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

don’t serve lunch today,” she said. “But I do have some sandwiches made up. They were going to be for Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien, but they haven’t come to collect them yet although I told them they should fetch them by nine. I can give them to you and tell the O’Briens they were too late. I don’t much take to that Jacko, if the truth be told.”
    Fatty was delighted, and readily accepted the offer in spite of Betty’s evident reluctance to deprive the O’Briens of their lunch.
    â€œIs it quite right, Fatty?” she asked hesitantly. “If the sandwiches were originally meant for Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien, then would the Lord want us to eat them?”
    Fatty brushed aside her objection. “Is it right?” he exploded. “Is it right that we should get a tiny bit of the food that that fellow is trying to reserve all for himself? Of course it’s right. Look at how much he’s eaten since he arrived. All that dinner – when we had none, none at all – and then all the kedgeree this morning. And did he leave us so much as a scrap? He did not!”
    The waitress, who had slipped off into the kitchen, now returned with a large packet of sandwiches, whichshe thrust into Fatty’s hands.
    â€œDon’t let them be seeing it now,” she whispered. “Three chicken sandwiches and three smoked salmon.”
    â€œJust the ticket!” said Fatty.
    They thanked their benefactress and retired to the drawing room to eat the sandwiches.
    â€œShe’s a good girl, that girl in the kitchen,” Fatty said as he bit into the first of the smoked-salmon sandwiches. “She’s got that O’Brien fellow’s number all right.”
    There was a noise behind them, and Fatty swung round to see Rupert and Niamh O’Brien standing in the doorway.
    â€œDid I hear my name being mentioned?” said the critic.
    Fatty glanced away. His mouth was full of smoked-salmon sandwich anyway and he would have found it difficult to speak. Betty came to the rescue. “My husband was wondering where you were,” she said.
    â€œWell, here we are,” said Rupert O’Brien, coming into the room. He stopped, his gaze moving to the packet of sandwiches.
    â€œSandwiches,” said Niamh. “You see them, Rupert?”
    Rupert nodded and turned to face Fatty. “Where did you get those sandwiches, Mr. O’Leary?”
    Fatty tried to look indignant. “They’re mine,” he said.“We asked–”
    Rupert O’Brien did not let him finish. “You see, I asked for a pack of sandwiches to be made up for us. I asked yesterday evening. And when we went to the kitchen, they said there were no sandwiches.”
    â€œNone at all,” interjected Niamh.
    â€œAnd yet here we see the two of you,” continued Rupert O’Brien, “making short work of a
mountain
of sandwiches.”
    As he spoke, Rupert was glaring at Fatty. Now he moved forward swiftly and snatched one of the sandwiches.
    â€œThat’s ours,” shouted Fatty.
    â€œJust as I thought,” said Rupert. “Smoked salmon. The very thing we ordered.” He stuffed the sandwich into his mouth and then, signalling to Niamh to follow him, left the room.
    â€œHow dare he!” muttered Fatty, once they had gone. “How dare he come in here and eat one of our sandwiches.”
    â€œWell, they were his,” said Betty mildly.
    Fatty snorted dismissively. “Let’s finish them, Betty, before any other passer-by comes and eats them.”
    Within a rather short time there were only crumbs left. Fatty looked out of the window. The surface of the lough was a pale blue, reflecting the clear morning sky above.In the distance, at the edge of the lawn, was the jetty and beyond it the boathouse. His hunger assuaged, Fatty had an idea.
    â€œWe shall go fishing,” he announced. “That is what we’ll do this morning,