I reached into my bridle, my sore mouth forgotten, my heart thudding against my side, ready to go until I dropped. Dick pulled me up at the top of a hill and waited. Mouse was coughing again. Dick was angry and red faced.
‘We are missing everything,’ he yelled. ‘Make the blasted mare go,’ and he thrashed her himself with his own lash and thong.
I could see the hurt in Mouse’s eyes as we went on. Her breathing was laboured now. Jane held on to the saddle with both hands. Hounds were checking. Dick stopped me and waited; then we rode on more slowly. ‘We’ve hired a dud. That’s obvious,’ said Dick angrily. ‘She just can’t or won’t keep up.’
‘I have been whipping her,’ said Jane. ‘When she gets her breath she’ll go better.’
Sweat was dripping off Mouse’s side, her neck was lathered with it. She looked at me and said nothing. I thought, if we could only speak or weep.
Then hounds found once more and we were off. We checked again in a field with sheep bunched in one corner. Dick lit a cigarette, his hands trembling with rage. Jane was beating Mouse up a hill without mercy. I thought she was going to die; there was agony in her eyes and her nostrils were extended and her breath was coming in sobs. A farmer on a cob was watching. He rode up to Jane yelling, ‘Put down that whip. Leave her alone. Do you want a dead horse under you? Get off at once. Loosen the girths.’
Jane dismounted reluctantly. ‘I don’t know where the girths are,’ she said in a plaintive voice.
The farmer dismounted and let the girths out himself. ‘You should be ashamed of hunting a horse in that condition,’ he said. ‘She’s nothing but skin and bone and her wind’s broken. Now you take her straight home before I have the police or an RSPCA Inspector after you. Where do you come from?’
‘Mr Smith’s livery stables. We’ve hired these two horses. We’ve paid a good price for a day’s hunting and that’s what we intend to have,’ said Dick.
‘And that you won’t have,’ replied the farmer. ‘You take your poor animal home this minute or I’ll speak to the master myself.’
‘We paid the Secretary,’ replied Dick. ‘And hunt we will.’
‘I’m going home,’ replied Jane. ‘Before Mouse dies. Just look at her Dick and have mercy.’
‘And there’s a sensible young lady. There’s some things beyond and above money; there’s some things money won’t buy – and one is a clear conscience,’ replied the farmer.
And now a lady had joined the farmer. She looked at us with pity. ‘Someone should be prosecuted,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry, m’lady,’ replied the farmer. ‘I shall be seeing Mr Smith tonight. I shall see this never happens again.’
‘We had better go,’ Dick said. ‘Get up on your wretched horse, Jane.’
‘I would rather walk,’ she replied fondling Mouse. ‘If only I had known I would never have come. What is a broken wind?’
‘It’s her lungs. They’ve been strained,’ said the lady.
‘Won’t she ever get well?’
‘No.’
‘Poor Mouse.’ Jane was crying now. She walked away leading Mouse with Dick reluctantly following. The hunt had vanished, but the farmer and the lady set off in hot pursuit, while Dick jerked me in the mouth and kicked me with his spurs and Jane walked with one arm over Mouse’s neck weeping bitterly and muttering over and over again. ‘If only I had known.’
We were earlier than expected and Mr Smith was not at home.
Dick knocked on the back door of the house and after a while, Mrs Smith answered. ‘Tie them to the wall,’ she said. ‘They will be all right there.’
‘Mouse needs a veterinary surgeon,’ called Jane, ‘she’s ill,’
‘He will attend to that. He understands horses. Just leave them. You have paid, haven’t you?’ she asked.
‘Yes, and far too much,’ replied Dick angrily turning on his heel.
They tied us to two rings on the stable wall by our reins; my girths were still tight. Mouse looked very tired.
Jane wanted to stay and wait, but Dick insisted that if they were quick they could have a drink before the pubs closed. He swung his car with a handle, grumbling all the time about Mr Smith’s dishonesty in sending out two unfit horses.
When they were gone everything was quiet and I could hear Mouse’s laboured breathing. She tried to lie down but the reins were tied too tightly to the wall. She coughed and started shivering. A cold wind whipped round the yard and soon I was cold too and very thirsty. Slowly afternoon turned to evening and then at last Mr Smith returned whistling merrily. He was surprised to see us back, but soon had us inside the muggy stable. Mouse lay down at once with a sigh and was not interested in her hay, or the oats he brought later. None of us felt like talking. I think we were all too worried about Mouse.
Then we heard a great commotion outside and the farmer who had sent us home from hunting, rushed into the stable with Mr Smith on his heels.
‘This place should be pulled down,’ he shouted furiously. ‘What are you feeding your animals on? Let me see. Come on, show it to me, or by George I’ll have you prosecuted.’
Then he saw Mouse and kneeling down beside her he said, ‘And how are you, pet?’ so gently that he might have been speaking to his own child. He stroked her poor thin neck and put his hand against her labouring sides. She raised her head a little and nuzzled him.
He put his head against her side and listened to her heart. He stood up slowly and stared at Mr Smith muttering, ‘Poor little mare.’
‘She needs a vet,’ he said. ‘I’ll send mine over at once. I think it’s too late, and while I’m away I expect these other horses to be properly fed and watered. Try the mare with a mash, a nice warm bran mash with some treacle in it.’
He looked round the stable in disgust kicking the sawdust with the toe of a hunting boot. He picked up a wisp of hay and smelt it. Then he patted us each in turn muttering ‘Poor horses, poor old devils,’ and left.
Later a man came in a car. Mr Smith took him straight to Mouse. We had all been well fed by now and the sweat had been brushed from my coat. They were a long time with Mouse. They wanted to take her outside, but she wouldn’t move. We heard Mr Smith say, ‘She’s only twelve,’ and the other man replied, ‘More’s the pity.’ And there was a bang which made us all jump in our stalls and Major said quietly, ‘She’s gone.’
After that, we were given better hay and more of it and at least one feed of oats and chaff a day. But the work was harder without Twilight and Mouse and I could feel my strength going. My legs had windgalls and were often stiff in the mornings from lying on damp sawdust. Then in March Mr Smith bought a new horse, a big chestnut named Starlight. He was a handsome horse with badly scarred knees. He soon became a great favourite with all the better riders and I found myself carrying most of the beginners. We now had our diet supplemented with cut grass and sometimes a boy would help in the stables at the week-ends. I was so quiet now, that my double bridle was changed for a snaffle which was more comfortable.
The blacksmith painted the inside of my hoofs with some tar which cured my thrush and sometimes on Mondays we were turned out in a small paddock behind the stables. Here we would tell each other our life stories while we stood head to tail swishing at the flies.
10
ANOTHER WAR
I WON’T DWELL on the next few years. Gradually life grew worse again. Another Christmas came and passed. Major’s leg became worse until even our customers complained that he was lame. So one beautiful day he was taken out and shot. We all missed him a great deal.
Then Silver was hit by a car and after that shied a good deal and was considered unsafe. He was sent to a sale and we never saw him again. Starlight developed ring bone and complained constantly about the pain in his hoof. A new horse was bought who reared and broke a young man’s arm. He was sold for dogs’ meat I believe. A bay mare came, a kind hardworking animal who because of her willingness did a great deal of work. Another year passed. My eyes were very
bad by this time and my coat had come out in patches.
I stumbled a good deal and sometimes I wished I could just lie down and die as Twilight had. More children came to ride us and at least they were light and anxious to please. A skewbald pony was bought for them and called Clown. He talked a great deal about things I had never heard of.
‘My last owner was a member of the Pony Club,’ he said. It’s a club formed to make people understand us better, to give us a better life. He would take me to rallies and gymkhanas.’ But after a time Clown’s enthusiasm faded and he became like the rest of us, depressed and dejected. I was known as Old Jake now; I was fifteen years old with a hollow back and deep hollows above my eyes.
I still tried to do my best, but the week-ends seemed to grow harder and our food less plentiful. Our master had aged too. He moved more slowly and his face grew increasingly red. One day his wife was taken away to hospital on a stretcher and after that he was more bad tempered and drank more.
Tractors ploughed the fields now and it was rare to see a horse pulling a plough as Mermaid and Merlin had long ago. I often thought about the past but mostly about May and how happy I had been at The Grange.
Then one day our master came into our stable very drunk singing, It’s a long way to Tipperary. ‘There’s going to be a war,’ he yelled. ‘You’ll be all wanted in the army, you bunch of old crocks.’
We shrank in our stalls, while he walked up and down singing and shouting alternatively. His breath smelt very bad and several times he nearly fell; then he went out again singing Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag. And we could hear him throwing things about in his house.
What is a war?’ asked Clown.
‘A fight,’ I answered wishing that Major was still with us because he had known everything. ‘I knew a war horse once,’ I continued. ‘His name was Warrior. He was the only one to come back out of thousands of horses.’
‘I couldn’t fight,’ replied the bay mare. ‘I’m too weak.’
‘Where did he come back from?’ asked Clown.
‘From over the sea, in a ship.’
The next day everyone was talking about a war. Our master felt very ill after so much drink and beat me about the head with a pitch fork. I had a sore on my back from an ill fitting saddle and I felt restless and unhappy.
Three weeks later, the war started and very soon Mr Smith’s hay ran out. There was none coming from Australia or Canada any more, and the fields of England had been allowed to go to waste. Soon there were no oats either. The young men and women joined the army, while we horses grew thinner and thinner. Then one day Mr Smith came into the stable very drunk. He hit Clown for not moving over quickly and threw a bucket of water over Starlight who laid his ears back at him. Then he reeled from one side of the stable to the other, talking wildly, with sweat running down his face. Then his breath started to come in gasps and he sat down on a truss of hay his face slowly turning blue. A few more minutes and he was dead.
We all knew death by this time, but for a while none of us spoke, then the bay mare who had been called Mimosa asked,
‘Who will feed us now?’
And Clown said, ‘And who will water us?’
‘No one,’ replied Starlight. ‘We will die in our stalls.’
And we, who had hated our master, all wished he would come alive again. The day passed. Our mangers were empty; we had eaten the last wisps of foul smelling hay which had lain in crevices around our mangers for many a long day. The mice ran squeaking round our feet searching out the last few precious spilled oats. The rats looked at us in dismay. Day became night. It was a long uncomfortable night.
‘We will die,’ said Mimosa when daybreak came, wrenching against the rope which held her.
I had been there longer than any of the others and I felt very weak; I was the thinnest. Clown pulled on his head collar and neighed. ‘No one will hear you,’ said Starlight.
‘On Saturday our riders will come,’ replied Clown.
‘We’ll be dead by Saturday.’
I could feel my tongue swelling in my mouth. My stall was foul with dung. Clown kicked the walls of his partition. Ponies have a stronger constitution than horses: they can live on less. He would not give up, but kept up a continual neighing and kicking. The doors were closed. We could see nothing but each other and our dead master. The rats came back with the dusk. Finding no food the mice were already leaving. The rats hovered round our legs, waiting for us to grow weaker, waiting to eat our poor starved flesh. Clown killed two daring ones with his neat pale covered hoofs. Another night passed.
The next day we thought we heard voices, but whoever came went away again without opening the stable door. I was too tired to stand up any more. I lay down on the dirty sawdust in my own dung waiting for death.
Clown had stopped kicking and neighing. I could see the rats’ sharp eyes, watching, waiting. I remembered my mother. How happy we had been on the farm together.
Hours passed. Then at last we heard voices. They will go away again I thought. We are doomed to die along with our master.
Clown found the strength to neigh. We could hear hands trying to open the stable door and a voice said, ‘Go on trying. Mr Smith must be here somewhere.’ I didn’t move. I was ready to die now. The rats scurried away at the sound of human voices.
Mimosa gave a low whinny deep in her throat. The door opened and two small faces with crash caps on their heads peered in.
‘Mr Smith,’ one of them called nervously. ‘Mr Smith, where are you? It’s Sally and Chrissy. We’ve come for our ride.’
They stepped into the stable timidly like children into an ogre’s den, looking round them with frightened eyes. They saw Mr Smith’s body and their mouths fell open with surprise.
‘Mr Smith, Mr Smith are you awake?’ they called before the smaller one screamed. ‘He’s dead. Can’t you see? He’s dead’
They ran outside again.
‘That’s that,’ said Mimosa.
‘They must tell someone,’ replied Clown.
We heard them ride away on their bicycles. They had left the door open and fresh air came in like a gift from heaven. The rats scurried out of the door.
‘They will send someone,’ said Clown with hope in his voice.
We waited; rain was pattering now on the old tin roof. Then at last there were voices, more and more voices, policemen, a doctor, an ambulance. They took our master away on a stretcher and then they looked at us.
‘Crikey,’ cried one. ‘They are like walking corpses.’ ‘They are only fit for the knackers,’ said another.
They fetched us hay and fresh water from the house, such water as we had not tasted in months.
The house was full of police. An old man came and cleaned our stalls. Someone went away and came back with oats, though oats were supposed to be unobtainable just then. The old man groomed us making a hissing noise, reminding us of our younger days. Next day a man of around forty came in uniform. He looked at us in dismay. He ran his hands through our staring coats, and said, ‘They’re covered with lice. I’ll borrow Dad’s bike and go down to the farm and see if they’ve got something to kill them.’
He had fair hair, a round face with a fresh complexion. It was difficult to believe that he was our late master’s son.
Later his wife came with their four children. They took everything out of Mr Smith’s house and the wife wept over us.
He only had three days’ compassionate leave from the army, but he did his best. He found us food from somewhere and scrubbed out our stalls and bedded them in fresh golden straw. He deloused us and wormed us and paid the old man to go on looking after us. Then he went back to his unit.
The old man said, ‘No one will want you. They’re shooting horses as it is.’ He brought a gas mask every day with him and hung it on a nail.
We grew stronger. We were advertised for sale and people came and looked at us, pulled our mouths open, felt our legs and said, ‘They’re not even fat enough for meat.�
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Then Chrissy and Sally came one day with their mother. They kept saying, ‘Please, please we must have him. Please, please, please.’ They threw their arms round Clown’s thin neck and begged. ‘We can ride to school,’ they said. ‘We can buy him a cart, please Mummy please.’
Finally their mother gave the old man ten pounds and they led Clown away.
No one wanted Starlight because of his ring bone, but presently a farmer bought Mimosa to pull his hay cutter.
I was better in body but becoming more and more dejected in spirit. ‘If no one comes for you tomorrow it’s goodbye, old fellow,’ said the old man. ‘That’s my orders. I was to wait a week.’
I had been ready to die but now I felt better. I looked out of the stable door which was open all the time now and smelt spring coming, the sap rising in the trees, the grass pushing it’s way through the damp earth. I remembered the pleasure of rolling, the taste of dew drenched grass.
I shifted my weight from one leg to another. My strength was coming back.
‘A lot more are going to die before this war’s finished,’ said the old man.
I’ve heard people say, “It’s always darkest before dawn”. And that is how it was with me. The last day came. Starlight and I looked at each other sadly wondering which of us would go first.
Then a lady came riding into the yard on a dun mare. She dismounted and called, ‘Hoi. Are you in charge? Have you a horse here called Black Velvet?’
‘Not that I know of,’ replied the old man. ‘Though we have got an old back horse inside.’
‘He was once a show jumper,’ she said. ‘A man called Bert told me he was here.’
‘I’ll hold your mare while you look,’ said the old man.
She had short wavy hair and an upturned nose.
She said, ‘Poor old chap, so you were once a show jumper with a mouth like velvet. What a shame.’
‘You are only just in time. I have orders to call the horse slaughterers after I’ve had my dinner,’ said the old man through the doorway.
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