THE MILKO'S HORSE
“ … to own a horse like old Brownie would be the greatest achievement in life … “
When I was a bit of a kid, knee-high to a grasshopper, I used to ride a small two-wheeler bike to and from the family home and St. Fidelis Catholic School.
The one-way distance in between was about one mile or so, especially if you pedalled quickly.
In those times I often passed the bloke who home-delivered bottles of milk from a dairy, his wire crates piled on to a four-wheeled wagon and pulled by a lovely bay gelding with a white blaze down his nose and four white hairy fetlocks.
Often, if the milko was busy running between houses, I would pause to pat the old horse and to relish his horsey smells of sweat, urine and poop that always seemed to linger about his presence.
Usually, the horse gazed on lawns by the roadside until he heard the milkman give a familiar come-on-up-further whistle, at which sound the horse, Brownie, would interrupt his grazing, take the weight into the harness, and steadily pull the loaded cart further along the street so that the milko did not have to run so far in dumping his empties and grabbing full bottles to replace them.
Brownie had a very placid nature.
He breath always smelt strongly of grass, with a slight hint of chaff.
In summer, when the flies were plentiful, he wore a makeshift eye shade made of dangling strings; one twitch of his head set the cords swishing and the action drove away the irritating flies.
Sometimes, if the milko was not watching, I would give Brownie a cuddle by placing both arms around his uncombed furry neck and bury my face into his wonderful horsey aromas, respectable and otherwise.
I used to think to myself, secretly, that to own a horse like old Brownie would be the greatest achievement in life.
If it ever happened, I promised him and God, I wouldn’t call the queen my Auntie.
One afternoon, as I rounded the corner on the homeward stretch, I glanced up to find Brownie galloping down the street towards me; his eyes were wild, scared, and his shod hooves clattered deafeningly on the bitumen.
Crates of smashed and full milk bottles lay scattered on the road in his wake and the milko was running madly along behind, shouting and swearing, hurdling the crates as he came.
“Whoa back, you big bastard,” he yelled furiously. “Hey, look out, sonny, me horse’s bolted!”
I don’t know what exactly happened next.
Something knocked me off the bike and I found myself lying across the roadside gutter with poor old Brownie lying on his side and covering more than half my body.
Somewhere underneath me was my precious bike.
I could vaguely feel its metallic coolness against my bare legs.
Strangely, I was in no pain.
In fact, I felt rather comfortable.
Instinctively, I patted Brownie and tried to calm him down, brushing his coat with both hands and whispering calming words.
Around us in a very short time there were the sounds of men shouting and women clucking their alarm.
“Do something,” one lady screamed. “That little boy is being crushed.”
The whole milk cart had tipped on to its side, all its crates and bottles distributed haphazardly along the street.
Brownie heaved hotly with excitement above me, his breath huffing in agitation, but he seemed to recognise my presence and grew calm very quickly.
The milko leaned over to say: “Don’t worry, mate, we’ll get the bugger off you in a minute. Are you hurt?”
I shook my head unemotionally.
“I’m alright, mister,” I told him. “Is Brownie okay?”
Men struggled with the cart, taking its dead weight and slowly lifting it back on to its iron-clad wheels.
As Brownie’s weight eased on my chest, someone was ready to quickly pull me free, away from the horse’s struggling hooves as he awkwardly regained his normal stance.
A few old women came around to examine me for injuries.
I only seemed to have a few minor scratches and a bruise or two.
The saddle of my bike was twisted slightly askew.
A spectator wrenched it back into shape, saying: “There you are, mate, as good as new.”
With Brownie safely back in harness, and his load restored, he trotted off towards the dairy, while I continued in the opposite direction to brag of my adventure to Gran.
As I burst through the back door, Gran confronted me angrily: “Where have you been? Why are you so late? Look at you, you’re all dirty and you’ve been fighting again, going by those scratches … Where have you been?”
“A horse knocked me over,” I started to explain, “and I was underneath him …”
“Don’t tell lies,” she snapped and, reaching for her wooden spoon, she gave me a few slaps across the backside for having too much imagination.
After forcing down a cooled meal, Gran ordered me to bed, still miffed by my behaviour.
“You keep up that lying, my boy, and one day you’ll burn in hell,” she warned with a stabbing glare from her flashing Irish eyes.
Just after sundown, a knock came to the front door.
I recognised the milko’s voice echoing down the passagway.
He enquired of my Grannie if the young boy was okay.
“Why shouldn’t he be okay?” Gran retorted brusquely. “He’s been sent to bed for telling lies. He came home late with some wild tale about being knocked over by a horse …”
“Yes, lady, that’s what happened,” the milko explained. “My horse bolted in the street and it fell over and that little kid was trapped under his belly. He was a really brave little tyke, you know. He didn’t cry or get upset. He just laid there quiet as you like and patted old Brownie. He really loves horses, doesn’t he … ?”
After the milko left on his motorbike, the bedroom door opened soon afterwards.
Switching on the light, old Gran sat beside me on the bed brushing my forehead with her hand.
At last, she said: “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Would you like to come outside into the kitchen? I’ve just baked some nice scones …”
-B.J.C.
