Two Cups of Tea

Two Cups of Tea

By

Hugh Morshead c2012

     “Rory, we have to talk. Your school report was a disaster, you will be twelve this summer and it is high time you grew up and take responsibility for your life. Your father and I have agreed, either, you get a summer job or attend summer school - also, you have out-grown Tonka, it is time for him to go,” said my dear mother. The porridge turned to soggy plaster in my mouth.

       “But Tonka is doing so well, this is our year to win the Pony Club Championship,” I said with a sinking heart.

       “Remember, we all agreed that Tonka was a project and when you out grew him, we would                                                                   sell him on,” and added “last night at the Pony Club meeting Gloria De Bacle was going on and on about how Penelope has shot up like a weed, she’s not ready for a thoroughbred. She needs a good pony for the summer.”

       “Ahh, not Penelope, she’s a snotty dressage rider, Tonka hates dressage,” I persisted. I felt panicky, I couldn’t lose him. I couldn’t.

       “They are coming on Sunday to try him and I want you on your best behaviour. Don’t forget that Major De Bacle is chair of the amateur licence committee for the Jockey Club and so you had better be nice to his daughter,” she said and added, “oh, and by the way, I have put your name in for the job at the Chascomous Hunt and Country Club.”

      I dumped the porridge in the compost bin, slipped on the wellies and strode to the stables. Tonka was munching hay, I rapped by arms around his neck, sobbing, I told him the awful news. We had shared so many adventures together over the years, many know only to us and my gypsy friend, Liam. I did the barn chores, then jumped on my bike and peddled furiously to the gypsy encampment seeking solace. Liam and his dad, Mick, were working on a car, while Liam’s younger sister, Siobhan, was skinning a rabbit.

      “What’s up with you, this fine mornin’,” said Mick.

       “Ohh, my life, my dreams, and my hopes are destroyed,” I said, “Tonka is being sold and I could be conscripted into the Chascomous labour gang.

       “And why would this be?” Said Mick.

       “My report card was sketchy,” I said.

       “Ahh, school just replaces ignorance with confusion. But, there’s no harm in work and you     should be ridin’ horses not ponies. That said, I have to go over to Owen’s to shoe a horse. Jump in the truck we’ll go now.”

      Mick and Owen Monet are both horse dealers; however, the similarity ends there. As someone once said, the difference between them, was that Mick regretted having to be dishonest. Their appearance and lifestyle were polar opposites. Mick was a big raw-boned man with a battered face and dressed in soiled work clothes, like a granite outcrop, he was all rough edges and has character could be grasped in a glance. Owen, on the other hand, was a chameleon; he could blend into any crowd and be at home in any society. Like a water-worn pebble, his smoothness prevented attempts by creditors and litigation lawyers to get a grip on him. However, the real difference was that Owen had transcended the grubby world of horse coping to the real business of trading in prestige and information.

      “How’s business?” said Mick, and continued, “You know, Rory, the hell-rider that lives down by the strand. He is cryin’ the blues ‘cos he’s losing his pony.”

       “I’ve outgrown him and the De Bacles are coming on Sunday to try him,” I said.

       “Well, he couldn’t go to a better home,” said Owen.

       “You‘ll see him every day when you’re working at Chascomous,” added Mick.

       “When do you start there?” Said Owen.

       “Next week, if I get the job; they’re building a new cross-country course.”

       “While Mick is doing the shoeing, why don’t you hop on one? The chestnut in the first stall is a lovely ride,” said Owen.

      I went into barn with its double row of stalls either side of the center aisle. I took the head collar off the hook on the stall door and slide the door open. The sleek chestnut horse looked at me quizzically. My real education had come from hanging around Liam and Mick; they had taught me how to establish a rapport with any horse. It was all about leadership and respect. I let him smell my hand, and then gently rubbed his upper neck, he lowered his head and I blew softly into his nostrils, and then he blew into mine. We had completed our introductions and I slipped the head collar on him and led him to the crossties in the aisle to be groomed and tacked. I warmed him up jogging around the arena and then jumped through the line of show jumps. It was effortless for both of us.

      “He just came in last week, he has potential doesn’t he?” Said Owen, as I took him back to the stall and untacked him.

       “Ya, he’s a sister-kisser...no problem,” I said.

       “Anytime you want to come and ride, you are welcome,” said Owen, with a friendly smile.

       “Thanks, I might take you up on that, I’ll have nothing to ride when Tonka goes.”

       “You’re very confident the sale will go through,” said Owen, giving me a look.

       “Oh, my pony is a real gentleman and Gloria De Bacle would never put her daughter at risk,...though, I cannot bare thinking of the endless dressage he will have to do.”

       “There is a way you can keep your pony without risk to anyone,” said Owen.

       “How?”

       “Give him two cups of well-stewed tea in his feed an hour before he’s ridden and he’ll be a different horse,” said Owen.

       “What do you mean?” I asked.

       “It’ll just give him a bit of an edge; when a rider tries a new horse they are nervous and fear travels down the reins, neither will feel comfortable with each other. That feeling of uncertainty is enough to insure there is no sale,” said Owen.

       As I peddled home, I thought about what he had said. Tonka had to go one day, I felt so mixed up with the prospect of losing him and a little scared over the prospect of my first real job. I needed time to find the right home for him and I had never told anyone how important winning the championships was to me. My parents would get over the school report in time; after all, low marks are not the same as being in the gang scene and I could get them up by studying harder.

     The De Bacles were coming at nine o’clock. I slipped the teapot out to the stables, mixed up a mash of bran, a hand full of oats and stirred in the tea. Tonka wolfed it all down in his usual fashion. Sometime later, I heard the swish of gravel as the black sedan curved into the parking area in front of the house. My mother went out to greet them.

      “Wonderful to see you again, Gloria, and you too, Penelope,” said Mum.

       “We do hope your pony will be suitable, we can’t stay too long because Owen Monet says he has a new chestnut horse we just must look at,” said Gloria.

       “Oh really,” said my mother, there was enough meaning in the words to pack a suitcase.

       “I can’t stand the man, he travels with his own personal oil slick, however, to be fair, his horses win gold,” said Gloria.

      My brain was racing, that horse I rode must be the one he now wants to sell to Gloria Moneybags and now he has tricked me into doping my pony. I agonised about whether I should do something. I looked at Penelope, a slim blonde in form-fitting breeches and polished riding boots. I wish I had been able to ride him before they came, so that I knew that he was going to be all right.

      “You don’t need spurs,” I said to her, “he knows all the aids and responds to the lightest touch.”

       “Penelope likes to be properly attired when she rides,” said Gloria.

      I quickly tacked him up and led him to the mounting block. As soon as she sat in the saddle, I saw Tonka’s ears twitching. They went out into the backfield and rode some circles, followed by cantering in a tight circle. Tonka and I were partners; Penelope rode as if the pony was an employee. He was not happy and gave a couple of half bucks.

      “Take him for a canter around the field,” shouted Gloria.

      Instead of letting him ease into the canter, she gripped the reins tightly, pulling on his mouth. With that, Tonka took off and the canter became a gallop.

       “Circle him, circle him,” screamed Gloria. Penelope leaned back with her legs outstretched in front. She had lost all contact with the pony. As they whipped around the corner, she tried to jump off and hit the ground like a rag doll.

       She lay motionless as we ran over. My mum, a former nurse, knelt beside her and cradled her head in both hands. Gloria frantically dialled her cell phone.

       “What’s the address, what’s the address?” she screamed at my mum. The ambulance was called and Penelope lay there whimpering.

        “Wriggler your toes,” said my Mum. The boots moved; “now wriggle your fingers.” The fingers moved spastically.

         “Oh, thank God, it’s not her spine,” said Gloria.

        “Where does it hurt? Said Mum.

        “It’s my hip,” said Penelope, sobbing.

        “You’re going to be alright darling, the ambulance will be here any minute,” said Gloria.

        “Rory, go out to the road and show the ambulance how to get here,” said Mum.

       The ambulance with lights flashing arrived shortly and I directed them across the field. Tonka was munching grass with the reins caught around one leg. I caught him and took him back to the barn. I felt sick with worry over what I had just done. I tried to justify it that the girl could not ride and it was really dumb to bail out from a gallop; it was no good, I knew it was all my fault. The ambulance made its way back towards the stables. I went over to open the gate.

       “Is she going to be okay?” I asked the driver.

       “We just wrap ‘em and pack ‘em,” he said, with macabre jocularity. The two mothers came across the field with looks of anguish on their faces.

       “Come in for a quick cup of tea, you need a moment to get over the shock before you drive to the hospital,” said mother.

       “I don’t know if I could stomach it, I feel physically sick,” said Gloria. The two walked up the path to the house. I could not join them; I had to get away and try to make sense of it all. I went back to the stables, untied Tonka and we went down the road to cool him off.

        I heard a car slow down behind me, it was Owen, and he pulled alongside and lowered the window.

       “I heard she had a fall,” said Owen.

       “No, she bailed. Tonka is just not used to a strange rider with spurs,” I said.

       “Or a cup of tea,” said Owen, adding, “you’re not a horseman until you have a hundred falls, and if you have a hundred and one falls, you’re a fool for riding horses.” I could not believe his callousness.

       “They’ve taken her to the hospital,” I said.

       “You and I are partners now, we’ll keep our little secret to ourselves,” he said, with a tight smile that had a blade in it. I slumped in the saddle, with the realization of the terrible price I had paid to keep Tonka for a little longer. I had been looking forward to going to work at the Club, now I dreaded meeting the De Bacles everyday and Owen Monet having a noose around my neck. By the time I got home, Gloria had left and my mother was standing at the door.

        “Rory, have you seen the tea pot? I can’t find it anywhere.”

        “It’s in the tack-room,” I replied.

        “Why on earth did you take it there? You have a perfectly good travel mug. I wanted to make Gloria a proper cup of tea; instead, I had to use tea bags. I was mortified.”

I went back to collect the teapot. I wanted to smash it and Owen Monet against the wall. As I walked back to the house I thought, education is not about marks, it is about character.

       “Gloria just phoned, Penelope is going to be okay, she has a big bruise and a mild concussion...and she said you can stable Tonka at the Club when you work there. Penelope would like company when she rides,” said Mum.

       “Thank heavens she is going to be alright,” I said.

       “Gloria also said that she is going to give you dressage lessons, she says you need them...cup of tea?” Offering the teapot.

        “I think I will have a glass of milk, thanks.”