Fields of Home (2 page)

MICHAEL O’DRISCOLL TURNED IN HIS SLEEP
, trying to get comfortable on the hard, wooden pallet bed.

‘Michael! Wake up! Do ye hear me! Will ya get up!’

Michael groaned, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders.

‘Get up, Michael, get up quick! It’s Ragusa, she’s having her foal. Toss said I was to come and get you.’

Michael rubbed the sleep from his eyes and began to pull himself out of bed. He fumbled around, searching for his boots and his jacket in the near-pitch dark of the stable lads’ quarters over the coach-house. Why did mares always give birth in the dead of night!

Young Brendan Foley, at thirteen the youngest and greenest of the stable lads, stood impatiently in front of
Michael, holding the paraffin lamp, its aura of yellow light swinging backwards and forwards, catching a startled mouse as it scampered away.

‘She’s bad, Michael, Toss is …’

‘Hold the lamp still!’ ordered Michael, searching for his second boot.

‘He’s real worried about her!’

‘It’s too soon and she’s getting too old,’ muttered Michael tersely. Anger bubbled inside him. Ragusa was one of the finest mares in the stable. She deserved better than this. They crept in silence along the narrow upstairs room, trying not to disturb the other lads. Then they climbed down the steep wooden stairs that led out into the yard. The horses were quiet, but one or two whinnied as they passed. It was still deep night outside, with a good while to go till dawn. A heavy swag of dark cloud masked the moon.

As he pushed in the stable door, Michael could hear Toss’s voice murmuring softly to the mare. The pregnant mare lay on the straw and, by the look of her, she was already exhausted.

Michael leant down and patted her neck. ‘Good girl! ‘Tis all right, girl, you’ll be fine.’

From her eyes he could tell she was scared. The mare herself could sense that all was not well. Michael grabbed some straw and wiped her down a bit.

‘She hasn’t much push left in her, Michael,’ said Toss
anxiously. ‘She’s not trying. The foal needs more help.’

Michael nodded.

‘Brendan, get us some water!’ ordered Toss.

The young lad was back in a minute or two with a heavy tin bucket full of water.

Toss was walking around the mare, looking at her closely, and Michael could sense his concern. Toss was the best horseman that Michael had ever met. Anything Michael knew about horses so far he had learnt from the sixty-year-old man.

Toss had spent all his life with horses. He had worked all over – in Cork, in Wicklow, in England. It didn’t matter where, once there were good horses there and a good owner or manager. For the past fifteen years, Toss had worked at Castletaggart House. Michael felt sure that Toss had helped him get the position of stable lad, then assistant with the horses and occasional jockey.

After so many years working together, there was no need for words between them. They both knew the danger the ageing mare was in as she struggled to give life to yet another foal.

‘I told him! You heard me, Michael! I told him it was too soon after the last foal. That she was getting on.’ Michael could sense the deep anger in Toss’s voice when he talked about the estate manager, George Darker. ‘He should have listened to me.’

Ragusa whinnied. Her whole body was taut with pain. Michael washed his hands and arms in the cold water, and then knelt down to examine her gently. He could feel the foal – the strong curve of its spine, the long, thin bones of its legs and the slant of its head. The muzzle was down. The small foal badly needed help.

‘Toss, if you and Brendan steady Ragusa, I’ll try and pull the foal,’ Michael said.

He caught the thin legs between the knees and fetlocks and eased the foal gently outwards. He listened carefully to Toss, who was guiding him in time with the mare’s spasms. Michael held firmly onto the cannon bones. After a long time the brown legs were out.

The mare tried to roll, but Toss and young Brendan held her as Michael firmly drew the head and neck of the foal out. Seconds later, the skinny colt foal lay steaming hot and new and quivering on the straw.

Ragusa, lifeless now, raised her head and neck momentarily to look at her newest foal, her gentle brown eyes searching for him. Then she lay back, her whole body overcome with trauma. It took only a few seconds for the old mare to die, as Michael and Toss and Brendan watched helplessly. The foal lay on the straw, bewildered, sniffing at his mother’s legs, waiting for her to clean and nuzzle him.

Toss stood up, his grey hair standing on end, his chin and cheeks covered in a grey stubble. ‘Well, she’s done for! One of the best mares that ever ran! As for the colt, it won’t survive without her. It’s too small, born too early. Ragusa and her foal – that’s some night’s work!’

Toss couldn’t contain his grief any longer. His eyes filled with tears. ‘Let me out of here!’ he shouted angrily, stepping over the mare’s body and across the straw. ‘You two see to things,’ he ordered gruffly as he strode into the yard, and went off in the direction of his small lodgings on the far side of the stable buildings.

Michael knew what would happen. Toss would get wildly drunk and not be seen for a day or two. He was blaming himself.

‘What should we do?’ Michael was brought back to the present dilemma by Brendan. The colt was trying to put one long, scrawny leg in front of another, making every effort to stand and get closer to his mother. ‘Ah Michael! What are we supposed to do?’ sniffed Brendan.

Michael considered. Ragusa was dead. He had to stifle his feelings of sadness and think of the foal, the orphan foal he’d helped to deliver. There was not much two young fellas like themselves could do, and yet the thought of watching the young foal lie there on the straw and weaken and die was too much to take.
He couldn’t stomach it. There must be something they could try.

‘Brendan, have we any other mares in foal at the moment?’

The young lad pondered, mentally running through the different stables he mucked out each day.

‘No!’ he said regretfully. ‘There are two, but they’re only starting.’

The colt tried to stand on his wobbly legs, and managed to take a step or two. He nosed curiously at his mother, wondering why she was barely warm, wondering why the heavy rhythm of her regular, familiar heartbeat had suddenly stopped.

‘What about weaning?’ asked Michael in desperation. ‘Any mares –’

Before he could finish, Brendan broke in, ‘There’s Glengarry! She finished up maybe ten days ago.’

‘You stay here with the colt, don’t let him get cold.’ Michael picked up an enamel mug and rinsed it in the water bucket, then he stepped out of the stable into the cold early-morning air. Soon it would be dawn. He yawned, gulping in the fresh air to try and keep himself awake.

Glengarry shared her stable with another mare. She was a solid chestnut with a white blaze on her face. She lifted her ears and looked at Michael intelligently, wondering why he was disturbing her sleep. Her stable
companion whinnied in annoyance.

‘Good girl! Good girl!’ said Michael, kneeling down on Glengarry’s bedding and trying to push her over sideways so he could see if she was still producing milk. She didn’t seem to be. Then he felt her udder and pressed on one of her teats, watching as the moisture swelled it. She just might be able to feed the foal.

But how would he get her to accept Ragusa’s foal? Michael wondered. Mares were only interested in their own foals. Her blanket lay on a hook behind the door. He’d try that and perhaps some of her bedding.

He looked at Glengarry. Surely she would be a good foster-mother? It was his only chance.

He tried to milk her, but there was very little milk and most of it seeped onto his hands. The rest made a tiny pool in the enamel mug. Grabbing the blanket and some bedding, he left, closing the door carefully behind him.

He could hear Brendan’s voice as he approached Ragusa’s door. The boy was singing to the colt. The young animal looked shaky and cold, and the young boy almost as bad. ‘He’s going downhill, Michael, I didn’t know what to do.’

‘It’s all right, Brendan, I’ve an idea. But I need you to help me. Here, take this blanket. I want you to rub it all over the foal – try and get some of the oil from the blanket on to him.’

The foal lay still as the two of them rubbed his coat all over. Then Michael dipped his fingers in the mare’s milk and spread it over the young animal’s head and neck, wetting his nose area thoroughly. He wiped his hands along the dark mane and fine, brown-coloured coat of the bay colt, soaking the scared creature, who was now sniffing desperately at his fingers. Finally, they rubbed the scrawny hooves and legs in the bedding from Glengarry’s stable.

‘Ready!’ said Michael.

Brendan nodded and the two of them half-carried and half-walked the brand new colt to meet his foster mother. The bewildered young foal shivered as they crossed the cobbled yard, the pale, dipping moon reflecting in his shiny eyes.

The mare whinnied, smelling the strange animal as soon as they entered her stable. Michael told Brendan to leave the foal down on the straw a few yards from the mare. Then they both stood back, over at the door, watching silently, keeping the lamp almost out of sight.

Nothing happened. The mare ignored the foal and the foal stayed weakly where he was.

‘Should we lift him over to her?’ urged Brendan.

‘No! Wait! Give them more time!’ whispered Michael.

They waited and waited.

After what seemed an age the mare got up and shook herself slowly, then she ambled over to look at
the foal. Michael was worried in case Glengarry would nip at the orphan, but she simply ran her nose very lightly over the small form. Then, much to the boys’ disappointment, she turned her back on the foal and stood chewing at some hay.

‘Oh no!’ groaned Brendan.

‘Ssh!’ said Michael. ‘Wait!’

The foal lay still on the straw. He seemed ready to just roll over and go to sleep, when suddenly he tried to push himself up on one leg then another, until he was finally standing. He was badly balanced and he knew it. Very shakily, he brought himself alongside the mare. Glengarry put down her head and began to sniff him – his back, his shoulders, his breast, his legs, running her soft nose along his coat, taking in his scent. Then she nuzzled his head. The foal balanced anxiously against her chest and belly. She nipped at him slightly. Then, taking her time, she nuzzled his head again, recognising her own scent, her own milk, before lifting her head and letting him suckle. The foal seemed confused, but he was hungry and exhausted and weak. There was very little milk, but the small colt had begun to feed.

Michael sighed with relief. Brendan punched his fist in the air and mouthed a silent Yes!

‘That’s the grandest thing I ever saw,’ whispered Brendan, his voice filled with admiration.

Michael smiled. Brendan reminded him a lot of himself at that age. The lad liked animals and was kind to them.

‘We’re not out of the woods yet, Brendan. She might still reject him, you know, and we can only hope she has enough milk to feed him.’

‘Oh!’ Brendan’s face fell.

‘Come on, we’ll try and get a bit of sleep before the early ride-out.’

The two stable lads quietly closed the door on the mare and the new foal and walked back towards the upstairs rooms where they slept. Morning light streaked across the sky and signalled the start of yet another busy day.

Ragusa’s stable lay silent. Michael glanced over at it as he climbed the narrow, creaking stairs, and wondered how could life and death be so closely connected on that one night.

CHAPTER 3

Morning Boy

TOSS WAS IN TROUBLE
with George Darker over the loss of the valuable mare. He railed against the unfairness of it all and shouted back at the estate manager, who had not listened to his original warnings about Ragusa.

Lord Buckland himself arrived down at the stables. He had liked Ragusa. ‘A good horse!’ he said sadly. ‘Won a few good races in her day and we’ve bred many a fine filly from her.’

But this didn’t stop them sending for the knackers’ cart to come and take her away. Michael made sure that young Brendan was busy elsewhere; the lad was upset enough.

Miss Felicia, the youngest daughter of the house, appeared in the stables too. She’d heard there was a new foal. Strict instructions had been given that there
was to be no mention of the demise of Ragusa. Nothing was to spoil the eleven-year-old’s enjoyment at seeing the new horse.

‘I thought the mare’s stable was there!’ Felicia said to Michael, pointing to Ragusa’s empty stable. Michael didn’t say a word.

The young girl clapped when she saw the bay colt and the chestnut mare standing close together.

‘Oh, he’s lovely! Just so perfect! But he’s not one bit like his mother!’ she declared

‘Perhaps he’s more like his father,’ offered Michael, trying to make light of it.

He liked Miss Felicia. She spent half of her time in the stables and was a proper little tomboy. Her older sister, Rose, was about Michael’s own age and a beauty, but she rarely set foot in the stableyard unless it was to request a carriage. She had no interest whatsoever in horses, or in the stable lads and grooms and jockeys who worked for her father.