Whispering Back (14 page)

Dilly lived on a farm open to the public, and it had animals packed away in every odd corner. There were goats, pigs, cows, chickens, rabbits and guinea pigs, and a strange assortment of stable yards crammed into all the remaining spaces. There was a shop selling a strange selection of crafts and gifts, and, I was delighted to discover, a coffee shop. The idea of having hot food and drink available where your horse lived seemed exceptionally civilised. What seemed less sensible, as Dilly had pointed out to Julia on numerous occasions, was that to get to the fields you had to lead your horse through the tables and chairs scattered outside the coffee shop and around the paddling pool filled with screaming kids, while a gaggle of territorial geese did everything they could to impede your progress.

I didn’t feel entirely comfortable in the role of ‘expert’, but Julia was lovely, and I began to feel more at ease. Slim and strong, almost wiry, she had the kind of long, fine fingers I’ve always considered artistic. An abundance of curly brown hair added a touch of softness, and her green eyes were friendly, honest and direct. Dilly, on the other hand, had an abundance of shaggy black hair, which did nothing to soften
her
look, and whichever angle you viewed her from, she couldn’t be described as slim. Strong, definitely. She wasn’t an aggressive mare, but she had the air of someone who wouldn’t suffer fools gladly. I prayed she wouldn’t consider me one.

Once I started working with Dilly in the school, all my worries evaporated. She responded to join-up like she’d read the book, and when I long-lined her she obliged by executing a wonderful, elevated, perfectly balanced trot. By this time I had an audience who, I later discovered, were astonished at how beautifully the horse was working. Like so many horse owners, they were obsessed with the idea of the horse being ‘on the bit’, and regularly invested in gadgets and lessons to achieve this end. In fact, Dilly was in such perfect self-carriage partly because her adrenaline was raised a little by the unfamiliarity of having the lines around her quarters, and partly because the lines themselves were causing her to tuck her quarters underneath her and ‘engage’ her hocks in time-honoured dressage fashion. Once she got used to the sensation, she didn’t perform quite like that again, but for that afternoon at least, tongues were wagging.

Julia rode Dilly that afternoon, and we also worked on Dilly’s leading. Dilly had always responded to a tight lead line by leaning backwards, and would almost sit down if she didn’t want to go somewhere. After some work in the school, Julia was able to lead her successfully past some scary objects. The whole process of turning her out and leading her around the farm would become much easier.

Julia invited me back to her flat for dinner, and as we talked, the similarities in our lives began to seem almost spooky: exactly the same age, both vegetarian, in long-term relationships of (at the time) eight years, both our partners were also musicians (principally guitarists) and teachers . . . and we had very similar views on horses. In fact, it was astonishing that we could find anything to discuss at all, since we seemed to share the same opinion on everything, except tea, which, bizarrely, she does not drink at all. But from that moment we started a conversation that has never petered out, however much time we spend together.

Whenever she could, Julia came over to Milton Keynes and watched me work with Misty. We rode the other horses out together, and she gradually took over the Saturday teaching whenever I had to work. A fast learner, with a very precise and inquisitive mind, having her around was immensely helpful. She came out on several visits with me, and another long series of conversations in cars was started, along with the usual lack of attention to the route that resulted in many missed turnings as we raced to finish our thoughts before we arrived. The post-visit analysis would keep us going through the long drives home, and much beautiful English scenery passed unnoticed outside our bubble of thoughts, ideas and insights.

Although Misty remained very wary of Adam, she had instantly captured his heart. Since his working hours meant he was unable to see her that often, it took her a long time to overcome her fear, and approach him. Perhaps she also had greater reason to mistrust a man. She would reduce him almost to tears as she hovered at the edge of his space, unsure of him, torn by the dilemma of whether to trust him and come nearer and perhaps find a new safety zone, or to run away. It was particularly hard for him to get near her out in the enclosure. Often she would be unable to cope with the tension and rush back to her shelter. He kept himself between her and the stable door, making it less easy for her to break away. Eventually she would bring herself close enough so that he could just about touch her, and, knowing that even to move his hand slightly might send her reeling away, he would silently break into tears.

Misty was like a ball of tangled string; trying to unravel her seemed impossible because you couldn’t find an end to start at, all the knots were so intertwined. She was particularly unnerved by having two people near her at once, so the option of one person holding her while the other worked around her was out of the question. She wasn’t just worried at the prospect of having someone on her off-side – as far as she was concerned, that was non-negotiable. She could not tolerate having her legs even touched, much less her feet picked up and she would immediately run if any sharp movements were made near her. The tiniest step in the wrong direction could send her flying. She was terribly frightened of the lead rope, and would shy backwards if even an inch was hanging down. The idea of getting a roller or a saddle onto her back didn’t seem particularly promising, let alone a rider. I had to quell a rising sense of panic. Would I fail the very first problem horse I had to deal with? All I could do was stay patient and gentle, and keep thinking.

One of the most difficult decisions to make when training horses is when to address something as an issue, and when to let it lie, in the often quite reasonable hope that when the horse has gained more trust, the original problem will simply disappear, or at least become easier to address. Only having access to one side of the horse isn’t really the sort of issue you can ignore, however, and I knew I had to think of some way to overcome it. With a lot of gentle persistence, I had been able to touch her off-side neck when I was standing on the near-side, but she was not at all comfortable with that.

It simply wasn’t possible to hold her head still and inch my way around to the off-side – if I tried that, she would shoot backwards and sideways in a panic, always keeping me on the near-side. Even had I been a lot stronger, I don’t think this strategy would have worked – I sincerely believe she would have fought to the death. In any case, I needed her to
want
to let me into her off-side; any victory won through force would be hollow. Adam and I came up with two strategies, one quite clever and one unbelievably stupid. It was her reaction to the quite clever strategy that should have alerted me to how stupid the other one was.

We talked it through. ‘You know, it’s not actually impossible to get on Misty’s off-side,’ Adam pronounced. This was a definition of ‘impossible’ I hadn’t previously come across.

‘While you’re on her near-side, there are people in the garden on the other side of the field who are on her off-side, they’re just not very close.’

‘Yeeesss,’ I said, not even trying to conceal my scepticism. ‘I can’t see them being particularly helpful, though.’

‘No, I know, but really we just have to work out how close she’ll tolerate someone on that side, and even if it’s three hundred yards, that’s a start, and we can work on getting in closer. You know, keep working on the edge of her comfort zone, just using advance and retreat, with the emphasis on retreat.’

It was worth a try and we put the idea into practice later that day. I walked around with Misty following me in the stable, and Adam stayed outside, about 50 yards away. At a certain point in her circuit around the stable, she would have to let Adam be on her off-side. She made that moment as brief as possible, by hanging back for as long as she could, and then rushing past. She couldn’t not go past him, otherwise she would be letting me walk up close behind her, an even less acceptable option. It was clear that the process caused her deep concern, even at such a distance, but we took care not to let her get too frightened. We let her get used to it bit by bit.

Along the same principles, we also worked with her outside the stable. I would hold her, and Adam would walk around her, at a distance of some 30 yards, and make his way to her off-side. She would keep him on her off-side for the briefest possible moment, pivoting to face him and put him back on her near-side as quickly as possible. It was slow, tedious work, not least for Adam who had to walk such large circles! In her frantic attempt to keep Adam on her near-side, Misty would often bash into me and startle herself in the process. She was like a small, rather hairy, unexploded bomb, always on the verge of going off.

We worked a lot in this manner, and made some significant progress. The problem was it required both of us. Our jobs in the Japanese school and Thames Valley Police meant that our paths simply didn’t cross often enough, and supportive though he was, Adam wasn’t prepared to meet me down in the paddock at two o’clock in the morning. I had to come up with a way to work on the problem on my own.

What would Monty do? I wondered. I hadn’t seen him work on exactly this problem, but I had seen him work with several horses with phobias, and it seemed largely a case of demonstrating to the horse that there was nothing to be feared. There was always a tense moment while the horse confronted its demons, and then huge relief as it realised it wasn’t so bad after all. If I could just get to her off-side, I reasoned, she’d realise it wasn’t so bad. The fact that we’d been trying to convince her of this for several days already didn’t daunt me. There was a degree of logic to this confidence: a horse that has been badly treated will often have the same sort of ‘distance’ issues. If you’re far enough away that you can’t hurt them, they’re happy. If you’re close and you haven’t hurt them, it’s possible you mean them no harm. If you’re at about striking distance away, you’re potentially very dangerous. Perhaps Misty was having trouble with us being in this ‘hazard’ zone, and allowing her to dwell on the anticipation of violence was the problem. It should have been abundantly clear to me, however, that Misty’s problems with her off-side weren’t suddenly going to dissolve with proximity. She was gradually getting happier about having me near her, but just realising that I was close enough to hurt her, but hadn’t done so, wasn’t good enough for her. I was going to have to prove my trustworthiness over an extended period of time.

In my mind’s eye, I could see Monty dealing with the problem and arriving at a solution within minutes. I could see Misty with Monty on her off-side, tentative but trusting, her fear diminishing by the second. I decided to gently and slowly pass a long-line over her neck, from the near-side, of course, and attach it to the headcollar. Then I would simply step behind her, pull her head around to me, and for a moment as she turned, I would be on her off-side. I could repeat the process, and she would soon realise she had had nothing to fear all along. I couldn’t think why I hadn’t come up with this marvellous idea before. I decided to work in the larger field next to her small enclosure, so we’d have a bit more space.

One thing I hadn’t taken into consideration was Monty’s somewhat heavier build and greater strength. I knew that, even at 11.2 hands high Misty was too strong to hold, but I hadn’t been prepared for the determination with which she pulled away. I wish I could say I held on to the line valiantly for a moment or two, but as soon as I stepped behind her, she shot off like a bullet and the line was instantly pulled out of my hand. I had just about been on her off-side, but only for a nanosecond. I watched helplessly as she took off hell for leather around the field, a terrible feeling of guilt creeping over me as I realised she was completely out of control and very likely to injure herself. She made several circuits, hotly pursued by the long-line. For a moment, she came out of her blind panic, saw her stable, and bolted straight into it. She stood there shaking and trembling. I got to the door and closed it behind me at the exact moment she realised that the ‘snake’ that had been chasing her was still attached. She tried to make a run for it, lost her footing on the bedding, and fell over. Scrambling to her feet, she desperately tried to jump out of the stable. The worst thing was that in her efforts to escape she was actually putting me on her off-side. This terrified her so much that she would spin around to put me back on the near-side, find herself facing the back of the stable, feel her legs being attacked by the snake, and spin back around to try to escape again. She made a desperate leap for freedom and got her forelegs over the front of the stable. It seemed that within seconds her flailing legs would break through the wood, or be broken in the process.

I knew decisive action was called for, but at the same time would have to be extremely careful not to get kicked, squashed, or trampled. Feeling strangely calm, but with my heart thumping loudly in my chest, I clambered over the door and got myself back on her near-side, outside the stable. From this position I was able to detach the long-line and take it out of the stable, and then push her feet back from where they were hooked over the barrier. Then I sat down and, now that the crisis was over, started shaking uncontrollably.

I couldn’t believe I’d been so stupid. She’d been here just over a week, we’d made some good progress, and then I’d ruined it. I’d painstakingly built up a small amount of trust – which nevertheless had taken a huge leap of faith on her part – and now I’d betrayed her. In my haste to get a result, I’d taken a stupid risk, and now I knew I was going to pay the price.

Feeling thoroughly dejected, I let myself into her stable. I might as well get started on repairing the damage, I thought, that is if it can be repaired. Misty’s eyes were still bulging with fear and she was still trembling a little, but as I walked in, something happened that I didn’t expect. She began to relax. She edged a little closer to me, and I began stroking her neck. She leaned against me, and I started to cry. I didn’t deserve it, but I was getting yet another chance.