They say that only those with heightened intimations of mortality peruse the death columns in the daily papers.
While this may be broadly true, in a country as small as ours it is at the very least a precaution against committing the most appalling gaffe, enquiring after somebody’s health only to be told that he or she has actually shrugged off this mortal coil.
One such notice caught the eye recently: ‘DOCKERY (late of Morehampton Road, Dublin and Clooneragh, Strokestown. . .) Maura, retired civil servant and last surviving member of the Dockery family, Clooneragh. . . ‘ Maura Dockery shared that house in Morehampton Road with her sister, who ran a ‘select’ boarding house. Evening meals were provided, given prior notice, and the bath plug could be secured for a nominal charge.
So it was in 1965, when the new intake of university students revelled in their freedom after ten years in boarding school, life regulated by morning mass and bloody bells. The freedom was intoxicating. While there were roll-calls for lectures, nonattendance brought not even a token rebuke, much less a caning. In truth, the contrast was too sudden and too great, at least for this entrant to Business Studies, the first such degree course of its type this side of the Atlantic. Principles of Law were mildly interesting, but Economic Georaphy simply sucked. What on earth relevance to hardnosed commerce could it hold?
Much more relevant was the making of friends with kindred interests in the Sport of Kings, especially any with direct entrée to a racing stable. One such was a ‘veteran’ student across St Stephen’s Green – Edmund Moriarty, eldest son of course bookmaker Johnny Moriarty, who had the prime pitch at Galway, the single race-meeting that determined a profitable year or otherwise. Heady stuff !
Destined to become a punter, rather than a layer, Eddie was very well connected with all types of racing characters. Had he not gone through UCD with a certain John Harty, then combining legal studies with riding as an amateur? ‘Buster’ Harty, his elder brother, was then reviving the family training fortunes in nearby Clondalkin.
Charming to a fault, John assured his eager interrogator that enthusiastic wannabe amateurs were welcome to ride out, especially on Saturday, then the principal racing day in Ireland, when regular staff were required to take runners to the races. Hey!
Buster Harty and Percy Banahan, his assistant, were more guarded, long used to John’s waifs and strays, all of whom could ride rings round Lester Piggott and Pat Taaff e combined, just given the chance. “Put him up on Irish Steel.” The very name induced a frisson of fear, turning to terror at the sight of this towering camel with a dropped hip. “Yea, he’s uneven behind. Carries his head low to compensate.”
Carries his head low – it felt as though his muzzle must graze the ground at any gait. And while there was steel in the bit, it availed nothing against the steel in his neck.
The twelve apostles couldn’t have got a pull out of this equine rhinoceros. He had his own way of doing things, unlike any other thoroughbred encountered before or since.
Devoid of brakes, non-existent steering, only his innate herd instinct induced Irish Steel to come to a halt as his galloping companions did so. A jovial soul he was, just born disadvantaged.
How enviable Percy on Kippure, a perfect lead horse, John on the fizzy Fort Ord and above all Buster on the exquisite Gypsando, adept at flying changes learned from his brief interlude as a dressage competitor under his owner’s ravishing daughter Caroline. She invariably rode out in a headscarf, just like Queen Elizabeth.
But in those far off days helmets were only ever issued for schooling, otherwise kept under lock and key lest the stable lads use them for purposes for which this expensive equipment was not intended. Only later did it transpire that Irish Steel had been employed as a similar initiation rite in Jimmy Brogan’s stable, among his guinea pigs a keen-eyed Kerryman called Tommy Stack. Tommy survived the test, you might say.
Meanwhile Springfield yielded up infinitely more entrancing fare in the form of the Harty boys’ kid sister. Still entrancing she is too. Miss Dockery proved the very soul of understanding, to the extent of proffering refunds for nights spent other than in Morehampton Road. Sweeter still, this ‘student’ had his rent paid by his doting parents. Vraiment, c’était la vie en rose!