MICHAEL KNEW NOTHING of this. He knew that there were more metal contraptions in the sheds than there had been, and that the smell of engine oil and petrol were becoming as common as the scent of leather and horse, but he drew no conclusions. He was about as analytical as one of the horses themselves. The day ahead was far enough away to look after itself, and the summer stretched like a golden road winding to infinity. There were far more interesting things capering under his very nose.
Grandfather and Mullan went to have a look at the 'wee, high-stepping thing' a few days later, whilst Michael's grandmother remained silent and disapproving and Uncle Sean thought it a waste of money.
'But the harvest will be a good 'un,' Grandfather had said, surreptitiously scratching the back of a wooden chair. 'We can afford it, and when we sell off the bullocks we'll have pasture and to spare.'
'For sheep, I'd have thought,' Sean mumbled, but Grandfather affected not to hear.
'The bottom inch needs a rest; one pony on it for a while will hardly strain it too much.'
'It's winter in a few months.' Sean made a lastditch effort. 'What about feed?'
'God willing, this will be the best hay crop I've seen in ten years. We can spare enough for one more mouth.' He and Mullan exchanged a look of triumph. Sean subsided grumpily.
They took Michael with them to see the animal, trundling along at a snail's pace with Felix, one of the two heavy horses, clodding between the shafts. Demon sat in the rear of the cart, panting, his black coat livid with dust. A few cars passed them, making Felix throw up his head in annoyance, but he was an old hand and was not going to start playing at silly buggers in the middle of the road—so Grandfather said, anyway. There were others on horses, and they stopped more than once, blocking the road entirely, to share a chat with distant neighbours, the pipe smoke rising between them, the smell of Clan and Warhorse melting away in blue ribands down the breeze.
Twice they drove under Orange arches left over from the Twelfth, gaudy and woebegone. Michael had always been fascinated by the wooden images enshrined there, the man on the white horse, the red hand, the miniature ladders; but he understood also that there was something wrong about them. That was why Grandfather had spat without thinking into the dusty road as their shadow fell across the cart, though he glanced apologetically at Mullan the next second. Mullan was a Protestant. On the Twelfth of July he marched the roads with a chestful of medals and raised his good hat formally as he passed the farm as though they were strangers, though most of the family would be out in front waving at him. For that day he was in a different world, part of a different people that had nothing in common with them. On the thirteenth he would be Old Mullan again, cap-wearing and disreputable. That was the way life worked.
They reached their goal after a long morning in the heat and dismounted before the usual tangle of whitewashed buildings, slapping the dust from their clothes. A dog began barking furiously, and Grandfather laid a hand on Demon's collar. They heard children's voices. A door slammed, and a stocky, shirt-tailed figure stepped out of the house pulling his braces up over his shoulders.
'Ah, Pat, so you're here to have a look at her, then. I knew you would.' They slapped hands. The man dug in his pocket, produced a thumbed-out cigarette, jammed it in his lips, grinned at Michael with what teeth he had (not many, and most of them black), and then strolled off towards one of the buildings, jerking his head for them to follow. 'Brought her in specially today so's you wouldn't have to chase half across the field to look at her. She's a fresh wee thing.'
He clanged back bolts on a half-door and they heard the stamp of a hoof from within. Mullan struck a match off his boot heel as was his wont and sucked the flame into his Peterson.
She was a chestnut, two white socks and a blaze on her nose. 'Two white feet buy him,' Michael muttered, and his grandfather winked at him,
They waded through the thick straw of the box whilst the mare blew down her nose at the smell of strangers and retreated into a corner. Grandfather ran his hands over her gently, produced a stub of carrot for her to nibble, felt her-legs, then lifted her hoofs and peered at the frogs.
'How old?'
'Just turned five, same as I told you,' her owner answered him. His stub of cigarette was lit and he was crinkling up his eyes against its smoke.
Pat lifted the upper lip, peered at the teeth, nodded. Noted the way her ears remained forward and there was no white in her eye. Even-tempered.
'How about a look at her moving?' he asked.
'Surely.'
The man threw a halter on her head and led her out of the swishing straw to the sun of the yard. Demon lay watching. The man trotted her up and down. She was unshod, but her hoofs were brought from the ground in an exaggerated prance. She was as perfect as a fully wound toy. Michael gaped.