Free Loopy by Dan Binchy Page B

before he took off to England. The bank have been writing letters to my mother ever since.”
    â€œWhat did she say—to the bank, I mean?”
    Loopy had never discussed this with anyone before, but this Englishman seemed genuinely interested. “She told Mr. Martin that when the hay was sold, he’d get his money.”
    â€œAnd did he?”
    â€œNo. He got two hundred and forty pounds. Then I fell off the trailer and hurt my leg again. The rest of the hay is still in the barn. It will keep forever as long as it under cover and kept dry—that’s not the problem.”
    â€œWhat is the problem then?”
    â€œNow that my leg’s nearly better, no one seems to want hay.”
    â€œWhy is that? What causes the drop-off in demand for the hay?”
    â€œWell, y’see, when the fine weather comes, the cattle are left out on grass. Why would anyone pay for hay when the grass is there for free? Anyway, I can’t deliver it myself. The doctor told me that if I went near a hurling field or a hay trailer, he’d have the guards on me!”
    They both resumed hitting golf balls, then Linhurst stopped in midswing. “What about horses?”
    â€œHow do mean, sir?”
    â€œI mean, don’t horses eat hay all the year round?”
    â€œSome of them do alright. But not the ones around Trabane.”
    Now it was Linhurst’s turn to sound perplexed. “Are Trabane horses any different from the rest of the world?”
    â€œAh, no, that’s not what I meant at all, sir. The horses that eat hay all year round are racing horses, show jumpers, that class of an animal. There’s none of those around here. The horses we have in this part of the country would only be good for foxhunting or the odd point-to-point race. That class of horse is put out on grass for most of the year, just like the cattle.”
    They finished practicing and walked back to the clubhouse together.
    â€œAre you playing in the tournament this afternoon?”
    â€œI can’t, sir. I still haven’t got an official handicap, and anyway Mr. Delany says I’m not ready yet. He says I need to sort out my short game—the chipping and putting part of it.”
    Linhurst nodded. It made sense, he supposed, not to push the lad too far too fast, and yet … Linhurst believed that the sooner Loopy got the taste for battle, the tightening of the gut that comes with the pressure of real competition, the sooner he might discover what the future held in store for him. It was one thing to hit perfect shots nine times out of ten on the practice ground but quite a different matter to reproduce them where it counted, in competition.
    â€œAre you caddying for the schoolmaster then?” Linhurst’s tone was almost too casual for he already knew the answer.
    â€œNo, sir. Mr. O’Hara has had to go to the hospital for a checkup. He won’t be playing golf for a while, he thinks.”
    â€œDoes that mean you are out of a job—as his caddy, I mean?”
    Loopy sounded doubtful at first. “I suppose so…” He added by way of explanation, “Y’see, Mr. O’Hara hasn’t been well in himself this long while.”
    Linhurst said nothing. It was no secret that the schoolmaster was drinking more than ever since the start of the summer vacation. Up to now the discipline of having to show up sober five mornings a week had placed a curb on his drinking. Once this restraint had been removed, he’d “climbed straight into the whiskey bottle,” as Leo Martin had so unkindly put it. Not that Leo himself was a paragon of virtue in that regard.
    â€œWould you caddy for me instead, starting this afternoon? And don’t think you have to because of that subscription business or anything like that.”
    â€œNothing I’d like better, sir.”
    â€œGood! Would two o’clock suit you?”
    â€œThat’ll be fine, sir. I go on bar