“You won’t be here much longer. You know that, don’t you, Princess?” Luke told her with tears of exhaustion running down his grimy cheeks. “You’ll be for the dogs, Princess; they’ll eat you and your hoofs will go to make glue.”
Luke was nearly asleep, hunched in the straw, when a voice asked, “What the hell do you think you are doing here, boy? Have you no home?”
Luke blinked in the light of a lantern and felt fear running down his spine like a cold gust of wind.
“Just looking at Princess, sir,” he said, scrambling to his feet and touching his cap, adding, “I’m sorry, sir. She can’t see very well. It makes ’er restless. I weren’t doing no ’arm, sir.”
“Princess! Is that what you call her? Who are you anyway?” asked the gentleman who held the lantern.
“Luke Hall, sir. I works ’ere.” Luke stood to attention, trying to stop himself trembling.
The gentleman was dressed in a cape, pale breeches, long boots, and wore a hat.
“I’ve been looking for this mare for some time. It seems I’m only just in time,” he said. And he started to talk to Princess, to stroke her nose and whisper endearments into her ear, while Luke stood speechless with surprise.
“She’ll be for the dogs soon, you'll ’ave to be quick, sir,” he said at last.
“I know. Now you get back to your bed. I want to see you in the morning – six-thirty sharp,” he said.
Luke scuttled back to his room and lay shaking with fear. If the gentleman wanted to see him it could only mean bad news. He might be about to evict Luke’s mother from her cottage. Or send Luke to prison! He was obviously a gentleman and they were capable of anything, everyone knew that. Luke imagined his mother being dragged from her cottage and being taken to the poorhouse. At last he fell into a troubled sleep and the next thing he knew was Harry shaking him awake.
“’Is lordship wants to see you. Been stealin’, ’ave you?” asked Harry.
“I can’t see ’im. I can’t,” cried Luke.
“’E’s waiting in the front parlour for you.” Harry grinned before hurrying away.
Luke washed himself under the pump in the yard. Then almost ran home. Then found himself by the door of the front parlour, then back in the stable talking to Princess whose morning feed was uneaten. The yard was in chaos with the stagecoach expected in half an hour. But the head ostler saw Luke and dragged him to the front parlour saying, “Lord Crenshaw wants to see you. Gawd knows what you’ve been up to, and him a county magistrate.”
And then Lord Crenshaw appeared, and closing the door after him said, “I want you to work for me. Is that possible, Luke?” He looked taller in the daylight and more distinguished.
“I’ll ’ave to ask my mother, sir,” answered Luke, staring at his boots which were only held together by their laces.
“We’ll do that immediately then. Lead the way,” said Lord Crenshaw.
“But there’s my work, sir,” cried Luke.
“Damn your work, boy, this is much more important,” replied Lord Crenshaw.
So Luke led the way down the street and across the green to the small thatched cottage where his mother lived with nine of her children. As they approached she came to the door with a baby in her arms and her poor, tired face creased with worry. Then, seeing Lord Crenshaw, she curtsied.
“I want to employ your lad,” said Lord Crenshaw, coming straight to the point. “I live some forty miles away, but I will look after him, Mrs Hall, I promise. He’ll have clean lodgings and some schooling. I shall pay him a fair wage and there will be something for you as well, that I promise. Your lad has a way with horses and horses are what I breed and I want him. What do you say, Mrs Hall?” asked Lord Crenshaw.
Mrs Hall was crying now and Luke ran to her shouting, “I want to go, Mother, I want to go. I will visit you reg’lar, I promise; but please let me go.”
“Yes, that will do, m’lord,” said Mrs Hall, collecting her poor wits. “I’m ever so grateful, your lordship. Times are ’ard, me ’usband being away at sea, and the baby just born.”
“I know, Mrs Hall. And I promise you will see your lad often, not just once a year on Mothering Sunday. I will make a rider of him, perhaps even a jockey. But first we must get him cleaned up, then we’ll be off.” And he took off his hat to Luke’s mother and bowed as though she were a lady before Luke kissed her a fond farewell, and then they set off together across the green towards the King’s Head.
“Princess is not eating, sir,” Luke said as they entered the yard.
“She will when she returns home. I bred her, Luke, so she’ll know her way about and maybe she’ll have a foal, because she’s not so old and with special care she may get her sight back. We can hope, Luke, and while there’s life there’s hope,” said Lord Crenshaw.
And Luke thought that was the truest thing he had ever heard.
“So don’t worry, Luke,” continued Lord Crenshaw. “Just get packed up, there’s a good lad, we’ve got a long journey ahead.”
But Luke had nothing to pack. So quite soon they left together in a dogcart, the lord and his man in front, Luke facing backwards, holding on to the grey mare whose real name was Mermaid and whose love had changed his life.
Horse dealing in our childhood was a dicey business and none too honest. There weren’t so many rules about fair trading in those days, and, at certain sales where rules were laid down, there was little comeback if you were done. You simply had to be careful and knowledgeable.
Tarragona
Christine Pullein-Thompson
Horse dealing in our childhood was a dicey business and none too honest. There weren't so many rules about fair trading in those days, and, at certain sales where rules were laid down, there was little comeback if you were done. You simply had to be careful and knowledgeable
The horse dealer who had sold our parents an aged pony saying that she was seven years old used to bring us ponies to try out for him. We would keep them for a while, school them and ride them in local gymkhanas, and he would bring his possible buyers to see them at our place. We made no charge for the schooling. We gained experience from it, and some of the ponies we could use later on for our pupils. If we managed to sell one of the dealer’s animals for more than his asking price we were allowed to keep the change.
There was one pony called Tarragona, whom we particularly liked. She was fourteen-one hands high, very dark bay with black points, with a head that was a little too long to be beautiful. Tarragona was wilful, intelligent and quite unstoppable, but she looked as though she could be turned into a good jumper. At the second showI rode her in, she jumped me out of the ring over three rows of chairs, fortunately unoccupied at the time. Once, when I was riding her bareback in a head collar through our village, she was frightened by white rags tied to barbed-wire and took me for a John Gilpin ride at full gallop. I thundered past our house and stables, down a steep hill and across a main road, before another steep hill on the main bus route forced her to lessen her speed and I was able to turn her into a driveway.
On another occasion, when coming face to face with a lorry she didn’t like on the Reading to Bath road, she leaped over a hedge and landed beside a row of tables in the garden of a cafe called The Wee Waif. The cafe’s customers looked rather alarmed, but I had ridden her out again through the exit before they had time to say anything.
Yet, in spite of all her shortcomings, we liked Tarragona and we wanted her for ourselves and to use in the riding school which was growing rapidly in size. But at that time we could not afford the twenty-five pounds which the dealer was asking for her.
As the days went by, Tarragona’s mouth and manners improved. She quickly learned simple dressage movements and, although her action was not free enough to make us suppose that she would ever be top class, it was obvious that many riders could learn much from her. She had one failing, however, which no amount of schooling could cure.
It was a matter of temperament: something deep-rooted and unusual,
which we found rather endearing. She could not bear people laughing in front of her. A smile was just bearable, but a laugh would turn her face ugly. In a trice she would lay back her ears and sink her teeth in the part of the laugher that happened to be nearest to her. Of course, such eccentric behaviour could be dangerous, and although the tactics we used could be called dishonest, they were also protecting a possible buyer from landing himself with a biter whom he might not understand.
We were young – most of our friends were still at school – and we were hard-up. There was an obvious way to reduce Tarragona’s price, which we could justify by telling ourselves that she would be better with us where her particular weakness was well understood and not in any way resented. We informed our dealer that she was inclined to bite (which was part of but not the whole truth). He looked at us with his faded blue eyes set deep in a face the colour of tripe. A watch chain lay across his plump belly; his pale moustache twitched. His rather podgy hands came out of his pockets, where they had been jingling coins.
“As long as she won’t hurt any kiddies…”
That was his rule. He would lie about the age of ponies, about their origins; he would put boot polish on a scar and keep quiet about a jibber. The unwary would pay him twice as much as a pony was worth if they weren’t careful, and he wouldn’t turn a hair. So long as he felt the pony was not dangerous for children to handle. Any animal he considered truly vicious would be sent by him to Reading market to be auctioned without warranty.
“No, she might bite one, but she wouldn’t kill it,” we replied, very matter of fact and down to earth.
“We needn’t mention it,” he said.
And a few days later he brought a thirteen-year-old girl with middle-aged parents to see Tarragona. We didn’t like them; they seemed dull and stodgy, without sparkle, but we rode Tarragona as well as we could. The girl, we thought, was weak – a spineless child. She needed a more reliable pony.
“A fine little jumper,” the dealer said, after we had popped Tarragona over a pair of hurdles. “A lovely pony that: a real winner.”
The parents spoke little, seeming to communicate through glances at one another. The bun-faced girl showed no special enthusiasm. After a while we returned Tarragona to her loose box, and then, as the parents leaned over the door to take another look at her, we laughed. In an instant her head came up; her ears flashed back and she bared her teeth. Her head, ugly in anger, shot over the door, and the prospective buyers leaped back only just in time.
“She would never have suited them. She would have been quite miserable with them and sooner or later she would have got the upper hand and started to run away with the girl,” we told each other afterwards. And we were probably quite right.
And so a pattern was set. Each time a buyer came we laughed at some opportune moment when we were almost within reach of being bitten, although we always dodged away in the nick of time. The sight of those flattened ears, flashing teeth and sneering nostrils were guaranteed to send any possible purchaser home.
After a while our dealer friend began to despair a little. What could he do with her? He supposed we wouldn’t want her by any chance? We offered him fifteen pounds, and he said he would let her go for twenty. He stood in our yard in his checked suit and laced boots, a shortish, plump figure, a greengrocer who hadn’t ridden himself for years, if at all. He wasn’t fond of horses; they were simply part of trade, although he had a special love for coaches and carriages. Bargaining was part of that trade. It was the breath of life to him.
“Seventeen pounds,” we said.
He agreed. We shook hands. He watched me write the cheque.
“Not like that,” he said. “Never leave a gap there. Someone could put a one in front of the seventeen and make one hundred and seventeen. And don’t leave a space there either or a sharp customer could add nineteen shillings.”
Tarragona was the first pony we bought outright. The earlier ones had been paid for by instalments as we earned the money we needed. We owned her for many years until we gave her away to a good home when she grew too old for riding school work. She won scores of prizes at local gymkhanas, first with me and then with our cousin, Paula, and various pupils. She helped all sorts of people to improve their jumping and learn elementary dressage. But we respected her sensitive feelings, her hatred of what she must have seen as ridicule. Laughing was banned when she was around, except once in a while when somebody could not believe that she lacked a sense of humour, and then her demonstration was fierce enough to settle the matter once and for all.
A Sixth Sense
Diana Pullein-Thompson
“Ricky must have a ride,” Mum said. “Thunderbird is his pony, too.”
“Yes, of course, I know,” I said. “Do you think we should meet somewhere so he can ride the last bit back? I’ll walk beside him.”
I was thirteen and Ricky seven. I had been riding for three years at the riding school, my brother for three weeks. And, since Thunderbird was thirteen-two and lively, I was terrified Ricky would fall off and get hurt.
“Good thinking, Chris,” Mum said. “Let’s meet by Morgan’s Garage. At six o’clock. Yes?”
“Fine, thanks.” I mounted. “No problem. See you then. Bye, Rick.”
It was a beautiful June evening scented by the last of the lilacs and the wild yellow honeysuckle and, as I rode past houses, every lawn seemed to smell of warm, mown grass. Thunderbird, who was black as Dracula’s cloak, with a triangular white star on his forehead and one white sock, was longing for a gallop and tried to take off whenever his hoofs touched turf. I waited until we came to a grassy bridlepath which ended in a hill and then I let him canter, then gallop, and the balmy wind rushed past my cheeks while the sense of being one with my pony and the ecstasy of speed drove away all my memories of a bad day at school.
On Thunderbird I was queen. I was higher than the hedges, higher than the walkers we met and the cars that raced past us when we reached the road. I wished Thomas, the boy who sneered at me at school, could see me now as I held between my hands and legs the beauty and the power of my pony.
I’d meet his usual greeting,“Hallo, big-bum,” with a charge, which would force him to back away and then to run, and my shout would follow him:
“Weed, coward!” For a moment this seemed a just revenge, and then the next it seemed petty.
“Why sink to his level?” I asked myself, letting Thunderbird trot on the verge where wild flowers tossed their creamy blooms in the summer wind and rabbits scattered with white scuts bobbing, while in the trees the blackbirds sang.
Thomas’s taunts didn’t matter. Anyway, I had a new friend at school now, called Selina, who was coming to ride with me next week. She was very bright and had promised to help me with maths.
Thunderbird had belonged to a rather bossy girl called Carol I met at the riding school: a teenage expert who won most of the prizes at the local gymkhanas and was expected to be in the Pony Club One-Day-Event Team next year. Carol had already replaced him with an Anglo-Arab called Mermaid. Her parents let us have him cheap because we were nearby and not well off. “I can keep a steely eye on you,” Carol had said and although she laughed, I knew she meant it.
Afterwards I was afraid of meeting her in case I had done something wrong. Instead of hoping she would teach me something, I was stupidly afraid of displaying my ignorance.
But now, riding down our quiet lanes this June evening, life seemed perfect. Tomorrow I would school and jump Thunderbird in preparation for the next local horse show and afterwards I would help Ricky learn to circle at the trot.
And I would try harder at school, because if I wanted to continue riding I’d need a good job when I left, as ponies are very expensive to keep.
After a brisk trot, I dropped my hands and let Thunderbird walk on a long, loose rein while my thoughts wandered. And then suddenly, without warning, only about a quarter of a mile from where I was to meet Mum and Ricky, he stopped.
“Walk on.” I
tried to speak in Carol’s commanding voice. But he swung round and started to gallop back the way we had come. And at that moment – you’ve guessed it – Thomas came pedalling along on his mountain bike.
“Hallo, big-bum! Can’t manage your nag? Oh dear, oh dear.”
“Go away! Get lost!” My voice was a degrading wail. Then I brought Thunderbird to a halt and, ignoring Thomas, tried again.
Trembling, Thunderbird dug his toes in and then swung round and started to back up the lane. Thomas threw his bike down.
“Can I help?”
“No, thank you. Steady, whoa!” I said as I patted Thunderbird’s sweat-soaked neck. What was wrong?
Why was he staring down the lane as though a monster lurked there, waiting for us? “It’s all right, it’s all right.”
“Black Beauty sees a ghost,” chortled Thomas. “Why not buy a mountain bike, they keep going.”
“Shut up.”
“Only trying to help. Can’t we be friends, Chris?”
“No. You sneer.”
Thunderbird was like a spring under me, ready to leap at the slightest excuse. Feeling his pent-up energy I tried to make him walk in a circle, but instead he gave a half-rear and attempted to bolt back up the road. Then I heard a car and there, horror of horrors, was Carol with her mother.
“What’s up? Why’s he jibbing? He never jibbed with me.” Carol got out of the car.
“I don’t know. Something’s upset him.” I dismounted. I stroked his neck “It’s all right, Thunder, it’s all right.”
“We never shortened his name,” Carol said. “Have you been jagging his mouth?”
“Certainly not.”
“Riding him on a tight rein?”
“No.”
“He’s homesick and wants to return to us.”
“No, no, he loves Jericho.”
“The donkey who shares his field?”
The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories Page 19