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I stared at the computer screen and tried to concentrate on the list of applicants for the trainee journalist post we’d advertised in all the national newspapers. We needed another reporter, and I thought someone fresh from university would make a good addition to our staff. And we wouldn’t have to pay much of a salary. Miranda and Jerry had promised to clean up their guest room for any out-of-town recruit. But my mind kept wandering to my early morning adventure. Colin Foley sitting on my little patio in the early morning sun. He was nothing like the image he projected in the press. His Dublin roots made him especially endearing to me. We spoke the same language, shared the same childhood memories. A kindred spirit of sorts.
The phone rang. It was Rory. “Just to tell you Nellie is all right. And...”
“Yes?”
“Sorry about the aggro last week. I didn’t mean to criticise you and your work.”
“Maybe I should apologise?” I offered. “I mean I was the one who stomped out of the pub in a huff.”
“But you were provoked. I’d have punched me in the face.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Yeah, that popped into my mind. But I didn’t think being arrested for assault would add to my image as a blow-in.”
“Let’s forget about it.” He cleared his throat. “I was thinking that... well, that I’d like to see you again. I’d like to show you my farm.”
“I’d love to see it.”
“Do you ride?”
“Never been on a horse in my life. Except if a donkey ride at the age of six on the pier in Bray counts.”
“Afraid not. But I have a nice old nag you could sit on. He’s so quiet, he’s nearly asleep. I’d put my granny on him. Completely bombproof.”
“Um...well...” I didn’t know what to say. Me on a horse? That was something I’d never contemplated.
“Or are you too chicken?” Rory laughed.
The word chicken always got to me. It didn’t fail this time. “Of course not,” I chortled. “Sounds like fun. When is this event going to take place?”
“How about this evening? The weather’s lovely, and it won’t get dark until around nine.”
“Why not? Just tell me where the farm is and I’ll be there around six, when I’ve finished at the paper. What do I wear for riding?”
“Jeans, boots and a smile. I’ll email you the directions.”
I thanked him and hung up. Then I turned my attention back to the computer screen. I was reading up on the first candidate when Dan burst into my office. I looked up. “Do come in, Dan.”
He squirmed. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Should have knocked.”
“Never mind. Where’s the fire?”
“No fire. I just thought I’d tell you I’ve looked up all the applicants, and there’s only one I’d hire. The rest are useless. They can’t write to save their lives.”
“So which one is it?”
“A woman called Audrey Killian. She’s from around here. Somewhere near Dundrum, but she’s been studying journalism in Dublin for the past four years and has written a few articles for The Leinster Leader that I thought were terrific. She has a short, snappy style and a great sense of humour.” Dan drew breath.
I scrolled down the list and opened her application. “Looks good. She’s just finished her masters. And if you like how she writes, it’s okay with me. Could you email her and tell her she’s got the job?”
Dan’s eyes lit up. “Fantastic. I’ll do that straight away. Anything else?”
“Yes. You can tell me how on earth I’m going stay on a horse for more than a second.”
“What? You’re going riding?”
“Yes. I’ve been invited to look around Rory Quirke’s farm on horseback. Would be lovely if I had a clue how to ride.”
Dan laughed. “Ah, sure you’ll be grand, Finola. You’re very fit, and I’m sure Rory has something quiet for you to ride.”
“So he said.” I got up. “Could you make sure everyone’s on track with whatever they had to finish today and lock up? If I’m still alive tomorrow, I’ll get going on my weekly column. I have to get into whatever you wear when you fall off a horse.”
“Good luck,” Dan called after me.
“Thanks. I’ll need it,” I called over my shoulder as I left, still wondering what the hell I was getting into.
I consulted Jules. “Tell me I’m crazy, but tonight I’m going riding for the first time in my life,” I said as I walked in on her feeding the dogs.
Jules looked up from filling bowls with dog food. “Riding? Where?”
“At Rory Quirke’s place.” I held up a hand. “Not a date so don’t get any ideas.”
Jules smirked. “Another not-a-date date?”
“Shut up. It’s not.”
“And you wouldn’t be the slightest bit attracted to Rory Quirke?”
“Not the slightest,” I said, willing my cheeks not to flush.
Jules put the bowls on the floor and the dogs rushed into the utility room and started to munch and slurp. She straightened up and wiped her hands. “Let’s have a cup of tea, if you have time?”
“Yes. It’s only half past four. I said I’d be at Rory’s at six. It’s not far from here, is it?”
“No. Only up the road and halfway down the hill after that. By the way, what’s your shoe size?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Seven. Why?”
“Oh, big. But I think I have a pair of proper riding boots that size in the boot room. And a helmet.”
I followed her into the kitchen. “Brilliant. That’ll make it easier.”
Jules switched on the kettle. “The riding, yes. Handling the mammy will be a different matter.”
“The mammy?” I said, mystified.
Jules turned to face me. “Rory’s mother is the classic cliché of the Irish mammy. Domineering, possessive and a control freak. Sadly, Rory doesn’t see it, but she’s ruled his life since he was born. No woman has measured up to what she thinks her darling boy deserves. In fact, I think she doesn’t want him to get married at all. He’s been in and out of relationships for years, and I suspect he had a girlfriend in Dublin when he was in politics. I’ve no idea if he’s still seeing her. He never brought her here. Too scared of what Mammy would say.”
My mouth hung open. “What? I don’t believe you. Rory seems so together and really grounded. Sure of himself and what he wants. He was a TD, for God’s sake. You can’t survive in politics if you’re a mammy’s boy.”
Jules shrugged and put two mugs of tea on the table. “I’m only telling you what’s common knowledge around here. Of course, Breda Quirke looks like a perfectly nice woman when you meet her casually.”
“But she’s really the mammy from hell?”
“If you get involved with her son, yes.”
“I’ll do my best not to, then.”
“Good luck with that,” Jules muttered.
***
I didn’t get to meet Breda Quirke, the mammy from hell, straight away. I had to go through the baptism of fire called riding a horse first. I drove the short distance to Rory’s farm with Jake in the front seat. He had looked so sad when I prepared to leave, so I allowed him to jump into the car and come with me. Why have a dog and then leave him home alone all the time?
The farm was in the middle of the rolling hills I could see from my little front garden. It was a beautiful place, with cattle and horses grazing in green fields and a big white farmhouse in the middle. I parked in front of the porch, and Rory came out as soon as I turned off the engine.
“Hi there.” He eyed my boots. “I’m glad you got yourself kitted out properly.”
“Jules lent me a pair of hers. And a helmet.”
“Perfect. Let’s go to the stables. The horses are already tacked up.”
“Tacked up?”
Rory smiled. “Yes. That’s what we say when we mean saddled and bridled.”
“Okay. I already know a halter is really called a head collar. So I’ll add that to the list of horsey terms I need to learn.”
“There isn’t that much to it.”
“That’s easy for you to say. But lead on...let’s get this over with.”
“Come this way, and I’ll introduce you to Charlie. That’s the horse you’ll be riding.”
With Jake at our heels, we walked around the house, and I could see a curtain twitching in a window upstairs. Probably the mammy getting a good look at me. But I forgot about her as soon as we came to the yard. Two horses were tied up at a fence beside the stables—a prancing brown horse, pawing the ground and snorting, and standing beside it, half asleep, a big grey with hooves the size of dinner plates. He woke up when we approached and looked at me with huge brown eyes.
“He looks nice,” I said to Rory, willing my knees to stop shaking. How was I going to get up on that giant, let alone ride it?
Rory patted the grey horse’s neck. “He’s a true gent. A gentle giant.”
“What about the brown horse?”
“It’s a bay. That’s what we call a brown horse with a black mane and tail. And this one is a mean bastard but a hell of a hunter. He’ll jump a seven-foot bank, no problem.”
“Ah. Okay. Bastard bay horse.”
“He’s called Bertie. After a very famous politician.”
I laughed. “Perfect name for a mean bastard horse.”
“I knew you’d like it.”
An Irish setter appeared from one of the stables, its copper fur gleaming in the evening sun. “Is that Nellie?” I asked as Jake poked his nose at the other dog.
Rory nodded. “Yes. Come here, Nellie, and say hello to a new friend.”
Nellie trotted forward and sniffed at Jake, wagging her tail. The two dogs sniffed at each other in that doggy who-are-you kind of way.
“They seem to like each other already,” I remarked.
“Yes, they do. Look, I think it would be better to leave your dog with Nellie. He’s too young to know how to keep out of the way of horses.”
“That’s fine.” I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans. Maybe I could stay in the stables too?
Rory locked the dogs into one of the stables. Then he turned his attention to me. “I’ll give you a leg-up.”
I backed away. “A what?” But before I could escape, Rory had grabbed me and thrown me onto the back of the big grey horse. I wriggled onto the saddle, gripped the horse’s warm flanks with my legs and grabbed the reins.
“Don’t pull at the reins,” Rory ordered. “Hold on to the martingale.”
“The what?”
“The strap on his neck. You don’t need the reins. He’ll follow Bertie. Just stick your feet in the stirrups and we’ll get going.”
I let go of the reins and took a hold of the strap, groping for the stirrups with my feet while sweat broke out on my upper lip. At the same time, Rory jumped up on Bertie and started to walk away, Charlie following at a leisurely pace. I relaxed and started to enjoy the feeling of riding the big animal, whose gait was surprisingly comfortable. It was like sitting on an undulating mattress.
“Giddy up,” I said in attempt to communicate with the animal. He flicked his ears and lumbered forward, me hanging onto the neck strap for dear life.
“What’s he doing?” I panted.
Rory looked at us over his shoulder. “He must have thought you wanted him to trot.”
“How d-d-do I-I-I s-stop h-h-him?” I wheezed as Charlie increased his speed and Bertie started to do a kind of bunny hop on the spot with excitement.
“Take the reins and pull gently,” Rory said as he tried to calm Bertie who was trying to break into canter. “Say something soothing.”
I scrambled for the reins and gave it a little tug. “Whoa, you beast.”
Charlie came to a dead stop, which made me shoot forward, my arms around his neck. “I didn’t mean for you to stop so suddenly,” I muttered, fighting to regain my seat in the saddle.
Rory burst out laughing while he was trying to calm his dancing horse. I had to admit he was a superb rider. He didn’t look the slightest bit perturbed as he fought to get the better of the overexcited Bertie, who was trying his best to rid himself of his master. Rory finally won and Bertie slowed to a walk beside Charlie.
I’d managed to sit up and get my feet back in the stirrups. I pushed up the riding helmet that had slipped over my eyes. “This is not an easy sport.”
Rory leaned over and patted Charlie’s neck. “No. It takes quite a lot of practice. But Charlie knows how to handle a beginner, don’t you, Charlie?”
We came to gate, and Rory leaned over to open it, letting me through ahead of him. Then we rode down a steep hill overlooking a field with a river running through it.
“Our inch,” Rory said. “That’s what we call a floodplain like this.”
I looked along the river meandering through the landscape, lined with willows dipping their branches in the water. A heron rose suddenly and flew along the river, its large wingspan reflected in the still water.
“Lots of wildlife here, I see.”
Rory reined in his horse. “Yes. I keep it as a kind of conservation area. I never let cattle graze here. It would damage the delicate flora and fauna. A waste of good land, but I feel it’s important to protect our environment in some little way.”
“Unusual for a farmer,” I said.
“How do you mean?”
“Farmers don’t usually worry about the environment, do they? Take all that slurry you keep spreading for a start. It’s full of methane, which is part of the gases that have contributed to global warming. Plus, it seeps into the ground and affects the water we drink. But the farmers don’t seem to know anything about that.”
Rory frowned. “We all have to earn a living, you know.”
“And wreck the environment at the same time?”
He shrugged. “There’s no real proof that slurry plays a part in that.”
I felt a red-hot ball of anger burn in my chest. “What the hell do you mean? It’s well-known that methane emissions from cattle are one of the main contributors to greenhouse gasses.”
“Let’s drop it, okay? It’s too nice an evening to argue.”
“Fine,” I snapped, annoyed I’d raised the issue. It was a bugbear of mine, but I knew doing anything about it was an impossible task. And this was the wrong time to start complaining about farmers and what they did to the environment.
“I don’t spread slurry on my farm, in any case,” Rory remarked. “I actually agree with you.”
I glanced at him and saw he was trying not to laugh. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“Just to get a rise out of you. I love it when you scowl like that.”
“Oh, please. Shut up.”
“Okay.” He closed his mouth but kept shooting me amused glances, which made me feel both stupid and confused.
We rode on along the river in silence, and the peace and tranquillity of the beautiful place had a calming effect on everyone. Even Bertie relaxed and lowered his head, trying to snatch some grass here and there. The soft breeze cooled my hot cheeks, and I breathed in the sweet smell from the flowering laurels. The swallows swooped around us, and the sun dipped behind the oaks on the hill. Rory turned Bertie around.
“We’d better get back. I know my mother’s laid the table for tea.”
I suddenly felt a nervous flutter in my stomach. “Your mother?”
“Yes. She wants to meet you. Says she wants to see the famous reporter in the flesh and pick your brain.”
I tried to think of a plausible excuse—like a prior engagement—but came up with nothing. What else would I be doing on a Monday evening in Cloughmichael? “Looking forward to meeting her,” I said, trying to sound as if I meant it, instead of wanting to jump into my car and drive away as fast as I could.
Rory glanced at me. “Don’t worry. She doesn’t bite.”
I forced a smile. “I’m sure she’s lovely.”
But when I came face to face with her, I realised at once that ‘lovely’ was not a word you’d use to describe Breda Quirke.