AGAINST THE ODDS:All is well in the Fitzpatrick household but you never know what's around the next corner, writes RODDY L'ESTRANGE
VERY FEW folk whistled while they worked, or whistled any time anymore, come to think of it. But Vinny Fitzpatrick was a tuneful exponent of a most perfect pitch, particularly when he was in a sunny mood, like he was today.
As the air of Moon River mingled with the throaty roars of Leyland engines, Vinny carefully reversed a string of buses into their overnight positions in Clontarf Garage, ready for the off first thing at dawn.
These steeds of the roads had been Huckleberry friends of the roly-poly driver since he signed up for duty almost 35 years ago and he took professional pride in leaving them tethered in place, prepped for the morning gallop.
As he alighted from the last bus, patting it lightly on the flank as he did so, his Andy Williams tribute continued with Music To Watch Girls By as Vinny was in tip-top form. For that, he had to thank his trouble and strife, Angie.
The first good news of the day had popped through his letter box that morning in the shape of confirmation from the insurers they would cover the cost of the fire damage to the old family home in Causeway Avenue.
Ever since the conflagration Vinny had fretted about whether he had paid his renewal premium, only for Angie to dig out the house file and confirm it had been paid through Vinny’s credit union budget scheme – the eighth wonder of the world.
With the cheque on its way, Vinny had popped around to Causeway Avenue at lunchtime to meet Bobby Brick, builder and renovator, who’d been a year behind him at school in Joey’s.
Bobby had done well for himself, and knew how to charge too, but he’d never forgotten how Vinny stood up for him against Lugs O’Leary in the yard, which Vinny knew would help in the negotiations.
After a quick tour of the burnt-out shell of the old Fitzpatrick home, Bobby made a snap assessment of the work involved, and the cash price, which would involve dodging the VAT man, if Vinny was okay with that – which, of course, he was.
Bobby assured Vinny he would restore the house to its old splendour and suggested adding a sun lounge to the kitchen and installing a downstairs toilet as well as an en-suite upstairs.
“Give us six weeks Vinny, and my lads will have this house back the way it was when your Ma used to serve us home-made lemonade and macaroons,” said Bobby.
“Bobby, you’re a brick,” beamed Vinny, in the knowledge the insurer’s cheque would cover the house make-over. All he’d have to pay for would be a few sticks of furniture and appliances. He’d have an ad in the Clontarf Advertiser for new tenants by Christmas.
For this, and much more, he owed a debt to Angie. It was a thought that kept a smile on his chubby chops all afternoon, even when he got snarled up in a traffic accident on the Malahide Road on the 27A and was late turning around in Marlborough Street.
Angie was street-wise, sexy and smart, always one step ahead of the posse. She still turned every head in Foley’s, yet had fixed her eye, and heart, on the tubby guy in the corner with a solemn face only a mother could love.
Through their improbable courtship, marriage and the wondrous arrival of Oisín and Aoife, Angie had stood fast by her husband’s roundy shoulders, his recurring bouts of ill-health.
She picked Vinny up whenever Everton lost or when Ruby didn’t deliver a big Saturday treble.
It was time, Vinny knew, to show some level of appreciation; to push the boat out, just like he did last December for their Vegas trip. Given how tight finances were, Vinny was thinking of something more modest, like dinner and a show in town, followed by a nightcap. He’d seen an ad for a Karen Carpenter tribute night and knew that was right up Angie’s street.
It was just gone 5.30 when Vinny was leaving the garage. He could turn left for home, which he usually did, or right towards Foley’s and Boru Betting. He looked at his watch and paused.
The afternoon races from three low-profile cards, Yarmouth, Taunton and Catterick, were over and Angie would be shutting up the shop soon – she always left by six to collect the twins from the crèche, Cheeky Chisellers.
Whistling I Can’t Take My Eyes Off You, he sauntered along the seafront, arriving shortly at Boru Betting where he straightened his Dublin Bus tie, flicked specks of dandruff off his collar, and smoothed down the few strands of hair he had left.
“Best to look smart for the missus,” he thought, reaching out a pudgy hand for the door.
As he did, the door was flung open outwards and a tall, suited, figure almost ran Vinny over. “Take it easy pal,” said Vinny in indignation.
“Sorry mate, got to fly,” said the stranger, half-turning and raising a hand in apology. Vinny thought he recognised the accent, which was pure Cockney, and the sharp profile too, but he couldn’t quite place the visitor.
Standing erect, Vinny marched into Boru Betting. All was quiet as the horses were loaded for the 5.40 from Wolverhampton.
Discarded betting slips lay strewn about but there wasn’t a sinner around which was no shock to Vinny as the day after the Bank Holiday weekend was invariably quiet, especially when there was no Champions League footie on.
As he picked up a Racing Post and gave the Wolverhampton card a more studied glance, he heard a noise behind the glass counter. It was Angie, emerging from her office, keys in hand and a coat half-draped around her shoulders. “Alright, love. See anything you fancy?” said Vinny innocently.
Angie stopped in her tracks, as if she’d seen a Halloween ghoul. “Vinny!’ she said aloud. “I didn’t see you come in. Are you here long?”
Vinny shrugged. “Nah. Just arrived, almost galloped into the turf by some geezer on the way out, mind you. I just thought I’d surprise my wife and tell her how much I love her.
“‘So,” he said, spreading his arms out wide “here I am.”
Angie came out from behind the counter. She seemed slightly out of breath as she gave her husband the briefest of hugs.
“And I love you too,” she said, adding “but I must lock up and get the kids.”
As they disentangled, Vinny noticed a button on Angie’s blouse was undone, which was unusual, and caught a whiff of a scent he wasn’t familiar with. Either fact on its own wouldn’t have twitched his antennae, but the combination of both did.
After Angie shut up the shop she dashed for the car saying she didn’t want to be late for the pick-up. Vinny remained back on the kerb.
“You go on love,” he said. “I’ll see you back home in a bit. Sure, I need all the exercise I can get.”
As he walked along the seafront, Vinny was exercising his little grey cells as much as his flabby trotters and dark, disturbing, thoughts came to mind. The whistling had stopped.
Vinny's Bismarck
4pts Lay Spurs to beat Norwich in League Cup (4/5, Boylesports, liability 5pts)
Bets of the Week
1pt each-way Martin Kaymer in WGC HSBC Champions (33/1, Ladbrokes)
2pts Sizing Europe in JNWines.Com Chase (9/4, Stan James)
