Whispering Back (4 page)

‘Come on, Adam!’ I cried. ‘Show him who’s boss! Don’t let him get away with it! He’s got to do what you ask. Put a bit of effort into it.
Get angry
!’

‘Get angry, Nicole!’ was what my riding instructor would repeatedly shout at me throughout my childhood. I was often timid and ineffectual, and spent many a lesson spectacularly failing to get the pony to do what I wanted him to. My instructor would exhort me to greater effort, and when all else failed would threaten to hit the pony herself if I didn’t start ‘giving him a good wallop’. I wanted the pony to do what I asked, but not because I forced him. If I couldn’t demonstrate that I could achieve my goals by fair means, then I would be told to ‘get tough’. Sometimes, hitting the ponies did work, and they reluctantly submitted to my clumsy requests. Often it didn’t, and I would end up on the ground, unceremoniously dumped by a pony well practised in the art of child disposal.

It was years ago that I told Adam to get tough with Wilberforce to get him through the puddle, and I really believed it was the right thing to do. We’d followed the advice from the hundreds of horse books I’d read: we’d asked him nicely, we’d tried to get him to follow another horse, we’d ‘encouraged’ him with a bit of stick, and we’d stayed true to the maxim ‘never let the horse win – make sure he knows who’s boss’. As a result, we’d naturally progressed, in this instance and in others, from gentle requests to brute force. We were following Monty’s father’s way: ‘Do what I say, or I’ll hurt you.’ And we were doing it with the approval of just about every horse institution in the country, if not the world. I didn’t feel angry that Wilberforce was disobeying Adam, I just believed that if we let Wilberforce ‘get away with it’, he would have no respect for us at all, and would never obey us again. I didn’t like seeing him hit, but I believed it was an inevitable part of every horse’s life. Without the insights and strategies we later gleaned from Monty Roberts, it was almost the only way we had of communicating. Far from ‘whispering’ to our horse, we were screaming. We had no idea that Wilberforce was trying to communicate with us. We were only interested in telling him how it was.

Wilberforce went through the puddle in the end, and we had the good grace to reward him with much patting and praising. We took him backwards and forwards across the water a few more times, to make sure he no longer had a problem with it, and he soon walked through as if it had never been an issue. He was a tremendously forgiving, almost thick-skinned horse, and seemed to bear Adam no grudge as we completed our ride, despite still bearing the marks of the whip on his flanks. I’d like to think that even then we had some ability to ‘read’ a horse. It wasn’t right to hit Wilberforce, but we knew it wouldn’t deeply traumatise him, as it might so many other horses. (We had generally managed to avoid such bullying tactics with Sensi, our first horse. Once, in a similar situation, we went for pure stubbornness: asking her to cross a ditch, and waiting patiently for two hours before she made the decision to comply. But with Wilberforce we were out of our depth, the strategies we had used to good effect with Sensi failed, and we tried to intimidate him into submission, largely because we felt so intimidated by him.)

It’s very easy to judge others, and to despise them for resorting to violence. Like many horse owners, we used excessive force in this instance because we rapidly ran out of options, had ineffective methods at our disposal, and felt that any evasion had to be confronted and defeated at any cost. Conventional tools such as the whip were so easy to abuse. We often remember the ordeal to which we subjected Wilberforce. We loved him, and we treated him badly. There’ll never be a chance to make it up to him.

As Adam mentioned, my parents didn’t buy me a pony when I was a child, not because they were being mean, I now realise. At the time they had no idea how long-lasting my interest would be. As the obsession grew, they worked out the ramifications: if I had a pony, would they ever be able to get me to go to school again? What about family trips away? I already resented being dragged away from my local stables for the occasional weekend visit to relatives. And what would happen as I grew older? Would I be able to bear selling an outgrown pony? Obviously, I would rather sell my brother. There was also the issue of cost. ‘Not just the initial outlay,’ my dad patiently explained, as I challenged him on the vast sum he had just spent on a state-of-the-art Bang and Olufson music centre, ‘but the upkeep. The stereo really won’t cost much to maintain, you know, and it’s something we can all enjoy.’ It was no good arguing that I could get a job (not much work going for eight-year-olds, and besides this idea didn’t make my promises about keeping up the school work sound any more plausible), nor insisting that everyone could enjoy the pony. Both my parents had watched me being bitten, kicked, trampled on, and thrown off far too often to believe that there was any enjoyment to be gained from being anywhere near horses, let alone being ‘saddled’ (this sort of cruel pun went straight over my head) with the responsibility of actually owning one.

No, they had worked out all the downsides, and decided it simply wasn’t practical. No amount of pleading, manipulating, or laying on of guilt on my part had any effect. As I got older, they gradually convinced me that I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life shovelling horse muck (although strangely, they were proved wrong in this . . .) and that I should concentrate instead on getting a good education. ‘As a doctor, or a lawyer, you’ll have lots of money and you’ll be able to keep your horse in absolute luxury in a livery yard somewhere.’ It seemed to make sense, though I knew even then that I wouldn’t want to be a ‘weekend owner’, and have someone else looking after my horse. As the years passed, my obsession grew, fuelled by the mountains of horse-related information I avidly consumed, ingrained more deeply with every precious hour I snatched at my local riding school. At eleven years old, I thought I knew everything there was to know about anything.

‘You know,’ I announced loftily, ‘I think the importance of a good education is vastly overrated.’

‘You could be right,’ my dad said, ‘but you’ll only be in a position to judge that once you’ve actually got one.’

Then we moved to Canada. ‘You see,’ they pointed out, ‘what would we do now if you had a pony?’

I couldn’t understand their point. Obviously, I would stay behind with it. Or, if they really insisted we come with them, they could pay the very reasonable few thousand pounds it would cost to transport it across the Atlantic. What problem?

I was devastated at leaving my weekend ‘job’ and all my favourite ponies, not to mention my best friend, Ciara, who shared my obsession. From 7 a.m. until 6 p.m. every Saturday and Sunday, and each day of every school holiday, we would work at the riding school, and then hand over our pocket money for one lesson a week. And when I say worked, I mean worked. We would muck out stables, empty wheelbarrows, sweep yards, rake the school, fetch, groom and tack up the horses and ponies, fetch bales of hay and straw, fill haynets, scrub feed buckets and water drinkers, wash doors, clean tack and do any other job we were asked – and we loved it. We felt it was a privilege to be allowed to spend time on the yard, and we were extremely grateful.

Our weekend experiences would sustain us through an entire week of school, and when we weren’t talking about horses we were pretending to
be
horses. Neighing to each other when we met, cantering over the log seats at school, and prancing around an imaginary dressage ring in the playground earned us a reputation for being ‘different’, and of course we came in for a fair bit of stick. We filed our fingernails into sharp points, and literally fought tooth and claw until we were left alone. In the evenings after school, we forced our dogs endlessly around courses of fences and through dressage tests. (Actually, I didn’t have a dog and had to borrow a neighbour’s, who could never work out why he was so tired after his ‘walks’.) When it was dark, we knitted rugs for our plastic toy horses, and even knitted miniature horses. Ciara constructed the stables, and I knitted the saddles for my show-jumping hamsters (her gerbils were considerably less compliant). I couldn’t imagine finding another friend like her.

All the same, we moved to Quebec, where I immediately encountered a difficulty. I couldn’t speak French. Worse, I had to learn it. With liberal amounts of help from my parents, a dictionary, a table of verbs, and a lot of hard work, I scraped through my first year.

I didn’t think much of Canada. The winters were too cold (minus 20°C), the summers were too hot (plus 30°C), and the riding was different. For a start they called it ‘horseback riding’ – as if there was any other part of the horse you would ride on! The chocolate tasted weird, and they didn’t have smoky bacon crisps. A washout, as far as I was concerned. The only good thing was that Dad worked for Air Canada, which meant regular free flights back to England.

I was on a riding holiday at my old stables, during one summer visit to England, when my parents came to see me, saying they had something very important to discuss. My heart skipped a beat. Perhaps my riding instructor had told them how well I had been getting on with the horse I had for the week – a 16.2 hands high gelding by the name of Bank Robber. I could just see it: ‘Yes, Mr and Mrs Golding, they really have built up a very strong bond, and in such a short time, too. Quite unusual. I think it would really be very much the best thing for both of them if you were simply to buy her the horse.’ Surely they couldn’t turn her down?

In fact, it was the next best thing – they were thinking of moving back to England. At least, Mum and I would return; Dad and my brother might have to stay in Canada. We’d still be able to see each other all the time, because of the free flights, and this way I’d be able to go to an English university. I wasn’t listening to the details: I was just glad I’d be able to go back to my old stables.

The effort involved in learning French to the standard required in Quebec had given me a real taste for learning. I found time for one riding lesson a week, but otherwise I transferred my equine obsession to an academic one. My state school, which was considered almost dangerously radical, was extraordinarily accommodating, and arranged the timetable to allow me to do all sorts of extra exams, and to earn the sort of grades that impressed the entrance committee enough to earn me an unconditional offer from Cambridge to read Engineering.

I was nineteen, free and single, studying at one of the best universities in the world, but I had lost track of my purpose in life. I was further than ever from getting a horse, and I hardly even rode any more. Strangely enough, it was a skinny, musical intellectual, who didn’t know one end of a horse from another, who changed all that. When I went to Cambridge, I didn’t mean to find a ‘husband’ and settle down. It had been more my intention to take full advantage of the very favourable male to female ratio, and enjoy being single. I thought I’d give it another ten years or so, and then start looking for a serious partner. But as ‘Golding’ and ‘Goodfellow’, Adam and I were standing next to each other for the Matriculation photo, and so I suppose we were bound to meet, although, on that particular morning, we were both too hung-over to take much notice of each other.

Adam was charming and intense, prone to quoting long passages from
King Lear
, and with a disarming interest in what people really thought about the ‘Meaning of Life’. To my mind the ‘what’s it all for, anyway?’ questions are answered very conclusively with reference to the existence of chocolate, tea, and horses. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of me, either.

We had our first all-night conversation mid-way through the second term. I was due to go rowing the following morning. Adam clearly thought I was mad when I began to get ready to go, particularly as it had just started snowing, but when you row as a team you have no choice but to turn up. The Cam is never too warm at six o’clock in the morning, but on a sleeting February morning the chill goes right into your bones. The strenuous effort of rowing warmed me up in a superficial way, but the very core of me stayed frozen.

I went straight to an Engineering practical afterwards, and cycling back to college on roads that had become treacherously icy, I had my mind full just trying to stay upright. When I started climbing the stairs to my room, however, I surprised myself by hoping that Adam was still there. He was, and after that we more or less moved into the same room together, which considering that the rooms were just big enough to fit a single bed, a desk, a chair and people only if they were on top of those pieces of furniture, was quite remarkable.

It was a chance encounter that re-ignited my passion for horses. Adam and I were in our second year, and living together in a village outside Cambridge. One fine day in early spring, I decided to go out for a bike ride and since Adam stared at me wordlessly from the sofa in utter disbelief when I suggested we go together, I set out alone. A couple of miles from home, I noticed a horse in a field. In fact, there were two, but I only had eyes for one, a bay mare. She was beautiful, young, and inquisitive. She had that bold-shyness typical of a young horse – she wanted to see what this new person was all about, but was not quite confident enough to come right over. She peered at me from under her forelock, her black-edged ears flicking backwards and forwards, and I fell in love. Eventually, I was able to stroke her neck from over the gate, and feed her handfuls of grass. I cycled home, wistfully, filled with that old familiar longing.

‘I’ve just met a couple of really nice horses,’ I said when I got back.

‘Uh.’

Adam and I were both struggling with what can most politely be described as ‘lethargy’ at the time – bone idleness might be more accurate. I guess he was probably meant to be writing an essay, so any diversion was welcome. There being no chance of getting him to use a bicycle voluntarily, we got into the car his parents had lent us and drove back to the field. The horses had moved away, but came over when they saw us, keen on the idea of more hands picking them grass. There was a public footpath running through the field, so we went in. The two horses followed us. Reaching a high bank on the far side of the field, we clambered up it. They came too. As we ran down again, they broke into a canter and the gorgeous bay leapt off the bank and cavorted around us, bucking and leaping with excitement before running off with her friend. I explained to Adam, ‘They’re only young – I don’t suppose they’ve been broken in yet.’ (I’d had a quick peek at their teeth.) ‘They’re nice types, too, although this one is much better put together, and a lot more friendly.’ Having long given up on the idea of having a horse, I was simply making idle conversation of the type horse people simply cannot resist. We started walking to the car.