“Well now,” he said thoughtfully. “What he’s worth, and what I’m asking for him, that’s two entirely different things.”
“Cut the cackle, Harry,” Henrietta snapped. “How much?”
“Two thousand,” Harry Sabin said.
“Heavens!” Nigella gasped. “How much?”
Harry Sabin shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “That’s a class horse, that is.”
“It jolly well needs to be for that sort of money,” Henrietta snorted. “It’s ridiculous. You’ll never get it.”
“Not from the likes of you, maybe,” Harry Sabin said disparagingly. “He’s entered for Warners Wednesday week. They know a good horse when they see it in Leicestershire. They pay a good price there for a horse with class.”
“It looks as if he could be the genuine article then,” Henrietta said with regret as we rode back down the track. “It’s a pity. Just imagine, he could have been ours if he’d been a wind-sucker or something.”
The bay gelding trotted alongside us, displaying natural carriage and a long, low lingering stride behind two drooping strands of barbed wire. Without the tall, thin man on the top, he looked even more impressive. I took in his substance and his clean hard joints, his fine sloping shoulder and his beautifully balanced neck, his youth and his presence, and I wished with all my heart that I had two thousand pounds. If I had scoured the world for my ideal event horse, I might never have found him, yet here he was in Harry Sabin’s field. Of all places. So close, and yet so impossibly out of reach.
9
A Tricky Customer
I just couldn’t stop thinking about Harry Sabin’s bay gelding. The same afternoon, perched on a wobbly saddle-horse, slapping whitewash on the ceiling of a stable allocated to the Thunder and Lightning liveries, I decided that I would have to go back and have another look at him. I knew that if I could find one thing wrong with him, one defect which would make him unsuitable for eventing, I would be able to forget all about him and that would be the end of it.
I could hardly tell the Fanes where I was going because they would have thought I was mad, so I said that the smell of the paint was making me feel peculiar, and I put a saddle on Doreen’s pony on the pretext of testing its wind to see if it would be fit for the opening meet. I trotted out of the yard feeling rather silly on the pony: it was only thirteen-two, and very narrow; my feet were almost level with its knees.
The bay gelding was no longer in the top field. The geese were there, running up to the hedge and making a brave show, and the dealer’s stock were there, hardly troubling to raise their heads from the scrubby grass, but the bay gelding was not. There was nothing for it but to ride down the track into the dirt yard where Harry Sabin was still tinkering about under the bonnet of the wagon.
“Harry,” I said. “Can I have a ride on the bay gelding?”
Harry Sabin straightened up and looked at me with his foxy eyes. “Now then, young lady,” he said, “which bay gelding is that?”
I pointed to the bay gelding who was standing in one of the ramshackle buildings behind a slip rail.
“Well now,” Harry Sabin said doubtfully. “That’s a very expensive horse, that is.”
“I’m looking for a good quality animal,” I said. “I need a high class horse. I want to event.” I was quite surprised to hear myself say it.
“Eventing is it?” Harry Sabin looked at Doreen’s pony and scratched his head with the spanner. “That do seem a bit small for the job, I can see that.”
“The pony isn’t mine,” I said hastily. “It’s at livery with the Fanes. I came with them this morning. I work for them.”
Mentioning the Fanes was obviously the wrong thing to do. Harry Sabin went back to his tinkering under the bonnet of the cattle wagon. “That isn’t a horse for the Fanes,” he said. “They don’t pay that sort of price. I’ve sold a few horses to the Fanes in my time; they don’t pay at all if they can help. I know the Fanes.”
“It isn’t for the Fanes I’m looking,” I said. “It’s for myself.”
But Harry Sabin had lost interest in me as a potential customer. He didn’t bother to reply. I got off the pony and tied him up with a piece of baler twine I found lying in the dirt. I leaned over the bonnet and faced Harry Sabin eyeball to eyeball. “Harry,” I said. “The horse is the right type and he’s the right height. He’s also the right age, if he’s the five-year-old I take him to be. But I have to be sure he has the scope and the temperament and the courage for the job. If you won’t let me ride him, how will I know?”
Harry Sabin grinned at me. His teeth were the colour of old piano keys. “I daresay you won’t,” he said. “And I daresay you won’t have two thousand pounds, neither.”
“If the horse isn’t suitable,” I pointed out, “I shan’t need to have.”
“That you won’t,” Harry Sabin rubbed his chin in a thoughtful manner. “And you say it’s not for the Fanes?”
“They don’t even know I’m here,” I said. “I made an excuse to get away. I can’t stay long, otherwise they’ll come after me.”
This worked like a charm. “Best put the pony round the back then,” Harry Sabin decided. “If they see that from the lane, that might just give you away.” He seemed pleased to be part of a conspiracy against the Fanes. He waved his spanner in the direction of one of the tumbledown buildings. “Saddle’s in there. Bridle’s there as well, but that might need taking up a strap or two to fit.” He went back to his tinkering looking vaguely triumphant.
I led the pony round the back of the buildings and I went to get the tack. The saddle was an awful old thing with a lumpy serge lining, and the bridle had a driving bit. I carried them over to where the bay gelding was standing. My heart was jumping with excitement as I ducked under the rail, took a few paces aside, and stared at my dream horse.
Close to, he was every bit as good as he had looked in the field. He had the class and the conformation of a show horse. His coat was rich and glossy, his eyes were large and clear and intelligent, he had a good top line, strong, short cannon bones with tendons like iron bands, big flat knees, short sloping pasterns and healthy open feet. He also had a perfectly formed five-year-old’s mouth. Try as I might, I couldn’t fault him, and as Nigella had noticed, he was very friendly, and didn’t once offer to put his ears back when I picked up his back feet and lifted his tail.
When I tacked him up, he opened his mouth obligingly for the driving bit, and stood like a rock whilst I girthed up the lumpy saddle. It was all too good to be true. I led him out into the yard. Harry Sabin shuffled across in order to leg me into the saddle and led me to a rusted metal gate which opened into a field. The bay gelding had a long, swinging walk.
“He even walks like a show horse,” I said.
“That’s just what he was,” Harry Sabin said. “A show horse.”
“Why was?” I asked.
Harry Sabin shrugged and dragged open the rusty gate. “Temperament,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I said. I had seen the horse out cubbing and hadn’t felt that he had looked anything more than upset by bad horsemanship, but suddenly, especially after Doreen’s pony, I felt a long way from the ground. “What’s wrong with his temperament?” I asked.
But Harry Sabin refused to be drawn. “Just you sit tight, young lady,” he warned. “That’s a very expensive horse, that is, and don’t you loose him. He’s entered for Warners Wednesday week.”
I rode through the gate feeling less than confident. Harry Sabin dragged the gate shut and went back to his tinkering. The dealer’s stock in the top field trotted up to a gap in the hedge which had been filled in with a rusty bedstead and regarded the bay gelding with interest.
I walked and trotted him in a few cautious circles, noting his natural balance and steady head carriage and the fluent regularity of his stride which augured well for dressage. He didn’t feel like a rogue horse. He was responsive and well-mannered and cantered a perfect figure eight with a simple change, and g
alloped for a short burst displaying a long, low stride, and a willingness to pull up when asked. My confidence almost fully restored, I looked round for something to jump.
There was nothing in the field except a broken down chicken coop, so it had to be that. I cantered him slowly towards it and left him to his own devices to see how, and if, he would tackle it. It was essential to find a horse who really enjoyed jumping because I needed a willing partner. The bay gelding pricked his ears forward and looked neither to the left or the right, lengthened his stride into the coop and took off heavenwards in the most enormous leap I had ever experienced.
He jumped so high that I flew upwards out of the hateful little saddle and crashed down again right onto the pommel. It was agonizing. The bay gelding, feeling me loosened in the saddle, cantered on for a few strides with his head tucked into his chest, then he put in one almighty buck that sent me hurtling over his shoulder. I hit the ground with a thump that knocked all the breath out of my body and the bay gelding cantered off, cleared the bedstead with a yard to spare, and joined the dealer’s stock who, overcome by the excitement of it all, thundered round and round the field like a cavalry charge.
I sat on the ground for at least five minutes, too sore and winded and shaken to move. I had always hated falling off and I had never got used to it. Eventually I staggered to my feet and made for the bedstead. My eyes were watering and I could hardly walk but I wanted to catch the bay gelding before Harry Sabin discovered that I had loosed his expensive animal, entered for Warners Wednesday week. I was halfway between the coop and the bedstead when another terrible thing happened. There was a hammering along the lane and the Fanes came into view mounted on Brenda’s cob and Nelson.
Almost without thinking, I ducked down and made for the cover of the hedge, hoping against hope that the Fanes wouldn’t notice the bay gelding in amongst all the others. But the sound of skidding hooves on tarmac told me that they had seen him and Henrietta’s voice carried clearly across the field.
“Look,” she said. “He’s got a saddle on. And a bridle. He must have thrown his rider or something. We’d better catch him.”
Horrified, I peered through the hedge and watched them ride along the lane until they came to the track which led to Harry Sabin’s yard. Then I saw Henrietta dismount. She ducked under the wire, walked up to the bay gelding and took him by the rein. She led him towards the yard and Nigella followed with the horses.
Totally defeated, I limped to the gate, wondering how on earth I was going to explain my behaviour to the Fanes. Henrietta had never trusted me from the start and I could imagine how triumphant she would be to discover my deception. I had reached the gate to the yard and was still out of their line of vision when I heard Harry Sabin’s voice.
“That’s very good of you, Miss Fane,” he said in a deeply respectful voice. “That’s very good of you indeed. I was just expecting my lad to come and give him a spot of exercise and he just managed to slip the rail and get out of the shed. I’m much obliged to you and that’s a fact.”
“If you’re that obliged, perhaps you’ll consider dropping the price you’re asking for him then,” Henrietta said as she remounted Nelson. “Say four hundred?”
“That just isn’t possible, Miss Fane,” Harry Sabin said regretfully. “That wouldn’t be economical at all. That’s a very high class animal and I wouldn't take a penny less than two thousand for it, and that’s the truth.”
“Oh well,” Henrietta said ungraciously. “Please yourself.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen our groom, Harry?” Nigella enquired. “The one who came with us this morning? She took out one of our liveries, a chestnut pony.”
“Well now,” Harry Sabin said, considering it. “I might have seen her along the lane not more than half an hour ago.”
“Might have?” Henrietta said. “What do you mean, might have?”
“I can’t say that it was definitely her,” Harry Sabin said. “I’ve been busy on the wagon and there get to be a lot of horses along the lane.”
As Henrietta and Nigella trotted back down the track, I eased my way carefully through the gate. Harry Sabin was standing by the cattle wagon holding the bay gelding, cackling with delight at having scored against the Fanes.
“Thanks for not giving me away, Harry,” I said. “I thought I was done for then. I hope the horse is alright.”
“That’s lucky for you he is,” Harry Sabin chuckled. “I told you not to loose him.”
“But you didn’t tell me what a wicked buck he had in him,” I protested. “I might have stayed on if you had warned me.”
But Harry Sabin was unrepentant. “But then he might not have bucked you,” he said. “And I should have been sorry I’d mentioned it.” He led the bay gelding back to his ruined stable. “A good sharp clout or two’ll soon teach him some manners, young lady. It don’t do to let them get the upper hand. He’ll find his master in Leicestershire, and no mistake.”
I followed them into the stable and watched Harry Sabin drag off the lumpy saddle. “He’s a beautiful ride,” I said. “I don’t think I have ever ridden a better horse; and he certainly can jump.”
“But can you stay on him when he do?” Harry Sabin wondered. “That’s not much good if you can’t.” He pulled the bridle over the horse’s ears. The bay gelding dropped the driving bit, stuck out his head and lifted his upper lip in a gesture of disgust.
“Two thousand pounds is a lot of money,” I said. “For a horse with a buck like that.” It wasn’t. Even with my limited experience, I knew he would make twice the price at Leicester Sales. I ran my fingers through the bay gelding’s silky coat and he turned his head and nudged hopefully at my pockets. I found him an old boiled sweet, gone soft and furry. “I’ll give you fifteen hundred for him,” I said.
Harry Sabin shouldered the saddle and regarded me in a sceptical manner.
“Subject to vet,” I added.
“Subject to you getting the money,” he said.
“Subject to you accepting my offer, for a start,” I said.
I followed Harry Sabin across the dirt yard to the shed where he kept his awful saddlery; then I followed him back to the cattle wagon where he picked up his spanner and started tinkering. I had reluctantly decided that the conversation had come to an end when he straightened up and poked the spanner into my chest.
“You send your vet,” he said. “And you bring me fifteen hundred in cash; I don’t take no cheques since I’ve had a bad one off the Fanes. I’ll keep the horse no more than a week. If you’re not here with the cash by Monday week, he’s off to Warners Wednesday, and that’s the finish of it.”
10
Can’t Make It Tonight
Halfway back to the hall I had to dismount and walk beside the pony because I was so sore. I was within sight of the gates when a van slowed down alongside me. It was the flesh wagon from the kennels with Forster at the wheel.
“What happened to you?” he enquired, leaning over the passenger seat. “Did the brute throw you?”
“No,” I said, embarrassed. “I’m walking because I’m too heavy for him. I’m giving him a rest.”
“You’re a liar,” Forster said, grinning.
“I’m not,” I said, but without conviction, because even if I wasn’t yet, I supposed that I soon would be.
“I suppose you’ve fallen off Harry Sabin’s bay gelding,” Forster said.
I stopped walking and stared at him. Doreen’s pony immediately dropped its head and started to graze.
Forster shrugged. “It was just a guess. Almost everyone has.” He stopped the van and pulled up the handbrake.
“Including you?”
“Including William. The Master sent him to try it. He thought it might make a good hunt horse if he could get it at the right price.”
“I’m glad he didn’t,” I said with relief. “It’s far too good for a hunt horse.”
“Thanks a lot,” Forster said in a sarcastic tone. “I suppose you thi
nk we ill treat our horses, as well as our hounds.”
“Not ill treat exactly,” I said. “You’re just too rough.”
“We’re paid to catch foxes,” Forster said. “Not to practise the finer points of dressage.” He leaned over further and pushed the passenger door open. “Sit down for a minute. You look as if you need to.”
It crossed my mind that it might not be wise to sit in a van with Forster in a deserted lane, but I lowered myself carefully into the seat. There was a winch in the back of the van and a dead cow behind it. The cow was slimy and it stank. I averted my eyes hastily.
“Sorry,” Forster said. “I’ve been to collect a casualty. I had to pull it out of the river.”
“Nick,” I said. “I’d be glad if you didn’t say anything to anyone about me going to try the bay gelding. You’re not supposed to know. No one is. It’s supposed to be a secret.”
“What on earth for?” he said curiously. “Don’t tell me the Fanes are thinking of buying it.”
“No,” I said. “I am.”
Now it was Forster’s turn to stare. “You are?”
“I want it for an event horse,” I said. “It’s perfect. It’s just the kind of horse I need.”
“It’s expensive though,” Forster said. “At least,” he corrected himself, “it’s expensive for Harry Sabin.”
“It’s expensive for me as well,” I admitted ruefully. “I’m broke. And I’ve got to find fifteen hundred pounds in cash by Monday week, otherwise it’s going to Warners.”
“How the devil are you going to do that?” Forster said, astonished.
“I haven’t a clue,” I said.
Forster laughed. Then, seeing that I wasn’t laughing as well, he leaned his elbows on the driving wheel and rubbed his chin. “How about your parents?” he suggested.
“My father doesn’t have any money to speak of,” I said. “And what he has is invested in a building society. He won't touch that, and anyway, he doesn’t like horses.”
Eventer's Dream Page 8
