Over the past few months, her sleep had become increasingly hard to find. Her nights, oblong, stretched far in front of her with a paltry width of sleep to balance the length. The tick, tick, tick of the clock, the click, click, click of her mother’s wedding ring against the metal sieve as she tapped the flour through it to become fine dust.

Her mother was making a flat, rectangular rhubarb tart and when it had cooled, she would cut it into 6 rows of 4 pieces, 4 for each of them. They were living in the house at the cross by then. The first house was the house in Kileagh and the next house was the house at the cross, with the forge out the back.

When she walked into the forge, bits of coal grit scrunched underfoot. Daddy was hammering, a metallic high-low rhythm as he hit first the pulsing, molten horseshoe and then the iron anvil, high-low, high-low, shaping the shoe to fit the horse’s foot. She inhaled the acrid-sweet singeing smell as he placed the still hot metal against the marble-like hoof. Mr. O’Connor said he’d give her a penny if she held the horse’s reins. She didn’t care about the penny, but she went and took hold of the bridle strap. Daddy had the horse’s upturned leg clamped between his knees. The horse leaned his weight against him. See, Daddy said, I’m not hurting him, he hasn’t a bother on him. She pressed her face against the horse’s, his short hairs smooth under her cheek.

A few times, she’d been out doing a message for her mother, and Mr. O’Connor had called to her from one of the out-buildings of his farm as she sped along the road, sometimes on a bike, but more often running. Come in here a minute, he’d say, his face an adult smile. So, she’d go in and he’d stroke her hair and say what a lovely little thing she was. She’d want to go home and play ‘lost on a desert island’ with her brothers, but Mr. O’Connor was a neighbor and a grown up. So she would try to be still until he was done stroking and telling her what a lovely little thing she was. One day, he pulled her closer and reached his hand down inside the front of her pants, rubbing the smooth, prepubescent skin. He bent his head and tried to kiss her, but she moved so that his moist, hungry lips hit her ear instead. Mr. O’Connor was a neighbor and a grown-up, but she’d squirmed away just the same and ran all the way home.

I’ll give you a penny, he’d say, if you hold the reins. She’d close her eyes and lean into the knowing face of the horse, the horse leaning against her father. Don’t tell your father, her mother had said. Your Daddy would kill him. I’ll sort out Billy O’Connor. Your Daddy would kill him. High-low, high-low.

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Photo: Adalia Botha