Flying Changes

by Caroline Akrill

  At a show, however, it was always easier to give the impression that she had the natural presence, the special air of gaiety and lightness required of a hack (whose original and exclusive purpose was to show off the prowess and elegance of its rider in the confines of a public riding area such as Rotten Row in Hyde Park), because there was plenty to arouse her interest, crowds of spectators, strange horses, flags and marquees, noisy banter from the trade stands, not to mention the occasional confrontation with main ring displays; motor cycles, sheep dogs, marching bands, even hot-air balloons sometimes.

  Most exhibits become accustomed to the bustle of the show ground eventually, it is only the minority who actively dislike and are upset by the atmosphere, requiring to be lunged and ridden-in for hours before they will settle, becoming fitter and more full of themselves as a direct result of it, and posing even more difficulties for the producer. With the white mare however the reverse was the problem. We had to take care that she did not lose her artificial sparkle, her unaccustomed élan, so the riding-in period was kept brief. A short period was spent trotting in brief circles to banish any stiffness which was the result of travelling. A few transitions were executed to give her balance and make her obedient. A little extension was attempted. After that, the riding-in was completed with a canter of a figure eight with a simple change, which means that when changing at the centre from one loop to the other the horse is drawn back into trot for a few strides and asked to canter off on the correct leading leg for the opposing circle, rather than effecting the change at the canter and in mid-air. This is the so-called flying change which is not normally required of a novice animal.

  There was to be no waiting about in the collecting ring either. Oliver had so timed the riding-in that I was able to walk straight into the main ring without any protracted standing about during which the white mare might fall into reverie. I found myself inside the rails and under the eye of the judges in no time at all, having had no opportunity to let my nerves get the better of me, and without even a moment in which to assess the quality of the competition. I knew only that there were eleven hacks in the class, and that according to Francesca, only four other exhibits constituted any threat at all to me, and then only if the white mare’s thoughts were allowed to wander.

  Everything went well to start with, the mare trotted with a low, level stride, bringing her hocks under, but without going into full extension. I had been instructed to save that for the individual display. I could feel the judges’ eyes upon her, and I had forgotten my previous anxiety about my ability to show a horse in the ring, all of my attention and every ounce of my concentration was summoned to display the mare to advantage, to keep the pace rhythmic, to maintain impulsion without any loss of apparent lightness, to make space amongst the other exhibits to enable the judges to see her properly, to keep an eye on the steward who was giving the instructions for changes of pace so that I could be properly prepared. It was quite a shock to see him wave, then urgently beckon as I cantered past him, and to realise that I was being called in to stand in second position in the preliminary placings, before we were sent out again individually to give our displays.

  Ultimately it was I who failed her. It was I who allowed my attention to be diverted in the few, valuable, supremely important minutes which followed. It was certainly my fault, but Oliver was not entirely blameless, because it was towards him that I glanced as I pushed the white mare into extension along the rails, and it was Oliver I saw, sitting in the front passenger seat of the Count Von Der Drehler’s gleaming car in its privileged ringside position, but he was not looking at me. He was listening intently to something the Count was explaining to him, describing to him with meticulous gestures of his expressive, aristocratic hands, and they were both of them rapt. Neither spared a glance for me.

  In that moment, in that very second, I saw one of those freckled, elegant hands brush Oliver’s cheek, with such an assured and gentle caress that I knew it had to be a lover’s touch. I knew then, of course, that Oliver was done with showing, that it was dressage he wanted, and if this was the price he had to pay he would pay it, and willingly. As I realised this and felt my throat tighten and the white mare’s stride flag beneath me, he looked up and saw me staring and from my expression he must have guessed that I knew he was planning to leave us, that I knew what was happening, why things were changing, and as I turned my face away, I seemed to feel my heart drop out of my body.

  The white mare was third in her class which was less than she deserved, but more than I could have expected, because the second half of my individual display might have been better ridden by an imbecile. It surprised me, when I thought about it later, that nothing was said at the time by either Francesca or Charity Ensdale. Perhaps they did not notice. Perhaps they did not realise that I was capable of a better performance, maybe they had not expected much of me at all. It was, when all was said and done, my very first attempt at showmanship. But I knew, and Oliver knew, why I came out of the ring with the yellow rosette, instead of the blue, or the red.

  TEN

  Oliver had to tell us eventually. Subsequent events might have been avoided had I previously warned Francesca, but the truth was that I could not talk about it. I did not want to believe that it was true. I had almost managed to persuade myself that I was mistaken, that dressage would not take Oliver away from us, that it was just a passing interest which would fade, leaving things exactly as they were. And so I said nothing to Francesca. I just waited to see what would happen.

  Because we had so many show horses in the yard, exercise was now achieved by two daily sessions, the first in the early morning, the other in the cool of the evening. All of us were involved in this, riding one horse and leading another along the lanes, never the same route twice in succession, and neither Francesca nor I minded it, it was relaxing and enjoyable for the horses and for ourselves.

  There is a distinction between exercise and work as made by the professional horseman which is not always fully understood by the amateur. Schooling is work, and the horse must learn to recognise it as such, allowing the trainer his fullest attention and cooperation. Work is not the occasion for any display of high spirits or wilfulness, and discipline is always totally enforced, with the stick if necessary. Exercise is quite different. During exercise, the horse is allowed to relax, to take an interest in his surroundings, to enjoy himself, and the discipline enforced is only that laid down by safety and good manners. By this, I do not mean that the horses were allowed to misbehave on these daily exercise sessions. They had already learned that bucking, kicking and boisterous behaviour were all very well in the paddock (where all of the horses and ponies, without exception, were given an hour or two of complete freedom every day), or even on the lunge where, though not actively encouraged, spirited displays went unpenalised, but were quite out of the question when there was a rider in the saddle.

  Exercise and freedom are essential if the horse is to be kept psychologically sound, but work and discipline make for performance and safety, and it is vital that the horse learns the difference between the two. The show horse who pulls himself together when he enters the ring, saying to himself, Ah, this is work, and out of habit, makes himself fully available to his rider, will consistently behave and perform, whereas another horse who recognises no such distinction, even though he may be every bit as beautiful and able, will throw away his chances time after time by his inattention.

  It was after one of these morning exercise sessions that Oliver told us. Charity Ensdale, for reasons we would later understand, had not been out that day, and Oliver and myself had taken three horses each, riding one and leading one on either side. Thus encumbered, there had not been much opportunity for conversation, and it was not until we had carried the saddlery into the tack room that Oliver said: “There is something I have to tell you, and I think it had better be now.”

  I had prayed that this moment would not arrive and I put my saddle down on the table, feeling the strength leav
e my arms. Francesca froze. She said in an agonised voice:

  “You’re not going to marry her, Oliver, you can’t.”

  It had never crossed my mind that Oliver would even consider it, and I was astonished that Francesca could believe he might. She had never voiced this fear to me, but then, being Francesca, she would have kept it to herself.

  “I have not the slightest intention of marrying anybody,” Oliver said.

  Francesca turned to look at him, relief flooded her face.

  “I am going to train for dressage with Count Von Der Drehler.”

  Now it was out in the open. Now it had been said. I had been warned, of course, I was half-prepared, but Francesca was not. Nor did she fully comprehend the implications of what had been said.

  “We know that,” she told him, “you’ve been training with him for ages.”

  “But now,” Oliver said, “I am going to leave the yard altogether. I shall live with Eugene. I shall be his protégé.”

  There was a silence whilst Francesca took in this information, then:

  “Leave the yard altogether?” she said in an incredulous voice, “Leave the show horses?” Her grey-green eyes widened with consternation and alarm, “But Oliver, you can’t do that!”

  Hooking the two snaffle bridles he was carrying onto the cleaning bracket which was suspended from the ceiling, Oliver looked at her with amusement, “And why not, may I ask? By whose permission am I to be allowed to organise my own life?”

  “It isn’t a matter of permission, it’s a matter of obligation! What about the horses, who is going to ride them? What about the clients, how are we going to keep them without you here? What about us?” Francesca cried.

  “Francesca,” I warned, “there isn’t any point in making a fuss. He will do it, you know he will, and we shall manage. We shall have to manage, and somehow, I’m sure we will.”

  “Of course you will,” Oliver said, “some of the hunters may have to go back, but Kathryn is perfectly capable of riding the hacks, and you will still have the ponies. I am confident that you will manage perfectly well.”

  Francesca stared at him. Her face was flushed scarlet, and this time it was not relief, it was anger that was the cause of it.

  “I see. So you are confident we will manage perfectly well, are you, just like that? Well, I’m not so confident, Oliver, in fact, I’m not confident at all,” she said furiously, “I’m not even sure we even want to manage! I think you are forgetting who brought us here, who got us into this, because it was a step up from gymkhana games. You were responsible for that, Oliver, and now, because you’ve seen something better, you think you can walk out, leaving us to manage as best we can, leaving us to pick up the pieces, well, you can’t go! You SHAN’T!”

  The next minute she had hurled herself across the tack room, flailing at him with her fists, beside herself with fury.

  Oliver fended her off easily, catching her wrists, forcing her arms down, holding onto her until she gave up the struggle bursting into hysterical sobs.

  “I shall go,” he said in a calm voice, “so you may as well get used to the idea.”

  “You know we can’t stop him,” I said, “however much we may want him to stay, we just can’t. No amount of fuss or fighting will change his mind.”

  “Oh, I know that,” Francesca pulled free and backed off, rubbing her reddened wrists. ”Nobody can make you do anything, can they Oliver? You always get it your way, don’t you? It’s always on your terms. It’s always been the same. Go here because Oliver has planned it, do it this way because Oliver says so. It’s never because we want, because we say, is it, Oliver?”

  Oliver looked at her in exasperation, but “I suppose it has sometimes been like that,” he admitted.

  “Sometimes, SOMETIMES?” Francesca screamed, “It’s always been like that, ALWAYS!”

  “Francesca,” I said warningly, “Francesca, don’t …”

  I went to comfort her, but she would have none of it, she pushed me away. “Don’t touch me, Kathryn,” she shouted, “I know you’re on his side! You knew, didn’t you? You knew what he was up to, but you didn’t think to tell me about it? Oh no! You’re just as bad as he is!” She turned venomously back to Oliver. “I loathe you, Oliver Jasny, I just want you to be sure you know that. I think you are despicable. You brought us here, you didn’t care how people talked, how they pointed fingers at us. We had to live that down, we worked hard to earn our keep, to be useful, and now what?” Her voice rose to a pitch of hysteria, “Charity Ensdale will throw us out now, that’s what! But you won’t care, will you, Oliver? You won’t care because you’ll be alright, you’ll be doing DRESSAGE!” With tears streaming down her face, she grabbed Sinbad’s bridle from its peg and raced outside.

  I went to follow. Oliver tried to hold me back.

  “Don’t go after her,” he ordered, “Let her get it out of her system. She will get over it.”

  “She won’t,” I said, “Not this time.” I pulled away. “You don’t understand Francesca, you never have. Can’t you see that she’s frightened? She loves the ponies, she loves the children, and they love her. At last she’s found something she really wants to do, that she’s good at, and you Oliver, you haven’t even noticed!”

  I reached the paddock as Francesca, white-faced and shouting incoherently, flung herself onto Sinbad’s back and set him flying towards the drive and the lane, his eyes popping with astonishment, his bushy tail twirling. The Admiral was an unsuitable mount for pursuit. By the time I caught up with them the energetic, endearing little roan was energetic no longer, he was dying on the roadside, having been hit by a car whose unsuspecting driver had had no opportunity to avoid him.

  When Oliver came, and come he did, we faced him together, Francesca and I, bloodsoaked and shocked and weeping, the dead pony lying between us. If he had shown any sign of remorse, of guilt, or compassion, we might have survived it, we might have mourned together, the three of us, but he did not. He looked down at the pony, and across it to where we stood, holding onto each other, and his face was like a glacier.

  “Oh no,” he said, “do not imagine you can blame me for this. I will not be held responsible.”

  Less than a week later he moved in with the Count.

  ELEVEN

  “Simon Hooper’s here, he’s come to return the bridle.” I put my head round the tack room door where Francesca was dunking bits and stirrups in time to see her expression change from incredulity to annoyance.

  “And there’s no point in going on,” I warned, “you might try to be friendly. It is in your own interest, after all.”

  “Oh,” Francesca said in an unpromisingly truculent tone, “is it?”

  Simon Hooper, in green wellingtons, cords and ancient Barbour jacket, stood in the yard holding the bridle – or what was left of the bridle.

  “I don’t know why you bothered,” Francesca said when she saw it, “it’s useless now, it must be broken in sixteen places at least.”

  “Fourteen,” he said.

  “The bit’s all right,” I pointed out swiftly, “we can still use that.”

  “The bit,” said Francesca, holding up the bridle in order to display the leatherwork which was stretched, snapped and crusted with mud, “isn’t a lot of use without the rest of it.”

  “I could offer to buy you a new one,” Simon Hooper said, “but I don’t think I will. It wasn’t really my fault. As I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, I could hardly be expected to know there was something tied to the back of my Land Rover.”

  “There was a pony tied to the back of the Land Rover, and had it been wearing a nylon bridle, you could have pulled its head off,” Francesca snapped, “that wouldn’t have been your fault either, I suppose?”

  Simon Hooper appeared to consider it. He probably realised that even nylon bridles have their breaking-point, and I could tell he found the situation ridiculous, but knew better than to smile in the face of Francesca’s indignation.

 
“I will pay half the cost of a new bridle,” he offered.

  This seemed overgenerous to me in the light of the fact that the bridle had been attached to his vehicle by one of our pupils and without his knowledge.

  “Oh, nonsense,” I said, “what does a broken bridle matter?”

  “What does it matter?” Francesca turned to me in indignation, “Of course it matters,” she said. “You’ll be saying next it doesn’t matter that he set up a crow-scarer next to the bridleway, frightening my animals out of their wits and losing me half of my regular Saturday clients? I’ll say it matters. Don’t you care that they could have been injured? Don’t you realise somebody could have been killed?”

  I was not at all disposed to enter into that argument again, and neither, it appeared, was Simon Hooper.

  “All right,” he conceded, “I admit that I was responsible for the crow-scarer, and to site it so close to the bridleway was an error of judgment on my part. So to save any more argument, let me pay for the whole of the bridle, including the bit, and then perhaps we can forget the whole thing.”