Black Beauty

by Spike Milligan

  ‘Hold hard,’ said Joe, ‘don’t go on flogging the horses like that; the wheels are so stuck that they cannot move the cart.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ said the carter, taking no heed. He went on lashing.

  ‘Stop! Pray stop,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll help you to lighten the cart.’

  ‘Mind your own business, you impudent little bastard,’ and the next moment, we were going at a round gallop towards the house of the master brickmaker.

  The house stood close by the roadside. Joe knocked at the door. The door was opened, and Mr Clay himself came out.

  ‘Hulloa! Young man!’

  ‘Mr Clay, there’s a fellow in your brickyard flogging two horses to death. I told him to stop and he said “Fuck off.’ I have come to tell you; pray, sir, go.’

  ‘Thank ye, my lad,’ said the man, running in for his hat. Then, pausing for a moment, ‘Will you give evidence of what you saw if I should bring the fellow up before a magistrate?’

  ‘That I will,’ said Joe, but the man was gone, and we were on our way home at a smart trot.

  ‘Why, what’s the matter with you, Joe? You look angry all over,’ said John, as the boy flung himself from the saddle and fell into the water trough.

  ‘I am angry all over.’

  ‘And wet as well,’ said John.

  Our master, being one of the county magistrates, often had cases brought to him to settle, or to say what should be done. It was the men’s dinner hour, but when Joe next came into the stable, he gave me a good-natured slap and said, ‘We won’t see such things done, will we, old fellow?’ We heard afterwards that, because he had given his evidence so clearly, and because the horses were in such an exhausted state (they were in hospital on a drip, bearing the marks of such brutal usage), the carter was sentenced to be thrown from Beachy Head for three months.

  21

  THE PARTING

  Everyone came to say good-bye

  The queue reached as far as Rye

  It even reached Bexhill

  Where everybody’s always ill

  Queen Victoria was in the queue

  Her driver was an old Jew

  Hadn’t any money

  But was very, very funny

  Merry was given to the Vicar, that was his lot

  On the understanding, when he was no longer useful

  He was to be shot.

  We heard from time to time that our mistress was ill. The doctor was often at the house, and making a fortune. The master looked grave and anxious because he was paying. Then we heard that she must leave her home at once, and go to a warm country for two or three years, and preferably die out there. The news fell on the household like the tolling of a death-bell. Some fell on the cook, striking her on the swannicles and some fell on the footman, rendering him unconscious for life.

  The first of the party who went were Miss Jessie and Miss Flora. They came to bid us good-bye. They hugged poor Merrylegs like an old friend. Then we heard what had been arranged for us. Master had sold Ginger and me to his old friend, the Earl of Womble, for he thought we should have a good place there. Merrylegs was given to the Vicar — who baptised him into the Church of England faith — but it was on the condition that he should never be sold, and that when he was past work, he should be shot and buried. There was gratitude for you!

  Joe was engaged to take care of him and to help in the house, so I thought that Merrylegs would do the washing up and the ironing.

  The master was departing. ‘Good-bye again,’ he said, ‘we shall not forget any of you,’ and he got in to the carriage saying, ‘Drive on, John.’ Immediately he forgot them all.

  The mistress walked from the carriage to the waiting room at the railway station. I heard her say in her own sweet voice, ‘That clumsy, bloody husband.’ Pretty soon the train came puffing up to the station, and guards were busy throwing passengers off. The doors were slammed, the guard whistled, and the train glided away.

  When it was out of sight, John said, ‘We shall never see her again — never. Nobody who goes to Calcutta ever comes back.’ Slowly, he drove home. It wasn’t our home now; it belonged to the Bradford & Bingley.

  22

  EARLSHALL

  Oh, dear, Ginger and I are going to a new master

  We fear it might be a disaster

  Would he be kind or cruel?

  Or would he be a bloody old fool?

  He was twenty stone, alas and alack

  When he sat on a horse you could hear its spine crack

  He knew John Brown, the Queen’s ghillie

  Who wore a kilt to hide a huge willy

  He had once seen the Queen

  She didn’t see him but she saw where he had been.

  The next morning, after breakfast, Joe put Merrylegs into the mistress’s low chaise to take him to the vicarage; how he enjoyed sitting in the chaise. He came first (I forget who came second), and said good-bye to us, and Merrylegs neighed to us from the yard, and a lot of bloody good it did. Then John put the saddle on Ginger and the leading rein on me, and rode us across to Earlshall Park, where the Earl of Womble lived.

  There was a very fine house with a very fine ‘For Sale’ sign on it. It had a great deal of stabling, all with a ‘To Let’ sign on them. We entered the yard through a stone gateway, and John asked for Mr York. It was some time before he came — a year. He was a fine-looking, middle-aged man with the arse out of his trousers, and his voice said at once that he expected to be obeyed. ‘Attention! Stand at ease!’ he said. He was very friendly and polite to John. After giving us a slight look, he called a groom to take us to our boxes, and invited John to take some refreshment — a sausage and a glass of water.

  We were taken to a light airy stable (mainly because it had no roof on it), and placed in boxes adjoining each other, where we were rubbed down and fed. In about half-an-hour, John and Mr York, who was to be our new coachman, came in to see us.

  ‘Now, Mr Manly,’ he said, ‘Stand at ease! Attention! Slope arms! I can see no fault in these horses, but we all know that horses have their peculiarities as well as men, and that sometimes they need different treatment; I should like to know if there is anything particular in either of these that you would like to mention.’

  ‘Well,’ said John, ‘I do not believe there is a better pair of horses in the country. They occasionally like a banana frappe with a glass of brandy. But the chestnut, I fancy, must have had bad treatment; for three years I have never seen the smallest sign of temper, but he is naturally of a more irritable constitution than the black horse. Flies tease him more, tigers terrify him; anything wrong in the harness frets him more; and if he is ill-used or unfairly treated, that means a kick in the balls and biting your nose.’

  They were going out of the stable when John stopped and said, ‘I had better mention that we have never used the bearing rein.’

  ‘Fuck them,’ said York, ‘if they come here, they must wear the bearing rein.’

  ‘I am sorry for it, very sorry,’ said John, ‘but I must go now, or I shall lose the train.’ He has never been seen since.

  The next day, Lord Womble came to look at us; he seemed pleased with our appearance, but we could not say the same for him with his arse out of his trousers.

  ‘I have great confidence in these horses,’ he said, ‘from the character my friend, Mr Gordon, has given me of them. Of course, they are not a match in colour, but my idea is that they will do very well for the carriage whilst we are in the country. Before we go to London I must try to match Baron. The black horse, I believe, is perfect for riding.’

  York then told him what John had said about us. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘you must keep an eye to the one who knocks you on the balls, and put the bearing rein easy, otherwise your balls are for it. I dare say they will do well with a little humouring at first. Frightened of tigers, eh? He likes a bubble bath.’

  In the afternoon, we were harnessed and put in the carriage, and as the stable clock struck three, we were led round to the fro
nt of the house. Two footmen were standing ready, dressed in drab livery, with scarlet breeches and white stockings. Presently, we heard the rustling sound of silk as my lady came down the flight of stone steps. She fell all the way from the top to the bottom. She stepped round to look at us. She was a tall, proud-looking woman with a face like a dog’s bum with a hat on, and did not seem pleased about something, but she said nothing, and got into the carriage.

  This was the first time of wearing a bearing rein, and I must say, though it certainly was a nuisance not to be able to get my head down now and then, it did not pull my head higher than I was accustomed to carrying it. I felt anxious about Ginger, but he seemed to be quiet and content.

  The next day, at three o’clock, we were again at the door, and the footmen were as before; we heard the silk dress rustle, and the lady fell down the steps from top to bottom, and in an imperious voice she said, ‘York, you must put those horses’ heads higher.’

  York bent down and said, ‘I beg your pardon, my lady, but these horses have not been reined up for three years, and my lord said it would be safer to bring them to it by degrees; but if your ladyship pleases, I can take them up a little more.’

  ‘Do so,’ she said.

  Day by day, hole by hole, our bearing reins were shortened, until I was permanently looking up. Ginger too seemed restless, though he said very little. But the worst was yet to come.

  23

  A STRIKE FOR LIBERTY

  My lady said, ‘Are you never going to get those horses heads up, I say?’

  My head was drawn back till it was facing the other way

  When they tried it on Ginger

  His groom for he did to injure

  He kicked the carriage to bits

  It gave the terrified passenger the shits

  They never put on the tight rein again

  The weather forecast was for rain.

  One day, my lady fell down the stairs later than usual and the silk rustled more than ever.

  ‘Drive to the Duchess’s,’ she said. ‘Are you never going to get those horses’ heads up, York? Raise them at once, prop them up with a stick.’

  York came to me first, whilst the groom stood at Ginger’s head. He drew my head back until it was facing the other way, and fixed the rein so tight that it was almost intolerable. Then he went to Ginger, who was impatiently jerking his head up and down against the bit, as was his way now. He had a good idea of what was coming, and the moment York took the rein off the terret in order to shorten it, he took this opportunity, and reared up so suddenly that York had his nose roughly hit, and his hat knocked off; the groom was thrown off his legs. At once, they both flew to his head, but he was a match for them, and went on plunging, rearing, and kicking in a most desperate manner; at last, he kicked right over the carriage pole and fell down, after giving me a severe blow on my near quarter. There is no knowing what further mischief he might have done, had not York promptly sat himself down flat on his head.

  ‘Unbuckle the black horse! Cut the trace here, somebody, if you can’t unhitch it.’

  One of the footmen ran for the winch, and another brought a knife from the house. The groom soon set me free from Ginger and the carriage, and led me to my box.

  Ginger, the bugger, was led away by two grooms, a good deal knocked about and bruised. York went with him and gave his orders, and then came back to look at me. In a moment, he let down my head.

  ‘Well, old chap,’ York said, ‘you have taken a real beating.’

  He felt me all over, and soon found the place above my hock where I had been kicked. It was swollen and painful, and he ordered it to be sponged with hot water. A lot of bloody good that did.

  His lordship was much put out when he learned what had happened. He blamed York for giving way to his mistress, to which he replied that in future he would much prefer his lordship to tell her, but I think nothing came of it because things went on the same as before, except the mistress split his lordship’s head with an iron bar.

  Ginger was never put in the carriage again. One of the lordship’s younger sons said he would like to have him and make him a good hunter. As for me, I was obliged still to go in the carriage and had a fresh partner called Max; he had always been used to the tight rein. I asked him how it was he bore it.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I bear it because I bloody well have to, but it is shortening my life, and it will shorten yours too, if you have to stick to it.’

  ‘Do you think,’ I asked, ‘that our masters know how bad it is for us?’

  ‘I can’t say,’ he replied, so he did not say.

  What I suffered with that rein for four long months in my lady’s carriage! Before that, I never knew what it was to foam at the mouth, but now people saw it and shouted, ‘rabies!’ We did have a stable boy who foamed at the mouth; he had rabies and they shot him.

  24

  THE LADY ANNE

  I became the favourite of Lady Anne

  She was built like a brick shit house with a face like a man

  She got me out, each freezing dawn

  And I wished to Christ I’d never been born

  But now of course

  I was pissed off being a horse

  Why wasn’t I born a cheetah

  Then I could eat her.

  The Lady Harriet, who remained at the Hall, was a great invalid; she became an official invalid and never went out in the carriage, only on a stretcher. Lady Anne preferred riding horseback with her brother, or cousins. They were, in fact, all a collection of louts. She chose me for her brother and cousins, and named me Black Auster. I enjoyed these rides very much in the clear cold air, sometimes with Ginger, sometimes with Lizzie. This Lizzie was a bright bay mare, almost thoroughbred, and a great favourite with the gentlemen on account of her fine action and lively spirit.

  There was a gentleman by the name of Blantyre staying at the Hall who always rode Lizzie and fucked Lady Anne and praised her so much that one day, Lady Anne ordered the side saddle to be put on and Lord Blantyre mounted, and slid off.

  ‘Let me advise you not to mount her,’ he said, ‘she is a charming creature, but she’s too nervous for a lady.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lady Anne, ‘I have been a horsewoman ever since I was a baby.’

  ‘No more,’ he said.

  He placed her carefully on the saddle and gave the reins gently into her hands, then mounted me. Just as we were moving off, a footman came out with a foot and a slip of paper and a message from the Lady Harriet — ‘Would they ask this question for her at Dr Ashley’s and bring the answer?’

  The village was about a mile off, and the doctor’s house was the last one in it. We went along gaily till we came to his gate. Blantyre alighted at the gate, and was going to open it for Lady Anne, but she said, ‘I will wait for you here, and you can hang Auster’s rein on the gate.’ He hung my rein on one of the iron spikes, and was soon hidden amongst the trees. My young mistress was sitting easily, humming a little song:

  ‘I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts, see them all standing in a row, big ones, small ones, someone’s been in your head.’

  Suddenly, a huntsman in the field discharged a gun. The horse gave a violent kick and dashed off in a headlong gallop. Blantyre came running to the gate; in an instant he sprang into the saddle, and fell off the other side.

  For about a mile and a half we galloped, then we saw a woman standing at her garden gate, shading her eyes with her hand. Scarcely drawing the rein, Blantyre shouted, ‘Which way?’

  ‘To the right,’ she shouted pointing with her banana, and away we went. An old road-mender was standing near a heap of stones — his shovel dropped, and his hands raised. He mistook my master for a highwayman, and master took advantage of it to remove his wallet.

  He chased after my lady and I prayed her horse would fall and Lady Anne would be killed or, if not, terribly injured. To my delight, we found that she had, indeed, been thrown. The young mistress lay motionless, please God she was dead.
The groom came to help Lady Anne.

  ‘I’ll never ride that fucking horse again,’ she said, and fell back.

  ‘Annie, dear Annie, do speak!’ said Blantyre.

  The fool, people can’t speak when they’re unconscious. He unbuttoned her habit, loosened her collar, and felt her tits.

  Two men cutting turf came running. The foremost man seemed much troubled at the sight and asked what he could do.

  ‘Well,’ said Blantyre, ‘you can feel her tits before she becomes conscious.’

  ‘Well, sir, I bean’t much of a horseman, but I’d risk my neck for the Lady Anne. She was uncommon good to my wife in the winter and lent us her tomato sauce.’

  ‘Then mind my horse, call the doctor and alert the house.’

  ‘All right, sir, I’ll do my best, and I pray God the dear young lady will open her eyes soon.’ Then seeing the other man, he called out, ‘Here, Joe, feel her tits before she becomes conscious!’

  He then scrambled into the saddle. I shook him as little as I could help, but once or twice on rough ground he called out, ‘Steady! Woah! Steady! For Christ’s sake, woah!’ On the high road we were all right, and at the doctor’s and the Hall he did his errand like a good man and true. ‘If you hurry, doctor, you can feel her tits before she becomes conscious.’

  The doctor arrived. He poured something into her mouth and it all drained out the other end.

  Two days after the accident, Blantyre paid me a visit; he patted me and praised me and gave me some fish and chips.