Well, I used to be frightened of horses - until I got to know Star, my teenage friend Maggie's horse. Bit by accident you might say. This is an excerpt from 'Homicide in Hampshire'..........
Once parked – well away from the
village, I might add – I discarded the tunic (don’t want to scare the horses do
we?) and changed into my sensible walking shoes. I made sure my baby was locked then began
walking along a footpath towards what seemed to be a nearby copse.
“Whew!” I paused about halfway. “That’s a lot further away than what I
thought.” I stood there, arms akimbo (I
tend to do that) and looked around at the gorse-covered heathland with
occasional small stands of trees. As my
eyes became used to the scenery, I could see quite a few horses in the area
quietly grazing, some with growing foals.
I shivered with fear and thought, “Shall I go back to the car? No, come on, be brave,” I chided myself. “They won’t hurt you. Think of them as like dogs. If dogs think you’re scared they’ll play up
but if you ignore them they leave you alone.
Come on, it’s only because you’ve never been close to a horse.”
With that I continued my
walk. As I was nearing the copse I could
see a saddled horse cropping the grass and wondered where the rider was. “Oh gawd, don’t tell me someone’s fallen off
and broken a leg or something,” I muttered.
I looked hard at the horse, it
moved and I got the back view. “’Ere,
horse, turn round I want to get a look at your front.” Keeping me distance I moved slowly round
until I could see its face. “I thought
so. You’re Maggie’s horse, aren’t
you?” I remembered seeing it in a photo
Paula had shown me. “Now what the heck’s
your name?” The reins were hanging down,
“Come on, Cleo, be brave. Be brave.”
I inched towards the horse. It inched away. I got a little closer and he moved away
again. “Oh for gawd’s sake, come ‘ere! I want to take hold of those reins before you
break your bloody leg. Now, come
‘ere!” Surprisingly the horse did “come
‘ere”. I got hold of the reins. “Now what do I do? I’m not getting up on top of you even if I
knew how.
“Come on, where is she? You’re Maggie’s horse. Where’s Maggie. Come on, show me where she is.” I was actually thinking of the horse as being
like a dog.
I began walking into the copse,
the horse quite close behind and getting uncomfortably close. I could almost feel it nudging me and I broke
out in a cold sweat. “Don’t get too
close, horse. Don’t run away with me,
either. Hang on a minute.” I stopped and it stopped. We both listened.
I could faintly hear the sound of
sobbing. The horse whickered (I think
that’s what that noise is called) and flicked his ears. “That’s her, innit? Come on, horse, here we go. You lead her to me.” I stood to one side of the footpath and let
it go forward and take the lead.
Margaret was sitting on the
ground nursing a foot, her helmet on the ground beside her and her fair hair
like a waterfall over her face.
“So why didn’t you use your
mobile and phone your mother?”
She shoved her hair back as she
looked up and whispered, “Battery’s flat.”
“How clever can you be! So you’ve fallen off your horse. Please don’t tell me you’ve broken your
ankle.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” she sobbed.
“You hold your horse and I’ll
look at your ankle.” I handed over the
reins and struggled to get down onto my knees.
That’s not an easy feat at my size, as you can imagine. Neither is it a pretty sight. While the horse nuzzled his mistress I got
hold of her foot. “I don’t know how
we’re going to get this boot off. Can
you wiggle your toes?”
“Yeah.”
“Well it’s not broke then. Probably twisted or sprained. Come on, let’s get you up. I’m quite sure your horse will help you
though how I’m going to get up I have no idea.”
The sight of me crawling towards a tree and using it to stand up was
enough to bring a smile of amusement to her face and to forget her own
woes.
“Right, your turn.” I managed to get her standing on her good
foot. “Now how are we going to get you
onto the horse?”
“Dunno.”
“Shall we see if we can get you
up there? Or do you want to walk him and
hang on to me?”
I could see the indecisiveness in
her face – features that would one day be like her mother’s. It would be a strain getting up on the horse
but then again, it would be a strain to have to accept help from the woman she
had labelled “gangster’s moll”.
“Come on, love, I’m not going to
hurt you. I think we ought to try and
get you up on the horse. Let’s see if we
can find something for you to stand on so you can hop up on. Seen any fallen trees around?”
“There might be something over
there.” She nodded to her left.
“Okay. Come on.”
We hobbled over to a conveniently fallen tree trunk and managed to get
her on to that – standing on one foot.
“How’re you going to get onto the horse?”
“I can put my good foot in the
stirrup and throw my other leg over if you can hold me steady.”
“Right. Hang on.”
After a bit of a struggle to find the best way for me to stand to
support her while she hopped over onto the horse we eventually managed it. “Right, love, do you think you’re alright to
go home like this or do you want to come out the car park? We can put you into the car and tie up the
horse. No one’s going to pinch him are
they?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Right. So we get the horse tied up, I’ll take you
home and bring your Mum out to collect the horse.”
“Alright.” A very abject Maggie agreed to the plan and
we trooped slowly back to the Roller.
Then there was the problem of getting her off the horse but it seemed to
know what was expected of it and, together with the aid of me and the car, she
was down and onto the back seat.
“I’m going to tie your horse up
to that tree over there. Is that
alright?”
“Do you know how to tie a knot to
hold it?”
“It’s alright, love, I was a Girl
Guide. Done me knots.”
Back at the car she was in tears,
presumably shock. Not being of a
maternal disposition I wasn’t quite clear what to do. I got into the front passenger seat and
turned around to rest my arms on the back of it. I usually keep the glass wall down. I think of it as only for the posh people so
they can cut themselves off from the chauffeur.
“Hey, come on love, it can’t be
as bad as that. It’s only a sprain.”
She hiccuped, “You don’t know
that.”
“That it’s a sprain? Course I do.”
“Not that.” She scrubbed her hazel eyes with a sodden
handkerchief.
I found a packet of tissues in
the glove box and threw them to her, “Cop hold,” and waited until she’d had a
good blow and, hopefully, recovered from her bout of crying.
“So, Maggie…”
“Margaret,” was the truculent
interruption.
I sighed. “Okay, Margaret. What’s really wrong?” As if I didn’t know it was something else.
“None of your business,” was the
muttered response.
“I know. Just call me nosy. So what’s wrong? Had a row with the boyfriend?”
She looked panic-stricken
realising there was no escape from this interfering old bat. “No.”
“So?” I waited patiently.
Eventually, “It’s worse.”
I stayed silent, thinking she was
going to say she was preggers, then it came out in a rush and I got the
shock. “He’s dead.” Then came more tears. I hoped it wasn’t who I was thinking.
Was it Dan Spencer? If so, what was he doing with an under-age
girl? I sincerely hoped it wasn’t what I
feared. Tread very carefully, Cleo, I
warned myself.
