A Hoof in the Door (Eventing Trilogy Book 2)

by Caroline Akrill

  I ran after Henrietta. My heart felt like a stone in my chest. I knew that horses were irretrievably injured at Point-to-Points, that in the back of the Hunt Land Rover there were green canvas screens put up to spare the feelings of the crowd; and that afterwards the owners went home with empty lorries and broken hearts. At that moment I loved The Comet more desperately than I had ever loved anything in the world, and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

  “Henrietta,” I cried wretchedly. “What if something awful happens?”

  But Henrietta was beyond hearing. “They’re calling the roll,” she exclaimed, “they’re all lined up. The Comet’s in the middle. They’ve already called Nigella, I saw her turn her head!”

  The loudspeaker above our heads crackled into life. “They’re under starter’s orders,” the commentator said.

  Below us, beside the uneven line of fidgeting horses with the black fences stretching in front of them I saw the white flag rise. My heart started to pump violently, the flag dropped, and suddenly all the horses were galloping towards the first fence. The Comet was in the middle of a tight bunch. I didn’t know much about Point-to-Pointing, but I knew this was the worst possible place to be. I could imagine the thunder of hooves to the front, to the sides and behind. I could see the huge, black fence looming nearer with no room for error, yet with no possible way to see a stride into it. I closed my eyes and in the next few seconds my heart stopped beating altogether and I probably stopped breathing as well.

  “They’re all over the first,” the commentator said.

  Henrietta grabbed the binoculars. “He’s lying third … It’s a good place to be! Keep him steady, Nigella … Hold him back … They’re spreading out a bit, good …”

  I couldn’t bear to watch, but then on the other hand, I couldn’t bear not to. I saw the bunch of horses swing round to the next fence; they were not so close together now. The leaders jumped, one, two, and then the grey horse sailed over and made a perfect landing. The next horse fell. Uniforms appeared out of the crowd and carried off the jockey without the teeth. The raw-boned chestnut galloped gamely after the field, reins and stirrups flying.

  “He’s dropped to fourth,” Henrietta said with disappointment in her voice, “the others are overtaking him.”

  The line of horses, strung out like a necklace, took the open ditch without mishap and completed the first circuit. At the next fence another horse fell. It scrambled to its feet and shook itself like a dog before setting off towards the horse-box park with several spectators in hot pursuit. The jockey limped back down the course, shaking her head at the St John’s Ambulance Brigade. Mrs Lydia Lane’s bay was going strongly in the lead, it looked a sure winner, and half way round the second and last circuit The Comet had fallen back to sixth.

  “At least he’s all right,” I breathed, “even if he isn’t going to get a place, he looks as if he’s going to finish the course safely.”

  “Don’t underestimate his chances,” Henrietta said, “he’s coming up!”

  And The Comet was coming up! Now he was fifth, and suddenly he was fourth! Even from so far away it was plain to see that The Comet had taken the race into his own hands. Nigella was a mere passenger. She could no more hold him back than she could have held back a ten-ton truck with the brakes off. As we watched, the grey horse’s stride settled into the familiar relentless gallop, the powerful hindquarters went to work, the iron neck stretched out; The Comet was away!

  “He’s third!” Henrietta yelled. “He’s second!”

  “But he’ll never catch the bay!” I screeched. “He’ll never do it!”

  The crowd had begun to shout as Henrietta and I raced pell-mell down the side to the finish. We were there in time to hear the thunder of approaching hooves as the bay came round the bend, stretched out at a flying gallop, and coming up behind him was The Comet. On and on came The Comet with his raking stride, on and level with the bay, and as the crowd roared their approval, on and on came the grey and the blue and the red, into the lead and past the finishing post. But as Henrietta clutched my arm and screamed, “He’s won!” The Comet galloped on and over the black birch fence, and was galloping away over the next, with Nigella glued helplessly to the saddle like a wet rag.

  “And it’s the grey, it’s number twenty-two, The Comet, with number eighteen in second place, and number twenty-five third …” the commentary tailed off in an uncertain manner. “I have got it right, haven’t I?” the commentator was heard to say. “This was the second circuit?”

  The crowd was flabbergasted. The cheers died on their lips. “Oh no!” Henrietta shrieked in despair. “Stop him, Nigella! Stop him! You’ve got to weigh out! We’ll be disqualified!”

  The rest of the runners had pulled up and were staring in consternation after The Comet. Some looked uncertain as to whether or not they should follow.

  “She’s gone on,” Mrs Lydia Lane’s jockey said, “I’m going to lodge an objection.” She turned the dripping bay and rode away towards the steward’s tent.

  Henrietta and I stood as if frozen to the ground, and all around us the arguments raged.

  “If the horse has won, it’s won, and that’s that!”

  “No, it has to weigh out immediately afterwards. If the jockey doesn’t weigh out, the horse is disqualified. You can’t argue with the rules!”

  “The rules say that the winner’s the first horse past the post, there’s no rule that says it can’t go on to jump a few more fences if it wants to.”

  “I tell you the prize will go to the bay, the grey will be disqualified, although if you ask me, it’s a damned shame …”

  Suddenly though, unbelievably, there was an outburst of delighted clapping and The Comet appeared, cantering back up the course, with Nigella still in the saddle. “Sorry,” she panted apologetically. “Couldn’t stop. Had to run him into a thicket.”

  I grabbed The Comet by the bridle and ran with him towards the steward’s tent. The crowd surged along beside us determined to see fair play. Outside the tent Mrs Lydia Lane’s jockey was haranguing the chief steward who had refused to accept her objection on the grounds that a ‘reasonable period of time’ had not yet elapsed. The Comet had not been disqualified. He was cheered and applauded all the way to the winners’ enclosure.

  Nigella slid down from the saddle and fell against the hurdles. She was wet with sweat and her face was as red as her jumper. She staggered through the well-wishers towards the weighing-out. Somebody threw a rug over The Comet. The grey horse was steaming like a Turkish bath. His nostrils were lined with vermilion and every vein stood out in high relief. His breath came in huge, sobbing gulps. I was never so proud of anything or anybody in the whole of my life.

  The weighed-out signal was given, and Nigella appeared beside us with the saddlery. We walked The Comet slowly back to the horse-box. Henrietta pressed her face against his sodden neck. “I never imagined,” she said, “that any horse of ours would ever win a Point-to-Point.”

  “Any horse of mine,” I corrected her.

  “What did you say?” Henrietta said, releasing The Comet.

  “Any horse of mine,” I repeated. “The Comet belongs to me.”

  “Well,” Henrietta said dismissively, “in a manner of speaking.”

  “More than in a manner of speaking,” I said. “I took The Comet instead of wages. You didn’t want him. You were going to send him to Leicester Sales without a warranty. He would have ended up being knackered.”

  “Never mind all that,” Nigella said hastily. She removed The Comet’s bridle and put on his headcollar. “Where did you get the binoculars?”

  “Oh,” I said, remembering, “they belong to the Hunt.” I also remembered the papers in my pocket. I knew what they must be. Sooner or later I would have to tackle the Fanes about the scholarship, but not now, not today.

  We sponged The Comet with warm water and disinfectant, and dried him with old towels. He let out a long, shuddering sigh and rubbed his face against Henr
ietta’s tweeds. “Whoever would have thought,” she commented, with a sly, sideways glance at me, “that any horse of Elaine’s would have won a Point-to-Point?”

  4

  Training the Event Horse

  “Two hundred and seventy pounds is an awful lot of money for a dressage saddle,” Henrietta said. “It’s a fortune.”

  We sat at the table in the flagged kitchen, nursing mugs of coffee. It was the evening of the day after the Point-to-Point, the time of reckoning. It was already dark outside the curtainless, stone-mullioned windows, and in the dusty iron chandelier above our heads three lights burned out of twelve.

  “But if we are going to buy one,” Nigella reasoned, “it may as well be the best.” She flipped through the pages of Training the Event Horse which she had ordered from the local library and adopted as her Bible. “A badly-made dressage saddle can not only place the rider in the incorrect position, but also unbalance and affect the movement of the horse …” she quoted. “We don’t want that to happen, do we?”

  “No-o,” Henrietta allowed reluctantly. “But all the same, two hundred and seventy pounds!”

  “I agree that we need to buy a good one,” I said, “but I don’t see why it can’t be second-hand. As long as it fits Legend properly, I think one that has been used a bit would be just as good as a new one, if not better.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” Henrietta leaned in front of us and grabbed the current issue of Horse and Hound. She turned to the classified advertisements, and as she perused them, she chewed a piece of her hideously tangled hair. “Of course, just because we happen to want one, there won’t be a second-hand saddle to be had.” She was right. There wasn’t.

  “Then we’ll advertise for one,” Nigella decided. “If we can get one for a hundred and fifty pounds, we will still have enough for the jump stands and the cups and pins.” She went off in search of pen, paper and envelope.

  The Event Horse Training Fund had done well out of the Point-to-Point. The first prize for the Ladies’ Race had been a hundred pounds, and as we had each speculated five pounds on The Comet for an outright win, our winnings on the Tote had amounted to another one hundred and thirty-five pounds.

  Nigella returned with a piece of damp, cockled crested notepaper and a pen. Together we drafted a brief advertisement: TOP QUALITY ENGLISH OR GERMAN DRESSAGE SADDLE WANTED, GOOD CONDITION. URGENT. This was followed by our address. Short as it was, it still set the Training Fund back almost ten pounds.

  All day I had been waiting for a suitable moment to broach the tricky subject of the Hissey Scholarship. Now I took the details out of my pocket and put them on the table.

  “That’s a very official-looking document,” Henrietta said at once, eyeing the application form in a suspicious manner. “I hope it isn’t anything to do with our sponsorship. We did agree that it was to be a personal arrangement. We’re not going to sign anything.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” I assured her. “It’s just something I want to discuss with you both. It’s the details of the Hissey Training Scholarship.”

  “Hissey?” Nigella said, looking up from writing the envelope. “You mean Felix Hissey?”

  “Yes,” I said, “he awards a scholarship every year to six of the most promising young event riders and their horses. I rather thought we might try for it.”

  “We?” Nigella said guardedly. “Of course, what you actually mean to say is ‘you’”

  “Now wait a minute,” Henrietta said heatedly. “That’s just another form of sponsorship; you don’t need another sponsor, you’ve got us.”

  I had known it was going to be difficult; that the Fanes would want to do things in their own way. “But Legend and I are going to need professional help if we are to make any progress at all,” I told them, “and the scholarship provides for a whole month’s training with one of the very top international instructors. It’s the chance of a lifetime.”

  “And who’s going to do your work whilst you are away on this whole month’s training with a top international instructor?” Henrietta demanded to know. “We can’t possibly spare you for a month; we wouldn’t be able to manage. It’s out of the question.”

  “The course is held in the spring,” I pointed out. “After the hunting season; it’s never a busy time.”

  “Oh,” Henrietta said grumpily, not in the least mollified. “Is it.”

  “The thing is,” Nigella said in a reasonable tone, “that surely we can pay for professional tuition as and when we need it? After all, that’s what our fund raising scheme is for.”

  “I don’t think you realize,” I said patiently, “quite how much professional tuition costs.”

  “I don’t think we want to be bothered with Felix Hissey and his scholarship,” Henrietta said firmly. “We can make it on our own.”

  “Professional tuition,” I went on, “costs about twenty pounds an hour.”

  Henrietta choked on her coffee. “How much!”

  “I did warn you how much it would cost to produce an event horse,” I reminded her. “You knew it wouldn’t be cheap.”

  “I didn’t expect it to be cheap,” Henrietta spluttered, “but twenty pounds!” She turned an incredulous face to Nigella. “We seem to have chosen the wrong business; we shouldn’t be hiring out hunters at twenty pounds a day, we should be training eventers at twenty pounds an hour!”

  “We could be,” I said, “if we are successful at training this one. But you have to prove that you have the ability first, you have to have some form behind you.”

  “You’re right about that, anyway,” Nigella said. She opened Training the Event Horse at a page of photographs. They showed Trisha Phillpotts during her early eventing successes with Fly On Brightly, then later, instructing potential young event riders and horses.

  “How many hours of professional tuition are you going to need?” Henrietta wanted to know.

  “How can anyone possibly tell?” I said airily. “Two, three, five or six hours a week.”

  “Oh goodness,” Nigella gasped, “surely not.” She turned over the pages of her Bible to ascertain if this could be so.

  “She’s kidding us,” Henrietta said. “What does the book say?”

  “Of course, if you still think we can manage to pay for it,” I continued, “there’s no point in even considering the scholarship.”

  “Now, let’s not be too hasty,” Henrietta said. “We may as well keep our options open.”

  “Professional training and advice are essential to the potential event horse and rider,” Nigella read. “Expert training can take a less than brilliant combination to the top, the lack of it will prevent even the most gifted horse and rider from achieving their potential. You can’t argue with that,” she concluded. “Perhaps we should just consider the possibility of a scholarship,” Henrietta suggested. “I mean, as Elaine already had the details, we may as well see what Felix Hissey has to offer.”

  I spread the sheets out on the table. “What he has to offer is a month’s course with a top international instructor, all expenses paid …”

  “When you say all expenses,” Nigella enquired, “do you mean everything; tuition, food and lodging for the rider, and keep for the horse?”

  “Yes,” I said, “everything.”

  “So it’s worth quite a lot,” she said pensively, “if you work it out at twenty pounds an hour.”

  “About a thousand pounds,” I said.

  “A thousand pounds!” Henrietta exclaimed. “Glory!”

  “Of course,” I said, “if you still think it isn't worth trying for, if you’re still not interested …”

  “Read on,” Henrietta commanded. “We’re interested.”

  “First of all you have to make a provisional entry on the form supplied, giving full details of yourself, your previous experience, and your horse. Then, if your entry is accepted, you are invited to go to a combined training competition, where the selection committee make a short list of prospective candidates.
”

  Nigella turned to the index of Training the Event Horse in order to look up combined training.

  “It means dressage and show-jumping,” I informed her, “at a fairly basic level.”

  “That wouldn’t be a problem,” Henrietta said, “would it?”

  “Well,” I said doubtfully, “if we get the dressage saddle and the jump stands …”

  “No,” Henrietta decided, “it wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “After that, the short-listed candidates take part in a mini-event held over two days. The selection committee watch the candidates schooling and competing, and then they make their final decision. They announce the names of their six chosen scholarship candidates at the end of the competition.”

  “Do you have to pay anything for the two-day event?” Nigella said cautiously.

  “No,” I said, “it’s completely free for the short-listed candidates.”

  “And do you have to pay an entry fee to apply in the first instance?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, “that’s free as well.”

  “Then it seems to me that we can’t afford not to try for it,” said Nigella.

  Now they had made a decision in favour of the scholarship, the Fanes began to panic in case something should prevent our participation. Nigella handed me the pen. “Fill in the application form, Elaine,” she urged. “When is the closing date of entry?”

  “When’s the combined training competition?” Henrietta said, anxiously craning over my shoulder. “Do we have enough time to prepare?”

  “And what do we need to be able to go,” Nigella said in an agonized voice, “apart from the dressage saddle and the jump stands?”

  “The combined training is next month,” I told them, and added that we would need another saddle, suitable for cross-country and show-jumping. I could make do with the rugs, rollers and bandages we already had, but Legend would also need a double bridle; there wasn’t a double bridle in the yard, and even the snaffle bridle I was using for schooling was pulled up to the top holes, and the bit was almost an inch too wide.