My Animals and Other Family Page 10

  I took Barney for long walks under the hill and down the Far Hedge. As we came back across the Starting Gate field he jumped up at my arm and ran rings around me, going “loopy-loo,” as Dad called it. Some dogs are far more sensitive to human moods—I wonder if they can smell sadness—and Barney seemed to know that I needed him. When I came home from school, he was the one who came running to greet me; in the evenings, I curled up in his bed with him to watch TV or read a book.

  He was such a fine-looking animal that Dad decided Barney should follow his father, Bertie, into breeding. This was a good idea in theory—Barney had a beautiful temperament to go with his looks. In practice, it was a nonstarter. Barney wasn’t interested in sex.

  “Come on, boy,” my father would say encouragingly. “It’s really not difficult.”

  Barney was in the covered lunging school to give him and Willow plenty of space. She was a pretty brindle lurcher, smaller than Barney and keen as mustard to win his attention. Barney didn’t know what to do. He sniffed her and made as if to play, but it was clear that Willow was not interested in games. She wanted sex, and she wanted it now.

  My father moved outside to allow them privacy, but was watching through the gaps in the wooden sleepers that made up the circular wall of the lunging ring. From there, he saw Barney start to shake, then saw him walk to the far side of the school, where he was violently sick.

  “Bloody dog,” my father muttered. “Spends so much time playing with those children that he doesn’t realize he’s a man.”

  Bertie was drafted in to “see to” Willow, and Barney came back to the house in shame. I hugged him tight and stroked his head. Much as I would have liked to see baby Barneys, I was on his side. Willow looked a bit too desperate to me.

  ~

  Back at school, they had some sort of trading market going on. They all brought pencils, pens, sweets and badges and swapped them, or bought each other’s things with money.

  Money. Now there’s something I didn’t have. I was given £1 pocket money per week and, frankly, even in 1979 that was not enough. Andrew didn’t have to worry because, at his prep school, there was a tuck shop where you could buy “on account” and it was put on the school bill at the end of the term. At Kingsclere Primary School, all deals were done in cash. This was going to be a problem.

  Not only were there things I wanted, there were things I needed if I was to be a part of the gang.

  I remembered that I had seen money somewhere, lots of notes and coins. They were sitting on the shelf in my father’s dressing room. Money could buy me out of trouble, money could buy me friends, and money was sitting there, just waiting to be used.

  That evening, I snuck into my parents’ bedroom, through the far door and into their bathroom. On the right was the dark walk-in wardrobe that served as my father’s dressing room. There were suits hanging from the rail and ten open shelves with folded-up shirts, polo shirts, sweaters and, in one section, all of his riding gear. On the other side were two long, open shelves. There were hundreds of socks, piles of underpants and a tray with cuff links on it and a few watches. On this tray was the money.

  I took a few coins at first, stuffing them into my pocket. Just a few pounds in fifty-pence pieces. After a few weeks, I started taking the odd pound note, and then it seemed sensible to go in there less often but take a bit more—maybe a five-pound note to see me through the week. Then I got worried that Dad might notice his sterling deposits disappearing, so I decided to get clever. There were piles of American dollars and French francs that he used only when he went abroad and therefore never counted. So I started to take them. He’d never notice.

  “Half a pound of toffee bonbons and half a pound of pear drops, please.” I had been a regular customer at the village sweet shop for some time now.

  Norton, who had been Grandma’s chauffeur, was spending his retirement taking me to school. He had gotten used to the daily detour and was waiting for me out on Swan Street.

  “I’m sorry, love,” said Mrs. Carpenter from behind the counter, “we don’t accept foreign notes.”

  “Really?” I replied. “But two dollars are equal to one pound, and I’m giving you five dollars there instead of two pounds. You’re doing well out of it.”

  “It’s no good to me, love,” responded Mrs. Carpenter. “I can’t spend it, can I? When am I going to be going to America? I’m sorry, I can’t take it.”

  “Right, not a problem,” I said efficiently. I was not to be beaten. “Just hold those for me, will you?” I pointed at the paper bag on the scales. “I’ll be back in a tick.”

  The Kingsclere branch of Lloyds Bank was right next to the sweet shop, so I dashed out onto the street, signaled to Norton that I’d just be a few minutes and ran in. There was a line and when I got to the front I had to stand on tiptoe to see over the counter.

  “Can I change these into pounds, please?” I asked.

  “Minimum transaction $50” came the clipped reply. “And you’ll need your passport.”

  “But I just need this note changed. Really, it’s quite important, you see, and I’m in a hurry and I just need some pounds. Please.”

  “Sorry. I can’t help you,” she said.

  Damn. Damn and blast. As if my money wasn’t as good as anyone else’s. Technically, of course, it wasn’t my money, but that’s not the point. I stomped out of the bank and got back in the car. Norton drove me to school. I was still fuming when he picked me up that evening.

  “Clare, a word,” said my mother as I walked into the kitchen.

  “What?” I said sullenly.

  “It’s not ‘What?,’ it’s ‘Pardon?.’ Now Mrs. Jessop tells me she saw you in the bank this morning.”

  Mrs. Jessop was our housekeeper, a sweet, kind, slightly stooped lady of about sixty who reminded me of Madame Cholet in The Wombles. She did the crossword every day and collected used stamps. I loved Mrs. Jessop. I couldn’t bear that she’d seen me. Oh God. This was terrible.

  “She said she didn’t want to confront you in the bank, as it would have embarrassed you.” My mother fixed me with her direct gaze. “So, what were you doing there?”

  “I was opening an account.” I said it with so much confidence that I almost believed myself.

  “That’s funny,” said my mother. “You already have an account with Lloyds. I have been putting money into that account since you were born and, one day, when you are old enough and trustworthy enough, you will be able to use it. It seems that day is some way off.”

  Oh God. I let out a big sigh and slumped back on the window bench.

  “I talked to Norton,” my mother continued. “And he told me that you have been going to the sweet shop in the village every morning for the past month. Where have you been getting the money to spend on sweets?”

  Silence.

  “I give you pocket money every week, and that is all you have to spend, so you must be getting more from somewhere. Where are you getting the money?”

  I could feel my cheeks going red. It was so annoying the way they did that. I felt as if I was being backed into a corner. I could say I was earning the money, but my mother would know that was a lie. I could say Grandma had given it to me, but we both knew that was pretty unlikely. I could say I found it.

  My mother was still looking into my eyes. This was horrible. She took my backpack and started rummaging through it while I objected. When I tried to grab it back she slapped my hand.

  “Watch it, young lady,” she hissed. “Just watch it.”

  Then she found the dollars.

  “This is why you were in the bank, is it? You were trying to change these? You little thief! What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I had my head in my hands now, rocking back and forth. There was so much I wanted to explain. How £1 a week pocket money just wasn’t enough, how money was the only way I could have any status at
school, how I hated being taunted for being rich, how I missed Andrew, how everything was just awful. But instead I just bit my bottom lip so hard it bled.

  “I’ll tell your father,” my mother was saying. “I’ll tell him.”

  A chill went through my body, and it wasn’t just because of the threat of telling my father. Something awful had happened. I could feel it. I ran out of the kitchen and locked myself in my room. Half an hour later, I heard the truck my father used pulling up outside the back door. There were voices in the kitchen.

  I snuck down the stairs and out of the side of the house, coming around to the truck without going through the kitchen. The back flap was down, and I could see a black head, the mouth slightly open and the tongue lolling out. It was Barney.

  I ran toward him and cradled his head in my arms. He had been coursing a hare and run straight into a fence post. The impact had cracked his skull. He was unconscious and, as I held him, I felt his breathing stop. I buried my face into his neck and started crying, my whole body heaving and my throat burning. This was all my fault. This was my punishment because I was a thief.

  “I’m so sorry, please don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t die. I won’t do it again, I promise. Oh God, don’t let him die.”

  Dad came out and put his hand on my shoulder. He put his other hand by Barney’s nose and then closed his eyes.

  “He’s gone,” he said. “He wouldn’t have felt a thing. I promise you.”

  Barney had died because I had done a bad thing.

  “I’m sorry you had to see this,” my father was telling me. “Your mother will be upset you’ve seen him, but this is what happens, I’m afraid. If you have dogs, you will see dogs die.”

  We buried Barney in the orchard, with a cross and flowers. Andrew came back from prep school and we stood by the grave together, holding hands as we cried. The one thing I couldn’t tell Andrew was that I thought it was my fault. He would hate me if he knew that.

  I never went into my father’s dressing room again.

  8.

  Frank

  Your father’s busy.”

  “But he’s always busy,” I said. “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s busy and he’ll be busy all day. Now try not to disturb him. Go and play, go and read a book, go and do something.”

  My mother was standing in front of the door to the sitting room with her arms crossed. I knew the television was on, I could hear it. My father was clearly watching sports, and I didn’t think that qualified as “being busy.”

  It’s amazing how many hours my father spent watching sports. If only I could one day have a job where I could get away with that—now that would be cool. Dad was watching cricket and, when I eventually snuck in, quietly as I could, he explained the game to me.

  I can’t pretend I grasped it the first time, and I made him draw me a diagram of the fielding positions, which I then had to hold upside down for alternate overs. But I did believe him when he said, “This is an historic event.”

  Dad played the shots that the batsman should be playing and imitated the spin bowler’s wrist action. He marveled at the grace and the speed of the West Indian bowlers—this was the great side of the eighties captained by Clive Lloyd, backed up by the likes of Viv Richards, Michael Holding, Joel Garner and Malcolm Marshall. After telling me who everyone was and what they should be doing, he growled or grunted after each ball, and then he was quiet.

  “Out!” I said, loudly, ten minutes later.

  “What?” My father woke with a start. He was apt to sleep a lot when he was watching history in the making.

  “Boycott,” I said. “He’s out. No great shame as he was scoring so slowly.”

  I could feel my father’s eyes on me, so I looked at him. His mouth was open slightly and then he nodded. “That’s probably true.”

  “Gooch is still there. I like him. But you’re right about that Whispering Death fellow. He shifts the ball, he really does,” I said, folding my arms.

  “Good girl,” my father said.

  Well, I didn’t think it was that difficult, frankly, to have an opinion that seemed to be right. You just had to listen to the commentators, watch what was going on, know who was who, and away you go. It’s hardly rocket science. When rain stopped play at the Oval, I wandered off to see Frank.

  Frank was the ugliest pony I ever had. When he arrived, he was called Prince, but that seemed inappropriate, so we named him after Frank the Box Driver.

  He had a short, spiky mane, rubbed raw in places, a pink nose, pink eyelids, brown ears and a gray body with brown splotches down his neck. His bottom and his sheath were pale pink. He suffered from sunburn, so had to have liberal applications of sunblock on his nose in the summer. He was what they call a “Heinz 57.” That’s not a can of soup, it’s a mixture of various different breeds. Frank was nothing, and he was everything.

  His mouth was as sensitive as a block of wood, and he frequently took hold, putting his head slightly on one side and galloping off in whichever direction took his fancy. He was not straightforward, he was not handsome and he was not even affectionate, but I adored him.

  Frank understood me.

  Fine, he trod on my feet and barged me out of the way when he wanted to get out of his stall. Yes, he never looked clean and we were the laughing stock of the Pony Club. Yes, I wasn’t allowed near the racehorses with him because they all spooked and whipped around because he was “a freak.”

  I loved him with a passion of which I had no idea I was capable. I loved him partly to defend him against the world and partly because I genuinely believed we were soul mates. If I had ever thought it was likely that my mother might sanction me having a tattoo, it would have read “Frank.” Instead, I carved it into the bark of the Hollow Tree at the top of the Downs:

  CLARE LOVES FRANK, 8/1/80

  In the years to come, I figured, people would see that inscription and know how much I cared.

  Where other girls my age had posters of tennis players or pop stars on their walls, I had photos of Frank. I had long, long conversations with him about life at school and how much Andrew annoyed me; I told him England had drawn the Fourth Test and I admitted to him that I suspected my grandmother hated me.

  I was allowed to ride on my own now, as long as I told someone where I was going. The trouble was, there were so many options, it was hard to say exactly where I might end up. I could ride on the farm, up to the Downs, over the hill to Hannington, go through the water at Gaily Mill and hack over to Ecchinswell, trespass just a bit on the edge of the Lloyd Webber estate or stay close to home and use the all-weather gallop just before Jonna harrowed away the hoof prints, to make it fresh and fluffy for Second Lot. Wherever I went there were jumps, built for the drag hunt, so I could fine-tune my eye, seeing a stride from farther and farther away.

  The Berks & Bucks Drag Hunt had been established by a group of adrenaline junkies keen to gallop and jump, happy to ride to hounds but wanting to avoid the unpredictability of fox hunting. Three or four “lines” were preplanned, with fences built or hedges trimmed to allow a field of up to eighty riders to gallop and jump across country. A runner with a sock soaked in aniseed marked out the line by laying a scent trail, which the hounds followed.

  For my father, the drag hunt was the ideal option. It happened on a Sunday, so he was unlikely to be racing; it guaranteed him a rush from jumping at pace and it rarely took longer than three hours from beginning to end.

  “Dad, when can I come drag hunting?”

  My plea became ever more persistent. I had been out to watch my father on his big chestnut, Paintbox, and my mother on her rather plain hunter, Ellie May, and I so wanted to join in. I knew Frank would love it.

  “There’s a children’s meet in the spring. You can come then,” my father conceded eventually.

  He was the Field Master, which meant he wore a bright-red coat
, confusingly referred to as a “pink” jacket, and he led the field. The rule was that you had to stay behind him and you had to listen to what he said. Dad had never been in the army but this was the closest he ever came to being a general, barking orders, leading his troops and generally enjoying the authority.

  My father was a fearless rider. He liked to do everything at racing pace, and he rode short, even in a hunting saddle. If you could stay upside my father and jump what he jumped, you earned his respect forever. This was my ambition.

  Our ponies were now being kept at the stud, where the mares and foals lived. It was a short walk away from the yard and from the house, with a different team of people running it, and all of it was fiercely protected by my mother. This was her territory—she had bought the stud from Grandma, and it was up to her who worked there and which horses were kept there.

  The stud had two yards, and the one on the left, where our ponies lived, was built in red brick in the same style as the John Porter racing yard, but was more compact and much friendlier. Horses and people walked through an arch into a small quadrangle with ten stalls in total: four on either side and one at each end. The tack room was on the left of the top arch and the feed room to the left of the bottom arch. The horses all looked out into a central square, laid with red clay, with a large pot, planted with marigolds, sitting in the middle. The stable doors were painted green, the stalls spacious and solid. It was, and still is, the perfect yard—quiet, functional, warm and fine-looking.

  It was also a great place to keep two tearaways out of trouble. Andrew had a dappled iron-gray pony called Raffles who did everything at 100 mph. Raffles could jump a house if he had to, but he was always on the limit. To be totally accurate, he was always out of control, except when he was show-jumping. Andrew had been studying the great show jumpers of the time—Eddie Macken, Harvey Smith and Paul Schockemöhle—and had developed a rising canter, which he liked to use in the arena. He would move up and down, as if in trot, while Raffles cantered along.