Loopy Page 8

  Loopy got straight to the point. “Your dog needs to be fixed up right away. It won’t wait till tomorrow.”

  “So what do we do? There must be another vet somewhere.”

  Out of respect for Loopy, who was still cradling her dog in his arms, she didn’t add in this godforsaken dump.

  “There is, but he’s miles away in Lisbeg. We could phone him from Foley’s, the bar over there, but he could take forever—always supposing that we could contact him in the first place. This time of day, he’s probably out on a call.”

  Loopy bit his lip as he considered their situation. “Unless you have a better idea, I think we’d better bring him back to your place right away. It’s only a mile or so from here.”

  They were now halfway to The Old Rectory and Jake was struggling ever harder.

  “Do you want to let him walk for a bit? You must be wrecked from carrying him all this way.” She had noticed him limping for the last few hundred yards. “Is there something wrong with your leg, too? Jake and you are quite a pair, both without a leg to stand on.”

  “Better not let him loose on the road. Might get knocked down by a car or something. They drive like lunatics round here.”

  “So I’ve noticed. Speaking of driving”—she patted his shoulder affectionately—“that was jolly decent of you to drive Dad home.”

  She stopped in her tracks and put her hand to her mouth in horror. “Oh my God, did you have to walk home all that way after I nearly ate the head off you last night?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  This time she stopped in front of him, her face only inches from his. Only Jake still cradled in Loopy’s arms prevented her from hugging him.

  “I’m so sorry. I completely misjudged you. I must have been an idiot to think you could ever be responsible for keeping my father out drinking. He told me this morning that you don’t drink at all! Is that true? An Irishman who doesn’t drink?”

  She gave him a cheerful and wry grin. He thought how beautiful she looked when she smiled.

  “’Fraid so. I haven’t started yet anyway.” He didn’t add that he couldn’t afford to, even if he had wanted to. “As for the limp, I got a belt of a hurley a while back and it comes against me every now and again. Nothing to worry about.”

  “So you play hurling. I’ve never seen a game, but is it really as rough and tough as I hear?”

  “Sometimes. The better the teams the less likely you are to get hurt. In the All-Ireland for instance—that’s much the same as the Super Bowl or Soccer Final in England, practically no one gets hurt.”

  “Why’s that?”

  They were halfway up the avenue leading to The Old Rectory. In the daylight, Loopy could see that the rhododendrons lining the avenue were a riot of color. Every few yards, at regular intervals, a large stone urn, dripping with a flower of piercing purple, was set in a half-moon of perfectly trimmed lawn. The effect was stunningly beautiful even before the house itself came into view.

  “Skill levels. The guys who make it to the All-Ireland know what they’re doing. They’re tough as nails but fair. In those games there’s very little fouling or hitting someone with a hurley when the ref isn’t looking their way.”

  “So how did you get hurt then, if it’s all so clean and sporting?”

  Something in her voice told him that she wasn’t just trying to be polite or anything like that, but that she was genuinely interested. How could he know that she was already quite taken by him and wanted to know everything she possibly could about him?

  “I play—or I used to—on a much lower level. Every year Trabane plays Lisbeg, the town nearest to us. The two teams have been at each other’s throat for as long as anyone can remember. It’s in games like that, that you can get hurt, with the hurleys flying in every direction and the supporters on both sides yelling for blood.”

  “So that’s what happened to you?”

  “Yeah, I won’t be hurling again for a while. Doesn’t affect the golf though, so it’s not so bad.”

  “Dad tells me that you’re going to be a terrific golfer.”

  She was turning the handle in the massive front door, studded with nails like a medieval fortress. The sight and smell of familiar surroundings was causing Jake to struggle even more.

  “I don’t know about that. It’s more fun than I thought it would be, though.”

  She closed the door behind them. “Why not let him down now. We’ll see if he can walk now without falling over.”

  When Jake sprinted for what proved to be the kitchen, they followed him at a more sedate pace as Amy continued, “That’s interesting. That you find golf fun, I mean. Dad’s been playing it for as long as I can remember, and it sounds boring as hell to be honest with you. As for his golfing friends, they all wear these silly clothes, talk about nothing but golf, and drink like fishes.”

  During this, they had been trying to catch Jake, who was now looking much chirpier but still bleeding. In fact, a trail of blood led from the front door, along the polished parquet floor, and across the white kitchen tiles. Loopy found some old newspapers and put them on the kitchen table.

  “We’d better have a look at his cut and see if his leg is alright. He seems to running round on it okay, but just in case, I think we should take a look at it.”

  “We…?” Amy shuddered and turned pale as a ghost. “You, maybe, but not me. I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  “That’s okay. Why don’t you boil some water and see if you can find a bottle of disinfectant. Whiskey or gin will do at a pinch.”

  Amy returned with a bottle of gin and a glass. She poured a generous measure into the glass, saying, “This is for me, the bottle is for you and Jake. Also the boiling water. I won’t even offer you a drink since you said you never touched the stuff.”

  They caught the dog, who somehow knew what lay in store for him and put up an impressive struggle before they could manhandle him onto the table. Loopy rummaged around in the fur on his neck to find the wound. There were two, one quite severe, the other much less serious. He washed the cuts first, then rubbed in the gin as Jake yelped in pain and tried hard to bite him on the hand.

  “There, there, poor boy, you’re going to be just fine,” Loopy murmured to the struggling spaniel as the spirit worked its way into the cuts. Now Loopy needed Vaseline or something like it to rub over the wound. He had already waggled Jake’s hind legs while keeping a firm grip on his throat. Though the dog yelped again, Loopy was fairly certain nothing was broken.

  Amy was nowhere to be seen so he shouted, “Amy, do you have any Vaseline?”

  She came back into the kitchen. The glass she had poured her gin into was now brimming with ice and tonic water. “Sure you won’t have one of these? No? Right. Well, you probably think I am a complete idiot, but I really, really cannot stand the sight of blood. Makes me want to throw up on the spot. Now, what were you saying about Vaseline? Because I don’t think we have any. Or if we do, I haven’t a clue where to find it. Would face cream be any good? I’ve loads of that.”

  “Yeah, might be.” Loopy was concentrating on working the hind legs up and down, much to Jake’s annoyance. “Nothing broken anyway. His legs are fine, but they’ll be a bit sore for a while yet.”

  Still working the dog’s legs up and down with one hand and holding the mouth closed with the other, thereby stifling any further plans Jake might have had to sink his teeth into his benefactor, Loopy didn’t notice Amy approaching from behind. She cupped his head in her hands and drew him toward her.

  “You are a truly wonderful person! I was so wrong about you. How can I ever thank you for what you did.”

  With that, still holding his face in her hands, she kissed him long and hard on the lips. Then, breaking away after what seemed to Loopy to be quite the most delightful feeling he had ever experienced in his life, Amy grinned.

  “I’d better get that face cream now while I can still remember it.”

  While she was gone, Loopy tickled Jake be
hind the ears and was rewarded with a wag of his tail. He confided to the still-struggling spaniel, “You’re going to be fine, and do you know something, Jake? So am I.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was a perfect evening. The sun was dipping below the horizon, tracing a golden path along the shimmering, restless ocean. With just a few minutes left of twilight, the two golfers approaching the green quickened their steps. Silhouetted against the ocean, they were now in full view of Loopy. He had been gazing idly out the window as he polished the glasses. He would hold each one up to the light from the window for a final inspection before putting it back on the shelf.

  The bar had a low ceiling into which lengths of timber had been embedded, then painted to look like rafters. From them hung a collection of glass, silver, and pewter beer mugs. The rustic effect was further enhanced by an assortment of earthenware jars, varying in size from one to five gallons. They all bore the modest legend, “Trabane 5 Star Special—The Finest, Purest, and Best Whiskey Obtainable.”

  The claim could not be proven since the brand had disappeared off the market sixty years earlier. The glazed jars, however, had proven more durable, and the first task Loopy had been given when he’d started work in the bar had been to polish them until they gleamed. He marveled at the thought of farmers, maybe his ancestors, carrying home their weekly supplies from town on a horse-drawn buggy weighed down with sacks of flour, salt, sugar, chewing tobacco, and a jar of Trabane 5 Star Special.

  The walls of the bar were festooned with framed advertisements for long-defunct brands of tea, cigarettes, and mineral waters. Beer, too. One he particularly liked showed a smiling farmer effortlessly holding aloft, far above his head with one hand, a huge workhorse. The other hand clutched a pint glass of dark beer as he bellowed, “Murphy’s stout gives you strength!”

  A rival brand on the opposite wall was even more to the point: “Guinness is good for you!”

  Loopy mused that unlike Trabane 5 Star, both beers were still brands his customers asked for regularly, even if the extravagant advertisements had been toned down over the years. The bar counter had a top of black marble that was the very devil to keep clean. Barstools upholstered in red leather stood like sentinels against a heavy brass footrail bolted to the wooden floor.

  As he was putting the last glass back on the shelf, he saw in the big mirror behind the bar the reflection of two golfers playing the final hole. He turned around to watch their progress through the big window that looked out on the eighteenth fairway.

  As they drew closer, he saw one of them veer off the fairway, looking for his ball. It was Leo Martin. Quite by chance, Loopy had seen Leo’s ball bouncing off a tree and coming to rest behind it. Leo would have to chip the ball out sideways before playing his approach shot to the green. Loopy glanced across the fairway at the other player, now recognizable as Tim Porter. Tim was focused on lighting a cigarette in the stiffening breeze as he waited for Leo to play.

  It was then that Loopy saw the banker give his ball a surreptitious kick with his shoe. The ball shot out from behind the tree and stopped on a level patch of grass from where Leo now had a clear shot to the green. Tim was still trying to light his cigarette and was too far away to have observed any skulduggery when Leo waved at him to indicate that he had found his ball. He then hit a high wedge to within ten feet of the flagstick. Had Loopy not seen what had happened before Leo’s wedge shot, he would have remarked to himself—for the bar was empty—on the excellence of the shot.

  Disconcerted by his opponent’s recovery, Tim hit a weak approach shot that barely reached the putting surface. He took two putts to hole out, then watched intently as Leo crouched over his putt for what seemed like an eternity. The whoop from the banker as his ball disappeared into the hole left no doubt as to who had won the match.

  When they came into the bar, Tim said, “There you go, Leo, ten hard-earned notes. That was one hell of a shot you played to the last green.”

  Leo shot Tim an anxious look but could find nothing in his expression to suggest that his fancy footwork had been detected.

  “Thanks. Yes, it certainly was one of my better efforts. What can I get you?”

  “A whiskey and soda, I think. Must make a phone call first though. Shan’t be long.” With that, he was gone.

  With no one left to talk to, Leo addressed Loopy, “Two whiskey and sodas, like a good man. Make mine a large one while you’re at it. Might as well celebrate, seeing as your friend Tim Porter is paying for it. To the victor, the spoils, eh? Just managed to pip him on the last hole with a big putt. Ran into the hole like a frightened rat, so it did.”

  Loopy stared hard at him. He longed to be the kind of person who could look Leo Martin in the eye and tell him straight out that he had seen him cheat. But this was nothing more than wishful thinking. Imagine Larry Lynch, son of the local bankrupt, shelf-stacker and general ignoramus, daring to challenge the bank manager who also just happened to be treasurer of the Golf Club! It was laughable, but nevertheless he felt a sudden surge of anger. This was not the way things should be, having to kowtow to cheats like Leo Martin.

  Yet things like that were changing fast, not just in Trabane but all over the country. Look at the way, he reminded himself, he had felt too humble to drive Edward Linhurst home when he had taken one too many because Loopy regarded him as in some way his social superior. On that occasion Loopy had found the courage to stifle his inferiority complex. If he could find that same courage once more, it might just set things right for his friend. He hated to see Tim Porter cheated out of his money even if he had more than he needed. In a flash his mind was made up. He swallowed hard, then looked Leo straight in the eye.

  “Yes, sir, it was a good putt. But the wedge onto the green was quite a shot, too, wasn’t it? I had a great view of it from here altogether.” Loopy nodded toward the window, and both pairs of eyes immediately zoomed in on the tree from behind which Leo had kicked his golf ball.

  Again Loopy had to swallow hard before suggesting with a calmness he did not feel, “Weren’t you dead lucky that tree didn’t interfere with your shot.”

  There was another, longer pause during which neither of them spoke nor looked at each other. Loopy was still looking absently at the tree, and Leo had found something of interest to him in the ashtray on the bar counter.

  By now Loopy was growing more confident by the second as he added, “Mind you, ’twas a great shot all the same, Mr. Martin, when you actually got ’round to playing it. I’d say Mr. Porter was really surprised, too—you were more than lucky, the way I saw it!”

  With that, Loopy turned away to fill the drinks, leaving Leo staring uneasily at his back. When he turned round again with the drinks, Leo’s manner had undergone a marked change. Tim had not yet returned, so the bar was still empty as the banker remarked in a casual, man-to-man drawl scarcely louder than a whisper, “I rarely talk shop here at the club, y’know, but I must say I’m very impressed with the way you’re trying to pay off your father’s overdraft despite your injury. A pity more ’round here couldn’t do likewise. Anyway, be that as it may…” Then, as if the thought had just struck him: “Why not drop in to the bank tomorrow? I might have an interesting proposition for you.”

  Then, with what was meant to be a conspiratorial wink, Leo leaned across the counter, adding, “Now let’s forget all about the tree, shall we?”

  At that moment, before Loopy could reply, Tim reappeared and joined Leo at a table by the window.

  * * *

  The Allied Banks of Ireland in Trabane was in a cut-stone building with round, marble pillars flanking a heavy oak door. Only the garish, backlit plastic sign indicated that it was a bank rather than the headquarters of some obscure religious sect. It stood on a corner of the main street and a lesser thoroughfare that lead to the church. This, unsurprisingly, was called Church Street. When Loopy called to the bank, it was almost empty. He wondered if the wild rumors were correct after all.

  Moves were indeed afoot
to close it down, though at this early stage only Leo Martin was privy to this. The suboffice in nearby Lisbeg had already shut up shop, and Trabane was scheduled to follow suit. To avoid the inevitable uproar when the closure was made public, the townspeople would first have to be persuaded that this was not necessarily the final nail in the coffin for Trabane. By now Leo had been carefully briefed as to how to proceed with this delicate exercise in public relations. The directors had already come up with a draft of something they called a Code of Practice for dealing with customers and local communities affected by such closures. From the little sense that Leo could make of it, it meant ingratiating himself as much as possible with the local people, though how this was to be achieved was left up to him.

  The post office would remain open, but anyone needing proper banking services would have to travel to the next town, eleven miles away. Already some of the ground had been prepared in advance of the closure. Leo had easily been won over by the promise of a transfer and promotion to Dublin. Though sworn to secrecy, he was sure that Rosa, his wife, would welcome the move from this dismal backwater.

  The intercom on his desk buzzed like an angry wasp: “Young Lynch to see you, Manager—says he has an appointment.” The assistant manager made no effort to hide his surprise. He would have seen the stern letters addressed to Lynch’s mother and wondered why her eldest was seeking audience with Leo.

  “Send him in!

  “Ah, Lynch, how nice to see you. Sit yourself down over there”—Leo gestured toward a chair on the far side of the paper-strewn desk as he peered at a computer screen—“while I bring myself up-to-date on your father’s account.”

  Loopy did as he was told and said nothing.

  After some tentative key-bashing, Leo let out a deep moan like a wounded buffalo. “Ah, yes. A matter of almost one thousand pounds. Overdrawn, I see, and without sanction.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  Leo harrumphed and raised an eyebrow. This was intended to register his amazement that anyone in this day and age could not be familiar with this, the simplest of banking jargon. “Without sanction? Well, young man, it means that your father cashed checks all over the place without first okaying them with me. That’s what without sanction means. And when you do that sort of thing, there are penalties.”