“You’re going much too fast,” Patience told me. “It’s watching that Foxhunter; you’ll ruin Secret.”
“Look,” I said, “I don’t want to go at that speed, but she won’t go any slower, or at least, I can’t persuade her to.”
“But you don’t do anything about it,” Prudence objected. “You don’t even pull on the reins.”
“Because one shouldn’t pull on the reins,” I said. “At least that’s what I’ve always been told, and anyway, it’s no good, I did try once, she just puts her head in the air and goes faster still.”
“You’ve got to master her,” Prudence told me. “I mean she’ll never learn to do as you want unless you make her.”
“Try holding her back and let’s see,” said Jackie.
I rode at the gate again and this time I didn’t let Secret go as she pleased, I hung on to the reins. Her head came right up into the air as she fought me, she took off too late and we went smack into the gate.
“She needs a martingale,” said Prudence.
“Yes, you’re quite right,” agreed Patience. “She got away from him then.”
“I’ll fetch one,” offered Prudence.
“Oh, don’t bother,” I said, “I can manage. It’s such miles to walk and I oughtn’t to need one really. I’ll try using my legs harder.” I didn’t really feel very hopeful about using my legs, for my left one hadn’t enjoyed lurching through the gate and it didn’t seem inclined to work at all.
“Don’t spoil the ship for a ha’p’orth of tar,” said Patience. “Go on, Prue, and you’ll have to bring another noseband, that horrid dropped thing of Charles’s is in the wrong place.”
Soon Secret was firmly martingaled down. It seemed to make her stiffer than ever and she was taking off all over the place and landing in the middle of my cousins’ jumps with loud bangs and crashes.
“Look,” I said, “I think I’d better stop; I’m going to wreck everything in a minute. There must be something wrong with her, she’s never jumped quite so badly as this before. She seems to have lost her confidence, she can’t make up her mind where to take off.”
“But you must tell her where to take off,” said Patience firmly. “Don’t be so lazy, Charles, you can’t leave everything to your horse. Give her a kick in the ribs when you’re the height of the jump in front of it; that’ll put her right.”
I didn’t kick; Claire had drummed it into me so often that kicking was entirely wrong, that I didn’t dare. It was true that she had also told me that taking a horse off was wrong for all except the very experienced rider and now here I was trying it out at Patience’s instigation. Still, I told myself I had tried Claire’s way of jumping and it hadn’t been a success, now I was trying my cousins’ methods. I was not being weak or losing the courage of my convictions, I was keeping an open mind: trying two schools of riding and picking the best from both. I took Secret off and it worked in that she cleared the jump, but we approached the next one even faster, I had to pull harder and take her off even more violently. My cousins were very pleased. “There now, the proof of the pudding is in the eating,” said Patience. Prudence exclaimed, “Jolly good,” and Jackie infuriated me by saying, “I always knew that riding school was no good.”
I jumped a few more jumps; some we cleared and some we didn’t, but my cousins said that the ones we hit were the ones at which I had given the office too late.
“You’re really doing very well,” said Patience when we decided that Secret had done enough. “Better than I expected. Considering everything, I think you’re wonderful.”
I rode home in no mood of elation. My cousins might think I had done well, but I was not at all sure that I agreed. However, I told myself that my depression was due to my leg, which, having had more unseating jumps in one morning than in all the rest of its riding career, was aching violently. During the next few weeks I made a determined effort to learn to show jump. I cut down Secret’s oats and I rode out for two-hour hacks on the days when I didn’t jump or school, not that this made her any quieter, on the contrary, she seemed to become more excitable every day. About three times a week I rode to Underhill Farm to practise with my cousins and, with them, practising usually meant a jumping competition. Secret was always wild and generally knocked down a good many fences, but she didn’t refuse like their horses, so on the whole we were well matched and no one was certain of winning. The fences gradually rose until we could jump three-feet nine and four feet, but no one could be sure of a clear round over a three foot course. That depressed me. Had I read it in a book or had Claire told me that for a show jumper one should choose a horse that would jump a course of three feet nine clear, rather than one which could clear one fence of five feet?
The sight of Secret strapped down with a martingale and her lovely head spoiled by two nosebands depressed me too and, whatever my cousins thought, I knew that her mouth was much less responsive than it used to be and that her neck muscles had ceased to develop.
I suppose I was very weak to go on riding with my cousins and doing as they suggested, when, inwardly, I felt it to be wrong but, of course, it wasn’t only my cousins who jumped in this way. I went as a spectator to another nearby horse show. It was a large one, too large, my cousins said, for it to be worth their while to enter. The famous Martin Hastings jumped and won. It was all very well for Claire to say that he shouldn’t take his horse off with the reins, that he shouldn’t sit in the saddle until the very last minute and then hurl himself up the horse’s neck letting his legs shoot back and his toes turn down, for, to use Patience’s favourite expression, “the proof of the pudding is in the eating”, and no one had won more than Martin Hastings. He had won on dozens of different horses, over all sorts of courses and in both precision and speed competitions.
I went home and aped him madly; and I was filled with defiance over every fence for I knew what Claire would have said had she seen me. I found I could jump more or less like Martin Hastings and Secret went no worse than usual. We cleared four feet at our third attempt, but we still couldn’t jump clear round my cousins’ three-feet course.
In despair I bought several books on show jumping, but they weren’t much help for they all seemed to tell me opposite things. I tried them all; I would sit still one day, take her off the next, I rode on loose reins and tight ones, with Italian and French and South American seats. Secret became more and more confused. I tried to explain my feelings to Patience, but she only answered, “Don’t be absurd, Charles, you’ve done wonders; you’re just as good at jumping as any of us.”
“But we’re none of us much good,” I told her, “to get anywhere nowadays you’ve got to jump two clear rounds and none of us can jump one.”
“Oh, Charles, I’m always telling you that no ordinary person has a hope in the show ring today; it’s too specialised. You’re not serious about wanting to show jump, are you?”
“Yes, I am. Other people can do it and it isn’t always the same old stars; there are often new people coming to the top.”
“But they’re exceptional people. Not just ordinary people like us. Honestly, Charles, it’s no use your aiming so high; I mean it would be silly for most people, but you’re already handicapped: you started riding so late and then there’s your leg.”
After that I didn’t feel like jumping at Underhill Farm, but anyway the holidays ended; Jackie and Prudence went back to school and Patience was taking some sort of a secretarial course in London so she went up and down in the train every day like my father.
I tried jumping at home, but it gave me no pleasure, Secret was going so badly and her constant shying and pulling made her very exhausting to ride and hurt my leg.
I was very disheartened and, I suppose because I am not very good at hiding my feelings, my parents soon noticed my dreary state.
“ Why don’t you have some more riding lessons, Charles?” my mother suggested one morning at breakfast. “It’s so dull for you always riding alone.”
My father
was less tactful. “Yes,” he said, “It’s about time. You’re not half the rider you used to be. You’ve lost all your polish tearing about at Underhill Farm.”
“Why don’t you ring up this morning?” persisted my mother. “You could easily fit in two lessons this week.”
“Yes, you could hack her there and back now; there’s no need to keep her at livery.”
I was reluctant. “I’ll get a terrible rocket from Claire,” I said. “I’m riding all wrong and Secret’s going badly; she’ll probably have a fit.”
“All the more reason to go,” said my father, “then perhaps you’ll stop spoiling that wretched horse. And if you get a rocket it serves you right for listening to those little know-alls, my nieces.”
Fortunately my father had to go then because of his train, but my mother allowed me no peace.
“Really, I think you should,” she said. “You know you’re not enjoying riding like you used to. I know that everyone goes through bad patches, but if you can have someone to advise you, why not? They say a wise man learns by the experience of others, a fool by his own, and besides, look at the famous athletes. They practically all have coaches.”
“O.K., O.K.,” I said, giving in reluctantly on the surface, but much more willingly inside. “I’ll telephone now and then it’ll be done.”
Claire said that of course I could have lessons. I could go that afternoon or the next morning and then again on Friday morning—unless I wanted to ride on Sunday in the class. I said that I was so bad that I had better have private lessons at first. And then I said that the following morning would be best for I suddenly had a fantastic idea that I might be able to improve Secret in one day.
10
My miracle didn’t happen. My last minute endeavour to improve Secret only served to depress me more. She went worse than ever and I told myself that however insulting Claire was about my riding, I should deserve it; never had anyone mucked up a good horse so thoroughly.
My despair was even greater by the time I reached Eastbridge, for Secret behaved as though she was having twenty pounds of oats a day all the way over there. My arms felt as though they were coming out of their sockets, my leg hurt from the violence of her shies and my nerves were shattered by her behaviour in traffic and the way she slid about on the main road. I expected broken knees at every moment, if not a squashed horse.
I hadn’t taken off my martingale, or my horrible mess of nosebands. I felt that Claire might as well see the worst at once for she was sure to learn it sooner or later.
To my surprise she didn’t mention them, she only said, “She’s certainly fatter,” as she studied Secret from several angles. “In fact she looks quite respectable. How has she been going?”
“Awful,” I answered. “At least it’s not her, it’s me.”
“What about jumping?” asked Claire.
“Worse still,” I told her. “It makes even my parents feel ill and they’re fairly doting.”
Claire laughed. “The eyes of love,” she said. “It must be bad then. Well, shall we go into the school and see?”
I rode round the school at the walk and trot and Claire watched without one word, which was pretty disconcerting considering the torrent I had been expecting. She told me to canter and Secret shot off with what was now her usual rush, her head was up, her back was stiff, I couldn’t sit in the saddle at all.
Claire said, “Walk.” And then she said, “Oh, you’re not so bad as you make out. You’ve only forgotten how to ride a horse on the bit and then finding you couldn’t control her, you’ve started to pull and that naturally made her pull too. Then her head comes up, her back is stiff, you can’t sit in the saddle, consequently your hands can’t keep still, consequently you can’t put her back on the bit.”
“It sounds simply terrible,” I said.
“Not at all,” answered Claire, “It’s just a vicious circle. Riding and schooling are full of vicious circles, but all one has to remember is that it’s the rider’s job to break them; the horse can’t; he hasn’t the right type of brain; he doesn’t reason.
“Now, begin by putting Secret on the bit in the halt. Good, but you must keep her there. You see you let your legs come away from her sides and now she isn’t at attention any more, she’s gazing about her. Put your legs against her. Now walk on a few strides and halt again. Yes, that’s much better. You see, she’s dropped her nose; not because you’re pulling on the reins, but because you’ve used your legs correctly and you have a contact with her mouth.
“If she was a quieter type of horse being off the bit wouldn’t be so disastrous, but with an impetuous horse you must ride properly all the time. Lazy horses only become lazier if they’re not ridden properly and sometimes they start bucking when they’re told to canter or refusing to jump without a lead. And horses with a slightly mean streak become meaner, and soon begin to rear and jib.
“Now, try walking on in that position. Don’t let her head come up. Legs! Your legs are inclined to be half an inch too far forward and that is causing most of your troubles. Half an inch may not sound much, but it is all the difference between being on the bit and off it.”
When I could walk and halt without Secret coming off the bit, Claire told me to trot.
“Rising,” she said, “because if you try to sit at the moment you’ll bump about and she’ll start to resist you. Legs back. Reins a little shorter. Push with your legs.”
In no time Secret was going properly again. When we tried another canter it was entirely different from our earlier effort. Claire insisted that I began properly organised with Secret on the bit at the trot and that seemed to cure all the rushing and pulling; she remained perfectly calm, supple and rideable. In fact she felt lovely.
“Actually,” said Claire, when she had told me to stop for a rest, “you’re riding better than you did. I know you’ve picked up the odd bad habit, but you’re not so stiff; you look more at home, more as though you could give the aids by instinct instead of by using your brain and that’s half-way to becoming one with the horse.”
“Gosh,” I said, rather embarrassed by such praise, “that sounds like a school report; only not mine. I always got, ‘Could do better.’”
“I’ve forgotten what I got; it’s all too long ago,” said Claire. “Now, shorten your stirrups. I’d better see just how bad this jumping is before we stop.”
Claire arranged the jumps; they were in a figure of eight course now, and all of the six fences stood at about two-foot nine. It would have given me great pleasure to jump it a month or so before, but now I preferred one large, terrifying-looking obstacle to which Secret might pay some attention. I rode towards the first jump. But Claire called me back. “Canter round first,” she said, “and don’t begin jumping until she’s on the bit.”
Secret soon settled at the canter but directly I turned her for the jump I lost control, we raced at it with her head in the air, took off too much far away and hurtled over. Her eyes were already on the next fence, we raced at that and took off much too late.
“Whoa. Stop!” shouted Claire. “That’s quite enough, thank you,” she said as I turned the indignant Secret away from the third fence. “You’re right about the jumping; it is awful.
“There’s only one thing we can do with a horse that’s going like that,” she went on after a moment’s thought. “Right back to the beginning; Cavaletti work and then jumping from the trot on a loose rein.”
Without thinking, I said, “ Oh, dear, I did want to show jump this summer.”
Claire gave me a sharp look and then she said, “Well, I didn’t say that it would take the whole summer to put her right, did I?”
Having got so far I decided that I might as well burn my boats. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever be good enough,” I said, “but I should like to jump in Foxhunters.”
“Why not?” said Claire, “You’ve only got to get your horse going and enter before the entries close.”
“You don’t think,” I asked, fe
eling as though I were back in the specialist’s consulting room, “that my leg would make any difference?”
“Your leg? Good heavens, no,” said Claire firmly. “Dozens of people ride with much worse legs than that and there are some quite famous riders among them. Besides, there’s an Olympic silver medallist who has both legs affected by polio. Your leg’s all right; it’s your lazy habits. It’s all this starting and stopping anyhow, that’s put you back. You must remember to ride your horse, but on the other hand you mustn’t do so obviously. If you look busy on a horse you’re riding badly. You must sit still and look as though you’re doing nothing but really be doing quite a lot.
“We must stop now, but do remember, don’t pull and keep your legs back. If you’re coming again on Friday you could practise walking and then trotting over poles tomorrow without pulling. And if she becomes excited at the trot, go back to the walk. And, if she’s excited over two poles, go back to one.”
“What happens if she’s excited at walking over one?” I asked.
“She won’t be; they never are, unless their riders try to hold them back with the reins.”
I rode home in a state of triumph. My jumping might be terrible—well, I had known that—but I was going to Foxhunter. My leg didn’t matter and, apart from all this, Claire actually thought I had improved. I rode very elegantly; keeping Secret on the bit except when I allowed her to relax in a loose rein walk. It all seemed so easy, now that Claire had put me back on the right track, I couldn’t understand how I had ever come to lose my way in the tangle of theory and feeling which seems to be horsemanship.
It was true that Secret was not as fresh as she had been when I left home that morning, but she was still shying and I found that by using my legs to keep her on the bit, I was able to avoid her violent jamming on of brakes, which so jarred my leg. As her shies became more comfortable and much less frequent I was able to imagine myself jumping in the ring; taking figure of eight courses at a furious speed, with Secret superbly balanced and my face set in a grim expression as I shaved off seconds at every bend and corner.
Show Jumping Secret Page 7