A Year in the Life of the Yorkshire Shepherdess

by Amanda Owen

  The children can ride Folly, but she’s not as amenable as Joe. She tolerates it all for a while, then turns into a bucking bronco. Edith rode her the other day, and she was fine. Then Miles decided that he should go for a ride too: putting his hard hat on, horse and rider rode sedately down the yard, past the farmhouse, picnic benches, across the river, and into the bottom field. The other children were already playing there. I don’t know what happened, but suddenly Folly reared. Miles was launched into the air and landed in a heap on the grass, still holding the reins, as every good horseman should. He was fine . . . until Folly stood on him. Swinging around, she put her tiny, poky little hoof right on his crown jewels. He yelped, loudly. All I could see from my vantage point in the farmyard was the children doing some kind of war dance around a small skewbald pony, and a prostrate Miles. There wasn’t much in the way of sympathy for Miles, as the kids just found it very funny. Like all good riders he was not put off, and he was soon back in the saddle – only this time, he wore Reuben’s cricket box as well as a helmet.

  As a rule the coloured horses, the gypsy vanners that we keep, are good-natured. They have the odd altercation, but they generally try to please. We do the basics when riding, nothing fancy: left, right, stop, start, faster and slower. Over the years we have accumulated everything you could ever need for a horse: bits of every size, bridles, saddles and rugs. In one barn loft we found harnesses that belonged to horses whose names I will never know. The straw-stuffed collars are bursting at the seams where the leather has dried and split, there are patches in the leather-work which has been stitched by hand, there is an extra hole in a strap made here and there, and horse hairs still cling to the fibres and poke out from the jute underside of the cart saddle. Sentimentality stops me from doing the sensible thing and having a clear-out. Boxer’s old saddle gathers dust in the porch, Stan’s Witney rug is still folded in the blanket box. I worry that I may in later life become a hoarder, surrounded by a sea of tack from long-dead horses.

  Meg came to us almost accidentally after we spotted her tethered by the side of the road at a small gypsy encampment, at the time of the Appleby Fair. Clive may not be particularly fond of horses, but he certainly knows a good sort, and Meg fitted all the right criteria.

  ‘If you’ve gotta ’ave a ’orse, you might as well ’ave a good ’un. It costs as much to feed a good ’un as a bad ’un,’ he says. It’s a mantra that he repeats for all livestock.

  Because we run the car park at the Cowper Day horse sale at Kirkby Stephen, we get to hear where the good stallions are. It was through our connections that we heard about the Black Stallion, a beautiful, much-coveted stallion that was making a name for himself in horse-dealing circles. We were lucky enough to be offered the chance to have one of our mares run with him for a month, with the intention of getting her in foal. Clive took Meg’s daughter Josie in the cattle trailer to Blaydon, in Tyne and Wear, where the Black Stallion was kept. When he got back he said that the horse was everything that we’d heard: small, compact, plenty of bone and of course jet black with a white blaze on its nose.

  ‘Lost i’ feather, reet from back of ’is knee to t’floor, a helluva thing, yer could put ’is muzzle in a pint pot,’ was his verdict.

  Clive had been taken on a guided tour of the stables. They were nothing fancy, mostly built from sheets of corrugated iron. In the ramshackle yard was a static caravan in which the owner lived.

  ‘I see’d all sorts,’ said Clive. ‘Some hellish ’osses, some reet good ’uns. They offered to sell me yan,’ he said, though I could see that he’d come home with an empty trailer, so he hadn’t bought it.

  ‘It’s a good-looking mare. She lost ’er foal and she’s running wi’t stallion. She’s not in good fettle, but we can ’ave ’er for a thousand quid.’

  I hadn’t seen the mare, but the fact that Clive had taken a shine to her meant that she must have been something a bit special. ‘Well, if thi likes ’er, then thi’d better bring her yam when yer pick Josie up,’ I said.

  A month later he went back to Blaydon. The children and I excitedly waited for him to get home with, we hoped, an in-foal Josie and a new addition to our equine family. We heard the trailer rattle as it came over the cattle grid.

  ‘They’re here, Dad’s back!’ Raven shouted, hopping around in excitement in the middle of the yard. A welcoming committee assembled by the yard gate to greet Clive – or, more particularly, the new horse. We were pleased to have Josie back, but when the trailer door was let down, all eyes were on the new arrival.

  Josie knew she was home. Sweated up from the long journey, she clattered down the trailer door and then stood stock-still in the yard, raising her head, her nostrils flared. She whinnied, as if to announce her arrival to anyone who would listen. In the distance, one of the other horses answered.

  ‘Take Josie through to t’sheep pens an’ let ’er through t’moor gate,’ said Clive to Raven, handing her the lead rope. She set off at a jog, turning round to shout:

  ‘Don’t get the new ’orse out ’til I’m back.’

  Within minutes she was back, swinging the lead rope round her head like a lasso.

  Clive went into the trailer, pulled the catch and swung the middle door open. An off-white, long, whiskery face with a twirl of moustache looked back at us. Clive attached the lead rope to her head collar and walked her down the ramp. For someone who really wasn’t so keen on horses, he seemed to have taken a shine to this one.

  ‘Here yer are, owd lass, this is yer new ’ome,’ he said, patting her neck. The children said nothing. Raven went over to the mare to have a closer inspection.

  ‘’Ow old is she?’ she said.

  ‘She’s a bit of age,’ said Clive.

  And an old lass she certainly was – probably around twenty, we thought.

  ‘What’s ’er name?’ asked Raven, as she gently stroked the mare’s velveteen muzzle.

  ‘Dunno, erm . . .’ Clive said.

  ‘Queenie,’ I said. ‘She’s called Queenie.’ It suited her.

  ‘Put ’er in t’top garth when thoo’s finished lookin’ ’er over,’ said Clive. ‘I’m gonna tek the trailer off.’

  Off he went, leaving us clustered around the new horse, Queenie. The anticipation and excitement of the morning had dissipated. It wasn’t necessarily disappointment, but a reaction to the feeling of weariness and innate sadness that seemed to emanate from her. She had ‘rain scald’, weeping sores on her back where her skin had become infected from being constantly damp. She was white, or at least she would have been, but her coat was very dirty and felt greasy to the touch. Her tangled mane was thinning and lay lank against her neck, parts of the mane having been scrubbed away at the roots so the skin along her crest had thickened and scabbed over. She was slack-backed and big-bellied, but whether the former was entirely due to her age or because she had been ridden as a youngster, we would never know. The latter was certainly the result of being used as a brood mare for many years – and I should know about that!

  ‘Mam, d’yer think she’s broken to ride?’ asked Raven, studying Queenie hard.

  ‘I just dunno, I wouldn’t ’ave thought so,’ I said. ‘But I imagine that she’ll ’ave been broken to harness.’ For she was a cart horse if ever I’d seen one, broad-chested and sturdy-legged. Whatever had happened to her in the past, she would never be ridden or driven again by anybody, I vowed to myself.

  ‘We need to ring t’farrier,’ said Raven.

  Oh yes, the hooves. They were in a bad state, curling up like Turkish slippers, forcing her down on her heels, which was putting pressure on her tendons and causing her to move with an awkward and uncomfortable gait. Her nearside back hoof had split right up towards the coronet, and with each step that she took the split would gape a little wider. I tried to pick up her legs, but it was a step too far: she wasn’t having that. She didn’t lash out with any real malice, but in her watery blue eyes I could see real fear. It is impossible to describe what a kind eye actually i
s; you just know if you see one staring back at you. I sensed that Queenie had a kind and gentle temperament, but she needed time to adjust to her new life, and forget the fear of her past one.

  I rang Steve, the farrier, explained the situation, and warned him about the work needed and that there was a good chance she would be bad to deal with. It didn’t faze him, and he agreed to call by in a couple of days, when hopefully she would be more settled.

  Raven and I decided that a bath in the river would be the perfect starting place for Queenie’s new regime, and once we had got her clean we could set about the task of treating her wounds. Hopefully with the application of antiseptic green salve we’d get her skin ailment under control, if not completely cured. But that was all to be done tomorrow: today it was about turning Queenie into the top garth, letting her relax and get her bearings.

  We woke the following morning and looked out from the bedroom window and across into the top garth, where the early-morning sun was shining on a sea of yellow kingcups. Queenie lay amongst the flowers, perfectly still.

  ‘D’yer think she’s alright?’ said Clive.

  ‘I dunno,’ I said. Clive pulled down the sash and, leaning out, gave a loud, long whistle that cut through the stillness. Queenie never stirred. Out I went in my nightdress, making my way across the yard and then through the dewy grass. Swallows dived and swooped as my footsteps wakened the insects and sent them skywards into the path of the hungry birds. Climbing the gate, I hurried towards Queenie. I was getting worried now, and I could see Clive was still hanging out of the bedroom window, waiting for news. I got right up to her, her bloated belly looking even bigger when she was lying down, her legs outstretched so I could see the full state of the overgrown hooves. When I was so close that I was within touching distance, I heard what sounded like snoring. I spoke softly: ‘Queenie.’

  She blinked and then lifted her head, and I looked towards Clive and gave him the thumbs-up sign. She clambered to her feet, then shook herself, sending loose hair and skin flakes into the air. Finally she snorted, as if disgusted that I’d roused her from her slumbers.

  Horses can lock their legs and sleep standing, but they can also sleep lying down, usually when they are in a herd with another horse on lookout. They are a prey animal, and lying down leaves them vulnerable to would-be predators. It was a good sign that Queenie felt relaxed enough to have been caught napping in the field. I had a feeling that the old lady was going to fit in to life at Ravenseat just nicely.

  Her long-overdue bath went well. She actually seemed to enjoy being soaped up and even tolerated us daubing on the salve, which must have stung. The farrier’s visit proved more problematic: dressing the front hooves took a while, and she showed her displeasure by nipping at Steve’s backside. But when he got to her back hooves, the real trouble started. Running his hand down the outside of her flanks she tolerated, but the minute he got further down towards the fetlocks she’d let fly with a kick. I clasped her lead rope tightly, keeping her staring dead ahead, her ears twitching as I whispered words of encouragement: ‘C’mon, mi lass, it’s for yer own good, yer know.’

  My words were wasted. She let fly properly, her leg pumping back and forth like a piston, and it was only a matter of time before one of her hooves made contact with Steve. All credit to him, he never lost his temper, he never elbowed her in the guts or swore, but eventually he let go of her leg and took a step back.

  ‘It’s naw good, we’re gonna ’ave to twitch ’er,’ he said, taking the cigarette that had hung from the corner of his mouth for the duration of the encounter, and holding it momentarily between his thumb and forefinger. He stood looking at Queenie for a second, then after a final drag on the cigarette he dropped it to the floor and stubbed it out under his boot.

  ‘Yer knaw ’ow this works, don’t yer?’ he said, returning from his estate car carrying a cosh with a short loop of rope at one end. I winced. It was a twitch, and I knew exactly how this primitive-looking implement worked. After gently stroking Queenie’s nose he looped the rope round her upper lip, and then twisted it tight. It’s an old-fashioned method that calms a horse down almost instantly, releasing endorphins that make the animal sleepy and compliant. The only other choice would have been to postpone the whole procedure until we got a sedative from the vet’s. I wasn’t enthralled with the idea of injecting Queenie, who I suspected was possibly in foal, with any kind of drugs. The twitch was the lesser of two evils.

  Holding the wooden twitch steady and keeping the rope right on her lip, Steve soon had Queenie dozy, standing quietly almost in a trance. He was able to dress her rear hooves, trim them back and rasp until the angle of her pasterns was corrected. It was truly marvellous to see her afterwards standing correctly. Once the twitch was released she snapped back out of her hypnotic trance and showed us a clean pair of heels as she was turned back into the garth.

  Slowly, as the weeks went by, Queenie changed. The painstaking application of salve did its job, coupled with brushes and baths with Dermoline, and she began to blossom. She found a new lease of life, galloping to the top of the field and back again just for the sheer pleasure of it. She was biddable, got to know her name and began to trust us. By the time winter came she was happy to be rugged up, and the smaller children could lead her in and out of the stables to water her. During these winter months it became obvious that, like Josie, Queenie was definitely in foal, and we had to loosen her rug by letting out more of the surcingle to accommodate her swelling tummy. After tea sometimes we’d take Queenie out for a walk on the lead rope to graze in the garden. Violet and Edith would stand close beside her, their ears pressed against her sides, listening for the foal: they were delighted if they saw or felt a kick. We watched her carefully, looking for the tiny droplets of waxy milk on her udder that would signal the foal’s arrival within twenty-four hours. It was a cold March morning when she gave birth to a filly, beige and white, strong and healthy. We decided to call her Princess. I was worried about Queenie having enough milk to feed her, knowing that she’d lost her last foal. I reckoned that it would make sense to help things along and bottle-feed Princess with a mare’s milk replacer. I baulked at the price – a hundred pounds for a bag – but it was better to be safe than sorry.

  Princess was an ugly duckling: she had the sweet and innocent look that all foals have, but she wasn’t strikingly beautiful. This was very fortunate, for her and for us, because one day her ‘rightful’ owner came to Ravenseat to reclaim her and Queenie.

  It was a glorious afternoon, with the older children at school and the younger ones busy playing around in the yard. I heard the noise of a vehicle and the clatter of a trailer coming up into the farmyard, and immediately stopped what I was doing and went to see who it was. A battered flatbed Transit van and horse trailer had parked outside the farmhouse door, and a man got out of the driver’s side.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. I thought he was a scrap man, and I was wondering whether I dared ‘donate’ some of Reuben’s paraphernalia that was littering the farm: old broken bicycles, springs, wheels and other junk.

  ‘Are you Amanda?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, what can I do for yer?’

  ‘You’ve got ’orses, ’aven’t yer?’

  ‘Erm, yes,’ I said, feeling a bit uncomfortable and furtively looking sideways to see where I actually had the horses. Meg, Josie, Folly and Little Joe were out of sight, probably further up the moor bottom; Queenie and little Princess were quietly grazing in the top garth. ‘Why do you ask?’

  By this time, Clive had appeared on the scene. ‘Alright, lads,’ said Clive, including the other man in the passenger seat in his greeting.

  ‘Aye.’ The conversation was now directed at Clive. ‘Did you buy a white mare off Black Jonny at Blaydon?’

  I had a nasty feeling that this wasn’t just a social call. I looked hard at our visitor, standing with his hands in his pockets, greasy hair fastened back into a ponytail, unshaven, with thin lips and piercing eyes. There was a mean look
about him. I glanced at his passenger, who was fiddling with his mobile phone. He was built like the proverbial brick outhouse. He slowly returned my gaze, his face expressionless. I was right to be worried.

  ‘Aye, we did,’ said Clive. I picked up a faint nervousness in his voice, and hoped it wasn’t noticeable to these two thugs.

  ‘Well, it weren’t ’is to sell,’ the first man said. ‘It were mi boss’s, an’ ’e wants ’er back.’

  They said that their boss had taken seven mares, including Queenie, to be served by the Black Stallion. Queenie was in her foal heat, twelve days after foaling. She lost the foal she had at foot for reasons they didn’t know, and when the boss came to pick his mares up a few weeks later, one of them was missing: Queenie.

  I guess if you deal in these circles, then sooner or later you’re going to run into trouble, and this felt like trouble with a capital T.

  I wasn’t quite sure how Clive was going to play this, but I knew that there was no way I was going to be parting with Queenie and Princess. Not only had I forked out a thousand pounds for her, we had lavished her with love and care for nearly a year. Nope, I didn’t care that their faces looked like mugshots off Crimewatch: they were not taking Queenie away with them.

  ‘Now c’mon, chaps, let’s be reasonable ’ere,’ said Clive. (I severely doubted whether these guys did ‘reasonable’.) ‘T’old lass is over there,’ he went on, nodding towards the contented mare and foal grazing in the field. ‘She’s knackered, been at death’s door, we’re ’avin to feed her foal for ’er. An’ foal’s nowt I’ll tell yer. It’s a filly, but not a good ’un.’