Torn Apart Read Online Free Page A

them that we were able to see much at all. The fiddle cut through the muttering and murmuring of the spectators with clear crisp notes. Through the nodding heads I glimpsed a white-bearded man fiddling energetically while watching the competition. The farriers seemed not to hurry but they were getting the job done. One finished clearly ahead of the other two. The music stopped when the last hoof went down and the crowd applauded enthusiastically.
    â€˜Pretty good,’ Patrick said to a man standing in front of him. ‘Who’ll win?’
    â€˜Why, Sean Malloy,’ the man said. ‘Always does. He’s not the fastest but he’s the best.’
    The winner was declared, the dark nuggetty type who’d finished second. It didn’t seem to worry anyone that the judge and the winner were related. The crowd drifted off to other attractions or perhaps to get under cover, although the drizzle didn’t seem to have bothered them, as the horses were led away. With our coat collars turned well up, we approached the fiddler and Patrick introduced himself and supplied some details about our origins.
    â€˜You’re never Mick Malloy’s grandson—him as went to Australia?’
    â€˜I am,’ Patrick said—the idiom was catching.
    The dark eyes, young-looking in an old face, turned to me. ‘And you. Christ, you’re like peas in a pod but for the beard.’
    â€˜Grandson of Aideen Malloy,’ I said.
    â€˜Aideen. There was a one, so I’ve been told. Well, well, all the way from Australia. That’s famous, that is. You have to come to the camp and meet us all.’
    We ferried a couple of car-loads of Malloys and others to the camp a few miles to the east of the town. The track was muddy and Patrick’s opting for a 4WD proved to be the right decision. The Travellers clan had campervans and trailers rather than anything resembling gypsy caravans, but they’d decked them out and painted them in ways no ordinary tourers ever would, with banners and slogans proclaiming their identity.
    Sean Malloy, the winning farrier, had a grip of iron and bore a few boxing scars. So we talked fighting and over cups of strong tea and door-stop sandwiches we roughly established the relationship of us both to the thirty or so people in the camp. Then it was off to a nearby tavern for the adults where a céilidh was scheduled, with a few of the Malloys slated to sing and play.
    For me, the evening was a bit of a blur, not so much from the drink, but from fatigue and the noise and the smoke. The tavern was an old cottage, gutted so that there was a long open space with a bar at one end and chairs and tables scattered about. The night was cold and the windows were closed so that a thick fug of tobacco smoke, sweat and alcohol fumes quickly built up.
    We weren’t allowed to pay for anything, which kept me going slow with the grog. The music was heady, emotional, traditional stuff that touched off tears and joy in everyone present, especially when old Paddy played the fiddle to a tenor lament from his nephew Sean. But that mood was quickly replaced by jigs and reels in which Patrick and I joined with nothing like the lack of inhibition of the locals. I opted out and went to find a corner to gather my breath and my wits.
    â€˜Hello, Aussie,’ a woman sitting nearby said. ‘Conked out have you, mate?’
    The accent was genuine Australian.
    â€˜I’m buggered,’ I said. ‘A bit old for this.’
    She pointed with a long, thin arm at where the dancers were. ‘Your mate’s doing okay.’
    â€˜He’s a bit younger. I’m Cliff. You are?’
    â€˜Angela Warburton, from Coogee.’
    We shook hands. ‘Know it well.’
    She was fortyish, dark, with a mass of red-brown hair, green eyes and a strong face. I was a bit drunk and I took out my mobile phone, still experimenting, and snapped a picture of her. Just for fun I pointed the