The White Mare

‘What about Paddy, Kate? He’ll be raging if we let him lie any longer and it such a brave morning.’

‘Och, let him rage away, Martha. He’ll know his driver before night if he ploughs the field.’

‘ ’Deed that’s the truth, and with an old mare that’s done and dropping off her feet.’

‘He’ll get sense when it’s too late. And to hear him gabbling you’d think he was a young man and not the spent old thorn that he is. But what’s the use of talking! Give him a call.’

Kate, seated on a stool, blew at the fire with the bellows, blew until the flames were spurting madly in and out between the brown sods. Martha waited until the noise of the blazing fire had ceased, and then rapped loudly at the room door off the kitchen. The knocking was answered by a husky voice.

Paddy was awake, sitting up in the bed, scratching his head with his two hands and blinking at the bare window in the room. His face was bony and unshaven, his moustache grey and straggly. Presently he threw aside the blankets and crawled out backwards on to the cold cement floor. He stood at the window. In the early hours of the morning it had rained, but now it was clear. A high wind had combed the white hair of the sky, and on the bare thorn at the side of the byre shivered swollen buds of rain. Across the cobbled street was his stubble field, bounded on one side by a hedge and a hill, and on the other sides by loose stones. Two newly-ploughed furrows ran down the centre and at the top of them lay his plough with a crow swaying nervously on one of the handles. Last evening when the notion took him he had commenced the ploughing, and today, with the help of God, he’d finish it. He thought of the rough feel of the handles, the throb of the coulter cutting the clay, and the warm sweaty smell from his labouring mare.

With difficulty he stretched himself to his full height, his bony joints creaking, and his lungs filling with the rain-washed air that came through the open window; he drew in great breaths of it, savouring it as he would savour the water from a spring well. As he was about to turn away, the crow rose up suddenly and flew off. At that moment Kate was crossing to the byre, one hand holding a can, and the other a stick. Paddy watched, trying to guess from her movements the kind of temper she was in this morning. But he noted nothing unusual about her. There was the same active walk, the black triangle of shawl dipping down her back, and the grey head with the man’s cap on it. To look at her you wouldn’t think she was drawing the pension for over six years. No, there wasn’t another house in the whole island with three drawing the pension – not another house! We’re a great stock and no mistake; a great pity none of us married!

Kate’s voice pierced the air as she shouted at a contrary cow. Oh, a good kind woman, but a tartar when you stirred her. He’d hold his tongue this morning till he had the mare tackled and then they could barge away. Anyway what do women know about a man’s job, with their milking cows, and feeding hens, and washing clothes? H’m! a field has to be ploughed and it takes a man to plough it.

When he came from the room Kate was just in from milking and Martha moved slowly about the table arranging the mugs and the farls of bread. Paddy stooped and took his clay-caked boots from below the table. He knew by the look of his sisters that he’d have to lace them himself this morning. It always caused him pain to stoop, but what matter, he’d soon be out in the quiet of the fields where no one would say a word to him.

They all sat at the table together, eating silently and with the slow deliberation that comes with the passing years. Now and again as Paddy softened his bread in the tea, Kate would give him a hard little look. It was coming, he knew it. If only they’d keep silent until he had finished. But it was coming; the air was heavy with stifled talk.

‘I suppose you’ll do half the field today,’ began Kate.

‘’Deed and I’ll do it all,’ he replied with a touch of hardness in his voice knowing he must be firm.

‘Now, Paddy, you should get Jamesy’s boys over to help you,’ said Martha pleadingly.

‘Them wee buttons of men! I’d have it done while they’d be thinkin’ about it. I wouldn’t have them about the place again, with their ordering this and ordering that, and their tea after their dinner, and wanting their pipes filled every minute with good tobacco. I can do it all myself with the help of God. All myself!’ and with this he brought his mug down sharply on the table.

‘If you get another attack of the pains it’s us’ll have to suffer,’ put in Kate, ‘attending you morning, noon and night. Have you lost your wits, man! It’s too old you’re getting and it’d be better if we sold the mare and let the two bits of fields.’

Paddy kept silent; it was better to let them fire away.

‘The mare’s past her day,’ Kate continued. ‘It’s rest the poor things wants an’ not pulling a plough with a done man behind it.’

‘Done, is it? There’s work in me yet, and I can turn a furrow as straight as anyone in the island. Done! H’m, I’ve my work to be doing.’

He got up, threw his coat across his shoulder, and strode towards the door. His two sisters watched him go out, nodding their heads. ‘Ah, but that’s a foolish, hard-headed man. There’s no fool like an old fool!’

Paddy crossed to the stable and the mare nickered when she heard his foot on the cobbled street. Warm, hay-scented air met him as he opened the door. Against the wall stood the white mare. She cocked her ears and turned her head towards the light. She was big and fat with veins criss-crossing on her legs like dead ivy roots on the limbs of a tree. Her eyes were wet-shining and black, their upper lids fringed with long grey lashes. Paddy stroked her neck and ran his fingers through her yellow-grey mane.

A collar with the straw sticking out of it was soon buckled on, and with chains rattling from her sides he led her through the stone-slap into the field. He looked at the sky, at the sea with its patches of mist, and then smilingly went to his plough. Last evening the coulter was cutting too deep and he now adjusted it, giving it a final smack with the spanner that rang out clear in the morning air. The mare was sniffing the rain-wet grass under the hedge and she raised her head jerkily as he approached, sending a shower of cold drops from the bushes down his neck. He shivered, but spoke kindly to the beast as he led her to be tackled. In a few minutes all was ready, and gripping the handles in God’s name, he ordered the horse forward, and his day’s work began.

The two sisters eyed him from the window. His back was towards them. Above the small stone fence they could see his bent figure, his navy-blue trousers with a brown patch on the seat of them, his grey shirt sleeves, the tattered back of his waistcoat, and above his shabby hat the swaying quarters of the mare.

‘Did you ever see such a man since God made you! I declare to goodness he’ll kill that mare,’ said Martha.

‘It’s himself he’ll kill if he’s not careful. Let me bold Paddy be laid up after this and ‘Tis the last field he’ll plough, for I’ll sell the mare, done beast and all as she is!’ replied Kate, pressing her face closer to the window.

Paddy was unaware of their talk. His eyes were on the sock as it slid slowly through the soft earth and pushed the gleaming furrows to the side. He was living his life. What call had he for help! Was it sit by and look at Jamesy’s boys ploughing the field, and the plough wobbling to and fro like you’d think they were learning to ride a bicycle.

‘Way up, girl,’ he shouted to the mare, “way up, Maggie!’ and his veins swelled on his arms as he leant on the handles. The breeze blowing up from the sea, the cold smell of the broken clay, and the soft hizzing noise of the plough, all soothed his mind and stirred him to new life.

As the day advanced the sun rose higher, but there was little heat from it, and frosty vapours still lingered about the rockheads and about the sparse hills. But slowly over the little field horse and plough still moved, moved like timeless creatures of the earth, while alongside, their shadows followed on the clay. Overhead and behind swarmed the gulls, screeching and darting for the worms, their flitting shadows falling coolly on Paddy’s neck and on the back of the mare. At the end of the ridge he stopped to take a rest, surveying with pleasure the number of turned furrows, and wondering if his sisters were proud of him now. He looked up at the house: it was low and whitewashed, one end thatched and the other corrugated. There seemed to be no life about it except the smoke from the chimney and a crow plucking at the thatch. Soon it flew off with a few straws hanging from its bill. It’s a pity he hadn’t the gun now, he’d soon stop that thief; at nesting-time they wouldn’t leave a roof above your head. But tomorrow he’d fix them. He spat on his hands and gripped the handles.

At two o’clock he saw Kate making down at the top of the field and he moved to the hedge. She brought him a few empty sacks to sit on; a good kind girl when you took her the right way. She had the real stuff in the eggpunch, too, nothing like it for a working man.

When he had taken his first swig of tea she said quietly, ‘It’s time you were quitting, Paddy.’

He must be careful. ‘Did you see that devil of a crow on the thatch?’

‘I didn’t, thank God. But I’ve heard it said that it’s the sure sign of a death.’

‘Did you now?’ he replied with a smile. ‘Isn’t that queer, and me always thinking that it was the sign of new life and them nesting?’

It’s no use trying to frighten him, she thought, no use talking to him; he’ll learn his own lesson before morning. Up she got and went off.

‘Give the mare a handful of hay and a bucket of water,’ he called after her.

He lay back, smoking his pipe at his ease, enjoying the look of the ribbed field and the familiar scene. To his right over the stone fence lay the bony rocks stretching their lanky legs into the sea; and now and again he could hear the hard rattle of the pebbles being sucked into the gullet of the waves. Opposite on a jutting headland rose the white column of the East Lighthouse, as lonely-looking as ever. There never was much stir on this side of the island anyway. It was a mile or more from the quay where the little sailing boats went twice a week to Ballycastle. But what little there was of land was good. As he looked down at the moist clay, pressing nail-marks in it with his toe, he pitied the people in the Lower End with their shingly fields and stunted crops. How the news would travel to them tonight about his ploughing! Every mouthful of talk would be about him and the old white mare. He puffed at his pipe vigorously and a sweet smile came over his wrinkled face. Then the shouts of the children coming from school made him aware of the passing time.

He must get up now for the sun would set early. He knocked out his pipe on the heel of his boot. When he made to rise he felt stiff in the shoulders, and a needle of pain jagged one of his legs making him give a silly little laugh. It’s a bad thing to sit too long and the day flying. He walked awkwardly over to Maggie, and presently they were going slowly over the field again. The yellow-green bands at each side of the dark clay grew narrower and narrower as each new furrow was turned. Soon they would disappear. The sky was clear and the sun falling; the daylight might hold till he had finished.

The coulter crunched on a piece of delph and its white chips were mosaiced on the clay. ‘Man alive, but them’s the careless women,’ he said aloud. ‘If the mare cut her feet there’d be a quare how-d’ye-do!’ At that moment Kate came out to the stone fence and gathered clothes that had been drying. She stood with one hand on her cheek, looking at the slow, almost imperceptible, movement of the plough. She turned, shooshed the hens from her feet, and went in slamming the door behind her.

Over the rock heads the sun was setting, flushing the clay with gold, and burnishing the mould-board and the buckles on the horse. Two more furrows and the work was done. He paused for a rest, and straightened himself with difficulty. His back ached and his head throbbed, but what he saw was soothing. On the side of a hill his three sheep were haloed in gold and their long shadows sloped away from them. It was a grand sight, praise be to God, a grand sight! He bent to the plough again, his legs feeling thick and heavy. ‘Go on, Maggie!’ he ordered. ‘Two more furrows and we’re done.’

The words whipped him to a new effort and he became light with excitement. One by one the gulls flew off and the western sky burned red. A cold breeze sharp with the smell of salt breathed in the furrows. And then he was finished; the furrows as straight as loom-threads and not a bit of ground missed. A great piece of work, thanks be to God; a great bit of work for an old man and an old mare. He put on his coat and unyoked her. She felt light and airy as he led her by the head across the cobbles. Gently he took the collar from her, the hot vapour rising into the chilled air, and with a dry sack wiped her sides and legs and neck. A great worker; none better in the whole island. He stroked her between the ears and smiled at the way she coaxingly tossed her head. He put her in the stable; later on he’d be back with a bucket of warm mash.

It was semi-dark when he turned his back on the stable and saw the orange rectangle of light in the kitchen window. It was cold, and he shivered and shrugged his shoulders as he stood listening at the door.

In the kitchen it was warm and bright. The turf was piled high, and Martha and Kate sat on opposite sides of the hearth, Kate knitting and Martha peeling potatoes. He drew a chair to the fire and sat down between them in silence. The needles clicked rapidly, and now and then a potato plopped into the bucket. He must get out his pipe; a nice way to receive a man after a day’s ploughing. The needles stopped clicking and Kate put her hands on her lap and stared at him from behind her silver-rimmed spectacles. Paddy took no notice as he went slowly on cutting his plug and grinding it between his palms. Then he spat in the fire, and Kate retorted by prodding the sods with her toe, sending sparks up the chimney. The spit hissed in the strained silence. The kettle sang and he rose to feed the mare.

‘Just leave that kettle alone, Mister MacNeil,’ said Martha.

‘The mare has to be fed!’

‘It’s little you care about the poor dumb beast, and you out killing yourself and her, when it would suit you better to be in peeling these spuds.’

‘It’s little you do in the house but make the few bits of meals, and it’s time you were stirring yourself and getting a hard-worked man a good supper.’

‘If you’re hard-worked, who’s to blame, I ask you?’ flared Kate.

He was done for now. He could always manage Martha; if he raised his voice it was the end of her. But Kate – he feared her though he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

‘Do you hear me, Paddy MacNeil? Who’s to blame? Time and again we have told you to let the fields and have sense. But no; me bold boy must be up and leppin’ about like a wild thing. And what’ll the women in island be talking about, I ask you? Ah! well we know what they’ll be saying. “It’s a shame that Paddy MacNeil’s mean old sisters wouldn’t hire a man to work the land. There they have poor Paddy and his seventy years, out in the cold of March ploughing with the old white mare. And the three of them getting the pension. I always knew there was a mean streak in them MacNeils.” That’s what they’ll be saying, well we know it!’

‘Talk sense, Kate, talk sense. Don’t I know what they’ll be saying. They’ll be putting me up as an example to all and sundry. And …’

‘But mark my words,’ interrupted Kate, shaking a needle at him, ‘if you’re laid up after this you can attend to your pains yourself. I’m sick, sore and tired plastering and rubbing your shoulder and dancing attendance on you, and God knows I’m not able. I’m a done old woman myself, slaving from morning to night and little thanks I get for it.’ Her voice quavered; crying she’ll be next. It was best to keep silent.

‘Get him his supper, Martha, till we get to bed – another day like this and I’m fit for nothing.’ She lifted her hands from her lap and the needles clicked slowly, listlessly.

In silence he took his supper. He was getting tired of these rows. When he had finished he went out with a bucket of warm mash for the mare. He felt very weary and sleepy, but the cold night braced him a little. The moon was up and the cobbles shone blue-white like the scales of a salmon. Maggie stirred when she heard the rasping handle of the bucket.

He closed the half-door of the stable, lit the candle, and sat on an upturned tub to watch the mare feeding. It was very still and she fed noisily, lifting her head now and again, the bran dripping from her mouth. Above the top of the door he could see the night-sky, the corrugated roof of the house, and the ash tree with its bare twigs shining in the moon. A little breeze blew its wavering pattern on the roof, and looking at it he thought of the gulls on the clay and the cool rush of their wings above his head. He shivered, and got up and closed the top half of the door. It was very still now; the mare had stopped feeding, her tail swished gently, and the warm hay glowed in the candlelight. There was great peace and comfort here. Under the closed door stole the night-wind, the bits of straw around the threshold rising gently and falling back again. A mouse came out from under the manger, rustled towards the bucket blinking its little eyes at the creature on the tub. Paddy squirted a spit at it and smiled at the way it raced off. He looked at the mare, watching slight tremors passing down her limbs. He got up, stroked her silky neck and scratched her between the ears. Then he gave her fresh hay and went out.

It was very peaceful with the moon shining on the fields and the sea. He wondered if his sisters were in bed. He hesitated at the stone fence, looking at the cold darkness of the field and the bits of broken crockery catching the moonlight. Through the night there came to him clear and distinct the throb, throb of a ship’s engine far out at sea. He held his breath to listen to it and then he saw its two unsteady mastlights, rounding the headland and moving like stars through the darkness. It made him sad to look at it and he sighed as he turned towards the house. He sniffed the air like a spaniel; there’d be rain before long; it would do a world of good now that the field was ploughed.

His sisters were in bed; the lamp was lowered and the ashes stirred. He quenched the lamp and went up to his room. The moonlight shone in the window so he needn’t bother with a candle. He knelt on a chair to say his prayers; he’d make them short tonight, for he was tired, very tired. But his people couldn’t be left out. The prayers came slowly. His mind wandered. The golden shaft of the lighthouse swept into the room, mysteriously and quietly – light – dark – light – dark. For years he had watched that light, and years after when he’d be dead and gone it would still flash, and there’d be no son or daughter to say a prayer for him. It’s a stupid thing for a man not to get married and have children to pray for him; a stupid thing indeed! It was strange to be associating death with a lighthouse in the night, but in some way that thought had come to him now that he was old, and he knew that it would always come. He didn’t stop to examine it. He got up and sat on the chair, fumbling at his coat.

He climbed into bed, the straw mattress rustling with his weight. He lay thinking of his day’s work, waiting for sleep to fall upon him. He closed his eyes, but somehow sleep wouldn’t come. The tiredness was wearing off him. He’d smoke for a while, that would ease his mind. He was thinking too much; thinking kills sleep. The moonlight left the room and it became coldly dark. He stretched out his hand, groping for his pipe and matches. The effort shot a pain through his legs and he stifled a groan. At the other side of the wooden partition Kate and Martha heard him, but didn’t speak. They lay listening to his movements. Then they heard the rasp of the match on the emery, heard him puffing at the pipe, and saw in their minds its warm glow in the cold darkness. There would be a long interval of silence, then the creak of his bed, and another muffled groan.

‘Do you hear him?’ whispered Kate. ‘We’re going to have another time of it with him. He has himself killed. But this is the last of it!’

‘He’ll be harrowing the field next,’ said Martha.

‘Harrow he will not. Tomorrow, send a note to the horse-dealer in Ballycastle.’

‘Are you going to sell the mare, Kate?’ Martha asked incredulously.

‘Indeed I am. There’s no sense left in that man’s head while she’s about.’

‘Will you tell Paddy?’

‘I’ll tell him when she’s sold, and that’s time enough. So off with the note first thing in the morning.’

A handful of rain scattered itself on the tin roof above their heads. For a while there was silence – deep and dark and listening. Then with a tree-like swish the rain fell, fell without ceasing, filling the room with cold streaks of noise.

Paddy lay listening to its hard pattering. He thought of the broken field soaking in the rain, and the disturbed creatures seeking shelter under the sod, rushing about with weakly legs clambering for a new home, while down in the sea the fish would be hiding in its brown tangled lair disturbed by no plough. It’s strange the difference between the creatures; all the strange work of God, the God that knows all. Louder and louder fell the rain. ‘It’s well the mare’s in that night,’ he said to himself, ‘and it’s well the field’s ploughed.’ He pictured the sheep pressing into the wet rocks for shelter, and the rabbits scuttling to their holes. Then he wondered if he had closed the stable door; it was foolish to think that way; he closed it, of course he closed it. His thoughts wouldn’t lie still. The crow on the thatch flew into his mind. He’d see to that villain in the morning and put a few pickles in her tail. Some day he’d have the whole house corrugated. Maybe now the kitchen’d be flooded. He was about to get up, when the rain suddenly ceased. It eased his mind, and listening now to the drip-drop of water from the eaves, he slipped into sleep.

But in the morning he didn’t get up. His shoulders, arms and legs were stiff and painful. Martha brought him his breakfast, and it was a very subdued man that she saw.

‘Give me a lift up, Martha, on the pillows. That’s a good girl. Aisy now, aisy!’ he said in a slow, pained voice.

‘Do you feel bad, Paddy?’

‘Bravely, Martha, bravely. There’s a wee pain across me shoulder, maybe you’d give it a rub. I’ll be all right now when I get a rest.’

‘You took too much out of yourself for one day.’

‘I know, I know! But it’d take any other man three days to do the same field. Listen, Martha, put the mare out on the side of the hill; a canter round will do her a world of good.’

And so the first day wore on with his limbs aching, Martha coming to attend him, or Kate coming to counsel him. But from his bed he could see the mare clear as a white rock on the face of the hill, and it heartened him to watch her long tail busily swishing. On the bed beside him was his stick and on the floor a battered biscuit tin. Hour after hour he struck the tin with his stick when he wanted something – matches, tobacco, a drink, or his shoulder rubbed. And glad he was if Martha answered his knocking.

Two days passed in this way, and on the morning of the third the boat with the dealer was due. Time and again Martha went out on a hill at the back of the house, scanning the sea for the boat. At last she saw it and hurried to Kate with the news. Kate made a big bowl of warm punch and brought it to Paddy.

‘How do you feel this morning?’ she said when she entered the room.

‘A lot aisier, thank God, a lot aisier.’

‘Take this now and turn in and sleep. It’ll do you good.’

Paddy took the warm bowl in this two hands, sipping slowly, and giving an odd cough as the strong whisky caught his breath. Whenever he paused his eyes were on the window watching the mare on the hillside, and when he had finished, he sighed and lay back happily. His body felt deliciously warm and he smiled sweetly. Poor Kate; he misjudged her; she has a heart of corn and means well. Warm eddies of air flowed slowly through his head, stealing into every corner, filling him with a thoughtless ecstasy, and closing his eyes in sleep.

As he slept the dealer came, and the mare was sold. When he awakened he felt a queer emptiness in the room, as if something had been taken from it. Instinctively he turned to the window and looked out. The mare was nowhere to be seen and the stone-slap had been tumbled. He seized his stick and battered impatiently on the biscuit tin. He was about to get out of bed when Kate came into the room.

‘The mare has got out of the field!’

‘She has that and what’s more she’ll never set foot in it again.’

He waited, waited to hear the worst, that she was sick or had broken a leg.

‘The dealer was here an hour ago and I sold her, and, let me tell you, I got a good penny for her,’ she added a little proudly.

His anger roused him, and he stared at his sister, his eyes fiercely bright and his mouth open. Catching the rail of the bed he raised himself up and glared at her again.

‘Lie down, Paddy, like a good man and quieten yourself. Sure we did it for your own good,’ she said, trying to make light of it, and fixing the clothes up around his chest. ‘What was she but a poor bit of a beast dying with age? And a good bargain we made.’

‘Bargain, is it? And me after rearing her since she was a wee foal … No; he’ll not get her, I tell you! He’ll not get her!’

‘For the love of God, man, have sense, have reason!’

But he wasn’t listening, he threw back the clothes and reached for his trousers. He brushed her aside with his arm, and his hands trembled as he put on his boots. He seized his stick and made for the door. They tried to stop him and he raised his stick to them. ‘Don’t meddle with me or I’ll give you a belt with this!’

He was out, taking the short-cut down by the back of the house, across the hills that led to the quay. He might be in time; they’d hardly have her in the boat yet. Stones in the gaps fell with a crash behind him and he didn’t stop to build them up, not caring where sheep strayed or cattle either. His eyes were fixed on the sea, on the mainland where Maggie was going. His heart hammered wildly, hammered with sharp stinging pains, and he had to halt to ease himself.

He thought of his beast, the poor beast that hated noise and fuss, standing nervous on the pier with a rope tied round her four legs. Gradually the rope would tighten, and she would topple with a thud on the uneven stones while the boys around would cheer. It was always a sight for the young, this shipping of beasts in the little sailing boats. The thought maddened him. His breath wheezed and he licked his dry, salty lips.

And soon he came on to the road that swept in a half circle to the quay. He saw the boat and an oar sticking over the side. He wouldn’t have time to go round. Below him jutted a neck of rock near which the boat would pass on her journey out. He might be able to hail them.

He splashed his way through shallow sea-pools on to the rock, scrambled over its mane of wet seaweed, until he reached the furthest point. Sweat was streaming below his hat and he trembled weakly as he saw the black nose of the boat coming towards him. He saw the curling froth below her bow, the bending backs of the men, and heard the wooden thump of the oars. Nearer it came, gathering speed. A large wave tilted the boat and he saw the white side of his mare, lying motionless between the beams. They were opposite him now, a hundred yards from him. He raised his stick and called, but he seemed to have lost his voice. He waved and called again, his voice sounding strange and weak. The man in the stern waved back as he would to a child. The boat passed the rock, leaving a wedge of calm water in her wake. The noise of the oars stopped and the sail filled in the breeze. For a long time he looked at the receding boat, his spirit draining from him. A wave washed up the rock, frothing at his feet, and he turned wearily away, going slowly back the road that led home.