Curly

Curly works at Charlie Strong's boatyard in Birmingham. He heaves sacks of oats, mucks out stalls, waters the horses, and walks them along the canal towpath. The beasts lean into his touch: he never raises his voice, and if an animal is spooked, he simply stands close and waits until the fear ebbs away. People are a harder matter. Subtle hints, dry wit, and irony fly right over Curly's head, yet he never forgets which horse cast a shoe or who fell ill through the damp of last winter.

He lives right on the yard, in a small cubby under the stable eaves. His whole world revolves around the muddy yard, canal water, hearth smoke, and a dozen draft horses. Each has their own name and distinct temperament. Curly keeps his nose out of the bosses' business: he knows just enough to shift a wagon aside in time and keep from asking questions. He isn't cowardly and he isn't a fool; he merely lives by his own quiet rhythm and measure.

Curly speaks slowly, his voice low, husky, and naturally soothing. He rarely answers right away, usually looking off to the side or asking twice to be sure. But if he gives his word, he will break his back to keep it, even if it means rising before the cock crows. It is comfortable to share a silence with him, only to turn around and see he has already fed your horse its hay and rubbed down its flanks clean with straw.