it. Keep out! Silent in the autumn moonlight. Been standing there since who knows when? The odd bulge of the disused bread-oven poking out in to the road like the bum of a giant squatting in the end wall of the house.
I’ve got a good two hours of work to get through before daylight. Finisher and his mate Ashway hear me opening the road gate and they whinny softly. This is enough to start the cows moaning, even though they know it’s too early for them yet. I light the kerosene lamp in the stable and close the door behind me. The soft light reveals the cobbled floor and the ashen stall-trees, their wood polished to a deep honey gloss by the rubbing of generations of hunters and plough horses. It’s warm in here. The air rich with the acid smells of horse dander, piss, dung and meadow hay. Kabara is stationary in the shadows. Watching me. Making no welcome. The two geldings lean out and stretch for my hands, glad to see me. Ashway’s not coming with us. I’ll be riding Kabara, and Tiger will begin the day on Finisher. I get on with feeding them before I do anything else. Kabara and Finisher will need time to eat their fill.
Kabara’s edgy. His breathing is noisy and shallow. It’s the first time he’s spent the night here and he knows there’s something unusual being organised. He’s not sure what’s going to happen to him. But it’s not only that. It’s me too. I just hope he got some rest during the night. He’s watchful. Staring at me and reacting to my every move. Maybe I should let the Tiger know that he has misjudged this stallion’s temperament. Try and explain to him how it’s come about that he’s made this mistake. Do it in a way that doesn’t make him feel that I’m questioning his judgement. Maybe this great horse could come to some harm? I know Kabara’s capable of deciding that no one’s going to get near him. He’s capable of extreme behaviour, of forgetting all his schooling and deciding things for himself. In other words, of being so strong about his life that he becomes a rogue stallion. A danger. And you may as well call that the end of him. But how would I approach the Tiger?
I clean out Finisher’s stall first. Then I go over with my dung-fork and unlatch Kabara’s door. He’s shown no interest in his feed. He is totally alert and on his guard. I hesitate to go in there with him. For almost two months I’ve taken his trust for granted. Now he’s withdrawn it. For the moment anyway, and I’m afraid of him. He keeps moving around, shifting his weight from side to side and from his front legs to his hind legs with a stiff series of short movements. Continuously positioning and repositioning himself, in any split second ready to strike.
I don’t want to die yet but I’ve got to get in there and clean out his stall. ‘Everything’s just normal,’ I say, ‘so there’s nothing to worry about,’ and I edge in through the half-door. My voice sounds watery. I latch the door behind me and we look at each other . . . ‘I haven’t been completely honest with you have I?’—this is not an easy conversation to get started. I feel guilty for some reason. As if these difficulties are my doing—‘There’s nothing I can do about the Tiger,’ I say, starting to fork out the soiled straw bedding closest to the door, picking the clean stuff out and tossing it to one side, his eye following every movement. ‘He’s like you. He can’t be told. He’s got to make up his own mind. And anyway something had to happen didn’t it? I mean Alsop’s no good to you any more, is he? You’ve got to be sold and bought and moved around and all that stuff. Haven’t you? You can’t just sit over there at that place for the rest of your life.’ Talking is making me feel better. I’m not so scared. And Kabara’s tossing his head and snorting at the sound of my voice, instead of jerking around with that menacing insect intensity. It’s an improvement. But I know the truth is really that his
I’ve got a good two hours of work to get through before daylight. Finisher and his mate Ashway hear me opening the road gate and they whinny softly. This is enough to start the cows moaning, even though they know it’s too early for them yet. I light the kerosene lamp in the stable and close the door behind me. The soft light reveals the cobbled floor and the ashen stall-trees, their wood polished to a deep honey gloss by the rubbing of generations of hunters and plough horses. It’s warm in here. The air rich with the acid smells of horse dander, piss, dung and meadow hay. Kabara is stationary in the shadows. Watching me. Making no welcome. The two geldings lean out and stretch for my hands, glad to see me. Ashway’s not coming with us. I’ll be riding Kabara, and Tiger will begin the day on Finisher. I get on with feeding them before I do anything else. Kabara and Finisher will need time to eat their fill.
Kabara’s edgy. His breathing is noisy and shallow. It’s the first time he’s spent the night here and he knows there’s something unusual being organised. He’s not sure what’s going to happen to him. But it’s not only that. It’s me too. I just hope he got some rest during the night. He’s watchful. Staring at me and reacting to my every move. Maybe I should let the Tiger know that he has misjudged this stallion’s temperament. Try and explain to him how it’s come about that he’s made this mistake. Do it in a way that doesn’t make him feel that I’m questioning his judgement. Maybe this great horse could come to some harm? I know Kabara’s capable of deciding that no one’s going to get near him. He’s capable of extreme behaviour, of forgetting all his schooling and deciding things for himself. In other words, of being so strong about his life that he becomes a rogue stallion. A danger. And you may as well call that the end of him. But how would I approach the Tiger?
I clean out Finisher’s stall first. Then I go over with my dung-fork and unlatch Kabara’s door. He’s shown no interest in his feed. He is totally alert and on his guard. I hesitate to go in there with him. For almost two months I’ve taken his trust for granted. Now he’s withdrawn it. For the moment anyway, and I’m afraid of him. He keeps moving around, shifting his weight from side to side and from his front legs to his hind legs with a stiff series of short movements. Continuously positioning and repositioning himself, in any split second ready to strike.
I don’t want to die yet but I’ve got to get in there and clean out his stall. ‘Everything’s just normal,’ I say, ‘so there’s nothing to worry about,’ and I edge in through the half-door. My voice sounds watery. I latch the door behind me and we look at each other . . . ‘I haven’t been completely honest with you have I?’—this is not an easy conversation to get started. I feel guilty for some reason. As if these difficulties are my doing—‘There’s nothing I can do about the Tiger,’ I say, starting to fork out the soiled straw bedding closest to the door, picking the clean stuff out and tossing it to one side, his eye following every movement. ‘He’s like you. He can’t be told. He’s got to make up his own mind. And anyway something had to happen didn’t it? I mean Alsop’s no good to you any more, is he? You’ve got to be sold and bought and moved around and all that stuff. Haven’t you? You can’t just sit over there at that place for the rest of your life.’ Talking is making me feel better. I’m not so scared. And Kabara’s tossing his head and snorting at the sound of my voice, instead of jerking around with that menacing insect intensity. It’s an improvement. But I know the truth is really that his
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