These conversations always ended with me wiping Jack’s spittle off my face. “Settle down, Jack,” I’d say. “It’s all a long time ago. You’re losing it, Jack. Come on. Settle down. You’re starting to freak me out.” The idea of me calming someone else down for a change was funny.
One evening he got extremely upset while talking about Queen Victoria. “Drug dealer! That’s what she was—and the rest of the English rich! They got the whole of China deliberately hooked on opium! Brought the evil stuff in from India. How vile is that?” he yelled. “Turned millions of Chinese into addicts just to milk them of their money!”
His spittle misted over my face and I wiped it off with my sleeve. “Settle down, Jack.”
He gestured in the air wildly. “In fact, Queen Victoria was one of the biggest bloody drug dealers ever born. Forget your Columbian cartels and drug lords! Buckingham Palace is nothing but a massive drug dealer’s mansion! You don’t get to build and decorate a house that big by selling bloody tea to English housewives!”
“It’s okay. Settle down, Jack.”
He started pacing the room. “Christ! When I start talking about bloody Buckingham Palace, I need a bloody drink,” he said grimly. He stomped out of the room, brought back a bottle, and banged it on the table.
I instantly recognized what it was and felt my eyes widen and my heart quicken. Poteen. Home-made Irish moonshine. “Go on, Jack. Give us a taste,” I said eagerly. I’d only ever drunk Guinness, whisky, and cider before, never the legendary poteen. It was supposed to be the most dangerous and manliest of drinks—even my father respected it.
Jack shook his head. “No way. Your parents would skin me alive.”
“What? Stop kidding around. I’ve been drinking for years. Give us a drink, Jack.” I bugged him relentlessly until he gave in.
“Okay, but you’ll need to shut up,” he snapped. “I need to concentrate.”
I reached greedily for the bottle but before my fingers got near, his fingers snapped like a vice around my wrist. He glared. “Sit down, fool,” he said. “If you get this next bit wrong, you can go blind. Maybe die.” Focusing fiercely on the bottle, he picked up his lighter and held it carefully over the neck. Very slowly he began to undo the lid, then paused. His eyes met mine.
Yeah, yeah, I thought. Just pour the bloody stuff.
“You have to check the color of the flame before you drink a drop. Have to see if it’s safe.” He clicked his lighter and we both watched the long flame stretch smoothly upwards.
He licked his lips and recited, “If it’s red, you’ll soon be dead. If it’s blue, it won’t kill you.” The flame flickered, then blazed blue.
Shouldn’t kill us then.
Jack raised his eyes to mine and smiled grimly. “After you, young fella.” He slid the bottle across the table towards me. “I’ll open the bottle but you pour your own. I’m not being charged with manslaughter. Anything happens to you, I’ll deny everything.”
I reached out and slowly poured the clear liquid into the glass. The fumes alone could have stripped paint. Ugh! I blew outwards fast to fight the vicious smell, quickly raised the glass to my lips, and threw the contents straight down the back of my throat.
Oh, fuck.
My mouth, throat, and head exploded like I had been hit with napalm. I ran outside and vomited violently on Jack’s neatly mown lawn. After that, I collapsed to the ground, my face mashed in the grass.
Oh, God.
The backyard spun. If I wanted to survive, I mustn’t move.
Jack McNamara’s voice cut through the night, distorting muzzily. “There you go, young fella. They always say when you drink poteen, you share your first drink with the Devil. So what d’yer think?”
After I vomited lavishly once more, it was clear the Devil and I should never meet over a glass of poteen again.
CHAPTER 8
The Garryowen Horse Fair
LIVING ON MY OWN FORCED ME TO COME UP WITH WAYS TO earn money so I could feed myself. I was in a hurry to get to the Garryowen Horse Fair. Finally I had a chance to earn some money to buy some hot food! However, there I was still stuck on the railway line, wondering what to do with the bloody dogs.
They were milling around my legs, begging to be included in the adventure. Sometimes the six of them were like balls and chains around my ankles, dragging at my freedom.
They looked up with their pleading eyes. Pleeeease take us with you.
The bastards would tear your heartstrings right out of you if they could get away with it. I hardened my heart. “Sorry, no way you’re coming with me today. Not around horses.” I turned my head, closed my eyes, and breathed slowly to emphasize my message. Then I crossed my arms to show how much I meant it. In other words, I was using body language to tell them, Respect my wishes, and leave me alone, please. As usual, it worked perfectly. The dogs gave me one last beseeching look before melting away.
The fair was held on the Garryowen Horse Green, which was on top of a huge mound of earth beside the Garryowen estate. This mound had once been an ancient king’s burial chamber. It was so big it was like a vast hill covered in grass with a top as flat as a dinner plate.
I ran fast through the early morning mist. My feet sped up as I heard the familiar sounds of the horse fair. Old cars pulling creaking horse trailers through mud. Frightened horse squealing. Irritated stamping coming from rattling trucks. Men coughing on morning cigarettes. I hurried through the cars and trailers to find who I was looking for.
Chance Casey.
It was said that he was a gypsy who’d stopped travelling and settled down in Garryowen. Now he was the best horse broker in the district. My eyes raked the milling crowd for him.
Horse brokers were an old tradition in Ireland, and Chance was one of the best. He helped people buy and sell horses using secret hand signals and was important because he stopped the horse fair from turning into a one big furious brawl. There were other horse brokers, of course, but Chance Casey was one of the most respected.
“Morning, Mr. Casey,” I said to his back.
He slowly turned around. He was still skinny and bent over and was wearing his familiar brown tweed jacket, hob-nailed boots, flat cap, and pants so worn they shone. His head was still tipped downwards but now he shook out his match and puffed on his pipe to get it going before slowly raising his eyes to mine.
Jesus. I winced. As usual he was carrying a real mother of a hangover. His eyes were so red, they looked like they’d been dipped in blood. They fell back to looking on the ground. That’s where he usually looked.
“’Tis you,” he muttered in his fast gypsy accent. “Yer be wantin’ a job then?” His red eyes never left the tuft of grass at his feet.
“Aye, sir,” I said eagerly. “Really need the money. Can I say you recommend me?”
“Aye.”
“Thank you, sir!” I took off into the crowd. With Chance’s backing, I should be able to get a few jobs holding horses for owners. There were maybe two hundred men milling around me and three hundred horses. A few kids were running wild—farmers’ and gypsy kids mostly, but also a few local strays like me. All around me was a sea of male voices—everyone talking, muttering, whispering, and shouting about only one thing: horses. I kept an eagle eye out for anyone needing help.
Normally you wouldn’t catch me near so many people. But this crowd was different. It was made up of farmers, dealers, and gypsies from outside Garryowen. Skinny kid like me slipping through the crowd? No one here cared. All this lot cared about was making the best horse deal they could, which suited me just fine.
Stop gawking, start hustling, I told myself, as I walked straight up to a man and his three fat sons unloading a cob from a horse truck. “Hold your horse for you, sir?”
The man glanced down at me. “On yer way. Don’t be annoying me.” He rudely turned his back while his three fat sons smirked.
Hmmm. Lovely family of pigs.
My next target was a thin, nasty looking man backing a
Piebald mare out of a rusty horse trailer.
“Hold your horse for you, sir?”
He snaked around so quickly I had to take a step backwards. Before I could blink, two men appeared at his side. The man holding the horse narrowed his eyes and spat near my boots. “Don’t know yer. Piss orf.”
My stomach rumbled. Since I was so desperate for money to buy breakfast, I didn’t budge. “Chance Casey sent me over,” I said hopefully.
“Don’t deal with no Chance. Piss orf.” The three men eyed me suspiciously until I walked away.
Geez. What did you think I was going to do? Steal one of your horse’s legs while you weren’t looking?
My third target looked more promising. Here was a man holding a horse by its lead rope. The horse was a big, muscled Piebald with a huge, shaggy mane that looked freshly combed and brushed. The man looked even more anxious than I was as he stood on tip-toes to look over the crowd.
Excellent. La-la-la. I put on my most respectful face and hurried up to him. “Chance Casey sent me over. Any chance I can hold your horse, sir?”
Flustered, the man glanced down at me and then peered back over the crowd. “Ah, well, if you know Chance, suppose I can trust you.” He stood on tip-toes again. “Fellow over there says he’s interested in buying my horse. Must grab him before he spends his money elsewhere.”
Yippee, I quietly rejoiced. First job of the day.
He went to hand me the rope but then hesitated, noticing how feral I looked with bits of hay stuck in my hair and my old, tattered clothes.
I smiled reassuringly and said, “Chance says I’m an excellent worker.” It was only half a lie.
Reluctantly, he handed me the rope. Before I could blink, his finger started bossily pointing all over the place like a demented clock. “Now this is a very valuable animal. Don’t be letting him eat this grass over here. And keep him from that cranky mare over there. I’ve seen her kick out a few times, especially at that nuisance of a gelding over there. Hold the rope like this and mind yer don’t spook him. Just stand right here in this exact spot nice and quiet.”
A fussy owner. Bor-ing. “Yes, sir. Not a problem, sir. Swear to God I won’t, sir.”
At last he hurried off with a worried frown still on his face. His horse glanced at me then dropped his head and went back to cropping grass.
“Okay for you. I wish I could eat free grass all day,” I muttered. The horse flicked an ear lazily at me.
The crowd swelled around us. There was a lot of stamping and whinnying from irritated horses, sick of being jammed too close together and held by lead ropes when they wanted to wander off and eat the much longer grass in peace.
Meanwhile some men laughed and others whispered. Everywhere I looked, there were darting eyes and strange pockets of bad energy. Horse fairs always had an undercurrent of slyness, probably because so much money was involved.
I felt my ADHD starting to come alive around all this slyness, tension, and aggression. My fingers started to tremble, my feet started to jiggle, and my stomach started cramping with nerves.
The horse looked at me uneasily. Anything we have to worry about? he seemed to say.
A man behind my horse cursed. Another one jostled me rudely as he shoved past, enjoying how easily he could bump a skinny kid off balance.
I stroked the big horse’s neck to reassure myself. “Whist, hoss. Whist.” Charlie Clarke’s way of speaking to horses always helped calm me down too. This huge animal was humming with calming energy. I could feel it beneath my palm. Horses were like big sponges soaking up my nervous energy. Even better, they seemed to neutralize all the bad energy swirling through a crowd before it could infect me. Thanks, horse. Appreciate it.
The owner returned with his prospective buyer, who proceeded to walk quietly walked around the horse, looking it over carefully.
My stomach rumbled. Come on, come on, I thought. The thing’s perfectly okay. Four feet, a head, a tail. Just buy the damned thing so I can go eat.
“Bit thin on the shoulders,” the buyer said at last.
“Maybe, but he’s strong and willing,” said the seller.
The buyer shook his head doubtfully. “Looks a bit weary for what I’m wanting. Need him to pull a big coal four-wheeler. To be honest, I’m looking for something with more spirit than this.”
The seller puffed out his chest. “Spirit? He’s got enough for six horses.” He spun around to me. “Jump up and show this man some paces, young fella.” Then he threw me up on the horse’s bare back and whispered in my ear, “Make it impressive and I’ll slip you something extra.”
My legs dangled down on either side of the horse’s big muscled back as the rope tied around its nose was quickly looped into reins and thrown to me. I clicked my tongue. “Go on. Whoop! Whoop!” I dug my heels into the horse’s side to get it moving. It lurched forward. Poor thing was sluggish as an old rusty truck. Time to do my job. I made a great fuss of pretending to hold him back as I kicked him into a bouncy trot. “Whoa, sir! He’s a bit much for me. He’s dying to gallop! Shall I let him go, sir?”
The seller winked at me and his voice rose in excitement. “Better not, young fella. You’ll never hold him back if he decides to bolt. Wants to go like the wind! Look at him! Rein him in! Rein him in!”
I played my part, acting like a cowboy on a spirited mustang. “Ooh, plenty of feisty blood in him, sir! He’s dying to cut loose and run off. Get ready if he bolts!” I made a big deal of reining him in. The horse stopped dead like an old truck run out of diesel. I gave him one last nudge behind the shoulder blades and he pranced a bit more on the spot. Then I slid off him fast before he yawned and went to sleep on his feet.
The buyer eyed me suspiciously, but he was interested. He walked to the seller and murmured a price in his ear. The seller frowned, scratched his head, and banged his blackthorn stick against his boots in frustration. He was clearly not being offered the price he wanted.
My noisy stomach was frantic. Come on. Come on. Buy the damned thing before I starve!
The two men started bargaining hard. Then there was silence followed by more scratching of heads, more banging sticks on boots. They had come to a deadlock. “Will we call in Chance Casey? Bring him in to fix the deal?”
“Agreed. Call him over.”
The call went through the crowd. “Chance! You’re needed over here!” The request was shouted from group to group.
Chance wandered over, his red eyes glued to the grass. “Aye?”
“We need a fixer,” said the seller.
Chance nodded. He walked closer to the seller and listened hard as the man muttered fast in his ear, their eyes never leaving the ground. Then Chance walked over to the buyer. Their eyes never left the ground as he listened again. A rough price was agreed.
I had to zip my mouth shut so I didn’t start screaming, “Just hurry up before my stomach devours itself!”
Now they were down to the secret handshakes. I didn’t really know what went on inside those lightly clasped hands, but I’d been told they were negotiating a price in secret. One tap of a finger on a palm meant one price. Two taps was a higher price, and so on.
The crowd gathered to witness the ferocious negotiating. Chance Casey’s face was totally inscrutable. There were no clues there.
The seller kept banging his blackthorn stick in frustration. The buyer kept frowning at his horse. Chance kept walking between the two of them, clasping their hands to secretly reveal new price bids. Finally! The price was agreed! Hallelujah!
It was time to seal the deal. The buyer and seller clasped hands.
Chance placed one hand above their clasped hands and one hand below. He moved their hands in a slow, bouncing shake once, twice, three times. Chance stood back as each man spat on his palm then clapped it in a smooth, sliding way against the other man’s palm in both directions. Once. Twice. The deal was done.
The spit was symbolic. The truth from my tongue honors this deal.
Even the cash for t
he horse was exchanged out of sight. The roll of money was slipped inside a clasped handshake to avoid nosy eyes. Chance had his money passed to him in another handshake. He nodded respectfully to both men and the crowd. Job well done.
Then the call went up again. “Chance! You’re needed over here to fix a deal. Chance! Over here.” He wandered off, head down, red eyes glued to the grass as usual.
The seller flipped me two coins which I caught, kissed, and slipped into my pocket. “Thank you, sir!”
He handed the horse’s rope over to his new owner.
I stroked the horse’s powerful neck as I murmured in his ear, “Hope you go to a nice home, boy.” Then I was off to St. John’s Square in Garryowen where one of my favorite places in the world was waiting—Ford’s Fish and Chip Shop. Best food in the universe.
I ran full tilt towards the door, skidded to a walk, and groaned. Oh, Hell! There was already a queue of nine customers. The line moved slowly but I was nearly there when my eyes widened in horror as I realized who the woman was in front of me. Mrs. McCarty! No, no! Doom!
“Now good afternoon to you, Mrs. McCarty,” said Mr. Ford, smiling in welcome. “What can I do for you?”
“Hello,” replied Mrs. McCarty. “Hope you’ve got a pencil handy because you’ll never remember such a long order off the top of your head. Bit of a big family we are. Ah, well, God’s will, I suppose.” I watched in dread as she pulled out a very long piece of paper from her handbag.
“Now, let’s see. Today we’ve got sixteen kids to feed and Auntie Anne’s over visiting too. Can’t forget Mr. McCarty and myself. So that makes nineteen different orders. I’ll go nice and slow, so you don’t miss anything. Are you ready?”
I clutched my stomach so it wouldn’t go berserk and did my best to tune out her long sing-song order. God knows how I didn’t shove her aside. At last it was my turn. Mr. Ford peered over the counter at me. “Now what can I do for you, young Faul?”
My poor tongue almost tripped over itself. “Two serves of chips. Two serves of fish. Two battered sausages, please, sir.” I passed him my money and ravenously watched my food being cooked and wrapped. Mr. Ford slid the precious newspaper parcel across the counter at me.
The Boy Who Talked to Dogs Page 10