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glass and goes out, in his jacket, to the fields. The two heifers need to be brought in anddosed. He must clear the drains, fell the ash in the lower field – and there’s a good day’s welding in the sheds before winter comes on strong. He throws what’s left of the sliced pan on the street and starts the van. One part of him is glad the day is wet.
    In Belturbet, he buys drenching fluid, welding rods, oil for the saw. There’s hardly any money left. He hesitates before he rings Leyden from the phone box, knowing he’ll be home.
    ‘Come up to the house,’ Leyden says. ‘I’m in need of a hand.’
    It is a fine house on a hill, which his wife, a school teacher , keeps immaculate. Two storeys painted white look out over the river. In the yard a pair of chestnut trees, the horse lorry, heads over every stable door. When Brady lands, Leyden waves from the hayshed. He’s a tight man, bony, with great big hands.
    ‘Ah, Brady! The man himself!’
    ‘There’s a bad day.’
    ‘’Tis raw,’ Leyden agrees. ‘Throw the halter on the mare there, would you? I’ve a feeling she’ll give trouble.’
    Brady stands at the mare’s head while Leyden shoes. The big hands are skilled: the hoof is measured, pared, the toe culled for the clip. On the anvil the shoe is held, hammered to size. Steel nails are driven home, and clenched. Then the rasp comes round, the shavings falling like sawdust at their feet. All the while it’s coming down, gasps of sudden rain whipping the galvanised roof. Brady feels strange pleasure standing there, sheltered, with the mare.
    When Leyden rasps the last hoof, he throws the tools down and looks out at the rain.
    ‘It’s a day for the high stool.’
    ‘It’s early,’ Brady says uneasily.
    ‘If we don’t soon go, it’s late it will be.’ Leyden laughs, his eyes searching the ground for nails.
    ‘I’ve to get me finger out; there’s jobs at home,’ says Brady. He puts the mare back in the stable, bolts the door.
    ‘You’ll come, any road,’ Leyden says. ‘I’ll get Sean to change a cheque and we’ll settle up.’
    ‘It’ll do another day.’
    ‘Not a hate about it. I might not have it another day.’
    As Brady follows Leyden back to town, a burning in his stomach surges. Leyden turns down the slip road past the chemist and parks behind The Arms. It looks closed but Leyden pushes the back door open. The bulb is dark over the pool table. On
Northern Sound
, a woman is reading out the news. Long Kearns is there with his Powers, staring into the ornamental fishing net behind the bar. Norris and McPhillips are picking horses for the next race. Big Sean stands behind the counter, buttering bread.
    ‘Is that bread fresh or is it yesterday’s?’ Leyden asks.
    ‘Mother’s Pride,’ Sean smiles, looking up. ‘Today’s bread today.’
    ‘But if we ate it tomorrow wouldn’t it still be today’s?’ says Norris, who has drunk two farms. Except for the slight shake in his hand, no one would ever know.
    ‘Put up two of your finest there, Sean,’ says Leyden, ‘and pay no mind to that blackguard.’
    ‘He’s been minding me for years,’ says Norris. ‘He’ll hardly stop now.’
    Sean puts the lip of a pint glass to the tap. Leyden hands him the cheque and tells him to give Brady the change. The stout is left to settle, the dark falling slowly away from the cream.
    ‘We got the mare shod, any road.’
    ‘Did she stand?’
    ‘It was terror,’ Leyden says. ‘I’d still be at it only for this man here.’
    ‘It’s a job for a younger man,’ McPhillips says. ‘I did it myself when I was a garsún.’
    ‘After three pints there’s nothing you’ve not done,’ says Norris.
    ‘And after two there’s nothing you won’t do!’ says Leyden, raising the bar. ‘Isn’t that right, Sean?’
    ‘Leave Sean out of it,’ the barman says affectionately.
    Norris looks at Brady. ‘Is it my imagination or have you lost weight?’
    Brady shakes his head but his hand reaches