mouthfuls of a big block of Cheddar and chatting away as if it were still last
night. ‘I’ve a mate, Sean Burke, up in Kilgevrin. Do you know
Kilgevrin?’
‘I don’t … I moved to Dublin
years ago.’
‘It’s
a bit of a shitehole, Galway. Anyway, he …’
I zoned out, standing by the toaster
while my bread had the moisture sucked out of it. Tiredness aside, I really
wasn’t sure if I could do this. Any of it.
Tough
, I said to myself.
You have nowhere else to go, remember?
My toast popped and I searched for a
plate. I had to make it work here, and that would be a lot easier to achieve if I
stopped thinking about home. And all of the Bad Shit.
‘Galway?’
Joe was still eating straight from the
cheese block. Little crumbs of it fell on to the large terracotta floor tiles.
‘Galway, are you fantasizing about us having sex, there?’
I shook my head, forcing a smile. Last
night, with the wine and the warmth of a kitchen full of people, I’d found him
funny. Now I was struggling.
Come on
, I chided gently.
Crack a smile,
Brady.
Joe wrapped up his cheese and put it in
the vast American-style fridge. ‘Ah, Galway, you’re going to drive me
wild,’ he said cheerfully, putting on a jumper. ‘You and all that
gorgeous red hair. Well, I’m going to get Kangaroo tacked up. Best give me
your number so I can call if I need anything.’ He pulled a hat on.
‘My number?’
‘It’s a big farm,’ he
explained, digging his phone out. ‘We call each other all day.’ He stood
in front of me, his phone in his hand.
Grudgingly, I pulled mine out and
searched for my number.
‘Never understand people who
don’t know their own number.’ Joe chuckled, punching it in.
‘From a man who eats Cheddar for
breakfast and makes
marriage proposals at
first sight,’ I tried lightly. I even forced a shadow of a smile.
‘Grand!’ Joe tucked his
phone away. ‘Now I can send you dirty messages … Ah, Christ, Galway,
don’t blench like that! I’m jokin’ with you!’
He pulled his gloves on, watching me.
Just for a moment, the naughty twinkling stopped and a shadow of compassion passed
across his face. ‘You’ll be fine, Galway,’ he said kindly.
‘We don’t bite. Unless you ask us to.’
He left, and I started mechanically to
eat toast, leaning against the rail of the Aga.
You’ll learn
, I
reassured myself.
You’ll learn to relax. These are decent people, Kate
Brady, you can be happy here.
The grooms’ house was a beautiful
old threshing barn with a large, Mexican-tiled kitchen that had once been a grain
store. The ground floor was made up of several different reception rooms, ‘So
it doesn’t feel like a hall of residence,’ Sandra had explained during
my interview. There was a grown-up sitting room, a pool room, a TV room and even a
reading room, but it seemed that most of the grooms at Mark Waverley’s yard
spent their time in the kitchen or in the laundry room where they washed and dried
all the horse stuff.
Everyone other than me had lovely big
rooms with views across the rolling moorland that led eventually to the Bristol
Channel, although my own view of the horse yard wasn’t too shabby. It was a
rather lovely scene: an old stone stable block centred around a big square courtyard
with a still-functional iron water pump in the centre: unusual and lucky to have so
many proper old stables, Sandra had told me; none of those American-style barns with
all that ugly
metal. The doors and
woodwork were painted a deep marine blue, which stood proudly against the yellowed
stones of the stable walls. Behind the main courtyard, an ancient oak overhung a
further oblong of stone stabling.
Last night I’d also met Tiggy, the
Head Girl, who’d been friendly enough. In a very confident,
this-is-my-empire-and-if-you-cross-me-I’ll-have-you-run-over sort of a way.
Like all posh women who worked with horses
night. ‘I’ve a mate, Sean Burke, up in Kilgevrin. Do you know
Kilgevrin?’
‘I don’t … I moved to Dublin
years ago.’
‘It’s
a bit of a shitehole, Galway. Anyway, he …’
I zoned out, standing by the toaster
while my bread had the moisture sucked out of it. Tiredness aside, I really
wasn’t sure if I could do this. Any of it.
Tough
, I said to myself.
You have nowhere else to go, remember?
My toast popped and I searched for a
plate. I had to make it work here, and that would be a lot easier to achieve if I
stopped thinking about home. And all of the Bad Shit.
‘Galway?’
Joe was still eating straight from the
cheese block. Little crumbs of it fell on to the large terracotta floor tiles.
‘Galway, are you fantasizing about us having sex, there?’
I shook my head, forcing a smile. Last
night, with the wine and the warmth of a kitchen full of people, I’d found him
funny. Now I was struggling.
Come on
, I chided gently.
Crack a smile,
Brady.
Joe wrapped up his cheese and put it in
the vast American-style fridge. ‘Ah, Galway, you’re going to drive me
wild,’ he said cheerfully, putting on a jumper. ‘You and all that
gorgeous red hair. Well, I’m going to get Kangaroo tacked up. Best give me
your number so I can call if I need anything.’ He pulled a hat on.
‘My number?’
‘It’s a big farm,’ he
explained, digging his phone out. ‘We call each other all day.’ He stood
in front of me, his phone in his hand.
Grudgingly, I pulled mine out and
searched for my number.
‘Never understand people who
don’t know their own number.’ Joe chuckled, punching it in.
‘From a man who eats Cheddar for
breakfast and makes
marriage proposals at
first sight,’ I tried lightly. I even forced a shadow of a smile.
‘Grand!’ Joe tucked his
phone away. ‘Now I can send you dirty messages … Ah, Christ, Galway,
don’t blench like that! I’m jokin’ with you!’
He pulled his gloves on, watching me.
Just for a moment, the naughty twinkling stopped and a shadow of compassion passed
across his face. ‘You’ll be fine, Galway,’ he said kindly.
‘We don’t bite. Unless you ask us to.’
He left, and I started mechanically to
eat toast, leaning against the rail of the Aga.
You’ll learn
, I
reassured myself.
You’ll learn to relax. These are decent people, Kate
Brady, you can be happy here.
The grooms’ house was a beautiful
old threshing barn with a large, Mexican-tiled kitchen that had once been a grain
store. The ground floor was made up of several different reception rooms, ‘So
it doesn’t feel like a hall of residence,’ Sandra had explained during
my interview. There was a grown-up sitting room, a pool room, a TV room and even a
reading room, but it seemed that most of the grooms at Mark Waverley’s yard
spent their time in the kitchen or in the laundry room where they washed and dried
all the horse stuff.
Everyone other than me had lovely big
rooms with views across the rolling moorland that led eventually to the Bristol
Channel, although my own view of the horse yard wasn’t too shabby. It was a
rather lovely scene: an old stone stable block centred around a big square courtyard
with a still-functional iron water pump in the centre: unusual and lucky to have so
many proper old stables, Sandra had told me; none of those American-style barns with
all that ugly
metal. The doors and
woodwork were painted a deep marine blue, which stood proudly against the yellowed
stones of the stable walls. Behind the main courtyard, an ancient oak overhung a
further oblong of stone stabling.
Last night I’d also met Tiggy, the
Head Girl, who’d been friendly enough. In a very confident,
this-is-my-empire-and-if-you-cross-me-I’ll-have-you-run-over sort of a way.
Like all posh women who worked with horses
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