The Stag

by

Pat Gough

"I saw Carling-Stewart taking the beagles across Five Mile Bridge and I on my way in." Jimmy’s voice couldn’t contain his excitement, his rotten teeth exposed by his mischievous grin. We were standing around the ESB office in Saggart. Jimmy had a mug of tea in his fat fist and I was mulling over the call slips.

"We have a job in Rathcarn," I said. "Rafferty’s. The milking machines are sparking. Maybe we could detour, catch some of the action. I’m sure Rafferty won’t mind."

"By Jasus, he can wait." Jimmy’s grin left his face. "The last time we fixed his welder he never asked had we a mouth on us. The mean aul’ ... "

"He’s got more on his mind, what with his fancy Charolais cows - six at the last count - and his new milking parlour."

"He’s a short memory," Jimmy said. "I remember when he came here. The Land Commission saved him and his brood from starvation in Connemara."

"Now, now, Jimmy. Jealousy’ll get you nowhere."

"Jealousy, is it? He’d the arse outa his trousers and not a crust of bread for the brats ..."

"Let’s go Jimmy," I said, stuffing a couple of DZ fuses in my ESB-issue jacket pocket. "We’ll catch the hunt in Rathmoyne. We’ll ..."

I clammed up as Mr. Gardener, the area supervisor, entered the office. He looked at his watch.

"Are ye still here?" he said gruffly, pointing to the door. "And give Rafferty your first call. You know he can be trouble."

 

There was no sign of the hunt in the entire townland of Rathcarn. We cruised along the edge of Carling-Stewart’s estate, eyes peeled for the flash of red tunic through the woods. Every so often I stopped the van and killed the engine. We stepped out and stood still, listening for the sharp blast of the horn or the fussy barking of the beagles. The woods were silent, apart for the cawing of the crows and corncrake calls in the crisp air.

"Maybe they swung north at Ashboyne," Jimmy said.   "Let’s cut through the estate.   We could cut them off at Sally Wood."

"What about Rafferty?"

"Fuck Rafferty. He can wait."

 

We drove slowly through the estate, stopping at the cattle grids, closing all the gates securely. Pheasants scuttled about in the wet grass as the sun climbed higher in the sky, glinting off the windows of the big house. There was no sign of Carling - Stewart himself.

"He’ll be at the hunt," Jimmy said. "He’s Master of Hounds this year."

 

At Sallywood the story was the same, neither hair nor hide of the hunt. A man flagged us down at the Beggar’s Bend.

"You’ve saved me a journey, lads. I was on my way to the post office to phone the ESB.   Paddy Reidy’s place is in the dark."

"That’s the cottage just after the crossroads?"   I said.

"No, no. That’s Jerry Reidy, his brother. Paddy’s beyant the crooked bridge."

"On the right?"

  "No! That’s Molly Reidy. Jasus, lads. It’s the white-washed two-storey house on the left. About two hundred yards beyant the graveyard."

 

Of course Jimmy knew the old lady. He seemed to know everybody. They had danced together when she was a slip of a girl and he was Jack-the-Lad. If you could believe him.

They started talking about old times, while I sorted out the fault.

It turned out to be a main fuse.   Unfortunately, the new fuse blew when I twisted it home, but luckily the house wasn’t completely dependent on electricity. Mrs. Reidy - Eileen Keogh, as Jimmy called her - had the kettle boiling on the open fire and was preparing tea as I was working.

"Don’t put yourself to too much trouble, missus.   We have a busy day ahead of us." Jimmy pulled up his chair, removed his cap and prepared to tuck in. Out came the biscuits, bread and jam, freshly churned butter.

"Ye must be run off your feet, God bless ye, with all these new houses. And all of them wanting electricity."

"Is there anything plugged in, Mrs. Reidy?" I shouted from the hallway.

"No. Only me electric blanket ..."

"Your what?" I stepped into the kitchen.

Mrs. Reidy blushed to her fingertips.

"In the name of Jasus, Eileen," Jimmy asked.   "What would you need an electric blanket for?"

"I got it from a tinker woman outside Rathcoole.   It was a bargain. Sure, me auld bones are freezing."

"Is there no heat in that aul’ fellow of yours at all?"

"Divil the bit." She laughed. Jimmy laughed. "Not any more."

We all laughed.

I went upstairs and found the offending blanket.   As I checked the plug top, I could overhear my life being discussed in the kitchen below.

"Where’s the lad from?"

"Tallaght."

"Oh, a Jackeen. More or less."

"He’s a good lad. Brains to burn, but he hasn’t an ounce of sense. And he hasn’t a clue about women either. Picks up with a new one every month or so. One flightier than the next."

"He’ll grow outa it," Mrs. Reidy said.

 

When I replaced the main fuse the single 100-Watt bulb in the kitchen sparkled dully in the late morning sunshine.

"God bless the work," she said. "Now, sit down and have a drop of tea."

"It’ll have to be a quick one. We have to get to Rafferty’s. He’s a problem with his milking machine."

"Raffertys of Rathcarn, the Land Commission people?"   Her voice took on an edge.   "They’ve done well for themselves lately."

"Bloody right they have," Jimmy said.

"When they came here first, we all helped them.   Now, since they got them new fancy cows - Chara, Charo ..."

"Charolais. They’re from France," Jimmy said. "They give more milk, they say."

"Whatever they’re called. All I know is, the Raffertys have got awful uppity lately.   They have time for nobody.   Maggie passes me in the street with her nose in the air." She clammed up, as if she had said too much already.

 

As we left, Jimmy asked her if she knew where the hunt might be.

"Not around here. Not since the Germans bought Kelly’s land." Mrs. Reidy’s voice grew angry. "They won’t let them through. They won’t let anybody through. They’ve fenced the whole place off, right down to the river.  The English never even done that, as bad as they were. The hunt will have to cross the river at the old Abbey. They’ll be over Brittas way by now."

 

When we got to the van, the radio was crackling on squelch. It was Mr. Gardener himself.

"Pat, I just got another call from Rafferty.   He’s afraid to start the milking.   There’s sparking at the conduit joints.   I heard he got that place wired on the cheap. Could you make it your next call?"

"Will do, Mr. Gardener," I said into the mouthpiece.

"Let’s do a quick detour through Sherlockstown, after the hunt," Jimmy said. "It’ll take no time."

 

At the cross at Sherlockstown we just missed them. We saw the flash of red, heard the horns as they slid into the woods in hot pursuit.

"Cut across by Finnigans," Jimmy said, hanging out of the van window.

I put the pedal to the floor and sped down the boreen, the climbers rattling in the back of the van. We hung a right at Finnigan’s barn and right again at Cloheen, gathering speed all the time. When we jumped the hump-back bridge at Sherlockstown, the ladders bouncing on the roof, we saw him.

He was scrambling up an embankment at the side of the road, steam rising from his silky, sweaty hide, froth oozing from his flared nostrils. As he struggled, I stopped the van. We stepped out. Although we were so close that we could almost touch him, he seemed to be unaware of our presence.   At the top of the embankment he stopped for a moment. He looked around, his movements jerky, his antlers majestic. Then he bowed his head, sniffing the ground. A trickle of blood ran across his right shoulder and down his leg, staining the brown earth.   At one stage he looked straight at me, his eyes startlingly bright, intelligent, terrified.

From across the fields the menacing sound of the pack drifted over the low hedges. Behind them, the urgent shrill tone of the hunter's horn.

The stag bounded forward across Finnigan’s five acres towards Hazelwood. He had a slight limp. He wouldn’t last much longer.

 

Moments later, we were surrounded by beagles, swarming like locusts, yelping for blood. They picked up the scent as the first huntsman arrived, scampering up the embankment, tumbling down the other side. The lead huntsman glanced in our direction. It was Carling-Stewart himself, proud, confident, Master of Hounds this year. He measured the embankment with his eye. For a moment I thought he was going to force his mare over it. Then he trotted over to a gate in a cutting.

"I say, men," he called in our direction.   "Would you mind opening the gate?"

I stood my ground. Maybe I didn’t like his tone of voice. Or maybe I was on the stag’s side.

Jimmy made a move to help.

"Fuck him, Jimmy," I said. "Let him open his own gate."

Jimmy dithered. The huntsman called again, this time more urgently. More authoritatively. Jimmy stepped forward, opening the gate with a loud clang.

As he rode through, Carling-Stewart dropped a coin on the ground. More huntsmen followed, the odd coin hitting the dirt. Suddenly they were all through, galloping across the field, following the hounds towards the spot in Hazelwood where the stag had vanished.   Jimmy knelt down and started collecting coins. They were mostly tanners, with the odd shilling thrown in for good measure.

 

As we drove off, Jimmy was strangely silent.   He passed me half his takings, but I refused. When he tried to push it into my pocket I pushed his hand away angrily. The silence grew all the way to Rafferty’s.

 

There were several cars parked outside the farmhouse, among them the vet’s Citroen and Mr. Gardener’s Ford.

"Jasus Christ," Jimmy said, as I swung the van into the yard. "Jasus Christ Almighty."

They lay on their backs outside the cowshed, surrounded by mourners, their legs stiff in the air, their bulging udders obscenely exposed, their necks twisted at acute angles. Rafferty’s prize Charolais. All six of them.

When I got closer, I saw their tongues, half bitten through by their cud chewing teeth - a sure sign of electrocution.


Copyright © Pat Gough 2001. All Rights Reserved


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