A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Her eyes are on a much bigger prize,’ confided Hugo, and I laughed.

  It seemed he’d rather fallen in beside me, and the field had turned hard left down a muddy, wooded path, with room enough for only two abreast. We were cantering beside each other now, and Shona, when I glanced behind, was with Hugo’s red-headed friend on the grey.

  ‘I didn’t see you at the Cheshires this year,’ Hugo called, and I felt myself blushing as I ducked a branch. He’d noticed.

  ‘No, Mum and I decided to give it a miss.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Not – you know – for any particular reason. We just thought …’

  ‘Usual crowd? Same old same old?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  I felt hot. That had come out wrong. As if the people there bored me. Before I could think how to remedy it, though, he was speaking.

  ‘Um, Flora, I’ve never said it, and I’ve wanted to, and it’s probably too late, but I wanted to say how sorry I was about your dad.’

  I looked at him, surprised. His cheeks were pink and his eyes half shut with embarrassment, just a sliver of blue. I shored up the most tremendous smile which came right from my rapidly reverberating heart.

  ‘It’s never too late,’ I told him gratefully.

  At that moment, the track opened up, and glorious green, open country appeared before us. Hounds fled eagerly across it and horses spread out behind them. Across the wide pasture and beyond, the panorama of the undulating North Cornish countryside in all its hilly, patchwork glory revealed itself for miles around. For the first time that season the horses felt the intoxicating thrill of springy grass beneath their hooves and pulled hard. We stood up in our stirrups, kept our reins short and tight, and galloped, hearts pumping, every man for himself, towards our first jump.

  5

  There it was, down at the bottom of a sloping valley, one of the famous five Pascoe walls. The farmer, Charlie, one of the few wealthy landowners round here courtesy of a wind farm he’d somehow been allowed to throw up while no one was looking, was forever having another layer of drystone slapped on his walls. Up ahead the hounds were already flowing over it like a river, whippers-in on either side. Then Saintly Sean gave us a master class in how to do it, taking hold a few strides out so as not to come in too fast, sitting up, and letting the horse do the rest. Harder, obviously, that restraining hold, for the rest of the field, not in splendid isolation like Sean’s mare with her considered thoughts, but instead, racing as a herd, and Hugo and I had left it late to get to the front.

  I saw Mum, Iris and Babs soar across it as one, and then, where we should have been, Mona, making a meal of it as she got too close and her horse cat-leaped, allowing us to see daylight between Mona’s ample behind and the saddle, almost unsettling her. It was too much for Bobby Summer’s youngster, who wrenched the reins from his rider’s hands and leaped it much too fast, causing him to peck badly on landing and Bobby to fall down the neck, hat over eyes, just managing to stay put. His horse, however, out of control, staggered about and cut up the next horse who had to swerve violently to avoid him.

  ‘Over here!’ called Hugo, but I’d already seen it. A stretch of wall which, although it was higher, hence everyone avoiding it, nevertheless didn’t have half the field causing chaos in front of it. Cold, grey, solid and uninviting, I felt Farthing consider it, taking in its height and girth, plus, courtesy of the slope, the rapidly disappearing ground before her. She cocked her ears intelligently, got the stride exactly right, and flew over. Beside me Hugo’s sensible gelding, a very old hand, did exactly the same as he sat still and tight. We beamed in pleasure at one another as we landed safely and galloped on, so pleased to have got that out of the way, and a glance behind told us Shona and the boys were over too, albeit in the middle of the jostling muddle that we’d avoided.

  On we flew; across three more fields, these with open gates, which many sensible people took and who can blame them, but some braving the walls like Sean, who was still making them look easy. Mum and her crew followed suit, a couple of young farmers who were not to be budged, and then Hugo and me. It occurred to me that I was obviously going to be jumping everything today, which I hadn’t planned to do on a young horse in her first season, but it couldn’t be helped. Where Hugo went, I would go too. I had a quiet word with Farthing and she got the picture. Shona was in the same boat behind me. No way would she be taking the open gates with these two boys beside her, but she was on the safest of mounts, which I suspect she was rather glad about now, as the ginger-haired boy suddenly shot past us on the grey she should have been riding, thoroughly out of control, the mare’s head high, mouth well above the bit.

  ‘Turn a circle, Tommy!’ Hugo roared.

  Happily Tommy heard and managed to yank with all his strength on his left rein and bring her up beside us.

  ‘Tuck in behind us!’ Hugo yelled as we pounded across the ground together. Tommy, to his credit, just about managed to do that, and Hugo, Shona, the other boy and I formed something of a wall for him to shelter behind as we galloped along.

  ‘Barney won’t kick, you can get right up my arse!’ Shona shouted, which under different circumstances would have had the boy shrieking banter back, but all we heard was a breathless:

  ‘OK.’

  He didn’t have too long to hold on: just one more wall, which, unfortunately, he was committed to if he came with us and, as the four of us sailed over in unison, glancing quickly over our shoulders on landing, we saw Tommy’s grey, knowing full well she was on her own without a competent rider, rise up like a stag. Tommy’s legs were horizontal in mid-air – no reins, hands clutching plaits – but fortunately he landed in the saddle, though with a hell of a bump, so that the mare bucked angrily. Heaven knows how he stayed on.

  ‘Jesus,’ muttered Hugo, as thankfully his other friend, Lucas, who’d grown up hunting in Leicestershire, was safely over and ‘having a brilliant time, thanks’ when asked, his face a picture. Not so Tommy, who was positively green at the gills, but, recognizing immediately he was the underdog here, was buggered if he was going to let it show.

  We were almost at the first cover now, slowing down as we approached, and I saw Shona hang back to talk to the boy alone, ask him something. I knew what, because we would be standing here a while whilst hounds drew, but it didn’t go well.

  After a moment, she rode back to me. ‘Charming,’ she muttered, her face taut.

  ‘Doesn’t want to,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Couldn’t have been more emphatic.’

  ‘Still, at least you’ve offered.’

  Hugo had also clocked the kindness and sensed, too, this wasn’t the moment to offer his mate any advice. He came to a halt beside us with Lucas, giving Tommy no choice but to join us. Our horses, sweating and breathing heavily, snorted and tossed their heads, steam rising from their backs in the cold air. Everyone who’d made it this far – and there were one or two who hadn’t – chatted and laughed and retold the walls; exhilarated, relieved, and high on the adrenalin of still being alive. All around, hip flasks were opened and offered and swigged on hard.

  Tommy offered me his flask and I took a grateful slug. Then my face contorted.

  ‘God, it’s strong!’

  ‘Bourbon,’ he laughed. ‘Not your tipple?’

  ‘Not sure I’ve ever had it. You’re American?’

  ‘Ten out of ten for observation.’

  I blushed, and then in my confusion said without thinking: ‘So have you done this before?’

  His face darkened, male pride pricked. ‘Just because I’m American doesn’t mean I can’t ride. Funnily enough we have something of a tradition in the Wild West, which is clearly where you think I’m from.’

  ‘Oh – no, it’s not that. It’s just – well, this is so English, I imagine.’

  ‘Hunting? Pretty universal, I think you’ll find. Hugo, your Cornish girlfriends are giving me a master class in international diplomacy, I must take notes.’
/>   We all laughed, but Shona and I were embarrassed. And the Cornish bit. As if we’d never been out of the county.

  Mum rode up to see how we were getting on.

  ‘Farthing OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Amazing.’ I beamed. ‘Loving every minute of it.’

  ‘Well, Sean wants us to spread out.’ She smiled around at everyone. ‘So if you wouldn’t mind awfully …’

  As she rode away to inform the next group, I thought how good she was at this. Some hunts yelled orders, but Mum would help Sean out in the nicest possible manner, not barking commands as the neighbouring Devon lot would. Tommy’s eyes narrowed into the distance.

  ‘I could be her toy boy.’

  I suddenly realized what he meant.

  ‘She’s Flora’s mum,’ said Hugo quickly.

  Tommy blinked. ‘Oh. OK. Sorry.’ He didn’t look too embarrassed, though, and a slow smile spread across his face, so it wasn’t really enough. The apology. It was gauche at best. ‘I see where you get it from,’ he drawled. What was I supposed to say to that? Gee, thanks? Flutter my eyelids?

  ‘Good to see your small talk is as good as your riding,’ remarked Shona, and the other two boys roared and slapped their saddles. Tommy had no choice but to grin sheepishly. Why hadn’t I said that? Why?

  ‘Spread OUT!’ yelled Reg Francis, who was my next-door neighbour, a thickset, burly plumber. He was bearing down on us at a rapid trot on Phantom, his huge, eighteen-hand black bruiser, his face furious. ‘This isn’t a fucking drinks party.’

  We scattered like marbles, standing about twenty yards apart around the cover, slapping our legs and calling ‘hi-hi, Charlie’, which Shona and I could never do without laughing, while Charlie, aka the fox, now safely in the next county having cunningly giving us the slip hours ago when he’d heard us at the meet, no doubt laughed too. It was a rare hunt to outsmart him. When Reg was safely round the corner, Hugo rode up beside me.

  ‘Sorry about Tommy. He can be a bit of a dick.’

  ‘Yeah, I spotted that.’

  ‘Actually, he’s OK, he’s just a bit out of his depth today. Brings out the worst in people.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  I regarded his narrow, intelligent face, adding ‘sensitive’ to my list. This boy was not at all as I’d imagined. The athletic blond jock was disappearing rapidly.

  ‘It’s not just being out of your depth, though,’ I reflected. ‘Hunting shows people’s true colours. Because it’s …’ I felt my own colour rise as I tried to explain. ‘So raw? So … I don’t know …’

  ‘Primeval?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. It strips you bare, somehow. Leaves you nothing to hide behind.’

  ‘That’s because there’s authentic danger, which is rare in our lives these days. And it also channels some ancient romance of the soul, I think. It’s weird …’ His turn to look a bit embarrassed. He went on more pragmatically: ‘On a practical level it should be available on the National Health. Hunting three times a week would sort out a lot of people’s mental-health issues, plus the obesity crisis – there, I’ve halved the budget in one go.’

  ‘Except Sally Chambers hunts three days a week,’ I reminded him, as a huge, scary blonde on an equally enormous Irish roan cantered bossily past as if she was part of the management. ‘And she’s foul to that poor tiny husband of hers.’

  I was keen to keep the banter light, but also thrillingly aware he’d said romance. Oh, it was said in a different context, but still, he was lyrical. I added that to my list.

  Suddenly the rest of the field were cantering up behind us and we were off again, but it was with an even greater sense of excitement that I gathered my reins and cantered amongst them.

  We were going across to Larks Ridge now, further inland. Here there were fewer wealthy wind-farm owners, and more tenant farmers trying to keep body, soul and smallholding together. These walls were not remotely manicured: they were crumbling and patched, some with rusty corrugated iron, and I’d even seen an old radiator filling the gap in one. Local knowledge was key. Unexpected bogs, ditches and sudden drops were not uncommon, and if you didn’t follow Sean closely and went blithely off piste, eagerly jumping a nicely collapsed low wall, you could easily hit the deck with your horse on top of you, courtesy of a pile of fallen stone on the other side.

  Hounds were speaking now and streaking away from us in the distance as the land rose steeply towards the horizon. The wide, grassy hill was one I knew of old and always greeted with relief, as the horses invariably lost a bit of steam, but what goes up must surely come down and you had to really take a hold down the other side, particularly with the wide gaping ditch at the bottom. A couple of small stone walls were also thrown into the equation before the ditch for good measure, which, if you were in control, had the advantage of steadying you for it, but if you weren’t, being small and easily leaped, could have you flying even faster for the water.

  Farthing came back to me immediately as we cantered down, all my thoughts concentrated now on my own survival without consideration for anyone else. Hugo’s bay with its long, easy stride was just ahead of me and I managed to keep a careful distance as we popped over one wall, then down to the other in the valley, clearing it, then checking immediately on landing and not letting her roll on as I cantered towards the ditch. It was more of a stream, actually: wide in places and occasionally deep. You could either kick on and hope for a good stride, or let the horse pause, consider, then give a massive leap which had the danger of unsettling you in mid-air.

  Ahead of me, Mum and Iris were sitting straight and tight and putting their legs on as they approached, and I saw them jump long, flat and beautifully. The young farmers flew across, and then Hugo, with perhaps a little less style, but nevertheless, he was over. My turn. I asked Farthing the question a few strides out and the reply could not have been more unequivocal. Her stride lengthened immediately and she soared across the muddy water which glistened darkly beneath us, landing with feet to spare on the other side. Lucas was quickly over too, and then Shona – quite a leap for a small pony and I saw her delighted face – but when I glanced back, I was in time to see Tommy’s horse in the water, struggling up the bank. Tommy was clinging to the plaits for dear life as somehow the grey scrambled out, wet and filthy.

  We swung back, eyes front, knowing he wouldn’t be thrilled to have an audience, and galloped on. The walls came thick and fast now including the next, the biggest and scariest of the day. It was locally known as ‘Oh God’ because Roger’s aunt, on encountering it for the first time, had uttered these immortal words, to which Babs had remarked dryly, ‘Lucky it wasn’t my aunt or it would be called Holy Shit.’ As the four of us checked quite far back, letting the horses have a good look at it, Tommy’s grey suddenly tore straight through the middle, banging mine and Shona’s legs. Thoroughly out of control, it charged straight past my burly neighbour Reg, past Mum and Babs, and seemed intent on committing the cardinal sin of overtaking Sean, galloping fast.

  ‘Jesus!’ I heard Hugo yell beside me. All we could do was watch in horror as we saw Tommy’s mare clock the height and girth of the wall too late. With no one aboard telling her she needed to slow down and collect herself, telling her anything at all, in fact, the mare lost her confidence and ducked out at the last minute, swerving violently. As the horse went one way, Tommy went the other, flying out of what is colloquially known as the side door. He’d comprehensively cut up the rest of the field, but Mum and Babs, who were committed, somehow managed to avoid him, the young farmers swore violently and got over too, and the rest of us held hard since jumping on top of someone is not actually in the rule book.

  As the rest of the field, with much cursing, fled down the hill to jump the wall elsewhere, Lucas disappeared after Tommy’s horse. That left the three of us, who straggled to a halt around Tommy, who was still on the ground. Hugo leaped off and I held his horse as he ran up. Shona threw me her reins, jumped down and ran too. Badly winded, Tommy struggled to
his feet.

  ‘I’m fine, fucking fine. Fucking bastard horse refused – where is she?’

  ‘Lucas has gone after her,’ Hugo told him as, away in the distance, we could actually see someone else had caught the grey and was handing her to Lucas to ride back with, the saddle pretty much slipped right over to one side. A couple of people who usually rode at the back anyway had ridden across to help. Lovely Liz Price, who was a nurse at the same hospital as Shona’s mum, so that was always a bonus, and her sister Kim who ran the local kennels.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Liz asked, eyeing Tommy’s very white face as he staggered a bit.

  ‘Everything is fine and if everyone would stop fussing I’ll just get back on my horse! Fucking animal.’

  Lucas was amongst us, handing him the reins.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ said Liz with a frown, as the grey, thoroughly overwrought, circled manically around Tommy, tossing her head. Froth was pouring from her mouth as he tried to keep her still. ‘You look a bit concussed to me. I should hop back on but ride quietly home.’

  ‘I’ll take him,’ Hugo told her.

  ‘I don’t need any fucking nursemaid – we’re riding on!’

  He shoved the saddle back into its rightful position without undoing the girth, which frightened the horse. She was going up now, lifting her front hooves off the ground, preparing to rear, eyes rolling with fear and anxiety, her sides sodden, steam pouring off her, pink nostrils flaring.

  Shona was still on the ground.

  ‘If you’re determined to carry on you really need to ride Barney,’ she told him earnestly, helping him hold the mare down, grabbing the reins on the other side.

  ‘And you need to get back where you fucking well belong!’ he roared.