with my silk-gloved hand. With a hay-scented snort of approval he lowered his head so that I could rub his forelock.
Sitting on his box, the cab-driver put aside his reading material—it appeared to be the Illustrated Crime Gazetteer —and eyed me uncertainly.
“What a sweet horse,” I remarked, finding it a pleasure to speak naturally, in my own aristocratic accent. “So good-tempered. And willing, is he not?”
“That ’e is, m’lady, a ’ard worker an’ a easy keeper.” Warming to the topic, the cab-driver leaned towards me. “The best I ever ’ad, an’ a great good fortune to a h’independent such’n as me.”
He owned his horse and cab, he meant, rather than driving for a cab company, and while he kept his income, he also took his risks; a lame horse could ruin him. Smoothing the dun horse’s black mane, I nodded. “He’s as sturdy as a brick, isn’t he? What’s his name?”
“Why, ’e’s a she, m’lady, an ’er name is Pet.”
My smile widened. Pet snorted softly and nosed my skirt as if she might locate a treat in one of my pockets.
“Yer an uncommon good judge of ’orses, m’lady, if ye don’t mind me saying so,” the cabbie added. “Most of the ladies favours the fancy equipages wit ’ackneys.”
“Yes, I saw one of those the other day.” Eureka! Suddenly in that relaxed and idle moment I remembered! “An overlarge four-wheeler all smeared with polish,” I said with unfeigned, enthusiastic disapproval, “and the horse wasn’t a Hackney, but something of the sort, racy and high-headed, foaming at the bit, black with white feet all feathered like a Clydesdale’s—”
“Ay, I know the one, very flashy action, knees up to ’is nose. A lot o’ wasted wear an’ tear if you ask me. That’s Paddy Murphy an’ ’is Gypsy ’orse.”
“Really!” Giving Pet a final pat, I walked a few steps and climbed into the man’s cab, handing him a nice shiny sum of money in advance in order to forestall hesitation or questions. “Do you think you could find this Murphy person and take me to him? I must speak with him.”
“Oh, sure and begorrah, it’s remimbering thim I am right enough,” said the other cab-driver without hesitation, even before I had fully described a frail girl in a citrine-hued bell skirt and her two dowager chaperones. My driver had without much difficulty located Paddy Murphy in a stable-yard of the Serpentine Mews, seated upon a bale of straw with a mug of ale in hand while he offered the other cabbies a look, for a penny, at some mysterious marvel he kept in a pasteboard box. This he had put away hastily upon my arrival, standing up and tugging his cap. Now, clutching the shilling I had handed him, Paddy Murphy spoke on with true Irish loquacity. “If only because the two auld battle-axes—beg pardon, m’lady, the matron ladies—grudged me the fare, they did, and me squiring thim hither and yon all the livelong afternoon.”
“Hither and yon where, exactly?”
“To be sure, if there’s a linen-draper’s shop in London where we dinna go, I dinna know of it. Oop one street an’ down the nixt. It was looking in the shop winders they were, walking—or one uv the grand ladies walking and the other in the cab with that poor craythure uf a girrul at their beck an’ call. Now and agin they’d take her inside a mercer’s or some such an’ I was to wait, blockin’ traffic, with the coach-drivers cursing me eyes and me ancestors, begging yer ladyship’s pardon, and thin we was to stop for a package, blockin’ traffic some more, or wait for an order to be filled, an’ the constables roarin’ at me and threatenin’ me license, and all the while I’m countin’ on the fare…”
While the other cab-driver stood at my elbow as if he considered himself my escort and guardian, I listened with interest but with increasing impatience—well-concealed, I hope, for it is futile to attempt to hurry an Irishman in the telling of a tale—but I
Sitting on his box, the cab-driver put aside his reading material—it appeared to be the Illustrated Crime Gazetteer —and eyed me uncertainly.
“What a sweet horse,” I remarked, finding it a pleasure to speak naturally, in my own aristocratic accent. “So good-tempered. And willing, is he not?”
“That ’e is, m’lady, a ’ard worker an’ a easy keeper.” Warming to the topic, the cab-driver leaned towards me. “The best I ever ’ad, an’ a great good fortune to a h’independent such’n as me.”
He owned his horse and cab, he meant, rather than driving for a cab company, and while he kept his income, he also took his risks; a lame horse could ruin him. Smoothing the dun horse’s black mane, I nodded. “He’s as sturdy as a brick, isn’t he? What’s his name?”
“Why, ’e’s a she, m’lady, an ’er name is Pet.”
My smile widened. Pet snorted softly and nosed my skirt as if she might locate a treat in one of my pockets.
“Yer an uncommon good judge of ’orses, m’lady, if ye don’t mind me saying so,” the cabbie added. “Most of the ladies favours the fancy equipages wit ’ackneys.”
“Yes, I saw one of those the other day.” Eureka! Suddenly in that relaxed and idle moment I remembered! “An overlarge four-wheeler all smeared with polish,” I said with unfeigned, enthusiastic disapproval, “and the horse wasn’t a Hackney, but something of the sort, racy and high-headed, foaming at the bit, black with white feet all feathered like a Clydesdale’s—”
“Ay, I know the one, very flashy action, knees up to ’is nose. A lot o’ wasted wear an’ tear if you ask me. That’s Paddy Murphy an’ ’is Gypsy ’orse.”
“Really!” Giving Pet a final pat, I walked a few steps and climbed into the man’s cab, handing him a nice shiny sum of money in advance in order to forestall hesitation or questions. “Do you think you could find this Murphy person and take me to him? I must speak with him.”
“Oh, sure and begorrah, it’s remimbering thim I am right enough,” said the other cab-driver without hesitation, even before I had fully described a frail girl in a citrine-hued bell skirt and her two dowager chaperones. My driver had without much difficulty located Paddy Murphy in a stable-yard of the Serpentine Mews, seated upon a bale of straw with a mug of ale in hand while he offered the other cabbies a look, for a penny, at some mysterious marvel he kept in a pasteboard box. This he had put away hastily upon my arrival, standing up and tugging his cap. Now, clutching the shilling I had handed him, Paddy Murphy spoke on with true Irish loquacity. “If only because the two auld battle-axes—beg pardon, m’lady, the matron ladies—grudged me the fare, they did, and me squiring thim hither and yon all the livelong afternoon.”
“Hither and yon where, exactly?”
“To be sure, if there’s a linen-draper’s shop in London where we dinna go, I dinna know of it. Oop one street an’ down the nixt. It was looking in the shop winders they were, walking—or one uv the grand ladies walking and the other in the cab with that poor craythure uf a girrul at their beck an’ call. Now and agin they’d take her inside a mercer’s or some such an’ I was to wait, blockin’ traffic, with the coach-drivers cursing me eyes and me ancestors, begging yer ladyship’s pardon, and thin we was to stop for a package, blockin’ traffic some more, or wait for an order to be filled, an’ the constables roarin’ at me and threatenin’ me license, and all the while I’m countin’ on the fare…”
While the other cab-driver stood at my elbow as if he considered himself my escort and guardian, I listened with interest but with increasing impatience—well-concealed, I hope, for it is futile to attempt to hurry an Irishman in the telling of a tale—but I
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