Family
In
some ways it seemed like yesterday, others a virtual eternity. You sighed
pitifully in recognition, the recollections flooding back, spurred by the
faint, distant humming of a coughing horse lorry. It was around the same time
when he arrived, early morning. I estimate it was approximately seven years ago
now. Briefly, you bow your head: the time. Impatience rested upon each
resounding tick of your battered clock. Alas, the weather-beaten face of the
driver emerged through the early morning mist and his voice cut through the
dismal gloom:
“Guvnor,
are ya?” escaped the man’s lips in a high-pitched Irish lilt.
You
nodded vacantly, knowing better than to engage the scrawny figure that stood
before you. It was a waste of time in this weather- crack on. Yanking at the
latch, after a few fierce tugs the lorry door ascended to the gravel. A shrill
whinny echoed from within, oscillating against the ever rusting sides. Without
gracing your eyes over the puny, sweat-stained shell of a horse, you released
the lead rope and the gelding clattered down the ramp in typically ungainly
fashion, as expected. Evidently, co ordination wasn’t this juvenile’s strongest
asset.
“Cheer
up; I’d have thought you’d be excited!” I exclaimed, watching from afar. Your
sluggish demeanour relented ever so slightly, if at all, at my empty attempt at
cheeriness. It wasn’t the same without him: you knew it. I knew it.
The
rhythm of hoof beats fluctuated in pitch as they negotiated the worn, dust path
that lead into the stables, eroding it ever more. I witnessed that familiar,
and admittedly dreaded, brown coat fade from my view and into the silhouettes
and darkness, among rattling chains and the calming chewing of hay. He was the
last horse to leave and now you lead the new lad in. Suddenly, the tired engine
of the horse box lurched to life, spluttering with strain, disguising its
strength. My head rose to the rotting wooden gate a short way across the yard,
bidding the young driver farewell.
I
retreated into the house feeling subdued. Your infectious grief began to seep
back into me, without permission, unwelcomed. Pulling off my mud clad boots and
shrugging off my equally undesirable coat, I made my way to the kitchen. The dilapidated
hallway was covered with the sight of him. Before now I had purposefully
rebuked his memory, resenting the invitation of consumption. The photographs
return the same corrosive pain in the pit of my stomach as on the fateful day
itself. It will never go away, but he has. One misjudged stride hidden amongst
his typically gallant, surefooted paces was all it took. Many of them had led
us to sheer jubilation, joyous celebrations, and an unconditional respect for
our treasured family member. Broken. Finished. Gone. Under each photograph of
him attacking the fence or hurdle, lay his name, engraved: Kototawn. Adorning
each photo the silks above him were distinguished, yellow with luminous green
stripes and a spotted cap. My eyes followed the walls of the hall down to where
those exact colours hung, shielded in a glass case, almost immortal. My
attention returned to him in the now aged photographs, the bright determination
shone in his eyes as if it could never die.
I
blinked. The front door swung shut, the padding of feet became louder as they
found my side. Relieved the dreaded coat had been removed; your sweater
embodied what we all stood for, our past embellished in its aroma. Our memories
were woven into its cable knit.
“I
put him in his box. He’s got hay and water. The poor bugger, hardly a champion,
is he?”
I
reached down and clasped your hand firmly as you finally faced the sight of
him. You’d become deeply isolated since the incident. In the absence of your wisecracks
and comic manner, resentment had grown. You were bitter and lost. The sight of
the horse clearly burdened you with the same searing agony as myself, the new
arrival brought hope- even if he was seemingly the son of a donkey. Upon first
glance, like my father’s questionable attire, it was safe to conclude his appearance
wasn’t his forte.
“No...”
I managed, just about. We sensed his eyes burning into us from beyond the picture.
It had been avoided, and now was the time to face it. A single tear rolled down
my father’s aging cheek, the evidence of his anguish, no words. We both cried
then. For some, racing is about the glamour, the money, the trophies, and the status.
Not us. He was ours and we were his. I threw a lasting tear-filled glance to
the horse and completed my intended journey to the kitchen. I flicked the
switch of the kettle.
By
the time the water had boiled, having climaxed by ferociously building into a
crescendo, dad joined me. His shoulders sloped, wisps of silver hair cascaded
down beyond his unruly brows and his face looked forlorn, no longer masked by
his brave facade. Not dissimilar to the tactics I adopted minutes previously,
the corners of his mouth rose into a false grin: nice try Dad. I smiled at his
bravery. Nevertheless I poured the tea and soon we were talking. “It’s outside
the back door”, as they say. Invading the farmhouse gingham, the radiant sun
finally greeted us to embark on the new day. It proceeded to shower the room with
its resplendent, glorious light. A knock at the door disturbed us from our
routine.
“Ma’am,
your old man left this.” Sharply, a hand darted from his pocket and produced a forgotten
passport. I acknowledged the familiar face and returned his squeaky voice with
thanks.
“You
old dog, you forgot the new one’s book!” Playfully, I threw it down on the
table. The tea stains, toast crumbs and piles of dated Racing Post’s littered
the cloth, running amok.
Browsing
the new acquisitions details, he flicked through the pages absentmindedly; I
peered over his shoulder, moulding my hand to its contours. In a neutral,
nonchalant, trance-like state I scanned the evidence, focusing solely on the
parts that may provoke interest. We both saw it at the same time, almost
paralysed in shock, confusion and unbridled disbelief. Like the sun had blessed
the room only seconds prior, life instantly flooded back into dad, his passion
ignited once more. A wry smile, a real one this time, grew on his face. Dam and
sire, we’d seen them before. This was his brother.
