Margaret Fletcher Gallop Girl: A Fall From Grace at Forty Miles an Hour

by Genevieve Dutil

  So the Boss gives me Chocolates for a dollar.

  I’m pretty sure most of the hairnets in my collection cost more than a dollar. OK, Chocolates. You may only be worth that right now and I might be the girl who has to buy her polo shirts out of the discount bin, but I have a feeling that together we’re going to do something really special.

  CHAPTER 6

  ~ Emily closes a deal ~

  I’m not sure what Margaret expected when I told her about Green Acres. I know she’s used to high-end barns. (Think: rich wood paneling, old world cobblestone paving and polished brass.) But did she honestly think that she was going to find anything even closely resembling that for under five hundred dollars a month?

  Against my better judgment, I show her the communal tack room. Her face just crinkles up into a prune of disappointment. It’s a look she usually saves for when she catches me scrubbing my paddock boots with saddle soap. “Oh, Emily, that’s not meant for fine leather. You’ll never be able to get those boots to shine up now!” I swear every time that girl puts on a “proper pair of breeches and a Hermes belt” she starts talking like Jackie Kennedy doing her best Scarlett O’Hara impression. I detect a slight Southern drawl as she declares, “Oh dear, it appears nobody bothers to monogram anything around here. It must be a nightmare for the barn manager to keep the laundry in order.” Is she kidding? The only laundry the barn manager is doing is her own and those washing machines you see at the end of the barn are not for public use.

  I’m still not sure I understand why Margaret Fletcher bought this horse. I hope she doesn’t think she can use it to return to the A-Circuit. Don’t get me wrong. Chocolates is nice. I probably would have bought him myself if I had known the Boss needed him gone. But that horse is a long way away from becoming anything anyone would look good riding in a show ring. He’s young. He’s green. And the only thing he knows how to do is run “fast” in a straight line. Margaret is a good rider and all, but she has NO idea what she’s in for. The better part of me wants to fill her in. But when she says, “Emily, I’m getting the distinct vibe that the barn colors here at Green Acres are whatever colors are on sale at the local tackle and feed store,” I hold my tongue.

  But Margaret is on a roll. “I suppose you think that keeping barn colors is silly. Just like requiring identical tack trunks so the barn aisles look neat and tidy is silly. Just like I, Margaret Fletcher, am silly!” My patience is wearing thin. I want to tell Princess Fancy Breeches to take her business down the road where everyone’s crap matches and board is three times as expensive.

  But I don’t. Instead, I spread my thin lips into a pained smile and try not to sound too condescending as I explain, “Green Acres is a boarding facility. Most of the riders that board here don’t have trainers, let alone matching tack trunks.”

  Margaret refuses to understand. “Emily, they might not have trainers, but someone has to be in charge, right? It would be great if the horses all kept themselves trimmed and tidy on their own. But we all know that’s not going to happen. I would really like to talk to whoever is in charge of the body-clipping schedule. I hate it when they clip too late in the winter. I find that that the sheen of the spring coat suffers if one makes that mistake.”

  Like I said, I’ve seen glimpses of the world Margaret Fletcher comes from. I’m sure Green Acres looks like a developing third world nation compared to the barns grew up in. She’s not trying to be obnoxious. She just doesn’t know any better. I should be patient, right?

  “MARGARET,” I scream, “Have you ever wrapped a horse’s leg? Or pulled a mane. Or driven a trailer. Or loaded a resistant horse into a trailer. Forget resistant; have you ever loaded a horse into a trailer EVER?” Judging by the look on Margaret’s face, I’ve hit a nerve. Good. Someone has to knock her off her high horse.

  Margaret doesn’t actually answer any of my (totally valid) questions. She just turns her nose up at my “inappropriate temper tantrum” and says, “I know what’s happening here, Emily. You’re just putting me down because you’re upset that I don’t like your frumpy barn.” She’s not entirely wrong. But there are bigger fish to fry here.

  “FRUMPY? It’s a barn, Margaret, not a prom dress!” I take a deep breath, gather my composure and ask, “Have you bothered to check the quality of bedding in the stalls or footing in the arena? Forget that the barn aisles don’t have matching tack trunks. Are they safe? Is there an adequate area for lunging and bathing? These are the questions a real horseman would be asking. Not crap about color schemes and matching tack trunks!”

  Margaret storms off in a huff. She probably would have kept going right off the property and never spoken to me again if she didn’t need a ride back into town. Poor Princess is stuck waiting in my truck while I show my resale project to a perspective buyer. I say good riddance for now.

  WINSTON ISN’T THE MOST TALENTED HORSE I’ve ever sat on. But he never puts a foot wrong, even when the rider screws up royally. He is the perfect first horse for a fourteen-year-old girl just starting out in the sport, and I can’t help but envy the kid standing before me in brand new breeches and boots.

  That is, until her mother opens her mouth. Apparently, little Suzie is our next great Olympian. Her biggest accomplishment may only be a sixth place finish in the Beginner Novice division at a local unrated horse trial. But Mom is convinced that the only ingredient missing in Suzie’s success is the right horse.

  I put Winston through his paces so Mom can assess his talents and determine if Suzie should waste her time. Of course, he’s perfect. But Mom doesn’t look convinced. I try my hardest to conceal the fact that I think this woman is an idiot as she screams across the arena, “I’m not sure this horse has what it takes. He doesn’t seem to have that “it” factor we’re looking for. You know what I’m talking about? The IT factor? It’s that thing in a horse that tells you that IT will take you to the Olympics.”

  I really need to sell this horse if I am going to make it to England. Not that I have any hope of actually putting together enough money to make the trip. But Turtle’s last email convinced me that if I want to be an international competitor as much as I claim to, I need to at least try. The only immediate problem is that I’m not sure I have what IT takes to deal with this woman’s bullshit factor.

  Fortunately, Winston starts doing my job for me, selling himself to little Suzie with a kind eye and gentle nicker. Even Mom starts to soften. She reluctantly concedes that Suzie should go ahead and try poor Winston out. Mom throws little Suzie up onto Winston’s back with the grace of a forklift and the wisdom of a master horseman who learned everything she knows about horses from an online forum. Without the slightest bit of irony in her voice, she instructs Suzie to “Try to get him to look fancy like that German horse we saw on Youtube.” Instead, Suzie trots around the arena with a death grip on the reins and a look of sheer terror on her face while Mom screams, “Fancier! Fancier!”

  Unfazed by the commotion, Winston never gives Suzie more than she can handle. Twenty minutes later, the kid agrees to pick up a canter. When she loses her balance, Winston slows down until she has a chance to adjust herself in the saddle. Ten strides later, and Suzie’s got a giant grin on her face. By the end of the ride, Winston gives her enough confidence to jump over a two-foot vertical. I am surprisingly moved. Watching Winston encourage a timid girl to exceed her expectations almost makes dealing with her mother bearable.

  When Mom asks, “Do you think he’s got what it takes to take my daughter all the way to the Olympics?” I resist the urge to tell the awful person standing across from me to pick another sport with which to live vicariously through her daughter.

  “I don’t know about the Olympics, but that’s an A-Circuit canter if I’ve ever seen one.” The voice behind me makes me cringe. Margaret? Who let her out of the truck?

  Sure enough, there she is, waltzing up. “Emily, I’m so sorry to interrupt. But this little girl caught my eye and I just HAD to ask about this magnificent animal she’s riding.
He’s not still intact by chance?”

  One look at Margaret’s Hermes belt and Mom’s expression perks up. She takes Margaret’s cue and insists that she has been meaning to ask if dear Winston is intact. I can’t decide what is more absurd. Asking a question filled with words you clearly don’t understand or believing that the gentle giant who just babysat little Suzie over there might actually be a stallion.

  I don’t know how to best handle the situation, so I tell the crazy person standing across from me that poor Winston lost his balls in an unfortunate pasture accident. Margaret almost breaks character with a laugh. But I’ve got to hand it to Princess: she holds it together and proceeds to charm the pants off Suzie’s mom. Margaret pretends to be genuinely disappointed by Winston’s dislocated balls and makes a big show of insisting that she would have made me an offer right on the spot otherwise. “He is exactly the type I need to fill a hole in my breeding program.”

  I’m pretty sure Suzie’s mom has no idea what fancy expressions like “breeding program” and “A-Circuit canter” mean. But she can smell the allure of prestige from a mile away. In less than five minutes, Margaret has her convinced that my sweet but unspectacular gelding has IT in spades. The checkbook comes out and arrangements are made for a hauler to take dear Winston to his new home. If I wasn’t so sure that he is indeed the perfect horse to teach Suzie the ropes, I might feel guilty about the whole thing.

  After Suzie and her monster leave, I brace for Margaret’s derogatory comments about my inability to sell my own horse without her help. But she just stands there, looking inexplicably lost and a little scared. I’ve never seen the bold, brash Margaret Fletcher look so helpless. I give in and break the ice. “Thank you, Margaret, for convincing that crazy lady to buy my horse.”

  With a look of genuine remorse on her face, she says, “I was pretty angry sitting in that dirty, smelly truck of yours thinking about all that stuff you said.” I choose to ignore the “dirty” and “smelly” comment and let the Princess continue uninterrupted. “Just when I thought I couldn’t possibly get more upset, I noticed a glop of yellow goop on my breeches. Surprise, surprise. Emily didn’t bother to properly close that jar of yellow stuff she’s got stored in the front seat of her truck. How sloppy! Then I thought, what the hell is this stuff and why is my thigh suddenly ten degrees warmer? Or for that matter, what are all these other strange ointments with pictures of horses on the bottles she’s got scattered about the cab? I started reading the labels. That’s when I discovered that there is a whole world of smelly products out there, fashioned to treat all kinds of equine ailments that I’ve never even heard of! You’re right, Emily. I have no idea what I’m doing!”

  And with that, perfectly poised Margaret Fletcher bursts into sloppy tears.

  I’m stunned. I can only understand every other word that is pouring out of her mouth. Something about how she can pick out the perfect hunt coat to complement any shade of horse. But when it comes to the really important stuff, she’s just as clueless as that woman who actually believed my horse might be a stallion.

  She’s right. When it comes to real horsemanship, she is clueless. But I have to admit I find the news that you’re supposed to color coordinate your jacket with your horse’s coat astonishing. So I ask Margaret to clarify, hoping my genuine interest in her area of expertise might help her feel better. But she just sobs louder, “You don’t need to be making FUN of me right now, Emilth!”

  I better nip this in the bud before the mucus gets out of control. I put both my hands on Margaret’s shoulders and bark, “MARGARET! COMPOSE YOURSELF!” At the sound of my shrill, authoritative tone, Margaret sets her jaw and puts those tears back where they belong. “So you’re a little out of your depth here,” I say, “Big deal. You’re hardly the first person to find herself in a situation where she’s bitten off more than she can chew. I’ve got news for you, Margaret Fletcher. Life is tough. You’ve just got to be tougher.”

  A strange look of recognition spreads across Margaret’s face. She whispers, “That’s exactly what Bunny used to say.” I have no idea who this Bunny person is, and I’m not sure I care. But that doesn’t stop Margaret from telling her story. “Emily, Bunny Beale was my old trainer. She’s the one that broke the news about Daddy losing all his money. And when I collapsed on the floor, irreversibly staining my favorite pair of white breeches, she said “Life is tough, honey. You just have to get tougher.” I miss that woman. We used to stay up all night at horse shows playing “Guess who bought my old breeches at the consignment shop”. Bunny would really hate this place. We’re talking about a woman with a “no domestically-bred horses” barn policy. Can you imagine what she would have to say about this crap? Or what she would think about me galloping racehorses for a living?”

  Margaret starts laughing and crying even harder at the same time. I’m not sure how to respond. So I just let the storm run its course. Margaret eventually settles down, dries her eyes and says, “You know, Emily, I think we make a really good team.”

  Team? Really? I’m not a hundred percent sure we even qualify as friends.

  So imagine my surprise when the next words out of Margaret Fletcher’s mouth are, “I just had the most brilliant idea! Why don’t we train Chocolates up to become a winning show Hunter? We’ll show him at The New London Classic and then sell him for more money than you could possibly need to go to England. It’s the perfect solution for all of our problems. You get to live the dream you can’t afford; I return to the show ring; and Chocolates doesn’t die under my completely incompetent care!”

  I know Princess Fancy Breeches has spent most of her life sheltered from reality. But even she couldn’t possibly be naive enough to believe that ridiculous fairytale. As if we could sell that horse of hers for enough money to get me to England. I’d be lucky if I made five hundred dollars off Winston after six months of really hard work! Once again, I put on my “adult talking to a child” voice and explain, “I would have to sell at least forty horses like Winston to make enough money to get to England.”

  Margaret just looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Emily, my last hunter cost three hundred thousand dollars. I’m not saying that I think Chocolates will sell for that much, but I’m pretty sure we can do better than a five hundred dollar profit.”

  Three hundred thousand dollars for one horse? No wonder this woman is appalled by my trailer. Part of me wants to believe this ridiculous fantasy of Margaret’s. Chocolates would only have to sell for a little more than forty thousand dollars to net me enough money to get to England. But my pragmatic side takes over. “Come on, Margaret. You mean to tell me that when push comes to shove and it’s time to sell your nice winning hunter, you’re really going to be on board with that?”

  Offended, Margaret puffs up her chest and lets the superior Southern accent come out for the second time this afternoon. “How dare you imply that my integrity is anything less than impeccable! You have never seen the philanthropic side of me. But I can assure you, it’s quite spectacular. I once donated all of my mildly stained breeches to a therapeutic riding center and I didn’t even ask for a receipt. I told you, I like helping people. It makes me feel good.”

  I’m not impressed by Margaret’s pathetic idea of philanthropy. I’m also not entirely sure that she has any idea how to retrain an off-the-track thoroughbred for a new career. Of course, she does have the kind of natural balance that gives horses confidence. I bet she could have Chocolates jumping hunter courses like an old pro in no time. Ugh, even thinking that gives me a pain in my chest. Yeah, this isn’t going to work.

  “Margaret, I’m an event rider. You know, galloping solid fences the size of houses at breakneck speed on cross-country? I don’t know anything about how to make a horse into a hunter.”

  “That’s why you’re broke, Emily.” Once again, Princess Fancy Breeches is right. The hunter ring is where all the money is and I would be a fool to not take this deal.

  I have never partnered on a horse before. And
a partnership with a spoiled brat like Margaret Fletcher sounds like a nightmare. But I want to get to England, and I have a feeling that she might be the only person in my life right now that can help me make that happen. Then I remember that promise I made to myself when I was just twelve years old, long before I learned that Olympians are assholes and rich kids are actually really good riders. That promise was to do whatever it takes to make my dreams happen. Even if it means throwing my fortune in with the last person I ever expected to lean on.

  All right, Margaret Fletcher, I’ll let you be my savior. Just don’t tell anyone from my old Pony Club. We don’t want them to think I’ve gone soft.

  CHAPTER 7

  ~ Margaret messes up her hair ~

  Word from Mother is that my stressed-out aura left a negative impression on Daddy. Nothing but promising to submit to weekly meditation sessions will satisfy his concerned soul. Meditation has never been my thing, but I look forward to finally spending more time with the man I am just getting to know.

  I arrive at the family condo on time, wearing my most relaxed disposition and an open mind. Mother answers the door draped in an elaborately patterned silk muumuu, afternoon cocktail in hand. Daddy is nowhere in sight. Great, she’s going to make me spend time with her before she gives up his location. Clearly, Mother is irritated by my new arrangement with Daddy. I’m sure it bothers her to know we are on the verge of a deeper relationship. All I can say is, sorry you don’t get to have me all to yourself anymore.

  Mother crinkles her face into a sour expression and informs me that Daddy is still taking his nap. Nap? The old Daddy used to say that sleep was for sissies. Besides, I’m here on time. Shouldn’t somebody wake him? Punctuality is the key to success, remember? It’s the reason he never made it to any of my horse shows. The classes never start on time and the ring steward rarely adheres to the pre-published order of go. Without a reliable ride time, Daddy was concerned he would either be too early or too late, but never perfectly punctual. Anything less is unacceptable.