Dido and rogue, p.1
Dido and Rogue, page 1
Dido and Rogue
Hazel M Peel
Contents
Hazel M Peel and the Leysham Stud Series
1. Leysham Stud
2. Vice!
3. Robert
4. The final try
5. Failure
6. Success!
7. Good Sport!
8. The First Race
9. The Lost Ones
10. “But where are they?”
11. “Will he, won’t he?”
Some words explained
Also by Hazel M Peel
Josephine Pullein-Thompson
Jane Badger Books
Hazel M Peel and the Leysham Stud Series
Hazel M Peel (1930–2013) was born in Stratford in London, but the family moved to Leicester when World War II broke out. Hazel’s family were not well off, and she did errands to be able to afford the occasional riding lesson, cycling five miles to get to the riding stables she described as “grotty”. She left school at fourteen, and started work at the age of fifteen in a livery stables near Grimsby. The stables were an inspiration, but her digs were anything but. Food was still rationed, and Hazel didn’t get much of what there was. She said, “I was driven to trying to eat the horses’ food. Ever been that hungry when growing and doing hard physical labour? I vowed I would never be hungry again when adult and no one, NO ONE would ever shove me around. They haven’t either.”
Hazel kept moving round different stables to learn, working with hunters, point-to-pointers and show jumpers, all of which provided plenty of material for her Leysham Stud series. Its heroes, Ann and Jim Henderson, decide to start a stud dedicated to breeding what we would now call sport horses. This they do with a remarkable success that would be the envy of any stud operating now: everything they touch seems to turn to gold, whatever discipline they try. They have the secret of producing incredibly successful polo ponies, trotters, racehorses, show jumpers, and eventers.
The stories were written to educate as well as inform, and so they give us a good idea of the horse and sporting world of the 1960s. Hunting was legal then, and shotgun laws were very different.
Judo, which both Ann and Jim play, has a different grading system now to the one that is talked about in the book.
Dido and Rogue comes before Darius the Three Day Eventer, which is also published by Jane Badger Books. The full series is:
* * *
Pilot the Hunter
Pilot the Chaser
Easter the Show Jumper
Night Storm the Flat Racer
Dido and Rogue
Darius the Three Day Eventer
Untamed
1
Leysham Stud
THE MARE FELT the pressure of bit and legs. Impishly she grabbed at the bit, shot sideways, switched her tail, and bucked. Then, stretching her neck, she shot forward in a gallop, legs drumming a tattoo on the short turf. Her eyes were bold and clear, her short ears pricked and alert, and, as the legs felt again at her sides, she braked to a halt. The suddenness of the movement hurtled her rider forward into the saddle.
Jim Henderson quickly readjusted his balance and nudged the mare into a brisk walk. Clad in an old grey sweater and wearing fawn breeches and black boots, he sat square and straight in the saddle. He held all four reins from the pelham bit in his left hand. The polo-stick he carried high in the right. The newness of the stick—its fresh whiteness—contrasted vividly with the dirty grey of the polo helmet and the black of both riding-boots and leather knee-caps.
The mare was a rich bay, the colour of aged oak, without a single white hair on either head or body. The black tail and mane shone from health and grooming, as did the animal’s four black points. She was not tall, standing only just over fifteen hands, but she was compact and well made, with the fine skin and thin tracery of veins showing good blood in her breeding.
Jim Henderson appeared to be under-horsed. He was a fraction under six feet, with long, well-muscled legs topped by a lean, fit body, the whole capped with an open, frank face more rugged than good-looking.
As they walked down the field Jim swung the polo-stick through the four basic movements: first the off-side forehander, then, reversing, the off-side backhander. Grunting with satisfaction at the neat strokes, he turned slightly in the saddle and, gripping the saddle-flaps tightly, with his weight on the stirrup-irons, he swung to the rear, making a near-side backhander stroke, then reversed quickly for the near-side forehander.
He pushed the mare into a canter and went through them again, guiding the animal with leg-aids, neck-reining, and body-swerves, and finally they tore down the field in a flat-out gallop. The mare scudded joyously over the grass with ears flickering as he practised the strokes at high speed. At the end of the field they turned. The mare pirouetted neatly on her hocks in her haste to obey her rider. She eyed the white ball lying on the grass and danced eagerly towards it, while Jim felt with hand and legs, measured the distance, then swung down and forward with his stick on the off side. The ball shot forward, and the mare chased it, no urging being needed as she entered wholeheartedly into the game. Reining her to the right, Jim swung out of the saddle, keeping his stance by balance and grip, and he hit the ball from the near side, making it trickle over the grass in a slow roll.
Jim was annoyed at the weakness of his stroke. He turned and rode at the ball again, his jaw set in determination. The head of the stick poised, hovered, then swept down, meeting the ball with a satisfying clunk. The ball rose, a whirling white dot, and swiftly the mare chased after it, her ears twitching as if asking her rider which side she should go. A touch from the legs! The reins were laid across her neck on the left, and, with the ball on her near side, the mare galloped level. The stick descended again. Another clunk, and the ball went high and fast through the air, falling back on the grass a good forty yards ahead.
Jim pulled the mare back into a walk and, with his stick waving in the air, attracted his wife’s attention. With a wave, Ann Henderson broke off from talking to the highly interested spectators, swung her horse round, and cantered slowly over to her husband.
Ann was riding her big horse, Pilot, the piebald gelding who had been first her hunter and point-to-point horse and later their mutual steeplechaser. Pilot was the great and ugly-coloured piebald who had won them the Grand National, and with whose winnings they had been able to found their stud of thoroughbred bloodstock. It was also this proud and bossy horse who had, in part, helped her and Jim to get to know each other and marry.
He was Ann’s pride and joy! Perhaps there were better horses, but no horse could quite be compared to Pilot in Ann’s estimation, and she patted the muscled neck. The horse acknowledged by ducking his head and grinding on the snaffle-bit.
Ann wore brown jodhpurs and boots and a green sweater, for the wind still had an edge to it, even though spring was only around the corner. She wore her black hunting-cap, and black leather pads protected her knee-joints.
“How did Dido go?” she asked as she rode up to her husband.
“She’s O.K. It’s me. I’m weak on that near-side forehander. The first time I hit it all right, but with as much strength as a six-month-old baby! The next time, though, I really walloped it!” said Jim, resting the stick on his right shoulder.
“It’s just practice. Anyhow, I don’t expect any polo-player is good at all four strokes, and that one is the most difficult of the lot. Do you want to try some riding off now?”
“Yes, at all paces—but we’ll start at the walk.”
Heeling Pilot on Dido’s near side, Ann rode quietly at the walk, holding the large gelding back so that his longer strides did not overtake the smaller mare’s. With a nod to Jim, Ann felt firmly with reins and legs and pulled Pilot to the right. At the same time Jim rode Dido to the left until both animals were moving along at the walk, leaning on each other, the smaller mare getting rather the worse of it with the piebald’s greater weight.
“Trouble is, Pilot’s really too big for this,” said Ann as she eyed Dido’s ears moving backward in annoyance.
“Can’t be helped. He’s the best we’ve got for practice,” said Jim, carefully watching the mare’s mood. “Dido must learn to ride off, and anyhow in real polo the horses will all be her own size.”
They pushed into a trot. The two animals rode shoulder to shoulder, pushing at each other, the riders’ knees protected by the leather caps, thudding together.
“O.K. Let’s canter to the bottom, turn, then come back at the gallop and try,” called Jim.
Neck and neck, ears back, straining and pushing at each other, the bay and piebald moved down the field. The mare switched her tail in annoyance as she found the gelding pushing her away at a tangent. At the end of the field the two animals wheeled away from each other and swung back, moving fast.
“Now!” shouted Jim.
Ann swung Pilot towards the mare, neck-reining quickly, and, as if anticipating the movement, Dido tried to increase her pace. But the bit checked, the reins and legs ordered, she swung aside in a half-pass, and then solidly bumped the piebald’s shoulder, pushing him off his line of ride.
“That’s better. I think she’s getting the idea,” called Jim. “Again!”
Dido felt the aids and swung a little too sharply to the left. Hastily Jim lessened the angle of approach a fraction of a second before the two animals bumped together, and again it was the piebald who was pushed erratically aside. Jim sat down in the saddle, drew his legs behind the girth, and, feeling on the reins, he tightened his grip. Instan tly, almost in the one stride, the mare shuddered to a halt and stood, nostrils flaring, eyes rolling, and skin twitching with excitement.
Ann rode back with Pilot.
“Nothing wrong with the brakes anyway,” she laughed. “I’m sure I’d be sent flying if she stopped so quickly with me.”
“We’ve made good progress. She’s learned all about the stick and the various strokes. She likes chasing after the ball, and she seems to understand now about pushing another horse away. I wish she could turn as sharply as Easter though, but you can’t have everything. I’ll just have a few more practice hits, then come in. She’ll have done enough for today.”
“I’ll get back to the family.”
Ann rode Pilot back to the gate, where her father and sister-in-law and brother had all been keen and critical spectators.
Charles Barton tapped his pipe on the gate, eyeing his daughter as she dismounted. He was not as tall as Jim, but more solidly made, with his face ruddy from a life spent in the open air on his mixed farm. He had broad shoulders, and, though in his fifties, little fat showed on his frame. As always, Charles Barton was impeccably dressed in a welltailored suit. But, again as always, the sartorial effect was ruined by the rakish brown trilby he would insist upon wearing, and which had, in fact, become a county-type trademark in the area for the more prosperous farmer to sport and copy.
“I see now why you’re both wearing those knee-caps,” he remarked to his daughter while trying to light his pipe in the wind.
“Better than a broken knee,” agreed Ann.
“The things my kid sister will do!” complained Ann’s brother, Michael, in mock horror. Almost a replica of his father, Mike Barton lacked the healthy red face of the farmer. He was a schoolteacher by profession, and had little time to get out in the fresh air. His infrequent outings consisted of trips over to the stud.
“Now don’t you two start!” warned Susan, his wife, as she looked affectionately at brother and sister. She was a small dot of a girl, neat and slight in stature compared to the tall Ann. She loved her sister-in-law dearly, though at one stage she had been dreadfully in awe of Ann—almost overwhelmed by Ann’s competence at so many things active and sporting.
Mike and Ann used each other like fencers’ foils, whipping in quick asides and jibes which, to an outsider, sounded rude and even threatening. To those in the know it was only a peculiar form of affection, because brother and sister absolutely adored each other, though neither would have dreamed of admitting the fact. Mike took great pleasure in quoting down at his kid sister, as he called her, while Ann took outrageous delight in trying to shock her brother by her way of life.
“Yes, behave yourselves!” said Mr Barton, puffing strongly on his pipe.
“Who, us?” asked Ann and Mike in unison, winking broadly at each other, as always strongly united by outside interference.
“What’s Jim doing now?” asked Susan, hastily changing the subject.
Ann and Mike turned, and Pilot took the opportunity to rub his cheekbones against Ann’s arm, nearly pushing her off her feet.
“He’s just bending Dido to right and left, trying to make her swifter at turning. You see, in polo it’s not so much out-and-out speed that counts, although it is a help. It’s the ability to tum quickly and halt suddenly,” she explained. “She can do that all right,” grunted Mike as he stared across at the sweating mare.
“Tell me more about polo, Ann. What is the chukka?” asked Susan.
“It’s a period of time. A big game is divided into eight periods, or chukkas, of seven and a half minutes each, and then there’s three minutes’ rest and time to change ponies. Some games though, smaller ones, have only six chukkas.”
“How many people play?”
“There are four in a team—numbers one, two, three, and four—so there are eight players on the field, and two mounted umpires as well as a referee. No one else is allowed near the field in case of accidents.”
“I’ve never seen a polo ground, Ann. Is it like a football pitch?” asked Mike.
“It’s 300 yards long and 160 yards wide if boarded, or 180–200 yards wide if unboarded, while the goals are eight yards wide. You have a safety zone of a good ten yards between the boundary and the spectators, for obvious reasons, and there should be a good forty yards as a run-on at the goals at either end of the ground.”
“What do you mean, ‘boarded’?” asked Susan in deep interest.
“Boards around the edges made up of sections about thirteen feet long and eleven inches tall. They’re really just another form of marking the edge of the field of play, but many people think they’re dangerous. They think that the ponies, when excited, might fail to see them in time and trip and fall.”
“I suppose when you say the players are numbered one to four they each have specific parts to play in the game, like footballers?” queried Mike.
“Sort of. Numbers one and two are the forwards, number three has the key position at half-back, so that he can either support his forwards or aid his back in defence, who is, of course, the number four. But Jim says it’s a very fluid game. Players often change their positions on the field as the game dictates. He says flexibility is the whole essence of a good polo team.”
“And what about handicapping?” asked Susan.
“Well, that is decided on a player’s ability, and it goes from ten goals down to minus two, though it doesn’t mean, of course, if a player has a handicap of six that he’s expected actually to score six goals each time. It’s just a good way of measuring the players’ standards. Look at it this way. Take a top-notch team who know everything there is to know about scoring goals from the back of a galloping pony, and take Jim’s club—a little club just started up two years ago. Well, naturally their four players can’t possibly hope to be as good as the top team’s four players, so what they do is this. They take the lesser total of goal handicaps away from the greater, which, of course, will belong to the better and more experienced team, and the difference is the handicap allowed.”
“Isn’t polo a very old game?” Susan asked.
“Very, though the historians disagree on when it was actually invented. I read in a book that the game was first played in England in 1871. Apparently some cavalry officers saw the game being played in India, and when they returned home they arranged a match which was played on Hounslow Heath, and the ball they used was a white ivory billiard-ball!”
“I didn’t know that.”
“They didn’t call it polo then. The Hounslow match was advertised as hockey on horseback. In that first English game they had eight to a team, and the officers rode small ponies about twelve-and-a-half hands high.”
“They must have looked odd if they were big men!” Susan exclaimed.
Ann nodded. “Later on the height of the ponies was raised to fourteen hands, and the players reduced to four a side.”
“I thought there was no height limit now?”
“There isn’t. 14·2 hands was the maximum height both in England and the U.S.A., where the game became very popular, but after the First World War the height limit was abolished. Around fifteen hands is considered the best height, for any bigger animal is naturally more clumsy and the rider is farther from the ball.”
“Which breeds produce the best animals for polo?”
“The British native ponies crossed with thoroughbreds or small thoroughbreds, though before the height limit was abolished Arabs were popular. One disadvantage with Arabs is that they have a lighter frame. You do need an animal with a certain amount of strength. Just imagine Jim, with his weight on a small, light-framed Arab: the poor animal would wear itself out!”
“But what’s Jim doing about mounts, Ann?” asked Mr Barton. “He can’t play polo with one animal surely? They change after every chukka, because it’s too exhausting for a polo pony to gallop about non-stop for seven and a half minutes.”
