My Animals and Other Family Page 8

  My competitive dreams of a clean sweep dashed, I sulked.

  We tied Volcano up to the side of the horse trailer, took the boxers and went to watch the other rings. As we passed a stand that caught my eye, I deigned to speak to my mother for the first time in an hour. There was a woman with a board in front of her which said “Craven Pony Club” and had lots of photos of children on ponies jumping cross-country fences, doing dressage and grooming their ponies. There wasn’t a pair of scissors in sight. I begged my mother to sign me up. As soon as I was on the list, I got a book on pony management and a badge to go with it. Mum picked out a tie from the rack at the back of the tent and tied it around my neck. It had a few stains on it from a previous owner.

  I was now a member of the Pony Club, and I felt as if I belonged. This would mean I could go to Pony Club rallies, ride in Pony Club hunter trials and, best of all, go to Pony Club camp. This was the most exciting thing that had ever happened in my life.

  ~

  I wore my Pony Club tie to breakfast the next morning. My father was opening his pile of mail at the head of the table. Andrew and I were squashed up together on the bench that went under the bay window. He was sticking his elbows in my face as he ate his Frosties.

  “Bloody invitations,” said my father. “Why do people keep inviting us to things? All the time, people having parties to celebrate this or that. I don’t want to go.”

  He flung the thick bit of card toward my mother, via me. I picked it up and looked at the swirly writing.

  “Ooh, it’s a wedding in America. Can we go?”

  “I prefer funerals,” my father grumbled. “At least you can only have one of them.”

  “Can I wear my Pony Club tie?” I asked my mother, who was now looking more carefully at the invitation.

  “It’s your goddaughter’s wedding,” Mum said. “Are you sure you can’t come? It’s all your family, and you love Sheila. Come on, don’t be so miserable.”

  “It’s York that week,” my father excused himself. “We’ll have runners. Ridiculous time for a wedding. And it’s too far to go. Say no from all of us.”

  A month later, three of us were on a plane to Denver, Colorado, for the wedding of my second cousin and goddaughter of my father, Sabrina Jewell. I settled into my seat on the plane with Nancy Drew and the Mystery of Crocodile Island. Andrew scratched his head and asked the stewardess for more snacks. My mother sat between us so that we didn’t fight.

  The Jewells lived in a place called Golden on the outskirts of Denver. The Golden Jewells—I liked that. Aunt Sheila, my godmother, had characteristic black Balding hair, scraped back from her face into a big tortoiseshell clip, ebony-black eyes and a cigarette never far from her mouth. She spoke with a deep, gravely voice.

  “Well done, Ems. So pleased you all could make it.” She stubbed out her cigarette and gave us all a hug.

  Andrew went back to scratching his head, while I marveled at Aunt Sheila’s style. She led us out of the airport, her heels clicking on the concrete floor, and put on her big black shades as we hit the sunshine.

  “I’ve put you in a neat hotel downtown,” she said. “I think you’ll like it. There’s a party tonight out at our house, a barbecue lunch tomorrow at Sam’s sister’s place and then the wedding the day after. I know you’re not here for long, so we’re packing it all in.”

  That wedding was the first time I had encountered the American side of the Balding clan en masse. They loved a party. Andrew and I were surrounded by cousins, who were so funny and friendly and just seemed to want to like everyone. There were a lot of names to remember, but I loved the feeling of belonging.

  We checked into the Sheraton Hotel in Denver. I had never seen such a big hotel or such a massive room, with three queen-sized beds and a bathroom the size of our kitchen. I jumped from bed to bed, wishing that I could share it all with the dogs. Mum decided that Andrew and I needed our hair cut if we were to look the part at the wedding.

  The scream from the hotel hairdresser could have cracked glass.

  “Oh my God! It’s alive! His head is alive!”

  I looked up from my sink to see the girl who was combing my brother’s hair paralyzed with fear.

  “Get him out of here. Out of here right now.”

  She was shouting at my mother, who looked thoroughly confused.

  “He has lice.” The hairdresser’s voice had gone all wobbly. “We haven’t had lice in Denver, Colorado, since 1967. How dare you bring your infestation into this hotel? How dare you?”

  The woman seemed delirious. My mother explained to her, in a calm voice, that there had been an outbreak of nits at his school and that it was very common in England.

  “Well, it is not common here. And I will not have it in this hairdresser’s. Get out. Get out!”

  The woman was pushing Andrew out of the door. Mum followed him and called at me to follow, so I got up from my sink, hair covered in shampoo, and walked, with as much dignity as I could muster, through the door. After I had rinsed my hair in the lobby bathrooms, our promised exploration of downtown Denver became a hunt for lice shampoo. Surprisingly, it was not hard to find because, despite the hairdresser having told us they had not had a case of head lice in Denver for over a decade, the pharmacy had three shelves of anti-nit products.

  When we got back to the hotel, there was a man in the foyer who seemed to have been waiting for my mother.

  “Ma’am,” he said, with gravitas. “Ma’am, I am so sorry to trouble you, but I’m afraid we have a problem. You cannot stay at this hotel.”

  My mother looked appalled.

  “Why?” she said. “What’s happened?”

  “I am not at liberty to explain but we have removed your cases from your room and you will have to leave immediately.”

  “Well, that’s not your prerogative,” my mother replied. “We have things in the safe in that room and I insist on retrieving them.”

  A sort of scuffle dance broke out between the hotel manager and my mother as she made for the elevator and he tried to stop her. My brother and I followed behind.

  “Stop scratching!” I hissed at Andrew. “It just makes it worse.”

  My mother stepped into the elevator, and the hotel manager went with her but, as my brother got in, he made a little squeak and got out again.

  “I shall wait for you here,” he said.

  As we got out of the elevator on the sixteenth floor, we saw yellow and black tape across the door of our room. There was also a sign: “DO NOT ENTER!” it read.

  “What a load of nonsense.” My mother tore down the tape as she slotted the card into the door. “You’d think it was a crime scene.”

  Inside, there was a notice on the bed: “ALL STAFF MUST WEAR GLOVES. INCINERATE ALL LINEN.”

  You could see why they hadn’t had a case of head lice in over ten years—they were thorough. We hadn’t even slept on the beds yet.

  Mum retrieved our passports from the safe, checked that all our belongings had been picked up, and we headed back to the foyer. The humiliation for my mother was complete, but Andrew and I felt as if we had been in the middle of a soap opera. It was so exciting that Andrew had forgotten how much his head itched. My mother made a point of shaking the hotel manager’s hand as we left, even though he didn’t seem that keen.

  The Sheraton had called all of the hotels in Denver warning them about a family called Balding with head lice. We finally found a room at the Ramada and checked in under the name Jewell.

  I remember the wedding being held in the garden and Sabrina arriving in a horse-drawn carriage; the cake being made of profiteroles; Andrew trying to undo cousin Flora’s dress, which was laced all down the back. But, most of all, I remember Aunt Sheila’s laugh when my mother told her that we’d been thrown out of our hotel because Andrew had nits. She doubled over and put her hands on her knees she was laughi
ng so much.

  She introduced us as “the nit clan” and started laughing every time she repeated the story, which she did all week. I loved that trip, despite the nits—or because of the nits, I’m not sure. Andrew, however, is still nervous about checking into hotels in Denver, in case they have him “on record.”

  ~

  By the age of eight, I was pretty proficient as a rider, but the next step was to learn to jump properly—not just being on the leading rein and hanging on tight as we trotted over a small pole attached to two big crosses (a cavaletti pole). I wanted to fly through the air, to leap over ditches, rubber tires, hedges and timber poles. I wanted to take off and soar, suspended in time, before landing on the other side. Jumping on my own would be fun.

  Dad was always out jumping things. My mother jumped things. It was a grown-up thing to do, part of what would make me a “proper jockey.” All forms of riding are based on the harmony between horse and rider. Whether it is racing, dressage, show-jumping, cross-country or endurance riding, both the horse and the rider have to understand what is going on and, in an ideal situation, both want to do the same thing. Learning to jump on my own was a natural progression. Everyone did it.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  Volcano was a pretty pony, especially once his mane and tail grew back, and he was superb at gymkhana games, but jumping was something he could take or leave. Usually, he jumped well—neatly and conservatively for four or five obstacles in a row. Then, with no warning, he would jam on the brakes and skid into the bottom of a tiger trap, say. He would stop so suddenly that I had no time to adjust my position or resist the motion that sent me somersaulting over his neck and into the middle of the fence.

  This way of parting company was damned painful, and I started to lose my enthusiasm for jumping. I tried to look for signs from Volcano—a flick of the ears or a change in stride—but it was impossible. It was as if he waited until I was feeling safe and then wham! He’d refuse.

  I lost my temper and smacked him with my stick. He kicked out. When I turned him around and into the fence again, he started to slide from five strides away and refused to leave the ground. I hit him harder. My mind exploded. I was flying into a tantrum born of frustration. This damned pony would not do the one thing I wanted him to do.

  “Clare? Clare! Stop it. Stop it right now.”

  It was my mother.

  “Give me that stick this instant, you horrid little brat. How dare you beat your pony?”

  I opened my mouth to explain, but my mother was not having a minute of it.

  “Do you want me to try this on you? Do you?”

  Mum was holding the stick above her head, and I didn’t trust her not to bring it cracking down on me. My bottom lip started to quiver as my rage turned to shame.

  “No, please, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt him, but he wouldn’t jump.”

  “Well, that’s because he’s had enough,” said my mother. “You’ve been out here for over an hour, and he’s tired. Take him home right now, and that is the last time—do you understand me? the last time—you will ever use your stick in anger. It is there for correction and for safety. It is not to be used in a tantrum. Do you copy?”

  I nodded and turned Volcano for home. It was the beginning of the end for us. He couldn’t trust me, and I couldn’t trust him. Our relationship was broken. We soldiered on for the rest of that year, but Volcano and I had reached the natural end of our journey. He went on to another little girl who wanted to win rosettes in the show ring. They were happy together.

  7.

  Barney

  We now had four dogs: two lurchers and two boxers. Bertie was golden, Cindy was brindle, both Candy and Flossy were red and white. Bertie was still aloof and wary of children. Cindy was a trash bin for leftover food and constantly on the search for something revolting to eat, preferably excrement. Candy and Flossy were sedate and sensible, apart from when they were excited.

  Then Barney arrived. He was a gleaming ebony lurcher puppy who had found his way into my mother’s car when she was visiting a litter of Bertie’s puppies.

  He was kind, and he was tolerant, so we took full advantage. I lay all over him, playing with him, kissing him, stroking him, until Dad declared, “For God’s sake, leave that poor puppy alone. He needs a rest. Hurrumph,” and then, under his breath: “We all do. Go and read a book, why don’t you?”

  Andrew was sitting on the floor, eating something he’d found under the table. I was wearing my favorite multicolored checked jacket, which must have been bought in America. I tugged it down with both hands at the front, something I’d seen people do when they made a deal, and headed out of the back door. I signaled for Andrew to follow me.

  Moments later, I could feel his hot breath on the side of my face.

  “I’m scared,” he said. “How are we going to get down?”

  I had laid my jacket carefully on a straw bale at ground level because this was a climb that was unsuitable for business attire. We were now some twenty feet above the ground, on the second-from-top row of bales in the barn. Earlier that week, I had noticed a rope attached to the metal rafters and a plan had hatched. The rope was an invitation.

  “Don’t be wet.” I adopted my cool, older-sister voice. “You’ve seen Tarzan. How do you think we’re going to get down?”

  I flicked my head toward the rope. Andrew said nothing, but I knew he’d do whatever I did. The fact that we both might die didn’t occur to him. He didn’t do logic.

  I adjusted my lucky red neckerchief, sized up the leap and the angle I would have to hit the rope, spat on my hands and launched myself at it. Andrew screamed.

  I hit the rope just right, gripped tight and swung to the other side of the barn. I kicked off the bales, swung back again and was sitting beside my brother, laughing, before he had got to the “m” of “scream.”

  “Easy-peasy,” I said. “It’s all about timing.”

  I took Andrew’s pudgy little hand in mine. It felt clammy. He looked at me with baleful eyes.

  “Do I have to do it?” he asked, voice quivering.

  “If you want me ever to recognize you as my brother, yes, you do,” I replied.

  It seemed a fair enough request.

  I showed him once more how to jump off the bales, grab the rope and swing. This time, I slid down a bit and then, hand over fist, lowered myself to the ground. I stood, feet wide apart like a cowboy, looking up at him. Now he would have to jump, because there was no other way of getting down.

  Half an hour later, having exhausted my persuasive vocabulary, I walked away and left him there. If he wouldn’t jump, he’d have to stay put. Tough luck.

  By lunchtime, my mother had noticed he was missing. He was usually the first at the kitchen table.

  “Where’s your brother?”

  “Who?” I said. I had already cut him out of my life. He was no brother to me.

  “Andrew—where is he?”

  “Dunno.”

  Mum headed out of the back door, across the gravel parking lot, past the row of four stables and down the slope that led to Hollowshot Lane. I followed at a distance, interested to observe the maternal instinct of a bloodhound. She found him, sobbing, where I had abandoned him.

  “There you are,” she said, with a hint of surprise. “Now what sort of a pickle have you got yourself into?”

  Andrew couldn’t really speak, he was crying so much. He was terrified, and hungry.

  Mum stood on the barn floor with her arms outstretched, begging him to jump.

  “I’ll catch you,” she promised.

  Andrew eyed her from above. He was paralyzed. Mum continued to bargain with him until, eventually, he inched himself to the edge of the straw bale.

  “You won’t catch me, Mummy. You can’t. I’ll use the rope like Clare did.”

  “Clare?” My moth
er sounded surprised. “Did Clare know you were here?”

  “She made me come up here,” he answered.

  Well, that sealed my fate. I thought it hardly my fault that I had foreseen Andrew’s keenness to follow me up the mountain but had failed to anticipate his lily-livered attitude to coming down. I hid behind a wheelbarrow as my mother called my name. She was not doing so in a friendly manner.

  Soon, Mum turned her attention back to getting Andrew down. She spoke to him softly, coaxing him to jump. Her arms were once again outstretched, but Andrew remained suspicious.

  “Come on, darling. On three,” Mum called up. “One. Two. Three!”

  This time, Andrew launched himself like a big lump of rock toward the rope. His fat little fingers grasped it and he started to slide down. I was now running toward the barn, crying.

  “Put one hand over the other, don’t slide! It’ll burn!”

  I was right, but it was too late. Andrew let go. He fell faster than my mother could move back into position to catch him and, as he hit the ground, we all heard the crack.

  Andrew spent the next month in plaster, his leg broken in two places. Mum pushed him around in a stroller, his leg sticking straight out in front of him. I have a sneaky suspicion that he quite enjoyed all the attention, until his leg got itchy inside the cast. I offered to scratch it for him with a knife, but my mother intervened and effectively put a restraining order on me. I was not allowed within ten feet of my brother.

  ~

  It was the summer of 1979. Mum had taken us down to Glorious Goodwood for the first time. We spent the first two afternoons on the beach at West Wittering, and then we were allowed to go to the races. Even though our father was a trainer, Andrew and I did not go racing often: my mother did not believe in children being in the office, and the racecourse was my father’s office—as well as the yard, the gallops and the office itself.

  Anyway, on this occasion, we were allowed to go racing, and I remember it clearly for a horse called Kris. We stood on the rails about two furlongs from home and, as the horses cantered down to the start, I said I liked the one in the orange colors.