Swimming with Horses

by Oakland Ross

  One time I had taken that football to school — to show off, I guess. A few of us spent our recess and lunch break tossing the ball around. No one bothered us. But at the end of the school day, Bruce Gruber and a couple of his pals showed up. They included Davey Odegaard and a boy named Tony Wills, a guy with yellow skin and buckteeth who was from England. First, they took the football away from me, and then they started throwing it among themselves, just to taunt me. I ran to one guy, and he threw it to another guy, so I ran to that guy, and he threw it to the third guy. It was supposed to be fun.

  “And this went on for how long?” Hilary lit a cigarette, put her head back, and blew out a spiral of smoke that quickly vanished, swallowed by the shifting half-light cast by the huge movie screen.

  “Fifteen minutes, maybe? Give or take.”

  “Hmm.”

  I believe now that she was still gauging Bruce, still trying to get an idea of what he would or would not do.

  “Anyway, I finally figured out that it was useless to keep chasing my football. I was never going to get it back. So, instead, I ran straight at Bruce Gruber, and I didn’t stop, even after he threw the ball away to one of his buddies, Davey or Tony. I kept right on going until I almost ran right into him. I had to look straight up to see his face. I told him to give my football back, and I gave him a push, with both hands.”

  Hilary tossed her cigarette away. “And what happened then?”

  “I guess he must have knocked me out. When I came to, they were gone. Bruce and the other guys.”

  “And you …?”

  “Bloody nose. Black eye. You name it. I don’t remember what else.”

  “And the football?”

  I shook my head. “That’s the funny thing.”

  “What is?”

  “I never expected to see it again. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. But he gave it back.”

  “Bruce did?”

  I nodded. “Uh-huh. About two weeks later, he walked into the schoolroom and put it on my desk. Didn’t say a word.”

  “That seems gallant.”

  “To you, maybe.”

  She shrugged. “Interesting, though. Honourable, in a way. Even bullies have their virtues.”

  “I guess.”

  To me, Bruce Gruber was a bully, plain and simple. But it seemed that Hilary thought otherwise. I also had the feeling she was storing this information away, this new insight into Bruce’s character, an unexpected flourish of chivalry that might prove useful someday.

  “That doesn’t mean I’m defending him,” she said, maybe just a bit too hastily. “I hate bullies, too, hey.”

  And I thought I understood what she meant: she hated Bruce Gruber. But that wasn’t the point. In fact, it was the very opposite of the point. She didn’t hate Bruce Gruber. Instead, she needed him, just as much as she needed me — more, even. But I didn’t understand that, not then. Back then, I didn’t understand anything at all.

  After I had finished my story about the football, Hilary and I stayed where we were, drifting back and forth in our swing seats until Colonel Barker showed up, driving his Cadillac straight onto the drive-in grounds. He rolled too fast over a mound of gravel, and the car’s chassis crunched down against the hard, rough texture of it, making a grinding sound, almost a screech, scattering flurries of sharp pebbles out to the sides. Hilary and I both stood up.

  “Prepare yourself,” she said. “This could be just a little bit wretched.”

  But it wasn’t so bad. Either Colonel Barker wasn’t angry anymore or he was too angry to speak. Either way, we rode back to Kelso in silence. Halfway home I fell asleep.

  NINETEEN

  Jack

  South Africa, Winter 1962

  “WELL, HULLO, THERE. THAT you, Jacko?”

  The voice was deep and very loud, the voice of Daniel Anson. At once, Jack looked up. He watched as the great man lumbered into the grooming bay, putting about half his weight on his knobby wooden cane. Large as Anson was, his clothes always seemed too big for him, everything loose and flappy. He’d be wanting to go for a ride.

  “Jack,” he said. “How’s that old bay gelding of mine today? I’ve got a mind to take him for a workout. Can you saddle him up for me?”

  “Not South Wind?”

  “No, not today. Too much work, that one. The bay will do. Tack him up for me now, there’s a good man.”

  “The boy’ll do it.” Jack called for Innocent, the new Zulu groom, and told him to saddle up the bay gelding, the one named Welshman. “Saddle him up for baas Anson.” The boy nodded, turned, and hurried away.

  “Be out here in a minute,” Jack said. “You’ll do well on him today, guv. I had him out just the day before yesterday, and he was nice and easy. He’ll have his wind back up by now, and his legs are top nick, clean as a whistle.”

  Mr. Anson nodded. He took a seat on the bench by the horse blankets, kept both hands clasped in front of him, resting on the knob of his cane. He peered out at the grooming bay as if examining the place for the first time, taking it all in — the big equipment box, the strings of faded championship ribbons, the brown bottles of liniment.

  “Saw in the paper, did you, about that boy? He broke loose. You saw that?”

  Jack ran his hand up the side of his face, felt the stinging and the damage yet. “Yes, guv. I did.”

  “Don’t think he’ll be showing up around here, do you, Jack?”

  “No, guv. I expect he’ll keep pretty clear of this neck of the woods. If he’s smart. Course, you never know.”

  “That’s true,” Mr. Anson said. “You never do. Mind you watch out for him, Jack. He’ll have taken a scunner to you.”

  “Will do, guv. Keep our eyes peeled — that’s the job. Ah, here he comes now.” He meant Mr. Anson’s horse, Welshman, which worked out to Taff in English slang and was rendered in cockney — as per usual — with a rhyme. “Well there, Riff-Raff. Don’t you look bright today?”

  They both watched as Innocent attended to the task of saddling and bridling the master’s horse. When the task was done, Jack took the reins from the boy and led Welshman out of the stable. Mr. Anson followed, moaning at the effort.

  It took the combined strength of Innocent and Jack to give Mr. Anson a leg-up, to get him aloft and into the saddle. That done, they both stepped back. Mr. Anson grunted and squared himself away while Jack shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the chill.

  He hesitated before he spoke again. Unsure, that was what he was — unsure of how much he should say or how it would be received. In a low voice, casual like, he said, “Not heard from Miss Anson of late, have you, guv? She okay?”

  “Fine. She’s fine. A-one. Up in Joburg, as you know. Thank you for asking, Jack. I appreciate that.” He gathered the reins.

  “You give her my best now, guv, when you next talk to her. It’d give me pleasure.” Jack held his breath. Bold, that. Maybe too bold.

  Mr. Anson spoke over his shoulder. “That’s kind of you, Jack. I will. I’m glad to see you bear no grudge. She’s a good girl. She meant no harm.”

  “I know that, guv.”

  The great man kicked Welshman into a trot and bore down the macadam lane, past the poplar windbreak, with the grey hills and valleys beyond.

  Jack watched Mr. Anson go, his heart racing in his chest, a ringing in his ears. That Hilly — she’d be here again soon. He was nigh on sure of it. He felt a warm glow spreading out from his gut, just thinking of that, just thinking of her.

  TWENTY

  Sam

  Ontario, Summer 1963

  THE NEXT TIME I saw her, Hilary was wearing a pair of sunglasses, something she normally did not do.

  “Got a shiner.” She eased the glasses down the bridge of her nose. “She’s a beaut.”

  I saw at once it was true — a broad rim of purple discolouration under her left eye.

  I whistled. “How did that happen?”

  “Trust me. You do not want to know.”

&n
bsp; “No, really.”

  “Let’s just say I walked into a door, hey.”

  I knew that wasn’t so. I also had a pretty good idea who was responsible for that shiner, but I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. By now, we were trotting along the south shoulder of Number Four Sideroad, not far short of the escarpment’s plunging wall. After a few minutes a car raced past us, kicking up waves of dust, practically forcing us both into the ditch. I recognized the vehicle at once — Bruce Gruber’s black Thunderbird.

  The driver hit the brakes, and the car yawed in front of us, drifting sideways on the dry gravel surface. Both our horses were spooked, and it took some time to calm them down. Meanwhile, the car came to rest on a diagonal in the middle of the road, as if Bruce meant to block the way. That was stupid. The Thunderbird might have presented an obstacle to other cars, but a horse could easily go around. It was all for show.

  The driver’s door swung open, and Bruce climbed out of the vehicle, adjusting a pair of aviator sunglasses with one hand. The car’s engine continued to grumble, like a cat’s purr amplified a hundred times. I realized Bruce wasn’t alone. I could make out two passengers in the Thunderbird — Edwin Duval, I thought, and Davey Odegaard. They seemed to be Bruce Gruber’s current acolytes; he almost always had a couple of those. They remained where they were, smoking cigarettes and staring out the windows at Bruce and at us.

  Hilary said nothing at first. Then she shrugged. “Howzit?”

  “Fuckin’ awful,” said Bruce. He didn’t so much as glance at me. He cleared his throat and spat off to the side. “I came to say I’m sorry.”

  “Is it?”

  His mouth fell open. Already he seemed to be losing the gist. “Is it what?”

  “Sorry. Is it that you are sorry?”

  “’Course I am. I just said it. I been lookin’ for you everywhere.”

  “Oh. So this is an apology, hey?”

  “Somethin’ like it.”

  “An apology for what?”

  “You know.” He nodded at her. “For that.”

  I guessed he meant the black eye. I guessed he was responsible for whatever it was that had led to that.

  “Ag. Shame. Well, I’ll take your apology under advisement.”

  “What?”

  “Advisement. You know. I’ll give it some thought, seek counsel, weigh up options, stuff like that, hey.”

  Bruce flexed his arm muscles, cracked his knuckles, and lit a cigarette, all in what seemed to be a single, coordinated motion. Calming rituals, I supposed. He breathed smoke out through his nose. “I’m only tryin’ to say sorry. If you don’t wanna hear it, then …” He shook his head. “Ah, fuck it.”

  He clamped his cigarette between his teeth, turned on his heels, and climbed back into his car, slammed the door. Immediately, he gunned the engine. The Thunderbird fishtailed away in a cloud of umber dust that slowly cleared beyond the maple trees near the edge of the escarpment.

  “He’ll be back,” said Hilary. “Sooner than you think. You just wait.”

  She touched her heels to Club Soda’s flanks, and we continued our ride toward the quarry ponds.

  When we got there, Hilary started to laugh.

  “I’ll have to swim in my broekie,” she said. “Broekie and bra. I’ve got nothing else.”

  I could guess the meaning of that word, broekie. “That’s okay,” I said. Well, of course it was.

  “Easy for you to say.”

  She ducked into the grove of cedars and emerged a minute later, wearing only her underwear, with the rest of her clothing draped over her arm or clutched in her right hand. Her bra was white and lacy. Her broekie — the word itself was enough to make my forehead start to prickle with sweat — was also white and spare. There wasn’t much to it.

  “Your turn,” she said.

  I had already seated myself on a rocky ledge, where I was trying to pull my riding boots off. This was never an easy task. Her broekie. Usually, at home, I’d use the bootjack that rested on the slate floor, just inside the front door. I could pry my boots off that way. Or I’d get someone else to help me. She was wearing only her broekie and bra.

  Once rid of my boots, I pulled off my socks and immediately felt the heat of the rocky surface beat up through the soles of my feet. Somehow the warmth made me feel even more shivery than before. I slipped behind the cedars to change into my swimming trunks. That done, I gathered my clothes and hobbled out from the bushes. Hilary vaulted onto Club Soda. She was holding Della by a shank and reached down, handed it to me. She’d removed her sunglasses now, and her black eye stood out, a lurid welt of purple spilt across the soft fold of skin beneath her right eye.

  She reined Club Soda around and, as she’d done countless times before, she tucked her bare heels into his flanks. Soda took three strides across the granite ledge before hurling himself into the air. An instant later they both crashed into the green element below, the water exploding around them like fragments of crystal. The pond seemed to swallow them both. A moment or so later, they resurfaced, Club Soda snorting, sneezing, and darting his head from side to side, his ears like small separate beasts, twitching first this way, then that. It amazed me how much that horse must have trusted Hilary to obey her like that.

  Hilary rolled over onto her back and held one arm in the air as Club Soda drew her out into the middle of the pond. They both turned slow semicircles across the speckled green shell of the water, strewn with patches of gold. I started to lead Della around to the far side of the pond, meaning to stumble in by way of the grassy incline as I always did.

  “Not that way,” Hilary shouted. “Same way as I went. You can do it.”

  On another day, I might have refused, just as I had declined many times before. But something about this day was different. Her underwear — could it have been as simple or stupid as that? Or maybe it was our encounter on the road just now with Bruce Gruber. Whatever the reason, I turned Della toward the limestone ledge, then tried to coax her into a trot. At first, she wouldn’t do it. She moved backward instead of forward. But I stroked her neck and shoulders and made gentle cooing sounds, and eventually she gave in. By now my heart was pounding. I couldn’t believe we were actually going to jump. She squared her shoulders and tucked in her head. She took one stride toward the ledge, then another. I’ll be damned if she wasn’t gathering herself to jump, when I made a huge mistake. Instead of staying with her, following her movements, I pushed myself forward, anticipating what would come next — Della launching herself into the air.

  That was all it took. At once, she dug her hooves into the rocky surface and skidded to a halt. Next thing I knew, I was sailing into space all on my own, with my arms and legs flailing until I hit the water and went under. For a couple of seconds I let myself sink. Then I struggled back to the surface and looked straight up. I found myself peering at Della, who still stood on the brink of the limestone slab, apparently as stunned by what had just happened as I was myself.

  “Uh-oh,” said Hilary.

  It was too late for me to do anything. I could only watch helplessly as Della tilted her head in a vaguely interrogative pose, almost as if she were asking permission to do what she was about to do. After a few seconds she seemed to decide she didn’t need anyone’s say-so — certainly not mine. She took several steps back, turned to her right, and set off at a brisk trot, back along the wooded trail that led to Number Four Sideroad. A few moments later, she switched to a canter, judging by the fading beat of her hooves. Then she was gone.

  I clambered out of the pond and up onto the slab of limestone. At first, I just stood there, dripping water onto the rocky surface. Then I looked at Hilary. “Now what?”

  “It’s too late to catch her,” she said. “Wait. Let me get dressed.”

  When she emerged from the cedars, Hilary looked a mess, her hair stringy and sopping, the dark bruise around her eye. She’d put her breeches and blouse back on, but they were both patchy with dampness. Now she pulled on her boots an
d scrunched up her underwear, stuffed it into her backpack. By this time, I had pulled on my jeans and T-shirt, my riding boots.

  “No sense in tacking up,” she said. “It’ll be easier this way.” She swung herself up onto Club Soda. Next, she reached back down to give me a hand. “Let’s go.”

  I took her hand, retreated a step, and then swung myself up so that I straddled Club Soda, right behind Hilary. At once, he shot forward a pace or two, indignant at this unwelcome addition of weight.

  “What about our stuff?” I said. I meant our saddles and bridles, Hilary’s backpack.

  “We’ll have to come back for everything later.”

  Hilary clicked her tongue and squeezed her legs, and Club Soda set off at a trot. I wrapped my arms around her waist and did my best to post, pivoting on my knees. After a few jittery strides, Club Soda broke into a canter, a smoother gait. At each twist in the path, I expected to see Della lurking just ahead, but I saw no such thing. It seemed she was well and truly gone.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Hilary

  South Africa, Winter 1962

  DANIEL ANSON WAS OPPOSED on principle to surprises, so he was not greatly pleased when Hilary pitched up in Mooi River unannounced. She was riding in a taxi that had brought her from the airport in Durban following an early morning flight from Joburg.

  “Hilary …?” He shuffled out onto the verandah and clumped down the wooden steps, leaning heavily on his cane. “You’re home?” It seemed to be all he could think of to say.

  “Yes, Daddy.” She closed the taxi door and approached the foot of the verandah steps. There, she allowed her father to place one hand on her shoulder and give her what, between them, passed for a kiss. She could tell he was sorely put out. “Where’s Mummy?”

  “Upstairs. She’s in bed. BGR.”

  She knew what that meant. Bug going ’round. But it was probably only partly true — the being in bed, yes, but not the cause. Hilary’s mother almost always took to her bed when her husband was about, generally emerging only after he’d set off on yet another of his many business trips. Business or politics.