Vets in Love

by Cathy Woodman

  Chapter Four

  Horsepower

  ‘ARE YOU SURE you’ve got everything?’ Mum asks as we set out in the lorry early on a Saturday morning in the middle of June.

  ‘Isn’t it your job to check, as unpaid groom?’ I say cheekily.

  I love driving the lorry. I have a great view of the countryside, looking over the hedgerows filled with flowers to the panoramic Devon hills bathed in pale sunlight. We pass a herd of black and white cows grazing in a field. Some are chewing the cud as if pondering the meaning of life.

  ‘I wonder what those cows are thinking about,’ I say. ‘I mean, what do they do all day?’

  ‘Nicci, what an odd thing to say.’

  ‘Well, it is a bit of a mystery, isn’t it?’ I look briefly at my mother’s face. Her eyes are downcast, her lips compressed into a thin straight line, and I know what – or who – she’s thinking about. My mother, Kathryn, is resilient and usually quietly content with life. She used to event herself until she got married and had a family. She makes an excellent groom, and is also one of those annoying people who manage to stay clean and tidy when they’re working around horses. She’s been plaiting Willow’s mane and loading the lorry, yet she looks immaculate in an ice-blue top, navy waistcoat and cream casual trousers.

  ‘Everything’s a bit of a mystery to me at the moment,’ she goes on. ‘Have you managed to get in contact with your sister recently?’ I notice how she refuses to refer to Cheska as her daughter. When I don’t respond, she continues, ‘I understand you don’t want to tell me, but I need to know that my grandchildren are safe, even if …’ her voice fades then returns, ‘… I can’t see them.’

  ‘I spoke to her on the phone a while ago – I did tell you.’

  ‘Have you given her money again?’

  ‘It’s a loan – she’s going to pay me back.’

  ‘You’ll be telling me that pigs can fly next,’ Mum says scathingly. ‘Oh, slow down, darling,’ she exclaims, grabbing the edge of her seat as the lorry swings into a zigzag bend.

  ‘I am going slowly.’ I drive as if I have a dozen eggs loose on a tray in the back of the lorry with Willow. I did that for real once and I didn’t crack a single egg, but Mum’s comment and the thought of the competition ahead unnerves me. I have butterflies doing the salsa in my stomach.

  ‘How is the lonely farmer?’ I ask. ‘What’s he like? You haven’t really gone into detail.’

  ‘He’s what you’d describe as an old man.’ She laughs. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to know every wrinkle.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘A few years older than me …’

  ‘How much older?’

  ‘Fourteen years.’

  ‘Fourteen?’ I say, appalled.

  ‘Really, Nicci, fourteen years might seem like a huge gap to you, but to me it’s nothing. Age is just a number.’

  ‘But that makes him seventy.’

  ‘He’s very fit,’ Mum says, her voice bubbling with happiness and humour. ‘He has his own teeth and his own hair, and to be honest, I’d almost got to the point where all I was asking for was a man with a pulse. He’s lovely and I hope one day I’ll introduce him to you.’ Mum changes the subject. ‘Would you like me to run through the test with you?’

  She’s referring to the dressage test, but it’s already etched in my mind. I glance at the side-view mirror, catching sight of a line of traffic, at least six cars, a caravan and behind that – I can see it as we start to climb the long Devon hill – a big red tractor. I put my foot down to the floor, but the lorry maintains its slow crawl. I can’t believe I’m actually holding up an agricultural vehicle.

  We arrive eventually and park in the field allocated as the lorry park at the end of the second row of horseboxes and trailers. I switch off the engine and take a few slow breaths before getting out and joining my mother, who already has the ramp down at the back and is leading Willow out on her head-collar. She ties her to the baling twine attached to the metal ring at the side of the lorry, tying her short so she can’t snatch at the grass under her feet.

  ‘You sort yourself out while I see to Willow.’ Mum checks her watch. ‘You have about an hour before your test.’

  I start to walk towards the ramp to take a short cut into the living quarters that lie between the stall and the cab when a voice catches my attention.

  ‘Hello, Nicci.’

  ‘Henry?’ I turn to find myself face to face with a black horse’s gleaming shoulder. I look up, shading my eyes. It’s my most recent ex-boyfriend, mounted on his horse, his fingers playing on the reins, his legs long against the horse’s sides. He’s looking incredibly cool in his hat, black dressage coat, white breeches and leather boots, while the horse is sweating already, its veins standing proud of its skin.

  ‘How are you?’ Henry leans down and runs his fingers under the girth to check it’s secure.

  ‘I’m well, thank you.’ I was warm, but my blood runs a little cold at the sight of him. ‘And you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m on top form.’ He grins. ‘As always.’

  Arrogant … I refrain from swearing, even under my breath. He just isn’t worth it. No more tears. No more pain. It’s over.

  When I returned to Talyton St George to work at the surgery after my GP training, I went out with Henry. Like Shane, he used to be a member of the Talyton branch of the Pony Club. He was a couple of years older than me and was in all the Pony Club teams: eventing, showjumping and tetrathlon. He was ambitious even then and had his heart set on becoming an international eventer, which he’s achieved, riding for the British team at the European Eventing Championships on one of his more experienced horses.

  Tall, gangly, blond and blue-eyed, he always had the girls flocking around him. At Pony Club camp, he never mucked out or cleaned his tack or his boots. There was always some willing volunteer to do it for him. But I wasn’t one of them, something he pointed out to me when we met again eighteen months ago, and maybe it was something I should have heeded when he was pursuing me like a huntsman after a fox.

  I went out with him for several wonderful months. We had so much in common with the horses. It was perfect, too good to be true. But soon Henry was off in pursuit of his next prey, his new groom, although I didn’t find out about it until I turned up at his flat one evening to find his new lover spanking him with a horsewhip.

  I wanted to do more than spank him. I was furious, embarrassed and devastated, and in spite of his attempts to dismiss it as an isolated incident, a moment of weakness, I drove away, blocked his number on my mobile and refused to see him again.

  I can hear the ripping sound of Velcro being pulled apart as Mum removes Willow’s travel boots.

  ‘How about catching up sometime, Nicci?’ Henry says. ‘For old times’ sake?’

  ‘In your dreams, Henry,’ I say sharply.

  ‘You could make my dreams a reality,’ he wheedles. ‘Come on. You’re so bloody serious. What’s wrong with having a bit of fun?’

  Because it wasn’t a bit of fun for me, I want to say, but I know it isn’t worth it. Henry will never understand.

  ‘Are you attached, or something?’ he says, his expression still hopeful.

  ‘Well, yes, I am actually,’ I say quickly, grabbing the opportunity to put him off.

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘I’m not saying because it’s none of your business, but I do have a boyfriend. I have done for a while,’ I elaborate. ‘Did you really think I’d sit around moping over you for the rest of my life?’

  ‘Go on. Who is it?’ Henry persists. ‘You know I won’t believe you if you don’t tell me. Is it one of your doctor friends?’

  ‘If you must know,’ I say stiffly, ‘it’s Matt Warren.’ I’m not sure what’s come over me. I wouldn’t normally dream of making something like that up, but then Matt has hinted that he likes me.

  ‘Matt, the vet?’

  ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Surprised.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘He’s kept
that one quiet.’

  I keep my mouth firmly shut as Henry continues, ‘I’d better get on and warm up. This is one of my novices. What do you think?’

  ‘He’s a good-looking sort.’

  ‘I see you’re still flogging a dead horse.’ Henry looks towards Willow. ‘You really need something bigger and with more scope.’

  ‘She does a good test.’

  ‘But she’s inconsistent jumping. You can’t make a horse more careful.’

  ‘I’m not going to give up on her.’

  ‘You should have a couple of youngsters coming along behind.’

  ‘If wishes were horses …’

  ‘Good luck.’ Henry turns his horse on a sixpence. ‘You’re going to need it,’ he adds over his shoulder as they walk away.

  ‘I never did like that boy,’ Mum says when I start stripping off my sweatshirt and waterproof trousers to reveal my shirt and jodhs.

  ‘He’s hardly a boy any more.’ I grin at her. ‘You thought he was amazing when we were going out together.’

  ‘Did I? I don’t remember,’ she says, but I’m sure she does. ‘Hurry up, Nicci. Just make sure you beat him today. It would give me great pleasure.’

  Although I’m happy to go along with dissing Henry for his behaviour, I’m not stupid. I did play a part in the demise of our relationship. When I look back, it was all a bit too convenient, everything falling into place when I started working in Talyton. I was single. Henry was available. It seemed as if it was meant to be, and although I was heartbroken for a while after his betrayal, I sensed that I was never as committed as I could have been. I thought I loved him, but on reflection, I didn’t love him enough.

  Dismissing thoughts of Henry, I fasten my stock around my neck, keeping it in place with my lucky pin, and pull on my jacket. I tie my hair back and tuck it inside a hairnet before putting my hat on and slipping into my leather boots. I fasten my gloves at the wrists, pick up my long dressage whip, adjust Willow’s bridle after Mum’s tacked her up, and we’re ready to go.

  I lead Willow up alongside the ramp so I can jump on and walk her down to the warm-up area.

  ‘I’ll catch up with you in a minute,’ Mum calls after me, and I wave back as I ride to the top of the hill.

  Although it’s a warm day there’s a breeze at the top of the escarpment where the ground falls steeply down to the valley covered in scrub and gorse. There are a few stands of tough firs and a tumbledown stone building, marking the highest point where the locals used to light beacons. The views stretch to the sea in the far south, and to rolling green hills to the north.

  I give myself a mental nudge to concentrate on Willow rather than my surroundings, but it doesn’t have any effect at first. I’m aware of other riders cantering past me and the crackle of loudspeaker announcements attenuated by the wind. There’s a tack stall, a stand advertising Devon dairy ice cream and a hotdog and burger van emitting the scent of fried onions, which contributes to the nausea I’m feeling at the thought of entering the main dressage arena with its sand and rubber surface, the gleaming white marker boards around the perimeter and the judges’ box at the end.

  As I gradually ease Willow into trot and then canter on both reins, I forget about everything. It’s just me and the horse, working in harmony. The nerves disappear and the test crystallises in my head, and when the steward calls me over to the arena, I’m ready.

  I enter at a trot, straight up the centre line. The test flows, each movement leading into the next, and at the end, when I salute the judge, my throat tight with love and pride for my horse. I know we couldn’t have done any better.

  Mum is in the warm-up area, waiting with Willow’s cooler, which she throws up over her back.

  ‘That was fantastic,’ she says, giving Willow a mint.

  ‘She was brilliant, wasn’t she?’ I couldn’t be more pleased.

  As I take Willow back to the lorry for a break until the showjumping phase, I keep an eye out for Matt. I don’t like to admit it but I’m slightly disappointed when I don’t see him.

  With a change of jacket, hat and tack, I’m ready for the jumping phase. Mum swaps our dressage saddle for the jumping one, and leads Willow around for me while I walk the course with my fellow competitors. Henry is there, but I keep my distance, concentrating on the route I’m planning to take and how to make the most of the corners to ensure Willow stays at a balanced and controlled canter while not lingering anywhere because the time allowed is tight. Shane and I walked the cross-country course yesterday, but the jumps in the arena weren’t set up. It’s a fair course, except for the treble, a row of three fences, related by one and two strides between them, and I wish I had him walking with me again, not so much for advice as for moral support.

  I rejoin Mum and she gives me a leg-up. I adjust my stirrups and Willow and I are off again, warming up in the collecting ring over an upright fence and a small spread. I don’t jump too big before my round because, as Henry kindly observed, Willow isn’t the most reliable showjumper. If I push her now, she’ll decide she’s done enough and will put less effort into her jumping when we’re in the ring. I could wear spurs like Henry and let her know who’s boss, except that for Willow the saying ‘You can tell a gelding, but you have to ask a mare’ holds true.

  I have a view of the main jumping arena, where Henry is first to go with his black horse, Karizma. Willow and I walk around, keeping half an eye on how he approaches each jump. It’s useful watching another competitor – you can get a sense of where the problems are on the course – and Henry jumps it perfectly and within the time. He makes it look easy.

  I stroke Willow’s neck and give her a pep talk as Mum comes walking over to give me the news that I’m in the lead after the dressage and Henry is second.

  ‘No pressure then,’ I say with a nervous smile.

  Within twenty minutes, we’re in the arena, cantering down to the first fence, a plain rustic upright that Willow clears with ease. I keep the canter steady, although she’s fighting for her head, wanting to go faster and fly them like a steeplechaser, which is not good because she’ll flatten out and take the poles with her.

  ‘Steady,’ I murmur. ‘Steady.’

  We jump the next four with a good rhythm, then turn away from the entrance to the collecting ring to face a double spread of blue and white poles gleaming in the sunshine. Willow’s ears flick back and she slows the pace, knowing very well she’s close to the exit, but I’m ready for her, giving her a good nudge with my heels to send her forwards to the next fence, another spread with a spooky filler painted with tiger’s eyes. Willow doesn’t hesitate, flying that one and extending nicely for the water jump. And now it’s the penultimate obstacle, the tricky treble. I’d like to take a pull to steady her up, but I’m aware that time is ticking away and every tenth of a second counts.

  Willow flies the first element, takes one stride, flies the next and takes two short strides to the third. I hear the rap of her hooves against the back pole when we’re suspended in the air, and I’m listening for the sound of the pole hitting the ground as we canter away, knowing that our chance of a placing let alone a win could be over.

  But it doesn’t fall and I can focus on the last obstacle, another spread. I feel Willow lifting herself into the air, tucking her forelegs under her chest and arching her back to make the height before she stretches across the parallel bars and lands well beyond as I push her on through the finish.

  Clear! We’re clear! I lean forwards, patting Willow’s neck as she steadies her pace. I can’t believe it. We’ve been close before, but not so close that I can almost smell victory.

  ‘And that’s a clear round within the time allowed, so no penalties to add to the dressage score for Nicci Chieveley and Willow, keeping them in the lead just ahead of Henry Belton-Smith and Karizma,’ the commentator says over the loudspeakers.

  I let Willow canter a half circle before bringing her back to a trot.

  ‘That was fabulous,’ Mum says, meeting u
s in the collecting ring. ‘Whatever she’s on, I’m having some of it.’

  ‘There’s no magic ingredient,’ I say, smiling as I catch my breath and thanking Shane inwardly for making me go to the gym for a couple of sessions on the cross-trainer.

  Willow doesn’t care. All she’s interested in is nudging Mum’s pockets for another mint.

  ‘Hi, Nicci. I caught the end of your round,’ Matt says, strolling up to join us. ‘I’m impressed.’ He’s dressed in a short-sleeved check shirt and chinos, and there’s no sign of a sling.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say a little awkwardly.

  ‘I haven’t had too much to do as yet. I’ve sent two horses home, one with a nosebleed and one that came off the box lame.’ He smiles broadly.

  The heat from the sun burns into my back and my hair is damp and sticky under my hat.

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ Mum says, hovering. I can see her eyeing him up, and I think please, please, please, don’t say anything embarrassing.

  ‘This is Matt, the vet. Matt, this is Kathryn, my mother.’

  ‘And groom,’ Mum adds.

  ‘That as well,’ I say cheerfully. ‘I couldn’t do it without her.’

  ‘We’d better be moving on,’ she says. ‘Willow needs to cool down before the cross-country.’

  ‘Ah, I won’t be watching that.’ Matt looks at me through narrowed eyes, his mood more serious now. ‘As I said before, I don’t understand you horse people. You’ll break your neck one of these days.’

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic, I’ve been on horses since I was three.’

  ‘Doesn’t it ever worry you?’

  ‘It doesn’t.’ At least it didn’t, until he mentioned it. ‘If I thought I was going to fall off every time, I wouldn’t entertain it.’ I imagine Shane speaking to me, ‘Stay positive, VB’, and it helps.

  ‘Good luck,’ Matt says. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’ Mum asks, watching him walk away towards the marquee, where the organisers are calling for the last of the jump judges to make their way to their positions on the cross-country course.