Summer - July 1947

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On the second of July that year, Michael turned up with a few dairy cows from the cattle show in Aughrim to replace the ones we lost. All had bright, lively eyes as they stood chest strong looking at their new run-down pasture.                                                

‘Holy Mary Mother of God, Michael! You shouldn’t have.’ He rubbed the snout of the only ginger cow with his knuckles, swatting my comment away with his other hand.                                                                        

‘Ara Siobhan, it’s grand. I had a few pennies lying around,’ Michael replied.          

‘Gods boyo, that one is,’ Mother shouted from out the kitchen window, slaving over soda bread for Father Dolan’s Sunday mass. She would soon change her tone of Michael.      

‘Shall we welcome them to their new home then?’ He clicked his tongue and we both herded the new cattle. Michael had to shout “get” a few times when the same ginger cow that he took a liking to dug her hooves into the ground.                                            

The cows that survived the snow eyed the newcomers with uncertainty, using their abrasive tongues to lick the inside of their nostrils.                                                    

‘Now girlies, you’ll be well looked after here, sure to be sure.’ Michael smacked the hind of the ginger cow.

‘Are you sure you don’t want anything for them? You should’ve used that money to buy somewhere for yourself, move out ye ma’s.’ I put my hand into my skirt pocket, retrieving one shilling and a button. He looked at my half-opened palm. Frowned. Blinked. And smiled quickly, looking into my eyes.                   

‘You’re alright, Siobhan. I need some more cows in this pasture to look after anyways.’ Michael raked their bedding, trying to move the still wet manure from the night before.

Michael said he enjoyed the work our farm brought as the selling of his own farm after his father died had left him with nothing to do. Born and bred in the barn, he said.                                                                           

‘Are you going to the crossroads dance tonight? Heard a few from the country and town are going,’ Michael asked.                                                                                                     

‘No, I don’t think so. Got too much to do round the farm, and these new cows will need a milking, I suppose?’ Mother called these dances the Devil’s jig.                           

‘Well, if we crack on for the rest of the day, we’ll have it done in no time.’ He raked the manure faster, gritting his jaw, and with stern eyes, concentrating on the muck. A good handful flicked up onto his trousers with two pieces of straw sticking out of it like antennas. ‘Ah feck it!’ Michael shook his leg like he was fitting to ‘Boil the Breakfast Early.’                                                                 

‘Da, du, de, la, da, dum,’ I chanted in time with his manure jig. We both curled over, laughing. Michael dropped the rake on his foot and swore. We laughed louder, panting with the loss of breath. It was like our lungs squeezed shut and wouldn’t let any new air in, wheezing like accordions.                 

Michael grabbed my waist to twirl me around the barn, his lifted arms exposed the sickly-sweet smell of sweat caused by the summer heat. He got two spins out of me till I batted him away, my skirt flying wide above my ankles and his hand firmly on the base of my back to stop me slipping on wet patches of hay.     

Michael was the first man who had comfortingly held me since my daddy, and the only man who had ever danced with me other than Daddy. When I was younger, only a child, Daddy would let me stand on his metal-tipped boots and waltz me whilst singing ‘The Galway Shawl.’ He’d do this when I was acting a bit bold, not wanting to work on the farm. I would push away from him at first with all my little might. But, his hold was warm and was that sort of comfort that felt like nothing could hurt you because you were in your daddy’s arms. His voice was soft, cradling and calming all angst until there were no ructions left in my system.

Michael’s twirls were different, they were electrifying. It was like my blood hummed and my heart pounded fiercely. I was worried he could see it through my skin.