A Man of his Time

Leaning against the wall was a man with a curving pipe in his mouth, not in working clothes but wearing a collar and tie because the horse belonged to him. Two little pinafored girls on their way to school were collared by Ashton to stand by his side and complete the scene. Ernest and George were the only men not wearing caps.

Ernest didn’t want to be part of it, yet chose not to upset his brother by looking on from the open door, unmistakably himself, a tall thin young man with a well-shaped head whose thatch of short hair made a line halfway down his brow much like his brother’s. He wore a highnecked collarless shirt, a working waist-coat, but no jacket, a self-aware youth who wanted after all to be somewhere in view. He looked towards the camera, speculating on the mechanism when the black cloth went over Ashton’s head.

The photograph came a week later with, printed on the back in an ornate scroll: ‘Ashton of Pontllanfraith, Monmouthshire.’ George was happy with the scene. ‘Do you want a copy?’

‘Not likely.’ Ernest didn’t care for anything to do with the picture, since he wasn’t the gaffer in it, but he would keep it in his memory as something he hadn’t had to pay for.

Rasp in hand, Ernest faced the dray horse’s quarter, the front left hoof between his lower thighs. Willie, a tool bag convenient to his feet, waited to put on the new shoe. Ernest told the horse to keep still, though there was little need with such a quiet animal.

All through youth he had talked more to horses than he did or wanted to to people, not only because horses couldn’t answer back – the worse thing, he reckoned, that either human or animal could do – but because they liked to hear your voice even if you only nattered about the weather. It also calmed those horses that baulked at being pushed between the shafts when the work was finished.

He talked in silence but as if he’d be heard and understood. I’ll do the thing so well you won’t tell whether you’re walking at all, especially as the tracks around here are fit for neither man nor beast.

To get the old shoe off was a job in itself, because you never tear the nails out by force, as I’ve known some blokes do. Raise the clenches carefully and keep them straight, so that you don’t make the holes wider, or injure the hoof, or leave in stubs that make the horse limp, or go lame after a while. A horse who’s had that done to it feels pain just like a person, so it’s harder for other smiths to shoe and the horse might injure them in its distress. You get the job done as quickly as you can or you won’t make any money, but you still have to do everything well.

He rasped down the cusp at the edges, careful not to take off too much, for if you did the hoof would become too thin. Sometimes the horn of the sole was so hard and thick it needed softening with heat, though not in this case, which saved a bit of trouble. A flat iron drawn over the sole and held close for a few moments did no harm, and made it easy for the horse after a little paring here and there.

‘Let’s have the shoe, Willie.’ Some daft ha’porths who were as mean as hell with their pennies arranged for a smith to make so many shoes a year, but they got taken in, because the smith might put heavier shoes on the horse hoping they’d last longer and save him making so many, which wasn’t good for the horse.

An almost perfect fit – nothing could be perfect, however you tried – but he went to work with the file. The cold fitting needed a good eye to get all surfaces flush. He’d made shoes for anything from a pony to a lame Clydesdale, and every hoof was different, as every shoe had to be.

George and his father had taught him that you could always tell if a horse was happy after you had shod it, and if some never were it was the fault of their owners for not treating them right, who think all you need do for a horse is feed it and pat it on the backside now and again, and then it’ll do whatever you want and not need any other looking after, but a horse is a living thing and knows more than you think. As for beasts born with pebbles in their belly, you talk them into keeping still, avoiding wounds in the fleshy parts when putting the shoe on so as not to cause presses or binds. Horn’s thicker at the toenails than elsewhere, so you begin there and work back till you’ve done the seven new nails, guiding the shoe into position by sound and feel, and calculating the angle of each cleat to give a firm hold.

That’s that. Now you won’t have gravel or dirt getting underneath and chafing you to hell and back. The farmer whose horse it was leaned by the wall. ‘You’ve done a good job, I see.’

Ernest ignored the remark. What does he expect, a bad one? He smoked a cigarette, and after the horse had been led away George said: ‘I like to keep that old chap happy. He’s a good stick and a fair customer. I shall want you back inside now though.’

Work never stopped. They were lucky. He placed a length of bar iron in the fire till it took the heat. Skill and instinct were like man and wife, George often said, no one knowing where one ended and the other began. He watched the metal in the fire, and at the right moment swung it to get rid of cinders and loose flakes. With the striker beating time on the anvil to keep him in tune, he manipulated the metal with his hard hammer into the form of a shoe, shaping the heels to a proper slope.

Turning it over, he pressed out the fullering, and began to stamp the nail holes, slightly marking them at first, then with heavier blows driving them well in and finally right through, all at the same heat and no time to lose. The rhythm controlled time itself and, as his father had always said, when you had grasped the notion of timing you were more than halfway to becoming a master of the trade.

George stood at his shoulder. ‘There’ll be a few more to do after this.’ To which there was no reply but to get on with it.

On the way home, calling at the post and money order office for tobacco, Ernest was handed a small envelope which could only come from Minnie. George had picked up the ability to read but Ernest didn’t want him nosing into his business, so had no option but to knock on next door at their lodgings after supper and ask Owen the bottle-thrower for his services, setting a jar of good Welsh bitter on the table. All three men stopped what they were doing. ‘One of you knows your letters, I hear,’ Ernest said.

The man with the battered head stared at the embers between the bars while setting a kettle on, and the pipe-smoker at the table was about to tackle a large round loaf with a carving knife, saying: ‘Read his letter, Owen, then we can drink his beer.’

‘I lost my temper last time,’ Ernest said. ‘I’d had a long day.’ He never apologized, but came close to it now, hoping he would never have to do so again, though knowing that Minnie was worth it.

The room wasn’t clean, but everyone could live as they wanted. Favour for favour, he would do one for them if he could. The man turned from the kettle. ‘I don’t want to read it if it’s bad news, man.’

‘There’s no such thing, as long as your wife and children are safe. And I’ve got neither. So come on, I hear you read the Bible often enough.’

‘Keeps it under the bed so I won’t light my pipe with the pages. They flare up a treat!’

Owen unfolded the note and held it high, as if proud of being able to recite in a singsong half-mocking tone: ‘I shall meet you on my walk in the wooded place near Newbridge, across from the tramway. I stroll there on most days, and pray you will do so as well.’

‘What name?’

‘No name. Only MD,’ Owen said. ‘But I’m sure you know who it is.’

Gratified at Minnie’s sense, Ernest thanked him, and held out a hand for the letter, but without meeting Ernest’s eyes, Owen smiled, and slowly tore the paper into pieces. Ernest had intended putting it into the forge in the morning, so the fool had saved him the trouble.

A man in collar and tie huffed and puffed uphill on his penny-farthing, alighting at the top to look at a sheet of paper to find where in the world he was. Ernest passed, and walked as far as the tramway, coal drays rattling in the opposite direction. Work never stopped, but had to for him, wanting to keep his tryst with Minnie.

He followed a hedge as far as the wood rather than going through the village where his conspicuous figure might be remarked on, not wanting to get her talked about. Sheep stared from a field, ran towards the middle chased by crying lambs. Cornflowers thrived on the windless bank, a flash of rosebay by fully-leafed trees bordering the scrag of woodland. The day was hot and dry, but he didn’t suppose the clouds would stay high for long because the wind was changing.

Last year’s twigs cracked under his boots, and he used all-round vision so as not to miss her, though in an area of such sparse trees she’d easily be seen. A rabbit panicked towards a patch of ferns, and when another followed he picked up a stone, but the thing was too fast. To get a rabbit on the hop was difficult without a shotgun, though you couldn’t use one in a wood for fear of hitting a person. If you did you’d be for Dartmoor or the rope. All the same, a rabbit would make a fine stew when caught and skinned.

She walked through a patch of sunlight on green, in the deepest of mourning still. Coal trucks had to pass before he could cross, so many glimpses of her through the gaps she looked a different woman every time. She took a hand from her muff, which he held for a moment, her fingers more those of a working woman. ‘The day’s warm, but the wind’s got a chill in it,’ he said.

‘I hurried. I was so hoping to see you.’

The same for him, though he didn’t say. ‘I’d been wondering how you were getting on.’ She stood a few feet away, but he went forward to kiss a face no longer pale. She had been eating well, at any rate. ‘They’re looking after you, I see.’

‘I’m very happy there.’

Memories of the train journey reminded him that he was only here for one thing. He gripped her hand, drew her towards denser vegetation. ‘We’ll walk over there for a bit.’

Her eyes half-closed, tears about to run. ‘Ernest, I must tell you. I’m with child.’

‘Are you, then?’ His exclamation indicated that the matter need have little to do with him. ‘You mean it’s mine?’

Her look of entreaty was mixed with some pleasure. ‘We fornicated on the train.’

Such a plain statement brought a flush of wanting that day over again. ‘Does the parson know?’

‘I told my sister, and she informed him.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He told me it was God’s final blessing on me and my husband. He was very happy. We sat around the table and read the Bible so that he could give thanks to the Lord.’

A few moments went by. ‘I suppose it could be your husband’s. It’s as well the parson thinks so.’

Pale eyes fixed him while she crushed an elderberry leaf. ‘It can only be from you.’

He hadn’t thought to send a child into the world just yet, though it was no shock to know that he could do so. It wasn’t a feat for any man, though the story was a good one to tell George, except that it would stay a secret forever. Her eyes and lips formed such a smile that he yearned to get her into bed, and have the delight of ploughing babies into her for the rest of his days. All cares swept away, she would have it in her to give both a lifetime of spending. ‘When it comes we’ll have to talk about what to call him.’

‘What if it’s a girl?’

‘It will be a boy. It’s got to be. Now come with me.’

‘I can’t delay. They’re expecting me for tea.’

‘They’ll keep it on the hob for you.’ He stepped back and took hold of her. ‘I love you. You know that, don’t you?’

She put her arms around his neck with a sweeter passion than he could recall from any woman. ‘We ought to marry, Ernest.’