by Tudor Robins
“Well, I’d be happy to be on call when you do need help,” I say, and that seems to make up his mind.
“You might as well take those jumps now, then. Help me clear out that old barn, I guess.”
“What did I tell you?” Jared backs the truck up close to the barn.
“Whatever. It’s a gift horse. Don’t look it in the mouth. I know I didn’t when somebody gave me a filthy old appaloosa.”
Jared lunges for me, but I’m out of the truck before he can catch me. “Come on, Strickland. What’s taking you so long? We have jumps to load!”
The jumps are in beautiful shape. “Tom’s daughter could hardly have used these before she went away.”
Added to the two jumps we already have, it’s easy to set up a classic hunter eight-jump course.
“We just need two on each long side, and then two diagonal lines. If Lacey goes in an over-fences course it will be some variation of these lines.”
We have them set up by lunchtime. Jared disappears into the kitchen to make sandwiches containing a bizarre, but delicious, selection of items from his mom’s fridge, and I fiddle with the jumps.
Pacing them out. Adding ground poles. Checking there are no rocks, or divots.
Jared and I sit on the porch steps, chew on our sandwiches, and watch Salem graze.
He nudges my knee with his. “So, what next?”
“Do you really have to ask?”
“I thought so.”
The jumps shape our warm-up. We have to twist and dodge and weave around them. They force us to make our circles small; they require frequent changes of direction.
By the time I gather my reins, and sink my heels just a bit lower in the stirrups, Salem’s seen each of these jumps many, many times.
I start small. Just one. On a circle. Not a problem. A pop; barely more than a big canter stride.
Then another; same thing.
Next we try a line. I count strides in my head five-four-three-two-one between the two jumps. Perfect.
“Can I do anything?” Jared’s watching, which I appreciate. Probably good to have an onlooker the first time I take the mare around a complete course.
“You can put back anything I knock down.”
“Well, then my job will be easy.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Thanks. But like I told Lacey, it’s more complicated than it looks.”
More complicated because we’ve never done this together before. Delicate because I need to lead Salem – give her confidence – without getting in her way. Challenging because, while a very short course, it’s still a course, and she might get tired by the end. Difficult because this needs to be a good experience if there’s any hope of Lacey taking her around a similar course.
Still, there’s only one way to get ready.
I double-check my hand, seat, leg position, straighten my back and ask her for a canter. And we’re off.
I do the entire canter circle with my eyes on the first jump, so she’ll have no doubt about where we’re heading but, even before we’re in the air over it, I’m focused on the second jump, and then beyond it, and around the corner to the next line.
I keep my leg pressure steady. Don’t rush! Don’t die back! Steady, steady, steady.
When my brain’s not counting the strides between the jumps, it’s counting the rhythm of Salem’s canter – one-two-three, one-two-three – steady, even, consistent.
I hold her back slightly as she heads toward the barn entrance, nudge her forward when we head away. To Jared, watching, it should seem like her pace never changes. That’s my goal, anyway.
On the sixth jump, she bobbles, lands on the wrong lead. I’m about to take her back to a trot and ask for the correct lead, when she switches for me. It’s an awkward change; slightly clunky, but much better than the transitions I’d have to do otherwise.
“Good girl!” Now, focus on the final line. Eyes up, shoulders back, light contact and she floats over the first jump, easily puts in the five strides to the second one, and is up and over. As we canter a circle to finish off she puts a high arch into her neck.
“She’s proud!” I tell Jared.
He puts his thumb up. “It was good! Right? It looked good to me.”
I push her forward to a walk and give her a great big pat on both sides of her neck. “It was very good.”
He steps into the ring. “And I guess I was completely wrong. You aren’t afraid of jumping at all.”
I shake my head. “No. Actually, that helped me remember how much I love it. I just don’t feel like showing right now. I’m happy to leave that to other people.”
“Like Lacey,” he says.
“We’ll see.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
It’s all familiar, and it’s all different.
Still a crazy, early morning – the sun just slipping up as we roll onto the ferry in Jared’s truck.
Still the anxiety about the mare – scrubbed and braided, and wrapped, and blanketed in the trailer – wondering how she’ll travel; how many braids she’ll rub out by the time we get to the grounds.
When we arrive, the usual rutted, bumpy five-kilometre-an-hour crawl over a rough-mown field, to park the trailer at the end of a row, with another trailer quickly slotting in beside us.
The last-minute brush run across Salem’s shining rump, polish of her gleaming saddle and adjustment of a crooked braid – these are all normal.
It’s normal, too, to have to prepare the rider. To tuck in shirt tails, and tie on numbers. To say “breathe” and “calm down” and “there’s no rush”.
Except, this time, the rider’s not me.
Lacey with her big eyes, and red, red cheeks, and non-stop smile, can’t stop talking, and won’t stand still.
She’s literally running in circles. “Lacey!” I grab her arm. “Come with me.”
“No, Meg. Salem’s not ready and we still need to get water, and I want to …”
“Jared and your dad can do that. Come with me.”
I pull her around the front of the truck, to where she can’t see Salem any more. To where it’s relatively quiet. “I’m going to braid your hair.”
“No way, Meg. It’s fine the way it is. It’ll look stupid in braids. I’m not ten years old. I have to …”
I pull the passenger door of Jared’s truck open and reach into the glove compartment where I stashed a brush and elastics. “Lacey, lean against the seat.” She hesitates.
“It’s a deal breaker,” I warn. She still wants to jump today, and despite a fairly successful schooling session over fences the other day, I haven’t promised her anything. She leans.
I brush her hair, slowly, carefully; working the knots out of the bottom first and moving up to the top.
Her breathing slows.
I divide it into two big sections, parted down the back, and she relaxes further against the seat.
I split the left side in three, and start braiding. “Now, let’s talk – calmly – about your classes.”
Her voice comes back muffled by Jared’s truck seat. “OK. Let’s talk.”
Now it’s me who needs calming.
This show is much bigger than I expected – the trailers keep pouring in – and, when we get there, the warm-up ring’s packed. This is the true test for Salem and Lacey. I know they can do everything at home, in our quiet ring, but can they do it here, in strange surroundings with strange horses, and people, and yipping Jack Russell terriers everywhere?
Can I lead them through it?
As a rider, I’ve known what it’s like to have to claim my own riding room in a crowded warm-up ring. But as a coach? Never.
This ring, today, is full of real coaches. Ones I’ve taken clinics from, and whose riders I’ve competed against. Craig. My breath catches when I see him standing there.
But I have to go. It’s not fair to Salem and Lacey if I don’t. I straighten my shoulders and stride into the ring as though I’ve done it a million times before.
L
acey’s already been cut off by an older rider on a bigger horse.
“Come on, Lace. Grab a spot on the rail. Now. And take her straight up to a trot. Good. And if someone’s in your way yell ‘Heads up!’ Loudly. Now ride.”
I look over at the fence to catch Jared’s eye. Give an elaborate shrug, laugh at myself, and then turn back to watching my horse and rider move through their warm-up.
Lacey will kill me if I don’t get her over one of the jumps in the ring. I wonder if she knows this is much harder work for me than it is for her.
I step forward to stand by the approach to the jump and yell “Heads up over the X!”
As Lacey heads for it, doing everything I’ve told her to – looking up and ahead, keeping a light contact while moving forward – another rider drifts into her space.
“Heads up!” I yell again. “You on the chestnut, heads up!”
The rider on the chestnut moves, Lacey and Salem pop over the jump, and I’m more than happy that we’ve all survived our warm-up ring experience.
“Good job Lace, you can take her out.”
I’m following her out of the ring when somebody taps my shoulder. I spin around.
“I didn’t expect to see you here. And bossing my riders around, too.” It’s Craig.
Is he serious? His eyes are twinkling, white teeth gleaming. He’s not serious.
I laugh and, without really thinking about it, reach out to hug him. “Nice to see you. I’ve got to follow my horse, but I’ll catch you later.”
“I’ll be watching,” he calls.
When I get out of the ring, Lacey’s running up her stirrups, while a familiar girl holds Salem for her. “Slate! I wasn’t sure you’d come. I thought you’d be too busy getting ready for university.”
“Ah Meg-of-mine, how could I miss your debut as a trainer? And I’m so glad I came: I love this mare. She’s adorable!”
Lacey loosens Salem’s girth and Slate tugs on one of her braids. “And this rider of yours is adorable, too.”
I wait for the back chat as Lacey tells Slate she’s not adorable, and to leave her hair alone. Instead she just blushes deep pink and says, “Thanks for holding her,” before taking the reins back from Slate.
Slate hooks her arm through mine, and we follow Salem back to the trailer. “Meg, you look fantastic. So tanned.”
“Just from the neck up, I’m afraid.”
“Well, whatever. It suits you. Now, where’s the cowboy?”
“Meg! We found you! We had no idea there would be this many people here. This is exciting, wonderful, overwhelming!” Betsy grabs me in a hug, and Carl stands a pace back, a camera with a massive lens strapped around his neck. Not only did Betsy give me the day off, but she insisted she and Carl would come to watch. My ribs swell at seeing them here.
“Betsy and Carl, I’d like you to meet my friend Slate.”
Slate accepts Betsy’s hug, and hugs her back. “I love your bag,” she says.
Betsy looks at her shoulder bag, as if for the first time, and says, “Oh, thank you.”
I know Betsy’s carrying that bag because it’s big enough for all the treats she’s brought along – I watched her slice and wrap brownies yesterday – but now Slate’s made her feel good about the way it looks too.
“Sometimes I love you more than you can know Slate.”
“Right back at ya, Megsters. Now, I want to meet the cowboy.”
Distract her. “Lacey’s first class is in the A Ring in twenty minutes, and I should actually go find Jared, so could you possibly …”
It works. “Don’t even ask, Megan-baby. I’m taking these two over there now. Maybe we’ll buy a donut on the way.”
As they walk away I hear Betsy saying, “Oh, there’s no need for that dear. I’ve brought homemade danishes …”
I don’t have to worry about them. Which makes one thing.
**********
“You nervous?” Jared nudges me as I stare at Lacey. I narrow my eyes and focus them like lasers as though I can beam, Post on the right diagonal, and Sit up straight, and Smile, directly into her brain.
“A little.” I tear my gaze away from Salem and Lacey. “A lot. A surprising amount. My stomach hurts.”
Jared wraps his arms around my middle and pulls me tight against him, which I appreciate, but does nothing for Salem. Lacey is stiff as a board and Salem’s responding with mincing sideways steps, and the beginnings of dark, damp patches appearing on her neck.
This is no good. Lacey has to chill. Smile. Breathe. Count one-two-three. She catches my eye, just for a minute and I mime an exaggerated exhale.
She blinks, twice, then I see her lips form an “O”, shoulders settle back. Salem loosens, mouths the bit, directs her motion forward instead of sideways. Phew.
All I can do now is watch.
And it’s OK. In fact, it’s very good. In fact, by the time Lacey and Salem have obeyed every command more or less right on time, and Lacey’s posted on the correct diagonal, and Salem’s picked up the correct canter lead, and the only transition that wasn’t very crisp was – I’m pretty sure – hidden from the judge by another rider, I’m satisfied with their performance.
It takes me a second, after the announcer reads out “In fifth place, Bewitched, ridden by Lacey Strickland, owned by Jared Strickland and Megan Traherne” to recognize Salem’s show name, but, when I hear our names, my heart jumps, and I whirl around and plant a huge kiss on Jared’s lips.
“She did it! They did it!”
He squeezes me. “You did it.”
**********
Craig finds me as I’m studying the course for Lacey and Salem’s jumping class. With them going on to win a fourth, and then a third, in their last two classes, there was no way I could say no to them riding in this class, but I want them to be prepared.
“Hey. That mare you brought is doing well.” Lacey and Salem beat two of his riders in our last class.
“Thanks.”
“Tell me about her.”
The story of me working cattle to trade for her, then her running away, training her over milk cartons, and making our own sand ring bubbles up, but something makes me give a different answer. “She’s seven, done some jumping in the past. Very versatile. Willing and a quick learner. As you can see, she’s very trustworthy with a younger rider. I think you’ll like the way she jumps.”
He nods. “And you got her, where?”
“Kingston area.”
“Sam Jules’ place?”
“No.” I smile. “It’s great to see you again Craig. I need to talk to my rider about this class.”
“Of course. Good to see you too. Good luck.”
“Watch them.” I say.
“I will.”
Jared comes up beside me. “You good? What’s up? Why are you staring after that guy?”
“I’m fine. It’s nothing.” It’s nothing and everything. It was great to see Craig, but it was also different. It was the way he talked to me. Like an equal, or at least an adult. While I’ve been away, things have changed, even the things I didn’t know were changing.
“You should come and eat lunch. Betsy’s set up a major spread.”
“I’ll be right there. Just give me two more minutes to study this.”
As Lacey trots Salem into the ring, I wonder if Craig’s watching. It doesn’t matter. This is about Salem and Lacey.
They have eight jumps to get over, and Salem will clear them easily if Lacey just stays calm and remembers my number one piece of advice. Eyes. Use your eyes. Tell Salem where you’re going next.
Lacey trots Salem through a beautiful round circle, and when she asks her for a canter the mare steps onto the correct lead. Then it’s a nice light rhythmic approach to the first line and they’re up, over, down and six-five-four-three-two-one strides and up, over and down the second one.
First line done. Both jumps still standing. Salem cantering through the corner on the correct lead. So far, so good.
The seco
nd line goes much the same way. So those are the two diagonals done; now they have to do each of the long sides.
The next line has them jumping away from the gate. Salem may never have been here before but, like all horses, she already has the location of the gate seared into her mind. The gate means home. The gate means “you’re done”. Now, as they canter past it – past Jared and me standing by it – hesitation sweeps through her. Her ears flick forward and back. She bobbles.
No, no, no don’t break. This is a hunter event so they’re judged on their smooth flow; their appearance. They’re judged on making everything look simple and easy, even when it’s not.
Lacey’s nudges Salem’s side but it’s not enough. She’s on the verge of dropping to a trot, and I’m shifting from foot to foot, thinking get after her, and go for it, and make it happen!
Yelling isn’t really an option. It’s not done, and it’s just as likely to distract Lacey as motivate her. My frustration comes out in a growl instead. I grit my teeth and crinkle my nose and grrrrr.
I don’t know if it’s Lacey or Salem who hears me, but the mare’s ears flick back, then forward, and energy sweeps back into her.
All Lacey has to do is channel it. They finish the corner, and head for the line, which Salem takes beautifully, all long strides and exaggerated bascules in mid-air.
It’s enough. I’m satisfied. All I wanted was for them not to have a bad experience in their first over-fences class; this was beyond my expectations. And it’s enough for the judges too. They’re called in for sixth.
Lacey can hardly believe it. I have to shoo her to ride in and collect her pale pink ribbon.
And once again I get to hear my name, linked with Jared’s, read as Salem’s co-owners. It has a nice ring to it.
**********
Lacey’s giving Salem a break, saddle off, in the shade. Betsy, Carl, Rod and Jared have set up a full-on tea party in a quiet corner, and I’m with Slate, watching the last class before they call the division results.
“Look. Over there.” I follow Slate’s pointing finger to a familiar tall, grey horse.