The night spent curled up in the warmth and snugness of a thatched store of hay. And one was not surprised at one’s rather sadistic impulse. And indeed rather enjoyed the thought of that bully maimed. And a dream of losing my shoes and coat in a big cinema. Later searching for the lost and found department. Up alleys and along doorless walls. An attractive girl I stopped to ask directions was curt with me. She later returned and apologized. And god even in my dream I seemed so relieved she had. Feeling as I was so awfully gruesomely crushed. Like Healy’s hand.
Two more nights were wet with soft moist winds. One sheltering under a leaking lean to. The next huddling under rusted sheets of corrugated iron. Eating raw cabbage and turnips. Then it snowed again. Left tracks behind me in my thieving. The whole damn countryside would soon be on my trail. Tried each big farm I came to. Ever enumerated all my gardening skills. And everyone suspiciously viewing my face turned me away.
Till one morning. Coming to the top of a gently rising hill. In the first sunshine for days. I stopped at a large gateway bordered with lawns. A straight avenue down between great arching beech trees. To a house with its windows shining and a gravel drive to its yellow door. Walking trepidatious between these railed fences. Green velvet paddocks. Mares with foals gambolling on the close cropped winter grass. A clocktower entrance to a stable yard. Where a red crinkly haired groom led a horse clattering across the cobbles.
‘Begging your pardon sir, but I am inquiring as to there being a position open for a stable lad.’
‘Well now I wouldn’t know. But there could be. As we had to kick a little bastard out of here yesterday. You’ll have to talk to himself the gaffer, over there by that stable.’
‘Thank you.’
Darcy Dancer crossing to a checked coated and capped gent in flared twill breeches and boots. Touching one’s forelock. And approaching this figure whose pinched reddened face held a cigarette nodding up and down between his thin lips.
‘And what do you want.’
‘Sir I would be inquiring as to know if you might be needing the services of a stable lad.’
‘Who sent you.’
‘I made bold to come myself sir.’
‘Who gave you that belt in the eye. And them bruises. We don’t want trouble makers around here.’
‘I was after having a fall sir.’
‘Fell me arse. Looks more like a beating you deserved. I’m just after putting my boot flying into a cur was sent out the gate you just came in. What do you know about horses. Who have you worked with before. Come on. Who.’
‘Well sir. Sure I am a butcher’s son but I have spent me time in the stables since I was a slip of a gossoon. Serving me time in the big house that was near where my father had his trade. I know a good bit.’
‘Lay hand to that fork. We’ll see what you know now. Go in there and muck out that box. We’ll see what kind of a job you do. Plenty of your type around thinking you know it all. Go on. What are you waiting for. Put your shoulder into it.’
Darcy Dancer entering the box. Laughter in the courtyard as this stallion reared and bucked and sent sparks flying off the wall with lashes of his hind legs. Ears flat back and his great yellow teeth bared to snap off my arm. Love and affection calms the horse. Provided you can administer these before you are bitten, trampled or kicked to death. Meanwhile step back out of harm’s way. Murmur quiet peaceful words. There, there now. Easy there. Quietly now. Good old fellow. Blow soft soothing breath up in your nostrils. And put on your head collar. There you are. My big evil fellow. Lead you out. So I won’t be killed. While attending to your toiletries.
‘Who told you take that horse out of that box.’
‘You asked me to clean it sir. And that big fellow not knowing me yet would as soon send me flying over the moon.’
‘Well ask first if you can remove a horse out of a box. And stand up straight when you talk to me.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘You’re a little know it all I can tell.’
‘I’m sorry sir I didn’t understand you the first time. May I be taking the horse out of its box sir.’
‘Take him out. And into that box there. And next time you’d better know enough to ask.’
Darcy Dancer shovelling up the matted brown knobs of dung and heaping it in the barrow. Lugging and forking in yellow clean straw from a stack. Shaking it up with the fork. Spreading the golden fibres neatly and evenly across the floor. Heaping it gently up against the walls. And storing that little bit extra in the corners. The gaffer coming to peer in over the half door. And grunting begrudging approval.
‘Well you know how to do something anyway. Now there’s no quitting here till you’re told. You’ll sleep up there over that stable. We’ll give you a try for a few days. Twelve and six a week and your keep. What’s your name.’
‘Dancer O’Reilly sir.’
‘Named after the great stallion himself I suppose.’
‘It’s a fact I am sir.’
‘Dancer is it. Well I’m Matt. Named after me hard working father. And I’ve no bloody time for slackers.’
‘I’m not a one for slacking sir.’
‘Well we’ll see about that. Just let me catch you stepping out of line, and you’ll hop it from here in a hurry I can tell you.’
The loft room was up a narrow worm eaten wooden ladder. Musty and dusty, a pile of oats in the middle of the floor. Little brick built cubby holes in the walls for chickens to lay their eggs. A wooden bench of a bed with a horsehair mattress. Three old dirty grey blankets smelling of hay and straw. Under which one slept till wakened each morning by a gruff shout of a groom up the steps. Peeling back the damp covers and arising already dressed in the chill darkness. Eyes still glued together in sleep. Pushing cold stale stockinged feet into Father Damian’s priestly shoes. Day after exhausting day. To go down into the welcome warmth of the horses below. Their comforting snorts and movements through the night. And now know what the life of Foxy was like. And it would damn soon make you go round biting off ears and smashing heads with hammers.
‘Get a move on there’s fifteen mares waiting yet.’
My hair and the passing days growing longer. The weather milder. And dust rising in the sunlight forking over the straw. Carrying armfuls of hay. My red chapped hand churning in pails of crushed oats and water. Lugging buckets of warm bran. And the pleasant moments grooming a big old mare who would stretch her head to each side and snort in ecstasy as I brushed her down. And Matt growling when he could find nothing to complain of concerning my work.
‘What are you doing standing there, haven’t you something to do.’
Felt like shoving my fork up his mean arse. Never a complimentary word from his lips. At night, even as I sat on my bed, I hardly had the strength to pull up the covers. And was already asleep as I slowly lowered my stiff limbs back. Aching in every bone. By days waiting in the basement hall outside the big kitchen of this house, holding cap in hand. Murmuring me country accents. Begorra, bedad, and humbly bending me head. To take my breakfast of porridge oats, tea, bread and dripping. Lunch of bacon potatoes and cabbage. Sitting at the most inferior position of the table to eat. With the other household servants who suspiciously regarded me when I did not bless myself at the sound of the Angelus. With the cook mumbling.
‘What have we now, a pagan in our midst.’
Looking up and seeing them all stare. And the cook once correcting me for my table manners. God what bloody inglorious moments. To find servants more full of snobberies than one is oneself. The maids all so self importantly jumping at the dingling sound of their assigned bells, rushing to a grey swing door at the top of the stairs as if it led to heaven. And one called Assumpta looking back over her shoulder at me all snooty and superior.