Flying Changes

by Caroline Akrill

  He said nothing, unwinding the plait, opening it out, combing it with his blunt fingers, picking out of it little pieces of strong brown thread.

  “I just wanted to say goodbye,” I said awkwardly, “and to let you know that I’m sorry to be leaving.”

  He moved onto the next plait. “Why leave then, Katie?” he said. “Why go then?”

  “I suppose I’m going because of Oliver,” I admitted, “because he wants me to. And the Count needs someone to work in his yard.” I sighed, wanting to be truthful. “And I may as well admit that I’m ready for a change.”

  “I could change things for you,” he said. “If there’s something you want changing, I could change it. You only have to say the word.”

  He carried on snipping at the thread. His hands were large for such a job, his fingers were too thick to hold the tiny scissors properly, but as I watched him, he cut only the thread, he did not cut through a single hair.

  “If it’s the horses you want to change …”

  “It isn’t that,” I said, “and if Oliver gave you the impression today … if he tried to lay any of the blame on you for what happened, then I apologise. I know it was my own fault entirely.”

  “But he’s right about the dodgy horses.” Sandy looked round at me and I saw with surprise how strained he looked, almost agonised. “I did have to agree with him about the horses.”

  “Well,” I said, “well, maybe …”

  “So I won’t give you any more dodgy horses, Kate,” he said, “We’ll find different ones for you – ladies horses, mannered ones.”

  “But Sandy,” I said, “I won’t be riding any more show horses, I’m leaving. I won’t be here!”

  “But I want you to be here,” he said, “I don’t want you to leave, you don’t have to.” To my embarrassment he looked at me almost pleadingly. “Don’t go with him, Katie. Stay with us. You can trust me, and I’ll do whatever you want, you only have to say the word and I’ll fix it. I’d look after you. I wouldn’t see you hurt, not for anything in the world.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t.” I could hardly believe that this was Sandy Headman speaking, it was so untypical.

  “Bloody hell, Katie!” He turned away, back to the middleweight’s frizzy mane, mortified, and full of gloom. “Look,” he said, “I don’t like saying this, it’s bloody painful, but what I’m telling you is that he doesn’t care about you, he can’t, otherwise he wouldn’t have left you behind before, he’s going to use you, just like he’s used everybody else. Oliver doesn’t care a toss for anybody, but I do, I care.”

  I looked at him in bewilderment. “You do!”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But Sandy,” I said in astonishment, “You …”

  “Yes,” he said in a wretched voice, “yes, I know.”

  Following the train of my thoughts he turned round to face me. “There was all that in the barn, I know about that, I’ve never stopped thinking about it, wishing I’d never done it, but Katie, it wasn’t personal, it wasn’t done to hurt you, it was done out of spite, it was …”

  “… against Oliver.” I nodded. “I knew that.”

  “The thing was, he was so bloody …”

  “… Yes.”

  “And he never bloody well …”

  “… Noticed.”

  “No.”

  “I do understand.”

  “Katie,” he said desperately, “don’t go with him, don’t.”

  “I have to,” I said. “He’s all I’ve got. I love him.”

  He looked at me for a moment, then turned back to the middleweight. I watched as he cut out the next few plaits with a deadly concentration. The middleweight stretched his neck, arching it, glad to be free from the restraint.

  “Goodbye Sandy,” I said. “I have to go. People are waiting.”

  “Oh,” he said. He rubbed his hands through the crinkled hair, massaging the roots, “You’re off now then, are you?” His attitude had completely changed. He might hardly have known me. “Just one thing then, before you go.”

  “Oh,” I said cautiously, “what’s that?”

  “The next time he kicks you in the bloody teeth, remember you can always cry on my shoulder,” he said.

  SIXTEEN

  In this way I had gone to work for the Count, in his immaculate, but small, purpose-built stable yard beside his beautiful, but typically extravagant Regency house with its balconies, its balustrading, and its formal garden overflowing with urns and statuary.

  Dressage at its most advanced level, High School, as it is called, is not a sport, it is quite definitely art, and like art, can be regarded either as an essentially cultured form of recreational activity, or as a rather expensive indulgence. This fact alone tends to set dressage apart from, some would say above, the rest of the horse world; and, of course, because there is precious little in the way of financial reward in dressage, a horse takes many years to train and its eventual value on the open market would by no means repay the hours of training involved, this guarantees its exclusivity to some extent. Thus, the appeal of dressage is limited to a rather specific person, probably best typified by the artistic, dedicated equine aesthete, preferably with time and money at his disposal.

  The Count had no more than ten or twelve horses in his yard at one time; ten when I arrived. These comprised an advanced horse which would be ridden only by Oliver or the Count himself, two horses at intermediate standard, one of which was at livery, three novices, two of them in the Count’s ownership, and the rest young horses at various stages in their training, one of which was unbroken.

  The horses were educated in the classical tradition, following closely upon the basic training methods of the Spanish Riding School, where the art of equestrianism has been developed to its highest form. Though not Lipizzaner, true to the Lipizzaner principle, they were not broken until their fourth year, and their education progressed very slowly and with great thoroughness.

  The first year was devoted entirely to introducing the horse to the saddle and bridle, the lunge, and the rider, with the aim of establishing a mutual confidence and to teach him to go straight and forward. In the second year, correct contact with the bit was established, and work on the circle and towards collection would increase balance, suppleness and muscle development. In the third year there was extension and lateral work, where the horse was taught to move not only forwards, but sideways at the same time, and the volte (a tight circle) and the rein back would be introduced. Finally, in the fourth year, and this only if the horse had progressed satisfactorily in the previous years and achieved its potential, training in the more advanced movements such as the flying change, the counter canter (ie cantering to the left with the right leg leading), the pirouette, and the piaffe and passage would begin.

  The ultimate movements of High School, the so-called ‘airs above the ground’ were not performed in the Count’s establishment. Surprisingly, because extravagance was in his very nature, he was scornful of them and considered them to be of no value whatsoever, maintaining that when the art of High School had reached its zenith in the sixteenth century, there had been sound reasoning behind the teaching of such equine acrobatics as the levade, the croupade and the courbette, because when performed in battle, they could save the cavalryman and his mount from the sword, the axe and the spear. Today however, he saw no sound reason to perform such movements, seeing no particular beauty in their execution and nothing beneficial in their attainment. Dressage to Count Von Der Drehler was totally concerned with developing the gaits of the horse to their fullest extent. The ‘airs above the ground’, viewed in this context, were totally superfluous.

  It was my job to look after the youngest horses in the stable and I was given the task of training an unbroken four-year-old under the personal supervision of the Count himself. I was soon totally engrossed and involved in this, working to establish a trust and basic discipline, introducing him (there were no mares in the yard, the Count considered them too emotional) t
o the saddle and bridle which was always first fitted in the familiar confines of the stable, and by degrees to the cavesson, the lunge rein, and thence to work on the lunge itself. I was relieved to find that this was not all that different to what I had been doing in the Ensdale yard, and that preparing horses for the show ring had been good training because I had already learned to be meticulous, to appreciate that no detail was small enough to be unimportant, and I was also gratified to find that I had been taught to lunge well because the Count was very strict about the way his horses were lunged, insisting that careless lunging could ruin a horse before anyone had even set foot to stirrup.

  It was pleasant and rewarding work, particularly as the horses I was working with had been selected with regard to their intelligence, conformation and equable temperament – what the horse actually thinks about performing dressage we do not know and will never properly discover, but in order to perform well, he must look as though he is enjoying himself, and no unwilling horse could ever excel in such a discipline.

  As my young horses were never worked for more than two half-hour sessions per day, I soon found myself being drawn into other activities in the establishment. One moment I might find myself assisting from the ground when one of the horses in its fourth year of training was being taught the piaffe, where he is required to spring from one diagonal to the other as if he is trotting on the spot; the next I might be called upon to lunge one of the riders who came for training, sending the horse trotting and cantering round whilst the rider performed suppling exercises without the benefit of reins or stirrups in order that the seat should become deep and strong and the hands and legs controlled enough to apply the aids precisely and independently. Eventually it was suggested that I embark upon several months of these lunge lessons myself, so that I should be able to join in the training sessions with the Count, and this I readily agreed to do. Not only was I engrossed and involved in my work, I was now intoxicated and entranced by the art of dressage.

  I knew already, of course, that the Count was a brilliant instructor. Watching him at work with his disciples, I could see that he was everything one could possibly desire and expect in a tutor. In turn he could be intimidating, theatrical, joyful, fierce, demanding and amusing, but he was never less than illuminating, and always inspiring, uplifting his pupils so they could astonish even themselves with their newly discovered ability. I immediately understood why he commanded such reverence, and why Oliver had determined to come here, whatever the circumstances, whatever the cost. And Oliver was good value. He was an outstanding pupil and the Count was proud of him, using him as an example to his pupils, as a showpiece to demonstrate movements to his classes, as the leading rider in his displays, as well as adopting him as his companion and confidante.

  Nor was the Count indifferent to me. He was so unfailingly kind and instructive, so genuinely interested in my welfare, and so anxious that I should further my education in horsemanship, that gradually I grew very fond of him, and I believe he was fond of me.

  One afternoon, I sat at his side in the small observer’s gallery of the indoor manège watching Oliver riding on the tan below. The horse was a seven-year-old black entire – black seemed to be a colour much favoured by the Count, unless it was just coincidence that the most promising horses he came across happened to be that colour. Fully developed and muscled, the horse Oliver rode was a magnificently powerful animal, emanating intelligence and vitality.

  Oliver had been teaching the pirouette, a turn at the canter in which the inner hind leg turns on the spot whilst the forelegs describe a bounding arc around the hindquarters. Count Von Der Drehler always insisted that his horses should be taught the pirouette from the canter in renvers (a lateral movement where the horse continues to move forward but with his forehand bent to the outside) on the square away from the walls, according to the method laid down by the classical riding master of France, Francois Robichon de la Guérinière, believing that it made it easier for the horse to understand what was expected of him, but it was still a difficult movement to execute correctly, demanding enormous control and concentration from both horse and rider. Oliver had been working the black entire for a month on this movement alone, and was now to demonstrate the horse’s progress by performing a passade (a very small turn in a half-volte, where the hindquarters move a smaller circle than the forehand), and renvers with a pirouette.

  The Count watched the horse intently as Oliver performed some lateral movements and voltes to assure himself of the entire’s attention, suppleness and obedience when; “You do realise, Kathryn,” he said somewhat unexpectedly, “that your brother, Oliver, is brilliantly gifted, that he is quite out of the ordinary, really most exceptional?”

  “Yes,” I said, “of course I realise it.” I glanced at him, wondering why he had thought to point it out when he knew perfectly well that I realised it. Today, a deep yellow scarf enlivened the anciently tailored melton jacket, waisted and skirted, that the Count wore above his habitual black breeches and boots. A rose of similar hue bloomed in his buttonhole.

  “I do not know what he will achieve. Even I cannot set a limit to the development of his talent.”

  He looked at me with the bright shrewd, deeply-set brown eyes that more than anything about him betrayed his foreign descent.

  “But I am aware that I have given him all the knowledge that I can give. I know, Kathryn, and I believe he knows,” he said, “that he will gain no more from me.”

  In silence we watched the black entire execute a perfect three-quarter pirouette through two corners of the manège, and pass the third in renvers. I did not reply to the Count. I was not sure what I should say. Below us, the black horse straightened and made a flying change, with Oliver’s disciplined legs at his sides, with his controlling hands on the reins.

  “He will need to go abroad very soon. If he is to maintain his progress, it is essential that he widens his experience. He should go to Germany, to France and to Vienna, perhaps to Sweden. There is always something to be learned from people who practise the same form of art.”

  Down in the manège, the entire was performing half pirouettes to the outside of the circle. Oliver’s face was rapt with an immense concentration. Nobody, nothing existed for him apart from the black horse between his thighs.

  “In this country, you see, Kathryn,” the Count went on, “we are too new to dressage. Your ancestors preferred the thrills of the chase and the racetrack, to the more academic pleasures of the High School. There is not the tradition here, there is not the depth of knowledge. There are not enough sufficiently knowledgeable and practised instructors. There are not even the horses …”

  “What are you trying to tell me?” I kept my eyes on the black horse, on the back bandaged legs as thy rose and fell with impeccable rhythm. Of course, I already knew what he was endeavouring in his tactful and intelligent manner, to convey. Oliver was planning to leave him. I felt despair begin to gather in my chest. Oliver had said nothing of this to me. And yet had I really imagined that he would stay with the Count for ever? When his knowledge had been utilised, exhausted, just as Charity Ensdale’s had been, had I thought he would choose to stay on, out of gratitude perhaps, out of compassion, out of love perhaps? Of course he would not.

  My eyes followed the black horse as he cantered onto the circle, was asked for a transition to trot, as he moved into walk and was allowed a loose rein. Now that the demonstration was over, Oliver leaned forward over the gleaming shoulder and rubbed the hard, muscled neck with his knuckles. He had not mentioned his plans to me. For all my hard work, for all my loyalty and my absolute faithfulness, he had not even granted me this and as I watched him reward the entire with love and caresses and grateful words, I was numbed by his treachery.

  “What I am saying is that offers have been made for him already,” the Count said. “I have not been informed of this, you understand, not by Oliver, at least. He has not chosen to discuss it with me, but I am not a fool, I am aware of what goes on
. I do know that offers have been made, and that so far they have been refused, but once the seed is sown and the soil is fertile, then it is only a matter of time. I am right, Kathryn, am I not, in my suspicion that none of these offers have been mentioned to you?”

  “You are right,” I managed to say, “nothing has been said. Oliver has not told me anything.”

  Below us, Oliver had halted the entire and he looked up towards the gallery enquiringly. The Count waved a hand to him in gratified acknowledgment of training meticulously accomplished, of movements impeccably executed. Oliver smiled and raised his whip in a salute before turning the black horse away.

  Count Von Der Drehler sighed.

  “It is as I expected. But you should know, Kathryn, that one day soon there will be an offer made that he cannot refuse. I know this is so because I have seen it happen before, and with people of far less talent than your brother. I am telling you this now, I am warning you, so that you may be prepared for it when it happens, so that you will have considered your own future and will know which direction to take, because it will happen. Oliver will leave soon. I am certain of it.”

  I stared down into the manège, not seeing anything, feeling devastated. It was a terrible shock to me to learn that my life was about to be turned upside down again and that I was powerless to do anything about it. I knew the Count had been right to tell me, and I also knew he was right to infer that it was time I started to plan my own life, to move out of Oliver’s shadow. And yet I was not sure that I could. Oliver was all I had. I needed him, and I wanted to believe that in his own way, he needed me. But was I fooling myself? And what of the Count? How did he feel about Oliver’s departure? Here was someone who also loved him, who had given much, and now had nothing more to give, and yet was wise enough and noble enough to allow that it was both inevitable and right that Oliver should leave in order to further his own ends.

  “And when it happens, when he does leave,” I asked him, “what about you? Will you mind?”