Mandy was last. We all stood with our hearts in our mouths as she cantered Fox Me towards the first fence, expecting her to fall off or let the horse refuse. He sailed over. He did the same for her at the tiger trap, and they turned towards the wattle sheep pen and jumped it neatly and effortlessly as if it had been no more than a couple of cavalletti. We were stunned.
The chief was clearly stunned as well because, when the pair finished, he called them back to do it again. Fox Me faced the post and rails for a second time without the least hesitation, he sailed into the tiger trap with total confidence and no thought of refusal, while Mandy, with absolute faith in his ability, and hindering him not one whit by superfluous aid or instruction, sat aboard him, radiant.
The chief was visibly perplexed by the problem this presented to him as an instructor in the fine art of equitation. One could see that whilst on the one hand his impeccable standards of excellence were appalled by Mandy’s passive and untutored method of riding, his instinct made him reluctant to interfere with the fragile balance of their totally successful partnership, lest he destroy with discipline and conventional technique something which was god-given and somehow sobering to watch.
Much as the chief must have itched to tear Mandy’s riding apart, and make her begin again from the basics, he resisted it totally. For the whole of the course he made only minor adjustments to her riding position, for the sake of her gaining a place in the team, and out of respect for a partnership based on a perfect understanding.
Seeing all this take place served to increase my respect for the chief, albeit, after the incident at the double, somewhat reluctantly. It was inspiring to realize that even he could recognize a little miracle when he saw one. But watching Mandy and Fox Me negotiate the sheep pen smoothly for the second time, and pondering upon the slightly unwelcome possibility that they were now back on my list of possibles for selection, I felt in need of a little miracle myself.
6
Once More, With Feeling…
By the end of the first week, we had settled into our daily routine. We stumbled out of bed to the shrilling of many alarms at a quarter to six, gulped a cup of coffee, and clad in the stable workers’ uniform of jeans, long rubber boots, and lovat anoraks or quilted waistcoats, set off for the yards alongside the working pupils and the early duty staff. Our first job was to muck out our horses and scrub out and refill the water buckets. Then we removed the horses’ night rugs, gave them a brief grooming, which included washing off any dirty patches, picking out their feet, brushing straw out of their tails, and laying their manes, and we put on their day rugs. Whilst all this was going on, a numbered and weighed hay net was delivered, and a muck cart, pulled by a mini-tractor, collected the dirty bedding stacked neatly on a spread sack outside each stable.
Feeding followed; the feeds, mixed in accordance with the charts devised by the chief detailing individual menus for each horse. While the horses ate their breakfast we helped to rake and sweep the yards, until not an alien speck or wisp remained for the chief to see when he carried out his daily inspection.
At eight thirty we scholarship students were scheduled for our half-hour run around the perimeter of the cross-country course. This was supervised by a member of staff to make sure we didn’t cheat. For the first few days this was simply murder; we staggered along with aching calves, gasping breath and stitches, limping back to the Duke of Newcastle in agony. Naturally, only Selina had thought to come properly equipped with running shoes. The rest of us had to make do with rubber boots, jodhpur boots, or shoes that managed to be even less suitable. Nevertheless by the end of the week most of us were beginning to find it less of a strain and more enjoyable – all except Mandy, who flopped along behind looking absolutely exhausted.
After the run we had breakfast – the box marked PROVISIONS FOR THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE never failed to appear on the doorstep whilst early morning stables was in progress. By nine thirty we were back on the yards. A thorough strapping for the horses was the first task, from whence we were called away individually to endure ten minutes lungeing on a round, piebald pony who appeared to do little else but trot and canter round in circles every day of his life. We swung our arms and legs and did various exercises designed to supple us, improve our balance, and strengthen and deepen our seats. All it did for us at first was to increase our aches and stiffness. The lungeing period, according to the chief’s daily schedule, was to be extended by ten minutes every week until in the last week we were being lunged for forty minutes each day. The thought of it, as we reeled away after just ten minutes, was frightening.
At eleven o’clock we had to be tacked up for our first lesson of the day which was usually dressage, followed by a circuit of the show-jumping arena, and at twelve thirty we rugged up our horses again, skipped out their boxes, fed them, and went for lunch.
We were out on the yards again at two to prepare for the afternoon’s cross-country instruction, during which the chief cruised between fences in a Range Rover. It was a two-hour period, but as a lot of it comprised standing about and discussing technique, it was not too taxing, and at four thirty we returned to the yards and were allowed half an hour’s break for tea. At five we skipped out the stables again, shook out the horses beds for the night, topped up their water buckets, changed day rugs for jute rugs, the evening feeds were mixed and another hay net delivered, and the yards were swept and raked again for the chief’s evening inspection at six.
After supper we reported to the tack room to clean our saddlery in order that the whole procedure should be repeated again the following day, and although there was still lots of activity going on in the yard – horse boxes and trailers constantly coming and going as outsiders brought along their own horses for evening instruction, and we were allowed to watch the lessons from the gallery, or from a vantage point on the cross-country course if we wished – all we ever wanted to do in the first week was to plod wearily back to the Duke of Newcastle and fall into bed.
On Saturday morning I had a letter from Nick. It read:
Dear Elaine,
Thanks for sending the garage – I really enjoyed my three hour wait. Lots of cars came along between the time you abandoned me and the arrival of the truck, but I didn’t flag them down because I knew you’d remember me eventually – if I waited long enough (story of my life).
Typically, the Fanes were unsympathetic when I got back, implying that the puncture must have been our fault – well, you know the Fanes… but you’ll be pleased to hear I didn’t lose my temper. I did tackle them about your wages, but only time will tell if it did any good.
I’ll call in and have another go at them because I understand the new girl has moved in, and I want to see if she’s the wonder woman she’s made out to be (she might also be pretty), and I’ll tell you the news when I see you, which will be on Monday – I’ll call for you at 2.30 PM, and don’t say you can’t because I know you’ve got an afternoon off, I checked.
Trusting you’re top of the class,
Love etc,
Nick
I had very mixed feelings about this. Nick had dropped off the remainder of my things late on Sunday evening after the garage had fixed the horsebox. At the time, he had still obviously felt very piqued about the incident because he had simply left the box of equipment in the yard, from where I had retrieved it the next morning. I had been feeling guilty about not remembering to call the garage earlier and had been meaning to ring and apologize. Somehow, there had not been the time and I was pleased that he had written now and relieved that he had apparently forgiven me.
His reference to the Fanes, though, stirred up unwelcome emotions. I had been too busy to give them much thought during the past week. While I certainly did not want to hear about the new wonder woman, because I felt that the wages the Fanes were paying her were rightfully mine, I was dismayed to discover that I felt jealous at the thought of someone else grooming and exercising the horses that I had loved – and I had loved them, even though
I was only now beginning to realize just how much.
After lunch on Saturday we discussed the technique of jumping fences involving water, and we stood in a group and watched Selina and Flame Thrower approaching a telegraph pole situated in the middle of a small lake which necessitated jumping into and out of two feet of water. For once, Selina was in trouble. She had entered the lake too slowly and too cautiously, and Flame Thrower, having allowed himself to be ridden into the lake, noticed the telegraph pole too late to be reconciled to it. He refused.
The chief, standing on the bank with his beautiful boots inches from the water and with a tweed cap on his head, hailed her irritably; “Back, Miss Gibbons, come back! Try again from the rise; this time with more impulsion!”
Selina turned the bright chestnut horse away from the pole and they splashed towards the bank. Flame Thrower’s tail hung in a sodden lump, and Selina’s beautiful breeches were becoming wetter by the minute. They set off again from the rise, cantering into the water and throwing up clouds of spray, but the chief was having none of it.
“Impulsion, Miss Gibbons,” he bellowed, “does not mean you merely increase the speed!”
Selina halted the horse’s progress towards the obstacle and they floundered through the water towards the chief. By this time they were both dripping wet.
“I am perfectly aware of that,” Selina said in an incensed voice, “perfectly. But it is extremely difficult to work up either enthusiasm or impulsion, when one is drenched with filthy water, and the horse does not like the look of the obstacle one is approaching one little bit.”
Surprisingly, the chief didn’t lose his temper; in fact, he seemed to find Selina’s obvious discomfort rather amusing. “Quite,” he said, “but if you expect to be accepted as a serious candidate for the junior trial, you must imagine that you are riding for your country; you must ride as if your life depended upon it; you must ride at that obstacle with body and soul united in determination to get over – even if you are killed in the attempt.”
Selina stared at him with pursed lips. “I came on this course for the good of my career,” she said. “I didn’t realize I would be expected to die for my country.” Nevertheless, she turned Flame Thrower away and set off again from the rise. This time she gave it everything she had and they sailed over. The chief sent her back to the yard to change her clothes.
The next fence presented a different problem, being an uphill double. The chief began with a lecture on gradients, explaining how the horse’s stride naturally lengthened going downhill and shortened going up. He made us dismount and pace the distance between the rails on foot. Each rider, he said, should be familiar with the natural length of their horse’s stride, and, by taking into consideration the gradient and the speed, should calculate whether it would be sensible to achieve four long, six short, or whatever other combination of strides were necessary in order to present the horse correctly at the second part of the double.
Viv went first on Balthazar. They approached it at a powerful gallop which shook the ground, flew over the first part, took three huge, raking strides, and finding themselves still inconveniently far away from the second part, chanced it anyway with a vast leap which, though mighty and courageous in its attempt, could not be high enough to clear the top rail. Balthazar hit the timber with an impact that would have knocked the hind legs off a lesser animal, and cantered back to us with not so much as a mark on his cannon bones.
The chief was furious, and told us that if the fence had come towards the end of the course, and taking into consideration horse and rider fatigue and the gradient involved, to attempt to take a solidly fixed double at such a punishing pace would be a recipe for disaster; the result of which would probably be two broken legs for the horse and a broken neck for the rider. After a short interval spent trotting in circles to ascertain that Balthazar was indeed still sound, he dispatched them to try again, and this time they approached it at a more sober pace, achieving four comfortable strides between the fences and two clean jumps.
Alice went next on The Talisman, who was very enthusiastic about his jumping and not easily controlled. He got away from Alice on the approach, threw up his head and raced at the double, landing a long way in. This upset Alice’s stride calculations, and as she struggled to check him, he hesitated, put in an extra one, and took off too close to the second part, slamming the rails with both pairs of fetlocks and almost pitching Alice over his head as he landed. He trotted back to us on three legs with blood welling from his off-hind coronet.
Alice flung herself out of the saddle to examine the damage. “I knew damned well he wasn’t going to make it as soon as we took off,” she said in an angry voice. The chief sighed and ordered her back to the yard to seek medication.
Phillip and the amazing roan went through the double in perfect copy-book style and they were followed by Annemarie and her little bay horse. It was clear that he would have attempted to jump over the moon if she had asked him, but the fact that he was small and close-coupled, meant she had to jump him with deadly accuracy and place him every inch of the way. This suited her disciplined way of riding but it meant that they were slow, and I had noticed that the little horse had been at full stretch when we were working over spreads. Brave as a lion he might be, but even his courage and Annemarie’s ambitious determination couldn’t give him the scope he lacked to turn him into the potential top class event horse she so desperately wanted him to be. He would do his best, but it was clear, as we watched him, that as the fences got higher and wider, and as the pace got faster, his best wouldn’t be good enough. The only person who didn’t see this, or who wouldn’t allow herself to see it, was Annemarie.
Mandy followed Annemarie, and although she appeared to close her eyes and leave it all to Fox Me, he leapt the first part, and with four swinging, perfectly judged strides, met the second part exactly right and soared over. There was nothing the chief could say to this so he said nothing.
It was my turn last of all. I had worked out that Legend, who had a naturally long, floating stride, would shorten due to the gradient, taking four normal uphill strides inside the double, bringing himself exactly right for the second half without any adjustment from me. Being an economist by nature, I could see no justification in asking for shortened and lengthened strides if the same result could be accomplished more effortlessly without. It seemed that my calclations were right, because Legend did it beautifully and as he swept through the double it felt deceptively easy. It probably looked too easy as well because the chief sent us to do it again, this time with instructions to get three long strides between the fences.
I felt this was a bit unreasonable, especially as he had been furious with Viv for attempting it, but I knew Legend could do it and I took him at it from a good distance away, feeling the power from his hocks and the thrust of his shoulders as he flew forward. He rose over the first part, and with my legs clasped urgently to his sides, he flew onwards with three enormous strides that ate up the ground, soared over the second part and landed perfectly. It was simply marvellous.
“Now do it again,” the chief commanded, “and give me five short bounces.”
I couldn’t believe it. I trotted Legend up to him feeling indignant. “But I’ve already been over it twice,” I said, “and he’s done it beautifully both times.”
“Allow me to be the judge of that, Miss Elliot,” the chief snapped. “This time I want to see you take it slowly, with lots of impulsion, and absolute control.”
I could hardly refuse. I rode back to the approach line, gritting my teeth, bursting to retort that I had been in absolute control both of the previous times.
I sent Legend forward towards the double yet again, but this time, because he would have liked to race at it as before, I sat down hard and held him back, feeling the stretched muscles and tendons pulling in my calves and my heels, and the energy being contained by the reins until it was as if I held a coiled spring in my hands. Legend’s dark hooves pounded on the turf,
his neck arched and his ears strained forward. I placed him at the first part, releasing him only enough to allow him to jump, collected him, held him for one, two, three, four, five, short, bouncing strides, released him dangerously near to the second part, and up he went, up almost like a lift, and over, tucking up his hind legs to clear the rail. We had done it. I looked at the chief in triumph, but he was already waving me on to the next fence. “Ride on! Ride on!” he shouted. “Continue over the next jump.” He didn’t even say well done.
I rode on feeling angry. I didn’t know why the chief should be trying to humiliate me, but I felt he had sent us again and again at the double in the hope that eventually we would make a mistake. Well, we hadn’t. I was fiercely proud of Legend and I leaned forward in the saddle and rubbed his neck with my knuckles as we cantered on up the rise. “We’ll show the chief,” I told him, “we’ll get fitter than the others, we’ll work harder than the others, and we’ll make the team, he’ll have to choose us. Then we’ll show everybody what we can do.”
We thudded towards the brush fence situated on top of the rise, and suddenly Legend began to falter in his stride. This was very out of character as he wasn’t the sort of horse to spook at a perfectly straightforward fence, but he would certainly have stopped had I not legged him on energetically. He took off with reluctance and might even have turned back in mid-air had it been at all possible, due to the surprising nature of what lay behind.
Ticket to Ride (Eventing Trilogy Book 3) Page 6