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

by Genevieve Dutil

  The Boss gives me the saddest puppy dog face and asks me to assure him that despite my hardships, I’ve always figured it out.

  I put my hand on his shoulder and remind him that if we had sold Chocolates, I would have finally figured how to get the world-class training I can’t otherwise afford. And that would have been a real fairytale ending to my Cinderella story. I was just a photo finish away from my impossible dream coming true. So if the poor daughter of a single waitress can almost come up with the cash to move to England and train with one of the top riders in the world, the Boss can overcome the seemingly-insurmountable obstacle of finding a two hundred thousand dollar entry fee and winning the Kentucky Derby.

  Even though I believe with all my newly-courageous heart that the Boss can make this happen, it sounds pretty ridiculous coming out of my mouth. Looking at his pale face, I’m beginning to think I might have a secret superpower… the ability to implant self-doubt in anyone or anything that comes near me.

  And then he says, “Almost accomplishing something is the same as failing, Emily. If you really want to go to England, you need to actually try to convince me to sell Matty.”

  What? Clearly, the Boss doesn’t realize that I’m a totally different person now. Sure, the old Emily would have encouraged him to hang onto Matty in some sick expression of self-sabotage. But Margaret really set me straight last night. I WANT to go to England now. It’s not like before, when I said I wanted to go but secretly did everything in my power to prevent it from actually happening. Sure, all that stuff about helping the Boss grab his personal brass ring doesn’t really hold up to scrutiny. Yes, I realize that there is no way he could possibly afford to campaign Matty all the way to the Kentucky Derby on his own dime. I’m not blind to the fact that the money he would make selling Matty would go a long way towards building his business. Obviously, the ONLY sane thing to do here is to sell the horse and give me back Chocolates so I can make my dreams come true! I’m only trying to convince the Boss to do otherwise because…

  I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Well, at least Margaret wasn’t around to witness my relapse and there is still time to clean up this catastrophe before word gets back to Her Highness. Before I have a chance, the Boss slumps off into his office and locks the door.

  I stand frozen in indecision. I know I did something really bad here. But I have absolutely no idea how to make it right. I should probably do something. But what if what I do only makes things worse? Maybe not doing anything and letting the chips fall where they may is the best course of action. Where is Margaret when I need her? It figures that she wouldn’t be here at the exact moment when I need her guidance the most.

  And then it hits me like a ton of golden Hermes bricks: Margaret Fletcher IS my Spirit Guide! I may think she is nothing more than a silly little once-upon-a-time rich girl with no practical hands-on experience. But for the past two months, she has been the only person making anything happen in my sad little life. I didn’t want to believe it when she accused me of refusing to take responsibility for my life. But the irrefutable evidence is staring me in the face right now.

  Still in shock from the realization that self-sabotage is only my second most-debilitating character flaw, I don’t move a muscle when the Boss emerges from his office and heads in the direction of the Winning Edge parking lot. I don’t need Margaret to tell me that I need to do something right now. Emily, you need to DO something. Right now!

  Like a rocket blasting into space, I spring into action, chasing the Boss all the way to the parking lot. I’m waving my arms wildly and screaming at the top of my lungs, “Boss, wait! Stop! Don’t get in that car!” My behavior may be a little over-the-top. But I don’t care. I’m drunk with the power of positive action and I can’t wait to see what happens next.

  I take a moment to catch my breath, look the Boss square in the face and say, “Uncle Sam always told me success in horse sports is all about the long game. For those of us not blessed with money, it will look impossible for most of our career. But if we keep at it, opportunities will present themselves. This offer to buy Matty is your opportunity. Selling Chocolates and going to England is mine. So don’t screw it up for both of us.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever been so persuasive in my entire life. I have no idea if the Boss is moved by my argument. But it almost doesn’t matter. I just grabbed life by the horns for the first time in twenty-one years. No matter what happens next, I am never letting go.

  The Boss looks like he has no idea how to handle the strange new creature standing before him. He furrows his brow, trying to formulate a rebuttal. But he can’t. He knows I’m right.

  He’s selling Matty and I’m going to England.

  I have a feeling today might be the first day of a whole new life for Emily Morris.

  CHAPTER 27

  ~ Margaret’s plan comes full circle ~

  Emily convinced the Boss to sell Matty all on her own. I’m shocked. I was all set to run damage control on this one. But she wrapped it up in a neat little bow without any help from me. I think she’s finally learning. And like a young colt trying to feel his way around the start gate for the first time, Emily appears to be on the verge of finding the confidence to break away all on her own. I can’t help but take a little pride in her transformation myself.

  Of course, Emily did leave one last mess for me to clean up. Oh, I heard all about her misguided attempt to defend my riding abilities to all the A-Circuit trainers interested in Chocolates. What was she thinking? No Hunter Princess wants a horse that is still rough around the edges. A Hunter Princess is looking for a mount whose temperament will aid in her lifelong pursuit of effortless elegance. Not some racetrack reject that requires a damn good rider to look good. So by telling every Hunter trainer in a thirty-mile radius of The New London Classic that Chocolates isn’t the packer that Margaret Fletcher makes him appear to be, Emily rendered him pretty much worthless.

  Fortunately, Margaret Fletcher has another brilliant plan up her sleeve, as usual. Chocolates may still be too much of a challenge for your average Hunter Princess, but I know one pony collector who isn’t afraid of a difficult ride.

  Remember Dr. Allison Swanson? Mother’s own personal white whale? Reputed to love animals far more than she could ever love a human, Dr. Swanson has been purchasing hunters for ambitious riders to show ever since she hung up her spurs in 1997. And if you want to ride for the good doctor, you better not be afraid of a challenge. I once overheard her tell Geoff Maurice that she likes to buy the kind of horses that demand to be ridden with skill and tact.

  “Any kid that’s going to get a free ride on my dime better be prepared to work hard if she doesn’t want to hit the dust.”

  Well, Dr. Swanson, I think I have just the horse to add to your collection.

  MOTHER HAS NEVER BEEN AFRAID of a challenge. I remember when the I.R.S repossessed her prized collection of fur coats. Most people would have accepted their fate and stocked up on fleece pullovers. But Mother got herself a hunting license, a sewing machine and never looked back. By the time the next winter rolled around, that woman had a full closet of politically incorrect outerwear for every occasion.

  So I’m a bit taken aback when Mother balks at my sincere request to invite Dr. Swanson to lunch. “Margaret, honey, that is just not going to happen. I don’t think I could face her again after that whole golf cart incident. She told me that the only way she would ever participate in a foxhunt with a silly woman like me was if I dressed up in a red fur suit and let her chase me around on horseback! Besides, everyone knows that unless you’re a horse or a destitute African child in need of a mosquito net, you have NO hope getting Her Highness’s attention.”

  Destitute African child in need of a mosquito net? I’m intrigued. According to Mother, everyone knows that if you want to spend time with Dr. Allison Swanson, fill a suitcase up with mosquito nets and prepare to spend a miserable summer distributing them all over Africa with her charity group. I had no idea that Dr. Swan
son had another passion besides horses.

  Mother rolls her eyes at the sound of the word “passion”. “Oh, Margaret, please. Fine wine is a passion. Shoes are a passion! Poor kids who can’t get it together to apply a decent insect repellant sound like a problem to me.”

  “Look at me, Margaret. I’M destitute. But has Dr. Swanson bothered to put together a fundraiser to help me? NO! I bet she doesn’t even realize I’ve left the social scene. She probably thinks I’m still rich and happy. She’s probably pissed off, wondering why it’s been so long since I’ve written her a check.”

  Mother continues to host an exclusive pity party for one while I put the finishing touches on the genius plan percolating in my head. “Mother, do you think Dr. Swanson would return your call if you offered to donate half the Fletcher family fortune to whatever charity she saw fit?”

  Precious gin flies out of Mother’s nostrils as she snorts dismissively at the suggestion. I concede that the Fletcher family no longer has half of a fortune to donate. But as Mother already pointed out, Dr. Swanson is too busy worrying about the flea-bitten to notice that we’ve gone broke.

  “All you have to do is call her up,” I push, “Tell her you want to talk about giving her half of everything you have over lunch. What have you got to lose besides a couple of possum fur coats?”

  The suggestion immediately stops Mother in her tracks. As her cheeks regain the soft glow of normal human flesh, I can see her mentally weighing the pros and cons of my proposal.

  “I promised myself years ago that I would never let Dr. Allison Swanson humiliate me again,” she muses, “But I’ve also spent most of my adult life desperate to have lunch with the elusive Dr. Swanson. It’s a dream I gave up long ago. Could it be possible that it is now, when I am at my most destitute, that I finally have the right harpoon?”

  She’s in. Signed, sealed, delivered. If my calculations are correct, Emily will soon have enough money to get to England.

  Let’s just hope I don’t regret weaponizing the one woman in town who has already proven herself dangerous around heavy machinery.

  LESS THAN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS after Mother leaves a message with Dr. Swanson’s social secretary, the Fletcher girls receive an invitation to lunch at the good Doctor’s home. Panic-stricken at the thought of not being dressed properly for the lunch of lifetime, Mother pours through her outdated, cannibalized wardrobe, desperate for an outfit worthy of Dr. Allison Swanson. When she comes up empty, she insists on wearing my very best breeches, boots and hunt coat.

  “Mother, you don’t ride. Even if you did, why would you show up to a lunch dressed in your best breeches?”

  With desperation in her voice, Mother reminds me that this lunch could be her LAST chance to return to society. Dr. Allison Swanson isn’t like every other socialite. She CARES about things. “Margaret, honey, I need to let her know that I care about the same things that she cares about and I am NOT wearing some kind of fishnet headdress!”

  Who am I to argue with crazy? So I knock the dirt off my magic crystal breeches and run a lint brush over that elastic wool torture device the Germans call a hunt coat.

  Mother insists we park my Honda just outside Dr. Swanson’s estate and take the long walk down the endless gravel driveway. My heart skips a beat as we pass the pristine barn, lush pastures and the regal horseflesh contained within them. I haven’t been in the presence of such pricey perfection in a long time. It feels good.

  I think all this luxury is having a similar effect on Mother. “Oh, Margaret, I can’t tell you how much I miss being around rich people and all their nice things. Let’s pretend that this is our house and we’re just out for a little afternoon stroll.”

  So I take her hand in mine, improve my posture and point my finger in the direction of one of Dr. Swanson’s perfect pastures. “We really should talk to the groundskeeper about reseeding in the spring. I want to make sure everything is positively green when our new imports from Germany get out of quarantine.”

  Mother’s face displays an expression of sheer bliss at the sound of the words “groundskeeper”. I haven’t seen her look so relaxed and happy in a long time.

  Dropping to a lower social class has been a difficult transition for Mother. There have been times when I have found her inability to accept the new limits of her purchasing power disturbing. Times like this. When she is inexplicably dressed up in breeches and an elastic hunt coat. But now that I know the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about Daddy’s little problem, I’m amazed she hasn’t gone completely off the rails.

  “Do you ever think about leaving Daddy now that you know what kind of man he is?”

  She doesn’t skip a beat before answering my controversial question. “Margaret, I have always known exactly who I married. He is a sensitive man who is prone to self-absorption and irresponsible impulses. He’s not strong like you. He never was, even when he wore a suit to work every day. Honestly, I have no idea where you got that will of yours. But I’ve always done my best to encourage that quality in you. I think that’s why you’re the only member of this family who hasn’t fallen apart.”

  A small lump forms in my throat and tears creep into the corners of my eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever given my Mother enough credit for what a good parent she has been all these years. Sure, she’s ridiculous and humiliating to be around. But she has always been there straightening my collar and making sure every strand is tucked into my hairnet. I can’t help myself. I give my mother the second hug in our recorded history.

  “Careful, dear. I don’t need you kicking up dust and making my breeches dirty.”

  MOMENTS LATER, we arrive at our destination. Dr. Swanson answers the door dressed casually in khakis and a light cotton shirt. Mother’s costume looks even more ridiculous in comparison and the doctor makes no attempt to hide her disgust.

  “Oh, Lester,” Dr. Swanson says to the room, “Bring me a scotch on the rocks. I have a feeling this is going to be a long afternoon. Anything for you, ladies?”

  Thankfully, Mother is too starstruck to place a cocktail order. I can see the sweat seeping out of her elastic coated armpits. By the time we finish winding through the complex labyrinth of Dr. Swanson’s richly-appointed home and make our way out to the garden, Mother is hyperventilating from the stress of feeling so much social pressure while simultaneously wearing such a confining outfit.

  Dr. Swanson gestures for us to sit down. However, I’m not sure Mother actually can. So the three of us stand awkwardly while she tries to discretely fan her décolletage with the back of her hand.

  Dr. Swanson turns her attention to me and says, “You know, Margaret, I have been following your riding career for some time. You beat more than a few of my ponies in your heyday. I was always very impressed by your trainer’s ability to find you nice horses to ride. But I never thought that much of you as a rider, I’ll be honest. When your father lost all his money, I thought for sure a girl like you would just lie down and die. I nearly spit my thirty year old Glenfiddich all over my 18th century Afghan rug when I heard that you’re galloping the Lewis thoroughbreds. Good for you.”

  Mother’s rigid posture softens. The jig is up. We’re flat broke and her most coveted of social connections knows. For the first time since this lunch of a lifetime started, Mother opens her mouth. “I’ll have a gin and tonic, thank you.”

  Dr. Swanson chuckles to herself and says, “I suppose I could use some late afternoon entertainment. Lester! Bring this woman a gin and tonic. Oh, and tell Juan to hide the keys to the Kubota. We wouldn’t want you racing around the grounds pretending you’re a fox, now would we, dear?”

  With that, Mother releases a hearty guffaw worthy of her blue collar upbringing and begins the agonizing process of trying to remove her persistent jacket. “I don’t know why I ever bothered with you, Allison. No matter how hard I tried to fit in, you just treat me like a clown!”

  Mother struggles out of the German elastic nightmare until all that is left of her
ensemble is a dusty pair of breeches and a sweat-soaked silk blouse. When Lester arrives with the gin and tonic, Mother collapses into her chair like a woman with no intention of leaving anytime soon and says, “Go on, Margaret, sell that horse of yours. Let’s see if you can get the old hag to take a bite.” And with that, Mother welcomes her cocktail like a long lost relative.

  On the other hand, Dr. Swanson is amused by the situation. “You have a horse to sell, Margaret? How lovely. I’m assuming that we’re talking about the skinny little thoroughbred I saw you parading around The New London Classic.”

  I’ll admit to feeling a little hot around the collar in this moment. But if there is one thing that showing unpredictable flight animals in front of uptight judges will teach a girl, it’s poise under pressure.

  “Dr. Swanson,” I begin, “Chocolates may be a little rough around the edges. But he is the best damn horse I’ve ever sat on. I don’t say that because I think I could win a bunch of blue ribbons on him. I say that because in the past six weeks, he’s taught me more than any of the overpriced warmbloods I rode back in the old days ever did. The old days when the Fletchers were the type of people you might have use for.”

  Dr. Swanson takes a long sip of her scotch before gracing me with her iciest expression, “That horse of yours is OK. But I wouldn’t say he’s fantastic. Everyone says thoroughbreds are making a big comeback in the Hunters. But I don’t see that happening.”

  Sorry, Emily. I tried. For once, my special brand of Margaret Fletcher charm has fallen flat. I should have seen it coming. I was once a girl who could sell ice to an Eskimo. But like Box of Chocolates, Margaret Fletcher is no longer fashionable in this parts.