Noel Stuart
nontheless@freezone.co.uk
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About My Writing
A Knight in Shining Armour
A sharp click announced the arrival of the mail
as the letter box snapped shut. Bert, my flat
mate wandered into the kitchen, still yawning the
night out of his system.
“It’s a letter for you, Ned,” he
muttered and disappeared into the bathroom. It
was a plain envelope with the address written in
a bold and generous hand. I recognised the
unmistakable script of Maeve Plunket, an alluring
little will o’ the wisp who had bewitched me for
the past six months.
The letter started off, “Dearest White Knight.
We have been drifting apart recently through no
fault of our own - different interests and you
trying to study so hard. I’m afraid that I didn’t
help much! We have had lovely times together,
which I shall always cherish but I have been
going out with another man recently.
We have become very involved with one another
and he has asked me to marry him. It is that big
handsome man Tom Gleeson who nearly killed me
last year! We are very happy and I only hope that
you find a girl to match your charm.
Love from Maeve.”
I crunched the missive up and threw it into the
fire. ‘Thanks be to God for small mercies! At
last I’m free from that young lady and her
family. We’ve had some lovely times together. I
wonder how much she knows about the murky world
in which her father is involved.
After a hearty breakfast I wandered up Anglesey
Road and into the side door of the Dublin horse
show grounds. Apart from a couple of groundsmen
trimming the verges, the grounds were empty. I
sat in the stand looking out across the arena
recalling the times I had watched Maeve competing
in the show-jumping events. I felt that I just
wanted to mull over the events of the last twelve
months.
The heat, the intense silences and the tension,
willing Maeve and Dancer to finish a clear round
came to me clearly. Afterwards the horses would
be rubbed down, fed and watered before we went
off to the city for a celebratory meal provided
by her father, Dan-Joe. He was overgenerous and
possessive of those surrounding his family.
Sometimes I felt like a young stud retained for
his daughter’s pleasure. It had been an
incredible summer full of happiness and romance
with an incredibly attractive young lady. In a
paradoxical way, a load had just been lifted from
my shoulders. No longer was I a kept man. I stood
up to go back to the digs realising that I had
broken one of life’s basic tenets. It’s a foolish
man who lets a pretty face distract him from a
day’s trout fishing!
Looking back objectively at the events of the
summer term I could hardly believe that it had
happened. I had never really considered myself as
a knight in shining armour. It had been yet
another adventure.
Mine were the simple pleasures of drinking
Guinness, rugby and fishing. I was finding that
the necessity of passing examinations was
beginning to dominate my thoughts, leaving
precious little time for minor distractions such
as rescuing fair maidens and for cultural
activities like the Abbey Theatre.
My problems had started when Mike, Bert and I
had spent a weekend in County Meath in order to
escape from our studies. We camped in a field
beside one of those little white Irish cottages.
It lay just below the road in a rather rough
meadow dotted with thistles and patches of sedge
grass. A fine plume of blue turf smoke crept
lazily out of the chimney pot to dissipate in the
air. Mike knocked on the door and a tall dark
woman in her thirties greeted us. We noticed that
she gave a welcoming smile on seeing Mike’s
Nordic good looks and clear blue eyes.
“Of course you can use the field for your
tents. You’re as welcome as the flowers in
springtime,” she said smiling radiantly as if we
were doing her a favour.
I’m Grainne O’Farrell. I’ll call my husband.
Glancing over her shoulder she shouted “Padraig.
These young gentlemen would like to camp in the
meadow for the weekend. Take the scythe and make
a space in the thistles.”
Padraig appeared from the inglenook where he had
been stacking turf beside the fire. His weathered
features peered out from beneath a battered
trilby. His bent old body seemed to scuttle
sideways in a crab-like fashion due to a disabled
leg. He must have been at least twenty years
older than his wife - little wonder that the
sight of Mike had entranced her.
“You’re welcome,” said Padraig.
“Just give me a minute while I run the stone
over the blade of my scythe. The edge leaves it
very quickly.” Despite his disability, it was a
pleasure to watch the rhythmical sweeping action
of the scythe and the gentle hiss as the thistles
prostrated before him. Grainne insisted on
bringing us out milk and a rice pudding each day
in case we starved.
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The days were spent wading in the river, clad in
trousers and gym shoes, casting a line in our
hunt for the elusive trout. Nature was at her
best. The lush meadows, rippled by light airs,
were dotted with flowers of every hue. Contented
cattle grazed in the knee height grass. Their
hind legs were muscled all the way down to the
hocks, bringing alive the old saying, “Beef to
the heels like a Mullingar heifer”.
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Authors' Register:
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| About Me
Born in the Isle of Man of Irish/Welsh parentage, I nursed no other ambition other than to
work with animals. My lifelong passion for all creatures great and small, and an interest in
complimentary medicine for humans and non-humans alike, combined to culminate in my eventual
choice of a career as a veterinary surgeon. My work, both as a vet and in my second career as
a writer is a rich tapestry of down-to-earth practice alongside a sense of healing power
beyond science. This is balanced by a great sense of humour running a sparkling thread through
all that I have written. I has studied such unusually diverse directions as dowsing and the
effect of ley lines on cattle. I was also one of the earlier vets of to treat fish diseases,
and once had the dubious experience of counting an alligator, called “Daisy” as one of my
patients! I now enjoys an active semi-retirement in Cornwall and have turned my hand to range
of endeavours from ' lollipop man' to school governor. I may be found working with the local
Writers' Group, or travelling the world and being guru to his many grandchildren in New
Zealand.
| Some of My Work
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It's A Dog's Life
Genre: Fiction - General
Status: Available for Purchase
Read a Sample
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This is a fictional biography of the final
months at college and starting off in
veterinary practice. The problems confronting
a young vet from hard bitten old farmers.who
were extremely close to their livestock,
created many interesting situations.
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Perchance to Dream and other stories
Genre: Short Stories
Status: Available for Purchase
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'Perchance to Dream', 3300 words-Fairy Tale
Unpublished
'The Treharne Legacy'-1680 words-Cornish
Ghost story-Competition runner up in Writer's
News
'The Biter Bit'-Intrigue in 16th Century
'All Change'-A role reversal
'Demelza'-A Cornish smuggling tale.
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Awards and Commendations
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'The Treharne Legacy' -A Cornish ghost story which was a competition runnerup
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