Ryan’s Livery was a riding stable and farrier on the south side of Fremont Beach, just a few miles from the Del Mar Racetrack. Frankie often rode his bike there, cycling along the railroad track and across the trestle bridge spanning San Mateo Lagoon, a tidal wetland.
Frankie put his ear to the rail to listen for the mid-day Surf Liner’s approach and, hearing nothing, he crossed the bridge on foot, pushing his bicycle. Even though he knew the train’s schedule, he was mindful not to be caught out mid-span. Mounting his bike at the far side, he continued cycling, thumping over familiar sleepers until he reached Ryan’s.
Ryan himself sat on a wooden stool leaning against a wall of horse tack. His ancient Basset Hound, Sophie, slept by his side. He was cleaning a pair of shoes with saddle soap. To Frankie, there was something majestic about Ryan, like Batman brooding atop Gotham City. His leather blacksmith apron was burnt and scarred, containing his muscled chest like battered armour. His face was sooty and unshaven. A cigar butt dangled from his mouth like Humphrey Bogart playing Sam Spade. He’d been at his forge making horseshoes all morning. Job done, he was taking his ease but keeping his hands busy.
The stable was pungent with the odours of forged iron, tobacco, horses, leather, and Sophie. A brass spittoon sat neglected by the open door next to an electric fly trap which zapped and sizzled whenever a horsefly flew in to its doom.
Ryan was probably younger than he looked, not yet forty, soft speaking and a little haunted in the eyes, Frankie thought. He was a jockey whose racing career had ended with the wartime draft, combat in the Pacific, and ‘a bullet in the arse.’ There was grey in the stubble on his chin and he walked with a cane, but Ryan could mount and ride a horse with grace.
Frankie’s mom said Ryan probably drank too much and should better himself, but Frankie never saw him drunk; wondered how a horseman could be better than he was. He’d seen Ryan at mass on Sunday morning, more than once too, sometimes talking to his mum afterwards.
The stable was a man’s world, an island of quiet and safety where the only sounds were those of electrocuted flies and the shuffling and nickering of horses. Frankie liked the rhythmic chime of the hammer and anvil when Ryan was at work.
Ryan lived in a faded green caravan on cinderblocks in the dirt lot behind the corral. It had elliptical porthole windows, and, like Ryan, sat at an odd angle to the rest of the world.
‘What’s up, kid?’ Ryan always acknowledged Frankie when he mooched round to see him, usually after, but sometimes instead of, school.
‘I g-got dismissed early to-today because it’s the last day of school for the summer.’
Frankie stood just inside the open barn door, the sun warming his back and casting his shadow on the hay-strewn floor. Above him a bleached-out sign announced the horse rental fare, $1.00 for an hour, $3.00 for a half-day session. He didn’t ride horses. The huge beasts frightened him with their bulk and careless hoofs. He went to the stables because he liked Ryan and the fiefdom he’d created. Being there felt safe, a refuge from the playground jungles of boyhood.
Frankie looked at the ground, afraid he’d stammer if he spoke more, and drew semi-circles with his toe in the dirt stable floor.
Ryan accepted his speech problem and never pressed his greeting as a question. ‘Look, if ye’ve got nothing better to do, I could use some help mucking the stalls while the horses are out in the corral.’
Frankie liked hanging around the livery. Ryan would give him a quarter sometimes after he’d done a little work. He used the money to buy comic books or a Hershey bar to share with his mum. He liked having his own money. Mum liked chocolate.
#
Later, Frankie came home through the back, letting the screen door slam behind him as he walked into the kitchen. Bonnie, his dog, ran to greet him with snuffles and wet kisses.
‘How’s Johnny Ryan?’ Mom asked. She knew when he’d stopped by Ryan’s, maybe because of the smells he brought home, but she always said a little bird told her.
Bread was baking in the oven and he smelled the beginning of beef stew in his mom’s big, cast iron pot. They’d have warm, fresh baked bread with stew for supper tonight.
‘Go upstairs and take a bath, Frankie.’ Mom said.
Frankie knew better than to argue with that tone of voice.
‘And put on the clean clothes I set out for you.’
What was Mom thinking! He never had to bathe on Friday. He walked upstairs head down. A condemned hero, he visualised Flash Gordon chained to a dungeon wall by the evil Emperor Ming. There was no bathtub in Flash’s rocket ship, and he’d bet there wasn’t one at Ryan’s Livery either.
#
Having been warned of dire consequences if he got dirty again, Frankie was on the living room rug reading a new Green Lantern comic book when he heard footsteps on the front porch followed by a firm knock on the door.
Running to beat Bonnie, Frankie opened the door to find himself looking up at Mr Ryan, a clean, well shaved, version of his friend. He wore Hawaiian shirt and tan trousers. His shoes were shined, and he smelled like the barber shop! In his left-hand Ryan held a rough bouquet of flowers. He looked like Clark Kent on vacation!
Ryan smiled his big, easy smile.
‘What’s up, kid? Is your mum home?’
Frankie thought he might tell Ryan about Mum’s sweet tooth the next time he went to the livery stable.
