by Lyz Russo
The Racing Finn
Shortstory
© Copyright Lyz Russo, 2008
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Disclaimer:
No horses, musicians or other animals were hurt in the process of creating this short-story.
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Some say it was the Lady’s fault. Then others ask, which lady, because in fact there were two. Then the first reply, och don’t go splitting hairs now, yer big droonk galoots, yer nothing but a bampot! In any case it was an event that lingered in bar-side discussion long after the autumn leaves started blowing through the two streets of Kilkee, and was revived like a poor captive zombie year after year whenever it was that time again. It was the race during which the commentator’s voice broke.
Kilkee, though it was so small it was nearly off the landscape, never mind the map, nevertheless sported two significant things: Seasonal horse racing, and Lady Millennia Adenoidia Mont Nifty. It was a tradition that Lady Millen, as everyone knew her, and her horse “Lady”, won this event; not only because it was proper, with her being genuine nobility; but even more because the Lady was the finest mare in all of County Clare. The other horses simply stood no chance.
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Now on that particular morning in April, Finnegan o’ Flanagan had been lamenting the loss of his latest lady love over some ale. And then some more ale, and then some pure Irish whiskey. He wouldn’t have been able to afford all this if it weren’t for the steady gig he had at the same place, The Lucky Shamrock, every Friday night, that came with the benefit of free drinks.
Finn was so drunk that the barkeep, Mr Tim o’ Hagan, saw double whenever he looked at him. O’ Hagan knew the whole sorry mess about how Amanda, the all-too-recent love of Finn’s life, had deserted him for a rich American who stayed at the local inn. And as O’ Hagan also owned the inn, he felt a bit guilty. (What remains odd in this tale is how he didn’t feel guilty about helping poor Finn into his alcoholic stupor with free booze.) So when the police had checked in last night for curfew and questioned the presence of Finn, O’ Hagan had taken the young officer aside and explained to him. And as officer Sandy o’ Neill had a heart too, he’d left Finn in peace. It might have been kinder to chase him home.
By now the morning sun was painting a faint splotch on the dark wooden floor, and O’ Hagan was trying to find a means to throw this loveless, motherless soul out of his pub so he himself could catch a few winks before opening time. He prodded the musician, first gently, then firmly, and when that didn’t help, swatted his head with the rag he’d just used to wipe down the bar top. Finn didn’t even stir.
Right then the door flew open and the Lady Millen swept inside. She had been carefully coached in the art of sweeping into rooms in a Limerick finishing school and could do it so impressively that she appeared quite huge for a second, until you recognized her and she shrunk back to her own diminutive stature. She went right up to Finnegan and stomped her petite foot. She nearly stomped a dent into the five-hundred year old floorboards. The pub shook in its foundations. Finn shot upright, awakened out of his deep drunk-depressive coma, and promptly lost his balance, staggering and falling to the floor.
“Millen,” he mumbled, picking himself up. “Thish really ishn’t the time for a young lady such ash yourshelf to be out pub-crawling!”
“And what might the right time be, Finnegan o’ Flanagan? It’s eight in the morning, I’ll have you know! In two hours it’s the Great Race!”
Finn squinted at the doorway. The sunlight poured in with a blinding lack of regard for sore heads and fragile stomachs. The world seemed to be rocking gently. He groaned.
“Finn, I need your help,” stated Lady Millen resolutely. “The Lady is running today. I need a jockey.”
Finn nodded, and immediately regretted this. The world spun much worse; besides, his head – was that even his head? – featured a stabbing ache. He groaned again. In any case he didn’t understand the request. Nobody could tame the Lady. Nobody understood her the way Lady Millen did. They were one in spirit and in mind. The two were rumoured to have been foaled by the same mare.
The trouble was, as a lady, Lady Millen couldn’t be seen riding her Lady in horse races that were aimed at gambling and profit-mongering. It was socially unacceptable. Her mother and father had quite forbidden her! So at the quarterly races she always had a jockey riding the Lady, and she herself stood in her booth in the front row of the Grandstand – or the Medium Stand, in the case of the Kilkee Horse Races – waving wildly and egging her mare and jockey on at the top of her voice. This was socially acceptable.
There was a recent jockey she had employed last year, if he could only find that name.
“Shir... Shir Donovan?” suggested Finn, cradling his face in his hands to protect it from the harsh Irish sunlight. It was really not fair to his pickled brain to be called on for solving a problem, right now!
“No good,” sighed Lady Millen. “Yesterday when I turned down his marriage proposal, the Lady stomped him one in the knee, so badly he can’t even move right now. They got him down at the General Hospital in Limerick. Overreacted, if you’re asking me. Some people will do anything for the attention!” And she stomped the floorboards again, in a show of distaste. “Finn, you’re the only friend I’ve ever had. You MUST ride the Lady for me.”
“Me?” Finn’s alcoholic content evaporated instantly. “Millen,” he gasped, his voice lapsing into Celine Dion-style overtones, “nobody rides the Lady!” He had to get sober! He was dreaming this! It would all go away.
“Och, don’t be such a ninny,” scolded the diminutive Lady Millen. “Sir Donovan rode her, and he’s a wimp! There’s nothing to it! She knows that track like my back pocket! She wins the race all by herself, and all you do is see you don’t topple off!”
Images of being trampled by twelve horses flashed through Finn’s mind.
“Anyway you can do wi’ the boost,” coaxed Lady Millen. “Show that Amanda what a silly cow she was to abandon you. Because you’re a hero, Finnegan. You’re MY hero anyway!”
Oh yes, Amanda. Millen wasn’t playing fair. The whole scenario boiled up in Finnegan’s mind, showing up Amanda by being a hero, pocketing the local nobility in the same go... was Millen propositioning him? A horse, a hero and a lady... oh yes, balm to a musician’s shredded heart! And the songs he could make about it afterwards!
“I’ll do it,” he proclaimed and completely missed the way Tim o’ Hagan crossed himself and rolled his eyes.
The impetuous Lady Millen bestowed a tight hug on him. “Och, my friend!” Finn noticed for the first time, on her front side, two enticing little breasts. He grinned. She was clearly unaware of them. He’d better not mention them, lest they get amputated! Not that this information was of any real use to him – no amount of alcohol could make him lose sight of the fact that if he as much as dared to glance at the teenager in that way, her father would probably gouge out his offending eyes. What had Sir Donovan been thinking, proposing to her?
Lady Millen dragged him out of the pub, her hand clamped like iron around his wrist. Behind them Tim o’ Hagan breathed a loud sigh of relief and locked the door. The Lady steered Finn into the Golden Bean and forced him to drink a serial espresso, until he thought he’d throw up and begged her that he was quite fine and they could carry on with the agenda. By now he had progressed to being a wide-awake drunk. Black cats played before his eyes and a fluffy white rabbit kept darting from the right to the left faster than he could actually spot it.
The next step was to befriend the Lady – the mare, who decided that Finn was probably the man her mistress ought to marry, and if she didn’t, she, the horse, would. This was a relief for Finn, as the Lady had a reputation
of eating intruders.
Friendship with the horse having been achieved, Finn had to force his long, lean musician’s limbs into the jockey’s outfit of Sir Donovan Crowley – a squat, muscular man whose main sport next to quaffing was womanising. Or had been, before he had been immobilized by one opinionated horse. Lady Millen bravely fought down her fits of giggles about the hairy arms and legs sticking out. The jodhpurs threatened to fall off him; he had to hold them up with both hands. Among peals of laughter Lady Millen procured a shoelace that had to improvise as a belt. As a result Sir Donovan’s jodhpurs, which were technically designed to be tight-fitting, hung like a potato sack on the lanky musician.
Next, Millen forced Finn into the Sir’s boots. These were too small and pinched like a leprechaun’s tricks, but Lady Millen reminded Finn that he wouldn’t be touching ground in them anyway, not if he knew what was good for him. Then she laughed loudly and placed a kiss on his cheek. “For luck,” she said. Finn felt extremely lucky that moment, and quite willing to endure some hilarity for the sake of accommodating Lady Millen, and getting back at Amanda. Who knew, maybe more such innocuous kisses would ensue?
Finnegan knew the race track well. Like