by Tim Pears
Amos Tucker looked for a moment like he would get angrier still. But then as if the fire within him had been abruptly dowsed he smiled. ‘Let they rich folk dishonour their dead as they wish,’ he said.
‘Lined with lead and all,’ said Hector Merry.
‘Aye, a slow and sorry putrefaction.’
The coffin carrying Isaac Wooland’s body was borne into the church by four Sercombes: Albert and Fred, Enoch and Herbert. It was customary for six men to bear the box but in such case Ernest Cudmore would perforce be one of them and the little shepherd would have to take the weight not on his shoulders but holding it high above his head. Amos Tucker declared that he’d not have people laughing at the sight nor trying all too clearly not to at his stockman’s funeral.
Behind the coffin, the priest led his curate and servers. They followed as for every service in their customary order up the aisle and walked solemnly to their places like horses into the stables.
The master and his daughter sat in their pew at the front. Her dowager ladyship no longer attended church nor was known to leave the big house. Amos Tucker sat beside his shepherd. Leo sat between his mother and his sister Kizzie. His father and brother joined them.
The priest was a man of ill humour, cranky like a prophet of the Old Book, grimly disposed towards the dim and recalcitrant members of his flock, the villagers’ own Ezekiel. His voice was mesmerising. The boy was obliged to listen. There was no choice. He spoke in his priestly voice. He read from the Good Book: ‘“I said, I will take heed to my ways, that I offend thee not in my tongue. I will keep my mouth as it were with a bridle, while the ungodly is in my sight.
‘“I held my tongue, and spake nothing. I kept silence, yea, even from good words, but it was pain and grief to me.
‘“My heart was hot within me, and while I was thus musing the fire kindled. And at the last I spake with my tongue.
‘“Lord let me know mine end, and the number of my days.”’
They kneeled down to pray, and rose to sing a hymn.
Lord of all hopefulness, Lord of all joy,
Whose trust, ever childlike, no cares could destroy,
Be there at our waking, and give us, we pray,
Your bliss in our hearts, Lord,
At the break of the day.
The boy listened to the voices around him. His father sang loud and out of tune. Fred trailed off at the end of every line. Their mother sang quietly and sweetly. Only Kizzie sang well, her voice soaring over the heads of those in the pew in front of them, towards the altar.
Lord of all gentleness, Lord of all calm,
Whose voice is contentment, whose presence is balm,
Be there at our sleeping, and give us, we pray,
Your peace in our hearts, Lord,
At the end of the day.
They buried the box in the graveyard and Ernest Cudmore threw down the first handful of soil upon it. They committed the stockman’s body to the ground.
‘“In sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ,”’ the vicar proclaimed. His voice broadcast across the yard and brooked no argument. ‘“Who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.”’
Many repaired to the estate and Manor Farm. Amos Tucker’s wife and daughters had prepared a feast. Men spoke of the departed. Amos said that when he was a boy Isaac told him how he hated hedgehogs, or fuzz pigs as he called them, for they sucked the milk from cows resting in a field. Isaiah Vagges asked if they minded the time when Isaac kept a billy goat with the herd, to keep illness from attacking the cows. Ernest Cudmore said that must have been long ago, before his time. He said that when he first tended sheep as a lad, the master and his brother and sister were sent off a morning, before their breakfast, to walk amongst the flock, for sheep’s breath was known to ward off consumption.
Amos said that in the past there had been many strange beliefs, for men were credulous. Ernest Cudmore said he still believed it. Amos asked if anyone recalled when the cows got into a field of kale and they had to tip the milk into the river for it was tainted.
‘I thought he fed them cattle on kale?’ Fred said.
‘Aye, and mangels too, in moderate amounts. But the best food turns to poison. Too much of anythin’s no good.’
‘Don’t tell the ladies that, gaffer, for pity’s sake,’ Herbert said, and the first laughter of the day was heard.
The boy found his father outside, by the wall of Mrs Tucker’s garden, conversing with Moses Pincombe, the horse quack or obstetrician, who had attended Miss Charlotte’s dying roan. He was the only man outside the farm his father spoke to beyond the briefest repartee demanded by human society. They spoke of Jonas Sercombe, Albert’s father, with whom Moses Pincombe had been friends from boyhood. They spoke of horses, of their characters or odd things they had done.
Herb Shattock the master’s groom came out and joined them. Each man wore his good black suit. Albert smoked his pipe. Herb rolled a cigarette. He said he’d a horse, a hunter the master had had sent over from Ireland, but it was a bad one. He did not want to tell Lord Prideaux that he’d been had, but he could see no alternative if the horse could not be domineered. Unless Albert would care to take a look, and perhaps Moses too?
The boy saw his father raise an eyebrow and the old man nod, then without a word the men turned and walked out of the garden and onto the track across the estate towards the stables of the big house. Moses Pincombe limped along with the aid of a stick, and the other two took their pace from his. Albert, the tallest, walked with a rolling gait, swaying all the way up from his ploughman’s half-ruined ankles. The boy’s father was a broad-shouldered, rangy man, his body hard, bony and muscular. Herb Shattock was shorter, stouter.
The three men walked away, in their black suits. The boy heard his name called from the house. He did not look back but ran after the horsemen.
They stood outside the loose box gazing at the horse. ‘He looks so peaceful, don’t he?’ Herb Shattock said. ‘He near enough killed my best young groom two days past. We could a had a pair a funerals this day.’
Leo squeezed between his father and Herb Shattock and looked over the bottom half of the stable door. The horse was a chestnut gelding, tall and hefty, a hunter halfway to being a carthorse, the boy reckoned.
‘A course I don’t have my waistcoat,’ Albert said. He meant that he did not have the tiny bottles and tins hidden in its pockets.
‘When I was young,’ Moses Pincombe said, ‘I would a gone in there with a twitch stick and hit im hard between the ears.’ He turned to Albert. ‘Can you believe that?’
Herb Shattock said, ‘Surely you ain’t past it, Moses?’
‘I’d never do that now,’ Moses Pincombe said. ‘Even as I could.’
‘I’ll deal with him,’ Albert Sercombe said. ‘If you talk to im while I do, Moses.’
‘I don’t wish neither a you to get clobbered,’ Herb said. ‘I’d rather shoot im where he stands.’
‘No,’ said Moses. ‘I’ll talk to him.’
The boy felt his father’s large hand upon his back, patting him, twice. He looked up but his father was studying the horse, then he followed Moses Pincombe inside. He pushed shut the door behind them.
‘Come along now, old fellow. Come along, chap.’ Moses did not whistle or blow through his teeth, as the boy’s father or Herb Shattock did, but spoke to the horse as he would to a man, in the English language. Leo wondered why his father did not. ‘There you are, old boy, there you are, no need to fret nor to worry about us, we idn’t goin to harm ye.’
The horse fidgeted and trembled and it looked to the boy as if could it run out it would. It seemed about ready to break into a frenzy: it began to whinny and snicker, and shivered as if the men had brought in with them a blast of cold wind. The old man stood close and spoke to the horse and seemed to calm it, a little, or at least restrai
n it in its state of agitation.
Albert had meanwhile reached the horse’s flank, on the left-hand side. He had somehow acquired lengths of rope. He took up the gelding’s forefoot and bent its knee until the hoof faced upwards and all but touched its body. He slipped a loop of rope over the knee and up until it was drawn between the hoof and the pastern-joint. He pulled the rope taut and tied it. Moses Pincombe talked to the chestnut gelding the whole while. The horse stood now on three legs, unable to move, nonplussed.
Again the boy felt a pat upon his back, this time from Herb Shattock. He kept his eyes on his father. Albert Sercombe squatted, leaned under the horse and grasped hold of its other front hoof, the right one. He picked it up and lifted it, pulling it towards him as he came back out from under the gelding’s belly. The horse toppled slowly and inexorably over away from his father and came to rest lying on its side.
‘There, there, young fellow, you’s in no danger, you’s in good hands.’ The old man kept talking to the horse, which lay there, trying but unable to get up. It did not seem to understand why it could not do so. After a while the horse ceased struggling and began to neigh loudly. Leo saw his father remove his large handkerchief from his pocket. He folded it carefully from corner to corner then over itself, making as long a bandage as he could. Then he knelt beside the gelding’s head. He closed its mouth, and tied the handkerchief around its jaw, gagging the animal. Moses Pincombe spoke the whole time. ‘There be nothin to worry about, old boy, there be no worries at all. Empty thine head, my boy, and calm yourself.’
Albert Sercombe walked to the door, which Herb Shattock opened for him. The two men stood once more side by side, watching the horse now passive on the floor and the old man leaning on his stick, bent over and speaking soothing words.
‘I heard a such a method a castin a horse,’ said the groom. ‘I never seen it till now, Albert. And to a big un. I wouldn’t know as you could do it.’
The boy’s father shook his head. ‘Neither did I,’ he said. ‘Give Moses another couple or three minutes, I reckon, and he’s yours.’
Sure enough, the old man shortly stood up and limped over to the door. He nodded to the groom. ‘Try him now,’ he said.
Herb Shattock walked slowly into the box. He stood over the horse and studied it. He looked back at the men and the boy leaning against the lower door. ‘Talk to him in your own tongue,’ Moses Pincombe said. Herb nodded and turned to the horse and made the whistling sounds through his teeth that the boy had heard before. Leo looked at the horse. It was strange but in this hobbled and humiliated state the power of it was even more evident than when it was standing. The force of it seemed somehow ready to explode from its supine form. Herb Shattock kneeled down and with trembling fingers untied the gag of Albert’s handkerchief. The gelding made no noise. Herb scrabbled a foot or two on his knees and untied the rope from around the horse’s left front hoof and pastern.
‘Do you think he’s part-way tamed?’ Leo heard Moses Pincombe whisper. ‘You reckon?’
‘I wouldn’t like to say,’ his father replied.
Herb Shattock kept whistling to the horse as he bound up the handkerchief and the rope in his hands and without looking behind him tossed the bundle towards the door. Albert caught it. Leo felt something press upon him and turned to see that one of the grooms and two of the stable lads had joined them in the doorway. He looked across the yard and saw another walking towards them. He turned back to the box.
The horse lay unmoving. Perhaps it did not realise that it was now unshackled or perhaps it had conceived a liking for this pose. Slowly it unbent its left front leg. It rolled over from its right side to its front, and put both forelegs forward. Its hind legs it brought up under its body when it rolled over. It now pushed itself from its hind quarters, forwards and up. Herb Shattock took a step or two backwards. Perhaps he did so to give the horse the room it needed. He kept whistling and, now that the horse stood upright on its four hooves, stepped towards it. The groom held in his left hand a halter. Leo had not seen him carry it with him nor lift it off a hook on the wall. It was something Herb had conjured. He put the halter on the gelding and the horse let him do so. Then he turned and walked towards the door, leading the horse, who came with him.
Albert opened the door of the box. He and Moses and the boy and the others stepped aside. The lads stood in disbelief. Others had joined them. One shook his head slowly, from side to side. They watched their head groom lead the big savage hunter, now docile as some gentle old cob, out of the yard and down towards the training paddock. Herb said something to one of them, who ran to the tack room. He came out with a saddle and a bridle and trotted after the groom and the chestnut gelding.
One of the lads turned to another. ‘If I hadn’t seen it with these eyes here,’ he said, pointing with the index fingers of both hands at his own eyes, ‘I wouldn’t a reckoned on that in a hundred years.’
April
At breakfast Albert Sercombe asked the boy if he had time before school to lead the two-year-old filly to the stables. This was the older sister of the colt Leo had brought to halter. The morning was wet with a steady drizzle and the boy walked with hunched shoulders to the field. He stood on tiptoe and was able to reach over the filly’s ears. Perhaps the rain rendered her docile but she let him slip the halter over her head and tie it and lead her to the yard.
His father was waiting. He took the rope from the boy and backed the young mare into a stall. He removed the halter and replaced it with a bridle of a kind Leo had not seen before. Its bit was made of wood, but with pieces of iron attached. The carter fed the bit into the filly’s mouth. Until this moment all she had taken was food and so she chewed the bit expectantly. Albert reached towards a pillar on one side of the stall and took hold of a length of string hanging there. He pulled the string towards him so that it ran through his fingers and he tied the end of it to the bit ring on that side of the strange bridle. Then he walked around the filly and on her other side did likewise.
The boy’s father walked out of the stable without a word. Leo watched him from the doorway, already calling orders to Herbert, embarking upon the day’s labour. The boy turned to the filly. She was preoccupied with the strange mouthful she’d been given. He watched her champing at the bit. In time, bubbles of saliva appeared at the sides of her mouth from the lather her chewing provoked. It seemed to Leo that she must have worked out by now that the odd shapes were not edible, but their very presence upon her tongue meant she could not stop steadily chomping at them. He knew he had already watched her too long. He turned, left the stable and trotted out of the yard.
On the morning following, the boy fetched the filly and put her to the mouthing bridle himself, and tied the string to the bit rings. On the third morning he did likewise. The fourth day was Saturday and his father put a normal bridle on the filly and harnessed her with the collar. He tied a light rope to the nose band and led her to the paddock. It had not rained for two days, yet there was moisture in the air still and dew upon the grass and the morning was a cool one.
Leo watched his father stand in the grassy dirt and ease the filly in circles around him. Periodically he changed direction. After a while he gestured to his son with a flick of his head to join him. Leo climbed between the fence poles and walked over. His father handed him the rope and walked away, out of the paddock and back to the yard, without once looking behind him.
Leo walked the filly in circles for an hour or more. Whenever he felt giddy he changed direction. Sometimes he walked backwards and the filly altered course and came with him. At other times he walked towards her, or to one side or the other. Each time she responded. He told her what he was doing, and what he wished her to do, but he did not think that accounted for her responsiveness. What issued from his lips was only sound for her, with the vaguest meaning, but he understood that they were both learning, for this, it seemed, was to be the language in which he wished to speak as a horseman. With words, like Moses Pincombe, along with so
me occasional whistling and clicking of his teeth taken from his father and Herb Shattock.
There was another whistle. He turned to see his cousin Herbert opening the gate of the paddock, and waving him over. As Leo led the filly through the gateway Herbert said, ‘Don’t get carried away, boy. You knows you won’t be allowed to work with your old man.’
Leo nodded. Herbert secured the gate and jogged to catch up. ‘Why he’s learnin you and not me when I’m is lad …’ Herbert did not finish the sentence. He did not look at the filly, to see how she was taking to the bit, yet his jaws worked as if he mouthed one of his own. ‘You can’t tell im nothin, can you?’ he said. ‘He thinks you’s the bee’s knees, boy. You know why, don’t you?’ Herbert asked. He did not wait for Leo to respond but answered the question himself. ‘You reminds him of himself, that’s why.’
His father was waiting for him. Albert took the heavy collar off and had Leo wash the filly down with salt water, to stop her skin breaking from the friction of the harness.
On the afternoon following, a Sunday, they fitted the collar on the filly again and also reins. Leo watched his father walk the young mare around the paddock, working from behind. He called her forward. He pulled both reins to stop her, or on either side to turn her. This time he did not invite Leo to take a turn but had him watch the whole session. Later they took the filly back to the field and let her out with the others. The carter filled his pipe and watched the horses graze the new grass. The boy watched too.
‘Every horse has its own character,’ his father said. ‘No different from men. Some you’ll have to break, some like this one here you won’t need to. But they all has to have a good mouth. You wants to be able to hold them with light hands. Like this, boy.’ Albert put the stem of the pipe between his teeth and stepped behind his son. He pinched the shoulders of Leo’s jacket, two fingers on each, and tugged gently on one side, then the other. ‘See?’ he uttered between his teeth. He let go of the jacket, and took the pipe from his mouth. ‘Hold them with yon finger. You don’t pull a horse, you guides it.’ He put the pipe on the flat top of a fence post, and took hold of his son’s hands, turning them one way and another, examining them. ‘What a young horse needs, boy,’ he said, ‘is light hands. A man with light hands and plenty a confidence. And that is about all there is to say on the matter.’
