Fields of Home (6 page)

The bailiff strode by them all into the low cottage, and was amazed to find so few possessions.

‘You’ll hold on there, sir!’ warned the older constable. ‘We wouldn’t want you to damage any of the lady’s valuables.’

‘Valuables!’ jeered the bailiff. ‘There’s nothing of value here.’

Dermot O’Reilly, who lived about two miles down the road, had arrived with a donkey and cart. ‘Mrs O’Brien, if you give the say-so, I’ll put whatever you want on the cart and I’ll be pleased to drop you
wherever you wish.’

Mary-Brigid watched as they loaded the few bits and pieces up.

‘Will ye not come home for a sup of tea and a piece of bread with us, Agnes?’ pleaded Nano. ‘You wouldn’t mind, Eily, sure you wouldn’t?’

‘’Tis all right, Nano. You’ve done more than enough,’ murmured the poor widow woman before Eily had a chance to speak. ‘I’m best to get into the town to try and find somewhere to stay.’ She raised her voice. ‘They can tumble my cottage, tear it down stone by stone, but they can’t take away the fact that me and mine lived and died here. I have two sons and, would you believe it, eight grandchildren. The O’Briens will always be a part of this place. No-one can change that!’

Nano stood proudly as her old friend turned to her neighbours and friends and said goodbye. The crowd all watched her climb onto the cart and set off over the rough ground to the roadway, her face almost see-through, the thin shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders.

‘What will happen to her now, Mammy? Where will she go?’ sobbed Mary-Brigid, hot tears stinging her face and throat.

‘I’m not sure, pet. The sons might send her some money and maybe she’ll rent a room someplace, or she’ll get a place in the Union home for the destitute!’
murmured Eily sadly. ‘To tell the truth, Mary-Brigid, I don’t rightly know!’

‘It’s not fair! They shouldn’t have done it!’ shouted Mary-Brigid, anger burning in her young heart. She knew that she would never forget this terrible day.

CHAPTER 8

The Races

DAWN WAS BREAKING
when Michael and the rest of the stable lads roused themselves. Race days always meant an early start. There were all the normal chores to be done – mucking out, the early-morning ride-out which gave the horses a chance to gallop and warm up for the day ahead – as well as getting the chosen horses ready, grooming them till their coats shone and checking that all their tack was in perfect condition.

Glengarry and Morning Boy stood lazily watching the goings-on from the small fenced enclosure for young foals. The colt was growing steadier on his feet and gaining weight. He was beginning to look healthier week by week. His ears pricked up as he watched the other racehorses prepare to head off. Michael was almost reluctant to leave the stables and the small colt.

‘Promise me you’ll take good care of Morning Boy,’ he begged young Brendan.

‘You know I will,’ replied the stable lad, aware of his friend’s concern.

‘Make sure that the mare doesn’t nip or bite at him. You know a mare can turn on a foal in an instant.’

‘’Tis all right, Michael, I promise you I’ll look after the two of them.’

‘Michael O’Driscoll, will you get up on that horse and stop holding us up,’ teased Toss. The rest of the jockeys were ready, and were getting impatient waiting for him.

‘Make sure he’s feeding properly!’ Michael shouted.

He grabbed hold of the front of his saddle and pulled himself up onto Nero, and as soon as he was mounted they all clip-clopped out across the cobbled yard. It was always nerve-racking, setting off to the races. It was only then that you realised how good or bad the horses really were.

The lads and grooms who were staying behind stopped what they were doing to wish them well.

‘Good luck to ye all!’

‘Let’s hope ye have a winner!’

Michael had eaten very little for breakfast, in fact he’d gone soft on the food for the last few days trying to keep the weight off. His fellow jockey, Liam Quigley, was as small and light as a leprechaun and
had no bother keeping to the right size, but Michael was a whole lot taller and with his wide shoulders and strong build, he was a bit heavier than most jockeys. Still, Nero was a big horse and he reckoned that was why Toss and Lord Henry had said he should ride him.

Peadar Mahoney was riding in front of Michael. As usual, he held Jerpoint tight at the bit with a short rein. The lively black horse snorted angrily at being so restrained and tossed his head frantically.

Toss was out in front of them all, lost in thought, as he led the party across the dew-soaked fields at a gentle gallop.

It was late afternoon by the time they arrived at Killross, horses and riders equally weary and glad to rest. The animals were watered and fed. Nero munched at the sweet, juicy hay that Michael hung from the rack in his stall. Nearby, the racecourse lay flat and wide in the distance, ready for the next day’s excitement.

Though Peadar and Liam tried to persuade him to join them for a stroll up the town, Michael decided to stay with Nero. He would enjoy just as well sitting listening to the stories of past races and exploits that the riders shared with each other as the evening drew in.

Mercy Farrell, the young housemaid, had insisted he take a small package from her. Opening his bag, Michael discovered a portion of white chicken meat,
some cold potato, a scone and a piece of some kind of pie – he tested it with his finger: ‘twas apple.

Mercy had him spoiled. He only had to appear at the kitchen door to see how she was getting on and she’d have him sitting at the table, stuffing him with food as she chattered on, the cook watching them. Cook wouldn’t tolerate any lovey-dovey stuff in her kitchen, but she couldn’t help but think that Michael O’Driscoll and young Mercy Farrell made a lovely couple. Michael put the apple-tart aside – he’d save it till after his race, but the rest he’d eat now. He was hungry after the journey. Tonight he’d sleep in the stall with Nero. No-one would tamper with any of the Buckland horses while he was around.

Race day itself was good and dry with a nice bit of a breeze for racing. Michael’s stomach was wound in a knot of apprehension as he prepared himself for the afternoon event.

The small racecourse had started to fill up, the gentlemen and their visitors filing in to watch the spectacle. The gentlemen were clad in top-hats and fine jackets and they eyed the competition and considered the odds carefully before placing their bets.

Michael weighed in on the large scales before joining the lads that were in his race. There were eight runners. He smiled over at Ned Mangan and Tod O’Sullivan – they’d all raced against one another
before.

Nero quivered with excitement as they passed down by the crowds. ‘Good boy,’ said Michael, patting the horse’s neck and shortening his stirrups a fraction more.

Michael cantered Nero slowly down to the starting line. He had spotted Lord Henry in the distance, standing with a group of other gentlemen.

‘Best horse wins!’ shouted Tod O’Sullivan, his skinny face all eager and excited.

Nero pranced about, itching to be off. Michael sat in the saddle, tense and alert, waiting for the signal.

They were away! Tod O’Sullivan’s horse took off like the wind, its swinging reddish tail out in front, taunting them all. Michael had to hold Nero steady, a burst of pace now would be too soon. He lifted himself off the saddle as speed surged through the horse.

‘Keep it steady, Nero!’ He could sense the racehorse getting into a strong, even stride as he raced forwards, arching his neck. Nero tightened the gap between himself and Tod O’Sullivan’s horse. Closer … closer … until he passed him out!

The grass seemed to race beneath Michael and even the clouds that blew across the wide blue sky could not keep up with him. His heart was beating fast, just the way the horse’s was. At this moment they were one, racing together.

At his shoulder he caught a flicker of colour – Tod and some of the other lads were creeping up on him. He urged Nero on, faster, faster … the horse’s powerful legs flew through the air, thundering against the earth. Then Tod’s horse pushed itself on again, breathing heavily with the effort. Nero swung his full weight forward, trying to outdo the other. The blood coursed and pumped through Michael’s head and veins and ears as he pushed Nero as hard as he could. It made no difference. Tod’s horse pulled across the finishing line a second or two ahead of him.

‘Well done!’ he called to Tod, trying to swallow his bitter disappointment.

‘Tough luck!’ shouted Tod. ‘That horse of yours gave us a right chase!’

Michael watched as the winner was applauded. He jumped down off Nero as soon as he saw Lord Henry and Toss appearing.

‘Well done, lad,’ smiled Toss. ‘You ran a great race!’

‘But I didn’t win,’ moaned Michael.

‘You did your best, Michael,’ said Lord Henry. ‘Nero will win sooner or later.’

Michael ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, glad that neither man was annoyed with him. He decided to rub Nero down and then come back to watch how Liam and Peadar got on in their races.

Liam romped home on Troy, waving to Michael and
the crowd, his small face creased with a huge grin.

Jerpoint was acting up a bit, and Michael had a job holding her still as Peadar tried to mount her. The young jockey was annoyed as he galloped her down to the starting line where the other five entrants were waiting patiently. Lord Henry and his friends had put a large wager on her to win.

Peadar’s face was taut as he waited for the race to start. He still held the horse far too tight for Michael’s liking.

From the very first second Jerpoint was out in front, pushing ahead of the others, her jet-black mane flying. Peadar was using his stick like a madman, hitting her on, as the rest of the field tried to catch them. The horse was terrified and as they came more into his view, Michael knew that the mare was simply running her heart out to get away from the madman on her back. She crossed the line four lengths ahead of the rest of the field, and the spectators went wild.

Gentlemen came up immediately to clap Lord Henry on the back and congratulate him on his excellent win.

A huge smile lit up Peadar’s long, gawky face as he savoured his moment of triumph. The horse was panting and shivering, the long welts on her flank showing like stripes against her sweaty coat, foam dripping from her mouth.

‘Get off that horse!’ ordered Toss, handing Jerpoint’s
rein to Michael. ‘You look after her, lad,’ he ordered, following Peadar towards the presentation of prizes.

Later, they all rode home in silence, Toss and Michael out in front. Jerpoint was being led on a halter-lead. She wasn’t fit to be ridden.

‘Are ye disappointed about coming second, Michael?’ asked Toss.

Michael thought about it. ‘Nah! Not really, Toss. Tod’s horse was very good and he’s ridden in far more races than I have. He’s a good jockey.’

‘More than I can say for some,’ muttered Toss.

‘Tod’s horse is a brother of Ragusa.’

‘Is that so?’ enquired Toss.

‘That means the same bloodline as Morning Boy,’ added Michael knowledgeably.

‘You’re learning!’ chuckled Toss.

Michael nodded. Toss had talked to him day in, day out about the importance of bloodline in a good horse. You could tell more about a horse by learning its family tree than by watching it race.

Toss reckoned the Irish horse was the best in the world, strong and steady and with a heart as big as Galway Bay itself, wherever that was. Long ago, the bloodline of the best of Irish horses had been crossed with a strong Arab horse which had charged into the battle of the Boyne – the Byerly Turk had passed on his courage to his progeny, creating a bloodline that
passed through many of the colts and fillies that Toss would in time train.

‘You’re a good lad, Michael, and the horses know it,’ murmured Toss.

Michael could feel the happiness swelling inside him. He was itching to see Morning Boy and to tell Mercy about his race. He knew the kind-hearted girl would hug him even more when she heard that Nero and himself were the runners-up.

* * *

‘I’ve had more than enough of you, my lad!’ Michael heard the anger in Toss’s voice. It was the day after the races and he was busy polishing some of the tack in preparation for the early ride-out when Toss and Peadar Mahoney walked through the door of the harness room. ‘Careless! Stupid! Cruel! That’s what I’d call it.’

‘It’s only a damned horse!’ came Peadar’s smart reply.

‘Look, my lad, you’d better begin to understand – these horses are our bread-and-butter. The other men hereabouts have to break the ground and till the fields and tend the sheep and do all sorts of labour for his lordship. We’re lucky. We are the ones responsible for his horses.’

‘I’m the best jockey he’s got, you know that, Toss!’
shouted Peadar angrily.

‘That don’t give you no right to treat a pure-bred horse like that. It’s not a carthorse, ye know. Them horses cost a fortune. You should see the bills for their feed.’

Michael could see Peadar shrugging his shoulders. He didn’t care that he had over-ridden Jerpoint. He’d won, hadn’t he? The racehorse was still in a desperate state but Peadar seemed to think that all the rules for caring for a horse could be broken and it didn’t matter.