My Animals and Other Family Page 5

  By the twentieth century, they had become the favorite breed of the Romany Gypsy and had learned to be good around horses. Perhaps that is why they became so popular among the racing set. There was also a rumor that they had been trained to run back home shortly after they had been sold, so that they could be sold again and again. For the first year we had Bertie, my parents kept expecting him to disappear back to his breeders, and I wouldn’t have minded much if he had.

  Bertie was the perfect companion for my father. They could roam the countryside together, Bertie shadowing my father’s horse, galloping alongside him, jumping fences with him and stopping to admire the view. He liked to take off suddenly with a spurt, his teeth bared into a manic grin as he enjoyed his own grace and speed. Sometimes he did this alongside the racehorses and, if a two-year-old could keep up with Bertie for half of the straight chippings, then everyone knew it would win a race.

  In full flow, the lurcher has a wild and raw beauty. The power is all in the quarters, the hind legs coming either side of the forelegs and then exploding the body forward in a series of leaps that blur into a galloping motion. Bertie’s back thighs were thick and strong, his head held straight and low, his commitment total. The trouble was that he was easily distracted. He might see a rabbit or a hare as he was belting up the gallop and, within a millisecond, he would turn and throw himself into headlong pursuit.

  He took wire fences, hedges and ditches in his stride, oblivious to where the hare might lead him. All he could see was the target, and all he felt was the need to destroy it. He would spin this way and that, changing direction to cut off the hare and, as he got close, he would fling himself forward, sinking his teeth into the back of its neck, rolling and diving as he did so and breaking the hare’s neck with one flick of his own.

  It was brutal to behold.

  The strange thing was that he wasn’t hunting to eat—he rarely if ever tried to eat his prey—he was hunting because he had a taste for the kill. Something inside him went “ding” when he saw a rabbit, a hare or a deer, and he was off. No amount of roaring from my father would bring him back, until he returned, however long afterward, with a hint of pride in his eyes and a dead animal in his mouth. He dropped it at my father’s feet and waited to be congratulated.

  Bertie was an alpha-male dog: a hunter, a killer, a thief and a rascal. Added to the mix, he was also impossibly handsome.

  The lurcher, as a breed, became so popular in racing circles that, in Lambourn, the Valley of the Racehorse, a group of enthusiasts set up the Lambourn Lurcher Show. My father would not ordinarily have gone to a dog show if you paid him, but the Lambourn Lurcher Show was different, and Bertie was a canine reflection of him. He had to show off his boy.

  Bertie won “Best in Show” for five years running and became the most sought-after lurcher stud dog in the south of England. Oh, that his human children had ever made my father as proud!

  ~

  Dad spent most of his life in a distinctive uniform: dark-brown breeches, tight around the calves, baggy around the thighs, jodhpur boots, a short leather or cotton jacket and a flat tweed cap. Neither he nor any of the stable staff—“the lads,” as they were always called—wore crash hats or back protectors. Some rode out bareheaded, others with caps like John Hallum’s that were turned backward on the gallops.

  Dad always liked to ride with the racehorses. In the winter he would be on one of the jumpers, and in the summer on a “hack”—a retired racehorse who was settled enough to stand and watch the others but fast enough to gallop after a loose one if a lad had fallen off. Every morning around eighty horses would be fed, groomed, ridden, washed off and given a pick of grass. Dad knew each one by name, could recite its breeding, where it had run so far and where it was likely to run next time. With time, he learned how certain horses might react, what distances would be most suitable or what ground was preferable, because he had trained their sire or their dam.

  We had about forty employees, all of whom lived on-site. They were in charge of two horses each, and they fed them, groomed them, mucked them out and rode them. On work mornings, a jockey or one of the senior work riders might take over the duties on the gallops but, day to day, each lad “owned” his two horses and was responsible for them.

  If they were single lads, they had a room in the Hostel, in the center of the three yards, where they had their meals cooked by Harvey and Joyce, who would also, if not actually do their washing, gently show them where the washing machine was. Some lads arrived as thirteen-year-olds, having left or been thrown out of school. They needed surrogate parents, and Harvey and Joyce became just that.

  The senior or married staff lived in cottages around the place. Some had been built by John Porter, some by my grandfather and some by my father. They had to live nearby because of the hours. They were up at 6 a.m. in the winter, earlier in the summer to avoid the heat of the day, riding until midday and then either going racing or coming back for evening stables at 4:30 p.m. They worked every Saturday morning and alternate Saturday evenings and Sundays. Christmas or New Year could be taken off, but not both together.

  During the seventies, the number of female employees increased and Park House was divided in two. The back wing of it, where my mother and her brothers had slept under the care of Nanny, was sealed off from the rest of the house. That provided six rooms for girls so that they could be safe from randy little corridor creepers in the middle of the night.

  My father always said his job was like that of a headmaster. He was always putting out one fire or another. Two lads would have gotten into a fight because one said the other looked like a sack of potatoes in the saddle, a young girl would come to him worried she was pregnant, or a married lad claiming his wife was having an affair with the farrier, a would-be jockey felt frustrated because he wasn’t being given a chance to ride in races, another was homesick.

  I am not sure that Dad would have made a full-fledged counselor, but he was honest in what he said and thought. He was also practical—encouraging all the young lads to play football in the summer and enter the Stable Lads’ Boxing Competition during the winter months so that they channeled their energy into sport rather than petty arguments or sexual conquests.

  Back at home, however, my father had little clue how to deal with a temperamental toddler and a baby who wanted milk all day long. He never changed a diaper in his life, never got up in the middle of the night to see why one of us was crying and he certainly never made us a meal.

  Oh, that last bit’s not true. He once made me beans on toast.

  “This will be the best beans on toast you have ever had,” he said as he covered the toast in a layer of butter.

  “Mmmm,” I said, wanting him to know how much I appreciated it.

  “Isn’t that good? Doesn’t it taste yummy? Is it the best meal you’ve ever had?”

  “Yeth”—my mouth was full—“ith the beth’d ever.”

  For weeks, my father talked about having given me the most delicious meal I had ever had. He did the same with the dogs. One of his jobs around the house—no, his only job—was to feed the dogs. He did this with the concentration, the effort and the chaos of a Michelin chef. A raw egg, leftover vegetables, thinly sliced meat and stock were added to the combined dog mix that said all over the bag that it was a “complete meal” and didn’t need any extras.

  “Oh diggy, dig dogs,” he liked to sing as he concocted the dogs’ food. “Oh diggy, dig dogs, yummy, yummy, yum yum.”

  As he put down their bowls, he told each dog how lucky he or she was to have such a special meal, made by him. They didn’t much give a hoot and my mother got annoyed with the mess he made and the effects of the raw eggs. Dad didn’t realize that his “job” was meant to include washing up the dog bowls, but he was whistling a happy tune on his way to the office by the time they’d finished eating their banquet.

  I wanted a hot chocolate before I went t
o bed. Mum was busy doing something so I asked my father.

  “A hot chocolate, you say? A hot choccy chocolate? Well, I shall make you the best hot chocolate you have ever had. Oh yes I will.”

  He was humming to himself as he poured the milk into the kettle to boil it. As he flicked the switch, even I knew this was a mistake.

  “What the hell have you done?” My mother’s voice was incredulous as she surveyed the spewing foam of milk coming out of the mouth of the kettle.

  I stood staring at the kettle, clasping my blanket close to my face and sucking my thumb.

  “She wanted hot chocolate.” My father motioned at me, as if it was my fault.

  “So you put the milk in the kettle?” My mother could not believe he had been quite so stupid.

  “Yes. It needs to boil, doesn’t it?”

  There was no apology, no contrition. As far as my father was concerned, it was a fault with the kettle or the milk if they didn’t get along. It certainly wasn’t his problem.

  “Where were you anyway?” He turned on his heels and headed outside. “I’m taking the dogs out.”

  That was his way of ending any conversation in which he did not wish to play a part. The dogs were his shield, the end to a dinner party, the excuse to avoid washing up or the reason for not hanging around at someone else’s party.

  Mum sighed and cleaned up the mess. I continued to suck my thumb and determined that, in future, I would either wait for my mother or learn how to do things for myself.

  ~

  When Andrew first arrived, he came with his own nurse. I was impressed, not so much because she was a proper nurse with a uniform and everything but because I knew she was a really good rider. In fact, she had ridden at the Olympics and had won Badminton Horse Trials. Her name was Jane Bullen, and she had ruled the world on a little horse called Our Nobby. As Jane Holderness-Roddam, she would win Badminton again on Warrior.

  Jane kept her eye on Andrew, and I played innocent, even pretending to be interested in his ability to crawl or to grip anything that came toward him. I studied him carefully, watching as he developed his set habits. He was always hungry and was becoming impressively strong. When I tried to poke his eyes (purely to see what they felt like), he grasped my finger and squeezed until I screamed.

  After Jane came a nanny called Liz. She had wild gray hair and a florid face. She came from Ireland and would phone home once a week to have long conversations in a language I couldn’t understand, but I liked it when she read me stories and put on different voices. I liked it even better if she made the stories up—that meant that I was in them, and so were Andrew, Valkyrie, Bertie and Candy.

  I also liked Liz because she talked to me as if I was a grown-up and, in my head, I was. Even at the age of four I was mature enough to know that you should never put milk in the kettle.

  5.

  Flossy

  Although Candy was my protector, she was not my dog. She belonged to my mother, and my mother belonged to her. So when Candy had her first litter of puppies, I attached myself to the one who attached herself most strongly to me. This puppy liked to suck on my chin and my earlobes as I held her up to my face. Sometimes we would just fall asleep together in the corner of their pen.

  The puppies had their own shed in the garden. It was called, naturally, the Puppy Shed. Inside, the floor was covered with newspaper, there was an infrared light for warmth and a large square wooden tray with cushions in it—a handmade dog bed for a mother and her puppies.

  My puppy looked like her mother, with a reddish, chestnut-colored body, white chest and a little streak of white down the center of her eyes leading to her black button nose.

  We called her Flossy. Andrew said that Flossy was lazy and that she was always making smells. It is true, she did more than her fair share of “bottom burps,” but to me she was perfect.

  I am looking at a photo of me as a three-year-old. I am wearing a royal-blue tank top with green edging, a white polo neck, a slightly grumpy look on my face and a studded leather dog collar around the crown of my head. It was my homage to Flossy. I was one of the pack and would curl up with Flossy in her bed and drink out of her water bowl. I tried sucking on the odd Bonio biscuit too, but they weren’t quite sweet enough for my taste.

  I loved the Puppy Shed. It was peaceful in there. No shouting, no strange people turning up unannounced. No pens or papers we weren’t allowed to pick up or things we weren’t allowed to touch. I could listen to the gurgle of the puppies as they drank Candy’s milk or watch them sleep all piled up on one another, their fat little tummies pointing to the sky. A whole day in the Puppy Shed could slide by unnoticed.

  If I got bored, there was always a challenge I could set my little brother.

  “Quick, quick, I’ll time you,” I would urge Andrew to fetch my hanky, which I needed to hold in my hand as I sucked my thumb. “Let’s see if you can do it quicker than yesterday.”

  Usually I wouldn’t bother to start the stopwatch but would make a big show of stopping it and telling him he was just outside his record time, so would have to try again tomorrow. The competitive streak was strong in us both, so any challenge would have either a time to beat, a mark to surpass or an intrinsic sense of danger.

  We were also creative. We decided that the Puppy Shed, our new favorite playroom, needed sprucing up. The paint was flaking off and it was a boring cream color. I had spotted a can of turquoise paint in a cupboard under the stairs with some brushes. It was a sign. Not to use it would have been a crime.

  Andrew was going through a phase of calling himself “Alan.” A child psychologist might deduce that he was trying to carve out his own identity, but I think he was just being weird for the sake of it.

  I climbed the stairs to share my artistic plans for the Puppy Shed. He was in his room, sitting in the corner, licking the radiator.

  “Andrew, what are you doing?” I asked.

  “It’s Alan,” he replied, deadpan.

  “OK—Alan—what are you doing?”

  “I’m licking the radiator.” He looked at me as if I was stupid. In this situation, I hardly thought it was me who was the stupid one.

  “I can see that. Why?”

  “It tastes of tea,” he said.

  “Does it?” Now I was intrigued. Curiosity was my strong suit and my downfall. Andrew/Alan was still licking, smiling away to himself.

  So I knelt down beside him and leaned toward the radiator. I stuck out my tongue and let it touch the white paint. What had tempted him to taste the radiator in the first place? Strange child. Yet here I was, about to copy him.

  The radiator did not look that appetizing. I tried to fake it, making an elaborate licking motion with my tongue, keeping it an eighth of an inch away from contact. Andrew put his head on one side and looked at me.

  “You’re right,” I said. “It tastes of tea.”

  “You wouldn’t know,” he said calmly. “You didn’t lick it.”

  That was a red rag to a bull. I couldn’t bear him to be enjoying an experience that I was not having. So I leaned right into the radiator and licked as if it was the sweetest lollipop in the world. I licked and licked and licked. I did it with such intensity and force that I lost any sense of feeling. It may well have tasted of tea, but I wouldn’t have known.

  After a minute or two of ferocious licking, I sat back. Andrew was staring at me.

  “Wow,” he said. “That was a lot.”

  My tongue did not feel right at all. I opened my mouth and stuck it out. Andrew gasped. My tongue was covered in blood. I had licked so hard that I had hundreds of little cuts all over it. The taste of blood in my mouth, combined with whatever was on the radiator, made me feel quite sick. I ran to the bathroom, where my mother found me vomiting.

  “What have you been doing?” she asked.

  “She was licking my radiator,” said Andre
w. This was, after all, the truth.

  “Now why would you do that? Ridiculous girl.”

  I couldn’t speak because my tongue had swollen up. I pointed at my brother and started to say “Andrew—”

  He said, “It’s Alan,” and walked out of the bathroom.

  My mother made me gargle TCP, which stung like mad, and then she sent me to my room.

  You might have thought that I would have learned an important lesson from this—that it is always worth following your own instinct instead of following another person. If the crowd are throwing themselves over the cliff and you know they will fall, do not copy them. Yes, that would have been a very good thing to have locked away in my head and brought out in times of need. Sadly, I learned nothing of the sort.

  When I was eventually allowed out of my room, speech was still difficult. I found my brother and motioned to him that we needed to do some painting. I thought it would be the perfect way of getting back into my mother’s good books: do something really positive and helpful. The puppies would like it, Candy would like it and Mum would be so impressed.

  That was the plan.

  Andrew and I carried the large can of turquoise paint between us. We grabbed as many brushes as we could find, including a large broom, which I thought might be good for the bits we couldn’t reach. I had seen the painters doing the high bits with a brush on a pole that looked a bit like a broom.

  The puppies were pleased to see us, and Candy heaved herself up, careful not to tread on any of her offspring, to say hello. Her lips eased back into a wide-mouthed grin, her head was on one side, and her backside was swaying as she wagged her stump of a tail.

  “Hello, girl, we’ve come to do thum decorating,” I said, with difficulty.

  Andrew helped me rip off the lid of the paint can, and we went for it. I have to confess that, even now, I am wary of paint and I’m sure it goes back to that day. Within seconds, there was paint everywhere—on our clothes, in our hair, on the puppies, on Candy. I had no idea that paint could be so intrusive.