The Home Straight: Listener, #2

By Frances Gaudiano

Ireland in the early 1900s is a dangerous place to be, The Black and Tans are an unregulated force against the common man and have been let loose, hunting dissenters and torturing anyone who might have a complaint about British rule. Times are hard and people are fearful. Bridie, like her mother before her, has a way with animals, especially horses. It's a gift; one which her father wants her to keep hidden. A gift the locals call witchcraft. A gift which comes at a price. A gift which can and will be exploited by the more powerful around her. Bridie is an exceptionally skilled rider and catches the eye of the owner of a powerful English racing stable. Her skills could earn them a fortune and they are determined to have her, but women are not allowed to race. This book is a story of the Troubles in Ireland in the early 1900s, told through the eyes of the children who grew up immersed in it. It's a story of hardship, loss, and survival, but most of all, it's a story of family and love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Veneficia Publications
• Release date: Feb 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224238910

Book preview

CAPALL BAN — THE WHITE HORSE

DONEGAL, IRELAND, 1906

Your mother was a murderer! The plump, blonde girl shouted, the gaggle of girls behind her giggling with the power of group spite.

Bridie rubbed her apron between her fingers and bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling.

No, she wasn’t, she barely whispered.

She was, the girl insisted. Me mam said so. And she said I should stay away from the likes of you. Your mam was a murderer and your uncle was a rebel and was kilt dead for it. Your mam’s probably dead too but nobody knows what happened to her.

Bridie shook her head, Me mam had to go away.

A girl from the group sang out, If she ain’t dead, why hasn’t she come back to get you? Didn’t she want you?

Looking down at the ground, Bridie worked her fingers furiously in the rough fabric of her apron. She didn’t know why her mother had left her, never written or come back for her. Maybe her mam didn’t want her. She could feel the tears begin to spill out of her eyes and watched them hit the ground at her feet. Already she didn’t like going to school.

Suddenly a boy, a few years older than the taunting girls, stepped between Bridie and the little harpies.

Shut your gobs you wee eejits. You don’t know a thing. Why, Bridie’s mam is an Irish patriot and so was her uncle, both of them fighting for our independence. Bridie has every reason to be proud of her people, which is more than I can say for the lot of you! With that, he threw his arm around the weeping girl and marched her off.

And who would listen to you Diarmuid O’Toole? the blonde, Aisling, called after him but he didn’t deign to answer. After all, he was nine years old, and she was only seven.

Bridie had little choice but to trot along with Diarmuid who was towing her along. He took her to the edge of the school yard to was what was left of a crumbling stone wall. He hunkered down on the ground next to it and motioned to the space beside him.

You’re Bridie Gallagher then, he announced. Me dad was mates with your uncle. They did business together against the peelers, back in the 1890s. It was a terrible shame what happened to Donal Hegarty. He never even had a fair trial. Beaten to death on the road he was. Diarmuid shook his head, not noticing the huge round eyes of his companion.

What? Bridie managed to squeak. He turned to her and drew back in surprise.

Did your people not tell you? Donal was to be taken to Donegal Town for a trial but never got there. Me dad tried to break him free, along with your— Diarmuid just managed to stop himself. Maybe the lass didn’t know that her father had been involved and perhaps, just perhaps, he wasn’t the one to tell her.

Well, your mam then. A rich landlord’s son was threatening to kill a farmer for back rent. Rent that had been unfairly raised of course. So, your mam stopped him just in the nick of time she did. She shot that spoiled son of a … Diarmuid managed to censor himself.

She shot the landlord’s son, she did. Of course, she had to go into hiding or the landlord would have had her swing. She’s probably in America now, getting funding for the rising. She can’t write you as she is working in secret, you know.

Hh … how the small girl stuttered, do you know all this?

Diarmuid tapped the side of his nose and narrowed his eyes, glancing back towards their schoolmates, chasing each other around the yard.

I make it my business to know. I’m joining the rising as soon as I’m old enough. You and I, we come from families dedicated to an independent Ireland. We shall join the revolution and see the oppressors leave these shores. But you best keep it quiet for now. No point in getting in arguments with yon ninnies over there. Bridie nodded in agreement, adopting a serious face of respect for the older boy. She was only six, but she knew a soldier when she saw one.

Kathleen had been looking out for Bridie, walking home from her first day of school. She had considered going down the lane and meeting her half way but that would make Bridie look a baby and embarrass her among her new friends. However, she had made some fresh scones and put the kettle on in readiness to sit down and hear all the news of the day. She was disappointed to see her niece stepping along on her own. Surely, the Nolan sisters were at the farm just past them. Wouldn’t they have walked home together? But it was early days. Bridie was a bit shy. It would probably take her a few days to join up with a small crew of girls her age.

Taking the girl in her arms and squeezing her tightly, Kathleen then pushed Bridie away from her and asked how her first day at school had gone. Bridie shrugged, looking away from her but then brightened when she smelled the fresh baked goods.

Are there scones? she asked, hopefully.

There are indeed. Now sit down here at the table and we’ll have a cuppa and a bit of a chat. You’ll tell me all about the other children and what the master is like. Have you learned anything at all today?

Climbing up on the bench next to the table, Bridie said that she had learned some very interesting things. Kathleen wet the tea and poured two cups. She pushed the scones and fresh cream towards Bridie who enthusiastically began spreading the thick cream on her repast. With a cheeky grin she asked, ‘Jam?’ to which Kathleen got up and took a pot from the cupboard, dolloping a great spoonful onto Bridie’s plate. After allowing Bridie to fill herself, Kathleen reached across and wiped the girl’s face with a piece of cloth, removing the jam stuck to the side of Bridie’s mouth. Propping her elbows on the table she leaned forward,

"Now tell me girseach."

Swallowing her last bit of scone and washing it down with a great gulp of tea, Bride sat quiet for a moment, fiddling with a spoon on the table. Then she looked up at her aunt and asked,

Was your Donal a rebel?

Ah, Kathleen said, And who told you this?

A boy. A nice boy. He got the girls to stop teasing me.

What girls? Kathleen was immediately incensed. How dare any other child torture her own Bridie and on her first day of school?

All the girls, especially a fat, light-haired girl. I think her name was Aisling. She said me mam was a murderer.

For the love of God, Kathleen slapped her hand down on the table. That Maureen McMann has her nasty ways, spreading gossip along to her wee daughter. The mouth on that woman! Well, I’ll tell her a thing or two. I’ll be right down there tomorrow and give her a piece of my mind, I will. How dare that naughty girl speak to you that way and on your first day too! Do they not go to church? Jesus weeps he does, he surely weeps when people go along like that flapping their mouths.

Bridie cut in, Is it true?

Of course not. I wasn’t there, but your daddy was and Fiona herself came and told me the whole situation. The man was threatening, he was a terrible man, Fiona was only defending herself. And of course, your daddy took the blame but Fiona wouldn’t have it. Another woman would have let her husband rot in gaol, or be hung even. But not Fiona, she was a brave soul, that lass. She went straight into that gaol and told them it was herself that fired the gun. She was carrying you at the time and she wasn’t about to be having her wee babby in gaol, so she had to go on the run. She brought you to me then and well, I’m not sure what happened after that but I think your daddy knows. He doesn’t like to talk about it love, so don’t be pestering him. It makes him ever so sad, but no, your mam was no murderer. She was a lovely, sweet girl that devoted her life to helping animals. Bless her.

Is she dead then? Diarmuid said she was in America raising funds for the uprising.

Diarmuid? Diarmuid O’Toole? Seamus’s son? Oh, that figures alright. Kathleen let out a disapproving huff. So that’s who you’ve made friends with? A rapscallion like that. God help us all.

Bridie pouted.

He was nice to me. And he said Uncle Donal was a hero and so was me mam. What is a rapscallion and why is Diarmuid one?

Kathleen got up abruptly and began clearing the table.

Come along and help me prepare your daddy’s supper. He’ll come in hungry as one of me goats. And none of these questions for him just yet. I’m sure Diarmuid is a grand lad. Never mind me. Now get along and peel me some tatties.

While peeling the potatoes, Bridie thought about her mother; not an unusual course of thought for her. Like any child who has lost a parent, she was eager to learn anything she could about Fiona and had plied her aunt with questions many times previously.

What did me mam look like?

Small, like yourself, Auntie Kathleen had answered.

What colour was her hair?

Auburn, more or less. What did that mean, Bridie wondered. How could her auntie be unsure about the colour of her mother’s hair?

Another time she asked, Was me mammy a good cook? That was answered with a laugh.

Could she sew? Again, Aunt Kathleen shook her head, though she smiled all the while. "Was me mammy good at anything?

She was a healer, Kathleen replied, turning her full attention to Bridie, a healer of animals mostly. There are still people around these parts that remembered her skill, families that survived because Fiona saved their only cow or pig.

Was she as good with horses as Daddy?

As good as? Why your daddy is a clever man, but he doesn’t have half the knowledge his wife had. Or used to have.

And the hardest question, Is me mother dead?

Kathleen crouched down next to Bridie and took the child’s face in her hands, Of course, she is darling, or she would be here with you.

But where is her grave?

No one ever answered that question.

From her father, Bridie got nothing. He wouldn’t discuss his late wife. Bridie could almost remember a day when two stray dogs had come to the door. One had come tearing toward cottage, jumping up at Bridie. Thinking it was rabid, her father had shot it. The other dog had raced away avoiding the spray of gun shot. Bridie’s father had bent over the body of the dog he had killed and gasped. Sobs had burst from him; he had pounded his chest. Gathering the creature in his arms he had gone off and buried it on a small rise near the top of the field, by a fairy ring. People didn’t like to go up there as they said you could be taken away by the fae and not come back for so long that all your loved ones would be dead and gone. But her daddy was up there all the time, sitting by the dog’s grave. He had even put a marker on it. She had followed him up once and heard him talking, she heard her mother’s name, ‘Fiona’, but couldn’t make out the rest.

When he came back from these visits, her father sat on his cot in the corner, holding a book that he never opened. He just looked at the cover, ran his hands over it and then put it away in a drawer. When Bridie asked what was in the book, she was told she was too young to know. Before the dog had died, her father hadn’t been so sad. Bridie couldn’t understand why the death of a stray dog had nearly destroyed her father. He had said something about ‘shooting her own mother,’ but that made no sense and Auntie Kathleen explained that Fiona had been over fond of dogs and that killing one made Ciarán feel guilty. Bridie shook her head. It was all too complicated. Maybe the answer was in the book her daddy had, but then why didn’t he read it?

It seemed this Diarmuid boy would be a good source of information. He was a lot older than her, being nine and her only six, and he was very friendly compared to the other children. She didn’t care if her auntie thought he was a rapscallion, whatever that was.

*

School was tedious. There was so much sitting and if there wasn’t enough turf, the room grew cold. The students all wore fingerless gloves, those that could afford them, but still they found themselves blowing on their fingertips or rubbing their hands together in their laps before writing on their slates. The school master shouted at them to stop fidgeting but farm children were used to a life of physical work and had little skill for sitting still. Diarmuid seemed to find residing behind a desk more painful than most, often leaping up when he had an answer or disagreed with a lesson. He dropped his slate, broke his chalk, even managed to rip his trousers one day when sliding off the side of the bench to glimpse at another student’s work. He was no stranger to the smack of the teacher’s ruler or even the birch rod, but he never seemed to cry. Pulling up his trousers, he would grin at the class and stroll back to his desk as if he were a grand gentleman taking a walk into a fine restaurant. Once, when Bridie had been holding her fist in her mouth, frightened by the sound of the thwacking ruler, he had turned and winked at her.

Bridie was petite for her age and in the few times she attempted to join in ball games had been knocked over. She could skip rope though, if given the chance but the girls in her age bracket drew away from her, even her cousin Janey, the youngest of Uncle John’s children. There was David at 15, who no longer came to school but worked on the farm with his father and Bridie’s daddy. Danny, 11 years old, was the next cousin. He was still at school but paid little attention to his studies, instead concentrating on teasing the girls—slipping fish into their desks or writing rude words on their slates. Janey was 8, her mother’s unexpected late chick and spoiled all the more for her unwarranted arrival. She always came to school in clean clothes, neatly mended, if mended at all, and hair plaited in two golden tails down her back. Along with Aisling, Janey had a low opinion of Bridie’s mother and even went so far as to say that her uncle was better off without ‘the quare one’.

Try as she might, Bridie could not fit in with the girls, so she turned to the boys. Boys would talk about horses and were well impressed that Bridie could ride Conall, her daddy’s stallion. None of them had ever sat a stallion, only geldings, though it was more likely a donkey they owned. Diarmuid had ridden neither, as his family couldn’t support an equine of any description. It wasn’t long before he weaselled a visit to meet the famous Conall. Bridie was not surprised at the request as she considered her father’s stallion an important figure in the community.

Me daddy is often out with Conall you know. Daddy visits other horses and helps them get well. But sometimes, when he is working with Uncle John, he leaves Conall in the field. You can come on one of those days to meet our stallion, if you like. Diarmuid couldn’t agree fast enough and followed Bridie home one day after school. It had been one of those days when Diarmuid had the ruler to his hand, which was now smarting, but he said nothing of it. Bridie, however, could see that it was flaming red.

Doesn’t it hurt terrible? Diarmuid shrugged and pulled himself a bit taller.

Ach, it’s nothing. When I’m in the Irish Republican Brotherhood I’ll get wounds much worse than this.  Bridie didn’t want to hear about politics. Her auntie and daddy would read the paper, make ‘tsking’ sounds or even ejaculations, ‘Holy Mary, mother of God!’ They never seemed happy when they read about the news. Bridie would rather worry about the state of the country when she got older. She did want to see Diarmuid’s hand though. What if she got smacked? What would it feel like? Would she cry? Auntie Kathleen said it was always better to be prepared.

Can I see?

Diarmuid smirked at her.

What, me hand? Certainly, if you like, but there’s nothing to see. He presented his hand to her, as if offering her a dance.

Bridie curtsied and giggled, then took his hand in both of hers, perusing it carefully. There was a splinter below the little finger and the hand was red indeed, and also rather dirty. Nevertheless, she planted a quick kiss on the palm.

Diarmuid stared at his hand, not sure if he was delighted or disgusted.

Whatever was that for?

Bridie reddened.

To make it better. That’s what me auntie does, kiss it, to make it better.

The boy continued to gaze at his hand, then he smiled at Bridie.

Well then, thank you. Me dad never does anything like that.

What about your mam?

Ach, she died when I was being born. It’s just me dad and me.

This was news. Maybe Auntie Kathleen had mentioned it before, but Bridie doubted it. Kathleen had not encouraged friendship with Diarmuid, something about Diarmuid’s family leading her Donal down the wrong path.

So, neither of us have mothers.

That’s right, Diarmuid agreed, linking arms with Bridie. That’s why we have to look out for each other.

And that’s why you’re so filthy, Diarmuid laughed at Bridie’s remark, taking no offense.

Boys are allowed to be dirty. It’s only girls that are supposed to be clean. Bridie eyed him with suspicion. She was sure she had heard Aunt Maire shout at John and Danny to wash up before a meal or she’d not give them a bite to eat.

When they got to the cottage, Bridie pointed out Conall standing in the field nearest the house and started dragging Diarmuid in that direction. Diarmuid though, looked with interest at the cottage.

Does your auntie not give you a wee morsel when you get home from school? Sure, she must be trying to feed you up, you being so small and all.

Oh yes, I usually get a slice of bread with butter and a cup of tea. We’ll have some after you meet Conall. Diarmuid agreed, but only after looking longingly at the cottage, a bit of smoke coming up through the chimney promised warmth and a hot drink.

Conall, the great, grey stallion, did not ordinarily entertain strangers. He had only taken to a few people in his life. Three to be exact, Ciarán and Fiona, Bridie’s parents, and then Bridie herself. Conall lowered his head as the two children came across the field, wet grass dampening their clothes and chilling Diarmuid’s bare feet. Usually, Conall would trot over to Bridie and meet her half way but this time he stood still, considering the new comer.

Boy smell, hungry. No sticks in his hand. Conall watched as Diarmuid reached out to steady Bridie when she tripped over a stone in the field. That settled it for him. The boy was kind to his Bridie and Bridie was daughter to Fiona, The Listener. The boy could be accepted. He took the last few steps towards the children and offered his muzzle to be patted. Bridie stood on her tiptoes and kissed the soft velvet of Conall’s nose. She reached up and scratched him behind his ear and he let her run her fingers through his forelock. Diarmuid put out a hand but hesitated to touch the great beast. He knew horses could bite and this horse was an enormous stallion. It could kill him with one dash of his hooves. But then remembering that he was really quite brave for a boy of nine, he stepped forward and lay his palm against Conall’s neck. The flesh rippled at the unfamiliar touch and the horse rolled its eye sideways to give Diarmuid a warning glance. Diarmuid stood his ground. Then Conall snorted loudly, tossed his head and galloped off across the field, stopping just shy of the stone fence.

Diarmuid had almost fallen backward when the stallion had thrown his head but this time, Bridie had steadied him.

I think he likes you, she assured him. At least he didn’t bite you.

Does he normally bite people? Diarmuid held the gaze of the horse as it watched him from where it stood by the wall.

Yes, bite or kick, depending on where they are. But he likes you. I can tell.

Well then, Diarmuid chanced a glance away from the horse, hoping it wouldn’t change his opinion and come racing back across the field to deal with the visitor, That’s good then. Shall we see if your auntie has wet the tea?

Kathleen took one look at the bedraggled children and told Bridie to take off her boots and threw a rag to Diarmuid.

Use that first on your head and then on your feet. I won’t have mud tracked all over me clean floors. And then both of you over to the wash bowl and clean your hands while I make you some tea. She had the bread and butter on the table, along with the jam—after all they had a guest—and a steaming pot of tea by the time the children had more or less cleaned their hands. She took one look at Diarmuid’s dirt engrained fingernails, tsked loudly and shook her head. The poor child had no mother so no wonder and really, she couldn’t be hard on the lad. His father, Seamus, had made promises that he hadn’t kept, promises that might have saved her Donal, but sure this child had nothing to do with that. If he was good to Bridie, as her niece said he was, she would be good to the lad.

Eat your fill young man. You won’t get soda bread like that in the shop. And this jam is made by meself as well; meself and our Bridie.

The children were finishing up and Diarmuid was trying to fabricate a reason to stay a bit longer in the cosy cottage when Ciarán arrived home. He nodded as he walked in, rinsed and dried his hands and sat himself down at the table. Jerking his chin in Diarmuid’s direction he asked, Who’s this lad then?

This is Bridie’s friend from school. It’s Diarmuid, Seamus’s son.

Ciarán raised his eyebrows at Kathleen, Seamus O’Toole?

She lifted her shoulders and splayed her hands. He nodded in reply.

He wanted to meet Conall, Daddy. Is that alright? I let him stroke Conall for a minute. You don’t mind, do you Daddy?

It wouldn’t be up to me. It’s Conall’s choice. Did he bite you lad? Diarmuid shook his head, unable to answer through the fourth slice of bread he had stuffed into his mouth.

Good then. You passed the test. You can be friends with me daughter. But only friends mind you. You understand now? Suddenly, Diarmuid understood what bravery really meant. He nodded slowly and solemnly at Ciarán. Swallowing the large mouthful he added,

Yes Sir. And I’ll look out for her at school, Sir.

Don’t be using that Sir business with me, and it’s her cousins that should be looking out for her, not you. But then again, you may be a better cut of lad than her cousins. Sure, Conall has always wanted to take a fair chunk out of them.

Diarmuid gave a huge sigh of relief and Ciarán let out a short, sharp laugh. Kathleen flicked a dish towel at her brother and smiled at Diarmuid.

Ach, he’s only teasing you lad, no worries.

No ma’am, I don’t think he is teasing. Diarmuid forced himself to lift his head and look in Ciarán’s eyes for a brief moment. What he saw staring back were not the eyes of a man who would jest.

After Daddy and Auntie Kathleen, Bridie loved Conall best in the world so it pleased her inordinately that Conall approved of her new friend Diarmuid. Although an immense beast with a vicious temper, Conall was besotted with Bridie and nuzzled her as gently as his big head would allow. Bridie was riding before she could walk, sitting in front of her father as he went looking for stray sheep or ventured to outlying farms to see to their horses.

Ciarán was renowned throughout the district for his prowess with horses. He seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to equines—they gentled at his touch and he was often able to ascertain an injury or health problem that the average horse or donkey owner could not identify. He knew some herbal healing as well, taught to him, it was said, by his wife, who had been a wise woman. Horse doctoring provided a meagre income for Ciarán. He lived on land that his brother, John, held in tenancy for Kathleen and helped pay the rent by assisting John on that land. Ciarán owned nothing of his own, except for Conall, if the stallion could be said to be owned.

When she wasn’t at school, Bridie often accompanied her father on his visits to poorly horses.

Today, Bridie was riding along with her father to visit a farmer with a lame draft horse. The heavy work horse was eating the farmer out of house and home but not working for a living. He would be shot if he wasn’t fit soon as the farmer could not afford to keep a worthless animal. Ciarán was dreading the visit as he feared the aged horse’s joints were gone and there was little he could do to fix the lameness. He hated to see any animal put down but it didn’t do to get sentimental about livestock. They weren’t pets. Farmers didn’t keep pets.

Bridie had none of her father’s worries and was revelling in the brisk trot and thrilled when her father let the horse leap a small wall. Being so high up in the air did not frighten the child at all. She trusted the horse and her father and was having far too much fun to worry about falling off. The wind blew past them, and she felt that moving on Conall, they were faster than the wind. She wanted to crow with joy. It wasn’t raining yet; the sun was on their backs and the fields were a lush green. All was good in her world.

At the farmer’s cabin, Ciarán dismounted and then lifted Bridie down. The ground was mucky and she stepped into