“We shall never own anything half as lovely. We shall never be able to afford thoroughbred horses.” It was a miserable thought.
“If you think like that, you never will.” Irritated by negative thinking even then, Oliver took up the reins. “If you want something badly enough,” he said, “there are always ways and means.”
That’s where we were different, Oliver and I. He had a ruthless streak, whereas I had no ambition to speak of. Not that I didn’t have my dreams, I did. In fact, my daydreams often seemed more real to me than life itself, but I had no real expectation that any of them would come true. And if Francesca wished and dreamed, mostly she kept it to herself, and so she was careful not to lay a hand upon the bay mare, and hardly looked at it.
“Who cares about thoroughbred horses anyway,” she said. “Who wants to be bothered? Think of the work involved, the mucking out, the rugging up, the corn feeds.”
Our ponies lived out in the Vicarage paddock all the year round, their grazing supplemented with hay only in the severest weather. We didn’t possess a rug or a bandage between us. More than anything, Francesca would have liked to own a thoroughbred, but she was not going to admit it, not now, not when Oliver had forgotten the sandwiches.
Later, after the bay mare had been returned to her owner, the sandwiches delivered, and Francesca mollified, we sat on our ponies in the deafening hubbub of the collecting ring, the smell of sweat and pounded turf in our nostrils, our shirts sticking to our backs, and having been outstripped in our own heats, watched whilst Oliver, inevitably, went on to win the final of the flag race. Our yells swelled the applause as he led the lap of honour. Simpson’s white stockings flashed and flew. She threw up her head and dropped her rump like a quarter horse as Oliver reined in abruptly at the collecting ring, and grinning, tossed the rosette to Francesca. The grin changed though, to a social smile, cool and polite, as someone ducked under the ropes at his side. She was slim and immaculate, in cream trousers and a silk shirt, her fair hair, paler than Oliver’s, held back by a band of tortoiseshell. A hand with a golden bracelet at the wrist went out to Simpson’s foaming neck.
“Well done, Oliver,” Charity Ensdale said.
Beside me, Francesca stiffened, ready to be offended even before she had been introduced. And Charity Ensdale’s next remark, although probably not calculated to offend, touched a raw spot nevertheless. Forced to move smartly aside as a group of ponies and riders dived forward at the call of the steward, jostling and barging in their anxiety to be favourably placed in the first heat of the next event,, she lifted her dark glasses, the better to look up at Oliver and with a quizzical expression.
“Aren’t you a little old for all this?” she said.
It was true, of course. The time was rapidly approaching when all three of us would be too old for gymkhana games. Some of our contemporaries had already moved on – to working hunter classes, to Junior Foxhunter, even to eventing, but I heard Francesca’s sharp intake of breath and for once I was able to sympathise with her annoyance, because how could we move on? Where was there for us to go on our aged and cobby ponies, lacking as we did the comfortable middle-class background, the well-heeled parents to replace them with thoroughbred horses on which to make the transition to open competition? People like us didn’t move on in the horse world, they faded away, they gave up, they disappeared.
Oliver threw a leg over Simpson’s neck and slid to the ground. If he felt the sting of truth, he gave nothing away. I noticed that he was taller than Charity Ensdale, his natural gracefulness somehow accentuated by the boyish jodhpurs with the frayed strappings and the short boots with the worn straps at the ankle. I must have realised before then, that Oliver was different from the spotty, lanky, all too often loutish youths of our acquaintance, but I was too used to him, he was too familiar. I had taken him for granted. I only seemed to notice from that moment, the effect he had on people, the way they responded to the easy charm, that careful politeness that much later, was to turn into elegance and coldness. But he was still the Oliver we knew then, the day he stood and smiled at Mrs. Charity Ensdale. He was only seventeen and owned nothing apart from the chestnut mare with the white stockings whose reins were looped over his arm, and yet it seemed to me, watching from the collecting ring, that he had the world in his pocket.
On the wings of fury, Francesca won her heat in the next event, racing along stepping-stones formed by means of a conveniently sliced tree-trunk with unusually charmed abandon, her grey-maned roan, Sinbad, bustling along at her side. Sinbad, whose anxious, slightly protuberant eyes, and busy nature made hectic life’s smallest, most commonplace activity, was not a fast pony despite all the energy he expended. Over-compact, short-of-leg and tight-gaited, he was easily overtaken by others of more fortunate conformation. Nevertheless, in the final, as first one rival dropped between the logs with a yell of despair, and another suffered a snapped rein whilst mounting and was carried away across the ring at a crabwise trot, lunging in agonised frustration at the few remaining inches of leather dangling uselessly from the bit, Sinbad managed to scuttle to the finishing line in second place. In line for the presentation, he stood in unaccustomed glory, but would have backed away at the approach of the Steward bearing the prizes had not Francesca’s sharply jabbing heels warned him otherwise. With his thyroid gaze fixed suspiciously upon the ceremonial silver-plated salver, he allowed the blue rosette to be hooked onto his bridle and followed the winner round the ring at an energetic tail-twirling canter.
This unexpected success improved Francesca’s mood, but not enough to allow her to accept Oliver’s amused congratulations with any grace at all.
“I can’t make the rest of the games,” he told us, “I have to ride-in the mare for the equitation class.”
“Well yes, you would have to, wouldn’t you.” Francesca removed her faded velvet cap and swept upwards the damp tendrils of auburn hair clinging to her brow. “We do understand. Especially as you’re a bit old, now, for this sort of thing.”
“And as I’ll miss the bending,” Oliver continued in a deliberate tone, “one of you can take Simpson, if you like.”
We both stared at him. Neither of us had ever ridden Simpson in an event, not even at the few practices we had had together. It was unthinkable that anyone but Oliver should ride her, and shocking, in a way, that she should be so casually offered. And so instead of jumping at the chance, instead of being grateful, Francesca turned on him.
“You brute, Oliver, how could you? Just because you’ve been offered a ride on a useless thoroughbred!”
But my eyes slid towards the chestnut mare with the white stockings, and I thought, if he isn’t going to ride her any more, if he isn’t going to love her, then I must. I knew Francesca would hate me for it, but, “I’ll ride Simpson in the bending,” I said, “only if you promise to come back for the musical poles.”
I didn’t feel disloyal to The Admiral. He didn’t care for gymkhana games, he wasn’t built for it. His body was slow and cumbersome. He was a safe, hardy, sturdy mount, not given to spirited behaviour or flights of imagination. He had three definite paces: walk, trot and canter, but no variable speeds – The Admiral had never been known to gallop. Indifferent to most things, blind to embraces, deaf to endearment or abuse, he was entirely without vice or malice, but excessively single-minded and determined in pursuit of his sole interest in life – food. As long as it was edible, his small, bright eye missed nothing, the best clump of grass, a windblown apple, the weakest part of the fence to facilitate escape when the Vicarage paddock was bare and the hayrack empty. Despite the fact that he was what he was, I loved The Admiral, and sometimes felt ashamed of my lust for beautiful, thoroughbred horses; but although I could sympathise, in part, with Oliver’s defection, I was frightened for Simpson, who had never failed him, who was different from The Admiral, and I felt responsible. And so, committed to ride her in the next event, and already regretting it, I rode The Admiral back to the shade of the oak tree, leading S
impson at his side, whilst Oliver went to Mrs. Charity Ensdale, and Francesca, feeling herself betrayed by us both, rode away in umbrage.
SEVEN
“That’s Oliver’s pony!”
As I trotted Simpson towards the collecting ring, the least pleasant of Oliver’s rivals deliberately rode his flea-bitten grey into my path, blocking it.
“Yes,” I said, “I know.” I wondered if he thought I had taken the wrong pony by mistake, that I was such an imbecile I imagined it was The Admiral and not Simpson, I was sitting on.
“Does he know you’re riding it?”
“Well of course he knows.” I gave him a withering look, not liking to be thought dishonest, as well as mentally deficient.
“You mean he’s lent it to you?”
“He loaned her, she’s a mare, not an it.” I didn’t care for Sandy Headman. I didn’t like his pale, freckled skin, his small, calculating eyes, and the way his ginger hair was cut to within an inch of his scalp and shaved up the back of his neck. He had never before considered me worthy of his attention, and I didn’t appreciate his presumption now. Abruptly, I turned Simpson’s head aside, anxious to bring the conversation to an end.
“For the bending?” The calculating eyes were incredulous. It was clear he thought I was lying. The best of the games riders were proud of their ponies, and jealously possessive of their own particular partnerships, which had often taken years of practice and ring experience to cement. If I had searched my heart, I would have found that I knew this and might perhaps have understood why someone like Sandy Headman should doubt that Oliver would hand over Simpson to someone like me, who had never shown any particular promise whilst riding The Admiral, who had never stood in line with the regular winners – because Sandy Headman would never have handed over his flea-bitten grey to anyone, not under any circumstances. He would probably have murdered anyone who tried to place a foot in her stirrup.
“Look,” I said, exasperated, “Oliver offered Simpson to me for the bending because he’s riding another horse in the Equitation Class and it clashes.”
“Another horse? Whose horse?”
“I really don’t think it’s any of your business.” I urged Simpson on. Sandy Headman would have intercepted, kicking his pony forward, but Simpson was quicker, ducking out to the side, causing the grey to fling up her head as high as the knotted martingale would allow, rolling yellow-ringed eyes.
“You won’t win.”
Angrily, I stopped Simpson and turned in the saddle. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said you won’t win. It would be daft of you to think you could. The mare’s too bloody good for you.”
“I don’t expect to win, but thanks a lot for the encouragement.”
“You’re welcome.” He grinned, enjoying my reaction, “See you in the final – if you get that far.”
In the collecting ring, people I knew greeted me with astonishment, some with envy. Others stared openly or pretended not to notice, giving me covert, curious glances. Hope lit several faces as they realised that Oliver was not competing, even though Simpson was. However Simpson, with my legs at her sides, with my guiding hand on her reins, was no longer invincible, she was now merely another unknown quantity.
Francesca was still nowhere to be seen. Oliver I didn’t expect. I felt rigid with nerves and strained not to show it. Walking Simpson around the cramped little ring I felt certain that everyone could see that my whole body was shaking, and my sweating palms made the reins wet. I wiped my hands on my jodhpurs and was disconcerted to catch Sandy Headman’s eye. He grinned. I looked away, trying to be cool. Oliver is always cool, I told myself, if I’m to do him justice, if I’m to do Simpson justice, I must be like Oliver, I must be Oliver. I tried hard to feel like Oliver, but my heart was flying as I was carried forward in the rush to be selected for the first heat, and I was even more dismayed to find myself chosen, picked out to ride to the starting line in the gymkhana ring with five other competitors, mercifully none of them Sandy Headman.
Standing at the line with Simpson’s slightly ewe-shaped neck I front of me, her head, held much higher than The Admiral’s familiar one, sharply alert, her ears pointing like a terrier towards the line of poles, my rigid hands causing her to protest. She lifted her forelegs into the air, plunging forward in her anxiety to be away, inciting the other ponies to burst into a false start, wasting time while the Steward called them back to a chorus of groans from the ringside, until he could achieve a sensible line. This time I waited with the reins loosened, my hands pressed into the short-pulled, coarse mane, conscious now, of not one, but two, rapidly thudding heartbeats. Then suddenly the ponies leapt away and I was shocked by the speed of Simpson’s acceleration as the white stockings flew towards the poles and dived in amongst them. We were half-way down the line before I had recovered my wits sufficiently to gain control of a sort, dragging the mare round the end pole by her mouth, swinging her out wider, far wider than Oliver would have allowed, and weaving, flying, up through the poles, rediscovering my legs and my balance until, united at last, we streaked for the finishing line with hooves thundering on either side. But not fast enough to win the heat. Another pony had reached the line ahead of us.
Knowing it must have been perfectly clear to everyone watching that Simpson was a brilliant pony handicapped by an appallingly inept rider, I wanted to hide myself away immediately, I wanted to escape, and so I allowed her to plunge straight through the crowded collecting ring, not caring who I scattered in my haste to be away from the gymkhana ring, to be back safely under the oak tree with The Admiral. I only just heard the Steward as he bellowed “First two through to the semi-final!” and turned in confusion, dragging Simpson back to a walk, as I realised it was not over, that I had another chance. And this time, I promised the chestnut mare, leaning down her neck, rubbing her wiry coat with my knuckles, you won’t have to do everything, because I’ll be ready to do my part. This time I won’t let you down.
It was easier to be Oliver in the semi-final. Now that I had done it once I knew how to wait, with quiet hands, with my eyes on the Steward, leaning forward so that I should not be taken by surprise as Simpson dived away into the poles, and I was able to do my part, using my legs, my weight, my whole body instead of just my hands, swinging the mare tightly round the end pole, steering through towards the finishing line at a gallop and crossing it a length ahead of our nearest rivals. Victory was very sweet and as the yells and whistles which serve as applause for gymkhana games hotly contested died away, I looked to the ringside for Francesca, hoping that she had relented and come to give me her support, and saw instead, Oliver.
Oliver sat on the bay mare and it was clear that he had not joined in the rowdiness, he was too still, too intent, for that. There was no expression on his face that I could immediately recognise; not pleasure, not surprise, nor even resentment. At that particular moment, someone at my side offered congratulations and when I looked back, Oliver and the bay mare had gone.
When I re-entered the ring with Sandy Headman and two other ace games riders for the final, the panic started to return, turning my hands to stone on the reins, causing Simpson to fret as we waited at the line. Then it was Francesca who saved me, calling to attract my attention from where she stood with two bumper ice-creams, her previous annoyance forgotten. With total disregard for the importance of the moment, she grinned across at me and I was able to grin back and somehow pull myself together, loosening my grip upon the reins, even managing to fling a challenging look at Sandy Headman as we approached the start again at the request of the Steward and were off, flying, weaving, whipping round the end pole, racing for the finish, lying along our ponies’ necks, and it was Simpson, flinging out her front legs, who crossed the line first! What a triumph! And what a stupendously satisfying feeling as, with total disregard for Sandy Headman’s murderous expression, revelling in the tumultuous cacophony of yells and whistles, I ride out of the ring after the lap of honour and sought out Francesca with th
e red rosette hooked onto Simpson’s browband.
Even Francesca regarded me, over what remained of her ice cream, in a somewhat calculating manner, as if I must now be reconsidered as a person, reassessed as to my actual worth.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “if you really wanted to, if you tried, and provided you had a better pony than The Admiral, you could trounce Sandy Headman any day of the week.”
“But would I want to?” I jumped down from the saddle and loosened the girth before I accepted the soggy cornet. “And what would be the point, anyway, when Oliver is good enough for the three of us?”
“Oliver,” Francesca said, squinting through groups of people towards the main ring, “is at this very moment riding the Ensdale creature in the Equitation class, unless I am very much mistaken.” She presented the end of her cone to Simpson. “I suppose we had better watch?”
With Simpson trotting beside us, we made for the rails. I almost failed to recognise Oliver, he looked so different. He seemed much older and startlingly stylish in the borrowed tweed coat and the long, brown boots. Even the bowler hat suited him, and the bowler hat, in my estimation, improves very few people.
The bay mare was divine, swinging into a long, extravagant trot, gliding into a slow, rhythmic canter, galloping with a long, low stride. She was so beautiful it was almost unbearable to watch. “Oh,” I groaned in a hopeless voice, “if only I had the money.”
“Money for what?” Francesca frowned. “Whatever do you want money for?”
I watched Oliver bring the mare smoothly back to a canter, and from canter into trot. “To buy a horse like that, of course.”
“Oh.”
“Well, wouldn’t you? Buy a horse like that, I mean, if you had the money?”
As the horses in the ring dropped back into walk, Francesca considered it.
“No-oo, I don’t think I would.”
Flying Changes Page 5
