I say nothing, wondering if I will be visiting the corner.
“I have taken the plug off the radiogram so you cannae play it anymore.” With that, Dad leaves my room.
I feel deflated. As an only child, I spend a lot of time on my own, and my self-entertainment now revolves almost entirely around playing music. Music helps me endure the long hours, and the even longer days spent alone, in some semblance of sanity. Without music, what can I do to pass the time?
Monday morning comes. Mum and Dad are away at work. I know where the plug to the radiogram is, in the cupboard in the living room, and I have seen Dad put plugs on things, so I think I can put the plug back on the radiogram. I take the plug, find a screwdriver, and fix the plug back onto the radiogram. It is easy. The plug works fine. I spend the day playing records and enjoying the music even more, now that it is illicit. I reason that adding scratches to the already scratched records will not be noticed. Just before Mum and Dad get home, I shut the record player down, take the plug off the electric cord, and put the plug back where it had been left. I am pleased with my resourcefulness.
This routine goes on for several days. Mum and Dad go to work, and I attach the plug to the radiogram and play records. When I’m done, I take the plug off and put it back in the cupboard. But within time, my parents, specifically Mum, realize that the records are still getting scratched. After another admonishment about not playing her records, Mum takes the plug from the record player, puts it in the wardrobe in her and Dad’s bedroom, and locks the bedroom door, taking the key away with her to work. Hmm. What can I do about that?
After Mum and Dad have gone to work in the morning, I go upstairs to investigate the lock on their bedroom door. I know the lock is unusual because it has an unusual key. I visualize the key and its long shank with almost star-shaped cogs sticking out, which would catch the bits in the lock and make it turn. It looks a bit like a screwdriver. I peek through the hole in the lock and can see the cupboard on the other side of the door. I go get a screwdriver.
After several attempts at turning the screwdriver counterclockwise in the lock, and feeling the screwdriver catch against something inside the lock, the door unlocks, and I open it. I am pleased with my cleverness. I get the plug, attach it to the radiogram, play music, and take the plug off when done. The big question now is whether I can relock the bedroom door. I turn the screwdriver clockwise in the lock. I feel the screwdriver catch against something in the lock and I keep turning. I try the door handle: success! I have locked the bedroom door again.
Within time, my parents realize the records are still getting scratched. They don’t know how I am getting the radiogram plug from the locked bedroom and interrogate me about a spare key that they thought had been lost. I deny having the spare key. They search me and the things in my room but do not find one. As a resolution, my father takes the plug and puts it up in the attic. The attic’s only access is through a ceiling panel many feet above my head, which I cannot reach.
After my parents go to work in the morning, I get the step-ladder from the back garden, where it is kept behind the garage. I drag its cumbersome, wooden frame through the garden, into the house, and up the stairs and place it under the ceiling entryway to the attic. I climb up the ladder, push open the attic hatch, and after gingerly balancing on the top and very narrow rail of the ladder, hoist myself up into the attic space. Luckily the plug is left right next to the entrance. I grab the plug and carefully lower myself onto the top rail of the ladder. Then after descending the ladder and going back downstairs, I put the plug on the record player and listen to music all day. Just before my parents get home, I reverse the whole process.
The scratched record episode comes to an abrupt halt after Mum buys Dad a brand-new record of American band favorites for his birthday, and even though it was tucked away in Mum’s wardrobe until it was time to give it to Dad, I find it, and play it. Unfortunately, the record becomes scratched before she gives it to Dad.
Dad’s birthday arrives. We are all standing in the living room. Mum hands Dad the now wrapped present. I cringe as I watch Dad’s delight at unwrapping the gift and finding a brand-new record. I have a horrible sick feeling inside me as I watch Dad carefully remove the record from its sleeve, lay it on the turntable, and then carefully lift the stylus and place it at the edge of the record. The music starts, a rousing rendition of the “Star-Spangled Banner.” The first few seconds sound great, but then the needle hits the first of the scratches in the vinyl and starts to jump across notes, playing what sounds more and more like a Star-Mangled Banner. I listen to the awful scraping and abrasive sound of the music and see the look of disappointment on Dad’s face. I feel terrible. He turns and looks at me.
“I’m so sorry, Dad.”
Dad shakes his head.
The wallpaper is about six inches from the end of my nose. I am going cross-eyed staring at it because it is so close. The blue-and-silver flowery design repeated again and again over the walls of the living room is well known to me. As is this corner. I have to stand here staring at the corner for an hour. It is my punishment. I don’t mind standing here right now. It is what I deserve.
CHAPTER
THREE
Sitting on the kitchen stool with my hands clasped tensely in my lap, I stare intently at the wall clock as its large hand ticks past each second. At exactly nine o’clock, I will begin my carefully planned, big adventure. First I have to make sure Mum is well on her way to work before I leave the house. But I cannot leave too late or I will miss the bus. It is two minutes before nine. My Mackintosh is hanging on a hook in the hall. My cloth shoulder bag is packed with necessities for the day and waiting under my bed. My Wellington boots are clean and sitting at the bottom of my wardrobe. The large hand ticks against the number twelve. It is nine o’clock. Time to go!
I move with preplanned choreography, running upstairs, putting on my wellies, grabbing my bag, and then running downstairs, throwing on my Mackintosh, and checking the electrics are all turned off. Taking my “Horse Finding Preparation Checklist” out of its hiding place in my pocket, I run down the items on my list: bus, check; money, check; outfit, check. Everything is in order. I make my way to the back door of the house.
I am only eight years old, and I’m not allowed out of the house by myself. I don’t have a key. So my plan is to exit by the back door so I can leave it unlocked and get back into the house later. I make sure the door is shut behind me, and I go through the back garden, shutting the garden gate and making sure the latch is secure.
It is raining, which allows me the excuse of pulling my hood down over my face to help disguise my identity as I begin my clandestine walk down the road and around the corner to the bus stop. I am catching the number thirty-two bus to the village of Clanfield. I don’t have to wait long. The bus is uncharacteristically on time. I get on the bus, pay my fare, and move to a seat at the back, praying that I will not meet anyone I know. My parents would kill me if they knew what I was doing. I settle into my seat next to the window and stare out at the brick buildings rushing past at the same speed as the bus, my view of the drab day obscured by raindrops racing each other to the bottom of the glass. The journey will be about an hour, plenty of time to sit and think about my day.
After the incident with the record player, my options for self-amusement during the school holidays are reduced even more. My main source of entertainment has become the meager selection of television programs offered during the day. Play School, a young children’s program, airs every morning at eleven. The main programming starts around four o’clock. In the meantime, the only offering is afternoon horse racing. I start watching the racing through a lack of anything else to do. Within time, it becomes an afternoon ritual, and as usual, I am not happy to be a mere observer. If I am going to spend time watching the races, I must learn all I can about them, and the horses.
Some evenings Mum gets the newspaper that has the list of the next day’s horse races. I turn to the back
of the paper and educate myself about the anticipated weather and racing conditions. I review the horses’ form. I know the going can make a difference for the horses. Some horses do better when the going is soft, others when it is firm. Some horses do better over a shorter distance, others over a longer one. I review the numbers for each horse: the wins, the places, the shows. The horses have names, and I see if any names appeal to me. I circle my favorite with a pencil and cross my fingers that my choice will win the race.
The more I watch and learn about the horses, the more I come to appreciate their unique qualities. Through this sport of kings, I recognize how special these animals are. I admire how elegant the thoroughbreds are compared to ordinary horses. I like the way they prance, almost dancing on delicate legs, and the graceful arc of the neck holding a regal head. I am drawn to these magnificent creatures when they gallop flat out, and muscle and equine physique work together with perfect efficiency to create speed with grace. I see the link between the athleticism and grace of the horses and my dance studies, and I understand the hard work it takes to become the best. I want to ride horses. I want to learn to control their grace and speed, and to partner my dancer’s body with that of my equine counterpart.
I wish I had a horse. I wish I could live in the country and ride horses along country lanes. I read everything I can about horses. I borrow library books and learn about grooming and taking care of horses. I learn how to ride horses properly. In my mind, I know how to hold the reins, how your foot should sit in the stirrup and the angle of your leg against the horse’s side. I know the different paces a horse has. I know the names of the fences: the oxer, the upright, and the parallel bars. I cut out all the pictures I can find of horses and match them to my knowledge. I even have a book on the different breeds of horses and know Arabians are bred from the Byerly Turk, the Darley Arabian, and the Godolphin Barb. I can recognize different breeds from different countries. I know the colors of horses, and that grays can be any shade from white to steel gray.
Every night I read the back of the evening newspaper where people advertise horses for sale. I can tell how tall a horse is by the number of hands listed. I look at where the horses are kept in the countryside; I look at the phone book to see where riding stables are located, and I know the best horsey areas. Horses cost a lot to buy, and I know from my reading that they cost a lot to feed and look after. I still want a horse. Maybe I can’t have one today, but someday I will have a horse of my own.
Even if I can’t own a horse, I wish I could see real horses. I live in the middle of the city. The only horse I see is the rag-and-bone man’s old nag dragging the cart behind it as it lumbers along the streets. My cousins are lucky. They live farther north in the city, and if you stand on the bed in one of their upstairs bedrooms, you can just see the top of Portsdown Hill peeking out over the rooftops. My cousins think I am daft.
“Laraine, what are you doing? Why are you standing on the bed?” The cousins—Malcolm, Stephen, Ronald, and Andrew—stand behind me with that puzzled Why are girls so daft? look on their faces.
“I’m trying to see Portsdown Hill. I can just make out the forts along the top of the hill.” It is hard keeping my balance as I stand on tiptoe on the soft mattress and raise my head as high as I can to see as far as I can over the rooftops.
“Why?” asks Malcolm, the oldest and closest in age to me.
I turn to the boys and explain with simple logic, “Because horses live on the other side of the hill!”
“You can’t see horses from here.”
“I know, but I can see the hill, and I know horses are on the other side of the hill.” Honestly. Boys!
The cousins look at each other with that confused look boys get when they’re trying to understand girls, and after a final shrug of his shoulders, Malcolm leads the others out of the room and downstairs.
I take one last look out the window. In my mind, Portsdown Hill is where the country begins. People with horses live in the country. I wish I lived in the county.
I have a brilliant idea! One day I will go to the country to find real horses. I know the buses go to the country, and the bus schedule is at the back of the phone book. I know where the main horsey areas are in the country. So I will get a bus to a horsey area and find real horses. I need to save my pocket money for the fare.
author winning a dance competition, family photo
I am currently getting pocket money, a shilling a week. When I am bad, the pocket money stops for a while, but right now I get my weekly shilling. I make the sacrifice of not buying sweets for the Saturday film, and each week put my shilling inside one of the dance trophies in my bedroom. My shillings are adding up. When I have almost a pound, I decide I will go to the village of Clanfield. I will call the bus station to check on the return fare.
Finally, after weeks of planning, here I am, on the bus, on my big adventure.
The bus conductor wakes me from my daydreaming by announcing, “Clanfield.” immediately grab my bag and jump up from my seat. Making my way toward the door, I ask the conductor where I get the bus back to Portsmouth, and he points through the bus window at the stop across the street.
I step out of the bus and into the street. The bus drives away, leaving me standing conspicuously alone. Feeling out of place, I look around at the village. Thankfully it is quiet, so I don’t have to face inquisitive stares. The only other person is a woman walking a dog some distance away. Looking around me, I see stone buildings, some with thatched roofs, and a church. I am not interested in buildings. I want to get away from the buildings, away from people. I look along both sides of the street and make a decision which way to go. Where can I find horses? I decide to go to my right.
I am prepared for my walk. I am wearing my Mac, a woolen hat, and my wellies. I carry a flowery cloth shoulder bag, and inside I have my cloth purse with my change. I stride along the road purposefully. I want people to think I know where I am going and that there is nothing odd about an eight-year-old wandering alone along country lanes.
I walk for what seems like hours, looking for telltale signs of horses. I walk up and down lanes, taking note of where I am so I can find my way back to the village. I am surrounded by greenery. The air is fresh and a little damp. It is quiet except for the occasional birdsong. The lanes are lined with trees, bracken, and bushes. The hedgerows are high, and I have difficulty looking over them to see if there is a horse in the field. In some places the greenery is thinner, and I trek through the bracken and bushes to see what is on the other side. No horses. The earth is damp and the ground is muddy in places. That is why I am wearing my wellies. I smile, pleased with myself. I did a good job at getting ready for this walk. Now where are the horses?
I push back the sleeve of my Mac and look at my Cinderella watch. I have been walking for over an hour. I remind myself of the time the bus leaves the village to go back home and calculate that I have forty-five minutes left.
I am getting tired and a little frustrated. My wellies are a bit big for me and are beginning to hurt my feet. I should have worn thicker socks. The damp is finding its way between the layers of my clothes and making me cold. I sigh heavily, watching a puff of steam escape from my mouth. This is a wasted trip. I stop walking and wonder whether to go farther up this lane or to give up and go back toward the village. Standing in the middle of the lane, I look behind me and see the narrow tarmac road lined with greenery. I look at the road ahead of me and see only more of the same. I know there are no horses behind me. The only possible positive outcome lies up the lane.
As I push my tired legs forward, my wellies go clomp-clomp on the road as the rubber soles hit the tarmac with irritation. I adjust my bag to make it more comfortable on my shoulder and wipe sweat from my brow with my woolen glove. I look along the road, hoping to see anything other than bushes and trees, and then I see it—something exciting on the lane, a few yards ahead. I run quickly toward it to investigate. Is it? Yes it is! Horse poop! I am thrilled. This is a crit
ical sign and worthy of investigation. I examine the poop and walk past it. I see more poop farther up the lane, and as I walk up to it, I hear a distinctive neigh on my right. Impatiently I push my way through the greenery. I don’t see a horse, but I know I am getting close.
I walk up the lane a little farther with my senses on full alert. Then I hear it, the distinctive clip-clop of shod horses’ hooves on the road. I stop and listen. The sound is coming from behind me, down the lane. I look back and coming into view are not one, not two, but five real horses and riders. I stand with my mouth open and stare as the horses come closer, knowing enough not to abruptly move and spook them. I know I look strange standing in my Mac and wellies in the mud at the side of the lane. I know I look like a “townie.” I know I look out of place, but right now I don’t care what people think. My life is complete. I am looking at real horses.
The horses are all brown and of a similar size. Two have brown manes and tails while the others have black manes and tails. I watch the horses and riders as they get closer. I am fascinated by the saddles and bridles, the swishing of the horses’ tails. I look at the riders in proper riding helmets and jodhpurs. They are wearing jumpers or quilted jackets, and they have crops in their hands. They are holding the reins just as I learned from my books. I smile as they come level with me. I take a deep breath. I can smell a distinctive sweaty, horsey smell. I smell leather. Then the third horse lifts up its tail and poops on the road. I smell the fresh horse poop. I am thrilled at this real-life experience. What a fantastic day!
“Good afternoon,” the first rider says to me politely as she rides by.
“Good afternoon,” I reply, thrilled to be on speaking terms with a real equestrian.
One by one, the horses and their riders pass. The riders are all ladies. I watch them intently, taking in as much as I can. The way the horses nod their heads as they walk. The riders’ positions in the general-purpose saddles. The bridles with a variety of single and double bits. Too soon I am looking at the horses’ rears as they walk up the lane. Now what do I do?
Our Grand Finale Page 3