properly. And the mare’s as solid as a rock.’
Another drink was poured. Bridie leaned forward in her chair. Da had paid this pawnbroker to marry her. Her flesh crawled as if she had suddenly become infested by some particularly virulent
parasite. Surely to God a father didn’t go about trying to get rid of his only child?
‘John Baker knows all there is to know about horseflesh,’ grumbled Sam Bell. ‘He’s not interested in either of the animals, says there’s no call for them at the
moment.’
‘What?’ roared Thomas Murphy. ‘Of course he’s interested. He’s just acting the part in the hope of a better bargain. I’m telling you, man, Silver will be a
good runner. It’s all in the breeding. And, if you manage to race him without gelding, you’ll have a pension from the stud fees.’
‘I’m not so sure of that.’
The two men continued to talk. Bridie, shocked to the core, realized that her father had sunk to depths even lower than she had ever imagined. She had been sold. No, that was not the case, she
told herself. In fact, if she had been sold, then she might have had some idea of her own value. Da hadn’t even managed to give her away; he had paid someone to relieve him of his burden.
With her eyes adjusting to the dimness, she managed to make out the shape of a sofa. The reason behind Da’s moment of hesitation in the church was now as clear as day. He had parted with
two valuable horses, had been reluctant to give away so much. She was worthless in the eyes of her own father, simply because she brought no money in. Horses were, of course, a great deal more
important than blood relatives.
Quietly, she rose and tiptoed across the room. A small case hung open. Little Tildy-Anne Costigan had probably raided this piece of luggage to find the girls’ nightwear. Bridie lifted
boxes and packages, placed them quietly on the floor. The wedding night problem was solved. She would sleep here on the sofa with her coat acting as a blanket. Tears threatened, but she blinked
them back. Da could continue his journey towards hell, but she intended to make the best of an appalling situation.
Sleep did not come easily. When she finally dozed off, she was back in Ballinasloe. The old castle oversaw the ongoings, kept its many eyes on river, market and church. Cattle straggled along
lazily, birds sang, Mrs O’Hara stood outside the forge while her husband laboured and sweated over horses’ shoes. Brendan Gallagher rested against a wall, a glass of dark stout in his
hand.
Mammy came along the street, her black skirt sweeping the dust, the snow-white apron starched and ironed, a shawl about her shoulders. She waved at Bridie before disappearing into the
churchyard. Even in the dream, Bridie remembered that her mother was dead. But look, Eugene was coming along on that terrible, bone-shaking bicycle. His blond hair was sticking out in all
directions, and his face was pink after toiling in the fields. Eugene had come back to her!
Bridie ran to him, touched his shoulder, breathed in the scents of the earth that always seemed to cling to his clothing. They would be married tomorrow.
Eugene kissed her, lifted her off her feet and onto the handlebars, took her along the bumpy street and struggled to keep the balance for both of them. She was so happy. She could hear him
laughing, could feel the wind in her face.
She woke, looked around her. Sweet Jesus, what was she doing here? What would Eugene have said about this terrible business? No, no, she wouldn’t cry. From the next room, the room that was
a shop, Thomas Murphy’s voice continued to drone. Wondering what Eugene might have thought and said was a waste of time. Had he lived, she would never have come here.
Sam Bell lit the gas, allowed the flame to glow for a few seconds before turning it down. Bridie was asleep on the sofa, had been here all the time, then. Had she heard? Did
she know that her father had persuaded, cajoled and bribed in
Another drink was poured. Bridie leaned forward in her chair. Da had paid this pawnbroker to marry her. Her flesh crawled as if she had suddenly become infested by some particularly virulent
parasite. Surely to God a father didn’t go about trying to get rid of his only child?
‘John Baker knows all there is to know about horseflesh,’ grumbled Sam Bell. ‘He’s not interested in either of the animals, says there’s no call for them at the
moment.’
‘What?’ roared Thomas Murphy. ‘Of course he’s interested. He’s just acting the part in the hope of a better bargain. I’m telling you, man, Silver will be a
good runner. It’s all in the breeding. And, if you manage to race him without gelding, you’ll have a pension from the stud fees.’
‘I’m not so sure of that.’
The two men continued to talk. Bridie, shocked to the core, realized that her father had sunk to depths even lower than she had ever imagined. She had been sold. No, that was not the case, she
told herself. In fact, if she had been sold, then she might have had some idea of her own value. Da hadn’t even managed to give her away; he had paid someone to relieve him of his burden.
With her eyes adjusting to the dimness, she managed to make out the shape of a sofa. The reason behind Da’s moment of hesitation in the church was now as clear as day. He had parted with
two valuable horses, had been reluctant to give away so much. She was worthless in the eyes of her own father, simply because she brought no money in. Horses were, of course, a great deal more
important than blood relatives.
Quietly, she rose and tiptoed across the room. A small case hung open. Little Tildy-Anne Costigan had probably raided this piece of luggage to find the girls’ nightwear. Bridie lifted
boxes and packages, placed them quietly on the floor. The wedding night problem was solved. She would sleep here on the sofa with her coat acting as a blanket. Tears threatened, but she blinked
them back. Da could continue his journey towards hell, but she intended to make the best of an appalling situation.
Sleep did not come easily. When she finally dozed off, she was back in Ballinasloe. The old castle oversaw the ongoings, kept its many eyes on river, market and church. Cattle straggled along
lazily, birds sang, Mrs O’Hara stood outside the forge while her husband laboured and sweated over horses’ shoes. Brendan Gallagher rested against a wall, a glass of dark stout in his
hand.
Mammy came along the street, her black skirt sweeping the dust, the snow-white apron starched and ironed, a shawl about her shoulders. She waved at Bridie before disappearing into the
churchyard. Even in the dream, Bridie remembered that her mother was dead. But look, Eugene was coming along on that terrible, bone-shaking bicycle. His blond hair was sticking out in all
directions, and his face was pink after toiling in the fields. Eugene had come back to her!
Bridie ran to him, touched his shoulder, breathed in the scents of the earth that always seemed to cling to his clothing. They would be married tomorrow.
Eugene kissed her, lifted her off her feet and onto the handlebars, took her along the bumpy street and struggled to keep the balance for both of them. She was so happy. She could hear him
laughing, could feel the wind in her face.
She woke, looked around her. Sweet Jesus, what was she doing here? What would Eugene have said about this terrible business? No, no, she wouldn’t cry. From the next room, the room that was
a shop, Thomas Murphy’s voice continued to drone. Wondering what Eugene might have thought and said was a waste of time. Had he lived, she would never have come here.
Sam Bell lit the gas, allowed the flame to glow for a few seconds before turning it down. Bridie was asleep on the sofa, had been here all the time, then. Had she heard? Did
she know that her father had persuaded, cajoled and bribed in
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