I have always loved horses or, more exactly, I have always loved the idea of horses. From my earliest sight of a cowboy riding a horse in the Saturday morning cinema shows for children I have been obsessed with horses and longed for the day when I might be able to ride one. In conversation with some of my classmates I learned about a riding school called High Meadows, which was situated near the hospital where I had been taken after the death of my dog Monty. I was told that the owners of the riding school welcomed youngsters to help muck out the stables and assist in the general grooming of the horses. This was where I first met Wildfire, a seven-year-old mare, sometime later. She was a horse of many colours, whose kind the cowboys always referred to as a ‘pinto’ or paint horse, which was favoured by Native Americans, especially the Comanche tribe. She had a dark brown face, a white neck and mane, and was covered in large brown, white and black patches over the rest of her body. Her true equine description is that she was a ‘skewbald’, which is similar to a piebald, but they only have black and white colouring. She was a fine-looking horse and later was to play a significant part in my life.
Before I got to know Wildfire, the stables (as the riding school was always known) gladly accepted me as a volunteer and I became a regular helper on Saturday and Sunday mornings. My enthusiasm and obvious regard for the horses had been noted and occasionally I was offered a small payment for my services. Every now and again I was also given a free ride and after a time I managed to become a proficient rider. Luckily, I took to it very quickly and, after a couple of years, I was allowed to lead a group of paying novices. I was paid a little bit of money for what I regarded as a privilege, and sometimes the older riders would give me a tip for my services. I never felt free to mention this at home because I knew that it would only invite more taunting. Later, when I started riding more regularly at the stables, I did tell my mother but asked her not to tell anyone else.
One day during a half-term holiday I was busy at the stables helping to prepare the horses for a group riding session. By then, I not only held these animals in high esteem but felt a kind of love for them. I admired the high degree of sensitivity they showed to people and other horses, and liked the lifeforce within them that made them want to run for the utter joy of it. If you give a horse love, it often gives you love back – like cats and dogs, they are the sort of animals that need to be loved and cared for to be at their best. I had also soon come to realize that it was important to develop a healthy respect for these large animals, which can weigh up to half a ton.
On this day, one of the riders was a doctor’s wife who had gone to great lengths to look the part of a horsewoman: she wore all the traditional gear, including shiny, long black boots, white jodhpurs, a white blouse and a dark jacket, all surmounted by a black bowler hat. She also wore a white silk scarf around her neck, which was constantly catching in the wind and blowing this way and that – horses are quite nervous creatures and something like that is a sure way to unsettle them. Her mount that day was a mare called Honey, a beautiful chestnut standing at seventeen hands.
As I led Honey towards the rider I could detect the alarm beginning to surface in Honey’s eyes as the scarf continued to waft about all over the place. She started snorting, throwing her head about and generally acting alarmed. I thought she would soon calm down, but after the lady had mounted I began to sense the real possibility of danger. A stable girl was calmly attempting to fit the lady’s boot into the stirrup, while the unsettled Honey moved about. The lady was becoming increasingly frustrated with the situation and now acted with outstanding lack of insight. She decided to blame the horse for her predicament and, raising her riding crop, gave Honey a sharp whip across the rump. The horse had endured enough. She had experienced apprehension, as all riding-school horses do, at who might be her mount for today. Then she had been startled at being confronted by the sight of the doctor’s wife dressed in her formal hunt riding attire, with her scarf flashing about. This was followed by the lady in question seeking to mount her in the most clumsy manner possible and to end it all she had been whipped.
This was beyond endurance and she did what most horses naturally do at this point. She ran as fast as she could, dumping the good lady on her backside among all the muck of the stable yard. As I was standing nearby, I tried to grab Honey’s loose reins as she made off. Sensing that an attempt was being made to stop her, Honey lashed out with her rear legs. It nearly always seems to be an innocent bystander who suffers most in accidents. One of Honey’s flailing hooves kicked me hard in the left thigh just below my groin. The force was tremendous and I was knocked flying. I lay heavily on my back, feeling stunned and semi-paralysed. Within seconds I was suffering waves of nausea and pain, and felt sure that I was about to be sick.
Some people standing around thought that it was only a half-hearted kick, but I was knocked for six. I had to be helped to the barn where I lay among the hay waiting for the effects to wear off. Two of the stable girls came to where I was resting to ask me how I was and if I was thinking of attending the evening musical festival to be held in Alnwick. I replied that I desperately needed a lift home because, far from being able to dance, I couldn’t even walk. One of the older hands at the stables had a van and kindly gave me a lift home to my grandmother’s house. I spent the next two days recuperating. I was left with a massive black and purple bruise on my leg but I was most thankful that the kick had not been any higher.
I soon returned to limp around the stables to see if I could be of any use on days that I was free. I found that my attention was increasingly drawn to a quiet, solitary horse in one of the small side paddocks.
When I asked Vera, who jointly owned the stables, about the horse, she rapidly fired off some details: ‘She’s a mare belonging to local lad called Anthony who dabbles in horse breeding. He has a chestnut stallion he keeps down in a field adjoining the Duke’s Park. She’s called “Wildfire” with the accent on the “Wild”. We’ve tried to use her here on our escorted rides but she’s awkward and difficult to control. I think she’s just stupid and lazy.’
‘Is she rideable?’ I asked tentatively.
‘We’ve tried her a few times but she’s too much for our novices,’ declared Vera. ‘She wouldn’t fit in here.’
In her eyes, it seemed that Wildfire was unfit-for-purpose and this explained why the multicoloured horse was in solitary confinement in the far paddock. I stumbled and limped my way up to Wildfire’s paddock to introduce myself. As I approached, she was busy grazing but lifted and shook her magnificent head, which was adorned by a long white mane that looked like silk as it billowed in the air. She observed me with careful scrutiny. We studied each other in silence for a while but I was at a loss for what to say. Eventually I ventured an opening: ‘You’re not stupid, are you?’
Upon hearing my voice she nodded her head and gave a soft, throaty whinny. I think we both sensed a coming together of soulmates.
Anthony, her owner, worked as a milkman as well as horse breeder and proved difficult to track down. He was something of an entrepreneur and had many jobs, sometimes working in the timber yards at the sawmill and at one time he owned a small fishing boat. A tall, well-built man, he could be very genial. Anthony, I gathered from people’s comments about him, had also experienced a difficult childhood since his parents were strict Plymouth Brethren. He had left home in his early teens and from then on had become estranged from his family. Eventually I managed to contact him and talked about Wildfire. The outcome of our discussion was that I could ride the horse whenever I had time enough. He appreciated that it would be good if the horse could get more regular exercise.
‘Get one of the stable girls to help you to harness and bridle her and there’s a saddle in the shed in the corner of the paddock,’ he said as he fished a grubby key out of his similarly grubby jeans. He handed the key to me. ‘She’s a fine horse but not easy to control. Don’t ever hit her. There are other ways to win her confidence and she’s been whipped too much in the past.’
And with that he was off – he had proved to be courteous but not a charmer, rather like his horse.
I went to see Wildfire as often as I could and regularly took her carrots and apples that the green grocers put out as waste in the lane behind the Co-operative store. I recall the day I first touched her. I wouldn’t call her a nervous horse – she was just wary. Whenever I got what she considered to be too close she moved away and faced me head-on; the look in her eyes was apprehensive and vigilant. This action brought to my mind Anthony’s comment, ‘Don’t ever hit her.’ Anthony had also mentioned that at an early age Wildfire had been trained as a steeplechase horse but that he knew nothing further. This gave me cause for concern because I’d once heard my Uncle Chris, one of my father’s older brothers, say that when he’d been training as a stable lad some of the jockeys would give an obstinate and unresponsive horse a real ‘going over’, which entailed punching and slapping them. If this had happened to Wildfire then it would explain her awkward behaviour and her extreme wariness whenever people came too near to her. This horse had been badly hurt in the past and I gave a little shiver as I empathized with her.
Whenever I could steal the time away from homework and running errands I would go and talk to her when no one else was around. Horses are extremely sensitive animals; they are certainly not stupid. In the short time I had spent with Wildfire I had become impressed with her as a fine horse capable of much more than spending her time in lonely isolation. I determined that, at the weekend, I would saddle her up and ride her if I could.
That Friday heralded the beginning of the summer holidays. On Saturday morning I got up good and early. After making myself a hearty, uplifting mug of tea, mixed with local raw honey, and a jam sandwich I set off to keep an appointment with Wildfire. Arriving at her paddock I was astonished to find it strewn with clumps of soil, pieces of wood and stones. I discovered Wildfire standing behind the shed in which her tackle was stored. She was bleeding from several small gashes to her rump and flanks.
Just then Amanda, who co-owned the stables with Vera, arrived and parked her vehicle at the back of the stables. She looked over the fence and exclaimed, ‘So they’ve been at it again have they? Is she hurt?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Who are “they”?’
In the meantime, other members of the stables’ staff arrived and amongst the general natter and clatter my question seemed to have got lost, so I repeated it again. It was Vera who answered.
‘“They” refers to the rabble of youngsters who amuse themselves by hurling missiles, whatever they can find, at dumb animals.’
Then Vera began instructing another girl to phone the vet and the police, in that order.
‘It’s a good job we can lock the stables,’ somebody else said.
There was a general air of commotion around the place, which was quite unusual for the weekend. The horses needed watering and feeding, and there were several rides booked that morning. My plan of work with Wildfire obviously had to be aborted as my services were required elsewhere. As we all busied ourselves with the work that needed to be done, there was still much concern about what seemed to be the perennial problem of attacks on the animals that were left outside in fields with inadequate fencing. Horses in particular seemed to be most at risk from the thugs and there were examples of the most diabolical cruelty perpetrated against them.
It transpired that the injuries to Wildfire were only superficial, which did not rule out the emotional damage that had been done to a horse that had already suffered hardship. It was all very upsetting to contemplate and now extra care would have to be taken to defend the animals from such attacks in the future. Whatever the security measures, it seems that there are always people who are prepared to go to great lengths to inflict pain on defenceless animals. In any case, repair men were called in to make the fences higher and more impregnable, and life at the stables settled down once more.
As the holidays progressed, I had the time to really get to know and befriend Wildfire, whom I was still hoping to ride. The next time I went to the stables, I picked up a bridle, blanket and saddle and found her grazing in the top corner of her newly reinforced paddock. I put the riding gear down behind me to make sure that I didn’t alarm her. She saw me and, recognizing me as the boy with the carrots, she trotted over and whickered a hello. I have always, since I was a young child, believed that animals should be talked to, despite how odd this might seem to some people. The interesting outcome of this is that they appear to understand and respond to the attention they gain from such conversing. I started to chat to Wildfire.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about you and I’m so sorry about what happened to you the other night. We’re all going to see that it doesn’t happen again. Anyway I didn’t like some of the things people have been saying about you, didn’t like them at all.’
Having eaten her way through a small pile of carrots I’d given her, Wildfire started nodding her head and making affectionate horse noises in her throat.
‘Well,’ I continued, looking straight at her, ‘I don’t think that you are stupid at all and further, I don’t think that you are obstinate and lazy and I’m going to give you the chance to get together with me to prove it.’
With that said I picked up the bridle from the ground where I’d placed it behind me. While offering her a small carrot near the tongue piece of the bridle, I fitted her with it, which she accepted quite placidly. For the present I let the reins dangle down and, picking up the blanket, I placed it over her back. She never really moved at this manoeuvre but simply readied her back by straightening up a little. I guessed she was already anticipating the saddle. Soon I was tightening her saddle strap, especially around her stomach. She tried to fool me, as horses do, by bloating her stomach out but she did not object when I pulled the strap secure. Looping the reins over her head I was now ready to mount her. Springing up into the saddle I felt comfortable and just right.
Wildfire turned her head to look at me as if to say, ‘Whenever you are ready.’
And with that we were off on a walking tour of the stables and the nearby training field. We made a couple of circuits and at one point she broke into something of a joyous canter. I headed back to the paddock, unsaddled her, gave her a rub down and some horse nuts, and, after much stroking and patting, told her several times that she was a good horse.
My ride on Wildfire had been noted by other workers at the stables. It wasn’t long before a number of the girls, who showed love for every single one of the horses, were anxious to try her out for a ride and were delighted with the outcome. Wildfire was becoming popular and I was given the credit for her rehabilitation. Fortunately for me, there were days when she was still all mine and we rode with the freedom that humans and horses have shared for thousands of years.
I felt especially privileged as a boy of fourteen years to have what amounted to virtually my own horse to ride. Throughout my childhood I had developed an attachment to the myths and legends of the Wild West. I was able to play out my fantasies of riding through the land of the pioneering cowboys whilst venturing alone along woodland trails and over patches of moorland. I would act the role of a lone cowboy searching the landscape for stray cattle and rustlers whilst ever watchful for Comanche war parties.
With mature hindsight I realized that my experiences at the stables, particularly with Wildfire, helped me to counterbalance the distress I was still suffering at home. She gave me the chance to give and receive an uncomplicated love, free from the restrictions that tainted my home life. Animals had become my surrogate family. The love which I had received from my dog Monty, from big Bruno and from Wildfire was an antidote to the poisonous feelings extended to me from my father. Their presence made my life more palatable and enabled me to lay the foundations of self esteem that I would need to carry me through life’s enigmas.