staccato burst of hand-clapping, scattered calls for quiet, and O'Hara wished they would let Leo get on with it, otherwise he looked like keeping them there all night.

“I do not propose to keep you much longer”—
Good!
thought O'Hara, now getting edgier and more impatient with every word that passed from Leo's lips—“however, I must tell you the program for the rest of the evening. In a moment we are going to have the raffle. Hopefully by now you will have all bought tickets for the sweater with the Loopy crest on it that our guest of honor wore with such distinction when winning the Atlantic Trophy…”

Leo's words were lost yet again in another outbreak of cheering, foot-stamping and clapping but he pressed on regardless.

“I now ask Tim Porter, himself a golfer of great talent who has represented our club with distinction on so many occasions, to say a few words before he makes the draw.”

Tim made his way to the microphone, where Leo stood close to him, unwilling to relinquish any of the limelight.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is a very great pleasure for me to draw the winning ticket for the raffle. As my good friend Leo said, Larry Lynch wore that sweater with honor right through the week. Let me be the very first to say that he accomplished something I myself never managed to do, he
won
the damn thing!”

This was greeted with the loudest applause yet.

“So without further ado, I will pick a ticket out of the hat. It is number … let me see … number one hundred and thirty! And the name on it is … oh, it's so hard to read this handwriting after all the hospitality, but I'll do my best … the name is Miss Amy
Linhurst.
There she is, ladies and gentlemen, seated at the table over there. Stand up, Amy, and let the people see how gorgeous you are.”

More cheering and hooting as a blushing Amy reluctantly rose to her feet and then, spurred by some unseen prompting, called back to Tim, “I'm giving it back to the club!”

Tim was in his element. “What a wonderful gesture, ladies and gentlemen. Doubly so, if I may say so, since it was Amy who gave that very sweater to our hero of the hour just a few weeks ago. Now she is giving it back to the club, who will, no doubt, put it on display. The money raised from the raffle goes to the Simon Community to help them look after those less fortunate than ourselves. Now I hand you back to our master of the revels, our good friend Leo Martin!”

Leo took the microphone in a grip of steel and bawled into it, “Thank you, Tim, and thank you, Amy, for being so sporting as to donate the sweater to the club. Allied Banks of Ireland, as I have said, is delighted to play host to you all tonight. Now that I mentioned the bank, I have something to tell you.”

O'Hara was by now at the end of his tether. He wanted to scream in a voice loud enough to be heard at the back of the marquee,
You're closing it down, that's what you're going to shagging tell us!
Instead, he rose to his feet, made his excuses to the PR man seated next to him, and made his way through the tables to exit. He had almost made it to the back of the marquee before Loopy or anyone else at the top table quite realized what was happening. Leo was still droning on, oblivious to having one less listener.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you may have heard, as I did, the ridiculous rumors flying around that our bank is going to close. Well, I am here to give you my solemn assurance that the Trabane branch of Allied Banks of Ireland is to remain open. Not only that, but it will shortly undergo a major refurbishment to cater for the extra business we so confidently predict will come from a thriving seaside community like ours.”

A burst of applause greeted Leo's words, even though some in the audience might not agree that Trabane was thriving. Even if the bank
was
staying open, the Maltings continued to leak jobs like a sieve. Still, as they came to grips with what Leo was saying, his listeners gabbled excitedly to each other. A dutiful smattering of applause came from those at the top table, while cries of “C'mon, the village!” drifted up from the back of the marquee. Sensing that it was now or never, the PRO leapt to his feet, clapping wildly and shouting “Bravo!” at the top of his voice. Others followed his example and got to their feet, cheering and clapping. O'Hara's early exit was already forgotten by the few who had noticed it. The standing ovation, contrived though it was, obviously heartened Leo, for he picked up where he had left off in even better voice.

“So now that you have heard it from the horse's mouth”—here he paused for a laugh that did not come—“I hope we will hear no more nonsense about closures. Allied Banks of Ireland is a fixture in Trabane and, like the town itself, will go from strength to strength.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you all have been waiting for. Without further ado”—Leo particularly liked the ring of that phrase and was determined to make it his own—“as I say, without further ado, it is my very great pleasure to introduce you to our guest of honor, whose thrilling victory in the Atlantic Trophy we are all here to celebrate. He warned me earlier that he will only say a few, a
very
few, words. Fair enough, I told him, just continue to let your golf clubs do the talking for you. So now I'll ask you one and all to put your hands together for”—a dramatic pause before he bellowed—“Loopy
Lynch
!”

The noise threatened to bring the marquee down as Loopy took hold of the microphone. He almost let it slip from his grasp for his hands were lathered in sweat. His left leg was twitching uncontrollably, and he badly wanted a sip of water to ease the dryness in his throat. In the circumstances he did well to make himself heard in a voice little more than a croak.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I'm not going to thank anyone in particular because so many of you all have helped me in one way or another. The only person I'm going to single out is my mother. Stand up, Mam, and let them get a good look at you.”

With a whispered “I'll kill him for this when I get him home,” Brona rose to thunderous applause, smiled, and bowed her head. Then, having experienced her fifteen seconds of fame, she sank back into her seat, grateful that the ordeal was over as her son continued:

“The only other thing I want to do is to thank the people of Trabane who have supported me up on the hurling field, the golf course, and in other ways I won't even talk about. I'll never forget you, and I just want to say a great big thanks to each and every one of you for giving me the night of my life.”

As Loopy took his seat to ever more cheering, he saw out of the corner of his eye someone running up to Sergeant Keane, who was seated at the same table Pat O'Hara had so suddenly vacated. Whatever was being whispered into his ear, it caused the sergeant to stiffen and his jaw to drop in horror. He left his seat and hurried out the exit at the back of the marquee, closely followed by Father Spillane. Their sudden departure sparked off a buzz of speculation that quickly turned to consternation when news of the accident filtered up to where Loopy was sitting. Linda rushed up to him, her eyes brimming with tears.

“There's been a crash, a terrible…”

She buried her head in her hands, weeping uncontrollably. Then, regaining some of her composure, she sobbed, “Pat O'Hara crashed into a wall. Someone who saw it said he was swerving to avoid a dog, a young spaniel. He lost control of the car. It sounds bad.
Very
bad. We're going there right now. You'd better stay. You
are
the guest of honor, after all.”

“Guest of honor be damned. I'm going with you.”

*   *   *

The church was packed to overflowing as Father Spillane read the mass for the dead. Pat O'Hara would have appreciated the irony of
De profundis clamavi
—“from the depths I cry.” It was the traditional prayer for the dead and one of the few remaining traces of Latin to survive in the Roman faith. Its mournful, meaningless phrases rolled around the parish church like summer thunder breaking over the bowed heads of the congregation, many of whom had been pupils of the deceased.

Loopy remembered O'Hara's love of Latin and his disgust at its neglect by a succession of popes. It would have cost O'Hara his job to openly criticize in the classroom the changes wrought by the Vatican, but the Golf Club bar was another matter.

“It wasn't enough for the eejits to remove it from the school curriculum. No way. They had to go and translate all those grand prayers that no one understood back into English. Did you ever hear the like?
Orate fratres
sounds a damn sight better when you don't have a clue what it means. Now we have some big lump of a farmer's son in a dog collar roaring, ‘Let us pray, brothers!' and it's not the same thing at all, at all. No mystery, y'see, that's the trouble. Apart altogether from it getting up the noses of every woman from here to Rome who wants to know why there's no shagging mention of the sisters!”