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

by Genevieve Dutil

  The old Margaret Fletcher might have been offended by the association with such an inelegant word as “grit”. But even though it sounds like something one would use to scrub a stubborn stain out of public men’s room toilet, I’m beginning to understand that grit is something desirable in a horseman. Maybe even more desirable than a perfectly-polished pair of custom boots. And then it hits me: the Boss really does think of me as something bigger, something more than a puff pastry. My chest swells up with pride. Suddenly, I can’t wait to get in the saddle and prove myself worthy of his admiration.

  The sad look on Emily’s face stops me in my tracks. With slumped shoulders, she trudges off in the direction of her hovel. Even though I’m still angry with her for turning down Erica’s offer, I hand the reins back to the Boss and go after my friend.

  It takes a lot of grit to ignore Emily’s verbal assault as I push my way into her poorly barricaded trailer. Once inside, I let her temper tantrum run its course until she no longer has the energy to manufacture insults aimed my well-monogrammed wardrobe. It’s a spectacular display that lasts much longer than I ever would have expected. I had no idea she was so offended by way I cover the tips of my ears with hairnet or my propensity to shift my belt buckle to the zipper side of my side-zip breeches. “And another thing, Princess Fancy Breeches, WHO WEARS DIAMOND STUD EARRINGS TO GALLOP RACEHORSES!”

  After twenty minutes of listening to Emily’s jabs about my custom socks and monogrammed hairnets, I begin to wonder if she has any respect for me at all. Twenty-one minutes ago, I was merely angry with Emily for throwing away what could have been a great opportunity for the both of us. But now that I know the ugly truth of what she really thinks of me, I’m hurt. I’m starting to wish that I had never set foot in this dingy old trailer to begin with.

  “Say whatever you want about me, Emily. But when push comes to shove, Margaret Fletcher isn’t afraid to put herself on the line,” I say, becoming more confident with each word, “Even if it means that I might not look so perfectly-polished at the end of the day. Can you say the same?”

  I wait for Emily to spit back a cruel, calculating response meant to belittle me for taking proper care of all my fine leather goods. But she just sits on the floor of her trailer, not moving a muscle or saying a word. I notice the terrified look on her face and realize that for the second time this week, I’ve hit a nerve.

  And then it dawns on me. Emily isn’t yelling at me because she thinks my only meaningful contribution to the world is singlehandedly keeping the French leather industry afloat during my cash-rich teen years. She’s yelling at me because she’s frustrated with herself for not having the grit to grab life by the horns.

  Suddenly, I’m awash in feelings of empathy. I get down on the floor with Emily, look her square in the eye and say, “I know putting yourself out there can be scary. Especially when failure means re-evaluating the life plan you started drawing up the day you were born. You might totally suck in England. But the only surefire way to fail in life is to never try.”

  I thought that was a pretty decent pep talk. So I’m not sure why Emily is laughing so hard all of a sudden. Are those tears rolling down her cheeks? Seriously. What did I say that was so funny?

  “I’m sorry,” Emily manages to wheeze out, “I don’t know why I’m laughing. It’s just sometimes you sound so much like my Uncle Sam. Go ahead: tell me that I’m afraid to get flour all over the kitchen. I can take it.”

  I know Emily has had a rough couple of days and that flour comment has me worried that she’s suffering some kind of breakdown. Before I have a chance to call her next-of-kin she says, “You have no idea what it’s like to spend your whole life believing you’re one thing, only to wake up one day and suddenly find out that you’re not.”

  “Oh please,” I exhale, exasperated, “Of course I know what that feels like. Just look at me. I ride in jeans now.”

  Emily throws her hands up in frustration, like an exhausted parent losing the will to deal with her difficult child. “MARGARET, you’re an amazing rider, no matter what kind of pants you’re wearing! That’s the point. You’re a better rider than me. I know it, the Boss knows it and, if I’m not careful, Turtle Cumberbund will know it, too!”

  My feeling of empathy are waning. And nervous breakdown aside, I want to tell Emily to buck up and quit all the drama before it really gets out of hand. I know I should tread lightly. But I can’t help myself.

  “So go to England and stink up the joint so you can come back here and tell me you told me so,” I say, “Think of all the fun you could have yelling at me for making you put the cart before the horse!”

  Emily smirks, reluctantly undone by my irresistible charm, “You know you’re totally ridiculous, Margaret Fletcher.”

  I just smile and say, “True. But look at how much fun I’m having.”

  REMEMBER, MARGARET, YOU’VE GOT GRIT. At least that’s what I keep telling myself as I watch Matty prance towards me at the end of the Boss’s lead shank. Here comes Sam, my favorite cripple. I can’t help but blame him for my situation. I never really paid much attention when he rattled on endlessly about the good old days at the track. But suddenly, I recall in vivid detail Sam’s account of the last day he ever sat on a horse and the accident that forever changed his life. Forget the maxi pads taped to my shins. I’m going to need a diaper.

  I’ve always been a pretty gutsy rider. But today, I’m petrified. Sam takes one look at my trembling hands and says, “Remember who has the bigger brain in this operation. You get up on that horse and let him know who is boss. Because today, you’re bigger than him. You’re stronger than him. And if he wants that bucket of grain waiting for him in his stall, he better listen to what you have to say.”

  I want to take comfort in Sam’s words. But my knowledge of his traumatic brain injury prevents me. According to Emily, only half of what he says should be considered reliable information and the rest disregarded as complete gibberish. As good as that pep talk sounded, convincing a horse like Matty that I’m the stronger party isn’t something that I can wrap my fully-functioning mind around.

  I’m quaking in my boots. But there’s no turning back. I give Sam my bravest smile and let the Boss hoist me up on Matty. The moment my butt hits the saddle, I bridge my reins, press my knuckles into his withers and put the sucker to work. Matty, I am bigger than you. I am stronger than you. And if you want that bucket of grain waiting for you in your stall, you better listen to what I have to say.

  With that mantra repeating in my brain, I gallop that horse faster than the Boss would have liked, but not out of control. When I’m finished, I pull him up with strength I didn’t know I had and hop out of the saddle like it’s giving me a bad case of hemorrhoids.

  The Boss congratulates me on a job well done. Before I have a chance to mutter “You’re welcome,” I promptly throw up all over his paddock boots. The old Margaret Fletcher would have been horrified. The new Margaret Fletcher is grateful that today someone else’s footwear played sacrificial lamb.

  Forgiving me for the unfortunate spillage, the Boss smiles that boyishly handsome smile I have grown to adore. I melt like regurgitated English muffins on a hot summer day. “Princess, Matty is running his first stakes race a week from Monday. I found a good jockey. But I want you to be his exercise rider.”

  Between the adrenaline of my morning gallop and the pheromones wildly swirling around in the space in between me and the Boss, I’m almost seduced into saying yes. But that’s the week of my triumphant return to the show world at The New London Classic. And I’m still not sure how I am going to manage to show a horse without a groom, professional braider or proper trainer by my side. Trying to do that AND waking up extra early in the morning to gallop that lunatic of a racehorse is certain Hunter Princess professional suicide.

  Sensing that I am about to say no, the Boss looks into my eyes with a grave expression of genuine concern. He gently places his strong, manly hand on my welcoming shoulder and says, “Nobod
y at this farm can gallop that horse like you can. I need you.”

  I’m speechless. Which is probably a good thing. Because right now, I’m pretty sure I would agree to anything. Be strong, Margaret. You’re going to need every ounce of energy and focus you have for The Classic. Even if the show grounds are only twenty minutes away from Winning Edge Farms and nothing would be more romantic than clandestine pre-dawn meetings with the Boss, privately enjoying a vigorous gallop, just the two of us.

  Moments before I submit to the Boss’s romantic request, I remember all the people at The New London Classic who can’t wait to watch POOR Margaret Fletcher make a fool of herself in the hunter ring.

  “Sorry, Boss. I already made a commitment to myself and my horse. And we’re both going need one hundred percent of my focus that week.”

  The Boss offers to give me twice the normal rate for the week, but I remain unmoved. He still isn’t giving up easily. We’re talking about a man who spent his youth catering to the whims of countless nubile Hunter Princesses long before we ever met. He goes straight for the jugular. “What would you say to a new pair of breeches, Princess?”

  I am immediately reminded of Erica’s super fancy German breeches with the magical air conditioning crystals and added slimming properties. Those really would help me look the part. Especially if I could pair it with the matching show coat made of 100% breathable elastic that looks exactly like Italian wool but stretches perfectly with your every move.

  The Boss is surprised to learn such a coat exists — and that it costs twelve hundred dollars. He makes a face like he’s finally smelling the English muffins on his shoes, but reluctantly agrees to my pricey terms.

  I should say no to this deal we’re negotiating. No jacket, no matter how exclusive, will save me when I am alone in that arena with Chocolates. But when the Boss say, “Just promise me you’ll keep your lips sealed about our arrangement. Erica can get kind of jealous. And I can’t imagine she’d be too thrilled to hear that I’m spending extra time with you,” we shake hands.

  The thought of being dressed head to toe in clothes secretly purchased by Erica Lewis’s boyfriend is JUST too tasty a proposition to pass up.

  THE NEW LONDON CLASSIC

  I wake up at 4 AM to the sound of driving rain. The weather clears up soon enough. But by the time I make it to Winning Edge, the track is one big muddy mess. I’ve been around long enough to know that I am going to be expected to gallop in these sloppy conditions and to come to work dressed in the proper undergarments. My poor paddock boots have no hope of surviving the morning. But I’m not the same person I was just a few short weeks ago. I emerge from the comfort of my car and slosh my way to the barn, where I find the Boss grooming the elegant grey filly standing by Matty’s side in the crossties.

  “Hey, Princess, meet Rosa. She’s not the speediest horse in the barn. But her ass is nice enough to encourage even the fastest young stud to slow down and enjoy the view. So I’m going to gallop her ahead of you guys to help you keep pace. I bet you won’t even have to touch the reins.”

  Using a young filly’s hindquarters as some kind of training aide doesn’t sound like classical horsemanship to me. But as I watch the Boss bridling Rosa, my eyes wander to a well-muscled bottom that certainly has the power to stop me in my tracks. Maybe this plan isn’t such a bad idea after all. Visions of the Boss’s gorgeous gluteus maximus waving softly in my sightline as I gallop Matty behind Rosa dance in my head.

  The Boss hands me eight pairs of goggles. “You’re going to get a face full of mud galloping behind Rosa. Put them on top of your helmet. When you want to see, pull the old goggles down around your neck and grab a fresh pair from your helmet.”

  Trying to coordinate extra equipment in the saddle has never been my strong suit. Just the thought of riding with two reins in a Pelham bridle sends me into a cold sweat. But I don’t want anything to get in the way of my view of the Boss. So I grab the goggles with gusto and prepare to enjoy the show.

  I don’t know if anything in life can fully prepare you for the sensation of being pelted the face by mud at galloping speed. Chunks of track dirt mixed with flecks of horse feces are flying off Rosa’s hooves with every stride, costing me my sight way too early in the game. Desperate to get back to admiring the perfect fanny dangling in front of my face, I pull down my soiled goggles as instructed. And in that brief moment of vulnerability, a not-so-tiny mud bomb hits me square in the eye. I’m blinded and not one of the seven pairs of fresh goggles perched on top of my head has any chance of saving me now.

  I can hear the sound of Matty’s hoofbeats. I can feel the sharp sting of mud and manure slapping me in the face with painful regularity. But I can’t see where I am going or what might be on the verge of crashing into me. This is a very dangerous situation.

  Suddenly, the sound of the Boss warning me that he is about to pull up pierces through my mud-caked ear canals. Fortunately, the sight of Rosa’s beautiful booty shifting to a lower gear does the work of pulling Matty up for me.

  I hop off at the first opportunity, demand that the Boss take over my charge and bolt off to the nearest ladies room to fix my face. Several splashes of water directly onto my appreciative eyeballs restores my vision. I look at myself in the mirror and scream at the sight of my recently-abused visage. The mud is gone. But the puffy, little, mildly infected welts on my face are not.

  When I finally find the courage to emerge from the ladies room, the Boss gasps in horror at the sight of the creature standing in front of him.

  “Knock ‘em dead,” he manages to say with all the confidence of someone sending a lamb out to battle a lion. I know it’s not a good idea for me to attempt any kind of triumphant return to the Hunter world looking like this. But I don’t have much of a choice, do I? So I accept the garment bag filled with incredibly expensive show clothes the Boss hands me.

  The look on his face says it all. I’m screwed.

  EMILY THINKS I’M AN IDIOT for sacrificing sleep for the sake of a pair of breeches. She said she’s not cutting me any slack when it comes to chores. I am expected to meet her at the barn to help pack the trailer. When I arrive, she has water hoses, plastic buckets and pitchforks strewn about the barn. Fortunately, she’s too busy messing with all that crap to notice my mud rash. Two hours later, we’ve got the trailer filled with all kinds of things I had NO IDEA one had to take to a horse show.

  And off we go. Emily pulling her trailer/apartment with that dirty old truck of hers and me following closely behind in my well-maintained Honda. I’m happy to have a little time to myself to focus on what lies ahead. My first warm up class is at 11:30 AM. That should give me just enough time to get dressed and polished for my big debut.

  A pit starts to grow in my stomach. I pull over on the side of the road and throw up. Oh dear, I wonder if the bacteria stuck to my face has migrated to my stomach. Not that Margaret Fletcher hasn’t been known to fall victim to the occasional show nerves. But that won’t hit me until the Ring Steward calls my name, and should be gone after I jump my first fence.

  I’ve thrown up three times since Emily and I started this short journey. I’m all out of breakfast, so the unpleasant vomiting should be over. But the sick feeling pulsing through my entire body just won’t go away. I would turn myself in at the nearest hospital. But I’m certain that one look at my crusty face and I would be immediately shipped off to the CDC for further examination. Besides, I’m not entirely sure that the little shop of horrors on my skin is entirely to blame. Margaret Fletcher get a hold of yourself! You’re going to a horse show! You’re going back to where you belong and you’ve got the breeches to prove it!

  I pull over one last time and somehow find the last bit of breakfast waiting to expel itself from my stomach. Oh dear.

  I follow Emily’s trailer as we pull onto the show grounds, and I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t give into the urge to have a second English muffin this morning. The place is full of well-heeled Hunter Princesses and perfectly
-muscled horseflesh. Everyone looks so polished and prepared. Luxurious curtains drape the stall doors, fresh sod blankets the V.I.P areas and signs announcing the top barns on the East Coast are proudly displayed beside rows of matching tack trunks. Everything is just as I remember. Not a hair out of place. As a rumble quakes inside my empty belly, I realize that I am no longer in my comfort zone.

  CHAPTER 20

  ~ Emily sees how the other half lives ~

  The New London Classic looks like one big freak show to a girl raised on Pony Club rallies and local horse trails. Sara warned me that these people spare no expense when it comes to their personal comfort. But I wasn’t prepared for the sight of landscape architects barking orders to construction crews building private gardens at the end of each barn aisle. I’m not talking about a few houseplants and a couple strips of sod. At the end of EVERY barn aisle on these show grounds is a magical fairy garden, complete with a little cabana housing silk couches and flat screen TVs. Silk couches at a horse show? Who has time to lounge on a silk couch at a horse show? There is so much work that needs to get done!

  Chocolates is just as unsettled by his surroundings as I am. He gingerly backs out of the trailer, takes one look at a giant air conditioned tent filled with massage tables and bolts in the opposite direction. Chocolates spends the next fifteen minutes running around the barns at full speed, screaming at the top of his lungs, knocking down any unsuspecting Hunter Princess caught in his wake. I can’t say that I blame him. I wish I could do the same. I’ve never seen so much hunter green, navy and burgundy all at once in my entire life. It’s a little hard to take. Fortunately, Chocolates eventually realizes that this temper tantrum is about as much work as running an actual race and lets me catch him.