end of the festive table, "Through me, through me."
Next day Curly was a hero. The words ran away with him, boasting how he had pulled a calf from its mother, up there on Pat-the-Bonham's bit of land, Pat having gone to Lourdes as a volunteer, when lo and behold, up there in the silence and the gloom there was this hullabaloo from down in the quarry below, security lights turned off and he reckoning that it was some gang stealing diesel or stealing stones. Then, as he told it, the cow got very agitated, running around in circles, and the noise was atrocious, a drilling sound, a zzzzzzzzzzz, like from the key-cutting machine in the shop, only louder, and then the claps of metal hitting other metal and echoing back, so that the cow bolted from the outbuilding and ran off. He followed, but each time she got away, over grass and thicket, he demented, in case she got caught in a crevice of the ravine, or that the calf would slip out and split its head on rock or bits of drainage pipe embedded in the earth. When he got to the moment when he knew he would have to deliver a calf, he asked them, his listeners, to just picture it—he with only a small torch and not a bit of rope or twine, seeing the forelegs jutting out, but not able to catch them because of their being so slimy, and doing the only thing he could think of, which was to take off his sweater, get a grip on them, and pull and pull, until the calf came out in a big plop on the damp ground and he, as he said, roared with joy and relief. Then nature took its course, the mother licked the sac, took her time over it, licked the crusted eyelids, chewed the cord, and the calf began its pathetic attempts to get up, the mother unable to do that for it, only the calf itself could do that, and eventually, staggering on its little legs and going straight to the udder.
Euphoria was the only word Curly could find to describe what he felt. By nightfall, as he told it in the chipper, the pitch black was blacker, the noise from the quarry suspicious, but worst of all, the birth was complicated, as one of the calf's feet was folded back inside the mother and he who knew nothing about veterinary had to put his hand in, jiggle it around to get it forward and enable the calf to slide out, which it did.
The euphoria would be short-lived.
Over the next days, the environmental agency was flooded with complaints, some in person and some by phone, families up there, irate at the fact that their water was contaminated, that smears of greasy film appeared in their sinks and on their baths, and the springs that fed the reservoir had lagoons of oil floating upon them. Men were called to monitor the damage, and when fish were found dead in the river an inquiry was set up as to what might have caused such spillage, though those up there already knew that it had only come from one place, the detested quarry.
It was the tapping on the window at night that Curly came to dread and he being called out. First it was Seamus the foreman, telling him that he would have to comply, otherwise the McSorleys would punish him. Then it was Ambrose, saying that they knew he had made a statement to the guards, but that he would have to retract it. He could say that he saw nothing and that he heard nothing and that anyhow, he had bad sight. The proof that he had bad sight they had already ascertained, because of the many pairs of glasses Curly had been prescribed down the years. Finally, it was Daragh McSorley himself, just dropping by for a friendly chat, asked who was his favourite pop group, when last had he been to Galway, and how was his granny doing on her lonesome out there in the wilds. Then he said that Curly had nothing to worry about, all he had to do was stand up in the court and say he had made up a story to keep himself company out there on the lonely mountainside. Muldoon, a friendly solicitor, would help, coach him and put him through his paces. If he played ball and the case was quashed, Santa would
Next day Curly was a hero. The words ran away with him, boasting how he had pulled a calf from its mother, up there on Pat-the-Bonham's bit of land, Pat having gone to Lourdes as a volunteer, when lo and behold, up there in the silence and the gloom there was this hullabaloo from down in the quarry below, security lights turned off and he reckoning that it was some gang stealing diesel or stealing stones. Then, as he told it, the cow got very agitated, running around in circles, and the noise was atrocious, a drilling sound, a zzzzzzzzzzz, like from the key-cutting machine in the shop, only louder, and then the claps of metal hitting other metal and echoing back, so that the cow bolted from the outbuilding and ran off. He followed, but each time she got away, over grass and thicket, he demented, in case she got caught in a crevice of the ravine, or that the calf would slip out and split its head on rock or bits of drainage pipe embedded in the earth. When he got to the moment when he knew he would have to deliver a calf, he asked them, his listeners, to just picture it—he with only a small torch and not a bit of rope or twine, seeing the forelegs jutting out, but not able to catch them because of their being so slimy, and doing the only thing he could think of, which was to take off his sweater, get a grip on them, and pull and pull, until the calf came out in a big plop on the damp ground and he, as he said, roared with joy and relief. Then nature took its course, the mother licked the sac, took her time over it, licked the crusted eyelids, chewed the cord, and the calf began its pathetic attempts to get up, the mother unable to do that for it, only the calf itself could do that, and eventually, staggering on its little legs and going straight to the udder.
Euphoria was the only word Curly could find to describe what he felt. By nightfall, as he told it in the chipper, the pitch black was blacker, the noise from the quarry suspicious, but worst of all, the birth was complicated, as one of the calf's feet was folded back inside the mother and he who knew nothing about veterinary had to put his hand in, jiggle it around to get it forward and enable the calf to slide out, which it did.
The euphoria would be short-lived.
Over the next days, the environmental agency was flooded with complaints, some in person and some by phone, families up there, irate at the fact that their water was contaminated, that smears of greasy film appeared in their sinks and on their baths, and the springs that fed the reservoir had lagoons of oil floating upon them. Men were called to monitor the damage, and when fish were found dead in the river an inquiry was set up as to what might have caused such spillage, though those up there already knew that it had only come from one place, the detested quarry.
It was the tapping on the window at night that Curly came to dread and he being called out. First it was Seamus the foreman, telling him that he would have to comply, otherwise the McSorleys would punish him. Then it was Ambrose, saying that they knew he had made a statement to the guards, but that he would have to retract it. He could say that he saw nothing and that he heard nothing and that anyhow, he had bad sight. The proof that he had bad sight they had already ascertained, because of the many pairs of glasses Curly had been prescribed down the years. Finally, it was Daragh McSorley himself, just dropping by for a friendly chat, asked who was his favourite pop group, when last had he been to Galway, and how was his granny doing on her lonesome out there in the wilds. Then he said that Curly had nothing to worry about, all he had to do was stand up in the court and say he had made up a story to keep himself company out there on the lonely mountainside. Muldoon, a friendly solicitor, would help, coach him and put him through his paces. If he played ball and the case was quashed, Santa would
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