Blind Beauty

by K. M. Peyton

  The Campbell family, parents and girl, had coped with Pony Club but knew nothing about seventeen-hand thoroughbreds. They thought they were kind and knowledgeable. They knew you fed hay and cubes and mix, but not how much; they didn’t know good hay from bad and bought at a “bargain” price; their farrier was cheap and incompetent, their field ill-drained with more weeds than grass. Buffoon ate it up in a week and when it rained it turned into a patch of mud. He stood in it all day and got mud-fever. His legs swelled up and grew red scabs. The Campbells were told to keep him in, so he stood in the small stable without exercise for several weeks and grew weary and gaunt. He wasn’t used to living alone. He had never in his life been without company. There had always been a yard of horses, even without Lucky. He didn’t like this dreary existence but he accepted it, as horses accept nearly everything.

  They don’t understand they are being ill-treated. They only know they are hungry, or in pain, or miserable, but they accept it. They don’t ask why or how long for. They don’t wonder what is going to happen to them.

  Buffoon just stood looking at the wall, waiting for another small feed, tired of his unpalatable hay. He had memories, but they didn’t surface often. Sometimes the sound of a lorry on the road made him prick his ears, and he remembered the racecourses and the excitement and lifted his head for a few minutes. But nothing happened and soon a fly bit him and he scratched, and let out a gusty sigh. If he had heard Tessa’s voice again, he would have gone eagerly and looked out and whinnied. He remembered the timbre of her voice. If Lucky had come he would have whinnied. Even Wisbey. But he did not like his new people much. They did not understand what he wanted, although they thought they were kind. They patted him sometimes but did nothing to make him happy.

  But when summer came round again and his legs cleared up the girl started to ride him out and take him to a few cross-countries. When Buffoon saw the jumps he raced at them in the way he was used to, but the girl pulled him back, wanting him to go more slowly. He couldn’t understand it. The girl had a few lessons, and Buffoon learned that he had to jump, but slowly. Very odd. But he was on his own, not in a herd as he was used to, and it wasn’t so much fun. In fact, as he had no neighbours taking off at the same time, he often found it hard to know when to take off, the jump ahead being just a dark blur in his vision. He did his best but often blundered. The girl lost her temper and hit him. He had no idea what for. He had rarely been hit, only sometimes in the heat of racing and then he had never felt it. He found life puzzling, and lost confidence. It was often better to stop than try to find his way ahead. Then the girl got furious and hit him a lot more.

  “That poor old nag of the Campbells looks really miserable,” they remarked at the Hunter Trials. “They’ve no idea…”

  “I think it’s half-blind. I told them to get the vet to have a look, but Campbell just laughed at me.”

  “It’s dangerous – he ought to know – putting his girl up on a blind horse.”

  “Well, there he goes… hope they come back in one piece.”

  The ugly chestnut horse lolloped off into the country. He cleared the first island jump standing in the field and disappeared into a wood. Not long afterwards there was a message on the walkie-talkie for the ambulance.

  “Don’t start another rider. Spot of trouble up here.”

  It took quite a time. The ambulance took the rider away and eventually Campbell came back down to the start leading a lame chestnut horse.

  “Bloody thing never even took off! Just went straight through it, turned a complete somersault. She’s broken her leg.”

  “Lucky it wasn’t her neck. That horse is dangerous, Campbell. Get the vet to it – it’s blind.”

  “Heck. If it’s blind, what good is it?”

  “I’d put it down if I were you. Kindest.”

  “The girl’ll go potty if he’s put down! She loves it.”

  (“Blow me, I’d never have guessed!” – but the thought was not expressed aloud.)

  “Well, don’t let her get back on. Too risky by far.”

  “What shall I do? I’ve no time to look after it, and now the girl’s got a broken leg…”

  “Put him out to grass for the time being then. Give you time to think. Get a vet –”

  “Vets cost a fortune! I haven’t got that sort of money.”

  He went blundering off and the men he had been talking to shook their heads over his ignorance.

  Campbell didn’t think he was cruel.

  But he found a field for Buffoon out in the country with lots of grass and an automatic trough. That was kind, wasn’t it? Horses liked lots of grass. Buffoon was turned out alone, and left. The field was large, on the side of a hill, surrounded by prairie fields of corn. Over the summer machinery came and went, and in the autumn the fields were ploughed, drilled and sown, and left. There was a thin hedge round Buffoon’s field, not enough to give any shade, nor was it thick enough to give shelter from the cold winds from the North Sea that started to blow in as winter approached. Nobody came near nor by. A minor road led past the gate and sometimes a car went past, very occasionally a lorry. At the sound of a lorry Buffoon would lift his heavy head and prick his ears for a few moments, but the lorries never stopped. That was the only sign of life. Nobody came. It made him anxious. He limped up and down by the hedge where the gate was, wanting to be taken in, but nobody came. He whinnied, but there was no answer. Nobody came.

  The horse had grass, water, freedom… Campbell was content.

  And as winter progressed Buffoon lost hope and stood tucked into the thickest bit of hedge, his scrawny tail clamped down over his quarters. His ribs stood out like the shell of a rotting boat. His winter coat was too thin to give him warmth. Long shivers convulsed his frame when the wind blew.

  Campbell would have been amazed if anyone had accused him of cruelty.

  Jimmy brought her home. It was a sunny September day with the sharp tang of autumn in the air. Tessa sat in the car, aware of every passing tree, every golden leaf, every bird tossed into the clear air. She felt delicate, not quite in charge, terrified of not handling it right. Terrified of Buffoon’s empty box, her own wayward emotions, never knowing whether they were in hand. She was always being found wanting. When would it change?

  “Say something,” Jimmy said, and smiled.

  “I’m frightened,” she said.

  He seemed to understand. “Why not? So would I be.”

  “You’ve never been frightened!”

  “Haven’t I?”

  He showed so little, yet he was always the one she felt at home with, the one she could depend on.

  “Have you seen Tom?”

  “Yes. His dad drives him out. He comes up to Raleigh’s sometimes, watches the horses working. There’s no bad blood there, in spite of the split.”

  “Is he getting better?”

  “Slowly. But nobody thinks he’s going to ride again. Not for a very long time, at least.”

  How did they expect her to be happy? Getting out wasn’t everything. But to her surprise, coming up the lane and into the yard and seeing a big banner splayed across the wall, painted apparently with a yard broom, saying, “Welcome back Tessa” made her laugh out loud. And seeing Sarah, Peter, Gilly, Wisbey and old Arthur standing in a row to greet her made her feel like the Queen arriving at Ascot. She could not help but feel her spirits rise to a new level.

  They all gave her a kiss, even Arthur, and took her into the tack-room where there was a bottle of champagne and glasses laid out on the big table amongst the riffled pages of Racing Post and soapy sponges and old tea mugs. Just like home!

  They drank, and told her all the gossip, and then she had to see all the horses, both new and old, and hear who had done what, what was going to happen, what she had missed. Nobody mentioned Buffoon. In Buffoon’s old box was a grey mare called Summer Sky.

  �
��She belongs to those two old girls that have the Littlun. They want you to ride her, Tessa – they told me,” Peter said. “She’s really nice, promising. Yours.”

  Tessa tried to be grateful, failed. Looking into Buffoon’s box and seeing a grey mare there was terrible.

  Jimmy said, “Go and get your jods on, girl. We’ll go for a ride.”

  It was the best thing, out on the down with just Jimmy, not talking, crossing the stream and climbing up the long track to meet the skylarks. Not looking at Goldlands.

  “My mother–”

  “Your mother is not allowed to contact you. She contacts us instead. We chat to her on the phone. She’ll come down and see you when the coast is clear. You are never, never, to go near Goldlands, Tessa.”

  “No.”

  She was riding one of Jimmy’s problem horses, a nice chestnut fellow who did everything she asked.

  “He has jumping problems, nothing to bother you,” Jimmy said.

  He was riding a black thoroughbred mare who kept rearing when its owner rode it, but never reared for Jimmy.

  “Rider problem, not horse problem. Tricky to explain to the owner, but I’m taking money for nothing. It’s she who needs to go to a problem-mender, not the horse.”

  Tessa laughed. It was wonderful to be on a horse again, to be on the downs, to smell the grass-scented air. They cantered, fast, over the brow of the downs and came out on top of the world with the whole of the west country, as far as the eye could see, rolling away into a far blue distance. It was heady after the years of incarceration, and Tessa felt herself shivering with joy, just looking and sniffing in the air, and feeling the good horse under her.

  Jimmy said, “The cure.”

  “Yes. The cure.”

  After that, everything slotted slowly into place. She sorted out her caravan, got on with the work, rode out, got herself fit. The others badgered her to get riding seriously again, to get on with being a jockey, but she was frightened and kept putting it off.

  Peter said, “Summer Sky is nearly ready to race. Are you going to miss your chance? You need every chance there is going.”

  She did not reply. It was too difficult to articulate: the great fear. She hadn’t had it before. She had been confident, cocksure. If it had been Buffoon to ride … But he had always been Tom’s.

  Did they say anything to Tom? She never knew, but one evening he drove into the yard to visit her. Her door was open and Walter was standing on his hindlegs trying to lick her face while she was making baked beans on toast. Jimmy never let him jump up, but Tessa liked his kisses and Walter knew it.

  “I love you, Walter. Yes I do,” she was saying.

  “The ice maiden is thawing,” Tom said, and laughed.

  She spun round.

  “Tom!”

  “Oh good,” he said. “Baked beans.”

  She had never seen him to talk to since her visit to the hospital. He had a lot of friends and didn’t need her now, she was sure.

  “I’ll do some more toast. I’m sorry – it’s only–”

  “My favourite,” he said.

  He looked so different now, his gaunt face filled out, his athletic grace scrambled into a painful crablike movement. Scars still showed on his head where the hair hadn’t grown back. But he smiled.

  “It’s great they let you go.”

  “Yes, I was lucky. And my job still here.”

  “Peter’s a good guy to work for.”

  He sat down at the table while Tessa made more toast. Walter came and laid his long nose on Tom’s lap.

  “How are you now?” Tessa asked. “Better than the last time I saw you, anyway.”

  “Walking, at least. Not riding yet. I’ve got to have an operation, then – perhaps…”

  “I thought–” She stopped herself. The rumour was that Tom would never come back. The operation he mentioned was highly dangerous, kill or cure, or some dramatics to that effect. Everyone was incredibly sorry for him.

  Yet he smiled.

  “I’m only a young lad yet,” he said in a squeaky voice. “I’ve my whole career ahead of me.”

  Tessa laughed.

  They ate the baked beans and Tessa made tea, and Tom was in no hurry to go.

  “And what about you?” he asked. “Has Peter got your licence yet?”

  “No.”

  “You can’t afford to hang about. Life is passing you by. Why not?”

  “When I wanted to do it everyone said I was mad. Now they all say I’m mad not to go on with it. I don’t know what I want any longer. Only one thing, and that’s not going to happen…”

  “What?”

  “My horse back.”

  “Ah.”

  “I’ve tried to trace him, but there’s no Buffoon in racing any more. He was sold to a dealer… I’ve found out that much. And then, nothing. Nobody knows.”

  Tom was silent. He could think of no way to encourage her. A horse with cataracts, going blind, a duff tendon, ugly… even with his talent, few people would consider him a viable proposition. Tom guessed he had been put down by now.

  “You get around – could you see if you can find out anything?”

  “Yes, of course. But I wouldn’t hold out much hope, Tessa, honestly.”

  “I do want – so much…”

  The pony, Lucky, still grazed in the field, companion occasionally to fractious horses, but mostly unattached. The sight of him always brought a lump to her throat.

  “It doesn’t do to be sentimental in this game. Too much hurt.”

  “Yes, I’ve found that.” Even Wisbey, she remembered, wept.

  “Did you think that, one day, you might ride Buffoon in a race?”

  “Yes, I suppose I did. Even with you around.” She smiled.

  “I think you should get in training, for if he comes back. Because I’m not around any more.”

  “Can you find him for me?”

  “I can try. Perhaps an advert. My father might turn up something. I’ll try. But only if you get off your butt, Tessa. You’re being really feeble, not wanting to ride again. Suppose I’d been as feeble as you? I’d still be in a hospital bed. I’m going to ride again and look what I’ve got to surmount – you’ve got nothing standing in your way at all. Everybody is behind you, wanting you to succeed. And you have the talent to make it, unlike most aspiring jockeys. The only thing you’ve got against you is being female, but if you’re good enough – so what? Show ’em!”

  Afterwards, it occurred to him that he was a fine advertisement for the trade, half-killed, exhorting the girl to get up and do likewise. But perhaps he was the one to point out to Tessa her cowardice.

  As Sarah said pointedly, “You haven’t got anything else going for you, after all. No social life, no boyfriend, no darling parents, no hobbies – nothing. Mucking out all your life. Is that your ambition?”

  “Thank you,” said Tessa.

  But it was true.

  She asked Peter to try and get her a licence again, and she started to do her getting-fit drill again. Tom promised to try and trace Buffoon, and that gave her a spark of hope. She rang her mother when she knew Maurice was away from home, but only received the usual negative bleats that so incensed her. Once her mother told her that Maurice had hit her.

  “All the more reason to leave him,” Tessa said coldly.

  Greevy had left home and got himself a flat on the other side of the valley, handy for Raleigh’s, where he still worked.

  “Greevy says leave him, too,” Myra said hesitantly.

  “Well, then?”

  But Tessa dreaded her mother arriving at her caravan door, her most likely bolt-hole. Physical violence might drive her out when nothing else had. Tessa tried not to think about it.

  When she spoke of it to Sarah, Sarah said, “Like mother, like daughter. You�
��re just as bad, not trying to better yourself.”

  That was the remark that really hurt. Like her mother!

  She got Peter to accept that Summer Sky was ready to run, that she was ready to make her first ride. She forced herself, scared rigid. She had lost all confidence in herself.

  But on the day the support she received astonished her. It seemed no one had forgotten the story of Lucky and Buffoon, and the stabbing of Maurice Morrison-Pleydell by his stepdaughter. The press mobbed her as she made her way to the weighing-room, and all the officials smiled and said, “Welcome back,” and the other jockeys, formerly not so friendly, now gave her winks and grins. “Just what the bastard deserved, everyone thought so.” The general opinion was aired several times, in confidential whispers. It buoyed her up fantastically, so that when she came out into the paddock where Jimmy was leading up Summer Sky and Peter stood with the “old gels”, she felt ready to ride, almost calm. And the mare that she could not grow to love looked beautiful in the cold November paddock, spinning round with excitement, scattering her game old owners.

  “Lovely to have you back, dear,” they said.

  “Have a nice ride, dear.”

  How lucky she was to be riding for such people, the old hunting ladies who knew what it was, themselves, to ride at a great fence and have the fear of God in your throat. If Maurice had ever given a thought… no, don’t think of Maurice. Raleigh was in the paddock with a horse. Even he gave her a smile and a good luck nod. Tessa’s head whirled. And then she was being led out by dear Jimmy, the mare prancing with the joy of life, and the lovely green river of grass ahead…

  Summer Sky was young, but had raced on the flat and knew her job. With Jimmy having schooled her over hurdles, Tessa was not afraid that her mount would let her down, only vice versa. But, lobbing down towards the start, she felt a surge of excitement go through her that wasn’t just to do with the present race – it was to do with seeing her way to a future, which had never seemed possible before. When Sarah had said, scornfully: “Mucking out all your life?” – it was true that her ambition had been nil. Now, suddenly, she knew there was more in her than that. Tom and Jimmy, great horsemen both, had told her she could do it and she hadn’t believed them. Now, suddenly, she did. Even if she was last today, she saw that this was her way ahead.