“The rats have eaten the electricity cables,” Henrietta said.
“What did you say?” I looked at her in astonishment. Whatever I had expected, it certainly wasn’t this.
“They’ve eaten the electricity cables, gnawed off the plastic coating. Rats do, apparently,” Nigella said.
“So we’ve no electricity,” Henrietta said, her pride forcing her to add, “but we’ve got candles, and the Aga, naturally.”
“Oh,” I said, “naturally.” I imagined them sitting at the kitchen table in the candlelight, walking up the cold, dusty staircase by the light of a single, flickering, flame.
“We’ve had the electricity people in, and we’ve got to have the whole place rewired,” Nigella said, “it’s going to cost two thousand pounds.”
“Goodness,” I said, it sounded an enormous amount. “Have you got it?”
“No,” Nigella said.
“What about the bank,” I suggested, “won’t they help?”
“Mummy went to see them, of course,” Henrietta said, “but they consider they’ve helped us enough. We already owe them quite a lot, they’re threatening to foreclose.”
I wondered how much they owed the bank, hundreds? thousands? As if by mutual consent, we all sat down on the grass.
“They want us to sell,” Nigella said, “in fact, it’s rather worse – they’re going to force us to sell.”
This was terrible news. “But what about your business?” I asked them. “What about your new girl? Your improved prospects?”
“We haven’t got a new girl anymore.” Nigella kept her eyes on her shoes, the red tap-dancing shoes with the scraped sides that she regarded as her best. “She’s left.”
“Left?”
“She turned out not to be suitable after all,” Nigella said. “There were… difficulties.”
“Difficulties?”
“She wanted more than we could afford to pay,” Henrietta burst out, “and she complained all the time, about the room, about the food, about there not being any hot water, and then…” she tailed off.
“And then?”
“And then the lights went out,” Nigella said.
I could have laughed, it sounded so ridiculous, and so very typical of the Fanes, but I could see that it was also tragic. “If you sell,” I asked them, “what will happen to your business?”
“The business will have to close,” Nigella said, “after all, it’s the land which will bring in the money to repay the bank – the house isn’t worth anything, it’s practically a ruin.”
It was the first time I had heard her admit it. “But the horses,” I said, “what about the horses?”
“We’ll sell them wherever possible,” she said, “and those we can’t sell we’ll have put down. That way, at least the kennels will benefit.” She looked up at me, knowing that I would take this badly. “There isn’t really any future for some of them,” she said, “and at least they won’t be shipped on the hoof or anything awful like that. They’re put down kindly in their own familiar fields. They don’t know, after all, what’s going on.”
I had known the answer even before I had asked, but now I thought of Nelson with his stitched up eye socket and his threadbare coat, of the bad-tempered chestnut whom nobody loved, of the black horse who never stood still, and the beautiful bay mare who was never sound for more than a few months at a time. My heart gave a frightening lurch as I realized how it would end for them, and I knew that I should never be able to bear it. “We can’t let it happen,” I said, “there must be some way, there must be something we can do.”
“Well, yes,” Nigella said, “there is something.” She began to twist the end of her ghastly shawl and she looked embarrassed. “The thing is, Elaine,” she began, “we know how awkward it would be for you to come back now, and by now, I mean after the trial, especially with your new job prospects and everything…”
“And we couldn’t pay you fifty pounds a week,” Henrietta put in almost sharply, “so there would be no point in promising it.”
“But if you would consider coming back to us,” Nigella said, “we think things might possibly be all right.”
I looked at them in despair. I was incredibly touched by their naïve belief that my expertise would have such a beneficial effect on their business that they would be able to surmount even these new and totally impossible difficulties. But for the life of me I couldn’t see how I could earn two thousands pounds immediately. I could continue with the grass liveries and the riding lessons, we could break and school horses, and perhaps we could still make our own hay for the winter, but none of this would bring in money quickly, or in sufficient quantity, to satisfy the bank.
“Nigella,” I said, “how will my coming back make any difference?”
Nigella seemed reluctant to answer this, and so it was Henrietta who replied.
“If you come back,” she said, instantly more cheerful, “we can sell Legend. You can buy another cheap, unschooled youngster to replace him, we can pay our bills, and then we can start all over again.”
Even knowing Henrietta as well as I did, I couldn’t believe she had said it. “Sell Legend?” I said, appalled.
“Well, why not?” she wanted to know. “He’ll be worth a bomb after all this intensive training, especially if he gets picked for the Junior Olympics. We’ll get twenty thousand for him at least, it’s a fortune.” It seemed to her to be the perfect solution and she looked at me expectantly. “What do you think?”
I lay flat out on the grass, feeling absolutely stunned. The Fanes had offered me the chance to go back; they actually wanted me to go back, but they had made sure I could never accept by expecting me to sacrifice Legend. Yet, if I didn’t go back, the hirelings would be sold – or slaughtered. Whichever way I looked at it, the situation was equally horrendous.
“I think I’ve been hit by a sledgehammer,” I said.
11
Hard Going
Halt at X, rein back four steps, proceed at working trot (sitting)… I squeezed Legend into a trot, and fixed my eyes beyond the end marker in order to keep him absolutely straight.
“Stop!” the chief shouted. “Stop and begin again, Miss Elliot, and this time I want to see a more fluent rein back, counting if you must, one-two-three-four, not one-two-three-and-a-half!”
I took Legend back to X, halted, counted four whole strides back, squeezed him again into trot, and this time I got as far as E.
“Stop!” commanded the chief. “Circle at E, Miss Elliot, means circle at E, not just before E, and not just after E. Accuracy, obedience and control are the essence of dressage; do it again please!”
We did it again, and again, before the chief professed himself satisfied. We repeated our halts, our leg-yielding, our transitions, and our turns-on-the-forehand so many times that my head began to spin and I felt panic rising in my chest. Legend, sensing it, stiffened into resistance, and the chief, raising his eyes to the heavens in a supplicatory gesture, finally waved us out and called in the next student.
Three weeks into the course, the work somehow seemed harder instead of easier. I was sure that I was putting maximum effort into my work and still it didn’t seem to be enough to please the chief, who consistently stopped and corrected me, making me ask Legend to repeat movements and jump fences time after time, even when I felt sure our performance had equalled that of the other students.
I rode away from the arena, took Legend into the shade and dismounted, running up the irons and loosening his girth. With the team due to be announced at the end of the week, I felt sure we hadn’t a chance of being chosen, and if we weren’t, I knew that the fault would be mine and not Legend’s. I’ve been too long without formal instruction, I thought, and in the time I have been with the Fanes my riding must have deteriorated badly without my realizing it.
I watched Phillip perform a fluent rein back into sitting trot under the now approving eye of the chief, and turned away, not wanting to see. Legend nudged my pocket
s hopefully and I found him a peppermint. He found it difficult to eat, rolling it round in his mouth and getting it mixed up with the bits of his double bridle, an expression of deep concentration on his face. If I sold you, I thought, if I found a good home for you, a family home, a comfortable well-off home, with someone to love you as much as I do, somebody who is a better rider than I am, would you really mind? Would you even notice?
I leaned my head on his silken neck, sick to my heart.
The next morning had been set aside for show-jumping practice. The fences in the paddock were not high, in fact hardly any of them exceeded three feet six inches, and they were also set at a good distance apart. Although there were spreads, uprights, combination fences, and the course included a water jump and a change of direction, it was still a far cry from the high, angled close-set fences of the professional show-jumping arena.
The chief had continually stressed the importance of the show-jumping phase, and warned us again and again against being over-confident or ill-prepared, because easy as it may look, a fence down in the show-jumping could lose us a close-fought competition. At the junior trial, the show-jumping would be phase two, following on after the dressage and coming before the cross-country. This set us rather a different problem from the three-day event proper, where it came at the end of everything, after the dressage, the roads and tracks, the steeplechase, and the cross-country, when the show-jumping phase was designed, not as further punishment for a horse and rider already tested to the limit of their endurance, but as an exercise to prove that they were still fit and supple enough to jump an accurate, intelligent round. Then, it was full of pitfalls for the tired or complacent horse and rider, but at the junior trial our horses would be fit, fresh, and bursting for action. We had to gauge their pre-ring preparation exactly right. They needed to be sober and obedient enough to go in and jump a clear round, but not having had their sparkle blunted for the cross-country.
Due to the dry, sunny weather, the ground was already baked and hard, and all of our horses wore support bandages, tendon boots and over-reach boots as we rode into the jumping paddock, where the fences sparkled, white, green, red and blue in the sunshine. The chief, still wearing his long boots and his jacket, although as a concession to the unseasonably hot weather he had exchanged his tweed cap for a straw trilby, positioned himself inside the marked off arena with his stopwatch and a starting bell.
Annemarie went first. She achieved what was so very nearly a clear round due to a brilliant display of precision riding marred only by the bay tipping a pole off the triple spread.
“If she’d let him crack on a bit at that and really stretch out his neck, he might have managed it,” Viv grumbled. “Still, I’m glad he didn’t.” She had never offered me any information on what had happened when her father had arrived, and I had never asked, knowing that if she had wanted to discuss it, she would have done so.
We watched Alice and The Talisman go round the course, rattling every fence but, by a miracle, not knocking down a single pole. Although it looked awful, and sounded worse, this was quite a feat on Alice’s part as The Talisman had little or no respect for coloured poles, knowing perfectly well he could plough through them without the slightest injury to himself if he chose. Theirs was not a copybook round, but it was exciting and, as The Talisman cantered out of the arena with his hooves scarred with paint, we heaved sighs of relief.
Mandy and Fox Me went next, sailing round in their usual magical manner; their perfect understanding and the pretty bay horse’s undoubted courage and exceptional ability stood them in good stead both across country and in the show-jumping arena.
Phillip and the roan horse also achieved a clear round and so did Selina and Flame Thrower, the latter combination jumping each fence in a neat, methodical manner, as if they had been doing it for years. Viv and Balthazar looked fit to make it four in a row until the powerful chestnut ran out at the last part of the triple combination, earning Viv a verbal lashing from the chief. She took Balthazar at it again, sullen faced, and this time they jumped it perfectly.
It was my turn. I had walked the course previously and worked out speed, stride and distance for every combination, noted the approach, groundline, height and spread of every fence. I was determined that we should jump clear and we did. Legend soared over the fences, clearing them with inches to spare, making nothing of them at all. Even the chief found nothing to complain about.
“Very good, Miuss Elliot,” he said as we cantered through the finish.
As we trotted across to the others, I leaned over and slapped Legend’s neck, feeling a surge of relief and renewed confidence. Perhaps this was the turning point, perhaps there would be a place for us in the team after all. Surely, I told myself, I would be a fool to consider giving up Legend now, surely nothing, not even the Fanes, would be worthy of such a sacrifice?
Getting a grip on my emotions and my commonsense for the first time since the Fanes had spilled out their devastating news, I suddenly found I could think positively again. I felt sure there was no need to have the hirelings shot. Why not offer them free to approved homes, so that they could live out their remaining years peacefully in semi-retirement? I knew that Horse & Hound was always full of advertisements from people of limited means who had the facilities but not the ready cash. Companion wanted for youngstock – that would do for the black horse; Bombproof elderly hack, about 15hh wanted by gentlewoman with back complaint – that would suit Nelson perfectly; nothing I had seen sprang readily to mind as suitable for the bad-tempered chestnut, but I was sure we would be able to place them all eventually. We might even advertise them ourselves, with a brief description of each. Why, I would even draft and pay for the advertisement myself. I didn’t see how it could fail.
Fired by such thoughts, I turned my attention to the problem of the Fanes themselves. Wouldn’t they be better suited in a smaller place anyway, somewhere more economic and easier to run than Havers Hall? In my imagination I saw them installed in a comfortable three-bedroom cottage with full central heating and a fashionably coloured suite in the bathroom. It all seemed so terribly simple and obvious that I was amazed it hadn’t occurred to me before.
“Letter for you, Elaine.”
Phillip dropped the familiar, crested envelope on to my plate. He looked exhausted and, looking round the table, I saw that everyone did. Viv looked pale and no longer bothered to apply her makeup. Alice, despite liberal applications of green acne ointment, had broken out in a fresh rash of spots across her chin and forehead. Mandy had dark shadows of fatigue under her eyes and a cold sore on her lip. Annemarie was tense and bad-tempered, and even in repose her square face was set like a piece of granite. Only Selina seemed unaffected by the general tension now that selection was just three days away; sailing graciously through it all, confident probably, that her rightful place in the team was totally secure.
The letter was from Lady Jennifer, written in a spidery hand below the Fane crest.
My Dear Elaine (she had written)
The girls have told me about their plans to resolve our little difficulty, and I am writing to say that I would not dream of asking you to part with Legend, in fact I positively forbid you even to consider it. It was frightfully thoughtless and unfair of them ever to suggest such a thing – you must forget it entirely and concentrate your energies on getting into the team for the junior trial – we will all be there to support you!
You must promise me you will not waste even a second worrying about what I am sure is only a temporary setback; the bank have been terribly understanding in allowing us a fortnight’s grace before any decision is made and one is always so incredibly optimistic that everything will turn out all right.
Good Luck!
And lots of love
Jennifer Fane.
My heart warmed towards Lady Jennifer as I read the letter. It was so typical of her to make little of their problems in order that I should be able to concentrate on the course. Well, I wouldn’t let h
er down. If it was within my capabilities to get into the team, I would do it. I would also take her advice and postpone any further action on the implementation of my plans for the rescue of the hirelings and for the future comfort of the Fanes themselves until after the junior trial.
A fortnight would give me all the time I needed.
Due to the hard going there was to be no cross-country practice that afternoon, but a lesson in the indoor school imstead. We were all husbanding our horses’ legs carefully, knowing that a sprain, or concussion on the iron ground could put us out of the team.
I took Legend into one of the tan surfaced lungeing rings to give him some gentle work on both reins in lieu of the morning’s work he was going to miss, and he trotted round, flexing his neck and reaching for the bit, swishing his silky black tail. Despite the injuries he had suffered in a horrendous road accident the previous year, I was pleased and relieved to see that he was as sound and level as ever.
After the lungeing, I replaced Legemd’s bridle, roller, and side reins with a headcollar and took him out to graze from the end of a rope. He had been used to long periods of freedom in the park at Havers Hall, and even in the winter I had turned him out in a New Zealand rug for a few hours two or three times a week to encourage him to relax and to keep his temper sweet.
I had noticed some particularly long, succulent grass growing in the shade of a copse at the end of the show-jumping paddock, and I took him there. Legend tore great mouthfuls out by the roots, and I watched him idly, glad of a little relaxation myself, listening to the satisfying sound of the champing jaws. I started to think about the Fanes, remembered Lady Jennifer’s instructions, and thought about Nick instead.
I didn’t expect to see him again before the junior trial because they were in the middle of whelping at the kennels and he was taking a draft of experienced, older hounds, to a hunt in the north on Monday, and was expecting to be away for a few days. He had made me promise to ring him though, on Saturday, as soon as the names of the team had been announced. Good or bad, he had insisted, and good or bad I had promised.
Ticket to Ride (Eventing Trilogy Book 3) Page 10