THE PENGUIN PRESS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com
Copyright © Clare Balding, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
ISBN 978-1-101-62351-0
Originally published in Great Britain by Penguin Books Ltd.
Line drawings by Gill Heeley
Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.
For Alice
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
1. Candy
2. Mill Reef
3. Valkyrie
4. Bertie
5. Flossy
6. Volcano
7. Barney
8. Frank
9. Hattie
10. Ellie May
11. Lily
12. Quirk and Stuart
13. Henry
14. Ross Poldark
15. Mailman
16. Knock Knock
17. Waterlow Park
18. Song of Sixpence
19. Respectable Jones
Epilogue
Photographs
Acknowledgments
Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened
—Anatole France
1.
Candy
The first face I can remember seeing was Candy’s. She was my protector and my companion, my nanny and my friend. A strong, snuffling, steady presence.
I looked into her big brown eyes, pushed my pudgy fingers into her cavernous wrinkles and smelled her stale breath. It was an all-in sensory experience. I was home.
I pulled her ears, lifted back her lip to examine her tiny teeth and gripped her rolls of fat, but she never snapped, never growled, never even gave me a warning glare. Candy was a saint and she knew her role in life. She was put on earth to guard me and she would, to the end of her days.
Candy was my mother’s boxer, and the pecking order was clear—in terms of affection and attention, Candy came first and anyone else, new baby included, came second. Candy loved my mother without question and my mother needed that from someone, even if it was “only” a dog.
Candy was what they call a red-and-white boxer: a deep-chestnut color in her body, with a white chest, white around her neck and across her face. Her eyes sagged, her titties swung low and loose and her girth was wider than was strictly desirable. But as far as my mother and I were concerned, Ursula Andress could move aside—she had nothing on Candy.
When she was excited, Candy’s whole body showed it. The move started in her stub of a tail and proceeded to her hips, which would rotate from side to side, making it virtually impossible for her to walk. Her body shook with delight and her lips drew back in an unmistakable grin. Most of the time she was rather matronly and sensible, but when she was happy, she was delirious.
I adored her and she responded with an immediate, unquestioning sense of duty. She would lie by my side, move if I moved and allow herself to be a living, breathing baby-walker as I used her to climb to my feet, wobbling on my plump, short legs as she pulled me gently forward. When the strain got too much and I collapsed on to a diaper-cushioned backside, she would sit and wait for me to get going again. She didn’t much like other people coming near me, particularly men, warning them off with a withering glare.
Candy seemed to be the only one who was pleased to get to know me. The day that I first came back from the hospital, Mum put the basket down on the floor and left me there. Bertie, the aloof lurcher with pretensions to grandeur, had a quick sniff, cocked his leg on the side of the basket and demonstrated exactly what he thought of it all. He stuck his head in the air and walked off, never to give me a second glance.
Candy, on the other hand, planted herself next to me, and there she stayed. It was a comfort, now I think about it, that she was so protective. You see, I was a disappointment from the minute I popped out, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.
“Oh,” said Grandma, a woman routinely described as “formidable,” “it’s a girl. Never mind, you’ll just have to keep trying.”
Robust and six feet tall, my grandmother was a daunting presence. Her hair, neither long nor short, was “done” once a week by a woman called Wendy, who came to the house. Grandma wore no makeup, believing it to be “for tarts and prostitutes.” Her favored formal uniform for race days was a raw-silk dress and matching coat, tailor-made to accommodate her unfeasibly large bosom, and nonpatterned, because patterns accentuated the mountains. Sensible court shoes, a spacious handbag to hold wallet, glasses, diary and binoculars, the outfit topped off with a matching beret or—in the summer—a silk turban-style hat.
During the week Grandma would wear a calf-length skirt with a plain-colored polo neck or cardigan. She never wore trousers. Once upon a time she had been a competent horsewoman, but she gave up riding when the sidesaddle was discarded. She refused to countenance the idea of riding “astride” and did not approve of women wearing jodhpurs.
She didn’t much approve of women, full stop, especially women with “ideas above their station.”
Grandma came from a family of statesmen, prime ministers and patriarchs. Her grandfather was the 17th Earl of Derby, but, as the daughter of his daughter, she would inherit little more than a nice collection of jewelry and a strong sense of entitlement. Her childhood had been split between a town house in London, an estate at Knowsley on the outskirts of Liverpool (now Knowsley Safari Park) and a villa in the south of France. Her mother, Lady Victoria Stanley, had died in a hunting accident when Grandma was just seven years old. Perhaps that accounted for her lack of maternal instinct.
None of the children got much attention, but the boys at least had the advantage of registering a presence. For the one girl in the lineup, early life was a losing battle.
My mother had had one staunch ally during her childhood years: her father. Captain Peter Hastings could trace his lineage back to the House of Plantagenet, which included Henry V and Richard the Lionheart. Deep in that family tree was also a mysterious link to Robin Hood. As far as my family is concerned, Robin Hood is not a fictional figure. He was Robert, Earl of Huntingdon.
He existed, and he still does. And not just in Hollywood films but in the middle names of my uncles. Every one of them is Robin Hood, and Uncle Willie—William Edward Robin Hood—is the 17th and current Earl of Huntingdon. It is a title that is worth very little in material value—there is no stately home and no land to go with it—but it has a certain historical magic, I suppose.
Uncle Willie, my mother and their two brothers did not see much of their parents. Nanny took care of the children’s everyday needs and a nursery maid was ever present. They got under the feet of Mrs. Paddy, the cook, and mimicked Stampy, their butler. The household bristled with staff.
/> The children ate, played and slept in the east wing of the house. They were presented to their parents in the drawing room of the main house at exactly six o’clock every evening: William, Emma, Simon and John, in that order. All present and correct. All sent to bed.
My grandfather is the reason that we lived at Park House Stables in Kingsclere, a village on the Hampshire/Berkshire border. His uncle was a brewery magnate called Sir William Bass. Sir William had no children and was concerned that the Bass name was threatened with extinction. So he asked my grandfather if he would consider adopting Bass into his own name.
Grandma was appalled.
“I will not have any part of that common beer name,” she said. “You can if you wish, but let it be your business.”
My grandfather duly changed his name by deed poll to Captain Peter Hastings-Bass, and all of his children’s surnames became Hastings-Bass. My grandmother steadfastly remained Mrs. Priscilla Hastings. Most people called her Mrs. Hastings. A few close friends called her Pris. Two naughty nephews dropped the “r” and got away with it, but woe betide anyone who called her “Prissy.”
“I am not Prissy. Not to anyone!”
In return for the adoption of the name, my grandfather inherited the Bass family fortune on Sir William’s death. In 1953 he used it to buy Park House Stables and the surrounding fifteen hundred acres on the southern outskirts of Kingsclere. It had the benefit of downland turf on Cannon Heath Down that had never in its history seen the blade of a plow. It was deep, lush, springy grass—perfect for gallops. There were just over fifty stables, onsite accommodation for the employees and a house big enough for an expanding family and domestic staff.
It was a magnificent house. The short drive, between two Lebanon cedar trees planted in the middle of perfectly maintained lawns, led up to a front door that stood twelve feet high and seven feet across. A stone vestibule protected it, with ivy-enlaced columns on either side. The north-facing wall of the house was covered with a mature Virginia creeper, while the south side boasted sweet-smelling hydrangea.
The house had huge sash windows that filled the rooms with light. The only room that was dark was the kitchen, where the cook and her army of helpers baked, steamed, boiled and roasted slightly below ground level. The kitchen separated the adult side of the house from the children’s quarters.
When guests were welcomed through that front door by Stampy, the butler, his heels would click together on the black and white marble floor. My grandparents shared the main bedroom, with windows to the south and west, their views across the adjacent farmland—also part of the estate—to Watership Down and beyond it to Beacon Hill. Sir William Bass would have been satisfied with the acquisition afforded by the addition of his surname.
My grandfather would only enjoy his new surroundings for a few years. A persistent cough that had been with him for ages worsened, and his skin turned a shade of yellowy gray. As illness ravaged his body, he had to make plans that would last beyond his lifetime.
He employed a twenty-four-year-old American-born assistant trainer in whom he saw something special. He was a good amateur rider, had a rugby-union blue from Cambridge, played cricket and polo. He was handsome, with jet-black hair parted to the side, full lips, dark-brown eyes and clear, fresh skin, marred only by a livid red scar across his left cheek.
He had an extraordinary way with horses and, importantly, he was not intimidated by my grandmother. He had no family money, which might be construed as an advantage, as it made him less likely to leave. The only negative was that he had a reputation for being a bit of a ladies’ man. Grandpa was confident he would grow out of that.
His name was Ian Balding. Six months after he arrived at Park House Stables, my grandfather died of cancer at the age of forty-three. It was 1964, the year of the Tokyo Olympics. My mother was just fifteen. Nanny passed on the news of their father’s death and the instruction from their mother that none of the children were to cry in public.
The grief belonged to Grandma and to her alone.
In terms of the business, it was two years before the Jockey Club would allow women to hold a trainer’s license. They were banned on the grounds that female trainers might see semi-naked jockeys in the weighing room—and who knows what might have happened if that came to pass! Might they be overcome with desire? Faint from the shock?
Grandma had to allow a man to take over as the trainer at Park House, so she allowed Ian Balding to take on the license. She remained on hand to help with the owners, many of whom were personal friends, and she had her views on which races the horses should run in, but the management of the business, of the staff, and the day-to-day training of the horses was the responsibility of my father.
Grandma and my father ate dinner together every night. They had breakfast together every morning. He rode out with the racehorses, a flat cap on his head, a tweed sports jacket worn over his dark-beige breeches. Grandma walked or drove with her whippet and her Labrador to stand by his side, binoculars in her hands. They commented to each other on how each horse was moving, how each rider was coping and whether a certain race at Ascot, Newbury or Goodwood might suit. Ian Balding charmed the sensible pants off the widow Hastings. He made her laugh.
Ian introduced her to a colorful array of girlfriends in miniskirts, tight tops and big sunglasses, their hair piled up high. None of them met with the approval of Mrs. Hastings. He worked hard, he trained winners, played cricket with the boys, tennis with the sporty American owners and often drove my mother back to school, much to the delight of her teenage friends. Ian was the only one she could talk to about her father and how much she missed him. She was only fifteen and needed someone with whom to share her fears, her problems and news of school, to test her on her French and talk to about her domineering mother. Ian became that confidant and, best of all, when he dropped her off, her friends would gather around and giggle excitedly as the Cary Grant lookalike took her suitcase out of the trunk.
My mother was bright. She excelled in English and history and was an A-grade student. She was advised by her careers teacher at school to apply to Cambridge University. Her eldest brother, William, was already there, at Trinity College. Her younger brothers, Simon and John, would eventually follow. When it came to Emma, however, there was no encouragement.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Grandma. “I will not have a bluestocking for a daughter.”
There was no point in arguing. The sixties may have been in full swing, but my mother was locked in a Jane Austen novel where women learned to play the piano, to sew and, if it was strictly necessary, to cook. They could be witty, pretty and well read but God forbid they should be “clever” or have opinions of their own.
Ian suggested that Emma go to America to visit his family. By coincidence, his little sister Gail had been at prep school with Emma and they had been firm friends. It was the first time my mother had been abroad. Family holidays had always been taken at Bognor Regis, in a rented house within walking distance of the pebbly beach. Crucially, it was not far for Grandma to leave the children and join her friends at Goodwood racecourse. The children came to dread Boring Bognor.
So my mother flew to America, the land of the free—free at least from her mother. When she came back, armed with her own declaration of independence, she went to London to find a job. She grew in confidence, had her own income from work as a secretary and was enjoying being able to make her own decisions, but when she went home it was back to square one. A contemptuous “What on earth do you think you look like?” from her mother would send her scurrying back to her room to change her clothes to something more conservative. Progress was constantly and consistently blocked.
Ian Balding, meanwhile, was fitting in just fine. He looked good in a dinner jacket and even better in sports gear. He hadn’t been in the army so had none of the constraints of officer syndrome and didn’t live in tweed or yellow cords. He was different from any m
an any of them knew—there was a hint of danger about him, yet he looked like a Boy Scout.
He was far removed from and much more fun than any of the men my mother met in London. She watched the way he dealt with her mother and envied him. He had such an easy manner. She rode with him one morning and, after the racehorses had finished their work, Ian called out, “Come on, Ems, we’re going back this way.”
He headed toward the fence line and popped his horse over a jump about three feet high onto the side of the Downs. Emma followed. They galloped along together, jumping everything in their path—hedges, ditches, post and rail fences. She felt exhilarated—galloping on a tightrope of fear and fun.
Many women had stayed in the guest room of Park House and were certainly worth creeping down the corridor for, but none had quite made Ian feel the way he did that morning on the Downs. As if overnight, Emma had grown up. He had never really looked at her before, not like that.
Three months later, he asked Grandma for permission to marry her only daughter.
“Really? Well, that’s very kind of you,” she said.
My father went to telephone his mother in America while Grandma called Emma in to see her.
“I understand you’re going to marry Ian. You’re a lucky girl.”
“Oh,” said my mother, “am I? He hasn’t asked me.”
He never did actually ask her but, clearly, it had been decided. When he rang America to pass on the good news to his own mother, Eleanor Hoagland Balding said, “So which one did you choose, the mother or the daughter?”
The wedding was organized by my grandmother. My mother was allowed to invite ten friends. She was twenty, my father thirty. A number of his ex-girlfriends (the ones whose names he could remember and whose addresses he had logged) came to St. Mary’s Church in Kingsclere to see the great charmer finally tie the knot.
With no father of the bride to call upon, Grandma decided that it would be appropriate for Emma’s eldest brother, William, to give her away. My mother was horribly nervous. She had not really had time to think this through. Ian made her heart skip a beat but she wasn’t at all sure that she was ready for this. She dreaded the sight of all those women from her fiancé’s past, in their miniskirts and trendy hats, their sunglasses and platform shoes. It felt a bit like the ride on the Downs—dangerous, with the threat of a fall right around the corner.
My Animals and Other Family Page 1