Flying Changes

by Caroline Akrill

  A few days after this I was helping Oliver to tack up a two-year-old he was introducing to the lunge. Charity Ensdale was in the yard with the blacksmith, a thickset, rather phlegmatic young man, both of them staring down at the front hooves of a pretty chestnut mare who was to be shown as a novice hack the following day. She had quite exceptional conformation and presence, but she was slightly pin-toed. Her hoofs had already been re-shaped with the paring knife and smoothed with the rasp, and now she was to be shod. Charity Ensdale called to Oliver, “Donald seems to think that offsetting the clips won’t help. What do you think?”

  Oliver walked across the yard to look. Long summer days outdoors had given him a golden tan and the sun had lightened the colour of his hair. His shirt was open at the neck and the sleeves rolled above his elbows. He was wearing dark green stretch cord jodhpurs with leather strappings that ran the length of his legs like a Newmarket apprentice. Neither Francesca nor I had asked, but both of us knew where they had come from.

  “I don’t think you should offset them either, it doesn’t fool anybody,” he said, “but I don’t see why you shouldn’t use a flat alloy without any clips at all.”

  “Now why didn’t I think of that?” Charity Ensdale turned to Donald. “Can you do it? Is it possible?”

  “It’s possible.” With a somewhat resigned look at Oliver, Donald dropped the conventional set of alloys he was holding into his shoeing box.

  “I’d have to go back to the shop for them though. It’s not a line I carry in the van.”

  “That’s all right, there isn’t any desperate hurry. We can go and trim the yearlings first, the plating can wait until this afternoon.” She smiled at Oliver, a special, exclusive smile, which nevertheless spoke volumes to all who witnessed it. “What a surprisingly clever boy you are,” she said.

  “I would not have thought,” Oliver replied, meeting her gaze, “that there was anything surprising about it.” He did not drop his eyes, and Charity Ensdale was forced to look away first. I knew by then, of course, that she was in love with him, and that already he had the upper hand. It did not worry me particularly. It did not disturb me the way it disturbed Francesca, who could not bear to see them together, and absented herself at the faintest hint of any intimacy. Not that anything was ever displayed on Oliver’s part, he was never anything but carefully polite and well-mannered, but Charity Ensdale was quite another matter.

  I took the pretty chestnut mare by the headcollar and Donald, made uneasy by the emotional tension in the air, bent to pick up his shoeing box and said, quite briskly for him:

  “We’ll be away to do the youngsters then, Mrs. Ensdale. The plating’ll have to wait until after dinner.”

  Oliver left us, leading away the two-year-old towards the lunging track in the schooling paddock, at the far side of which Francesca could be seen, teaching a leading-rein pony to walk independently by means of side-reins and an outstretched schooling whip. The first and most important lesson in training a leading-rein pony for the ring is to teach it to carry itself forward and straight and on a good length of lead. All is lost if the pony leans inward and crowds the leader.

  As Donald and Charity Ensdale were closing the yard gate behind them I heard the sound of an approaching tractor which meant that an expected load of hay was on its way from one of the other farms. It was my job to count it into the barn and make sure it was stacked aside, away from the mature hay we were feeding at the time. I put away the mare, replacing her rugs, and went round the back of the stables to open the barn doors. Sitting on a bale, I waited in the sweet-smelling, stuffy glom of the interior to tell the farm-hand where to stack the bales and to count them in. I never dreamed the farm-hand would be Sandy Headman.

  He stood in the doorway with his thumbs stuck through the belt loops of his denims.

  “So, Katie,” he said, “you’ve been trying to get me the bloody sack, have you?”

  I got up from the bale wishing that I was not alone in the yard, knowing that Charity Ensdale, Donald, Francesca and even Oliver, were out of earshot.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I said, “you must know we didn’t say it was you we were complaining about. We didn’t mention any names.”

  Sandy Headman was shirtless, his skin was burned scarlet, his hair was shorter, spikier than ever.

  “But it was me, wasn’t it?” he said. “It was me you meant?” He moved forward, further into the barn.

  I shrugged. I tried to keep my voice casual. “If you say so,” I agreed. But I began to move sideways all the same, measuring the distance I had to cover to gain the doorway.

  “Don’t think you’re going anywhere just yet,” he said, “I’ve been wanting to have a little talk with you, ever since the bending at Bickerton.”

  I rather doubted it. After all, he had seen me many times since, when he had been roaring past me on the farm roads, rattling galvanised sheets, frightening the ponies. “Oh yes,” I said, “Why?”

  “Because you rode the pony bloody well, Katie. I underestimated you. I don’t usually underestimate people.” He moved towards me. I stiffened. I should have been ready to run past him. I wanted to get away, but my feet seemed to be glued to the floor.

  He came right up to me, leaning on a bale, pulling out a straw and chewing it reflectively, not taking his eyes away from mine. I noticed that his eyebrows and eyelashes looked very pale against the red of his skin.

  “That bloody precious brother of yours should have been proud of you, Katie,” he said. “He was proud of you, wasn’t he? Or was the chiselling bastard too busy looking after Number One to notice?”

  I wasn’t going to listen to this. I tried to make a dash for it, but he was too quick for me. He grabbed me by my arms and pinned me back against the hay. He smelled of sweat and petrol. I closed my eyes so I should not have to look at him, but I could not stop him looking at me.

  “You’re very like him. Funny, isn’t it?” I froze as I felt a thick finger ending in a close-bitten nail run across my cheek. “Same eyes. Same nose. Same mouth.” I might have tried to scream but my throat had already closed. “Same hair.” I felt the faded length of ribbon I had used to fasten back my hair come undone. “You can even ride like him when you want to.”

  I could not take any more. I wrenched my head aside, I tried to free my arms, to bring up my knee, to kick, but Sandy Headman was a farm labourer who lifted sacks and bales and galvanised sheets. He forced me back hard against the bales, pressing his body against mine, bringing his face so close that I could feel his breath on my cheek.

  “Don’t,” I pleaded, “don’t!” I could not do anything to stop him. “Please don’t,” I whispered, “please.” I thought I was going to faint, but really, I think I would have preferred to die.

  He laughed at me, his rough wind-dried lips on mine, “You’re not frightened, are you Katie? Don’t tell me you’re so bloody innocent. You must have picked up something from your brother.”

  “I would stop there, if I were you, Headman.” Oliver’s voice, hard as steel, came from the doorway.

  Sandy Headman, taken by surprise, jerked backwards and half-turned, pulling me with him, but his grip had loosened sufficiently for me to pull myself free, and I ran, not to Oliver, but as if in some way I too was a guilty party, to the other side of the barn. From our separate corners, sandy Headman and I now stood motionless, watching and waiting for what might happen next.

  “Get out of here, Headman,” Oliver said in a cold and furious voice, “get out and do not come into this yard again. If you do, I shall not be held responsible for what happens to you.”

  Sandy Headman moved forward. He was not the type to show that he was intimidated, but something about his stance told me he knew he was not a match for Oliver. Nevertheless:

  “So you’re the bloody boss around here now, are you Jasny?” he enquired in an insolent tone, “Well, we’ll have to see what Charlie Ensdale has to say about that, won’t we?”

  “You can say whatever you like
to Charlie Ensdale,” Oliver said quietly, “It will not make the slightest difference to me.”

  Sandy Headman was level with Oliver by this time and for a moment, I thought he might respond violently, but he knew better than to attempt it. Instead he looked Oliver in the eye briefly in order to evaluate the truth of this statement and saw that it was so.

  “You’re right,” he acknowledged as he walked out of the barn. “I’d be wasting my bloody time.”

  NINE

  “You can’t say you weren’t warned,” Francesca said defensively. “I did tell you its head would start to come up again as soon as it got excited, and now you can see that I was right. The pony isn’t ready for the class, and that’s all there is to it.”

  The pony in question threw up its head as if in agreement, but Oliver was having none of it.

  “It is not a question of the pony being ready or not ready, it is a matter of having entered into a firm commitment; we undertook to exhibit an improved animal today and that we shall do – you can damn well tie its head down and work it in for an hour until it is too tired to be excited. After that, I shall be the one who decides whether to exhibit or not,” he glanced at the expensively understated watch upon his wrist, “I expect the owners to arrive within the next twenty minutes.”

  “The owners can take a running jump,” Francesca said, “I’m responsible for the schooling of the ponies, and I don’t tie heads down as a matter of principle. In any case,” she added in a contentious tone, “it doesn’t work.”

  “It will have to work. Schooling obviously hasn’t worked.”

  “Schooling hasn’t failed,” Francesca snapped, “I just didn’t have enough time.”

  “And now you have even less time; you have exactly one hour before the pony goes into the ring.”

  An aristocratic hand, thin and spotted with age, the middle finger bearing a piece of jade set in rosy, soft-looking gold, was placed upon Oliver’s shoulder in a conciliatory manner.

  “My dear, you must allow that the girl is right, self-carriage cannot be imposed upon any equine by artificial means,” a heavily accented voice interceded, “it is only achieved by progressive training, by the acquisition of natural balance, and by the systematic development of the correct muscles. Let us admit that you are perfectly aware of it.”

  “Of course I am aware of it,” Oliver gave Count Von Der Drehler a cool glance of acknowledgment, “but I am also aware of the fact that a promise, however foolish, has been made to the owners, and that they are due to arrive any moment with their only daughter, who is expecting to ride in the class. Perhaps you would care to explain that there will now be an interval of twelve months before they see their pony in the ring due to the fact that we have to redistribute its muscle structure?” He turned to Charity Ensdale in exasperation. “I really do not understand what possessed you to accept the animal on such a short-term arrangement. You must have realised how little we could achieve in a few weeks.”

  Charity Ensdale was now thinner than when we had first known her and less self-assured. Dressed simply in denim jodhpurs and a checked shirt, her hair tied back into the nape of her neck she looked like a schoolgirl. She responded irritably.

  “I only agreed to take it as a favour, for heaven’s sake. It belongs to a friend of a client whose custom I happen to value. I didn’t feel it necessary actually to inspect the pony.”

  “I did not realise we were in business to distribute favours.”

  “I have noticed how sparing you are with yours,” she said tartly. Conflict had been in the air recently, but it was hard to know why. I had the feeling that things were about to change, that something was going to happen, but I was unable to put my finger on it. Francesca maintained that it was Charity Ensdale’s fault, that she had given Oliver too much freedom, had spoiled him and allowed him to dominate her, and that now she resented his authority, but I felt it was more than that.

  The Count, smiling slightly, raised a placatory hand. He said:

  “For the present, let us agree upon a compromise. Allow the young lady to school the pony for the time which remains to her, and if you will permit, I myself will explain the situation to the client, and after that, we will all make the decision.”

  It was Charity Ensdale’s agreement he should have looked for, but it was Oliver he smiled at, raising an eyebrow in mute enquiry, and it was Oliver who nodded in acquiescence. At any other time I might have pondered the significance of this, but today I was to have my first ride in the ring, and I had more pressing concerns. I thought no more about it.

  I had agreed to participate because the yard badly needed another rider. Charity Ensdale disliked riding in the ring, and for this reason she had previously concentrated on the riding ponies, showing them in hand, which she much preferred, using local children as riders when it was necessary to exhibit them under saddle. Now, however, Oliver had become a leading figure in the hack and hunter classes. Photographs of him riding a succession of champions appeared with almost relentless monotony in the horse press during the season, and there was a long list of horses waiting to come into the yard.

  Of course, Oliver had left school by this time, he was living at the farmhouse, and virtually running the yard. Charlie Ensdale now lived on one of his other farms. There had been talk, naturally, especially at first, but Charity Ensdale had managed to ignore it, and Oliver, as usual, gave nothing away. Francesca and I endured the covert glances, the whisperings whenever we appeared, and by degrees they lessened as the close-knit coterie of exhibitors began to accept us, chiefly because by means of our successes, we earned their respect. And we were content, as long as our ponies were in the ribbons, even though our names never appeared in the lists of winners, nor did our photographs ever appear in print.

  The Count’s appearance on the scene was comparatively recent. He was well-known as an instructor and a respected international dressage judge. Charity Ensdale had enlisted his help when a client whose hack we were exhibiting requested that the horse be trained for his daughter, who was now in her last year of riding pony classes and wanted to progress from hack and equitation classes, to Riding Club tests. Several days a week at first, a car and driver had brought the Count to the yard so that Oliver and the hack should receive instruction.

  Count Von Der Drehler was no stranger to the show ring himself. In the past he had been a famous name, a star in the days of Olympia, White City and Richmond Horse Shows. He was old now, and rarely seen in the saddle, but he was still slim and straightbacked, and with his aristocratic, aquiline features, his white hair worn rather long and tied at the back with a black ribbon, his antique dress, and his passion for long, brightly coloured silk scarves, he still had about him the style and glamour of another age.

  With the help of the Count’s tuition, Oliver had been successful in several best-trained hack classes, and it had been the client’s wish that he should continue to ride and be trained with the horse in order to enter some novice dressage tests. Now the Count still came to the yard on occasion, but more often the car and driver came to collect Oliver so that he could receive instruction on one of the Count’s own horses. For as the Count had pointed out to Charity Ensdale when she had complained to him about Oliver’s increasingly frequent absences, it was quite impossible for a rider to know what he was asking of an inexperienced horse, unless he had first performed the movement on a fully trained animal.

  It seemed clear to me that dressage was yet another completely different world. Gymkhana games had been the start of it, show horses and ponies had proved to be a new and exciting development and now here, on our doorstep, was the world of dressage, a totally new experience which we had not explored and knew nothing about.

  If the perfection of the show ring was sometimes partly an illusion, created by means of small deceptions, no such deceptions were possible in the art of dressage. Oliver said that it was more like an exact science, the science of total perfection of movement, made all the more difficult because
the finished result, so practised and precise, must appear relaxed and fluent.

  Even I, who knew nothing, realised that there were no shortcuts in dressage. It was the result of endless training, of total dedication, so that obedience, discipline, muscle-development, athletic ability and skill could be gradually developed in both horse and rider.

  Due to Oliver’s continued absences I had gradually taken over his riding out of the horses for exercise, and had begun to help with the schooling. Now, today, I was to ride one of the novice hacks in the ring and I was very nervous about it. Luckily, Charity Ensdale’s riding clothes fitted me perfectly, even down to the size and length of the boots, and so, even if I was not feeling confident about my ability, I was at least confident about my dress; the well-cut blue coat, the cream breeches with their suede strappings, the silk stock and pin, the slim, shining boots reaching exactly to the knee.

  But there was Francesca’s pony to be exhibited first, and we were all anxiously standing at the ringside as the owner’s daughter rode it inside the ropes. We held our breath as it performed, and breathed again when we saw that Francesca’s hard work had paid off sufficiently for it to be presented with a yellow rosette. Everyone professed themselves satisfied by this, and now it was my turn.

  Francesca sewed up the forelock plait and the end two at the withers, always left until the last moment to avoid the possibility of weakened hairs at the thinnest point of the mane. Charity Ensdale tacked up. Oliver supervised my riding-in.

  The hack I was to exhibit had been introduced to the ring already and had been placed every time in Oliver’s talented hands. She was white, which colour is not supposed to be applicable to horses who are always referred to as grey, however light their coat, but she was white; a silky snowy white, with that particular luminous glow some horses have that no photographer can capture, but certain oil painters of the past managed to reproduce perfectly on canvas. On her legs and her face she was speckled with black, tiny fine dots as if someone had flicked her with an inky pen or a water colourist’s brush; fleabitten is the term used to describe it. Her hooves and her muzzle were black, her eyes most beautifully dark. She had exceedingly straight movement, floating and true, lovely conformation, and a sweet, obliging nature, but she was a dreamy creature who seemed permanently occupied with inner thoughts, and it was difficult to capture her complete attention for any length of time, and quite hopeless to attempt it at home in familiar surroundings.