A Hoof in the Door (Eventing Trilogy Book 2) Page 4

  “So even if we get the dressage saddle and the jump stands with the money we already have,” Nigella mused, “we still need another saddle and bridle, which will cost us almost as much again.”

  “I could use one of the old hunting saddles,” I said. “Even the one I’m using now would do at a pinch, but it’s very straight in the seat, and not at all forward cut. It isn’t really built for the job.” I didn’t add that the stirrup leathers had a distressing tendency to fly off backwards when Legend took one of his unexpected, exaggerated leaps, and that the girth straps were cracked and withered.

  “You can’t go without the proper equipment,” Nigella said, “it would look unprofessional, and I’m sure it would affect your performance.” She thumbed through Training the Event Horse until she came to the chapter on saddlery. “A general purpose saddle with a reasonably deep seat and knee and thigh rolls, is essential for the comfort and safety of both rider and horse,” she read.

  “So we shall have to do a bit more fund raising,” Henrietta declared. She jumped up and vanished into the squalid little scullery which served as our office and returned with a folded schedule which she placed triumphantly upon the table. “And Rendlesham Horse Show might be just the place to do it!”

  “Rendlesham Horse Show?” Nigella said, interested. “Might it really?”

  I looked at the schedule, not at all sure that Rendlesham Horse Show was a good idea. Henrietta leaned over my shoulder and flipped back her hair, giving the programme of events her very closest attention.

  “We can enter the mare-who-sometimes-slips-a-stifle in the ladies’ hunter class,” she decided. “That’s fifty pounds, and another fifty if she wins the championship.”

  “She couldn’t win the championship,” Nigella objected, “not possibly. The bigger horses always win.”

  “And the bad-tempered chestnut in the riding horse class,” Henrietta went on. “He may not always go very sweetly, but no-one could deny that he’s exactly the right stamp …”

  “But the bad-tempered chestnut’s coat isn’t through,” I said. “We were saying only this morning how terrible he looks.”

  “And look at this!” Henrietta’s finger stabbed at the schedule. “A working hunter class! It’s just the thing for Legend; and look at the prize money – seventy five pounds, and a trophy. We could sell it, it might be worth hundreds!”

  “You can’t sell a perpetual challenge trophy!” Nigella cried in horror. “It has to be given back after a year!”

  “But you must enter the working hunter class, Elaine,” Henrietta insisted. “After all, it could be regarded as part of your training.”

  This was true. It would be good experience for Legend to jump in the ring, and the fences would be soundly constructed, solid and natural. I resigned myself to some fairly blatant pot-hunting. Nigella was already filling in the entry form. “Pity we haven’t got a horse who can really jump,” she said, thoughtfully, “the prize money is so much better.”

  “But then we would have to join and register with the BSJA,” I pointed out, “otherwise you can’t compete.”

  “That’s true,” Nigella agreed, “it’s best to stick to the show classes.”

  Henrietta picked up the schedule and sat down in her chair, still perusing it. “Did you notice that there’s a private driving class?” she said. “I don’t suppose …”

  “No,” Nigella said flatly. “Certainly not.”

  “We’ve done with driving,” I said. “We haven’t a vehicle any more, and anyway, The Comet’s done his bit for the Training Fund.”

  “Ah, well,” Henrietta said regretfully, “as you wish.”

  5

  Show Business

  “Will exhibitors in class five, ladies’ hunter, mare or gelding, please make their way to the collecting ring?”

  As the announcement was relayed across the showground, I secured Nigella’s coiled-up hair with a couple of long pins, helped her to fit the veil over the brim of the silk hat, and pinned on to her lapel the smallest of creamy yellow roses to match her primrose waistcoat. The result was absolutely stunning. The navy side-saddle habit, cut narrower in the sleeve, tighter in the waist, and longer in the apron than was now fashionable, had belonged to Lady Jennifer when, in her youth, she had ridden with the cream of Leicestershire.

  Henrietta looked up from the mane of the mare-who-sometimes-slipped-a-stifle with a plaiting needle in her mouth. “Where’s that fool Doreen, with the numbers?” she managed to say. “She’s going to make us late.” She stuck the needle in her jersey and stood on tip-toe in order to nip the dangling piece of thread from the very last plait with her teeth.

  Doreen appeared at my side as she spoke, trailing numbers and white tape and looking gormless. She was a thin, pale schoolgirl with a floppy page boy haircut, who helped out in the stables whenever she could in return for the part livery of her chestnut pony. “Everybody’s here,” she informed us, “even the hunt. That Mister Forster, Elaine, he wanted to know if you was here. I told him you was.”

  “You were supposed to have been running an errand for us, not gossiping with the hunt,” Henrietta said irritably, turning over the numbers and squinting at the secretary’s crabbed writing to discover which was to be attached to Nigella.

  I heaved the suede-seated side-saddle on to the mare-who-sometimes-slipped-a-stifle and wondered if I would have an opportunity to talk to Forster. He would be pleased, I knew, to hear that I had posted off my application for the Hissey scholarship.

  We put Nigella up on the saddle, straightened her apron, and snapped the elastic over her boot. She pulled up the mare’s girths as we set off through the horse-boxes towards the flags and marquees which surrounded the main ring.

  Rendlesham Horse Show was held in a clearing hewn out of the forest, and the air was filled with the scent of resin and the sharpness of the sea. Years of falling pine needles had left the ground dry and naturally resilient, carpeted with short, soft grass, and the result was a perfect all-weather riding surface.

  The bay mare arched her glossy neck with its border of tight, black plaits, and lengthened her stride, appreciating the going. As we had expected, there was not another horse in the collecting ring that could hold a candle to her.

  “She’s sure to win,” Henrietta muttered, “providing the leg holds out.”

  Inside the ring the two hunter judges signalled that they were ready to begin. Nigella, displaying a smart piece of showmanship, managed to be the first inside the rails.

  It was years since I had been to a horse show. I stood at the ringside with Doreen and Henrietta, drinking in the half-remembered sights and the smells and the sounds of it; the elegant hunters walking out in front of the sparkling white rails, the banks of spring flowers around the grandstand, the huge marquees, and the row of little trade stands with their pennants fluttering angrily in the breeze. The ground vibrated with the thud of hooves, and from an adjacent ring came the regular crash of show-jumping poles accompanied by sympathetic moans from the crowd who stood six deep at the ropes. From the members’ tent came the muted sound of laughter and the chink of glasses, and the occasional whiff of beer mingled with the scent of pine and bruised turf and the heady tang of the sea.

  Just as the ladies’ hunters were about to be waved on into a trot, everyone was asked to hold back in order to accommodate a late arrival.

  “Oh no,” Henrietta exclaimed in disgust, “It’s the landlord’s daughter.”

  The landlord’s daughter was Janie Richardson, who hunted with the Midvale and Westbury, and was greatly admired both for her looks and the quality of her horses. Her father was a rich publican, and her most striking feature was a mass of coal-black hair permed into a vast and solid frizz. It was a miracle that the frizz managed to fit under a silk hat, but she had flattened it down somehow and imprisoned it into a bun at the back of her neck, although as she trotted past us I saw that fetching little spirals had drifted onto her blush-tinted cheeks. The landlord’s daught
er was very pretty in a stagey sort of way, but she was not beautiful like Nigella, nor as elegant, but Henrietta groaned. “If there’s any horse that could match up to the bay mare,” she said, “it’s Janie Richardson’s Summer Nights.”

  When Janie Richardson had found a space, the hunters were allowed to trot on, and the judges gave their attention to Summer Nights. He was a nicely-made blue roan which turned to black on his face and his legs, and he had a white mane and tail which gave him a fairy-tale quality, enhanced by his pretty rider with her coal-black locks. The judges then turned back to Nigella and the bay mare, and it was clear they were comparing the two. Henrietta fumed, furious that Janie Richardson had turned up.

  The steward waved the class on into canter. The mare-who-sometimes-slipped-a-stifle cantered off smoothly, with professional ease. She was no stranger to the show ring, having been many times a champion before she had suddenly and inexplicably begun to slip her stifle out of joint. When her owners had discovered that her disability was as incurable as it was unusual, they had sold her as a brood mare, only to have her returned as barren. Thus the Fanes had bought her for a song to join their stable of cut-price, slightly imperfect hirelings.

  The canter sorted the class out in no uncertain manner. Some of the bolder horses began to yaw and pull, sweating up in anticipation of the gallop they knew was to come. One of them managed to get its head down in order to give three huge consecutive bucks right in front of the judge. Its rider, with any hopes of a prize dashed, asked permission to retire, and rode out through the collecting ring, her shoulders bowed with disappointment.

  The mare-who-sometimes-slipped-a-stifle galloped like a dream, long and low, with strides that ate up the ground. She steadied and balanced herself beautifully on the corners, and she fairly flew down the straight, with Nigella sitting on top looking charming and aristocratic, and as cool as a cucumber. The glory of this was entirely missed by Henrietta, who kept her eyes glued to the mare’s hindleg, as if she expected it to drop off at any moment.

  To our chagrin, Summer Nights galloped just as well, and we were in an agony of apprehension as the class came back to a walk, and the judges conferred on their preliminary placings. They looked at Nigella and the mare-who-sometimes-slipped-a-stifle for a long time, but they pulled Summer Nights in first.

  Doreen let out a squawk of dismay. “It’s not fair,” she complained. “Our horse is much nicer than that one; it looks as if it should have rockers on it.”

  I could see her point. “But the class isn’t over yet,” I told her. “The judge has to ride them and see them run up in hand.”

  “If Nigella just gets the second prize,” Henrietta grumbled, “we shall only get twenty pounds instead of fifty.” It sounded anything but sportsmanlike.

  When the line had assembled, the judges asked Janie Richardson to ride out in order to give them an individual display. Summer Nights performed impeccably, trotting out with a long and level stride, striking off into canter on the right leg, and stretching out into a sweeping gallop. But when the riding judge was put up into the saddle, he became a different horse. Whether it was the extra weight he objected to, or her heavy-handed way of riding, was not altogether clear; but he completely lost all his fluent, forward-flowing movement. He trotted with an over-collected chopped stride, he cantered sideways like a crab, and when he was asked to gallop, all he could achieve was an agitated tail-swirling scuttle. Janie Richardson covered her eyes in shame and we knew that it was all over for Summer Nights.

  Even though all this was to our advantage, Doreen and I felt sorry for Janie Richardson, but Henrietta was openly delighted. “Serves her right,” she chortled, “for coming in late.”

  The bay mare, who was used to strangers clambering into her saddle, gave the riding judge a superb ride; you could tell that she was enjoying every minute, and that the uncomfortable ride she had had on the first horse only heightened her appreciation of the second. Even the in-hand display went without a hitch. It was no surprise at all when Nigella was handed the red rosette. Doreen gave a little shriek of joy, and Henrietta rubbed her hands in satisfaction. “That’s our first fifty pounds in the bag,” she said. I knew it was for the Training Fund, but it sounded terribly mercenary.

  The bay mare led the winners in their lap of honour, with her polished hooves flying over the turf and the satin rosette fluttering on her bridle. When we caught up with Nigella in the collecting ring, a gentleman in a camel-hair coat was asking if she would care to name a price for the mare.

  Nigella, knowing full well that the horse had never been sound for longer than a month at a time, smiled down upon him with regret. “I’m sorry,” she said graciously, “but I’m afraid that we could never bear to part with her.”

  The gentleman, who was very taken with Nigella’s beautiful face, and her hand-span waist in the old-fashioned habit, shrugged his camel-hair shoulders in good-natured resignation and patted her boot in an affectionate manner. He was glad, he was heard to remark as he walked away, that there were still people left in the world to whom money wasn’t everything.

  Henrietta, dressed for her class in my best two-way stretch breeches, my Weatherall tweed with the velvet collar, and my deep-pile high-crown hat, with her hair in two long plaits tied with velvet ribbons, looked extremely smart. The bad-tempered chestnut, who had looked like an advanced case of moult, had been newly clipped for the occasion; with his neatly pulled tail and his plaited mane, he resembled the ideal riding horse, but in temperament he was nothing like one.

  The trouble was that the bad-tempered chestnut loathed and detested other horses. He loathed and detested them all, quite without exception, and every morning, given half a chance, he would launch himself at his stable companions with a hatred undimmed by familiarity. When we led him out of the horsebox at the show there were so many horses for him to hate all at once, that he didn’t know which way to turn. He contented himself with flattening his ears, arching his neck, and grinding his teeth.

  “If only he didn’t have that nasty spiteful look in his eye,” Doreen moaned, “he’d be such a pretty horse.”

  The bad-tempered chestnut replied to this by letting fly with a back leg, catching Doreen on the shin.

  “Ooooow!” she wailed. “He’s kicked me, the horrible thing!”

  “Then you shouldn’t walk behind him when I’m saddling up,” Nigella told her in a reasonable voice. “You know what he’s like.”

  When we reported to the collecting ring, the show programme was running fifteen minutes late. The steward, who was looking harassed, informed us that the riding horse class would begin just as soon as the hunt had given their display.

  “Oh,” said Henrietta, crossly, “how annoying. I rather wanted to get this over with.” The bad-tempered chestnut was being an absolute beast, hopping from foot to foot, with his chin pressed against his chest, hoping that one of the other horses would come within striking distance of his back legs so that he could get a shot at it.

  “I’m beginning to wonder if this was such a bright idea after all,” said Nigella, in a voice of foreboding.

  Above the crowd I caught a glimpse of scarlet. William and Forster and the huntsman were advancing across the showground with a path opening in front of them and the bitch pack at their horses’ heels. When the bad-tempered chestnut saw them, he completely exploded, whether from anger or excitement one couldn’t really tell. He flew backwards into the ring and began to plunge up and down in a succession of rapid Croupade and Courbettes, to the vast amusement of the ringside, some of whom applauded as Henrietta stuck gamely to the saddle with her plaits flying, rating him with some rather unladylike language.

  The bitch pack flowed into the ring in a wave of lemon and white as the commentator began his introduction to their parade. “The Midvale and Westbury hounds, one of our oldest Suffolk packs of fox-hounds, with their huntsman, Tony Welby, and their whippers-in, have kindly consented to be with us today …”

  Henrietta, findin
g herself to be a reluctant participant in the parade, and looking distraught, finally raised her stick and gave the bad-tempered chestnut a mighty thwack on his ribcage. As she expected, he stopped leaping up and down and shot forward, but even Henrietta could not have foreseen what happened next.

  As Forster rode past, flicking his whip to bring up a loiterer, the bad-tempered chestnut recognized a well-known adversary, whipped round before Henrietta could stop him, and planted two hind shoes firmly in the chest of Forster’s grey. The grey, shocked and horrified by such unexpectedly anti-social behaviour, leapt backwards into the pack, scattering hounds left and right to a chorus of yelps and howls of anguish. He cannoned tail-on into William's cob, who rocketed forward with such velocity that William was left sitting on the grass, only yards from Forster who, precipitated over the shoulder of his grey, had landed spread-eagled like a starfish.

  All this had happened within the space of half a minute and the commentator, struck all of a heap by the turn of events, could only struggle with a few disjointed sentences. “… Hunting the country from the coast to … seems to have been a mishap … catch the loose horses before they … hounds … seems to be the end of the …” The rest was mercifully drowned by the band who manfully struck up into If You Were The Only Girl in the World. It seemed singularly inappropriate as Henrietta crept out of the ring leading the bad-tempered chestnut, and the huntsman galloped after William’s cob, who had high-tailed it into the collecting ring, and was causing havoc amongst the assembled riding horses.

  The crowd, who had relished every second of this unplanned and hair-raising pantomime, now gave its entirely sympathetic attention to Forster who, tight-lipped, and rubbing his hip, limped after his grey who in the infuriating manner of horses who suspect that they have the momentary advantage, snatched mouthfuls of grass with a cautious eye in his direction and strolled to a new patch as he approached, always managing to be fractionally out of reach.