by Jean Ure
‘Don’t get too excited,’ warned Bethany. ‘It’s just a gentle stroll … maybe a bit of trotting. We’ll see how you go.’
‘Do you really think we’re ready for it?’ quavered Katy.
‘Absolutely! You can’t stay stuck in the ring forever; you’ll get bored, and so will the horses. Now, take these.’
She held out a couple of hard hats. Katy looked at them doubtfully.
‘Are these in case we fall off?’
‘You are not going to fall off,’ said Bethany. ‘It’s just the law, that’s all.’
Someone suddenly called out to us from one of the stalls. ‘I don’t know what you’re panicking for. A baby couldn’t fall off Freya; she only ever goes anywhere at the walk.’
We froze. We knew that loud, clanging voice! It belonged to Tara Wilkinson, a particularly obnoxious girl in our class at school. Katy and I called her Motormouth, because that was what she was: all gobby and gabby and full of herself. One of those people that has opinions on everything under the sun.
‘This is Tara,’ said Bethany. ‘I think you know one another, don’t you? She’s going to be joining us on the ride.’
My heart went thunk, right down to my boots, which, in fact, weren’t boots at all but just ordinary shoes. Our mums had said they weren’t going to fork out for expensive riding gear until we’d been doing it long enough to be quite sure that we wanted to go on doing it. So in the meantime we had to wear shoes and jeans and anoraks, and borrow hard hats from the ones that were kept at the stables.
It was very belittling, especially when we looked at Motormouth in her smart tweedy jacket and her stretchy riding trousers and her long shiny boots. And she had a superior blue velvet hat. The stable hats were just ordinary black ones, all battered and bashed.
‘You really ought to get hats of your own,’ she told us. ‘It’s not very hygienic wearing commonal ones.’
Crushingly I said, ‘I take it you mean communal?’
‘Ones that other people have worn,’ said Motormouth, growing all crimson and angry. She just hates it when someone gets the better of her!
Bethany led us away to help saddle up our horses. We’d had a bit of practice but I still found putting the bridle on a bit of a mystery. Katy, on the other hand, had no trouble at all, which obviously pleased her. We’d both been shown how to tighten the girth once we were actually mounted, so that the saddle would be secure and not start slipping sideways. I had worried in case I might tighten it too much and make poor Jet uncomfortable, but Bethany assured me that wouldn’t happen.
‘He’s up to all the tricks,’ she said. ‘He knows how to puff himself out so you’re fooled into thinking it’s tight enough.’
It worried me when she said that. I wondered if it meant he didn’t like having his saddle put on.
‘Maybe it makes him uncomfortable?’
‘Now, I ask you,’ said Bethany, ‘does he look like a horse that’s uncomfortable?’
I had to say that he didn’t. He was a really cheeky little fellow! Today especially, his eyes were bright, his ears well forward.
‘That,’ said Bethany, ‘is a horse that’s eager to go!’
I was eager too. Our first real ride! Needless to say, old Motormouth had her own pony, which she kept at the stables. She was called Caramel and just oozed quality. Beautiful and golden, with a creamy mane and tail. A palomino, the Mouth self-importantly informed us.
‘Daddy bought her for my birthday. She was massively expensive!’
You can see why Motormouth is not one of our favourite people. I mean, anyone who can boast that their pony is worth a lot of money! If I had a pony, I wouldn’t care what it was worth. I wouldn’t care if it wasn’t worth anything at all. I would still love it and take care of it. And I would never, ever sell it on. I hate the way people do that! Oh, they say, I’ve grown out of this pony, I need something bigger, I need something better. If I was ever lucky enough to have a pony of my own, it would be for LIFE.
Unless, perhaps, it went to a sanctuary – say, if I ran out of money and could no longer afford to look after it. But not just to sell it on, when for all you knew it could end up as horsemeat.
I wasn’t thinking of horsemeat, that day I went for my first ride. I was too busy being happy! There were just the four of us, me and Katy, Bethany and Motormouth. Bethany was riding Rosie. I’d never seen Rosie out before. She was the most beautiful, beautiful horse! Shiny, like satin, and really intelligent. Bethany said she only had to touch her and she would respond.
‘I almost only have to think.’
‘That’s what you can do with a good horse,’ said Motormouth. And she turned and stared disdainfully at me and Katy on Jet and Freya. I felt quite insulted on Jet’s behalf! I’d become really fond of that funny chunky little pony.
‘Jet will do anything I ask him,’ I said. I was only saying it because she made me so angry! I honestly didn’t have any idea if he would do what I asked. Going for a ride is very different from just being in the ring with Bethany shouting encouragement, but I touched him with my heels, the way we’d been taught, and sure enough he broke into a trot!
I said, ‘Good boy, Jet! Good boy!’ and he tossed his shaggy head and stepped out ever so proudly. Up-down, up-down, up-down. And me going up-down with him! Rising to the trot was what Bethany said it was called. It was the most incredible and amazing feeling.
If you don’t rise to the trot, it is hugely uncomfortable. Get the timing wrong so that the horse is going up-down while you are going down-up – well! That is a recipe for disaster. At the very least it will give you a sore bum.
That was what was happening to poor old Katy. She just couldn’t get the rhythm right! I saw her bouncing about on top of the saddle, and I felt for her, I really did, but I was just so … excited! I squeezed with my thighs and urged Jet to trot even faster, trit-trot, trit-trot, his little stumpy legs smashing up and down, with Motormouth’s palomino swishing her tail in his face as we moved up the lane.
Bethany glanced back to see how we were all getting on. ‘Everyone okay?’
‘Why wouldn’t we be?’ muttered Motormouth.
‘Katy? Hannah? Okay?’
I assured her that I was.
‘Katy? How about you? You managing?’
Katy called back, ‘Just about!’, which I thought was really brave of her considering she was still bouncing up and down like a pea on top of a fountain.
At the end of the lane we came to a stretch of land that is known to local horse riders as the Gallops, where, if you are experienced, you can go flat out.
‘Can we gallop, can we gallop?’ demanded Motormouth. ‘Let’s go!’
‘No.’ Bethany caught hold of Caramel’s bridle. ‘Katy and Hannah aren’t ready for that.’
‘I could gallop,’ I said.
I can see now that it was really selfish of me. I was just showing off in front of Motormouth; I wasn’t even considering poor Katy. Fortunately Bethany stood firm. She said there would be no galloping on this ride.
Needless to say, the Mouth fell into the most tremendous sulk and started grumbling about having to come out with beginners.
‘You didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to,’ said Bethany. ‘You know perfectly well they’ve only just started riding. And anyway, Rosie can’t gallop. You just fall in behind me and hold that horse back. We may do a bit of gentle cantering later on, when we get to the field. But only if I say!’
The Mouth muttered, but did as she was told. She reined in next to me and mumbled something about horses not being much good if they couldn’t do what was expected of them.
‘Are you talking about Rosie?’ I said. I’d thought it odd when Bethany said she couldn’t gallop. A big beautiful horse like that!
Motormouth thwacked sullenly at Caramel’s neck with the reins. ‘Ought to be pensioned off.’
‘Why?’ I said. ‘Is she old?’
‘No, but her lungs are shot. She’s no use any more. You can
’t keep a horse that’s no use!’
‘You mean …’ I wasn’t quite sure that I understood. When she said that Rosie’s lungs were shot –
‘She’s broken-winded!’ Motormouth snapped it at me irritably. ‘It means she can’t breathe properly. That’s why she can’t gallop. It’s like when people have asthma.’
‘Oh!’ I stared in dismay. ‘Oh, poor Rosie! How did she get it?’
‘She was in a fire. Only no one told the stupid person that bought her and he didn’t bother getting her checked out, so she was just a total waste of money. Which is why the owner’s done a bunk and Mrs Foster’s stuck with a horse she can’t use.’
Mrs Foster was the woman who ran the stables. She barked a lot, and was rather stern and hatchet-faced. I was always glad it was Bethany who was teaching us to ride and not her! She would have freaked Katy out completely.
‘You mean …’ I was struggling to make sense of things. ‘The owner just abandoned her?’
‘Yes.’
‘You mean, like … he just brought her in one day and left her?’
The Mouth heaved an impatient sigh. ‘She was here as a livery. Like Caramel. Okay?’
I nodded doubtfully. I didn’t like to ask what a livri was, but old Motormouth guessed I had no idea. She gave me this withering glance. I could tell she was thinking, These non-horsey people, they are just so ignorant! But there was no call for her to be all superior. Everyone has to learn.
‘It means –’ she flapped a hand impatiently – ‘board and lodging. The stables look after the horse and feed it and the owner pays them. So naturally, once this stupid person discovered he’d bought a knackered horse, he did a bunk. Just ran off and left her.’
‘That’s terrible!’ I said.
‘Yeah, Mrs Foster wasn’t very pleased, stuck with a horse she can’t use. Can’t even sell her on; she’s not worth anything. She does nothing but eat and cost money.’
‘Won’t her lungs get any better?’ I said.
‘No, I told you, they’re completely shot.’
I didn’t ask her what she meant by shot. I guessed she meant that, alas, they had been ruined for all time.
‘She’s so beautiful!’ I said.
‘Yeah, and she just stands about all day, eating her head off. All she’s good for is going on beginner rides. Honestly, this is just so frustrating!’
She slapped at Caramel with the reins. Caramel twitched and jumped. I could tell she was just longing to go.
‘We usually fly along this bit!’
‘It’s not Rosie’s fault,’ I said.
‘I know it’s not her fault. But she really ought to be pensioned off. Either that, or—’
I didn’t hear the next bit, which was probably just as well. It was almost certainly something horrible. The Mouth really was the most unfeeling person. She went whisking off, all full of herself, to join Bethany at the front. I was left to struggle with Jet, who was impatiently tossing his head up and down, desperate to go after her. By hauling as hard as I could on the reins I just about managed to hold him back. I worried afterwards that it wasn’t very kind to haul on a horse’s reins, but when I mentioned it to Bethany she said that Jet was known for getting the bit between his teeth and it wouldn’t actually have hurt him. He probably hadn’t even noticed.
‘Shetlands are feisty little creatures.’
All the same, I thought, I wouldn’t do it again. Not unless I absolutely had to.
Katy, as she caught me up, said, ‘Are you having trouble?’
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘It’s just that stupid Motormouth, showing off. I was all right until then.’
‘Trust her,’ said Katy.
I said, ‘Yes, she’s totally unfeeling. All she cares about is whether a horse can earn money. She said poor Rosie is useless and ought to be pensioned off!’
‘Why?’ said Katy.
‘Because she can’t earn her keep.’
I explained about Rosie’s lungs and how she couldn’t gallop, and Katy said, ‘I don’t see that it matters so long as she can still walk and trot. I mean, who wants to gallop, anyway?’
She agreed with me, though, that it was terrible for such a big, beautiful horse to be so handicapped and that Motormouth was unspeakably loathsome. I said that I wouldn’t mind quite so much if by pensioned off she meant Rosie being allowed to live out the rest of her days in a big grassy field with lots of other horses for company.
‘But I have this feeling –’ I said it darkly – ‘that she meant something quite different.’
Katy looked alarmed. ‘Like what?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t want to think about it!’
Bethany and Motormouth were waiting for us at the end of the Gallops.
‘Good girl!’ Bethany nodded approval at me. ‘You managed to hold him back. No thanks to you,’ she added, giving the Mouth a bit of a black look. ‘You were supposed to stay at the rear.’
Motormouth said sullenly that Caramel was getting frustrated. ‘She wants to go!’
‘Well, she’s not going to go. You just keep her under control! You knew it was only going to be a gentle hack.’
We turned off the Gallops into Stiles Farm Lane, where Bethany said that we could now do a little bit of cantering.
‘But only if you’re feeling up to it. Katy? You want to give it a go?’
Katy very bravely said okay. As for me, I couldn’t wait!
‘Tara? Just a canter. All right?’
Old Motormouth pulled a face and said she supposed so, but even a canter wasn’t enough to satisfy her. We’d hardly hit the lane before she and Caramel went careering off. Rosie pranced a bit, but Bethany very firmly held her back. I tried to hold Jet, but he was just too strong. He lit out after Caramel as if a whole herd of tigers were behind us. I really thought I was going to come off! Somehow or other I managed to hang on, even though I half slipped out of the saddle and ended up losing the reins and clutching in panic at his mane. It was actually quite frightening, because what if he never stopped? What if he just went hurtling out of the lane and into a stream of traffic? I was never so relieved as when he pulled up, snorting, beside Motormouth and Caramel.
Bethany was absolutely furious. She gave the Mouth this long lecture on BAD MANNERS and LACK OF CONSIDERATION.
‘If Hannah had broken her neck, it would have been all your fault!’
Good little Freya had behaved perfectly, which was just as well as Katy told me afterwards that she would have been terrified.
‘Weren’t you terrified?’ she said. ‘Just a little bit?’
‘No way,’ I told her. ‘It was exciting!’
Well, I didn’t want to put her off. No point admitting I’d nearly had a heart attack!
When we got back to the stables we put our ponies away and removed their tack (another new word – the horsey term for the saddle and bridle), then gave them their carrots, kissed them goodbye and rushed off to say hello to Rosie. Although we loved Jet and Freya, Rosie was our favourite. She was everyone’s favourite! A great big spoilt darling.
‘And so she ought to be,’ said Katy.
She was so kind, and sweet, and gentle. One time when I was helping muck out (cleaning her stable!) she went and stood on my foot with one of her great slab-like hooves. Some horses, if they do that, will just go on standing there while your foot slowly c-r-u-n-c-h-e-s beneath their weight. Really painful! You have to shove at them to get them off. But Rosie realised immediately what she’d done. I didn’t even have to yell. I just made this little ‘oof!’ sound, but she’d already lifted her hoof and moved it away. And she never, ever bit or kicked or tried to crush you against the side of the stall, which is what some horses can do if they’re feeling a bit mean. We always went to say goodbye to her and give her something special, like a nice juicy apple.
Bethany was still with her. She’d hung her saddle over the door and was rubbing her down.
‘Why is she all wet?’ asked Katy.
Bethany said that she’d sweated a bit. ‘It’s not good to leave them like that.’
‘The others didn’t sweat,’ I said. It wasn’t a specially warm day and the ride – which Motormouth was still muttering about – had only been a beginners’ one, not a mad dash about the countryside. ‘Is it because of her lungs?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Bethany blew softly up Rosie’s nostrils. She had told us that horses like you to do that; it was a way of communicating with them. Sometimes they blew back, lovely soft horsey breath smelling of grass and hay. ‘You have to be taken care of, don’t you, my big gentle girl?’
‘But so long as she’s looked after –’ Katy said it anxiously – ‘she’ll be all right?’
‘Well … yes.’ Bethany didn’t sound terribly certain.
‘She won’t get any worse?’ I said.
‘Not if she’s treated properly. She really needs to retire. She needs to live in a meadow! She shouldn’t have to go on working. She’s been through such a lot! Can you imagine how it must feel to be a horse, shut up in a box, with fire raging all about you? It must have been absolutely terrifying for her.’
Katy stroked Rosie’s neck. I reached up and put my finger in her big rubbery lip and wobbled it about. For some reason she seemed to enjoy it when I did that.
‘What will happen to her?’ said Katy.
‘I don’t know.’ Bethany snatched the saddle off the top of the door. ‘Don’t ask me. I don’t want to think about it!’
That was all she would say. She wouldn’t talk to us any more.
Worriedly we walked across to the caravan, which was where Mrs Foster had her office, to pay for our ride. I suppose we could have asked Mrs Foster what was going to happen to Rosie, but she was such a cold, unwelcoming sort of person that we didn’t like to. It was Motormouth who told us. She came running out to join us as we went to fetch our bikes.
‘Bethany doesn’t like talking about Rosie. It upsets her.’