The Irish Tales

The Irish Tales,2 : Tomas and Ivor, Part One
　
　
Night is dropping swiftly over the fields around the house.
The horses are being turned out, kicking and squealing and I am bleeding from my left ear and my right arm doesn’t work so good any more.

I can still walk pretty well, but it hurts if I try and turn suddenly.

I smoke and sniff the air and listen, whilst Tomas and Jay tease each other and David thrusts his hands deeper into his corduroy trousers and gazes into the darkening meadow, looking for Socks, or Dancer or Levi.

Or maybe just looking.

It’s odd, but I smell tobacco on him, even though he doesn’t smoke ?

Tomas is keen for the pub and so am I.

I want the whisky to dull the pain and clean the dust from my throat.

In the pub are people who will talk about things I don’t really comprehend, with a passion I can understand, in an accent that confuses me.

I like listening, although I wonder if that’s simply for the music of their voices, or because I like what I think they’re saying or both.

You have to remember that the adrenaline of riding something I cannot really control is still coursing through my veins.

This gives you a false courage, a sense of belonging, a feeeling that you can converse as an equal with these people.

It’s balls, of course. Since they were old enough to bite, they have been doing, every day, what I do now and then for fun.

Even, just supposing, even, if I keep pace with them for a short while when I’m fit and well and bouyant, what the fuck does that mean ? Hmm ?

Fuck it.

I’m hungry, but I’m thirstier than I’m hungry, so I skip dinner and wander down to MacDonagh’s to drink pints of Paddy and red and listen to the music that is the Erse.

"Mary, Mudder of God, the priest is here, cover yer arses, lads," mutters Aidan.

I have been dubbed the priest because of my custom of wearing black jods and black t-shirt when riding. And because I am suspected of having a black heart, though in all truth I am simply a godly cattlick boy.

"Fuck your mother, Aidan," I say pleasantly as I slip onto the bar-stool and guzzle gratefully from the glass his father sets before me.

"And fuck you too, English prick," says back Aidan amiably.

Earlier today, in a friendy game of polocrosse, Aidan has nudged me out of the saddle at the gallop for a free ball which is why my arm hurts and my ear bleeds. But I bear him no malice, for it is a lesson well taught and accepted.

Tomas appears, swaggering a little, for he has had a good day.
"Good evening, Fadder Rossiter," he sniggers, taking my glass and emptying it.

Tom smells of the nags, mixed with aftershave and Paddy’s and is in a true good humour.

"Fadder Rossiter !" he exclaims. Then he grins at me like the Fennian bastard he is.

I nod to MacDonagh and look at my empty glass. He nods back, grinning.

"Tomas," I say to him.
"Tomas, you fucking Fenyan cunt.." He nods, grinning at me sideways.
"You’re a fucking lousy polocrosse player," I say, kindly enough.

He does that thing where he drops his head, smiles woefully, then nods.

"I know, I know. And you, you are a God, Fadder David!" I grin back and look down into my glass, which is empty again for Aidan has drunk it whilst I am abusing Tomas.

I reach for my wallet and slap down a 20 punt note, (for these are the times I write about) and MacDonagh sweeps it up like a true businessman and my drink appears, but there is no change, for I have apparently bought drinks for the whole bar.

Aidan leans over and whispers in my ear, the bleeding one, : "You owe my Da 5 punts, Fadder David."

I smile and clench my fist, but before I can do anything we’d all regret, Tomas has his hand on my arm and sings out: "Well, looky who is here now – we’ve got the Ugly, now we have the Good and the Bad !"

I look around to see Ivor enter, followed by Jay and it is a moot point as to who is the badder.

Ivor is off duty and has a pass for the evening, whilst Jay has clearly been at the Paddy’s already and wears that cheeky grin that I have come to fear.

She is loudly welcomed by the bar, for they all love a feisty teenager who can take a knock or two without whinging and can give back more than a slap or two in return.

This is the thing I love about the Irish; they will treat their women like dirt 90% of the time, but if they can ride a pony or a horse across a country, if they can hold their own at polocrosse and sink some gin afterwards, they are down on their knees in adoration.

Especially if it is a young, pretty, English kid who can out-swear them all.

Ivor, like all of us, still reeks of horses and sweat and is spraying money about like there is no EU tomorrow.
We drink graciously of his splendour and I have a quiet word with Jay.

"You ok, yes?"
She grins the grin of a young woman just about coping with the company of adults.
"I’m fine, Daddy," she hiccups.

In the corner of the bar, Barry and Gillian are having a fine old row, as they always do on a Friday night.

In another corner, old Aidan,(no relation) and even older Pete are cussing the Dublin politicos and rueing the day O’Connor was killed, but as this was over 60 years ago and they rue that day every week, nobody pays much attention.

My stomach begins to rumble and it seems it is answered by others, for Tomas suddenly exclaims : "Jeez, but I’m fucking hungry !"

Now, all this time, Kate has been drinking in the atmosphere and the vodka and saying very little, but now she ups and says that she is quite famished too.

At which Ivor announces that he is a tad touched in the tummy and who has a car ?

"For we should go to Wellington Bridge and eat yer man’s fish and chips !"

Now, two things need to be said.
Yer man at Wellington Bridge is renowned for serving the best fish and chips in the whole of County Wexford.

And our Jaguar saloon stood outside. Although nobody present was really, truly sober enough to drive it. Except possibly Kate. Hmm. Let’s just say she was soberer than the rest of us.

And so it is that Kate takes the wheel, with Ivor next to her to give directions and Tomas, Jay and I are squashed into the back with someone else who may well have been young Aidan; I don’t recall properly any more.......


(To be continued)