“Ye know, Tara, there was once a big cattle mart over where the fertilizer plant is now,” Cornelius said to his granddaughter. She’d come over for the day.
“Really, Grandda?” She was swinging her legs, kicking her soles against the worn woollen carpet of his room.
“Yeap. Lots of cattle. You could hear them low from down on the port, which was where they were going of course. Off to serve the British market. Although most didn’t go from here, but from Dublin.” He puffed on his pipe. He was thoughtful. Rising from his seat at the typewriter, he ambled over to the window where he stood for a time, looking up the road, as though he could see the mart at its end. “We weren’t living here then,” he said. “Or at least, the mart was closed shortly after we settled.” He was quiet for a moment, just staring. He took off his glasses, rubbed them and placed them back on the bridge of his nose. “Actually, a funny thing happened in those last days. For some reason we never did figure, a whole herd escaped and stampeded through the streets. It was probably just a gate left open, but for just a short while the village was like Pamplona.”
“What’s Pamplona?”
“Where’s Pamplona?”
“Oh, it’s a place?”
“Yes. A very special place filled with very crazy Spaniards, who every year release a load of bulls and then go running in front of them.” He raised his hands to his temples to imitate a bull’s horns, and danced comically about the room. She laughed.
“That’s crazy,” she said.
“Didn’t I say that, silly?” He eyed his granddaughter for a moment. “The village was full of people that day,” he eventually said. He grew misty eyed and looked away from her, instead choosing to shuffle some papers on his table. “For a while it almost seemed normal,” he said, continuing the tale. “Who in this country isn’t used to having cattle around? But there were lots of cattle, and no one droving. And there was a celebration in the River Turning, which of course meant drunks. And there was a bull in the herd, a big nervous animal. I swear you could see its eyes roll and tail twitch. And of course, the drunks had to make an issue of it all, get all cocky and dramatic. Slapping the rumps of cows, dancing about them like idiots.” His voice was filled with scorn. “It all happened in moments. The next thing you know there was this almighty clatter of hooves and this tightly packed mass charging through the streets.
“Chaos erupted,” he suddenly shouted and swung his arms wide so that she jumped. “Panic. People jumping into shops and doorways, climbing over each other to get out of the way.”
“Was anyone hurt, Grandda?”
“None seriously. But there were lots of cows and my God it would have been so easy for someone to be killed. They say that Harry Conway’s eyes turned in from that. That he was caught staring at this collective mass bulldozing its way through the street and that his eyes turned-in in terror. Can you imagine it, Tara? People rolling their tongues like ruminants as they stared from behind windows? Wide-eyed people staring as wild-eyed cattle roamed through the village? It was like a scene from the Tain.”
“From the Tain?”
“The Tain, Tara. The cattle raid of Cooley? Cuchulain?” He stared at her aghast. “Do they not teach you anything at school these days?”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“And I suppose you’ve never heard of Sculoags?”
“Nope.”
“Or cottagers, or graziers?” She looked blank. “Hmphhh!” he grunted in disapproval. “The story of this country is the story of cattle, Tara.”
“So what happened, Grandda?”
“They ran through the village down to the harbour, and in their madness some fell into the water.”
“Stop joking, Grandda.” She was laughing.
“Would I lie to you, Tara?”
She looked at him with that same sideward glance of her mother. “Ma says you make up stuff.”
“Well does she now?”
“So what are you writing, Grandda?” she asked. She wandered from her chair to the typewriter.
“A story about cattle, Tara.” She looked at the page. He wasn’t lying.
“And what other stories do you write?” He had piles of paper scattered about the desk.
He thought about it for a moment. “Lots of different stories. But ones that try and explain things, that help me understand.”
“Understand what?” A rustle outside the door indicated Lily’s presence.
“Why we are the way we are, Tara.”
“And writing stories helps?”
“Sure.”
“Would you not just read them, Grandda?”
“I do. But they tell me about other peoples’ lives, and whilst that interests me and tells me lots, it doesn’t get at what’s in here.” He put his hand to his chest. “Plus, people choose not to talk about things. Hey, did I ever tell you the story of this man who lived at the time the great forests were being cleared?”
“No, not yet, Grandda.” Her mother’s voice rang out, calling Tara’s name.
“Well, another time then. Your mother’s calling you. Time for you to go home.”
She heard her name again, more insistent this time. “Aaghh,” she groaned. “Can I not stay here, Grandda? I prefer being here.”
“Tara,” he said, his voice deep and sonorous, both disappointed and concerned. She looked at him and sighed. He tussled her hair and kissed her on the forehead. “Go on, you young scallywag,” he said.
“I’ll come around tomorrow, Grandda, after school. You can tell me then.”
“Ok love. I’ll see you tomorrow.”