A Short Story by Cal Ward
Nicky Carroll was a worried, depressed man. This was male depression, the real thing. His wife had laughed at him that morning for worrying so much over something so trivial. He suspected, too, that the family were not with him completely on this one. Families were like that; a bread and butter issue that directly affected them and they were prepared to take the part of a damn horse against him. The horse. A handsome chestnut colt with an aristocratic pedigree and an equally aristocratic temper to go with it; - fine while the kids were feeding him carrots and apples from the neighbour's orchard but as soon as he suspected any kind of equestrian activity involving a saddle, was capable of becoming a biting, kicking horror. He'd cost the proceeds of an entire season as a beater on Lord Clonloum's estate which included the value of a goodly number of pheasants that by some miracle of physics fell, not to earth after being shot by Milord's friends, but into the back of Carroll's van and thence to a friend in Edenderry who dealt in game. It amounted to a tidy sum which normally would have gone directly into his beer and ammo fund. The owner was an acquaintance of his who was having temporary financial problems and needed to get rid of the colt quickly and was willing to take a small price for a quick sale. The colt had a further connection with Milord's estate as he was the illegitimate offspring of Milord's stallion, the mighty "Clonony Castle". His dam, a seductress of local origin and less than noble birth had mysteriously appeared in his sire's stall late one night after the pubs in Clonloum had closed. The head groom was married to a local girl and may have harboured tribal loyalties in addition to his professional ones. The result was a fine colt carrying a selection of strong genes that hailed from locations as diverse as Connemara, Sandringham and the Nejd desert of Arabia. An ancestor of his had accompanied Mohammed on his Hijra to Medina in 625 AD and another had won the British Grand National in 1935. He also had a few cousins on his dam's side who pulled sulkies or light racing traps at quite spectacular speed for the local traveller community which excelled in that equestrian sport. He was so handsome and well bred and so cheap it was inevitable that he'd net a huge profit when presented at Ballinasloe Fair in August, properly groomed, broken and trained. Carroll had visions of a very boozy Ballinasloe week followed by a couple of weeks of equally boozy duck shooting in Shannonbridge, all on the proceeds of the sale of the horse. That was before the colt's personality defects surfaced and Carroll started to slide into exogenous depression. It was now pitifully obvious that the colt's temperament was known to his previous owner who had offloaded him to the first interested party for whatever he could get.
Nor did his problems end there. Ballinasloe week had brought heartache the previous year also in the form of a brush with the law which threatened to see Carroll in very serious trouble unless a substantial sum of money was paid over, and quickly, to a publican of that town. The flesh is weak, particularly when a man is broke and all around him are merrily boozing and that is precisely how Carroll had found himself halfway through the fair. A drink and a chat with an old friend, a traveller who shuttled between Bolton and Tullamore, raised the possibility of a reprieve. Din Dinnelly, "Dindin" to his friends would supply Carroll with 500 pounds in "funny money" or counterfeit Sterling ten pound notes in exchange for 250 pounds in non counterfeit Irish notes. This involved persuading a publican to act as a money changer so that Dindin could receive his share. Things had come apart when a bank official with an interest in horses came in for a pint and by the way some sterling for he wished to purchase a filly from a man who brought animals over from Wales. He got a dud English tenner and the game was up. Carroll had ignored that most fundamental of rules and had stayed around the scene of the crime, having found the company congenial. It took a day or two to identify the culprit by which time Carroll had blown most of the money on beer and bets. The publican was a reasonable man and agreed to settle for the amount he had been "done" for plus a "small consolation". That was last year and now his patience had worn thin and he was talking about bringing in the Guards. Carrol's previous criminal experience involved nothing more serious than Dole Fraud, Tax Evasion and the odd spot of poaching. Passing counterfeit money was a different thing altogether so it was imperative that Carroll realise his investment in the colt and pay off the aggrieved publican. The problem was that nobody wanted a bad tempered colt however well bred and handsome looking. Add that to the fact that the colt had wormed his way into his family's affections to the extent that they didn't want to part with him and Carroll had a severe problem.
As was his wont, Carroll took himself and his problem to a place where he could think without distractions - Hop Murphy's bar in Clara where he was an occasional customer. There he contemplated the trophy from a previous scam which hung over the bar. The scam had involved selling a quantity of goat meat as venison and the mounted head of the main participant looked down from the wall, his varnished horns and sightless eyes a reminder that human resourcefulness is an unplumbed depth. Carroll took careful inventory of his options and decided that it all came back to one thing; he had to hoodwink somebody into buying the colt. The problem was that there are a limited number of fools in the world and none at all in the horse dealing business. It followed, therefore, that the tactics adopted had to be of a highly original and sophisticated standard. For the best part of two hours he grappled with this conundrum, sipping his pint contemplatively. Hop Murphy noted this unusual behaviour and commented to his cronies around the potbellied stove; "Bejaysus, Carroll's conscience must be finally at him". From time to time his gaze shifted around the bar and its occupants, hoping for inspiration. As often happens in such cases, a solution can be sitting under your very nose if you have the wit to notice it and so it was that, having assessed every drinker in the bar as a potential source of assistance or advice, his gaze fell on the least impressive of the human contents of Hop Murphy's bar.
If Patsy Jack Loonam and his old dog (called "Dowl Dog" or simply "Dowl", a truncation of "th' aul' dog" in the elegant Midlands linguistic tradition) were any dirtier they would have had nowhere to drink, not even Murphy's. There had been a much reported and hilarious incident the previous year when Pub Spy had visited Murphy's and his report had been somewhat scathing of Murphy's hygiene or rather his complete lack of it. Patsy Jack had presented himself as usual at 12 am at the front bar in Murphy's on the Monday Morning after this report was printed and asked for a pint. Murphy was in crusading form and asked Patsy Jack if he'd wiped his feet on the way in; to which the ancient reprobate replied that if what he'd read the day before was true he'd be better advised to wipe them on the way out. As well as being very dirty and smelling strongly of horse, Patsy Jack was a very clever old man with a reputaton for sharp dealing and resourcefulness and an eye for a pound note that didn't involve work. On another occasion he had turned misfortune into success when he raffled a dead dog. He had owned a moderately successful racing greyhound which contracted distemper and died. Not to be deprived totally of his asset, he raffled the dog in the pub in the village of Pollough. This was not treachery because Pollough and Clara have been warring and fornicating for generations and all was fair etc etc. Anyway the Pollough boys who were famous for settling their disputes with their fists were also chivalrous and would never strike an old man, however perfidious. Old conmen enjoyed a degree of diplomatic immunity in this part of Offaly and were regarded as having a high entertainment value which paid for their keep, so to speak. The dead dog was delivered to the unfortunate winner's home while he was in the pub. When he discovered his "loss" the next morning he contacted Patsy Jack for an explanation. Ever the honourable gentleman, Patsy Jack had returned to the man the cost of his raffle ticket.
Horses and Cleverness; Carroll ordered two pints and a bag of crisps for Dowl, for it was essential to earn the approval of that cagey animal whose instincts Patsy Jack trusted totally, and sat next to the man who was going to get him out of this corner. For the next few hours they huddled while they developed and refined the tactic that would relieve Carroll of his bothersome colt. As expected, the co-operation of the old veteran of a thousand deceptions was never in doubt for he reveled in a challenge. There was mutual respect on both sides and the result of this formidable meeting of equally formidable minds was bound to produce success. The plan was worthy of a Borgia. Carroll brought the colt around to Patsy Jack's place in the Erry Bog the next evening. They fixed up a stereo in the stall and borrowed two powerful speakers and began the business of keeping the colt awake for four days. If he showed the slightest inclination to sleep he was fed and watered, walked around, groomed or simply poked with a stick with loud music playing all the while. The presence of a sow with her squealing litter on the other side of the partition and a huge and ferocious cannibal tomcat spitting in the manger further induced the fastidious colt to insomnia. Chickens, ducks, ferrets and Patsy Jack's cantankerous old donkey with his mournful braying all added to the unsuitability of the barn as an equine bunkhouse. Harassment by Dowl completed the destruction of the colt's sleep patterns. Particular attention was paid to grooming as Carroll and Patsy Jack worked in shifts around the clock. As the days passed the colt's appearance improved while his energy levels plummeted. The locals were bemused by the strains of Big Tom's "Gentle Mother" and "The Crystal Chandelier" wafting up from the Erry Bog on the evening breeze.
On the fourth morning they loaded him into the box and drove to Ballinasloe. In the middle of the fairgreen there is an electricity pole and to this they tied the, by now, docile colt. He placed his forehead against the wood and with a snort of gratitude promptly went to sleep. He presented an impressive appearance, big and handsome, his coat sleek and shiny, gently dozing in the warm sunshine. He suffered himself to be poked and felt and probed and admired. He ignored the raucous and lively bidding and arguing going on around him. His mouth was prized open and he allowed his teeth to be inspected and his hooves examined without offering to bite his tormentors. He even ignored the canny boyo from Portarlington who slapped his rump with his stick, something he would normally answer with a kick. When the big farmer from Bandon arrived with his little girl and her Jack Russel terrier he showed remarkable forbearance toward the sniffing canine and slumbered peacefully throughout the negotiations which included much spitting on hands and waving of arms. When the "dale" was done he let the man from Bandon lead him to an expensive horse box which he entered without the merest hint of the tantrums he was famous for. Presumably the suspensions on the horse box were of good quality and he may have managed a few hour's kip on the five hour journey to the South West. This together with the fine hay he was fed on arrival and a few more hours sleep when he was lodged in his new stall enabled him to return to his old form when his new owner brought his wife out the next morning to show her the beautiful mount he'd bought for their daughter's tenth birthday. Unluckily he had the saddle with him which aroused the colt's ire. The startled Jack Russel was permanently traumatised by a determined attempt on the part of the colt to stomp him into pulp. Only his agility saved him as he yapped a rapid retreat into the house where he hid under the cooker for a couple of days. He never fully relaxed in the presence of horses again. The farmer was less lucky for when the colt kicked the door, it caught him on the knee and forehead and inflicted nasty bruises. Years later when passing the Animal Farm outside Cavan town which is a place where people bring their children to see animals and not get covered in dung, Carroll was certain he saw a familiar looking chestnut horse with an aristocratic bearing in a nice paddock with a goat and a big Red Stag being fed through the bars of the gate by schoolchildren. "They'll be all right as long as they keep feedin' the hoor and don't show him a saddle, the feckin' Ayrab", thought Carroll.
Back in Hop Murphy's, Carroll counted out the nine hundred and thirty eight pounds remaining (after the embezzled publican had been paid) on the porter barrel that did duty as a table in Patsy Jack's favourite corner. He handed his savior his hundred for his consultation and pocketed the balance. A further fifty in Patsy Jack's grubby fist bought a somewhat elderly and affectionate piebald called "Boggy" who charmed Carroll's children by allowing them to ride him as he ambled sedately around the garden. He had a prodigious appetite for anything that fitted in his mouth and even tolerated the dog on his back. He returned kindness with kindness and joined the other four legged and feathered members of the Carroll household with the air of a horse who has finally come home. He occasionally poached some of the neighbor's grass and was prone to hanging around the back door when Mrs. Carroll was baking; his only failings. He even had the decency to look guilty when caught and embarrassed when chastised. He formed a close bond with the family's nanny goat and the two would graze peacefully together and wait at the gate with the dog for the children to come in from school. Later when the guards made a nuisance of themselves by breathlalysing drinkers on their way home from "The Bog Barrow" in Clonloum, Carroll bought a cheap trap from a very well known establishment in Horeseleap and rode to the pub. This arrangement brought an unexpected benefit. When Carroll had a little too much, his cronies would decant him into the trap and Boggy would take him home more safely and legally than if he were driving, or even walking. Boggy even had a little shed to himself at the back of the pub and Carroll always brought along a "shake" of hay for his diminutive equine minder. During the petrol shortage Concepta, Carroll's wife, took to using Boggy and the trap for shopping and school. This didn't work so well as Boggy seemed to have developed some of his master's habits and would refuse to pass "The Bog Barrow" which lay along the route to school and the shop. He would simply down tools and amble to his home away from home in the lean-to and wait for his shake of hay. Concepta had a short fuse and a sharp tongue and on the first occasion this happened she took to loudly abusing the little piebald and whacking him with her shopping bag. He woodenly refused to budge and the situation was getting undignified until Mrs. Taiquin from "The Bog Barrow" came out and explained that Boggy was used to a little break from his labours at this point in his journey which he would resume when suitably refreshed. While the ladies enjoyed a cup of tea in the parlour, Boggy fortified himself and the journey continued at its sedate pace.
Patsy Jack and Carroll proceeded to get monumentally intoxicated as is the custom on these occasions. They persuaded Murphy to give them an extension and the celebrations continued until the wee small hours. Sometime in the proceedings Patsy Jack decided to equip himself with some bacon from the grocery counter which was part of the Murphy establishment, an arrangement rare nowadays with EEC regulations and chain stores. Patsy Jack was never a man to frequent those new fast food places as he firmly believed "them chips'd kill ya". He would cook his savory snack over the open turf fire and eat it with a bottle of Guinness; time was plentiful in Erry bog. "A piece of nice back bacon Mr. Murphy" crowed a slightly wobbly Patsy Jack. Murphy, ever the man to try it on, took down a strip of belly bacon from the hook; not so much to defraud the master fraud, more as a tribute; it was expected, almost. "Here you are Patsy, a lovely lean piece of back bacon". The inebriated but far from befuddled ancient eyed the proffered slab of poor quality meat and delivered the immortal lines which would be repeated for a generation; "Ah, let him hang, Hop ye auld hoor, did ye ever see a pig wid diddies on his back?".
Next morning, as Carroll relaxed in Murphy's, soothing his taut nerves with that most famous of Irish anesthetics and planning a duck-shooting trip to Luker's bar in Shannonbridge. Luker's bar on the wharf is the best platform from which to observe the movements of wild mallard on the Shannon and also hosts an extraordinarily cheap pint. It's ambience is further enhanced by the presence of Dutch and German boat people who eagerly devour the wisdoms and witticisms of the local characters they find there. It was not unknown for them to seek the company of a particularly interesting individual on their voyages to remote ports like Killaloe and Drumshanbo, particularly if that knowledgeable person could claim to know all the good pubs, the best pike fishing spots and the most dangerous rocks on the river. Many a Dutchman enhanced his exposure to Ireland with the company of Nicky O'Carroll, Orator, Naturalist, Folklorist and master Sportsman for the cost of a few gallons of porter. Some even looked him up year after year. Dutchmen were more easily "got around" than those wide-awake bogmen you met in places the tourists never went.
He also gave some considerable thought to the lessons to be learned from his experience. "An intelligent man but prone to impulse", he concluded "and sometimes aisily led, especially if a little drunk". "I will, in future, endeavour to avoid breaking the law in situations where it is risky and unnecessary and I will never again speculate in horses or counterfeit money". He would need to have his thoughts organised when his wife got back from town where she'd gone to buy herself some "style" with the 200 he'd given her. She'd been momentarily thrown by the unexpected gift but she would recover quickly and would be demanding explanations. "No more chancin' me arm" he thought "and that's a fact". A flurry of excited shouts rose above the hubbub in the bar. Patsy Jack, who was now definitely on the juice for a few days had just won a good sized kitty in the poker game at the barrel-table. He appeared three sheets in the wind but being a canny old bird he had gambled carefully with a couple of young holy innocents from the college in Athlone who had just cashed their grant cheques and had added to the hundred and fifty Carroll had paid him. "He must have a few hundred on him now and he's half cut as well" thought Carroll; "Might be time to play a hand of poker with th' auld thief. The ducks can wait another day". He stood up from his seat at the bar and moved towards the card table.
A completely sober Patsy Jack watched his prey with a practiced eye from behind his hand of cards. "Ah sure doesn't he deserve anythin' he gets after the maneness of him and his lousy hundred quid and me afther savin' the fecker's skin from the peelers". If anybody had bothered to glance up at the mortal remains of the long dead Slieve Bloom Billygoat on the grimy wall above the bar he might have been forgiven for thinking he saw a fleeting grin of satisfaction on his fly-spotted face.
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