Mum and I were incredibly proud of him. And he wasn’t a typical soldier, either. He painted, when he was home. Outside, with the easel and palette I still use and treasure more than my life. Because of his rank, we no longer had to live on the base in Falmouth as we did when I was tiny, and Dad, who like Mum was from around here, bought our cottage, primarily because although you couldn’t see the sea – those houses were way out of our league – the garden faced the right direction so you could smell it and imagine it. And if you walked fast, in a straight line, for half an hour, with your rucksack of paints and sandwiches on your back and your portable easel, you could reach it. Dad did, and I went with him, with my own rucksack of watercolours, rather than oils. The deal was I could stay as long as I painted. He didn’t mind if I chatted, that was allowed, although he’d often only murmur back, but handstands and wandering off and bringing the dog were not. I loved to go. I didn’t see enough of my father – he was away so much – and this was our special time. And I got quite good. I’m not sure if I’m a talented painter, although others like my work and it sells and I see it on people’s walls, but I certainly started young, and practised a lot, which is not so different to a four-year-old learning the violin and getting results. Most children like to mess around with paints, but how many do it all day, as I did?
The other thing we did together was ride, with Mum, who was better than both of us. This was a source of huge amusement because Dad was in the cavalry, but of course that mostly meant tanks, apart from ceremonial stuff. We didn’t have horses of our own, there wasn’t the money, but Iris, Mum’s great buddy, was always grateful to us for exercising hers. She competed in those days, three-day eventing at quite a high level, and she needed them ridden daily. Most were home-bred and she was always bringing on a youngster, although they were precious, and not everyone was granted this honour, but my mother had the best seat in the county and the lightest hands so Iris trusted her with her babies, as she called them. Dad was also considered up to scratch for an older horse and I often got one of the children’s ponies to exercise, because, Iris said, they couldn’t be bothered, which struck me as extraordinary.
I didn’t actually fancy Hugo, as I recall, but he was good-looking and frankly, being at an all-girls school, one of the few boys I knew. I had two cousins in Devon and there were a few boys in the Pony Club who were sweet, but Hugo was the pin-up boy for the area: rich, remote, a bit shy which sort of helped, and away at school, so slightly mysterious. The whole package, if you were a bit shallow like me, and a bit of a sheep – ditto – was super glamorous. I often thought, as I rode Hugo’s new Cleveland Bay, I’m sitting in your saddle, mate. My bum’s where your bum’s been. Childish.
When Dad died, though, I put away childish things. The punch and the guts went out of me for anything frivolous, and with it went the posters on my bedroom wall of the young Prince William, who so closely resembled Hugo, and I put up prints by Monet, Constable and Henry Moore instead, all great favourites of Dad’s. That was the furrow I ploughed: the one into my father’s world, getting inside his head, spending hours painting the same views he’d painted, in oils now, but still in the fields because I liked the elements. And when the weather was fine, and not windy, I’d paint his face. I’d prop up a photo of him on my old child’s easel and paint it time and again, wanting to get it exactly right. I think Mum worried a bit at this stage and would come and find me, knowing exactly where I’d be, halfway down the cliff, just inside a little cave Dad and I had found, which at least afforded some protection from the wind. She’d pop her head round and usually I wouldn’t have heard her.
‘Coming back soon, darling? It’s nearly supper time.’ I’d meet her anxious eyes and I knew she was reading mine, too.
Luckily we’d never gone through the backing away and closing down stage some mothers and daughters do, and after a moment’s internal dialogue and resentment at being disturbed, I’d nod and agree to pack up my things and come with her. Making my dear mother anxious in order to deal with my own grief was not something I was going to do. I worried about her far too much for that. She was still young and very pretty, with a heart-shaped face, auburn curls, dancing hazel eyes and fabulous legs, and many men in the county, or even outside the county, would be thinking – golly, Maggie Penhallow. Give her a couple of years to – you know – then I’d definitely have a crack. But I knew it wasn’t like that. It wouldn’t be a couple of years, or indeed ever, to my relief in the early days, and to my sorrow now.
Mum and Dad had something infinitely special. They completed each other. They were outrageously silly together, they laughed until tears rolled down Mum’s face, and although of course they bickered, I never heard a flaming row. Not like my friend Shona’s parents, who I’d heard more than once when I’d stayed the night. It seems to me a good marriage is one where the whole becomes more than the sum of its two parts, and that was my parents. An average marriage is when two parts operate competently, but separately. A disastrous one is when the two parts are actually reduced by the whole, and that is what happened with me and Hugo. Mum and Dad galloped along joyously together, just as they hunted, side by side, popping over life’s obstacles, with me in their wake. And of course, it might have helped that he was away a lot. She missed him, so why waste precious time arguing when he was at home?
I sometimes wonder if that’s how Mum got through it: she was used to his absences, and this was just a much longer one. Indeed, when we were riding along the beach one day, her on one of the youngsters, and me on my now three-year-old that Mum had bought from Iris as a yearling, she admitted, with a smile, that a lot of the time she lived purely in her head and pretended he was away on exercise.
‘So do I.’ I’d turned to her wide-eyed, as if surprised that was allowed.
She’d shrugged. ‘In the immortal words of John Lennon, whatever gets you through the night.’
We’d cantered on, at the edge of the surf.
That three-year-old, Farthing, had already got me through many days and nights and I really hadn’t wanted her, which was why Mum didn’t ask. She just rented the back paddock from Reg Francis next door, bought the yearling no doubt ridiculously cheaply from Iris, and borrowed a Shetland of Reg’s for company. To my complete surprise, Farthing was there, in the field, skinny, skittish and nervous, when I got home from school.
‘I was going to give up riding,’ I said, aghast, when Mum led me through the garden to meet her. Head and tail held high, she was cantering in an abandoned manner about her new territory, skidding to a halt in front of us, red velvet nostrils flaring. She gave a rolling snort.
‘So you said, too frivolous, but you don’t have to ride her, just bring her on. Iris says you can return her when it’s time to back her, in a couple of years. And you’ll make a profit.’
‘Oh.’
This did appeal. For complicated reasons still to do with Dad, money was part of my crazy, half-formed plan for life. Lots of it. Back then, I associated it with success. Although, of course, this didn’t come to anything with Farthing. Anyone who’s brought on a young horse, overcome its manifold fears and suspicions, fed and watered it, brought it in when it’s wet, pulled its cold ears in the stable till they’re warm, murmured to it, rubbed a handful of straw on its back to dry it, kept the flies off it when it’s hot, soothed and stroked its terrified neck all night in the stable on Bonfire Night, will know. Anyone, who then, a couple of years later, has gently, gradually introduced, not just a head collar, but a bridle, rested a saddle, too, lunged it on the end of a long rein, head on one side – me, that is – watched every tiny movement, every flicker of the eye, always on the lookout for fear, admired the flowing, fluid movement Mum was so clever to find, knows there’s only one person who’s eventually going to lie gently across that back, and finally sit upright. Who would I trust to do otherwise? Farthing stayed, and although hunting wasn’t something I did regularly, I knew it would be good for her and, since the Cornish, like the Irish, bring horses on quickly,
I took her out when she was four, with my mother, Iris and Babs beside me.
The first season was terrifying but thrilling: two emotions which my canny mother knew could have a bloody good stab at trumping grief. Another was worry for my precious Farthing – was this all going to be too much for her? It was like her first day at school, and again, shrewd on my mother’s part: I was caring for someone other than myself.
And Penhallows were skilled in the field. Dad’s job was too peripatetic for him to be offered the Mastership, but he would have been perfect, and Mum even more so: it was offered, actually, but she turned it down with a laugh, knowing she was not temperamentally suited. She was too polite, too much of a follower herself, like me, and all Masters had their egos and their fiefdoms.
It was Sean Coats’s turn to flex his Master’s muscles today. Otherwise known as Saintly Sean, he was a lay preacher in his quieter hours. Old, venerable and well liked, he knew every inch of his country, but you certainly wouldn’t want to get on his wrong side, or any of the hunt staff’s for that matter. Particularly the grim-faced whippers-in, intent on controlling their hounds, who were spilling down the ramp of the lorry even now, in a black, brown and white flood, baying and calling, making a hell of a racket, as Farthing stiffened beneath me and pricked her ears.
As I sat, at this, the opening meet, on my coiled spring of a young chestnut, I knew I had to be quiet and still and just let her bed in a bit. We’d managed it during the short autumn hunting season of the previous two months, but those few successful outings were only dress rehearsals and didn’t prevent me from feeling nervous today. The first meet of the season proper was quite different. This was the real deal. Always on a Saturday, it attracted a scrum of gung-ho, testosterone-fuelled alpha males, keen to let off steam after a week in the office or on the farm, and lots of over-excited teenagers. It wasn’t the midweek event with the careful band of mothers, retired gentlefolk and occasional children like me – with yet another orthodontist appointment, and a huge wink from Mum, who thought coping on the hunting field a different sort of education. I was always made aware of the argument on both sides, though, and we had heated debates with my cousins in Devon who were anti, and sometimes came to wave their banners and follow on foot, before – no doubt bizarrely to some – coming back to our house for a raucous, riotous tea.
No antis today, I thought as I surveyed the scene with my best friend Shona beside me. Across the teeming mass of beautifully turned-out horses and riders, the former plaited and clipped, the latter snug in black coats and snowy white stocks, I saw Hugo with a couple of boys I didn’t recognize. They were already being pretty loud, yelling at each other and roaring with laughter. Saintly Sean had them in his sights, however. He’d turned in his saddle and was narrowing his eyes as if he might ride across for a quiet chat.
‘I’d be surprised if any of them have ever done this before,’ remarked Shona, on a piebald pony.
‘Hugo has,’ I said loyally.
‘Once, last season, we saw him,’ she said with a sniff. ‘But look at his hooray friends.’
There was a great deal of larking and whooping and swigging from hip flasks going on, even though there was plenty of port on offer, which they were also helping themselves to, as it came round on trays.
‘Oh, you’ll probably find they were born in the saddle. That one on the roan can certainly ride.’
‘The one on the grey I was on can’t.’
I frowned. ‘What d’you …?’
But Iris was already between us, asking the same question, on her sensible Irish gelding, a frown on her face. ‘Shona, I thought I gave you the grey mare to ride this morning?’
‘I know you did, Miss Bellingdon, but that friend of Hugo’s asked me to swap.’
‘Oh, did he now? Well, we’ll soon see about that.’ She began to turn about.
‘Oh no – please don’t, honestly, I don’t mind at all. I love Barney.’
‘Yes, but in the first place it’s bloody rude, and in the second place, is he up to the mare?’
‘I think he thought I’d have a better day on this one.’
‘Nonsense,’ Iris snorted derisively. ‘He wasn’t thinking of you at all! He just didn’t want to be on a pony when his friends were on much bigger mounts.’ She rode away towards them.
‘Oh God …’ Shona said faintly. ‘Please don’t let her make him swap back. He’ll think it’s me …’
I silently implored along with her. The local state-school girls making a fuss, when of course all the horses actually belonged to Hugo’s father. We held our breath, eyes glued, as she talked to the red-headed boy on the iron-grey, who was now the epitome of good manners and charm, even at this distance. Iris listened and nodded.
The moment she’d turned and was riding back towards us, out of earshot, a remark was passed and one of them stifled a laugh. Not Hugo, though. After a moment, he rode across, threading his way competently through the field on his nonetheless prancing bay, his eyes on my friend.
‘Thanks, Shona. Iris says you asked not to swap back.’
‘Oh … that’s OK.’
It was all Shona could manage, so flabbergasted were we to be spoken to.
‘Still, it was decent of you. Barney’s a good ride, but he’s a bit where’s-the-cart.’ He grinned.
Shona and I laughed, knowing exactly what he meant. Barney could jump anything he came across, but looks-wise he could also be pulling a gypsy caravan, with his thick, shaggy mane and flowing fetlocks.
‘Nervous?’ he asked, ice broken.
‘God, yes,’ we chorused.
‘It’s the bloody opening meet. Aren’t you?’ Shona asked.
‘Terrified,’ he admitted. ‘I haven’t ridden for six months, and this one’s properly revved up.’ As if to demonstrate, his horse snatched irritably at his rather serious-looking bit, mouth frothing already. ‘And there are a load of idiots out today, as ever. Cut you up at the first fence if you’re not careful.’
‘Always are at the opening meet,’ agreed Shona, totally at ease now, whilst I was still getting used to him being there. ‘So it’s either right at the front, or right at the back to give them room, don’t you think?’
‘Front,’ said Hugo firmly. ‘Up with people like Babs, Iris and your mum,’ he nodded at me. Ridiculously, I flushed. ‘Just don’t go anywhere near my dad; he’s over-horsed himself as usual. He’ll be off at the first if he’s not careful, causing a pile-up. Iris wanted him to ride his old faithful, but he’s on that mad Piper.’
‘He’s not!’ Shona exclaimed. Piper was a notorious bucker, and we could see Roger even now, in his red coat, on a bunched-up black horse who had his head between his knees and was reversing at speed as Roger swore loudly at him.
‘And Mona Hartley is to be given acres of space.’
‘Oh, we’ve already spotted her,’ I told him, finally managing to find my voice. The local hotty – all red lips and peroxide curls just about contained in a hairnet, her vast bosom straining at her skin-tight black coat, buttons fit to ping off, and looking equally likely to be pinged off her enormous dapple grey herself – was beside us.
‘Just take him away,’ murmured Shona, watching. ‘Walk him quietly about.’
‘She can’t, she wants to stick like glue to Neville the Devil,’ Hugo told us. We all giggled as, right on cue, the devastatingly handsome local farrier who, with his black curls, hooded eyes and wicked, flashing smile had more than a touch of the dark side about him, rode past on a flashy thoroughbred type, all jingling bit and glistening spurs. He swept his hat off in a debonair gesture as he greeted Mona and murmured something as he passed.
‘What did I tell you? It’s back to the forge for her later.’
‘Over the anvil,’ agreed Shona.
As we snorted, both secretly delighted to be talked to like this, I spotted Hugo’s two friends, watching and wondering who he was speaking to. Debating, perhaps, whether to come across. Just then, Saintly Sean cleared his throat
. He stood up in his stirrups and beamed around at everyone.
‘Could I have your attention, please?’ he called.
Silence reigned. Total, respectful silence, actually. Any child still chattering was glared at hotly as Sean removed his ancient Patey hat. In his lilting Cornish accent, he spelled out what he expected from his flock today, in terms of respecting farmers’ property, keeping off the crops and shutting gates. Then, when he’d thanked the Hendricks, whose farm we were meeting on, he broke into a benevolent smile and wished us all a happy day. One almost felt he might be tempted to make the sign of the cross over us. Mike Harris sounded his horn, and together with Malcolm, who was Second Whip, they gathered up the hounds and trotted smartly off towards the first cover, which was a good couple of miles away, with plenty of open countryside to gallop across first. There were some very solid stone walls too, which required serious jumping, being high, wide and, unlike hedges, very unforgiving if you dropped a hoof. Plenty had ditches in front, and at least one had barbed wire on top, whilst another had a hideous drop into a lower field on the other side. To accommodate the drop you had to let out the reins, lean back, shut your eyes and pray. I obviously hadn’t had breakfast, never could when I hunted, like many disciples of this terrifying, glorious sport, and I felt my heart change places with my stomach as we gathered up our reins. We set off in the jostling scrum, and my eyes darted about as I tried to locate Mum. She, Babs and Iris were all in a row, looking incredibly slim and glamorous in their white breeches and navy fitted coats, and with many eyes upon them. Mum’s pretty Arab mare tossed its head. They were well ahead of us, right behind Sean, in fact, who led the field in his red coat.
‘Come on,’ said Hugo, spotting them, too. He gave his two mates a jerk of the head to follow him up to the front, neither looking quite as confident as they did a few minutes ago. ‘Chop-chop, we need to get up there. We certainly need to avoid this idiot.’
One of the fishermen from Port Tavern, on what looked like a very green youngster, was taking great leaps and advancing precariously on his quarry, Tanya Roland, who put it about a bit locally. As we passed we heard Tanya say: ‘Don’t waste your time, Bobby Summer. I’m not a novice ride.’ She cantered towards Charlie Pascoe, a rich divorcee, whose land we were heading towards.
A Cornish Summer Page 5