A Three Day Event

Also by Barbara Kay

Unworthy Creature:
A Punjabi Daughter's Memoir of Honour, Shame and Love
.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:
A cultural memoir and other essays

A Three Day Event

Barbara Kay

A Three Day Event

Copyright ©2015

Published by

Peloton Press

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

Peloton Press

320 Kensington Ave

Westmount, QC

Canada

H3Z 2H3

Printed in the USA

ISBN: 978-0-9947632-3-5

For Susan Robertson, a horse sport journalist
who paid a price for her investigative integrity

Acknowledgements:

I owe special thanks to Kathleen Delaney, DVM, for her technical advice on horse injuries and medication, and to former gamekeeper Bill Roberts for his deep knowledge on all things relating to that profession.

I also want to thank my son-in-law Matt Graham, for his help regarding aquarium life.

I am indebted to the following family members and friends, who read this novel in part or in whole, and either encouraged me or offered constructive advice: Rosalie Abella, Stanley Blicker, Naomi Caruso, Miriam Carver, Sandra Feldman, Ron Feldman, Anne Golden, Karen Goldenberg, Mark Goldman, Elaine Goldstein, Pauline Good, Naomi Goodz, Joan Graham, the late Geoff Graham, William Hart, Bruce Henry, Barbara Kalman, Ronny Kay, Joanne Kay, Jonathan Kay, Nancy Kumer, Christine Leibich, Jack Mendelson, Lola Mendelson, Sheila Moore, Terrye Perlman, Irv Perlman, Randi Perlman, Delores Rosen, David Saunders, Marilyn Sims, Zipporah Shnay, Patti Starr, and Lynn Walden.

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

LES CHAMPIONNATS CANADIENS POUR JEUNES CAVALIERS 1992:

A Short Guide to Equestrian Disciplines at the All–Canada Young Riders Championships

DRESSAGE:–Rider and Horse Moving As One

Description:

The most artistic of the equestrian disciplines, as elegant and precise as ballet or the compulsory figures of skating. The horse moves through all gaits and actions in energetic, but relaxed submission to the “aids”, the physical commands of the rider, without any visible cues to the spectator.

Horse and Rider:

The horse–almost always a European warmblood breed, such as Westphalian, Oldenburg or Hanoverian–must exhibit precise and fluid gaits, articulate and “big” movement with superior balance and rhythm. The outstanding dressage horse must have patience for many years of intense, repetitious technical training. Taller horses (over sixteen hands) with beautiful conformation are the norm.

The rider is usually of a quiet, perfectionist temperament, disciplined, somewhat austere, and sensitive.

The Test:

Ten minutes in an arena of prescribed dimensions. Each horse–rider combination performs the same pattern of compulsory movements, which are graded by judges stationed at different points around the ring. There are individual and team competitions. The top competitors qualify for the championship rounds. The rest are eligible to compete in a consolation round.

THREE–DAY EVENTING–Endurance and Heart

Description:

Comparable to a triathlon, the Three–Day Event combines Dressage, Cross–Country Jumping over fixed and natural obstacles, and Stadium Jumping. The competition, originally a means of assessing the fitness and courage of cavalry horses who would be riding into enemy fire, tests the stamina, intelligence, speed, heart, and trust between horse and rider.

Horse and Rider:

The horse is almost invariably a “hotblood”, an American, English or Irish Thoroughbred. Aside from good gaits and natural jumping ability, the horse must have superior boldness, heart and intelligence, so that it will willingly “go the extra mile” when fatigued. Event horses are the least expensive of the disciplines. The “mutts” of the horse world often perform surprisingly well in this discipline.

Good Eventing riders are risk–oriented (“extreme” in New Sport parlance), independent, fun–loving, and of all the disciplines, the most emotionally attached to their courageous horses, as well as the least likely to take themselves seriously.

The Test:

The three days of competition begin with Dressage, but less expertise is expected than in the “real” Dressage discipline. Judges look for a horse that is super–fit from endurance training and used to unrestrained galloping that will nevertheless demonstrate submission, suppleness and precision in the ring.

The second day is devoted to the Endurance phase. Two warm–up trotting sessions (Roads and Tracks) separate an all–out gallop over brush jumps on the Steeplechase and the hugely important Cross–Country obstacle race.

Veterinarians rigorously inspect the horse in the “Vet Box” before the Cross–Country phase. Many horses are “spun” (eliminated) at this juncture. The Cross–Country is the heart of the discipline with a strenuous gallop over varying terrain with a variety of jumps and water obstacles. These big, intimidating jumps involve “leaps of faith” on the horse’s part, although the rider will have “walked the course” several times and planned his or her strategy in advance. Points are deducted for exceeding time constraints as well as for refusals or falls. The lowest score wins this–and all–phases.

Stadium jumping is the final test on the third day. Any horse that is lame, over–stiff or sore from the previous day’s Endurance phase is “spun” in the vet check that precedes this phase. While this Jumping phase in no way rivals the “real” Jumper discipline for height or difficulty, it remains a challenge for a weary horse to show that, even after two extremely fatiguing days of competition, he retains the will, the ‘honesty’ and the heart to “finish the job”.

SHOW JUMPING–
Precision, Speed, Power

Description:

Like gymnastics or Giant Slalom in skiing, Show Jumping makes for a breath–taking exhibition. Horse and rider negotiate a variety of fences and obstacles at speed over a tight, confined course. Always popular, it is the last Olympic event, held just before the final ceremonies.

Horse and Rider:

The horse can be any breed, but escalating scales of difficulty usually demand a powerful European warmblood, such as those from Holland, Belgium or France, bred especially for Jumping. Good Jumper horses have power, balance, speed, competitiveness, and suppleness–but they must also have the insensitivity to submit to long hours of rigorous training without complaint.

Good Jumper riders are systematic, intense, focused, patient, unflappable under pressure, courageous, and possessed of blazing ambition.

The Test:

Show Jumping takes place in a fenced ring. The course demands shortening and lengthening of stride, tight turns and nerve–testing combinations of verticals, oxers (spread–out jumps), double and triple combinations, and water jumps. The jumps are high and the rails fall at a touch. Downed rails, stops, slowness, falls and refusals determine penalties.

Cast of Characters

Principal Characters (in alphabetical order)

Thea Ankstrom Coordinating Chairman of Young Riders’ horse show

Jocelyne Bastien Groom for Michel Laurin

Eva Briquemont Wife of Fran Briquemont

Fran Briquemont Dressage trainer at
Le Centre Equestre de L’Estrie

Nathalie Chouinard Wife of Polo Poisson

Ruthie (Jacobson) Cooper Sister of Hy Jacobson.
Daughter of (the late) Morrie Jacobson.
Friend from childhood of Polo Poisson

Benoit Desrochers Stable hand at
Le Centre Equestre de L’Estrie

Guy Gilbert Veterinarian. Housemate of Bridget Pendunnin

Clarice Jacobson Mother of Hy and Ruthie, wife of late Morrie Jacobson

Hy Jacobson Owner of
Le Centre Equestre.
President of Tissus Clar–Mor. Brother of Ruthie

Manon (Desrochers) Jacobson Wife of Hy Jacobson

Michel Laurin International Jumper rider. Son of Roch Laurin.

Roch Laurin Manager and Head Trainer of
Le Centre Equestre de L’Estrie

Gilles Lefebvre Employee at Le Centre Equestre . Nephew of Roch Laurin

Liam O’Hagan Head stable boy at Le Centre Equestre

Sue Parker Toronto journalist covering Young Riders’ Championships
at Le Centre Equestre

Bridget Pendunnin Three–Day Event trainer at
Le Centre Equestre

Polo Poisson Former Jumper champion. Friend of Jacobson family.
Co–chair, Jumper discipline at Young Riders’ Championships
at
Le Centre Equestre

Secondary Characters

Lord Fairclough Father of Philip, neighbor to the Pendunnin family

Philip Fairclough Partner (in England) of Bridget Pendunnin

Caroline Laurin Owner of restaurant at
Le Centre Equestre

Marie–France Secretary to Roch Laurin

Denise Girandoux Representative of C–FES Quebec Region
on Young Riders’ Committee

Stuart Jessop Executive Director of C–FES

Barbara Lumb Member of C–FES Young Riders Committee

Marion Smy Chairman of C–FES Young Riders show

Bill Sutherland Technical Director, Member of C–FES Young Riders
Committee. Liaison to
Fédération Equestre Internationale

Prologue

September, 1981

B
ridget Pendunnin perched on the edge of a tack box
outside her horse’s stall and stared gloomily down at her mismatched legs. The left was its usual long, slim and shapely self: pale, a rider’s sun–deprived limb. The right was an elephantine mass from ankle to knee, swaddled in an ugly cocoon of foam rubber, steel supports and rough webbing. It throbbed unbearably, and she regretted having left her vial of codeine tablets at the house. But it was not worth the trek back, not yet, she thought, scowling at the clumsy crutches propped against the wall beside her. She squinted down the bright, treed avenue, wondering when Lord Fairclough would arrive with the proposition she was both curious and fearful to hear.

From the open top half of the loose box Dudley pushed his snout amiably through her tumbling mass of russet curls, as if to say he bore her no ill will. Bridget thought about the accident at the Killinghurst Trials ten days ago. Up to now single–minded in her ambitions, Bridget was by no means a stupid person, and she was not slow to appreciate the implications of the fall that had almost killed her.

For one thing her leg would never be the same. She would never have the same flexion or strength where she needed it. Clearly her ability to ride again at the elite levels of the Three–Day Event was in grave doubt.

And for this blessing she almost cried with relief.

For Bridget knew that she could never again face the prospect of the Advanced, the highest and most risky level of eventing, in any case, and the excuse of a bad leg would henceforth be a godsend. The calamity had been completely her fault. She had frozen at the crucial moment, taken back with the reins when she should have given, and cost Dudley the impetus he needed to clear it safely. Thankfully, no one had been close enough to see. True, the footing had been greasy, and other horses had come to grief at the same fence. But she knew why brave, honest Dudley had faltered.

She had been terrified. That endless fall into the void she knew she would re–live in nightmare for the rest of her life. It was a miracle that the horse had escaped with nothing more than a badly knocked stifle. He might just as easily have broken a leg. She might have killed him. There was no use wringing her hands in futile penitence or in vowing to surmount her fears in future. Because they never would be overcome. You had it or you didn’t in eventing. If you didn’t, you were lucky to find out without ending up a paraplegic. She counted herself lucky. In her mind it was settled. She would never compete again at Advanced. And therefore she would never compete again.

But her sorrow was a luxury to be shared with Dudley alone. A lifetime of emotional solitude had armoured her with an impregnable public air of reason, amiability and traditionally English good sense. Outwardly she would slip gracefully into whatever new role life called upon her to play. She had already accepted with stoicism certain deprivations in her young lifetime.

But not to compete? Saying the words to herself caused a torment she was powerless to control as yet. And if one could not compete, then why bother with riding? And if the world knew what a coward she really was, why bother with life? The grim syllogism shimmered before her.

For she knew what
she
meant by life. Life was horses. It was hunting and eventing; it was breeding the perfect sport horse, it was ‘making’ a young prospect and riding it to victory; it was sharing it all with other people who cared as much as she did. What life was
not
was pushing papers round a desk, going to school, filling out tax forms, passing exams, balancing cheque books, wearing frocks and sipping cocktails, or living in cities.

She had never thought about the trajectory of her young adulthood as anything but a steady climb as a rider to the elite ranks, an eventual spot on the Team–that was the best case scenario–or a steady career near the top at worst. Then on to coaching, course designing, show organizing, breeding, importing and exporting–there were so many possibilities. But that was all finished now. Without credibility as a rider, without the will and courage to win–well, what was left? Where could she turn to make sense of living at all?

As if these desperate realities were not enough to bear, along with the pain in her leg, and now a splitting headache as well, Philip Fairclough’s call this morning had crushed whatever remained of her shaken self–esteem. Philip, known in the Three–Day world as ‘Fig’–because he didn’t care for anyone or anything except his own magnificent self–had been Bridget’s love–hate companion from earliest youth, living so close to each other as they did, and joined in their passion for horses. They were temperamentally similar and therefore usually at odds, but like two competitive siblings doomed to share the same space and resources, they had learned to cooperate and support each other for their mutual self–interest in the sport.

Fig was one of the great ones; there was no gainsaying it. A brilliant, fearless rider, he was a natural at coaching as well. He had been on the British Team twice now, and was a strong contender for Leading Rider of the Year. He was too good for Bridget to envy. She humbly accepted his superiority and was grateful for the advice and encouragement he was sometimes capable of extending. Most of the time, though, he was an insufferable, arrogant throwback to an England now largely confined to anachronistic, class–conflict driven novels.

Well, she reflected bitterly, he had as good a right as any to live by old–fashioned rules. It had paid off. He was engaged to be married–to a Royal, an amateur eventer bred in the inner circles of ‘The Firm,’ and Fig’s adoring groupie. One of hundreds, if she only knew it, Bridget reflected wryly. Life was rich with irony in riding circles. Her heart beat faster as she recalled the morning’s conversation.

–Budgie, we have to have a rather serious heart–to–heart, old thing. There’s been a bit of a balls–up at this end over that little tryst of ours in the tack room after my engagement party last month. Fa’s got the wind up rather over it.

–Oh, was that a tryst, you bastard? And if there were four of you, would that have been a gang–tryst? You raped me, you little shit!

–Steady on, chaps! That’s such an ugly word! I only had it in mind to set you free, little budgie bird. You should be flattered. I chose you for my ‘hail and farewell’ to bachelorhood.

–You only wanted to make sure you had screwed every single rider in England before taking a few months off–if that long. Does Her Highness know about Your Lowness? Maybe I should tell her.

–Dear me, I shouldn’t think you’d be telling anything to anyone, Budgie. Fact is, someone else has already done some telling on you.

–What the hell are you on about…?

–Oh dear, patience, luv. Do you recall the little ‘do’ we had the other night to celebrate your coming out of hospital?

–Yes, of course. I don’t remember much, because I took all those painkillers and then drank all that champagne you kept shoving at me.

–Mm. So I don’t suppose you remember that rather hilarious take you did on your Israelitish surgeon, the hirsute and beak–nosed Mr. Goldstein from Golders Green. I mean, it really was a bit over the Fagin–like top even to my admittedly Buchanesque eyes. And more than a little unkind, do admit, considering the poor man put your shattered limb back together.

–Well what of it? I do hilarious takes on everyone. I mean, no one complained about my Irish bit, or my Paki number or any of the others. It’s just for fun when I’m drunk. What’s this all got to do with that fucking tryst anyway?

–Sorry, darling. One knows of course that you’re an equal–opportunity bigot. It’s rather complex is all. Only it seems that the head lad was there, Davey Brown, who is to our stables as Mary Poppins was to the Banks family. Well, what do you think! Our Davey has a Jewish mum! Oy vay! And he wasn’t best pleased by your panto, not one little bit. And what this all has to do with our little tryst–I’m so glad you’re coming ‘round to my own view, by the way, such a fine
line don’t you know, and don’t deny you were just the teensiest bit cooperative towards the end–is that Davey was by heavy–handed coincidence a quite accidental witness to our two–backed beastliness last month. In the normal course of events, bein’ a loyal and faithful servant to his betters, what, he’d’ve kept silent. But, alas, Budgie, Budgie, atavistic tribal loyalties seem to have gained the upper hand. In short, he wants revenge upon you for his humiliation, and I’m afraid he has taken it, m’dear. He’s gone to the Pater and told all!

–And let me guess–you told daddy that it was all my fault, that you were drunk and I seduced you–

–I see that my mind is but a windscreen to your gimlet gaze. But as they say,
tout savoir, c’est tout pardonner
. Do you know what that means? As I recall, foreign languages were never your strong suit, more’s the pity now.

–What the hell do you mean by that?

–Fa is riding over this afternoon, poppet, and he will explain all. I must say I was rather taken aback by his–well, he went rather ballistic over it all–I daresay Davey’s thinly veiled threats to go to the paparazzi with this juicy tidbit would put any potential Royal–in–law off his feed. Either that or he can’t bear the thought of losing a top stable lad. In any event, listen very closely to his proposal, and my advice is: say yes! Because we can help each other, darling. There’s a fortune to be made from North American eventers, they’re on the cusp of getting serious, but they haven’t got a clue, they’ll pay the moon for an English horse.

–What are you talking about?

–Oh dear. I wanted Fa to explain. It seems you’re going to be a Remittance Man–or is that Remittance Person–m’dear! Dig out your O–levels Bescherelle, put on your most pukka Brit–speak at all times, never lose that accent, that’s critical, and don’t stay cross, you’ll see, ever the best of friends, much the best way…

–What a craven little shit you are, Fig!

–Language, Budgie! What would Nanny say? And I’m not such a coward as all that, darling: taken all in all I’d say I’m just your average rider.

Shading her eyes, and straightening her slim back, Bridget looked defiantly down to the gate. Faintly she heard the delicate clip–clop of Lord Fairclough’s black mare. In spite of her agitation, Bridget could not suppress the swell of admiration she always felt at this man’s approach. It was not his virile good looks or the air of power he wore so carelessly–or not these alone. Rather it was a feeling of special kinship she had secretly felt with him since the earliest days of her childhood friendship with Fig. She had worshipped him as Master of the Hunt, as lord of his ancestral estate. He was bred to dominate, bred to lead, bred to decide the fate of others. She had sometimes even fantasized that
she
was the chatelaine of that magnificent estate.

As if this guilty secret thought had conjured up his presence, Bridget’s father stepped out of a copse of beeches, surrounded by the inevitable trio of panting Labradors. Lord Fairclough hailed him, and slipped off his horse to chat a moment. Bridget watched their body language tensely. Of course he would not dream–he was a gentleman, he could not think of telling. But it was clear from their sweeping, pointing gestures and animated expressions that they were discoursing on one of the subjects dear to both their hearts: the prospects for good shooting later that fall.

Bridget’s father was frail and somewhat stooped beside his robust friend. Although a discussion about shooting could engage him briefly, he normally bore the detached, ascetic look of the reader and solitary nature–lover. He was peculiarly un–English, Bridget reflected sadly, in his indifference to horses. If she could have ridden with him, perhaps she would not have spent so much time with Fig and his father, perhaps she would not have crossed that line.

And now here Lord Fairclough was, having walked the rest of the way, leading the prancing mare, looking back to make sure that Bridget’s father had disappeared into the wood. His face was now cold and formal, thin lips a slash in a pale mask of anger. And something beyond anger. A kind of fear or disgust, it seemed to Bridget, which frightened her more than any degree of rage could have. She straightened and, in unconscious mimicry of an expression she had taken from him, lifted a proud chin to meet his gaze. His eyes swept over her, taking her measure in a new way. Bridget felt exposed under his gaze, and wrapped her arms tightly about herself.

Then the blow fell.

But it was not a blow! It was deliverance! Five minutes later, having rapidly delivered an obviously rehearsed speech in a low, hoarse voice, lifting a hand that gripped his crop with whitened knuckles against any interruption, he turned and, swinging lightly into the saddle, cantered down the avenue and was gone forever from Bridget’s life.

She felt elated. How odd that her desperate need should have coincided with Lord Fairclough’s rage against her. And it
was
rage. The timing must have been a factor, in this season of Fig’s greatest competitive triumph. Yes, she could understand it in the light of his ambitions for his son. If
she
had a child, she would do anything to protect his interests. That’s what being a parent was. Or should be.

Philip is going to be named the leading rider of the year. He’s on the verge of signing for a sponsorship with Land Rover. And his engagement … I won’t have it all wrecked by your selfishness. You’re beautiful, yes, and that’s a gift, but you have no understanding of beauty’s power. You’re a cool one, Bridget, you always were.
Looking back, I blame myself. You were too close, even as children. I should have seen…you took advantage of his friendship…you could have ruined everything…

That last bit was of course brutally unfair. Fig had spun a face–saving tale. But his guv was offering her something quite amazing, and she could afford to swallow her pride against the injustice. Let him think his precious Philip was a wide–eyed innocent. What was that to the chance of starting over, a life in horses where no one knew that she was anything but a winner, a leader, confident, in control, and slated to be a Somebody in the world of eventing, even if she had to be stuck somewhere in the back of beyond of Canada to do it. She would have to learn to speak French. God, how horrible. She was useless at foreign languages.