by Amanda Owen
‘Maaaaam,’ came Edith’s voice, bringing me back to my senses. ‘Joe won’t stand up.’
I didn’t like the sound of this one bit; Joe was an old campaigner, we’d had him since Raven was little and he was no spring chicken when we got him. In the other stable, I found Joe alone. Della, the untameable free spirit, had gone. Joe was sitting with his legs tucked neatly under him, his head up. His hazel eyes were weary, and the coarse whiskers on his chin and the grey hairs that flecked his face showed his advancing years. Violet knelt beside him in the straw, while Edith stood over him with a pensive expression on her face.
‘He won’t get up,’ she repeated.
Little Joe’s ears flickered. He stared dead ahead but was listening hard.
‘Food. We’ll get him a bite to eat,’ I said, making my way towards the proven store. ‘See if that’ll tempt him.’
There was a bag of mixed cereals and a drum of molasses in there, all edibles that Joe usually found irresistible. Food had always been his downfall, and, over the years, there had been many occasions during which he’d over indulged himself, though none so far had caused him to suffer any ill effects.
The prognosis for any animal that cannot, or will not, stand is not good. The greater the length of time spent as a ‘downer’ the more the chance of recovery diminishes; the patient would soon become weak, their stomach and digestive system begins to fail, and lying in soiled, pee-soaked straw was clearly not beneficial, so it was imperative that we got him to his feet.
‘C’mon, Joe.’ I shook the blue feed scoop that was now brimming with cereal flakes and the gloopy treacle. His ears quickly snapped back into forward position, and he craned his neck as I bent forward to give him a waft of the sweet-smelling muesli mixture to whet his appetite. I let him have a little taste, and a few flakes fell to the floor as he took a mouthful. A white cockerel that Miles called Brian, in honour of the famous scientist Professor Brian Cox, appeared out of nowhere and began scratching around amongst the straw bedding. Nobody, other than Miles, liked Brian as he was a habitual people-pecker. Miles had hand-reared him from an egg and now Brian ruled the roost, or so the feathered bird-brain thought.
I handed Violet the feed scoop and told her to hold it just out of reach of Joe whilst Edith and I pushed from behind. Even though he was only a Shetland pony, he weighed an absolute ton and other than him letting out a tired sigh from one end and a rumbustious fart from the other, there was little progress made.
‘Shall we get Dad?’ asked Edith.
‘Christ no,’ I said unequivocally. ‘It’s a no; Dad dislikes Little Joe very much.’
Then I ran through the list of reasons why.
‘Joe scratches his bottom on drystone walls and then they fall down,’ I said. ‘Joe trod on Dad’s glasses when he was tonsing tups in the barn. Joe chewed the wooden top-rail bar in the sheep pens. Joe kicked Dad’s best tup when it tried to make a romantic gesture towards him in the field.’
I smiled at the thought of the ridiculously over-amorous tup that had attempted to mount Little Joe – and not in the conventional way that one should mount a pony. The tup liked Joe very much, but it was not a sentiment shared by our pony and we saw another side to him that day as, with a wild look in his eye, he bared his teeth, flattened his ears right down and repeatedly kicked out backwards with both back hooves. Joe was not shod and there was no lasting damage to the tup other than wounded pride.
That was when I remembered that the stock tups were in the loose box next door. I wondered whether a visit from one of them might serve as an incentive to get Joe up and about.
It worked a treat. No sooner had I manhandled the tup through the stable door than all hell broke loose. The tup let out a deep bellow of sexual interest, Brian squawked and flew up onto the hay manger above, and Edith and Violet recoiled to the back of the stable and watched the commotion unfold as Little Joe didn’t just stand up, he leapt up as though he’d been given an electric shock. The tup ran a few circuits of the stable in a state of excitement, his nose in the air and his top lip curled back, while Little Joe spun like a top. I cornered the tup and frogmarched him to the loose box, then went back to the stable to assess Joe.
‘Aw that brightened him up, Mam,’ said Violet.
That was an understatement, as Joe was on high alert now. He gave a snort of indignation and looked furtively around, wary that the tup might make a reappearance.
This incident was the start of a new regime regarding Little Joe, as it brought to our attention the sad fact that this lovable old rogue’s health was now failing. A couple of ill-fitting rugs that swathed his low-slung frame were found in the blanket box in the woodshed loft. It took a few minor alterations, mostly requiring copious lengths of baler twine, to make them usable. As soon as I could get to the agricultural suppliers, I bought him some special veteran mixture, which was easy to chew and digest but not so easy on the pocket. However, it was worth the money as he consumed it very enthusiastically. We fed him apples, carrots and a hot bran gruel recipe that we found in an old horseman’s book and, with this, Joe’s health and strength seemed to improve.
Every day after the children returned from school, I’d see a small black figure cocooned in multiple rugs trot past the front door, closely followed by Sidney, who was running to keep up and laudably still holding on to the end of the lead rope despite nearly being pulled over. He would take Joe each night to be watered in the beck down by the bridge. There, with the water lapping at their heels, they’d stand together. Sometimes I could see Sidney chattering away; if nothing else, Joe still had a willing ear to listen to secrets.
Finally, the snow receded, but not for a good many weeks. The drifts of over twenty feet in depth that had accumulated in sunless valley bottoms gradually shrank and revealed the untold damage they had done. Lengths of drystone wall were razed, and water gates were washed away during the resulting floods. The snow storms had cost us dearly, left us with an enormous amount of clearing up to do, some epic feed bills and nearly killed us through sheer cold and fatigue, but we’d ridden out the storm. The animals were all safe and accounted for, we could move on.
We were at this time filming for television, talking about the impact of the storm, and had already explained that we were used to dealing with snow and bad weather, and that due to the accurate forecasting and our diligence all the flock were safe and well. I had sat on the quad bike surveying the scene as I waited for the camera to be set up again and for the soundman to get into position. Accompanied by Kate, the sheepdog, I’d just taken the Ravenseat flock of sheep back to their heaf at the moor, while Clive had been up to the allotment with his dog, Bill, to see whether the gate was still blocked with snow. Meltwaters had filled the beck, which flowed quickly and purposefully downstream. Ice still remained on the bankside and occasionally a lump would break free and be carried off over the ford and falls and away into oblivion. My eye was drawn by a chunk of floating wet ice in the middle of the beck which remained peculiarly still, never stirring as the current of water flowed around it. Kate’s attention had also been piqued. I got off the bike to go and have a look, but wished that I hadn’t.
‘Rolling,’ said the cameraman, panning around just in time to capture the look of dismay on my face as I saw that the mini iceberg was actually the ice-encrusted fleece of a dead sheep. I could just make out her bloated form under the peaty water. At this point, Clive turned up too.
‘Rollin’ down the river,’ piped up Clive as I scowled at him. It wasn’t funny. I had just talked in great depth about how we had not lost any sheep in the storm and now here I was, on camera, fishing one out of the river. It wasn’t even as though I could claim that it wasn’t one of ours because it was clear, owing to its location, that there was no way that it could possibly be anyone else’s. I could only think that when Miles and I had brought the sheep down from the moor, one of the yows had been left behind. She must have sheltered beside the river and been overblown, then come to rest under t
he water and been covered in ice and snow. It was all a little humiliating, but it did reflect the true cost of the storm and brought the realities of it right into the living rooms of the viewers in high-definition technicolour.
It was a cause for celebration when, finally, spring arrived, and the sunshine brought a spark of life back to the bare pastures. Grass (or Doctor Green, as it is sometimes called) was the long-awaited cure-all and it felt like nothing short of miraculous when turn-out day came, and Joe went out to grass for the first time after what had seemed like the longest winter. We were jubilant, or should I say that the children and I were.
‘Nay, I thought t’owd beggar was dun’ for,’ Clive said one day as he watched Clemmie sharing an apple with him.
‘Just needed a bit of TLC,’ I said. ‘I’ll do same for thee when it’s time to put you out to pasture.’
It was a funny thing but all throughout that protracted winter it was the thought of Little Joe having one last summer during which he could feel the sun on his back, the grass beneath his hooves and truly enjoy the freedom of retirement, that kept us all positive. That was the goal. I had warned the children that it was probably going to be his last summer and that if he lost condition before the onset of the next winter then they must be willing to accept his fate. To put him to sleep would be the kindest thing to do, the hardest thing also but it would be the right option. Better than watching his health fail and seeing him suffering and in pain.
Now as I write, in November 2018, the first frosts of winter have arrived, and the trees have shed their leaves, a cool wind blows and the horses’ glossy, sleek summer coats have been replaced with the thick shaggy variety. Little Joe is looking well, once again wrapped up against the elements and consuming feed with vigour, and we will endeavour to nurse him through another winter as this spirited little pony is clearly not ready to give up the ghost just yet.
There are only a few folk left who can remember when working horses were used on farms. Our horses are for pleasure, rather than work, but, in the same way the children like to help, there does seem to be a deep-seated desire within them to contribute, to have a job. Josie and Princess are not particularly well schooled, would fail in any dressage test, but they are a useful mode of transport, being surefooted and quick learners. I think they take great enjoyment in being part of the team. Hopefully, we will get Della broken in, so we can ride her, although she may be a little more of a handful owing to her shy and nervy disposition, though gentle coaxing will undoubtedly win over her insecurities.
For the horses, summertime is their holiday, when they can graze away at the moors and be wild and free. Wintertime is about routine, being stabled and ridden – but in the most casual manner possible – around the sheep or perhaps to the moor, nothing too strenuous. The Firs has old stables that stand across from the house, opening out onto a little stone-flagged yard, and we took Josie and Princess down there for a few weeks, using them to explore the surrounding fells and moors.
Our old friend Johnny was a good hand with horses. Although he had retired from farming, he had never parted with any of his tack and was happy to lend us items from his substantial collection, as well as being on hand with advice, useful or otherwise.
He was well into his eighties, a diminutive, wiry man but a noticeable figure in that he was a snappy dresser. As well as his flat hat, houndstooth blazer and brown dealer boots, he had a penchant for yellow cord trousers with extremely high waistbands, coupled with braces, which seemed to accentuate his pronounced bowed legs.
‘Used to ride out for Captain Crump,’ he’d sometimes say. A silver-framed picture of him on the sideboard showed him in his younger years on a thoroughbred at a point-to-point cross-country race in a pair of voluminous elephant-ear breeches and gaiters. Now troubled with arthritis and rheumatism, his fingers were twisted and bent inwards on themselves almost as though he was still holding reins, but what a wicked glint he had in his eye and he wore a half-smile that would effortlessly blossom into a beaming grin. I did sometimes wonder whether the tomfoolery and outward smiles hid a deeper unspoken sadness, for I knew that back in the day there had been a child stillborn. It was a subject we never broached with either him or his wife, Dora, it was just one of those unsaid things that everybody knew about but nobody mentioned. It appeared that they filled this missing part in their lives with animals, and had farmed sheep and cattle and bred Dales ponies but now, as old age set in, the farm and land was all let. They lived in a comfortable bungalow nearby, with a paddock, enough room for a couple of ponies, and the fancy hens, pigeons and cats that they loved.
Dora wore a headscarf at all times, knotted under her chin; I don’t think I’d ever seen her without it. The auburn permed hair that it covered never seemed to move. I’d considered that it might just be a wig, but if it was then she wore it well. She’d stand on the doorstep, hands shoved down into the front pocket of one of her vast collection of gaily patterned aprons, with colourful plastic flowers in hanging baskets on either side of her. In her garden, random objects, like wheelbarrows and plastic feed buckets, were all brimming with plants and surrounded by chicken wire to prevent the chickens that wandered freely around from spoiling the displays. The household seemed to accumulate cats. She even offered her services as a cat sitter and would take care of other folks’ feline friends whilst they were on holiday or in hospital. Clive and I had dropped in one afternoon with the intention of borrowing a mouthing bit for Princess, a nice soft bit with metal keys for her to play with using her tongue. When we arrived, there was a very well-heeled lady giving Dora and Johnny specific instructions on how to look after her beloved cat, which I assumed was the one in the wicker basket on the floor.
‘Here’s a week’s worth of food,’ said the cat owner. ‘A tin a day, if you will.’
She placed a plastic bag on the table, going on to detail the moggy’s daily habits before she finally departed, dabbing her eyes with a carefully folded handkerchief. She’d hardly been gone two minutes when Johnny decided to take a look at what was in the bag.
‘Salmon,’ he said, picking up one of the tins and admiring the label. ‘Weeel, that’s us sorted for the week, Dora. Kitekat for you,’ he added, tapping the wicker basket, from which a mewing sound ensued.
Dora shook her head, but she, too, had a twinkling smile full of devilment.
They were honest folk, salt of the earth you might say, but Johnny – having been involved with horses and trading all his life – was exceptionally sharp-minded and always on the lookout for a deal. Every year he went to the annual Cowper Day horse sale at Kirkby Stephen. He could always be found in the auction mart watching the trade and wooing potential buyers. I’d seen him reel in the customers firsthand.
‘I’m wanting a pony for my daughter to ride,’ said a besuited gentleman who looked just a little incongruous among the gypsies and horse dealers, teenage lads with mullets and girls with fake tans and talon-like nails.
‘Aye, I think that I’s got just the pony for yer at home,’ Johnny’d said, nodding his head. ‘It’s 13.2 or thereabouts, gelding, quiet in all yokes, ride n’ drive, bombproof, lovely lal’ ’oss.’
‘And how much would you be wanting for it?’ asked the prospective buyer.
‘I’d tak five hundred for it,’ said Johnny confidently.
‘Oh, well,’ said the gentleman, pausing for a moment. ‘I was looking for something maybe a little bit better.’
‘Weeeell,’ said Johnny, thinking quickly, ‘I do hev another, but I wasn’t really wantin’ to part wi’ it.’ He had his buyer under his spell, the trap was set and the man was going to take the bait. ‘Proper genuine sort, but it’d ’ave to be fifteen ’undred.’
I had a sneaking suspicion that these two horses were one and the same.
We called on them once when Violet was a baby. I’d just unfastened her seatbelt and lifted her out of her car seat when Johnny came over and reached out to hold her. He walked towards the kitchen window, where Dora w
as doing the dishes.
‘Look what I getten,’ he’d shouted, holding Violet up to the window. ‘I’ve swapped it for a bantam.’
Dora laughed, and if she wasn’t really laughing inside then she did a jolly good job of hiding it. The older generation maybe had a different way of dealing with such painful subjects.
We did do a swap that day, but it was hatching eggs that changed hands rather than a baby. Johnny wanted Welsummer eggs to hatch under a broody hen; I had some of them and in exchange I got a mixed batch of hatching eggs from his fancy bantams to put in our incubator. In fact, my small incubator was such a notoriously awkward thing to get exactly right that I didn’t hold any real hope of success.
I was wrong, they all hatched: two silver-spangled Hamburgs, a blue Wyandotte, two silver Sebrights. We reared them all. Miles took the silver-spangled Hamburg to Muker Show, which at the time had a poultry section. Although Miles had the smallest chicken at the show, he won each of his classes: best local chicken, best small-breed chicken and overall best chicken in show. Rather like Johnny, what that little chicken lacked in stature he made up for in personality and attitude.
8
The Adventures of Chalky
Late March can be filled with seemingly endless grey days, and in 2018 the month was, as usual, wet underfoot with little prospect of anything better. Our workload also increases at this time, as the sheep need to be tended more frequently owing to the imminent arrival of the lambs. In an effort to maximize efficiency and get around all the heafs quicker, we had invested in another quad bike. Now Clive could go in one direction to his flock on Ravenseat moor, whilst I could go the other way, to Black Howe and Birkdale Common, to mine. Every morning we would load up with hay and feed for the sheep, and in my case three children, Annas, Clemmie and Nancy. They would hunker down in the trailer between the hay bales and bags of cake, peeping out from beneath their woolly hats. Neither Clive nor I would take a sheepdog with us, because at this late stage in the sheep’s pregnancy the last thing they needed was any kind of upset or stress.