Eventer's Dream

by Caroline Akrill

  The office was up a lot old narrow flights of stairs above the factory where lines of women in overalls, with their hair tied up in scarves, shouted to each other over the clank of the machinery and the clink of glass and the roar of piped music. There was a powerful smell of vinegar.

  Behind a door at the top of the last flight of stairs I came upon the round-faced, red-cheeked man of the sign, bending over a desk, sniffing at little piles of orange powder.

  “Take a sniff,” he invited. “I’m trying to decide which has the best bouquet.”

  I was breathless from the climb, and in my anxiety to do the right thing, I leaned over and inhaled the nearest pile. The fine dust rose up into my nostrils. I sneezed, dispersing the orange powder in a cloud all over the desk.

  “No, no,” the Pickle King said in reproof. “Not like that, like this. Gently.” He leaned over another pile and gave a short, delicate sniff, closing his eyes and flaring his nostrils. “You test the aroma. You don’t take it like snuff.”

  I tried again. “I can’t smell anything at all,” I confessed.

  “That’s because you haven’t a nose,” the Pickle King said with regret. “There are not many about these days. People don’t realize what a disastrous effect our polluted environment has on the olfactory senses; a good nose today is a very rare find.” He settled himself down behind the desk and waved me into a chair. “As you haven’t a nose,” he said cheerfully, “perhaps you should begin by telling me what other redeeming qualities you have.” He beamed at me expectantly.

  “I beg your pardon?” I said.

  “Your qualifications,” he said. “Your experience. Have you ever worked in a pickle factory before?”

  “Mr Hissey,” I said nervously. “I don’t want a job in the factory.”

  A look of enlightenment spread over the Pickle King’s cherubic face. “Then you must be the girl groom young Forster was telling me about,” he said. “I should have guessed. I can see you are the outdoor type.”

  “I haven’t actually come about the groom’s job either,” I said.

  The Pickle King’s face fell. He frowned.

  “I’ve come about Harry Sabin’s bay gelding,” I said, and I blurted out the whole story; about my eventing ambitions and the misery of not being able to find a job which paid a living wage, and of having to accept work with the Fanes, and how we had come across the bay gelding in Harry Sabin’s field and how, if I didn’t do something about it, it was going to Warners on Wednesday week. I was just mentioning the importance of having fifteen hundred in cash, when the Pickle King held up a restraining hand.

  “Wait a minute,” he said in a disbelieving voice. “Am I hearing you correctly? Are you asking me to buy you a horse?”

  “Not exactly,” I said, but then, “well, yes. I suppose I am.”

  “But I hardly know you,” he exclaimed, and his eyes were round with astonishment. “We only met a few minutes ago!”

  “I don’t actually want you to buy the horse for me,” I tried to explain. “I just want you to put up the money. It would actually belong to you. You would own it.”

  “Oh,” the Pickle King said. “How extremely generous.”

  “I don’t seem to have put this very well,” I said anxiously. “But the truth of the matter is that I want to event and I’ve found the perfect horse, but I haven’t any money. I need a sponsor.”

  “I don’t sponsor people,” the Pickle King said firmly.

  “Not people,” I said. “Only one person. Only me.”

  “Especially people I don’t know,” he added. “So I’ll say good morning.” He scrambled up from behind his desk and made for the door.

  I grabbed him by his jacket. “Mr Hissey,” I said desperately. “I only need a chance. I have a promising future; ask Hans Gelderhol.”

  The Pickle King paused with his hand on the door knob. “Hans Gelderhol?” he said. “That Hans Gelderhol?” He nodded towards a framed photograph on the wall.

  “Oh yes,” I said. “That’s the one I mean.”

  “And Hans Gelderhol thinks you’re good?”

  “Ask him,” I said. “Ring him up. Ring him now.”

  The Pickle King made his way back to the desk and stretched out a hand towards the telephone. He hesitated. “If Hans Gelderhol thinks you’re so good,” he enquired, “why doesn’t he take you on himself?”

  “He did ask me,” I said. “I refused.”

  The Pickle King flopped back into his chair. “You refused a job with Hans Gelderhol?” he said incredulously. “You refused?”

  I nodded.

  “Why?”

  "Personal reasons," I said.

  The Pickle King looked at me suspiciously. “What personal reasons?” he asked.

  “They’re personal,” I said indignantly.

  The Pickle King waved me back into my chair. “I only asked,” he explained, “because most girls would give an arm and a leg to work for Hans Gelderhol.”

  “I know,” I said. “Hans Gelderhol can have any girl he wants, and now and again they do get a ride. But they don’t get paid good wages, and they don’t get the good horses. He keeps those for himself.”

  “Well, naturally,” the Pickle King said. “He is the star.” He stared at me thoughtfully. “So you wouldn’t join the bandwagon,” he said. “You didn’t fancy it, eh?”

  “Didn’t fancy what?” I said faintly.

  The Pickle King chuckled. “Don’t think I don’t know the Golden Boy,” he said. “I know Hans. I know him very well indeed.”

  “There was nothing improper,” I said. “I was just a student. But the inference is that if you haven’t a wealthy family behind you, you haven’t a chance. I want to prove that it isn’t necessarily so. I want to do it on my own.”

  “Correction,” the Pickle King said. “You want to do it on my money.”

  I couldn’t deny it.

  The Pickle King frowned at me over the desk, and his forehead was furrowed with genuine perplexity. “Assume for one moment, Miss Would-Be-Event-Rider, that I rang Hans Gelderhol and he gave me a glowing report on your potential; then further assume that I purchased this bay gelding on your behalf. What would I stand to gain from it? Can you give me one valid reason why I should back a completely untried novice horse and rider? Why I should spend fifteen hundred pounds on a total stranger?”

  It was the question I had been dreading. There was nothing for it but to tell the truth. “You were the only person I could think of,” I said. “Everyone knows you are interested in eventing, you must be, or you wouldn’t be a patron. I know you sponsor events and give prize money and expensive trophies to those have made it to the top; I thought there might be a chance that you would consider helping someone right at the bottom for a change.” It sounded unlikely, even to my own ears.

  “I might,” the Pickle King said.

  I could hardly believe it. I almost jumped out of my chair.

  The Pickle King held up a restraining hand. “I only said that I might, not that I would.” But his eyes had begun to sparkle. “I’m not Father Christmas; I work hard for my money, and when I spend it I want to be sure I get good value in return. How do I know that you would be good value, Miss-Would-Be-Event-Rider?”

  “Oh, Mr Hissey, I would be,” I assured him. “I work hard and I would train hard. I wouldn’t let you down; you could ask Hans to give me a reference.”

  “I could,” the Pickle King agreed. “And I most certainly would.”

  “And the horse is good value,” I said eagerly. “It’s actually very cheap. It’s the right type and the right age, and it’s sound in every way because I’ve had it vetted. It’s exactly the horse for the job, you could go and see it for yourself.”

  “Oh, I would,” he said. “Make no mistake about it.”

  “It would be a good investment,” I urged him. “Even if it didn’t make the grade, you would still come out with a profit at the end of the exercise. You couldn’t possibly lose money.”

&
nbsp; “Unless it broke its neck,” he said.

  “There is such a thing as insurance,” I pointed out.

  “An insurance premium on an event horse is very costly,” he said solemnly.

  “You wouldn’t have to pay the running costs,” I told him. “I can keep a horse in the yard where I work; it’s a condition of the job.”

  “You must be earning a very good wage,” the Pickle King said, “to be confident that you can afford the upkeep of an event horse; the training, the transportation, the entry fees, not to mention the best quality food, the supplements, the shoeing, the saddlery, the veterinary charges.”

  There was nothing I could say to this. The Pickle King leaned back in his chair and stuck his thumbs into the pockets of his jolly yellow waistcoat. He regarded me in amusement. He knew perfectly well that I wasn’t earning a bean. Everyone who hunted in the Midvale and Westbury country knew the Fanes.

  “Now, in my yard,” he observed in an innocent tone, “I do pay extremely good wages. I pay more than the NAG rate for the job; and as a concession, there happens to be a vacant stable, with keep, for a horse that might, just might, you understand, be an eventer.”

  “Mr Hissey,” I said, appalled. “That’s bribery!”

  “No, no,” the Pickle King said comfortably. “It’s known as setting a sprat to catch a mackerel.”

  “But I already have a job,” I said. “I’m not sure that I want to leave. At least,” I added, “not yet.”

  “The trouble with horse-mad little girls,” the Pickle King said sternly, “is that they don’t realize, they don’t want to realize, that they are being exploited. If I worked my pickling ladies the hours that you are expected to work, and paid them the rate you are getting, I would have the union down on me like a ton of bricks.”

  “Mr Hissey,” I said. “Are you saying that if I take your job, you will buy me the bay gelding?”

  “The problem is,” he continued, “that in the horse world, apart from the racing sector, there is no nationally supervised training scheme, just a rather fragmented examination system …”

  “Mr Hissey,” I interrupted. “Am I right? Is that what you are saying?”

  “ … Which is, in any case, undersubsidised, oversubscribed, and leans rather too heavily towards the art of instruction; therefore a really good well-trained groom, like a good nose, is a rare find.” He rocked back in his chair towards the desk and gave me an angelic smile. “Are you a really good, well-trained groom, Miss-Would-Be-Event-Rider?”

  “Yes,” I said, wanting to be truthful. “I believe I am.”

  “Then what I am saying,” the Pickle King said, “is that in all propositions laid before a man of business, there must be a raison d’être, an inducement, a benefit.”

  “Mr Hissey,” I said, “I think you are a snake in the grass.”

  Unabashed, he beamed at me over the piles of orange powder. “I dislike conducting interviews,” he continued. “It would give me great pleasure to tear up the advertisement I was about to insert in Horse and Hound, to be spared the agony of sorting through an avalanche of unsuitable applicants. Consequently, if you will consider my job, in return, I will consider the bay gelding. Now, Miss Would-Be-Event-Rider, do we have a bargain?”

  “Yes, Mr Hissey,” I said. “We do.”

  14

  A Very Old Mare

  The old bay mare was flat out in her stable and I couldn’t get her up. I was dressed for hunting, but I couldn’t leave her because I knew in my bones that she was going to die. It was Doreen’s half-term, and she stood in the doorway, wide-eyed. Her white face was almost transparent with dismay.

  “Go and find Nigella,” I said. “Tell her the old bay mare is worse; that I am going to stay behind, and that you are to take the blue roan instead of me.”

  “Oh, I can’t,” Doreen moaned. “The Fanes won’t like it.”

  The old bay mare’s eyes had sunk and her breathing was fast and shallow. I had heaped rugs on top of her but her ears, when I felt them, were like wet leather gloves left out in a frost.

  “The Fanes will have to lump it,” I said. “I can’t go off and leave her like this.”

  “What did you say?” Henrietta exclaimed, appearing at the door with her plaiting box under her arm. “Can’t go? Of course you can go. It isn’t as if you can do anything for her, after all. She’s pretty far gone already; she won’t notice if you are here or not.”

  “I’m going to stay,” I said. “I’ve called the vet.”

  “I thought we had decided not to call the vet,” Henrietta said peevishly. “You know he won’t be able to do anything, and he’ll charge us the earth just for the visit.”

  “I’ve called him anyway,” I said. “There might be a chance. Doreen will take the blue roan.”

  “Oh I don’t know,” Doreen wailed. “I’ve never ridden it before.”

  “You see,” Henrietta said. “She won’t. She’s hopeless.”

  “Ow,” Doreen squeaked, offended. “I’m not.”

  “Then go and get your hunting clothes,” I said crossly. “This minute.”

  Doreen went off, looking uncertain. The old bay mare managed a tremulous sigh, although she was really past caring.

  “If she falls off …” Henrietta warned. “If she damages the horse …”

  “She won’t fall off, and she won’t damage the horse,” I said, “because you will be there to see that she doesn’t.”

  “Hrmm,” Henrietta said, and she went off to change with a disgruntled air.

  The Fanes were not able to use their side-saddles on the Thunder and Lightning liveries for fear of causing sore backs and confusion over aids, so they were forced to ride astride. I had offered them the loan of the stretch jodhpurs I wore for exercising, but they had refused. When they appeared in the yard, ready to mount, I could see why. Amongst the jumble offerings they had discovered several pairs of ex-cavalry elephant-ear breeches in a vibrant shade of ginger, and appropriated them for their own use. No self-respecting rider would have dreamed of wearing them, but the Fanes thought them delightful.

  “Wait until you see my other pair,” Henrietta said gleefully. “In black and white houndstooth check.”

  Doreen, legged up into the blue roan’s beautiful Stübben saddle, whispered that she couldn’t wait.

  “There are some smaller sizes,” Nigella said benevolently. “We should sort out a pair for Doreen.”

  Doreen followed them out of the yard, looking troubled.

  When the vet came I asked him if there was any hope. He examined the old bay mare and he took her temperature and he listened to her failing heartbeat.

  “No,” he said. “I’m afraid there’s no hope at all. She’s a very old mare and there would be no point in trying to prolong her life. It wouldn’t be fair; in fact, it would be unkind to try. It’s far better to just let her slip quietly away; she isn’t in any pain.”

  He helped me to heap the blankets back onto her. “You mustn’t be too sad,” he said. “After all, it’s quite a privilege these days, for a horse to be allowed to die of old age.”

  Outside in the yard, he asked if I had bought the bay gelding. I told him about my financial position and about Felix Hissey’s offer, and that I had six days in which to make up my mind.

  “You’ll go to Hissey’s place, of course,” he assumed. “It’s exactly what you want; a well-paid job and a chance to event. There’s no decision to make, as far as I can see.”

  “It seems that there isn’t,” I said. “In fact I’ve already told Felix Hissey that I’m willing to take his job. He’s going to see the bay gelding tomorrow. It all rather hinges on whether he likes it or not.”

  The vet patted my shoulder. “He can’t help but like it,” he said. “It’s a grand horse.” He left me with two bills, fifteen pounds for vetting the bay gelding, and an eight pound call-out fee for the old bay mare. I knew Henrietta would be furious when she saw it.

  I was prepared for a solitary vigil wit
h the old bay mare, but not long after the sound of the vet's car had died away Lady Jennifer appeared with two mugs of coffee on a tin tray. They were accompanied by the last of the biscuits and a new packet of raw cane sugar. I didn’t need to be told where the latter had come from. Lady Jennifer had been to lunch with my father the previous day and already he was making his influence felt.

  Lady Jennifer settled herself down on the straw and gently lifted the old bay mare’s head onto her faded tweed lap. And whilst we waited she told me about her youth and the many hunters she had owned, and how, although never beautiful, Little Legend had once been the envy of the country because of her speed and her courage. And as she related all this, her eyes grew damp, and she wiped tears off the old bay mare’s nose with a crumpled paper tissue.

  “I mustn’t be sentimental,” she sniffed. “It’s so terribly silly of me, and it doesn’t help at all.”

  When the old bay mare finally stopped breathing with a single long, shuddering rasp, Lady Jennifer closed her eyelids over her sunken eyes as gently and carefully as if she had been a human and lifted the lifeless head from her lap; then she went out of the stable to summon the flesh wagon.

  I saddled up the bad-tempered chestnut and went out for a ride so that I shouldn’t have to witness the indignity of the old bay mare’s departure. I knew that it really made no difference at all what happened to her once she was dead, but I was haunted by something William had said when Lady Jennifer and I had returned the young entry to the kennels on the day of my arrival; that all the hirelings together wouldn’t feed hounds for more than a week. Well, the old bay mare had been fatter when she died than she had been for a long time; she wouldn’t disgrace us now. The sheer awfulness of it brought on a few more tears before I managed to pull myself together and turned the bad-tempered chestnut for home.

  Henrietta and Nigella received the news with regret unclouded by any hint of sentimentality or remorse and soon fell to relating in tones of high excitement the happenings of the day; describing in glowing terms the impeccable behaviour and the general excellence of the Thunder and Lightning liveries. They had been particularly impressed by the blue roan, who, “even with a fool like Doreen in the saddle,” had been in the first flight to the end.