An Irish Country Love Story

by Patrick Taylor

  “It will be my retirement project to create a proper archive one day,” said Myrna.

  “I kept hoping each day that something would turn up—”

  “Look,” said Myrna. “There’s Norman. He’s one of the curators. I think he’s going to introduce Paddy.”

  “My lord, my lady, gentlemen…”

  Good old class system, O’Reilly thought, and shook his shaggy head. The same class system that had stopped him from owning the land upon which Number One sat. The marquis, Myrna, and perhaps O’Reilly were being recognised—a purist might argue that a physician hardly qualified as a real gentleman unless he were landed. But the formal welcome did not extend to the presence of lesser females or working men.

  “I am Norman Bowe, one of the curators here. Welcome to our demonstration of traditional horse-shoeing.” He beckoned to a man wearing a duncher, open-necked blue shirt with its sleeves rolled up, and a full-length leather apron that was split from the lower centre almost to the man’s crotch and the flaps held in place round his legs by leather straps. “I’d like to introduce Paddy Jackson, our farrier, who will explain about horseshoeing, which is now a dying art. He will then demonstrate on one of our working plough-horse mares. Paddy.”

  The farrier stepped forward. O’Reilly had twice had to treat the sixty-seven-year-old man for burns, an occupational hazard of his trade. Fingal looked over at Kitty, who raised her eyebrows and took his hand. He swallowed down his disappointment and prepared to enjoy the little show. Paddy removed his duncher, lowered his bald head, and said, “My lord, lady, and how’s about ye, Doc?”

  “We are all very well, thank you, Paddy,” the marquis said, “and we’ll be seeing you soon again because Myrna’s horse, Ruby, will be needing a new set, but I’ll be in touch. Do carry on with your work.”

  “Right. Thank you, sir,” said Paddy. He grinned, reset his duncher, and launched into what must be an oft-repeated routine. “You might ask why does a horse need shoes? Wild horses don’t need ’em, but wild horses don’t carry riders or pull heavy loads, and doing that and walking on cobblestones and tarmac causes wear and tear on the hooves. So ever since the ancients domesticated the animals, we’ve been working out ways to protect the hoof.”

  He bent and from the bench lifted a leather tube above an oval metal plate. “This here is a replica of what we think a Roman hipposandal looked like. ‘Hippo’ was Latin for horse. Up in Belfast the theatre the Hippodrome is called for the places Romans used to race horses, and ‘hippopotamus’ is Latin for ‘river horse.’ Anyroad, the horse wore the hipposandals like boots and them and stirrups was what gave the Roman cavalry the advantage over their enemies.”

  “That’s something I didn’t know,” O’Reilly whispered to Kitty. “Hipposandals. Hmh.”

  “It’s likely the very first nailed-on horseshoe appeared about 500 BC,” Paddy said, “and cast bronze ones with six nail holes began to be used in Europe about 1000 AD. In 1835 an American called Henry Burden made a machine that could turn out sixty steel shoes an hour.” He paused, surveyed the crowd, and said, “And here endeth the lesson. No more dry history. I’m off now for til get the horse from her stall and I’ll show youse how a shoe is put on.”

  There was a polite round of applause and a buzz of conversation began.

  “He’s quite the character,” the marquis said. “Paddy was one of the last farrier quartermaster sergeants in the British Cavalry. Inniskilling Dragoon Guards. Served in the first war and in India. Used to do a lot of work for us, but of course we’ve had to reduce our stable considerably. I’m glad I was able to get him a permanent position here. He loves his work. I do so wish I could help you, Fingal.”

  “Ulster, or at least North Down, is going to miss the MacNeill dynasty,” Kitty said quickly.

  The marquis sighed. “Perhaps. The title will carry on through my son, Sean, and his heirs and successors,” the marquis said, “and after I’m gone Myrna, if she wishes, and Sean, will have permanent use of a comfortable private suite in the big house. Unless of course she decides to move out.”

  “Look, “said Kitty, “why don’t you and Myrna come for dinner on…” She glanced at Fingal.

  “Tuesday,” O’Reilly said. “Barry will be on call.”

  “Come on Tuesday. As a gesture of friendship, to show you there are no hard feelings about the lease. We know you’ve done your best—”

  “We haven’t given up, Kitty. We’re still looking, aren’t we, John? Well, we’re not personally.” She laughed.

  “Indeed we are. And in fact I unearthed another box from the attic just this morning. Thompson’s going through it now. God knows what’s in it, although I suspect it’s just more dance cards and menus and quite possibly a complete set of copies of The Illustrated London News going back to its first edition in 1842. But you never know.”

  “I’ll give you a ring on Monday, shall I, when John’s had a look at his diary,” Myrna said. “And perhaps Lars will be back by Tuesday and he can join us. Thank you. We’d love to—”

  She got no farther. Paddy Jackson had reappeared, leading a huge horse by a halter.

  The mare’s body was reddish brown, her face, lower legs, and feet white, her fetlocks and shanks covered in long dense hairs called feather.

  “She’s called Brianna. It means ‘Noble,’” Paddy said, “and she’s due for shoeing.” He pointed to a little girl in the front row. “Would you like to pet her?”

  “Yeth pleath.” She went and stood beside Paddy. She was dwarfed by the great animal.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Elithabeth, but everybody callth me Lithie, tho they do.”

  He lifted her up. “Now, Lizzie, with the loveable lisp,” he said, “let Brianna sniff your hand.”

  The child did, and the great equine nostrils flared.

  “Now stroke her cheek.”

  The child did and the horse sighed with pleasure.

  Paddy set Lizzie down. “Off you trot. Right,” said Paddy, “I took off her old worn shoes yesterday.” He walked her in a half circle so her rump faced the audience, turned his back on her, and lifted her left hind leg between his own legs, gripping it with his thighs. He pointed to the oval hoof. From its rear edge, a raised triangle ran for two-thirds of the way to the front edge. He pointed. “That there’s called the frog. The front of the bottom’s the sole and,” he ran his finger round the periphery of the front and sides, “them there’s the walls. You can see it’s darker than the sole and divided from it by a thin, lighter strip.” He replaced the hoof on the ground. “You, sonny,” he said, nodding at a schoolboy wearing a Bangor Grammar School royal blue and yellow ringed cap, “Any notion what the light bit’s called?”

  “The white line, sir. My daddy has a cob for riding, like.”

  “Dead on. And it’s very important because on the walls’ side of the white line there’s no feeling. None at all, and that’s where we put the nails to hold the shoe on.”

  He nodded to another little girl. “Now, sweetheart, what happens when Mummy takes you to the shoe shop?”

  She looked at her feet, fidgeted, turned one foot in.

  “She’s dead shy, so she is,” a woman who must be the girl’s mother said.

  “That’s all right,” Paddy said, “I’ll tell youse. You pick out the shoe youse like and then try it on for size. That’s what I’m going til do.” He scanned the audience. “I need a helper.”

  The shy girl buried her face in her mother’s skirt.

  Paddy looked at Myrna. “If you’d be so kind, your ladyship? You’ve helped me often enough up at the big house.”

  She walked up to Paddy.

  “You just hang on til her halter til I’ve got the first shoe fitted, then me and one of the other lads’ll finish off.”

  While Myrna gentled Brianna, Paddy brought back a selection of steel shoes. “Last night when I used pincers to get the old shoe off, I trimmed the walls with nippers and the sole and frog with a hoof knife. I�
��m glad we don’t need that when we get new shoes, but it doesn’t hurt the horse.” He laid a series of shoes of increasing size on the hoof then held one up. “That’s the boy,” he said, “but it’s not quite the right shape.” He moved to the forge, set the shoe on the coals, and worked the bellows. When he was satisfied, he brought the red-hot shoe to the anvil using long-handled grippers and beat the glowing metal with a heavy hammer. Sparks flew to fade and die.

  O’Reilly remembered a snatch of a Longfellow poem: “Children … love to see the flaming forge, and hear the bellows roar.” Certainly these youngsters were enraptured.

  Paddy brought the still-hot shoe and laid it on the hoof. “Got it first time,” he said, removing it as O’Reilly smelled singeing keratin.

  “Now we cool and quench it.” He plunged the steel into the bucket of water with a great hissing and bubbling and gouts of steam rising.

  “Three more steps,” the farrier said. “Nailing, clinching, and rasping.”

  In very short order he had laid the shoe on the hoof and driven in seven nails. Their points stuck out through the walls, pointing away. He cut off each sharp point in turn and used a clincher to bend the nail down to lie flush against the hoof. Finally he took a rasp and smoothed off any rough edges where shoe met hoof. He replaced the foot on the ground. “Only three more to go,” he said, “and you know, when you’ve seen one you’ve seen ’em all.” He removed his duncher and made a little bow before straightening and saying, “Thank youse all very much for coming, and that concludes this afternoon’s demonstration. I’m sure you’ll all fancy a nice cup of tea in the Tea Room.”

  There was a polite round of applause and the little crowd began to break up.

  Myrna turned Brianna over to a youth and rejoined her brother and O’Reilly and Kitty. “Neatly done, Paddy,” she said as he bent to his work on the other rear hoof. He touched the brim of his cap and looked up. “Thank you, ma’am. And thanks for your help.”

  Myrna looked at her watch. “John, you and I must trot. It’s nearly three. Fingal, Kitty, we hope to see you on Tuesday. I’ll phone.” She grabbed her brother’s arm and hustled him off as the man tried to stammer out his good-byes and another apology.

  “Well, I suppose that’s that,” said O’Reilly. His shoulders slumped. “They’ve been looking for days and nothing’s turned up. Two hundred years is a long time for a piece of paper to survive.”

  “That is not that, Fingal. Not by a long chalk. Didn’t the marquis himself quote Winston Churchill when we were looking for Jasper last month? ‘Never, never, never give up,’ he said, and I for one don’t plan to.”

  32

  Home and Beauty

  “Oh my, Barry, the house is in such a lovely spot. It’s just the way you described it, on its own little peninsula.” Sue was turning through a complete circle, looking around her and smiling. “Very private.” He pulled her to him and she looked around her quickly, then kissed him under a midmorning spring sky where the eggshell blue was interrupted only by a high, narrow vapour trail heading west. To America or Canada. “Very private,” she repeated.

  “Through here.” Barry opened a black wooden gate in a low, whitewashed wall. It surrounded the modest, whitewashed bungalow with its grey slate roof and faded brown trim. “We’re at the back of the house right now.” The garden had a few bedraggled herbs and a shrub or two but was mostly the kind of coarse, hardy grass that grows on sandy soil and, to Barry’s secret relief, required little maintenance. Gardening had never been one of his hobbies and Sue had never expressed an interest.

  Right now, she seemed more interested in the small bird running across the grass. Its underbody and face were white, its cap, short beak, and bib black. A narrow tail, as long as its body, twitched up and down incessantly, giving the bird its name, wagtail.

  He footered with the key before he was able to unlock a back door painted a fading brown. “Hmmm,” said Sue. “I’m sure we could paint that door a more cheerful colour. Perhaps yellow?”

  “Go on in,” he said, and followed Sue into the kitchen. She stopped abruptly in front of him.

  “Excuse us. We’re terribly sorry,” she said. “We didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “Oh, dear. I told you, you should’ve got up earlier, Lewis.” A woman shook her head. “The ould goat insisted on staying up for til watch Late Night Line Up and then I couldn’t get him out of bed this morning.” Her words might sound harsh but her smile was all forgiveness. “Come on youse in, dears. Don’t mind us. I’m Gracie Miller and this here’s my husband, Lewis, who sometimes thinks he’s Rip Van Winkle.” The couple, who both appeared to be in their mid-seventies, were finishing a late breakfast, and the kitchen was redolent with the smell of toast and coffee. They were O’Reilly’s patients, but Barry had seen the retired postman for follow-up last year after he’d had a cataract removed at the Royal. “Mister Frew told us the house would be empty,” said Sue. “We can come back later if you’d like.”

  But not much later, Barry thought. He had to get her to Aldergrove to catch her flight back to Marseille at one fifteen.

  “How’s about ye, Doctor Laverty, Miss Nolan.” Lewis’s wispy, sandy hair was neatly combed and the grey eyes behind spectacles, the left lens of which was made of thick convex glass, did indeed look tired. He rose from the table and gave a courtly bow to Sue. “Gracie thought you were coming at nine thirty, but I thought it was eleven thirty. As usual she was right. We was just finishing our brekky. Don’t mind us. You tear away and get a good look at our wee home.” There was the hint of a catch in his voice as he sat.

  His wife, a small woman with iron-grey hair done up in a bun, and tortoiseshell-framed spectacles, popped out of her chair the same time her husband sat and Barry had to stifle a smile. She began buttoning her woolly blue cardigan and smoothing her grey skirt. “Youse’ll be wanting a wee cup of tea in your hands before youse look around,” she said.

  Barry detected a note of urgency in her voice. He looked at Sue and gave her a quick nod. Another ten minutes was neither here nor there. “That would be lovely, Mrs. Miller,” he said.

  “You see til them, Lewis, dear,” she said. “I’ll only be a wee minute.” She trotted off with small swift steps to the kitchen door.

  Lewis Miller laughed. “My Gracie’s dead house proud, so she is. She’d be mortified if youse seen the bedroom with the bed not made.”

  “Mister Miller, in my line of work, you see plenty of unmade beds, mostly with people in them, but if your wife is more comfortable making it, we’ll not stand in her way.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” Lewis Miller busied himself pouring two cups. “Milk and sugar’s on the table. Help yourselves and have a pew.”

  Barry and Sue sat. “Your house is certainly in a lovely spot,” she said.

  “It is that. And do you know we’ve been in it since we got wed in 1917.” Lewis sighed. “I tried for til join up with the Ulster Division in ’15 and do my bit to fight the Boche, but I’d flat feet and weak eyes. They wouldn’t have me. Said being a postie was a valuable job, and I suppose it was. Most of my pals volunteered and not too many come back.”

  “But you tried,” Barry said, and made his voice reassuring. “Hardly your fault the army wouldn’t take you.”

  “I suppose so.” He smiled and said, “Thanks, Doc. Anyroad, it’s our golden anniversary this year.”

  “Congratulations, Mister Lewis. We wish you many more.” Sue was sipping her tea, but glancing round the room. When last he’d been here with Dapper, nearly a month ago, Barry had been content to note that the place had one of the recognised facilities of any modern house, a kitchen, much in the way a man buying a car would take for granted that, yes, it had four wheels, without paying much attention to the make of the tyres. Sue was taking in more details: the plain but bright white cabinets, the tiled worktop that looked in good condition, the multipaned windows looking out onto the back garden.

  “You’ve a lovely view from your kitchen window,” Su
e said.

  “Aye,” said Gracie Miller as she rejoined them to stand beside her husband. “Us women spend a lot of time at the kitchen sink. Mind you, my Lewis always helps out washing the dishes. That there window above the sink has a great view out at the heath and that row of elms. They’re beautiful in the summer when their leaves open, and with the kitchen facing south they provide shade. And a windbreak in the winter. The garden’s not up to much but it’s hard to grow things in this sandy soil. We tried. Och,” she said. “It seems like no time at all since our wee girl, Joy, was out there in her pram. She’s all grown up now. Married and lives in a big house in Portrush. She has a flat for us in it. That’s why we’re moving. To be nearer her and her husband and our grandchildren, even if they are both teenagers now. It’s dead kind of her, and all,” she said and took a deep breath, “but I’ll miss this wee place, so I will. A powerful lot. And sixty miles is a brave long ways away, so it is.” She looked around her kitchen. “All the memories,” she said.

  She pointed to a shelf bearing a row of four mugs, each decorated with the coat of arms of the British royal family. “They give all the schoolchildren—I was just ten then—that one of Edward VII in 1902 for his crowning, way before Lewis and me got married. Since we got wed, we’ve seen two kings come and go, and our queen, Elizabeth, have her coronation in 1953. That was on the telly. It was dead on, so it was, all them dukes and earls and thon great big woman, Queen Salote of Tonga. It was coming down in stair rods in London and yet there she was, riding in an open carriage, smiling and waving. She was grand, so she was.”

  “I remember her,” Barry said.

  “I hope Doctor Laverty and I see our fiftieth anniversary,” Sue said.

  “Aye, and with plenty of bairns too,” Lewis said. “Not just the one, like us.”

  Barry frowned and said, “Is it fun being a father, Mister Miller?”

  Lewis Miller reached out to take his wife’s hand and nodded. “Next to being wed to my Gracie, it was the greatest thing in my life. Our Joy lived up to her name right and proper, so she did. At first we was puzzled, you know, that there was no weans. Then after a couple of years we went til see Doctor Flanagan and he sent us til see Professor Johnstone, him that got a knighthood in 1938, up at the Royal. But no matter what tests the doctors done, they never found out why.”