“Are you showing in Kilmacanogue tomorrow?” Robert Kelly asked, coming to his rescue.
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re in the mare and foal and yearling classes?” Jack asked.
“Old Tulip’s last crop.”
“Christ, I might as well stay away!”
“Not a bit of it, Jack. I don’t have anything to compete with that Irish draught mare of yours, and you know it.”
“That’s only the one class,” Jack said disgustedly, waggling his forefinger for a fresh round.
“Not for me, thanks, Jack,” Michael said, and downed the last of his pint. “The girls are on their own tonight, and if there’ve been vandals about, I think I’ll just do a check before I turn in. And thanks for the warning!”
He included Fiona in his farewell smile and, with a salute to all, made good his escape. Once in the parking lot, he let out a long sigh of relief.
Friday was a good day for horses . . . and other concerns. For Mick and Artie’s older brother, Peter, it had been a very good night to gather information about Cathleen Fitzroy. Her pregnancy was now common knowledge in Newcastle, and her sorry state was much discussed. Peter confirmed that she had been at the Valentine disco on the evening in question, and that Owen had not. On that night—and indeed on other nights when she consumed rather more than she ought—she had been quite free with her favors.
Michael gave him a pat on the shoulder. “It’d be helpful to narrow down the prospects, though, Peter. Does she ‘favor’ anyone in particular?”
“Well, there was this fella Nolan, Jere Nolan. He seemed upset about the talk. He didn’t say much, but he got pretty pissed off and left in a huff.”
“Jere Nolan?” Mick grinned cynically. “He’s only a step above a tinker. Works as a casual. And he’s worked at Fitzroy’s. But Fitzroy would have sent him packing if he got near Cathleen.”
Michael thanked Peter for a job well done and watched as the boy swung onto his pushbike and pedaled out of the yard.
“Good lad, that,” Mick said, nodding approvingly. “And it could bloody well be Jere Nolan. Up at Kilpedder, everyone knew about Fitzroy’s ‘trouble.’ “ He chuckled slyly. “Sure it’s all over the county and chalked up to vandals. But there isn’t much sympathy for the man. He’s a sorry bastard, mean to his wife and kids, never stands his round at the pub if he can avoid it. There’s a fair rumor that he’s sold on tubercular cattle the odd time or two. No, I wouldn’t call him popular.”
“It was the talk in the Willow Grove, too,” Michael remarked. “Ah, Selina’s come. We’ll give Charlie, Conker, the Prince, and Emmett a light hack, then I’ll want to school Temper, Wicket, and Racketeer. Has Barry gone off to check the fences?”
“He has that,” Mick said as he started to the tack room.
The day’s work went well. Even Temper was compliant, beginning to relax his jaw against the bit, with a good rhythm to his trot. Michael made much of him since there had been so few opportunities lately to appreciate the gelding.
Selina stayed as long as she could, helping the girls adjust the false tails on the field horses. But she left before tea, again explaining that Kathleen was leaving on the dot of five and she didn’t like to leave the house unoccupied.
Cornanagh was up and breakfasted by seven, and by nine-thirty the horses were ready for the Kilmacanogue show, mares plaited and groomed and foals shining. Owen had helped, although he was staying behind with Barry, “just in case.” Michael was making a note in his ledger of the entry fees when the phone rang. He picked it up in his office.
“Oh, Eithne,” Selina said, her tone coolly polite. She seemed to have something in her mouth that muffled her words. “Would you please tell the captain that I shan’t ride this morning? You might suggest that he have Catriona ride in my place. She’s well able. I’ll call at the beginning of the week.”
“Selina, is anything wrong?” Michael broke in.
“Of course,” she replied. “And you’d do well to see the antiques at Beach House tomorrow at three. Would be worth your while. Tata.” The phone went dead.
Michael cradled the receiver, reviewing Selina’s tone and cryptic phrases. If he took the meaning of her words, something was very wrong and she could probably make it to Greystones strand tomorrow at three.
It took an effort to leave the office, and considerable willpower not to go charging up to Dalkey and find out for himself what had really happened. He knew that was the worst thing he could do if Healey was there. Quite likely he was making too much of the incident, he told himself.
He managed to check that all was properly loaded in the Austin and the horse lorry, then ordered their cavalcade to proceed.
“But Selina’s not here,” Catriona said anxiously. “Is she meeting us at Duffcarrig? She said we could ride with her.”
“Yeah, that Lancia’s a real treat,” Patricia added.
Michael glanced at the two girls, standing side by side, and realized that they were almost of a height, looking smart in their white shirts and Pony Club ties, clean jods, and polished boots. The Carradyne resemblance made them look like sisters.
“She just phoned,” he replied. “Something’s come up, and she can’t join us today.”
“Oh, hell!” Patricia dug a resentful toe into the cobbles, scuffing the leather.
“Stop that,” Michael said more forcefully than he intended, and Patricia backed off, surprised. “Sorry, didn’t mean to roar at you.” He turned to his daughter. “Catriona, is your hacking jacket in the Austin?” She nodded, still uncertain, and he smiled at her. “Well, Selina says you’re to ride Charlie.”
“Wow!” Patricia hugged her cousin and danced about. “Boy, are you lucky!”
“Into the car with you both now,” Michael said. “We’re running late.”
For all that Kilmacanogue was a local show, it was very well attended. They passed several groups of ponies hacking on the quiet back roads, and when they arrived there was a trundling line of horseboxes maneuvering the steep entrance. Michael led the Cornanagh contingent to the far side of the parking field. Mares and foals would be judged first, so Mick, Artie, Billy, and Philip gave the entrants final brushes and one more coat of hoof oil. Michael sent Patricia to the entries caravan to get numbers and register herself and Catriona. Michael decided that Catriona would lead the Tulip’s Son with him; Philip and Patricia would team up for Lady Madeline, which left Mick, Artie, and Billy available to bring up the yearlings.
There was a stallion parade early in the morning that Michael particularly wanted to watch. He was still looking at stallions to cross with his mares—not that he expected to find one to equal the Tulip, but the mares would need to be serviced come March and April. Joe Delahunt’s American stallion Lone Star was a fine-looking animal and might just do for Frolic, but he preferred to see all available animals.
Patricia’s round on the Prince was better than last time—right up until the final wall. Then she let him speed up, and the Prince took off too close to the structure, hitting the top row of bricks with his knees and bringing most of it down. Patricia was going to have to learn that a quick check on the reins would prevent such demolition acts, Michael thought.
Catriona won on Conker, but she was disappointed by Selina’s absence, and he was unable to cheer her. However, she brightened a bit when Frolic and Tulip’s Son were awarded first. The colt behaved with impeccable manners in the ring, a nice change from some of the foals who had been hauled in from the field with their dams, all muddy and shaggy-haired, for the show. Tulip’s Son was so clearly a quality animal that the others didn’t stand a chance.
Lady Madeline and her filly foal were first in their class, and the three yearlings managed first, third, and fourth. This triumph for the Tulip comforted Michael. As long as Tulip’s get was creditably shown, the old horse wasn’t gone.
The highlight of the show was Charlie’s performance. Catriona had felt the weight of this class on her shoulders from the mome
nt her father had told her she had the ride. It had nothing to do with Charlie: it was Selina not riding the horse she had schooled so patiently and the fact that Catriona had never shown a horse publicly and was terrified something might go wrong.
She had to go twice to the loo tent; the second time she had to wait her turn, and the need became critical before she got into the smelly, stuffy convenience. By the time she got back to the lorry, she felt nauseated. Her father tied the number at her back and gave her a leg up, instructing her all the while.
“You’ve seen the drill often enough at the ringside, Trina. And you know Charlie. Circle round if the other horses bunch up or take the inside track, but keep some space around you. When you’re called on to canter, try to strike off when the judges are watching, and let him gallop on when requested. Charlie has a neat turn of speed, and they need to see it. Good luck.”
There was so much confidence and pride in her father’s smile that Catriona straightened her shoulders determinedly, then squeezed Charlie with her legs and moved off to the ring.
There were ever so many competitors, some of them on beloved nags that had no claim to breeding and probably little to performance; but that was to be expected at a local show, and no bad thing. There were, however, several very well-bred animals getting experience for the August Horse Show, and Catriona immediately noticed two in particular: a dapple gray and a brown mare. She eased Charlie into a working trot, delighted at his quick response and his agility when the gray spooked suddenly at a brace of golden retrievers in the corner.
The horses seemed to be trotting a long time before the steward bawled out, “Canter, please.” Catriona was elated to find herself right in the judges’ line of vision as she lifted Charlie into his beautiful rocking canter. He was so responsive! Not all the others were. One lady was bumping about in the saddle for nearly a complete round before her horse finally broke into the requested canter. Two others were equally disobedient, and another showed a tendency to kick whatever came close to his heels.
“Gallop on!”
It felt as if Charlie lowered himself before he sped away. She’d never ridden him so fast, and the elation she felt was breathtaking. He was also lapping half the other horses; only the gray was ahead of him. One of the ungainlies came off, and there was a pile-up of horses in one corner, but she, the gray, and the brown mare avoided it neatly.
At last the steward ordered a halt, and the judges, bowler rims touching, conferred as the horses circled around. The steward made notes on his clipboard and then began to motion the horses in. The brown mare was called in first, but Charlie was second, and she was bursting with pride in him, patting his neck surreptitiously as he stood so calmly in the line-up. Eight horses remained, and the others were excused. Thank God she and Charlie hadn’t had to endure that sort of ignominy, she thought. She was called abruptly to her senses as the steward beckoned her to dismount. The judges were now ready to ride each of the eight horses.
One started with the brown mare and the other at the eighth horse. As she stood by Charlie’s head while he rolled his bit in a sort of reflective way, she kept murmuring to him that he must behave and do his very best, or Selina’d be disappointed in him.
The brown mare gave her rider a nice round, Catriona had to admit that. The other judge was having a bit of difficulty getting his mount to canter, but eventually he succeeded. Then Catriona had to hand Charlie over. The judge merely nodded at her as the steward gave him a leg up. And Catriona held her breath.
He was a portly man, she noticed, and Charlie hadn’t been ridden by that many men, nor one so heavy. Would he be upset? No, he moved out as smoothly as ever, nicely down on the bit to give his neck its elegant curve. Catriona was so entranced with seeing Charlie show himself off that she didn’t realize at first how many circuits the judge was making on him at trot and canter, both reins, even a figure eight.
“Very nice manners, young lady,” the judge murmured as he halted Charlie back in the line again.
It seemed forever before the second judge had worked his way up to her. He was a light, wiry old man, with a lean and humorous face. When he vaulted to Charlie’s back, Catriona caught her breath at the surprise in Charlie’s eyes, but he gave the man an equally faultless ride.
Then came the boring part, when the horses were stripped of their saddles and examined for conformation, stride, and general fitness while the judges, brims together, conferred. Mick and other grooms had come out, with stable rubbers and body brushes, to smooth down any sweat marks, though Charlie had only the saddle patch to be groomed.
“He gave ’em nice rides, Cat,” Mick said, “and you looked champion. The captain thinks so, too. You rode him a treat, you did. Be proud of yerself.”
Finally the competitors were asked to mount again and trot for the final judgments. Catriona was certain that Charlie had given a better ride than the brown mare, certainly better than the gray. She managed to keep her eye on the steward, who was jotting down the judges’ comments, and at last he glanced around, patiently looking for the winner. She held her breath—and nearly burst into tears when the brown mare was pulled in first. She steadied a bit when she and Charlie were beckoned to second place, and she managed to smile at the brown mare’s rider, astonished to recognize the woman as a near neighbor in Willow Grove.
“You’ve a fine gelding there, Miss Carradyne,” said the wiry judge as he fixed the blue second-place ribbon to Charlie’s headstall. “Did you school him yourself?”
“I helped,” Catriona managed to say, and remembered to smile and thank him. Suddenly Selina’s words flew into her mind: “You can’t always win, it’s how you tried that matters.”
Blinking back her tears, Catriona leaned over to pat Charlie’s neck. They had tried hard. They really had.
Then it was time for the traditional lap of honor. Charlie deftly evaded the gray’s attempt to charge into his heels, and then they were out.
Catriona was surprised to see her father and Philip with mile-wide grins on their faces. Pat was jumping up and down in a victory circle with Artie and Billy. Everyone acted as pleased as punch.
“But we were only second,” she said when they crowded around her with their congratulations.
Her father threw up his hands. “Second? The first time in a showing class for the pair of you? You expect a lot of yourself.”
“Don’t you, Daddy?”
Michael looked at her in astonishment. “By God girl, you’re all Carradyne!”
Suddenly all sense of failure dissipated. Dismounting, Catriona hooked Charlie’s reins over her arms and threw herself into her father’s arms. As she felt him return her embrace, she remembered the Spring Show and the Prince.
How could she tell him now?
30
MICHAEL was impatient all day Sunday for his three o’clock rendezvous with Selina. He arrived at the Greystones strand promptly at three and scanned the parking lot. There was only a battered VW by the railroad embankment, and concern flared briefly. Had he somehow mistaken Selina’s cryptic message? Then the driver of the VW honked the horn, and an impatient hand beckoned him from the open window.
When he got nearer, he saw it was Selina, wearing a head scarf and dark glasses in what he thought was a parody of discretion. She wrestled with the inner handle of the passenger door, which swung open with a metallic squeal.
“What on earth are you doing in this wreck, Selina?” He started to sit beside her, then paused, realizing her face and neck were covered with bruises that neither glasses nor head scarf could hide. “My God, what happened?” He reached out to embrace her, and she flinched instinctively. “Healey?”
She swallowed and nodded. Then all resistance melted, and she leaned over to cling to him, shuddering.
He held off all questions until she had herself under control again. Ever so gently, he rocked her, condemning the awkward design of the VW’s front seat. Gradually the shudders ceased, and she lifted her head from his shoulder.
“It was so ridiculous,” she began in a low, controlled voice, “and so totally incomprehensible for someone like David to . . . to lose his rag so completely over something that I’m sure you’d have thought amusing. I still don’t believe it happened.” She gestured helplessly with her hands, managing a weak smile. “I got home on Friday well before Kathleen left. I listened to the news at six, and then Brian Clooney rang from the Gardá station to tell me that the Dun Laoghaire police thought some of the stolen items had been recovered, and could I come down and identify them.
“That’s what I was doing when the duty sergeant came in to tell me that the burglar alarm in my own house had just been tripped. Brian Clooney accompanied me, and when we got to Dalkey, there was a patrol car in the drive . . . and David’s Jaguar.
“Now, I had phoned the number he’d given me, to tell him that the locks had been changed and the security system installed. I don’t know who David has working for him, but . . . well, I did ring and leave a message, only I guess he didn’t get it.” Michael noticed with a sickening jolt that behind the dark glasses she had a black eye. But it was the marks on her neck that truly enraged him.
“Anyway,” she went on with a weary shrug, “David’s key, of course, no longer opened his own front door. So he had broken a kitchen window, setting off the burglar alarm. He was in quite a state, arguing with the Gardái over his right to be in the house. I knew he was furious, and I couldn’t blame him. He prefers dignified homecomings. He doesn’t have much of a sense of humor, certainly not enough to cover something like this.” She paused, looking down at her hands in her lap.
“So he beat up on you!”
She nodded. “It’s the irony that gets to me. I wasn’t away indulging myself, diverting myself with friends. I hadn’t deliberately left the house unattended, or for that matter schemed to have him ‘humiliated,’ as he put it, flying into an even greater rage once the Gardái had left.” She paused to swallow, and Michael realized abruptly that her throat was sore—”I had only left the house to retrieve his possessions. And I hadn’t been gone fifteen minutes when he reached the house. I know he’s been worried, that he’s been having a difficult time in the North, and that he has to blow off steam—”
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