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  Both Eily and Nano burst out laughing.

  But all the merriment disappeared the minute they turned the corner. Over the thick green hedgerow they spotted the small crowd gathering outside the Widow O’Brien’s simple, one-roomed cottage. There was no denying the cottage was neglected, with weeds fighting to grow up over it, dirt and moss clinging to it, and the rotting thatch almost bare in places.

  In front of the cottage were three men on horseback. Two were constables, the third was the bailiff.

  Mary-Brigid grabbed hold of her mother’s hand as fear washed over her. ‘What are they going to do?’

  ‘We’ll know soon enough, pet,’ Eily whispered, putting her arm protectively around her daughter.

  ‘Failure to pay rent,’ shouted the bailiff, a big lump of a man with a bald head. ‘Failure to follow acquittal notice! Failure to maintain dwelling! Failure to develop and maintain allotted land-holding!’

  ‘God almighty!’ muttered Eily. ‘A poor soul like Agnes O’Brien, a widow woman all on her own being evicted! ‘Tis a disgrace!’

  The crowd murmured, drawing in close around the cottage, flattening the thigh-high weeds.

  ‘Leave her alone! She’s only a poor old woman!’ shouted one of the men.

  ‘Let her be!’ added more voices angrily.

  ‘We’re only doing our duty,’ replied the younger of the constables. ‘The old lady has known for quite some time that she would have to give up this dwelling.’ He blushed, embarrassed.

  Nano pulled at Eily’s arm, nodding in the direction of the small, grubby window. They could just make out the white, scared face of Agnes O’Brien peeping out.

  The bailiff banged on the door again.

  ‘Let her be!’ shouted Tim Hayes. ‘What use is a cabin like that to anyone? Let her stay there, no one else would be interested in it.’

  ‘I’ll ‘mind you to look after your own business, Mr Hayes,’ sneered the bailiff. ‘Mister Hussey plans to plough up this whole piece of land, not that that is any of your concern.’

  Mary-Brigid stood silent, wishing that her daddy or more of the men were here to help. Unfortunately, he had gone to the bog to turn and dry out more turf for the winter.

  ‘It’s the only home poor Agnes has ever known!’ said Nano loudly. ‘She’ll be afraid leaving it. Her two sons were born under that roof. She nursed her family when they all got fever in that one room, managing to feed them on scraps and meal and berries and roots.’

  There was a hush now as the muttering stopped and the whole crowd paid attention to Nano. ‘It was through that little bit of a door that the boys left to go to America and two years later that her husband, God be good to him, was brought out when he died. Agnes thought she’d follow on after him in her turn. She never imagined the like of this happening.’ Nano could barely disguise the shake in her voice. ‘She deserves better than this at her age!’

  Mary-Brigid hugged her aunt close, smelling her usual scent of lavender water.

  ‘Mrs O’Brien, please collect your things and leave this dwelling,’ ordered the younger constable, ignoring Nano’s plea. ‘No one wants to hurt you or harm you; we want to keep this as peaceable as possible.’

  The older constable looked around him at the swelling crowd. People were sitting on the low stone wall, leaning against the rusty gate, standing in the overgrown patch of garden. The last thing he wanted was for a mob situation to develop.

  He knew a lot of the people here. By and large they were mostly good folk. He himself felt uncomfortable at having to enforce an eviction order against an elderly woman all alone.

  ‘Do something, constable,’ muttered the bailiff.

  ‘All in good time,’ replied the older constable. He was not going to provoke a situation unless he had to.

  ‘Oh poor Agnes! That poor woman! Perhaps if I went in and talked to her,’ Nano said quietly to Eily. ‘I’m afraid she’ll get injured or hurt during this.’

  Nano pushed her way to the door of the cottage. ‘Agnes, dear!’ she called out. ‘It’s Nano Murphy. Do you want me to come in and give you a hand? I know what’s running through your mind at this moment, but believe me when I tell you, you have many friends and neighbours here with you.’

  Agnes was obviously at the other side of the door, listening. ‘Ye may come in, Nano,’ she whispered.

  Eily grabbed at her elderly aunt. ‘Nano, I’m coming with you,’ she whispered frantically. ‘What if Agnes locks you in there with her?’

  Nano frowned for a second, then shook her head as they heard the rusty latch lift. ‘Don’t you worry, Eily, you stay with the children! Remember, Agnes and I are friends. She wouldn’t harm me.’

  Mary-Brigid felt as if her heart would stop beating. She was not going to let Nano go inside on her own. She darted quickly behind Nano’s long, full, black skirt and shawl, and followed her in.

  ‘I’ll only be a few minutes,’ Nano called to the bailiff.

  The bailiff tried to shove past the crowd but the constable blocked his way. ‘Let her be,’ he ordered.

  Nano pushed in the door to the damp, smoky room. Agnes was standing in the middle of it all, a small, slight, scrawny figure in a grey shift, her hair hanging in streaks around her pale, anxious face.

  ‘What am I going to do, Nano?’ she whispered. ‘Where am I going to go?’

  Mary-Brigid wrinkled her nose. The room was dirty and smelly and untidy, the fire nothing more than soft ash. There was barely a stick of furniture in the place and the few bits of crockery the woman had lay dirty in the sink or on the small kitchen table.

  Nano turned around and saw her. ‘How did you get in here, Mary-Brigid? You never listen to a word I say, child. I’m scalded with you!’ Mary-Brigid tried to look downcast and ashamed, but she was glad to be there with Nano. ‘Still, you’ve a good heart! Hasn’t she Agnes?’ Nano added.

  ‘Aye!’ whispered the old lady, who was now crouched on the narrow, iron bed which stood against the wall.

  ‘Agnes, girl, the time has come to leave this place. I know you’re broken-hearted, but they’ll not let you stop here any longer. You must gather your things and your clothes. Pack up now,’ urged Nano.

  ‘I’ll not go!’ screeched the old woman. ‘Let them burn me out if they want. I’m willing to die.’

  ‘Hush, Agnes, none of that kind of talk. You’ll not let them destroy you. You’ll walk out of here with your head held high.’

  Mary-Brigid thought it far more likely that Agnes would be dragged out the door kicking and screaming and cursing.

  ‘Mary-Brigid,’ ordered Nano, ‘see if there is any warm water left in that kettle over there. The ware in the sink could do with a bit of a wash, no doubt, then we’ll dry it and wrap it up.

  ‘You must have a dress and a pair of boots, Agnes,’ she continued. ‘Come on, now, and we’ll get you dressed.’

  The distressed woman pointed to a worn, dark navy, wool dress hanging from a hook behind the door. Nano fetched it, shaking it before she pulled it over the unprotesting figure sitting on the edge of the unmade bed. The near-threadbare grey stockings and mud-spattered boots lay flung underneath the bed. Nano watched as the widow squeezed her bony, gnarled toes into the stockings.

  ‘That’s a lot better!’ stated Nano, talking the way you would to cajole a small child like Jodie.

  Nano dragged the cleanest of the grimy-looking woollen blankets off the bed and laid the rest of the old lady’s clothes in it. ‘Mary-Brigid, you can help by gathering up some of Agnes’s bits and pieces.’ Mary-Brigid was pleased to leave the washing-up to Nano as the greasy plates, encrusted with stale food, had almost turned her stomach. She looked around the room. There was a small, torn bible, and a carved crucifix that hung over the bed. There were a few shabby ornaments and some chipped bowls. That was what remained of Agnes’s family life.

  Nano poured warm water over the rest of the crockery and the two or three items of glass that Mrs O’Brien possessed, then she dried them off as quickl
y as she could.

  ‘Agnes,’ Nano said gently, ‘tell me, which are the special keepsakes you want wrapped carefully?’

  The bent, arthritic fingers pointed out two favourite cups and saucers, then a willow-pattern serving plate and a matching bowl and three drinking glasses. Nano wrapped them all carefully in the sheet Mary-Brigid passed to her, hoping they wouldn’t break.

  ‘Smash that door down, man!’ ordered the bailiff. ‘She’s had more than enough time already!’ Mary-Brigid jumped as the glass in the window shattered and the bailiff’s ugly face peered into the room.

  ‘A few more minutes, constable, please,’ pleaded Nano. ‘We’re almost ready!’

  She offered her own dampened handkerchief to Agnes, telling her to wipe her face and freshen herself up. ‘Have you a brush, Agnes, a hairbrush? We’ll tidy your hair up.’

  Mary-Brigid watched, amazed, as Nano calmly brushed the greasy grey streaks of hair back and upwards into a tidy bun. ‘Have you any hair pins, Agnes?’ The other woman, who seemed almost in a daze, pointed forlornly to the rickety chair near the bed. Nano tidied her hair up securely. ‘Are ye nearly ready, Agnes, do you think?’

  The commotion outside was getting worse. Agnes O’Brien stood up. Her eyes scanned the small, familiar room, a shudder going through her at the thought of leaving it. Mary-Brigid half-expected her to pull the pins from her hair and drag off the dress and curl up by the ashes. Instead, she wrapped the thin grey shawl she took from behind the door tightly around her.

  ‘Good times and bad times I’ve had under this roof,’ Agnes whispered, ‘but I never imagined it ending like this.’ Tears ran down her cheeks as Nano escorted her out into the sunlight. Eily ran from the crowd and helped Mary-Brigid lift out the parcelled-up blanket and the sheet-wrapped crockery.

  The crowd stood hushed, as the Widow O’Brien left her cottage for the last time. Then, one by one, the neighbours began to file past her, each offering her their condolences and wishing her well in the future.

  The bailiff strode by them all into the low cottage, and was amazed to find so few possessions.

  ‘You’ll hold on there, sir!’ warned the older constable. ‘We wouldn’t want you to damage any of the lady’s valuables.’

  ‘Valuables!’ jeered the bailiff. ‘There’s nothing of value here.’

  Dermot O’Reilly, who lived about two miles down the road, had arrived with a donkey and cart. ‘Mrs O’Brien, if you give the say-so, I’ll put whatever you want on the cart and I’ll be pleased to drop you wherever you wish.’

  Mary-Brigid watched as they loaded the few bits and pieces up.

  ‘Will ye not come home for a sup of tea and a piece of bread with us, Agnes?’ pleaded Nano. ‘You wouldn’t mind, Eily, sure you wouldn’t?’

  ‘’Tis all right, Nano. You’ve done more than enough,’ murmured the poor widow woman before Eily had a chance to speak. ‘I’m best to get into the town to try and find somewhere to stay.’ She raised her voice. ‘They can tumble my cottage, tear it down stone by stone, but they can’t take away the fact that me and mine lived and died here. I have two sons and, would you believe it, eight grandchildren. The O’Briens will always be a part of this place. No-one can change that!’

  Nano stood proudly as her old friend turned to her neighbours and friends and said goodbye. The crowd all watched her climb onto the cart and set off over the rough ground to the roadway, her face almost see-through, the thin shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders.

  ‘What will happen to her now, Mammy? Where will she go?’ sobbed Mary-Brigid, hot tears stinging her face and throat.

  ‘I’m not sure, pet. The sons might send her some money and maybe she’ll rent a room someplace, or she’ll get a place in the Union home for the destitute!’ murmured Eily sadly. ‘To tell the truth, Mary-Brigid, I don’t rightly know!’

  ‘It’s not fair! They shouldn’t have done it!’ shouted Mary-Brigid, anger burning in her young heart. She knew that she would never forget this terrible day.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Races

  DAWN WAS BREAKING when Michael and the rest of the stable lads roused themselves. Race days always meant an early start. There were all the normal chores to be done – mucking out, the early-morning ride-out which gave the horses a chance to gallop and warm up for the day ahead – as well as getting the chosen horses ready, grooming them till their coats shone and checking that all their tack was in perfect condition.

  Glengarry and Morning Boy stood lazily watching the goings-on from the small fenced enclosure for young foals. The colt was growing steadier on his feet and gaining weight. He was beginning to look healthier week by week. His ears pricked up as he watched the other racehorses prepare to head off. Michael was almost reluctant to leave the stables and the small colt.

  ‘Promise me you’ll take good care of Morning Boy,’ he begged young Brendan.

  ‘You know I will,’ replied the stable lad, aware of his friend’s concern.

  ‘Make sure that the mare doesn’t nip or bite at him. You know a mare can turn on a foal in an instant.’

  ‘’Tis all right, Michael, I promise you I’ll look after the two of them.’

  ‘Michael O’Driscoll, will you get up on that horse and stop holding us up,’ teased Toss. The rest of the jockeys were ready, and were getting impatient waiting for him.

  ‘Make sure he’s feeding properly!’ Michael shouted.

  He grabbed hold of the front of his saddle and pulled himself up onto Nero, and as soon as he was mounted they all clip-clopped out across the cobbled yard. It was always nerve-racking, setting off to the races. It was only then that you realised how good or bad the horses really were.

  The lads and grooms who were staying behind stopped what they were doing to wish them well.

  ‘Good luck to ye all!’

  ‘Let’s hope ye have a winner!’

  Michael had eaten very little for breakfast, in fact he’d gone soft on the food for the last few days trying to keep the weight off. His fellow jockey, Liam Quigley, was as small and light as a leprechaun and had no bother keeping to the right size, but Michael was a whole lot taller and with his wide shoulders and strong build, he was a bit heavier than most jockeys. Still, Nero was a big horse and he reckoned that was why Toss and Lord Henry had said he should ride him.

  Peadar Mahoney was riding in front of Michael. As usual, he held Jerpoint tight at the bit with a short rein. The lively black horse snorted angrily at being so restrained and tossed his head frantically.

  Toss was out in front of them all, lost in thought, as he led the party across the dew-soaked fields at a gentle gallop.

  It was late afternoon by the time they arrived at Killross, horses and riders equally weary and glad to rest. The animals were watered and fed. Nero munched at the sweet, juicy hay that Michael hung from the rack in his stall. Nearby, the racecourse lay flat and wide in the distance, ready for the next day’s excitement.

  Though Peadar and Liam tried to persuade him to join them for a stroll up the town, Michael decided to stay with Nero. He would enjoy just as well sitting listening to the stories of past races and exploits that the riders shared with each other as the evening drew in.

  Mercy Farrell, the young housemaid, had insisted he take a small package from her. Opening his bag, Michael discovered a portion of white chicken meat, some cold potato, a scone and a piece of some kind of pie – he tested it with his finger: ‘twas apple.

  Mercy had him spoiled. He only had to appear at the kitchen door to see how she was getting on and she’d have him sitting at the table, stuffing him with food as she chattered on, the cook watching them. Cook wouldn’t tolerate any lovey-dovey stuff in her kitchen, but she couldn’t help but think that Michael O’Driscoll and young Mercy Farrell made a lovely couple. Michael put the apple-tart aside – he’d save it till after his race, but the rest he’d eat now. He was hungry after the journey. Tonight he’d sleep in the stall with Nero. No-one would tamper with any of
the Buckland horses while he was around.

  Race day itself was good and dry with a nice bit of a breeze for racing. Michael’s stomach was wound in a knot of apprehension as he prepared himself for the afternoon event.

  The small racecourse had started to fill up, the gentlemen and their visitors filing in to watch the spectacle. The gentlemen were clad in top-hats and fine jackets and they eyed the competition and considered the odds carefully before placing their bets.

  Michael weighed in on the large scales before joining the lads that were in his race. There were eight runners. He smiled over at Ned Mangan and Tod O’Sullivan – they’d all raced against one another before.

  Nero quivered with excitement as they passed down by the crowds. ‘Good boy,’ said Michael, patting the horse’s neck and shortening his stirrups a fraction more.

  Michael cantered Nero slowly down to the starting line. He had spotted Lord Henry in the distance, standing with a group of other gentlemen.

  ‘Best horse wins!’ shouted Tod O’Sullivan, his skinny face all eager and excited.

  Nero pranced about, itching to be off. Michael sat in the saddle, tense and alert, waiting for the signal.

  They were away! Tod O’Sullivan’s horse took off like the wind, its swinging reddish tail out in front, taunting them all. Michael had to hold Nero steady, a burst of pace now would be too soon. He lifted himself off the saddle as speed surged through the horse.

  ‘Keep it steady, Nero!’ He could sense the racehorse getting into a strong, even stride as he raced forwards, arching his neck. Nero tightened the gap between himself and Tod O’Sullivan’s horse. Closer … closer … until he passed him out!

  The grass seemed to race beneath Michael and even the clouds that blew across the wide blue sky could not keep up with him. His heart was beating fast, just the way the horse’s was. At this moment they were one, racing together.

  At his shoulder he caught a flicker of colour – Tod and some of the other lads were creeping up on him. He urged Nero on, faster, faster … the horse’s powerful legs flew through the air, thundering against the earth. Then Tod’s horse pushed itself on again, breathing heavily with the effort. Nero swung his full weight forward, trying to outdo the other. The blood coursed and pumped through Michael’s head and veins and ears as he pushed Nero as hard as he could. It made no difference. Tod’s horse pulled across the finishing line a second or two ahead of him.