Noel Stuart
nontheless@freezone.co.uk | About My Writing A Knight in Shining Armour
A sharp click announced the arrival of the mail as the letter box snapped shut. Bert, my flat mate wandered into the kitchen, still yawning the night out of his system.
“It’s a letter for you, Ned,” he muttered and disappeared into the bathroom. It was a plain envelope with the address written in a bold and generous hand. I recognised the unmistakable script of Maeve Plunket, an alluring little will o’ the wisp who had bewitched me for the past six months.
The letter started off, “Dearest White Knight. We have been drifting apart recently through no fault of our own - different interests and you trying to study so hard. I’m afraid that I didn’t help much! We have had lovely times together, which I shall always cherish but I have been going out with another man recently.
We have become very involved with one another and he has asked me to marry him. It is that big handsome man Tom Gleeson who nearly killed me last year! We are very happy and I only hope that you find a girl to match your charm.
Love from Maeve.”
I crunched the missive up and threw it into the fire. ‘Thanks be to God for small mercies! At last I’m free from that young lady and her family. We’ve had some lovely times together. I wonder how much she knows about the murky world in which her father is involved.
After a hearty breakfast I wandered up Anglesey Road and into the side door of the Dublin horse show grounds. Apart from a couple of groundsmen trimming the verges, the grounds were empty. I sat in the stand looking out across the arena recalling the times I had watched Maeve competing in the show-jumping events. I felt that I just wanted to mull over the events of the last twelve months.
The heat, the intense silences and the tension, willing Maeve and Dancer to finish a clear round came to me clearly. Afterwards the horses would be rubbed down, fed and watered before we went off to the city for a celebratory meal provided by her father, Dan-Joe. He was overgenerous and possessive of those surrounding his family. Sometimes I felt like a young stud retained for his daughter’s pleasure. It had been an incredible summer full of happiness and romance with an incredibly attractive young lady. In a paradoxical way, a load had just been lifted from my shoulders. No longer was I a kept man. I stood up to go back to the digs realising that I had broken one of life’s basic tenets. It’s a foolish man who lets a pretty face distract him from a day’s trout fishing!
Looking back objectively at the events of the summer term I could hardly believe that it had happened. I had never really considered myself as a knight in shining armour. It had been yet another adventure.
Mine were the simple pleasures of drinking Guinness, rugby and fishing. I was finding that the necessity of passing examinations was beginning to dominate my thoughts, leaving precious little time for minor distractions such as rescuing fair maidens and for cultural activities like the Abbey Theatre.
My problems had started when Mike, Bert and I had spent a weekend in County Meath in order to escape from our studies. We camped in a field beside one of those little white Irish cottages. It lay just below the road in a rather rough meadow dotted with thistles and patches of sedge grass. A fine plume of blue turf smoke crept lazily out of the chimney pot to dissipate in the air. Mike knocked on the door and a tall dark woman in her thirties greeted us. We noticed that she gave a welcoming smile on seeing Mike’s Nordic good looks and clear blue eyes.
“Of course you can use the field for your tents. You’re as welcome as the flowers in springtime,” she said smiling radiantly as if we were doing her a favour.
I’m Grainne O’Farrell. I’ll call my husband. Glancing over her shoulder she shouted “Padraig. These young gentlemen would like to camp in the meadow for the weekend. Take the scythe and make a space in the thistles.”
Padraig appeared from the inglenook where he had been stacking turf beside the fire. His weathered features peered out from beneath a battered trilby. His bent old body seemed to scuttle sideways in a crab-like fashion due to a disabled leg. He must have been at least twenty years older than his wife - little wonder that the sight of Mike had entranced her.
“You’re welcome,” said Padraig.
“Just give me a minute while I run the stone over the blade of my scythe. The edge leaves it very quickly.” Despite his disability, it was a pleasure to watch the rhythmical sweeping action of the scythe and the gentle hiss as the thistles prostrated before him. Grainne insisted on bringing us out milk and a rice pudding each day in case we starved.
.
The days were spent wading in the river, clad in trousers and gym shoes, casting a line in our hunt for the elusive trout. Nature was at her best. The lush meadows, rippled by light airs, were dotted with flowers of every hue. Contented cattle grazed in the knee height grass. Their hind legs were muscled all the way down to the hocks, bringing alive the old saying, “Beef to the heels like a Mullingar heifer”.
| Authors' Register: | About My Background Born in the Isle of Man of Irish/Welsh parentage, I nursed no other ambition other than to work with animals. My lifelong passion for all creatures great and small, and an interest in complimentary medicine for humans and non-humans alike, combined to culminate in my eventual choice of a career as a veterinary surgeon. My work, both as a vet and in my second career as a writer is a rich tapestry of down-to-earth practice alongside a sense of healing power beyond science. This is balanced by a great sense of humour running a sparkling thread through all that I have written. I has studied such unusually diverse directions as dowsing and the effect of ley lines on cattle. I was also one of the earlier vets of to treat fish diseases, and once had the dubious experience of counting an alligator, called “Daisy” as one of my patients! I now enjoys an active semi-retirement in Cornwall and have turned my hand to range of endeavours from ' lollipop man' to school governor. I may be found working with the local Writers' Group, or travelling the world and being guru to his many grandchildren in New Zealand.
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