Mullacalooney Horse Fair

 

...The milling crowd in front of us suddenly split in two. Hats flying, beer slopping, coins spilling from pockets.
“Fág an bealach!” came a holler. “Clear the way!”
A boy riding bareback appeared. Legs like a pair of tongs as his kicking pony was led down the divide.
And so it went on. This display. This odd parade. One whinnying horse after another, ridden, struck, whipped, and snapped along at lunatic speeds—their iron shoes striking up sparks.
“We’ll keep moving,” said Moochie.
We squeezed past the heels of a fidgety row of foals, horses, hinnies, donkeys, and mules tethered to fences, railings, lampposts, and telegraph poles. And them rocking their heads, and taking as many backwards and forwards steps as their short ropes would allow.
My Wellingtons squeaked and pinched my toes, and surely to God, Moochie’d inspected over a hundred horses by now.
“I’m looking for a horse that can handle both the saddle and the cart,” he said. “A horse with a good cargo of bones.” He named the Irish Draught and the Connemara, the Irish Hunter and the Kerry Bog. Long-tailed steeds, docktailed steeds, miniature horses of every degree and breed.
Then—“Now that’s what we came for,” said Moochie. “A lovely Irish Cob.”
A good-looking skewbald if ever he’d seen one.
A horse that stood alone, on a stretch of grass.
The rest of the field jam-packed with trucks, trailers, tents, and barrel-top wagons.
“Let’s go see!” cried Benny. His face flushed, his fingers shaking, his cigarette dropping ash—as if he were ready to burst with excitement.
Some of the Travellers gave us a quizzical look as we passed by. Others glowered with suspicion. Clean faces, mucky faces, smiling faces, scowling faces—and my heart thumping all the while, should Mammy’s face be amongst them.
But it wasn’t.
The Irish Cobb. A mare with five dun patches, a curly mustache, feathered feet, and a flowing mane. And wasn’t she gorgeous altogether.
“She’s dandy,” said Benny. “Top-notch.”
“Come on,” Moochie called out. “Follow me, now.”
We met up with two fellas sitting at the back of an open truck.
One with ravines for wrinkles, the other with blond-streaked hair.
The older one introduced himself as Dickory Dock, a clock and Rolex specialist. Dock for short.
The younger, who claimed his name was Clint Eastwood, sported a shiny sheriff’s badge.
“But ye can call me Povey,” he said, a dead, flattened-out fag dangling from his mouth as he grinned.
Then, rocking a finger in my direction—”I know that girl!” he cried.
I shook my head.
“Now, how would you know her?” Moochie wanted to know.
Povey shrugged. “It’ll come to me.”
Flicking a look over at Benny, he asked, “D’ya have a light in yer pocket there, Mister Tweedle Dee?”
Leaning into the blue flame of Benny’s Ronson, that Povey took his time with the first drag, and then blew out a curl of smoke real slow.
“I suppose ye’re interested in me horse, then,” he finally said. “Named after me dear ould mam, Maudie-Mae.”

At the sight of Dock and Povey, Maudie-Mae swished her tail, flattened her ears, and started dancing sideways.
“Whoa, there,” said Moochie, patting the mare’s neck. “Is she a driving horse?” he asked.
“She is,” said Dock. “Only six years old, and already great on the roads.”
“And she loves kids,” said Povey, snatching another glance over at me. “Ye’ll find her no danger to kids.”
I stroked Maudie-Mae’s velvet nose and inhaled her sweet, malty scent.
Oats. Molasses. Sawdust.
“How much?” asked Benny.
“Three hundred punts,” said Povey.
We’ll take a walk,” said Moochie, “and we might see ya later… or not.”
“A long churning makes bad butter,” said Povey. “Best ye make yer minds up now.”
Otherwise, he added, he’s ready to keep the mare for himself.
“Two hundred punts,” said Moochie.
“Two-fifty,” said Povey, “and ye’re robbing me at that.” “Deal!” said Moochie.
The price was sealed with a spit and a hard slap of the hands. Then Povey gave Benny a few punts change from his back pocket—for good luck, like.
As Benny and Moochie led Maudie-Mae away, I felt a prickling sense of being watched.
When I turned, Povey was scratching his head and squinching up his eyes.
“Jesus, it’s killing me!” he shouted over at Dock. “Where the feck have I seen that kid before?”
Then he ran his tongue over his lip and grinned.
Only to slap hard at his thigh, as if he’d remembered.
When nothing about him rang a bell for me at all.