"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