The Turf Game

By BRIAN BEHAN He advanced us £100 on the strict under- standing that every penny profit would be divided equally in our coop. Of course, of Course, we murmured, feeling like men about to make millions. Alas, like every venture 1 have ever tried, elements of farce intruded . very quickly. Our horses must have thought they had fallen into the hands of madmen. The first one we bought was a great big ugly mare named Polly. She seemed to be a 'cross between a giraffe and an elephant: Clever men that we were, we bought the cart before the horse. The result was we couldn't fit Polly into her cart, how- ever we tried. She just couldn't get in between the shafts. Eventually we decided to leave the shafts high in the air pointing towards heaven. Even so, Polly was too long in the body, with the result that every time the undercarriage came forward it tapped Polly smartly across the heels, making tier jump, forward like a ticklish girl.

Well, -we determined to parade out and try our luck. Unfortunately we had to go down Winetavern Street which all Dublin knows is very steep. Every few yards of our journey the cart would hit Polly and up she'd jump like a circus pony, The hill at that time was infested With lazy idlers, cattle-dealers and gipsies. As we made our way down they laughed and jeered at us. Their advice ranged from 'take it to the knackers' and 'get down "and milk it' to 'let's make the next dance a waltz.' 'Mortified we had to return as rapidly as possible to base. Being men of vision (politically, that is), we saw no reason to stop our expansion because of this little mishap. We determined to let Polly Iie abed for a while and buy a pony to fit our cart.

Determined not to be caught again we enlisted the aid of an ex-1RA man cum horse-dealer, Pat Flynn by name. This Flynn was the sort of man -you took to be a pillar of sense. In fact he was a very simple, easily gulled fellow.

Pat, large and commanding in the pub the night before, looked strangely ill at ease when confronted by the animal itself. After a few trial runs I pointed out that the pony seemed to have wa-wa legs. When he ran he threw his front legs ,out sideways instead of to -the front. This made him 'look for all the world like the leader in the Black and White Minstrel Show, singing 'Mama.' The horse-dealer, Enright, was an evil-looking man. His eyes, darting here and there, were 'fascinating. In his hands 'he held a stick about three foot long that looked more for business than pleasure. Beside him stood two go-betweens, so called. Really they were part of his gang who pretended to be passing by and were now demanding fair play for all. Occasion- ally Enright would pretend to get fed up with the whole affair and start to walk away, only to be drawn back by one of these wretches implor- ing him to return and not `do the young fellows the unkindness.' The' other one was more subtle. He alternated between telling us how ridicu- lously low our' price was and. abusing Enright for sticking to his.

Enright had on a wide-brimmed hat and under it an immense yellow scarf. With his trousers hoiked up over his boots he looked like a Tibetan. In a loud voice he dismissed my charge of wa-wa legs. Glaring at me, he said: 'Ah, sure, that's all you know about horses, sure there's nothing wrong with that animal's legs. She's a lady-stepper, that's what she is, she's so well bred, that's why she throws her legs out like that instead of to the front.' Then, grinning a devilish grin, he turned and went on. `Ah, but mister Flynn here will know what I'm talking about.' Our Pat just nodded dumbly.

Like Stalin, the gipsy had a way of turning hard or soft as the situation demanded; now he suddenly smiled at me and asked would I do him the favour of taking a glass of porter. Flattered that I was now the centre of attraction, away I went with him. In the pub I was amazed at how generous he was. We couldn't get near our pockets to buy a round. A half-dozen drinks later he threw down a bundle of notes that must have made a thousand and asked us did we think he was worried about a paltry twenty. This did the trick with me; I've never been able to believe that a rich man would rob me. Ten drinks later he had our twenty quid and we had the lady-stepper. The next day we yoked him and called him Marshal Tito. At first everything was sound. He fitted the cart a treat. Happy at last, we loaded up and set out to do a sale. Alas, just going over Dolphins Barn bridge he collapsed. Now I have always loved animals, especially horses, but what with every- thing I felt desperate and began trying to drag Tito to his feet.. A woman passing by started to screech and bawl, threatening us with the police. `You dirty beast,' she roared, leave the poor animal be.' I tried to reason with her, pointing out that we had deliveries to make. 'Then,' she sneered, 'Why don't you pull the cart yourself? You look big and ignorant enough to do it.'

To my amazement my brother Sean took her seriously. 'Alright,' he said, 'Ill stay here with Tito while you pull the cart along—it's only another couple of hundred yards.' After violent debate I agreed. But just as I was heaving and straining, our Sean came up beside me and standing outside the shafts reproved me, saying, Don't just walk along like that. Shout out "Turf for sale" as you go.' In a fury I flung down the cart smashing the two shafts. But, like gambling, business is a fever: no matter how much you lose you try to get it back. In our case Murphy kept us supplied with the cash reserves for further madness. Our cart we repaired and while our horses continued their two-hour week wecanvassed for fresh customers. Being socialists we stood for the ending of exploitation for everyone, including the horses.

They were as far as possible to be equal part- ners in our co-op. Of course they couldn't join us in the pub for our daily meetings, but at least we were determined that they should be well fed. Where we stabled our nags was also a feed emporium. In all innocence we asked the merchant to advise us on the nature and amounts of horsy food. After a moment's silence to com- memorate the advent of looneys, he replied. Well, I would recommend half a stone of whole oats per meal three times a day with a stone of hay at night.' Is this for each horse?' I asked h. tm. `Yes,' he smiled, 'and that will keep them In prime condition.' They were in prime condi- tion all right, in fact by the end of the week they were lepping out of their skins. With no work and tons of grub they became very play- ful. Indeed Polly grabbed me twice by the arm and nearly kicked me to death. At the end of the second week we found that our feed bill was running at the rate of two pounds per horse per week. All thoughts of work vanished from the nags' heads and they simply refused to let Us yoke them for honest toil. To all our entreaties Polly simply turned a great big bottom and let fly with her enormous hairy hooves.

Our stableman was something of a Hitler and wouldn't tolerate such nonsense for one minute. Like all small men he was afflicted with delusions of. grandeur. One morning he advised us to stop this mollycoddling and get down to business.

Pushing me out of the way he proceeded in his joddy purs to confront Polly with a whip about twenty foot long. As he walked in to her stall he threw up the whip in a commanding fashion and ordered Polly to leave her warm bed. Unfor- tunately for him his whip got caught in the rafters and Polly seized him across the back with her great yellow teeth. Much to my delight I had to save him, letting Polly get a good bite first, though. With the aid of two corporation dustmen we eventually succeeded in getting the anarchist horse safe within the shafts and, with the two of us hanging on the reins, we made our way to Crumlin. Giving tongue to our cry, `Turf for sale, Turf for sale,' we soon had a nice little queue of customers at the back of our cart.

Just beside us was a building site and, just as one poor woman was leaning forward to lift down her seven pounds of fuel. Polly reared up and backed away from the swinging jib of a crane. The cart came back, scattering our patrons to all sides and forcing them to jump for dear life into a great muddy trench. Appalled, I shouted to Sean, 'For God's sake, let's get to hell out of here or they'll murder us when they get up.' In his enthusiasm Sean hit Polly too hard and I last saw him clinging to Polly as best he could as the cart flew out of sight down the road.

We were at tea when there came a knock on the door. The copper said, 'I'm sorry, Ma'am, but one of your boys has been taken to hospital after being thrown from a runaway horse and cart.'

Poor oul Sean. He looked half dead when I saw him, face pale, his head bound up in a huge bandage. I thought he had had his lot. Groaning, he moaned, `Do you know that crazy horse could find nothing better to run into than a telegraph pole?'

Sean, slight and bespectacled, was cut out by nature for more scholarly pursuits. He would have looked more at home lecturing in Trinity College than hauling turf, but he was dogged as a terrier. I had hoped that the accident would prove a blessing and that now at last the agony would end. Not a bit of it: Sean seemed to be driven even madder by the knock on the head. This can happen; I knew a man once who joined the Com- munist Party after a whack of a brick.

It seemed now that our business had been on too small a scale to prosper. `Let's hire a barge,' says Sean, `and float several hundred tons of turf direct from the bog, thereby eliminating the middlemen and making a fortune.' And so an old canal barge was hired and with Flynn as captain we loaded her up and set sail for Guinness's harbour. On the way I noticed that either the water was getting deeper or we were shrinking; in any case we were a lot lower in the water after every lock. Just outside the harbour is a narrow entrance which barely holds a boat— indeed with a bigger one you barely scrape through. I thought to warn 'captain,' who now sported a sou'wester and a hooky pipe. Rolling with the barge he laughed me to scorn, shouting, 'We'll go through there like a dose of salts.' Seiz- ing the tiller, we made straight for the gap—bad luck, a sudden gust of wind threw us to one side and we hit the entrance wall with a thun- derous crack. A violent lurch and we stopped and commenced to sink rapidly. Flynn, in the best tradition of the sea, jumped for the bank. Joining him there, we stood and gazed at the barge and cargo effectively blocking the whole channel. `By God,' said Flynn gravely, 'There'll be a porter famine in the Midlands tomorrow.'

Shortly after, the final meeting of our co-op was held. Murphy had almost gone mad from worry and was using most unseasonable language. Frothing away, he brandished a claim from the port and docks board for the sum of £300 being due for harbour clearance. Crestfallen, we told him we were finished, but what about the horses? We owed a month's feed bill and the yard man was striking them off rations. In a few choice words Murphy told us what we could do with Polly and Tito. Our Sean didn't like this one bit: 'I am ashamed,' he said, 'to see brother Willis Murphy v.eaken in the struggle.'

Still Murphy had left us and what could we do? In any case bad luck dogged his steps for all his cruelty. (The following year he was caught by his mother and father dancing in the nude in a Paris nightclub.) 'I'll tell you what,' says Sean. `Public shame is what's wanted to bring that fellow back to his responsibilities, and that's what he's going to get.'

The following morning was Christmas Day. Our hearts grew heavy thinking of our poor brother nags' hungry day. 'Right,' says Sean, `take them out and away we go for a little walk.' I noticed that we were heading for Rathmines,,a swanky part of Dublin. In a lovely Georgian square Sean halted and peered at the numbers' on the big gates. 'This is the one,' he shouted, `through here.' He motioned to me and up, the gravel we went, leading a horse apiece. Like all the rich, the people in this house were eating in their front room. Loosing our pals, we watched them wander across the well-kept lawn and stand, faces pressed tight to the French windows. Raising his glass for a toast, brother Murphy's eyes met the reproachful gaze of Polly. Struck quite dumb, his glass clattered to the ground. Polly, thinking that hostilities had commenced, turned a contemptuous rump, and with two blows of her hooves shattered the windows in around the guests. The centrepiece of the Murphy dinner was a large turkey bedecked with greenery. Tito daintily picked his way through the broken glass and, seizing the turkey, made off down the gar-

den. I didn't wait to see what happened not picked up my heels and made for the boat and England.