Although I was only sixteen when I first heard the sound, it’s something that still sends a flutter through my chest: the metallic staccato of shod hooves ascending a tailboard ramp. It’s so confident, so positive, so full of optimism: a world away from the nervous, hesitant, sliding clatter of an animal being reversed from its conveyance. It was October 1982; Ireland was firmly in the grip of recession, I was adjusting to the challenge of fifth year in secondary school, and was on my way home after class when it happened. The scene was our town’s annual autumn horse fair, traditionally held on the last Thursday of October, when farmers, followers of foxhounds, foreign agents, slaughter factory dealers descended upon us from every corner of these islands, and beyond.
It being after 4pm, the day’s trading was effectively over when my attention was drawn to a dapple grey mare being loaded to a single box by a stocky, middle-aged man.
“She’s a beauty,” I called out, alighting from my bike and craning my neck in an effort to get a proper look at the noble creature before the man secured the tailboard behind her. “You bought well!” I added.
“Bought? Hah! Indeed, then, I did not;” he paused midway up the ramp, cleared his throat, and spat over his shoulder, “’twas hoping to sell I was. This mare is worth at least a thousand, but I’d have settled for half rather than see her go to the factory.”
“The factory? Why; what’s wrong with her? She doesn’t look very old; is she injured?” As if she’d realised she was the subject of our exchange, the mare arched her neck until her left eye was fixed directly on mine.
“No, she’s not injured, but she’s coming twelve and the trainer says there’s no point persevering with her for another season. For the money I was asking, I thought someone might take a chance on her as a brood mare. She was twice placed over the banks at Punchestown, and she’d run well on the flat, and won over hurdles and fences, before that. Her sire won The Derby!” He turned, and took a half-step up the ramp.
“Three-hundred,” a voice said. He’d heard it too; he was squinting questioningly in my direction. That was when I realised that the voice had been mine. I did have the money – in the post office – I’d been working with a silage contractor during the two previous summers, and I also had a winter sideline supplying pirate video tapes to RTÉ dependant pubs. Uncle Podge, Mam’s younger brother, would receive a suitcase of cassettes from up the country on Sunday mornings, he would then pass them on to me to deliver while retrieving the previous week’s tapes to be redistributed, or recorded over, for the following week. Podge was something of an enigma; he didn’t have an actual job but still seemed to make a reasonable living from what he described as this and that.
“I’ll let you have her for four, but not a penny less. I’d get five at the factory…”
“Can you wait twenty minutes?” I heard myself ask, “I can get it…” I said with more confidence than I felt. I was almost a hundred short, but I knew that John, my older brother, was at the cattle mart across town. John always carried cash; he was twenty-one, and had just taken over our family farm after graduating agricultural college. The farm had been in Mam’s family for generations; she had inherited it while in her late teens, after her older brother had died in a road accident. Podge had never been considered for the land; even he would agree that he couldn’t mind a cat, never mind fifty-plus cows.
“I’ll tell you what,” the man sighed, “I haven’t had an offer all day…” he checked his watch. “You have until quarter to five…then I’m going home. Good luck!”
I located John easily enough, but I knew he wouldn’t oblige if he knew my real reason for wanting to borrow the money. I needed a cover story – and fast.
“I was on my way home from school when this fella at the horse fair grabbed me,” I blurted breathlessly. “He said I’d damaged his car with the silage trailer when I was drawing for Jim Kelly. He wants compensation – two hundred – or he’ll go to the guards. You know I’m not insured to drive on the public road…”
The ultimate crime in our household was bringing the Gardaí to Mam’s door. It was always her door; not Dad’s. Podge had brought the Gardaí to her door; he’d been prosecuted a few years earlier for towing an unlit trailer after dark. There was more trouble when the pensions’ officer read about the court case in the local paper; that was when we discovered that Podge had been in receipt of the blind pension for more than three years. According to John, Dad had managed to broker some deal with the pensions’ office, and Podge avoided a second day in court. There was a weird symbiosis between Dad and Podge; Dad wasn’t of the land and while he had lived on the farm ever since marrying Mam, he still considered himself a self-employed craftsman. Both his basic carpentry and more artistic wood carving skills were in constant demand; and only in dire circumstances would he fork a bale of hay, spancel a cow, or attach a milking cluster.
“If every penny isn’t paid back by Easter, I’ll tell Mam,” John said, “and I’ll also tell her about Podge’s videos,” he added, reluctantly handing over four fifties. I hadn’t actually needed two hundred; half would have done, but I wanted to keep a cushion in my post office account in case I might encounter unforeseen difficulties in meeting John’s repayment schedule. I rushed to the post office, withdrew two hundred, and then phoned Mam from the public kiosk to say that I’d be late getting home.
“I have it,” I called out, approaching the man, “but I’ll need you to drop her, and me and my bike, a mile or so out the road.” My plan was to hide the mare at Podge’s, but I couldn’t risk Mam seeing me leading her past her gate. Podge lived at the edge of the farm, in the cottage that had once been home to the farm’s full-time labourers. It had an acre plot with several outbuildings, some of which had formerly stabled Mam’s grandparents’ working horses and trap pony; also, there was a full shed of Mam’s hay on the other side of Podge’s boundary fence. I knew Podge would understand; Podge always understood.
The man stopped his jeep at Podge’s gate and after exchanging cash for documentation, I removed my bike and he unloaded the mare. Handing me the lead rope, he pressed a score into my hand.
“Good luck to the pair a ye,” he said, shaking my hand. “Goodbye, old girl, and be good for the lad. He might have saved your life,” he gave the mare a few pats on the shoulder before returning to the jeep. “Here,” he said, retrieving an old rug from the back seat and then lobbing it, followed by the hay net from the trailer, towards me. “Her sire won The Derby, you know,” he shouted as he drove off.
As usual, Podge was nowhere to be seen. I doubt if even Dad knew where Podge went to do whatever it was that he did, and despite her innate curiosity, I know for a fact that Mam didn’t want to know. I put the old rug on the mare, shut her with her hay net in the most secure of Podge’s outhouses, and then wrote an explanatory note on a page from a school jotter which I slipped under Podge’s backdoor.
“Her sire won The Derby,” I informed Podge when he parked at our gate about an hour later.
“Shellskin? Yes, I remember him; I think I might have backed him once,” he said, scanning the mare’s pedigree. “The derby, you say; any idea which derby? I know he won a race or two; but a derby…? I don’t think so…then again it isn’t always the daddy’s name that appears on the birth cert; is it?” After a hearty chuckle, he sobered and returned the mare’s papers to me. “But seriously; what in the name of the good Lord above were you thinking?”
It was a question I would ask myself many times over the subsequent months, but hearing it then from Podge’s lips made my heart plummet. Podge knew his horses, and not just on the racing pages of the red tops. He had apprenticed as a teenager to a top Curragh trainer, but had lacked the discipline to make the grade as a jockey. Nonetheless, he went on to spend more than a decade working at various other racing stables and stud farms, learning the business from the inside out, and making a wide circle of connections.
“I thought I’d breed from her; but are you saying that the name on the card mightn’t be the actual sire?” I would have grasped any sliver of hope.
“Stud grooms are only human. Many a man has had to rear a big family on small wages, often relying on the generosity of mare owners to keep the wolf from the door. But it works both ways: sometimes the teaser is allowed to be the daddy; what better way for a poor man to strike back at a tight-fisted breeder?”
Podge went on to explain that teasers are inferior stallions, kept by studs to gauge the receptiveness of the mare. An unwilling mare can bite or lash out, potentially causing serious injury to a suitor. Teasers are easily replaced, but any mental or physical injury to a valuable stallion could have enormous financial repercussions. We must bear in mind that back in 1982, DNA and micro-chipping were still unheard of, and regulation was more debated than enforced, leaving The Sport of Kings open to skulduggery from knaves of every shape and hue. The bookmaking industry had apparently learned more from the Gay Future affair than had the administrators of the sport.
“Look,” Podge said at length, “leave it with me; I’ll be giving your father a hand tomorrow; we might be able to figure something out.”
Oddly enough, Mam made no reference to having seen a horse at Podge’s until late on Sunday evening.
“Yes,” Dad confirmed; “I’m doing a job on the stable for him tomorrow…”
“Don’t tell me it’s a racehorse…is it?” Mam groaned. Dad didn’t answer, but his expression said enough. “I knew it; God only knows what he’s after getting involved in this time,” she added, making the sign of the cross.
“She’s called Sequin; she’s retired from racing; he’s only looking after her for someone; he…” Dad began.
“Are you telling me that someone gave Podge a racehorse to mind? I’d sooner have a fox minding my henhouse!”
“What are you doing to the henhouse, Dad?” John asked, squinting as he looked up from the cross-channel soccer pages of the Sunday newspaper.
“Mam, can we go to see Sequin, please, Mam, please?” my twelve-year-old twin sisters chimed in unison.
After school next day I went to view Dad’s handiwork. The mare was grazing contentedly in the acre, raising her head only briefly at my arrival.
“Will you look at her; isn’t she a grand old sort?” Podge grinned, “She’s happy out; she won’t be any trouble, but you’ll have to keep an eye on her whenever I’m away. Your dad did a great job; c’mon ‘til I show you…”
I was no expert on stables, but I was greatly impressed with how the stall had been transformed. I said so to Dad after tea that evening, and used the moment to mention that I’d be visiting Podge more frequently than before.
“I sort of promised to give Podge a hand with the mare,” I began; “you know, after school and at weekends…and stuff.”
“The horse won’t be there that long; will it?” Mam directed the question at Dad; at his shrug, her eyes swung to me. “I suppose you could, but try to find out what he’s really up to and let me know.”
Podge did leave me in charge about a fortnight later. Dad brought my sisters to visit Sequin on the Saturday morning and their excitement on returning home was such that Mam and John arrived about an hour later to see what all the fuss was about.
“You poor creature,” Mam said, scratching and then smoothing the whorl on the mare’s forehead, “I only hope he isn’t fattening you up for the factory.”
Podge joined us for Christmas dinner, and spent much of the day deflecting questions about the mare with the ever reliable I don’t know, yet. But Podge did know, and Dad knew, and after Dad had sat me down in his workshop a few days before New Year to tell me that Podge had already organised a sire to cover Sequin, I thought I knew.
In the early morning of February 8th the horseracing community, and the public at large, were left reeling by a startling news headline: Shergar, the world’s most famous racehorse, had been kidnapped from his stable in Ballymany Stud in County Kildare; there was talk of a two-million ransom demand. The first I heard of it was at lunchtime, and as soon as school had ended that evening I made a beeline to Podge’s to learn his thoughts on the affair. Podge wasn’t home, and neither was Sequin. Podge had pinned a note to the stable door: MARE IN SEASON – TAKING HER TO STUD – BACK IN A FEW DAYS. There was no telephone number or any indication as to his location; but what else would one expect from Podge?
Without Sequin to visit, the weekend dragged slowly by, and with Podge being absent I had no new stock for my Sunday video run. The papers were full of the Shergar story, and I read lots of stuff that I hadn’t previously known. Podge brought Sequin back on the following Saturday and explained that she had been covered by a stallion called Islander. Podge assured me that the horse was bred in the purple and that he had been a reasonable middle-distance performer. He was vague about the stud fee, but assured me that he and Dad would continue to meet the mare’s day to day expenses.
Without having to dig further into my savings, I’d repaid John in full well before my Easter deadline. With the Shergar story continuing to run, the opening of the flat racing season saw Islander’s first crop of two-year-olds beginning to appear the island’s racecourses. The silage season was soon upon us and summer progressed without any of Islander’s progeny threatening to be the season’s top juvenile. After several false dawns rumours began to circulate that the Shergar story may have come to a tragic conclusion, and the newspaper and other media headlines soon refocused on recession, inflation, and The Troubles. Meanwhile, Sequin was enjoying the freedom of an additional three acres which Podge had managed to wangle from Mam. The mare looked an absolute picture; it seemed that pregnancy was suiting her very well.
The harvest over and my silage duties fulfilled, Mam decided that my final year of secondary school had to take priority over my commitment to Podge and Sequin. Unwilling to risk his temporary good standing with Mam, Podge agreed, and I found myself being barred from caring for, or even visiting the mare. What I didn’t know at the time was that Dad and Podge had come up with a plan. The first I knew about it was when Dad nudged me on the couch one evening during Mam’s favourite soap; he shot me a sidelong wink as he began to speak.
“I suppose we’d better organise a few grinds for you now that you won’t be practicing you Irish conversation with Podge anymore.” Mam’s reaction was instant.
“How do you mean ‘Irish conversation’ with Podge?” Her eyes darted from Dad to me and back again. Dad was well prepared.
“The ‘comhrá Gaeilge’ for the Oral Irish exam; sure, Podge and himself only ever talk in Irish when they’re together. They could be giving the pair of us a right going over, for all I know.” he gave me the slightest of nudges.
“What?” Mam gasped, “Podge had good Irish at school, all right – ‘twas about all he was any good at – but I didn’t think he’d kept it up…” Again, Dad was ready.
“Sure, what kind of an Irish Republican would he be if he couldn’t speak his native language?” Dad was pushing it: Mam was anything but a Republican sympathiser, and always turned a conveniently deaf ear to rumours of Podge’s political allegiances, reassuring herself that he lacked the application to be of much use to any cause.
“Is that true?” Mam eyed me levelly; there was no avoiding her gaze. In fairness, Podge did have good Irish, but his vocabulary wasn’t entirely appropriate for a second level State examination.
“Oh, sin ceart, gan amhras. Tá Podge fíor líofa i nGaeilge,” I spurted at breakneck speed, hoping to disguise any mistakes that she might notice. Although Mam had been a secondary school teacher, Irish wasn’t one of her subjects. I doubt if she’d ever had a conversation through Irish since her own school days.
“Well, if you think it will help with your Irish, you can spend an hour or two with Podge on Saturdays or Sundays, and we’ll see how you get on in the Christmas exams.” Her point made, she turned back to her TV programme. I returned Dad’s wink. It was a very good result; the evenings were already drawing in and once the clocks had gone back to winter time, I would have been limited to daytime visits on Saturdays and Sundays anyway. Besides, once I’d cleared my debt to John, the revenue from my video enterprise had become a bonus rather than an essential. But I resolved right there and then to devote a greater portion of my study time to my oral Irish.
I suppose it was inevitable that the third Thursday in October would trigger a flood of memories. I spent my lunch break at the horse fair in the vain hope of meeting the man I’d bought Sequin from; I needed to know more about the sire that had won The Derby. I had established that Shellskin hadn’t run in the Epsom Derby, nor had he featured in either the Irish or the French equivalents, but many other races incorporated the word derby, and I would have happily settled for any one of them. I cycled to Podge’s immediately after school. The mare whinnied a greeting as I entered the paddock, and trotted towards me to receive her customary treat of sugar lumps. As she nuzzled my hand I whispered happy birthday to her, even though I knew she’d been foaled on May Eve. She looked warm and snug in the new all-weather rug which Dad had bought her, and I was delighted to see a good carpet of grass on the still firm paddock. Before leaving I checked that the stable door was open, that her hay net and water trough were full, and that there was a good bed of clean straw should she need to take shelter during the night. By then, not only were Mam and Dad regularly popping in to check on her, but even John had begun to pay an occasional visit. Podge went on one of his mysterious trips in late November, and all three vied on a daily basis for the right to care for the mare. There was a strained atmosphere in the house; especially between Mam and Dad, particularly during the nightly TV news bulletin. Even though I was largely frozen out on those occasions, I didn’t complain; Podge’s absence meant that I was frequently required to feed the mare and bed her down for the night before going home after school. Things were going far better than I could have ever dared to hope.
It was a struggle all through Christmas dinner to keep the smile from my face, and although I avoided looking in Podge’s direction, I could picture the heightened glint of mischief in his eyes. For many years he had been left to his own devices over the Christmas period; a year before he’d been at our festive table on sufferance; now he was the guest of honour, with everybody hanging on to his every word. I did catch Dad’s eye at one stage: his ghost of a wink nearly caused me to choke on a mouthful of stuffing.
“It’s all looking good for mid-January,” Podge assured his audience, “but the vet is happy for me take her back soon after New Year. She’ll foal at the stud, and – all going well – we’ll get her covered again when she comes back in season.” I didn’t know it then, but the deal Podge had struck with the stud manager wasn’t a case of no foal; no fee, rather it was one of no fee; no foal, but it applied not to the foal she was then carrying, but to the first filly foal she would subsequently produce.
Two days later, I was surprised to hear Dad tell Mam that Podge had taken the mare to the stud on the previous evening. If mobile phones had been invented, I would most certainly have been calling Podge for an explanation. Although I’d been to great pains to keep it secret, I was, after all, the owner of Sequin – or so I thought. Podge came to the farm a few days later, called me aside, and explained to me how he’d had to form a syndicate to navigate a way through the layers of red tape involved in the horse breeding game. Even though mine was the only family name not on the list of Glitter Syndicate members, I was relieved to learn that Podge and Dad were the two authorised signatories. Dad later assured me that once I’d turned eighteen I would officially own two quarter shares in the syndicate, with Dad and Podge holding the other two.
Dad came to my bedroom at about eight o’clock on the following Friday evening to tell me that Podge had phoned from the stud: Sequin was expected to foal that night. I would never have considered Dad a fast driver, but his Transit van covered the sixty odd miles in just under an hour. There was no such urgency about Sequin, but she did deliver a healthy colt foal shortly after 4.20 on the following morning. Podge took total charge in the foaling box, the groom watching with Dad and me from outside the door. Neither Dad nor I had ever before witnessed a foaling; we were easily impressed, but the groom with many years of foaling experience was adamant that Podge was as good as he’d ever seen.
“Will ye look at his markings,” Podge beamed, supporting the little creature’s first attempt to stand on his splayed, spindly legs. In fairness, he was a handsome little foal: his white blaze and four white socks in stark contrast with his damp bay coat. With Podge’s help he finally managed to latch on to a teat; I could hear Dad gasp at the first switch of the stubby black tail. “I think we should call him Gary; what do ye think?” Podge said to nobody in particular. Nobody argued, but neither had any of us dared to demur when Mam had suggested that we call the mare Glitter within minutes of she first laying eyes on her.
Dad and Podge – with me helping on Saturday – needed every minute of the week before the foal’s arrival home to convert another of Podge’s stalls into a large double box. I had wanted to begin the work immediately after the mare had gone to the stud, but Dad had insisted on waiting until the foal was at least three weeks old. Any sooner, he’d said, would be tempting fate. Not having seen the foal since birth, I was amazed at his progress in the intervening weeks. Once turned loose in the acre paddock, the foal bucked and reared his wellbeing before taking off at a canter in his dam’s wake, his stubby tail held comically aloft.
“He’s like a coiled spring,” Dad muttered; “a coiled spring…”
“He’s all there,” Podge said absently; “he has the straight limbs and great balance of his sire.” I’d wanted to see the sire before returning home after the foaling, but Podge had explained that the stallions were kept under lock and key in another yard.
“He’s perfect,” I added, loud enough for all to hear; nobody commented. The three of us stood side by side, our elbows resting on the top bar of the gate, silently gazing in shared admiration; each mind awhirl with individual dreams and fantasies.
My frustration grew with each lengthening spring evening. By then I was virtually a prisoner in my bedroom, with my only break from after school revision being an hour’s TV before bedtime. I cheated, of course, my subterfuge enabled and abetted by a young trainee librarian whom I had won over with my weekly updates on the foal’s progress. I’d prevailed upon Mam to grant me a four-hour release until lunchtime each Saturday, equally divided between studying at the library and practicing my oral Irish with Podge. Rita, my librarian friend, would have two new horsey books awaiting my collection at opening time each Saturday – everything from Fraser’s tome on horse care to the William Allison 1901 classic The British Thoroughbred Horse – which allowed me to spend almost two hours extra with mare and foal.
I got lucky with my oral Irish examiner. When he asked about my hobbies, I mentioned mo láir folúil agus a searrach – my thoroughbred mare and foal – his eyes instantly glazed over. He just happened to be a horseracing fanatic, and from that moment on he didn’t ask me a single question that required anything more than a sea or a ní hea response. He had backed and won on Sequin, and had also seen Islander win his maiden at the Curragh. Mam didn’t need to ask when I returned home; my demeanour told her all she needed to know, but as I tucked into a celebratory slice of rhubarb tart it was obvious that she believed that the credit for my apparent success was due entirely to Podge – and I really couldn’t disagree.
As May approached, and oral Irish practice with Podge no longer a credible excuse, I chose to keep a low profile and took to my bedroom/study of my own volition.
“Why don’t you come out to Podge’s with me,” Dad suggested on the Saturday morning of the Whit bank holiday weekend. Before I could comment, he turned to Mam and said, “If he doesn’t know it by now; he’ll never know it.” The silence was deafening.
“I suppose you’re right.” Mam sighed, after an unusually lengthy pause. “Go on so with ye, and be back for lunch at one. I suppose ye may as well bring the other fella with ye.” Although it was something she would never admit, I had a feeling that Podge’s stock was possibly at an all-time high with his big sister. Dad and I were also happy with him as we watched the mare and foal canter across Mam’s three-acre paddock towards Podge’s gate. After much oohing and aahing, clicking and clucking, scratching and patting, nuzzling, and palming of sugar lumps, Podge asked,
“When is your last exam?” I told him. “Right,” he nodded; “I want you fully awake, fed, and ready for road at five on the morning of Saturday the 23rd; we’ll be going on a bit of a journey – and, by the way, bring your wellies.”
“Why; where…?” I spluttered.
“He’ll be ready on time, and properly decked out; I’ll see to it,” Dad grinned; apparently, he didn’t need to ask what, where or why.”
It was weird, facing a full Irish fry-up at 4am, a time at which I’d gone to bed just a few mornings before. Podge materialised from the scullery about fifteen minutes later, pulled up a chair beside me, and didn’t bat an eye when Dad slapped an equally piled plate in front of him. Chewing a mouthful of sausage, he tapped his knife against the edge of my plate and mumbled.
“Come on; dig in; it could be a while before you see another bite!”
“Where are we going?” I asked, feeling my appetite awaken.
“Would you prefer to watch a film or have someone describe it to you?” Dad asked, grinning as he winked at his brother-in-law. Slicing into a sunny-side egg, Podge returned Dad’s wink with interest.
It wasn’t until I saw the signpost that I remembered the song, and then realised where we were: Spancilhill! But why; surely, Podge wasn’t going to a buy another horse? Still feeling quite miffed at having been excluded from whatever he had been cooking up with Dad, I wasn’t going to give Podge the added satisfaction of ignoring any more of my questions. No sooner had we disembarked, than Podge was engulfed by a wave of flat caps, knitted beanies, trilbies and fedoras; tweed and waxed jackets, and anoraks. It looked like my black sheep uncle was quite of a celebrity in the horse-dealing world; I couldn’t but wonder how his big sister might view such status. My mind awhirl with images of biblical prophets being mobbed by adoring disciples, and fifties’ American police detectives besieged by ravening, murder-scene newshounds, I did an about turn and headed for the centre of the fair.
If I’d been taken aback by the size of Podge’s reception committee, I was totally bowled over by the sheer magnitude of the gathering. Our local horse fair could have comfortably fitted into any of the four corners of the massive field. Every breed, size, shape and hue of domesticated equine was represented, from Clydesdale and Shire to Connemara and Shetland; from Sport Horse and Irish Draught to bog pony and cob; from bays and greys to roans and duns; from blacks and browns to piebald and dappled. Their equus asinus cousins were also plentiful, plus a scattering of mules and hinnies, and some even stranger looking creatures that could have been either or neither. Astride noble hunters, gentlemen and ladies in full eventing regalia vied for the spotlight with half naked pre-teen boys, who bounced bareback on unkempt, wild-eyed skewbalds, or slid around wheel-rutted corners in colourful streamlined sulkies. Meanwhile, the boys’ fathers and older brothers scrutinised the onlookers for the faintest flicker of interest.
I’d lost all track of time until Podge tapped me on the shoulder at a burger van close to the main entrance.
“If you’ve seen enough, I’m ready for road,” he muttered, wiping a blob of tomato sauce from his chin with a tattered tissue. Chewing a mouthful of burger, I nodded and, wondering where more than four hours could have gone, followed his lead past a long line of hucksters, buskers, three-card-tricksters, and purveyors of everything from farmyard poultry and exotic cage birds, to rabbits, kittens and puppies, and goldfish swimming in plastic bags. I was surprised to see a little neat covered trailer hitched to Podge’s Land Rover.
“Did you buy a dog box?” I asked, as he unlocked the passenger door.
“I borrowed one, but don’t tell your mother. Anyway,” he said, lighting a cigarette; “did you enjoy the fair?” I told him that I’d thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but didn’t add that I’d found it similar to watching a foreign language movie without the benefit of on-screen subtitles.
I didn’t say much on the journey home. I wasn’t going give Podge the satisfaction of asking about the trailer again, even if I was totally flummoxed by the strange animal noises that intermittently sounded from behind his vehicle. But why buy a dog box? Podge didn’t have a dog but, then again, Podge was Podge. To add to my frustration, he insisted on dropping me off at the farm rather than at his place, saying that I couldn’t tell my mother something which I didn’t know. Not to be outdone, I sprinted to the tractor shed, got my bike, and peddled furiously towards Podge’s. As I crested the hill, I could see him unload a pair of beige/brown animals from the trailer. From a distance of more than a hundred yards, they could well have been dogs, largish dogs, but as I freewheeled closer I noticed that one with the shorter body had a pair of horns and a shaggy smig, and the other had a long, flowing, cream-coloured mane and tail. What could Podge possibly want with a tiny Shetland pony and a bedraggled nanny goat?
“What do you think?” He called, hazing the newcomers into the small paddock.
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation, but I’m not sure I want to hear it.” It was a lie, of course; I couldn’t wait to find out why he had wasted a whole day, driven so many miles, and probably spent good money on such oddities.
Mine weren’t the only eyes drawn to the unlikely pair. Sequin had her head across her paddock gate; ears pricked, muzzle twitching, and lips curling as she made a series of strange snorting sounds I’d never heard before.
“See, she likes them already,” Podge slapped me soundly between the shoulder blades. “I know it’s a fair way off, but Gary will need company when the mare goes back to the stud to foal; and, we can’t have him prancing all over the new foal, when he or she arrives. He should be well used to Mac and Nanny by then!”
Twelve hours later, I watched the three horses graze contentedly together in the large paddock while the goat browsed happily on the overgrown perimeter hedge. I’d love to have spent more time at Podge’s, but I was already behind schedule on my first morning back in harness with my regular silage contractor.
My Leaving Cert results arrived in mid-August. I dread to think how much worse they would have been if that oral Irish examiner had been interested in rugby, or music, or art, or politics, or anything other than horseracing. Mam was devastated; she kept on and on about having another Podge on her hands. Her desire for me to follow in her teaching footsteps had only increased after her retirement, but short of seriously swatting for a year, and then resitting the entire exam, teaching was a definite non-runner for me. Dad’s idea that I could help with his carpentry once the harvesting was over was quickly dismissed. Mam was adamant that I should find work in Dublin, in the civil service, or a bank or insurance company, or some other half respectable institution. That was when Podge suggested an unlikely but possible solution: he had a contact in a large civil engineering company in the midlands. With my silage machinery experience, I could get in on the ground floor as a driver and then work my way up to a suit and tie.
By mid-October, thoroughly exhausted and having operated nothing more technical than a pickaxe and shovel, I abandoned all ambitions of rebuilding Dublin city and hit for home with my tail between my legs. I had bought a banger of a Ford Escort from a lad on the job and as I drove towards the farm I rehearsed my spiel for the inevitable showdown with Mam. Faced with possible eviction from my lifelong bedroom, and even banishment from the family home, I dreaded how Podge might react to my leaving the job he had arranged for me. I was, however, fairly confident that Mam’s rejection would be reason enough for him to overlook my lack of staying power and grant me temporary use of his spare bedroom. I parked beside Mam’s shiny new Corolla, took a deep breath, and knocked on the back door. Much to my surprise, Mam greeted me like a long lost son, but then asked a question to which I didn’t have an answer.
“Oh, ‘twas God sent you; how did you know?” Ironically, it was John who came to my rescue. He hobbled into view, leaning heavily on a pair of crutches.
“Podge told me,” I lied, and stepping inside the scullery, addressed John.
“How’re you feeling?” He didn’t need to answer; his scowl spoke a multitude.
“And did he tell you ‘twas all his fault?” Mam snapped; sensing an anti-Podge tirade, I realised I couldn’t bluff indefinitely and resorted to an emergency white lie.
“Actually, I have a message for Podge; I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” I said, retreating to the safely of my car, with a volley of questions whizzing past me ears.
“My fault?” Podge gasped, “I wasn’t even here. How can it be my fault if he tripped over the bloody goat and broke his ankle? It’s thanking me they should be; ‘twas I found him and brought him to A&E. He could have been lying there for hours instead of twenty minutes. Was it my fault if he didn’t give himself time to look where he was going? I wouldn’t mind but it wasn’t even his day. The pair of them have been virtually haunting the place; I’ll have to start charging them – especially your mother. Anyway, what brings you here at this hour on a Monday morning?”
In fairness, Podge did keep a straight face as I explained my disenchantment with the world of civil engineering, but he couldn’t quite control the twinkle in his eyes.
“We won’t tell them; we’ll say I phoned you with the news last night, and you dropped everything and came rushing to home to help. It’s a pity you didn’t call here first; we could have put a bridle on the mare and you could have ridden to the rescue on your white charger – speaking of which; come on ‘til you see.”
The heavily pregnant mare was in the large loose box, intermittently nibbling at her hay net, while the goat lay beside her, happily chewing her cud. Neither seemed either pleased or displeased to see us, but both trotted towards the small paddock as soon as Podge opened the stable door.
“I let her out for a few hours every day,” Podge said, starting towards the gateway to the larger paddock. “Look,” he said, pointing towards the foal and the Shetland, grazing side by side at the far end of the field. I didn’t just look; I gaped in awe at how much the foal had grown in a few weeks. “He’s fully independent of her now; there won’t be any fear of separation anxiety when the time comes for her to go to the stud. Anyway, you can’t be idling your time away here with me; you have a farm to run!”
“How’re the horses?” John asked when I returned home.
“They’re all in great shape, but I think the scapegoat is still a bit traumatised.” I knew I was pushing it, but I did owe John one or two – at the very least. His spluttering response was lost against Mam’s shout from the kitchen.
“There’s a fry on the table for you; you look as though you haven’t had a proper meal in weeks…”
Much to my delight, the full Irish fry-up at about ten each morning became the norm, something John had been enjoying all through the years that I’d been sent off to school on a boiled egg and a few slices of toast. Compared to what I’d been doing since the summer, farming was a doddle. There was no milking to be done or calves to be fed, and thanks to some of the new gadgets John had recently acquired, the daily foddering and mucking out could be completed in a couple of hours. John was well on the mend by Christmas and much to my relief it looked as though he would be back to full efficiency by calving time. Also, Podge was back in favour and all the talk was about the mare’s next foaling.
A filly foal, her brother in miniature, was born in mid-January. Finally aware of Podge’s arrangement with the stud’s owners, I deliberately remained as detached as possible during her brief stay at Podge’s. The calves were arriving thick and fast by then, and John and I were working well together, but I was all too aware that it was time to start thinking about earning an off-farm living.
“Give it a chance,” Dad said, introducing me to the basics of his workshop machinery, “the worst that can happen is you’ll have a few bob in your pocket until the silage season starts.” He was right, of course, and I was well aware that as I was starting to get on Mam’s nerves, my temporary income could be discontinued at any moment.
“I knew you’d have a turn for it,” Podge said about a fortnight later; “your auld lad couldn’t praise you enough when he was here the other day. John was all thumbs when he tried his hand at it some years back – worse than useless he was, according to your auld lad.” We were leaning on the gate of the large paddock, gazing admiringly at the colt – we’d been referring to him as the colt since the arrival of the filly. “Imagine,” Podge muttered dreamily, “he’ll be in training this time next year, getting ready for his first race. Which reminds me; we’ll have to register him soon, so we’d better start thinking about a name, and we’ll have to decide on racing colours.”
Podge’s suggestion was accepted by Bord na gCapall, and our colt officially became Sherkin in early July, smack in the middle of our busiest time of year. As the colt’s parents were called Islander and Sequin, Dad and I approved, despite Mam’s argument for Gary Glitter, and some even more ridiculous suggestions from my brother and sisters. Having taught geography for many years, Mam did concede that Sherkin was appropriate for a son of Islander, but was disappointed that some part of the mare’s name hadn’t been renewed. The racing colours were less controversial: my proposed white and red, with green sleeves and cap was acceptable to all, and duly received the vital rubber stamp from the powers on high. As the filly foal had already gone to her owners at the stud, all debts relating to Sherkin and to Sequin’s next foal were finally paid in full.
Despite exceptionally high levels of rainfall, it was a very fruitful summer. For the first time ever I experienced the entire family working as a team. At the merest hint of sunshine, Podge, Dad and I would report to the farm, willing to tackle whatever task John might assign to us. On wet days Podge would row in with Dad and me in the workshop while John did the fetching and carrying, and then we would all help with the milking before sitting down to one of Mam’s scrumptious suppers. With Podge and John keeping Dad’s woodwork up to date, I was able to partially resume my work with the harvesting contractor once John’s winter fodder had been secured. A dry spell in late autumn presented a welcome respite and by the end of October things were almost back to normal – but the day was fast approaching when Sherkin would have to go into pre-training.
Podge explained how important it was to get Sherkin racing as soon as possible. As a January-foaled two-year-old, he would have a physical advantage over any rivals born later in the year. We quickly fell into a new routine: Saturday mornings were sacrosanct, involving a three-hour round trip to the training stables to watch Sherkin go through his paces, and then listen to the trainer’s updates on his progress. Dad was the driver; Podge was our intermediary with the stable staff; while I absorbed everything I saw and heard in the manner of a dehydrated sponge. I was slowly getting up to speed with racing parlance; phrases that had gone totally over my head when I’d watched racing on TV began to make sense, but the more I watched and listened, the more I realised how little I actually knew. Whenever I’d ask Podge about Sherkin’s training fees, I’d get the same answer as when I’d previously enquired about vet and farrier expenses, feed bills, and as to how Sequin’s stud fees had been covered: don’t worry; it’s all in hand. I only hoped that, as with the filly foal, it wouldn’t transpire that Sherkin was really owned by somebody else. Days and weeks sped by, and suddenly it was time for Sequin to make her annual trip back to the stud. It was a surreal Christmas, having only a nanny goat and a Shetland pony to care for, while my natural optimism was becoming slowly eroded by doubts about Sherkin’s racing ability.
The arrival of Sequin’s third foal brought only brief respite from my dark shadow of foreboding. Podge didn’t accompany Dad and me to the stud for birth of a little gangly chestnut filly, but we did finally get to see the sire, Islander, in the flesh. He was an impressive animal, a solid liver chestnut, probably all of seventeen hands high, with very long legs and huge round hooves. Sequin remained at the stud for a further mating, but from the moment Podge brought her and the new filly foal home, it was clear that he regarded the pair as my responsibility; that his interest in our equine enterprise began and ended with Sherkin.
“We’re on; next Saturday,” Podge whispered to me on a chilly Tuesday morning in March; “the six furlong maiden at Naas. I’ll collect you at 8 sharp that morning; your dad can take anybody else who wants to travel.” Lowering his voice even further, he hissed. “Bring as much money as you can afford to lose but, whatever happens, don’t mention anything about betting to your mother – or to John.”
“But the first race isn’t until…” I began, looking up the fixture in The Irish Field.
“Look, I haven’t let you down so far; don’t chicken out on me now!” He spat, finger-stabbing me sharply in the chest. I didn’t; and bang on schedule, we set off towards Naas and destiny.
“He’s 33/1,” Podge hissed, returning from the betting shop we’d been parked outside for almost thirty minutes. “Twenty win in each place, and remember to always take the morning price; OK? This could be our only shot; go on!”
Off hand, I wasn’t certain how many towns or betting shops we’d visited that morning, but when we reached Naas I had only a single twenty and a couple of fivers in my pocket. The last betting shop price I’d taken was 20/1 but when the first show appeared on the on-course bookies’ boards, Sherkin’s opening odds were 12/1.
“12/1,” John humped, “he’s an outsider, and there’s no jockey listed. I’m won’t be wasting any money on him!”
“Well, after coming this far, I’m backing him!” Mam seemed in exceptionally high spirits. “I want to put twenty on; how do I do it?” She asked, opening her purse.
“I’ll do it,” Dad offered; do you want it to win or each way?”
“I want him to win…of course!”
Growing tired of watching John’s eyes roll skyward, I took a couple of steps further up the stand and then focussed Podge’s spare binoculars on the bookmakers’ boards. I couldn’t believe my eyes; Sherkin’s odds had dropped to 10/1. That was when the PA announced that no 9, Sherkin, would be ridden by the former champion jockey. That struck me as very odd, as the leading stable with which he was associated, had two runners in Sherkin’s race. The odds quickly tumbled to 5/1.
I rejoined the family just as Sherkin entered the parade ring. He looked an absolute picture, strutting like a champion, his powerful muscles rippling beneath his gleaming bay coat. I finally managed to force my eyes to the centre of the ring; Podge was in deep conversation with a group that included our trainer and jockey. The sight of the former champion decked out in colours of my choosing brought a smile to my face, but I had to blink to clear my vision as he got the leg-up on the beautiful animal which I still looked upon as my baby.
Podge joined us as the loading began. He was deathly pale and I felt his hand quiver on my shoulder as he whispered in my ear.
“If I give you a nudge in the ribs, follow me straight away.”
I did, even though the race had just begun. We arrived at the rails as Sherkin cruised into third place with just over two furlongs to go. He hit the front at the furlong pole and won, pulling up, by an easy seven lengths.
“Wow, he was just like Shergar,” I spluttered, engaging in a brief bouncing hug with Podge. I didn’t try to follow as he battled his way towards the track entrance. Sherkin had slowed, turned and was cantering back towards the stand. As we watched Podge lead Sherkin back into the enclosure, Mam’s voice rang out as clear as a bell above the general post-race cacophony.
“I always knew Podge would do something really special; just look at him!”
Later, as we broke up after the post-presentation photographs, Podge squeezed my arm and whispered hoarsely in my ear.
“So far, so good; just don’t go telling anyone that his sire won The Derby!”
From Listowel, Ireland, Neil Brosnan’s short stories appear in print and digital anthologies and magazines in Ireland, Britain, Europe, Australia, India, USA, Latin America, and Canada. A multiple Pushcart nominee, he has won The Bryan MacMahon, The Maurice Walsh, and Ireland’s Own awards, and has published two short story collections.
