typical of the Irish countryside but had, however, been roofed with slate and had withstood the weather and the wasting better than most.
The door to the cottage, seen some distance from the smithy and uphill from it, was of coral pink but faded and with that horizontal cut across the middle that broke it into halves but could only have let in the wind.
A horseshoe, rusty and nailed upside down to the flaking whitewash of the smithy door, met her gaze. The smell of autumn was strongly in the air but never like that of Canada, never the scent of the maples. Masses of tiny white daisies were everywhere and of waist height so, too, the bees.
The black iron latch, high on the door, came open easily enough. With a nudge from the front wheel of the bike, and a last hesitant look thrown anxiously over her left shoulder, Mary pushed on into the place. At once the stench of old horse piss rushed at her, and then more gradually, the smells of charcoal and the sulphur of cherry-red or white-hot iron whose sparks would have flown about as the iron was beaten flat or hammered into shape.
Among the clutter there was space enough to lean the bike out of the way and light enough coming in through the windows and through gaps in the roof above for her to see quite well enough.
A litter of discarded horseshoes lay strewn about the massive anvil. A forgotten wagon wheel, its rim newly fitted back then, leaned against a heap of bolt boxes, lengths of iron strapping and bars of the same as if, in waiting so long, the owner of the wheel had simply departed and the blacksmith had been taken away to be hanged.
All of it should have gone for scrap metal, of course. All of it, but no one would dare to touch it.
The brick hearth of the forge held only soot and cold ashes, and the nubby droplets of once-molten iron and slag.
Mary stood in the silence fighting off childhood memories of Orillia, of Alliston and points thereabouts, of a river Boyne that was not in Ireland at all, but had once been a very fine trout stream, lying as it did under the high, bleak crown of Sharpâs Hill in Ontario, Canada.
She touched the sooty brick and saw, chalked on the bricks of the chimney, the dates and accounts of bills owing, Padrick Darcy having kept things straight that way. His leather apron and heavy leather gauntlets were mouldy and next to the filthy dark remains of a woollen, cable-stitched pullover whose left sleeve, having often been yanked at, was the longer, for the blacksmith would have gathered it into his fist to keep the heat of the tongs from his hand.
So much for gauntlets. Big and cumbersome they were, and had been, she remembering a moment, a flash in time when the blacksmith at home had flung his off in disgust.
âYouâve been in such a place before.â
Startled, for she hadnât heard anyone come in, Mary turned to search the door, finding nothing. Anxiously she ran her eyes over the clutter, saw the dust, the cobwebs, the ruins of a lifetime of labour and poverty, but saw no one at first.
Then only the one called Liam Nolan.
Like a scarecrow cut out of blue-black serge, he was standing in the shadows of a far corner, framed by the upright shafts of a pony trap and backed by a clutter of harness. âHow did you â¦â she began, breaking off the question to ask, âWhere are the others?â
âKeeping a watch, so itâs only myself you have to contend with.â
He hadnât moved an inch. âDid you really do it?â she asked.
âIs it so important to you?â
A shaft of light from the roof had fallen on her. âYes ⦠Yes, I think it does matter. You see, I once had a little girl of my own but had to give her up before I came to England.â
Nolan drew in a breath and held it before saying, âThen itâs sorry I am to have troubled you. Tell your friend itâs off.â
âSheâs seen too much of us, Liam.â
âFay, I told you to keep a
The door to the cottage, seen some distance from the smithy and uphill from it, was of coral pink but faded and with that horizontal cut across the middle that broke it into halves but could only have let in the wind.
A horseshoe, rusty and nailed upside down to the flaking whitewash of the smithy door, met her gaze. The smell of autumn was strongly in the air but never like that of Canada, never the scent of the maples. Masses of tiny white daisies were everywhere and of waist height so, too, the bees.
The black iron latch, high on the door, came open easily enough. With a nudge from the front wheel of the bike, and a last hesitant look thrown anxiously over her left shoulder, Mary pushed on into the place. At once the stench of old horse piss rushed at her, and then more gradually, the smells of charcoal and the sulphur of cherry-red or white-hot iron whose sparks would have flown about as the iron was beaten flat or hammered into shape.
Among the clutter there was space enough to lean the bike out of the way and light enough coming in through the windows and through gaps in the roof above for her to see quite well enough.
A litter of discarded horseshoes lay strewn about the massive anvil. A forgotten wagon wheel, its rim newly fitted back then, leaned against a heap of bolt boxes, lengths of iron strapping and bars of the same as if, in waiting so long, the owner of the wheel had simply departed and the blacksmith had been taken away to be hanged.
All of it should have gone for scrap metal, of course. All of it, but no one would dare to touch it.
The brick hearth of the forge held only soot and cold ashes, and the nubby droplets of once-molten iron and slag.
Mary stood in the silence fighting off childhood memories of Orillia, of Alliston and points thereabouts, of a river Boyne that was not in Ireland at all, but had once been a very fine trout stream, lying as it did under the high, bleak crown of Sharpâs Hill in Ontario, Canada.
She touched the sooty brick and saw, chalked on the bricks of the chimney, the dates and accounts of bills owing, Padrick Darcy having kept things straight that way. His leather apron and heavy leather gauntlets were mouldy and next to the filthy dark remains of a woollen, cable-stitched pullover whose left sleeve, having often been yanked at, was the longer, for the blacksmith would have gathered it into his fist to keep the heat of the tongs from his hand.
So much for gauntlets. Big and cumbersome they were, and had been, she remembering a moment, a flash in time when the blacksmith at home had flung his off in disgust.
âYouâve been in such a place before.â
Startled, for she hadnât heard anyone come in, Mary turned to search the door, finding nothing. Anxiously she ran her eyes over the clutter, saw the dust, the cobwebs, the ruins of a lifetime of labour and poverty, but saw no one at first.
Then only the one called Liam Nolan.
Like a scarecrow cut out of blue-black serge, he was standing in the shadows of a far corner, framed by the upright shafts of a pony trap and backed by a clutter of harness. âHow did you â¦â she began, breaking off the question to ask, âWhere are the others?â
âKeeping a watch, so itâs only myself you have to contend with.â
He hadnât moved an inch. âDid you really do it?â she asked.
âIs it so important to you?â
A shaft of light from the roof had fallen on her. âYes ⦠Yes, I think it does matter. You see, I once had a little girl of my own but had to give her up before I came to England.â
Nolan drew in a breath and held it before saying, âThen itâs sorry I am to have troubled you. Tell your friend itâs off.â
âSheâs seen too much of us, Liam.â
âFay, I told you to keep a
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