Dandelion: The Extraordinary Life of a Misfit

by Sheelagh Mawe

  “Get off the horse!” he ordered. “And give me a leg up.”

  “But, sir. Your leg...”

  “Never mind my bloody leg! It's my concern, not yours. I can show you what I mean just as well with one as two. This horse has more to give than you know how to take.”

  Thrilled at those words was Dandelion, knowing her chance to have come at last and knowing herself ready for the challenge.

  The devil of a time Mark had of it getting that wooden leg of his across the saddle, but he couldn't give up, could he? Not with his angry words still ringing in everyone's ears and Lord Harrington, mouth agape, watching from the driveway.

  Once on Dandelion's back, he gave no hint of the tumult going on inside him, acting as if he rode and trained horses every day of the week and had all his limbs intact besides. But Dandelion knew his fear, his doubt in his ability to stay in the saddle and live up to his hasty remarks. She felt it in his hands on the reins and in the tension in his body. She knew, too, that while he didn't trust himself, he had no choice but to trust her. So she carried him smoothly, flawlessly, as though carrying crystal goblets on her back. And she obeyed his commands as though they had worked together through a hundred lifetimes.

  “...so you see what it is I mean now, don't you?” Mark asked as Dandelion brought him to a smooth halt beside the gaping groom. He spoke in a casual enough manner, but Dandelion knew his face to be tormented with smiles.

  “Indeed and I do, sir. It's clear to me now. And tomorrow, when me times me own, I'll be back. A fine horse we'll be making of this Dandelion.”

  “No need,” Mark said airily. “Tomorrow I'll work with her myself.”

  Mark paid the widow McCree two pounds sterling for Dandelion and her thinking herself on the winning end of a bargain!

  “A small price to pay for my sanity,” Mark would say later, not seeing Dandelion as a possession at all, but rather as an antidote to pain and as necessary to his well-being as he was to hers.

  SEVENTEEN

  And so they began, a lame man and a mongrel horse, to fashion for themselves a place in the world.

  Not that they made a success of it overnight. Far from it. There was teaching and learning to be given and taken on both sides. Battles of will to be won and lost. Abilities to be gauged and worked with, and strengths and weaknesses to be defined.

  They were two novices. One putting himself back together without the benefit of a Timothy. The other, untrained, blundering, but filled with such an eager willingness to learn that she pushed Mark to accomplish things he had never thought to do again.

  It was a time of sweat and frustration. And a time of joy and achievement in seeing a dream become a reality.

  There were hours and days when it was Dandelion, not understanding what Mark wanted of her, that stretched his patience beyond the breaking point. Other times it was him, struggling with the dual handicap of a missing limb and a lack of confidence, that had Dandelion at the end of her wits, nudging and cajoling, pestering, until he put a saddle on her back and tried one more time.

  They came a long way that summer, the two of them. The runaway became a sleek, perfectly schooled mount; the cripple, a horseman again, his bitterness forgotten, his spirit healed. People forgot that Dandelion had ever been McCree's runt and thought of her only as Mark's horse.

  In no time at all Dandelion earned a stable of her own, her name in brass above its door, and a groom to see to her every need. Under his brushes her coat acquired a sleek gloss that would have blinded McCree, and her mane and tail were untangled and trimmed so they flowed like fine silk. She saw the last of her hand-me-down harness with the arrival of her own saddle and bridle from Dublin, and she was enchanted at the clatter she made stamping about the cobblestone yard in her new-forged shoes.

  Oh, but it was grand to be pampered and respected! To kick at her stable door along with the rest of them and have her shrill demands attended to on the double. Just so she was fed, her diet overseen by the veterinarian. And just so she was watered, never being allowed to drink her fill after exercise until her body had cooled. And just so her life would have continued, in ease and luxury, had she not become bored and dissatisfied, even though she knew this made her appear ungrateful.

  But not nearly enough of a life was it for her to be on the sidelines of the rarefied world of racing that swirled about her yet did not take her in. Not satisfying enough, either, were the morning lessons, which only polished what she already knew, nor the long treks through the countryside in the afternoons. She felt herself only half alive. She wanted to be a leading lady, not a bit player, or worse, a pet.

  After all, in the grand plan she had so carefully imagined in the valley, she had seen herself living in a manner that challenged her every thought, her every ability, and she was impatient for that part of her dream to begin.

  In Mark, too, there was a growing restlessness, a need to leave behind the comfort and ease of his uncle's estate and find for himself a place in the post-war world. He was far too young to live without a challenge or a purpose. And yet, what could he do?

  Moodily, he considered possibilities. He would work for his uncle... He would start a business of his own... He would take a desk job with the war office... He would teach riding... He would open an Inn...

  And moodily, he rejected them all knowing none of them would give him what he missed most from his military days: the camaraderie, the competition, the travel, the horses, the discipline.

  “I'll go mad if I stay here much longer,” he told Dandelion on one of their afternoon rides. “There has to be something out there for me. But what? Where?”

  Dandelion was uneasy at his words. What was to become of her if he found what he was looking for? Would he leave her behind? Angrily she pushed these fears out of her mind remembering Tim's words, “...worry is a thought just like all others and you will get what you think about.” She couldn't afford to think such things. She'd come too far. Resolutely, she put back in her mind, the image of herself with Mark, both of them challenged and excited by the life they led. But what was that life to be? If only she knew more of the ways of the world.

  And then one day, by what she knew better than to call a coincidence, the direction for their future came to find them.

  It happened that a friend from Mark's old regiment was in the district and came to see him. Mark took him out to the stables to show him Dandelion.

  “What an extraordinary looking animal,” the friend, David, said trying to hide a smile. “What on earth breed is it?”

  “It is an extraordinary animal,” Mark said coolly, ignoring the question. “Ride her. You'll see.”

  “My dear chap,” David said hastily, “I wouldn't dream...”

  “Oh, but you must,” Mark said, quickly strapping on Dandelion's bridle and saddle and leading her out of the stable, “I insist. She's a wonderful ride.”

  Reluctantly David mounted and rode Dandelion out to the paddock where he half-heartedly put her through her paces. “Very nice,” he said bringing Dandelion back to the gate where Mark waited. “You've schooled her well. She responds beautifully.” He dismounted.

  “Oh, come off it!” Mark said. “You haven't seen the half of it. A riding school hack could do what you just put her through. She can do much more than that. Here, I'll show you,” and he swung into the saddle.

  “I believe you, old chap” David said. “There's really no need for an exhibition. And, I say, it is a bit chilly out here...”

  But Mark wasn't listening. It annoyed him that the hard work he and Dandelion had put in, the only work he had been capable of doing for so many months, should be taken so lightly.

  Sensing Mark's determination to show not only what an outstanding mount he had made of her, but also how well he had overcome his missing leg, Dandelion was on her mettle, all her attention focused on his every command, and for over half an hour they went through their most daring and complex exercises.

  David clapped as they finished
with a flourish beside him.

  “You were right!” he enthused. “My God! She's brilliant! And who would ever think it, looking at her. I mean, she is...” he faltered seeing Mark's smile turn to a scowl. “I mean, well... one wouldn't expect so much talent in such a... uh...”

  “Never mind what she looks like,” Mark said crossly, “it's what she can do that matters.”

  “You're quite right,” David said, “And there's a lesson in that for all of us. I'm sorry. Anyway, I was just thinking, I know a chap who'd buy her in a minute if I brought him out here and you showed him what she can do.”

  Dandelion's heart almost stopped beating at those words. But only for a moment. Mark's reply was exactly what she would have liked to say herself.

  “She's not for sale,” he said, his voice so cold and hard Dandelion hardly recognized it. “But,” his tone lightened, “out of curiosity, what would this chap of yours want with her?

  “Well, actually, he's scouting for polo ponies. Wants only the best. Willing to pay top price. Big demand for them now the war's over, you know. I should think with her intelligence you could have her trained in a fortnight or so. Why don't I have the chap come by and take a look at her, just in case you change your mind?”

  But Mark wasn't listening. At the word polo his eyes had narrowed. “Polo,” he muttered. “My God, of course. Polo!” He smacked his forehead. “Why didn't I think of that? All this time puttering around here wondering what on earth to do next and the answer's been staring me in the face. It's so obvious. She's perfect for it. It's the very thing for her. For both of us. I could... That is, we could... And as for my leg... Well, what of it? With Dandelion to see me through, no one need ever know. It's brilliant. The very thing!”

  “I'll have the chap get in touch then, shall I?” David said, “Set up an appointment to come out and have a look at her.”

  “Not bloody likely,” Mark snapped. “I'll train her myself! And I'll ride her myself!”

  “My dear chap, be reasonable,” David said condescendingly, “I mean, I know you've worked wonders with those injuries of yours, but after all... polo? It's grueling. You could never do it. What rotten luck, eh? I mean, you were so awfully good at it. I remember seeing you play before the war...”

  “You're as bad as the rest of them,” Mark exploded. “God, if I'd listened to all of them I'd still be in a wheelchair. And I certainly would have never ridden again. No, tell your chap he'll have to look elsewhere. I've made up my mind. Dandelion and I will do it together. It's settled. Come along now, let's get you in front of a fire. You're turning blue with the cold. We'll have a drink together! Celebrate! I mean, really I can't thank you enough. You've given me the key to my future! And Dandelion's, too! If you only knew how I've been wracking my brains.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  It was as if Mark had opened a magic door to Dandelion the day he first brought out his mallet and began teaching her the intricacies of the game of polo. A door that never closed as long as she lived.

  Seeing her in the thick of a match, many believed that Dandelion was born and raised to the game, so precisely did its requirements match her attributes. For a polo pony has to be large enough to carry a grown man at great speed and yet, at the same time, small enough to turn quickly, handily, without getting in its own way. And what better size than Dandelion?

  And a polo pony needs great wit and spirit of its own, yet an obedient, willing temperament to respond instantly to its rider's commands. And who better than Dandelion with her fine Arab blood and Mark's inspired training?

  And it must have legs of iron to gallop miles of an afternoon on the hard ground of the field. And great muscular control to stop and turn from a full gallop. And who better than Dandelion with her Clydesdale heritage and McCree's great stone walls barring her early development?

  Most of all, a polo pony needs a strong imagination of its own. And who knew more of that than Dandelion?

  Like a child at its first Christmas Dandelion remained all her life at the sight of a polo field, the sound of the ball on wood. For polo caught her imagination and held it fast ever after. In it she found everything she needed to fill and become the second part of the fantasy she had created in her mind. In it she found the challenge she had sought, the freedom to be herself, the purpose of her life. In it she took center stage and became the brilliant being she had imagined herself to be. And in all the world and throughout all time, there will never be another quite like her.

  The End

  EPILOGUE

  Legends grow up around every sport. They have around polo. In all parts of the world where the game is played, when the matches are over and the players gather to replay every point at their leisure over drinks and dinner, talk will often shift to other games in other times and other places. When it does, those who have been around the sport a very long time remember Dandelion, the misnamed chestnut with the head of an Arab and Mark, the one-legged horseman who brought her to the attention of the world.

  Conversation will not dwell long on the victories they scored; victories that span continents and are well documented in yellowing sporting pages, in silver trophies locked away behind glass doors, and in photographs where Dandelion's spectacularly beautiful head jumps out of every crowd. For none of these can begin to convey what it had been like to see them together and sense the extraordinary understanding that existed between them in the heat of play.

  As though, they said, when the game began, there ceased to be a horse and rider altogether, but rather, that the two became one, an indivisible entity unto itself – like the centaur of legend – with one mind, invincible in its power and intelligence.

  No one was ever quite sure where Dandelion came from, though many, wanting to know the secret of her breeding, asked.

  “She’s one of a kind,” Mark always answered vaguely. And so they thought, assumed, that he had brought her back from India when his regiment returned home. Anyway, for their purposes, the saga of Dandelion began at the end of the Great War, in 1919 or thereabouts, and lasted until 1939 when she died, as great a legend in her time, as her ancestor, the magnificent Almustaq, had been in his.

  “Amazing little thing she was that Dandelion,” someone will begin, and the room will fall silent, the listeners avid to hear more of the legend. “… remember seeing her at Windsor…” (They could just as well have said Cowdrey Park or any of the other fields stretching half way around the world where Dandelion had played the game.) “Never saw anything like her in my life. Knew the game better than a human if you ask me. Played each chukker as though she knew, ahead of time, the game plan. As though she had seen it played already and knew exactly where she had to be every second of it. Knew the run of the ball before the damned thing was struck! Knew how far it would go, too, and had herself there ahead of it, at the precise distance the chap needed to make his swing! Oh, she was clever! And brave! She’d have herself in and out of melees that would have daunted angels. Amazing! Never seemed to tire. Had the stamina of a horse twice her size. Never went lame either. Always had the same enthusiasm from first to last...”

  “Fancied herself, too!” another speaker will take up where the first left off. “She’d come out onto the field at the start of a match as though she led an army to war; as though she danced to music the rest of us couldn’t hear. She’d have that beautiful little head of hers tucked tight into her neck, ears pointing straight forward, hooves lilting, tail bannered. Thought herself the Great Horse of Troy, I always said. But once the signal for play was given, look out! She was a different horse then, by Jove! A red-gold blur! Couldn’t keep track of her she moved so fast from one end of the field to another. Never saw a horse stop so fast nor turn so sharp either. Don’t expect to ever again…”

  “The chap turned down fortunes for her,” someone else will go on, slowly turning brandy in a glass. “Offered to buy her myself more than once, even though she was well past her prime. He laughed at me! Said there wasn’t enough money in the w
orld. Damn right, too! How could you put a price on her? She was unique. A legend. And legends don’t come with price tags.”

  Creed of a Dandelion

  Picture in your mind

  All that you may be

  And with a little time

  You will come to see:

  That in the game of life

  Your dreams will come alive

  By thinking of the end result

  As if it had arrived.

  Also By Sheelagh Mawe

  Out of This World and Into Others, 2008

  How Mom Got a Life, 2005

  Grown Men, 1997

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  About the Author

  Sheelagh Mawe was born in Hertfordshire, England where her passion for horses was equaled only by her love of reading. Later, as an adult living in America, she decided to put her own life experiences into story form, as Dandelion. She now lives in Orlando, Florida.