Black Beauty's Family Read online

  There were birds and rabbits about, but I longed for a horse companion. There seemed to be plenty of donkeys nearby and when Mr Biggs heard me answering their morning brays and realised that I was lonely he arranged for one to come and live with me.

  Moses was his name. He said that a great crowd of donkeys was being collected to give rides on the beach to the holiday makers. He’d done it before and said it was not much of a job. The big boys tried to make you gallop, the stout trippers screamed and bounced about on your back, which was quite painful when they were so large and heavy. And you were expected to toil for long hours on hot days; he prefered the winter when he worked on a farm.

  After I had rested for about two weeks, Mr Biggs came into the field one day with a set of harness. It was old and mended but he’d kept it well-oiled and he fitted it on me carefully. We went down to the shore, past the smoky houses and on to the sand, for the tide was out. Mr Biggs who was wearing fisherman’s boots, walked me along the edge of the sea and let the small waves lap round my hoofs. Gradually we went in deeper and deeper. I enjoyed splashing about.

  Then we walked up the beach to where four little huts on wheels stood under the cliff. They all had shafts and a little platform in front, steps down at the back and a little window on either side. Mr Biggs backed me between the shafts of one and hitched my traces to the hooks. Then he led me forward.

  I had forgotten what hard work it is to get a vehicle started; you really have to throw yourself into the collar and pull with all your strength. Once they were moving, those bathing machines were not too bad, unless their wheels sank into a soft patch of sand.

  When we had got going Mr Biggs climbed up on the platform and drove me in and out of the sea several times. Then he made a great fuss of me and took me back to my field and my leisured life. Another day I was taken to the forge and had a shoe with a less high-heel fitted and after that he would put on my driving bridle with a rope rein and ride me bare-back along the beach and into the sea almost every morning.

  The days grew hotter and the season started. Moses left me to give his donkey rides and I pulled the four bathing machines along to the main beach, close to the pier and just below the hotels and the elegant villas where the summer visitors stayed. Mr Biggs put out a large freshly-painted notice:

  BATHING MACHINES FOR HIRE

  Prop. E. BIGGS

  The visitors were everywhere. Ladies with parasols, nurses carrying babies; little boys in sailor suits and little girls in print dresses and sun bonnets, pulling off their shoes and stockings and running to paddle in the sea. When the tides were right we spent a lot of time on that beach. Mr Biggs wore his panama hat and I had a fringe on my browband to keep the flies from my eyes and a cotton rug to go over me when, waiting for customers, I stood dozing, tied to a ring in the sea wall.

  There seemed to be special times for ladies and gentlemen to bathe and they were not allowed to mix, except for little boys who might go with either their fathers or their mothers.

  When they had hired one of our machines they would climb in and change into their bathing costumes, meanwhile Mr Biggs would put me in the shafts.

  Then, when they were ready, he would jump on the platform or on my back and we would take the machine out into the water and turn it round so that the steps led directly down into the waves. I soon learned the routine and directly Mr Biggs shouted ‘whoa’ I would stand, while he ran round to make sure that the steps were safe and that a rope or two was dangling down from the roof into the water, this gave the bathers something to hold on to and made them feel safe. Then he would unhitch me and sometimes we had to hurry for another customer would be waiting to be drawn up or down.

  When we had all our four machines in a neat line along the water’s edge, I would take a rest until they wished to be brought up but sometimes, if the tide was coming in, we would have a great rush to get them all up before they began to float.

  On wet days I stayed in my shed and on Sundays there was no bathing and everyone went to church instead, so I had a day of rest in my field. Mr Biggs fed me well and did not expect me to live on grass alone and the sea water strengthened my legs as Mr Chandler had said it would. I began to feel younger, to carry my head high and to enjoy all the company. Some of the children would come to see me every day with an apple or lump of sugar and be quite sad when their holidays ended and we could meet no more.

  Then, one hot August day when we were very busy, I heard a voice ask politely if there was a machine for hire.

  ‘Certainly, M’am. Just one moment and I’ll be with you,’ answered Mr Biggs and, as we took the machine I was harnessed to into the sea, I thought about that familiar voice.

  When we went back for the next machine I took a good look at the lady. Long pretty dress, hat, parasol, she was accompanied by a small boy and girl called Charlie and Katie. They looked just like all the other families on the beach, but each time the lady spoke I became more convinced that it was Miss Fanny. Dear Miss Fanny from my happy hunting days at Earleigh Court.

  At first the children were too excited by the prospect of bathing to notice the horse, but afterwards they came round to pat me as Miss Fanny was paying for the hire. She called to them to be careful, for I was a strange horse and did not know them, but I could hear Mr Biggs assuring her that I was very fond of children and perfectly safe.

  Presently she came to fetch the children who didn’t want to leave me. ‘Oh what a dear old horse,’ she said as I looked into her face with pricked ears. ‘But he looks too well-bred for this sort of work.’

  Mr Biggs began to explain about my accident and the excellent effect of salt water and I took Miss Fanny’s cuff in my teeth and gave it a playful tug. Suddenly she sensed that I knew her. She turned to Mr Biggs and asked in a strange voice if he knew my name or where I had been before the jobmaster.

  ‘Ebony,’ he said. ‘And he answers to it, so he’s had it a fairish time. And Mr Chandler bought him from some sort of circus that had come down from the north.’

  ‘Then it is Ebony, my old Ebony,’ she said putting her arms round my neck and bursting into tears. The children and Mr Biggs all looked horrified so she tried to explain.

  ‘I’ve often told you of Ebony, the beautiful, black hunter I had when I was young, well I’m certain this is my Ebony, look, he knows me.’

  I wished I could speak and tell her everything but, as I couldn’t I put up my face and gave her the kiss I used to give Dick Turpin before I died. That made her cry the more.

  ‘Don’t take on so, M’am, you can see he’s fit and well and though he has come down in the world you can tell he has been kindly used, for a nicer-natured horse to handle you’d never find.’

  Then Miss Fanny dried her eyes, and apologised for her tears. She gave me a loving pat saying that they would come back next day.

  And next day she came again and brought her husband, Mr Cavendish. He patted me and asked Mr Biggs if there would be any possibility of buying me when the season was over. Mr Biggs was very helpful. He explained that I belonged to Chandler and Barlow, and that his interest in me was only until the thirtieth of September, but that he was sure that they would accept any reasonable offer. Mr Cavendish wrote down the London address.

  So, by the time their holiday came to an end, Mrs Fanny was able to tell me that it was all settled, that I was to be hers from October the first.

  Mr Biggs seemed very pleased. ‘You’ve fallen on your feet, Ebony, and no mistake,’ he said when they had gone. ‘You’ll be thoroughly petted and spoiled there; it’ll suit you a lot better than riding school work.’

  So the summer ended. I was quite sorrowful at parting with Mr Biggs at the railway station, but I was very happy indeed when at the end of the journey I was led out of the train and found all the Cavendishes waiting for me on the station platform. They had brought their young groom, Sidney, and he was to ride me home while they went in the motor car driven by Mr Cavendish.

  The Paddocks wasn’t a large
establishment like Earleigh Court, but it looked a very comfortable sort of house set in its own meadows and orchards. The stables were near the house and very nice, for all the stalls had been made into looseboxes. Mr Cavendish kept a hunter, Starchaser, and there were two ponies, Dandy and Dumpling. I was to carry Mrs Fanny who had not been riding since she had the children. There were no carriage horses, for the motor car, which lived in the coach house, served instead, but there was a governess cart for the ponies.

  It is a very happy home, Sidney is a cheerful groom and Mrs Fanny is very pleased with me. She says that we have both grown old and must take things steadily and not as we did in our wild young days, but we have some very interesting times. The children have become fond of me, especially since they learned I can do tricks, though I won’t ‘die’ for them very often as my joints are too stiff to be constantly getting up and lying down.

  Charlie, like his father, is very attached to the motor car and he and Katie are always dressing up as motorists in goggles and veils, huge caps and hats and long coats down to their feet, but they have often told me that they love horses best and me best of all the horses in the world.

  BLACK PRINCESS

  Diana Pullein–Thompson

  Black Beauty’s Family

  1

  A QUIET BEGINNING

  WHEN YOU ARE old it is the memories of foalhood which stand out most clearly, shining through time like coach lamps in the half-light, signposts to events in a life whose span is nearly over.

  So, looking back now, I see a wide field climbing to meet a line of elms and then the sky, a glorious sea of darkening blue. I smell again the newly mown grass, cowslips, and daisies, the creamy froth of elderberry blossom, the sweetness of the cherry. And I feel on my face the promise of dew and the soft dampness of my native land.

  It is my first time out of the hot stable, so deep in golden straw gathered in stooks from the harvest fields. The flies are quiet and still; a few late bees busy themselves in the honeysuckle; a brightly coloured butterfly flashes through the blue light of evening and is gone. It is all new to me as I follow my mother into the meadow which awaits the dusk. My legs are shaky and my eyes very large with wonder at the world. The gate creaks as it opens slowly on its wooden hinges; the grass is springy under my feet after the cobbles of the yard and space stretches before me into eternity. I am afraid. I rush to my mother’s side, seeking succour and comfort from the warmth and smell of her glossy black body. She turns and sniffs me, touches me with her lips. And then she is loosed and we are free. Our groom, Will Aken, turns away from us, walks straight-backed, bow-legged to the gate. My mother Black Countess, leads me to the cover of a great oak which overhangs a tall thorn hedge, where I can rest peacefully, for she knows my legs are already tired.

  I was my mother’s third foal; two colts had been born before me and sold after weaning. They had been, it was said by the grooms, more handsome in foalhood than me, but wilder, and my mother’s fine looks and reputation assured that they soon found homes. She had been, in her younger days, equally good in harness or under the saddle; proud, willing and high spirited, closely related to that famous horse Black Beauty, whose story is still read today.

  As a foal I wanted nothing more than to be exactly like my mother, both in character and appearance, and I was pleased when Will Aken announced that the Master had decided that I should be called Black Princess.

  ‘You’ve got a look of breeding in you already,’ he said, ‘in your head carriage. It marks you out.’

  He was leaning over the gate as he spoke, a blade of grass in his mouth, a short, sturdy man with a wide, kind face, smiling and weatherbeaten. Wearing breeches and gaiters, shirt, waistcoat and cap, he smelt of saddle soap, hay and leather, apart from his hair which possessed his own special human tang. His hands were broad and gentle, his voice soft but firm, pleasantly slow in speech. He never hurried and yet he got through more work in a day than two ordinary grooms put together. My mother said we were very fortunate in Will Aken; there were not many of his sort around.

  Master was a butcher with several shops scattered on the outskirts of the nearest town. Honest, well-to-do, hard-working and usually modest in speech, he was well-liked by the gentry, their housekeepers and cooks. Horses were his hobby as well as transport for his trade. He kept four for delivering meat to his customers, one for bringing meat from the slaughter house to the shop, and my mother and another mare, Marigold, for breeding. He also possessed a smart hackney, Flyaway, who pulled his gig when he went to market and took many a prize at agricultural shows.

  Marigold’s foal was born a few days after me; brown at first, he gradually turned a silvery grey with a pinky brown muzzle like the inside of a young mushroom. Marigold, a strawberry van mare, had delivered meat for Master for ten years before becoming permanently lame through a diseased fetlock. Many an owner would have put a bullet through her head once she was no longer able to work but Master, who spent so much time killing cattle, could not bear to destroy a horse. He put her to a local stallion called Seascape and my little silver companion was born eleven months later. Seaspray – for that was the name Master chose – became my greatest friend. We played together imagining every leaf or wisp caught in a gust of wind to be a monster out to kill us. Galloping like wild mustangs, running for our lives. Then, suddenly tired, we stood head to tail like the older horses, keeping each other’s eyes clear of flies with our tails, and chewing each other’s withers when they grew hot or itchy.

  On Saturday evenings the van horses came from the shops and on fine Sundays they were put in the next meadow. And many were the tales they told us, standing under the oaks, resting each of their tired hindlegs in turn.

  There was one bay horse I remember especially well. He was what men call a cob, short everywhere with a hogged mane and a docked tail which left him at the mercy of the flies. Although quite heavy in build, Tomtit possessed the quick movements and sprightly manner which had given him his name. Throughout his troubles he had, it seemed, remained cheerful and perky, making the best of many a horrible situation. Broken-in by a drunken master who had been very free with the whip, Tomtit had been sold at three years old to pull a milk float in London. Here, without mane or tail to keep away flies, or forelock to shield his eyes, he found the summer streets a torture. Added to this discomfort was the cruelty of a thoughtless and brutal driver, Bert Brown.

  ‘When he wanted me to go forward, he jerked my mouth, when he wanted me to stop he jerked my mouth and when he wanted me to turn he jerked my mouth. Jerk, jerk, jerk for everything. Can you imagine the pain for a three year old with tender bars?’ asked Tomtit. ‘Of course in time my bars hardened, but my nerves didn’t. The noise and stench of the streets in summer. It was almost unendurable. How I longed for green trees and soft meadows, lush grass and a clear tinkling stream to quench my thirst! Of course there are public troughs in London, but the water grows stale and in summer turns quite yellow, with dead flies and insects floating on the top. It does nothing to comfort a sore mouth.’

  ‘I thank God I have never been sent to London,’ said my mother. ‘I believe I would lose my senses in such a place. I would rather be dead.’

  ‘There are many fine carriage horses, and until recently many park hacks, but they were, of course, too superior to pay much attention to a poor youngster in a milk float,’ replied Tomtit. ‘The roads were so hard on our legs. Our fetlocks swelled and we all grew those soft lumps men call windgalls, which made us very ugly. Even at night we could not rest for we were tied too short, which made it impossible for us to lie down.’

  ‘How did you get away?’ asked Mother. ‘Were you sold?’

  ‘It wasn’t as simple as that. This man Bert Brown, used to leave me outside a public house while he met friends for drinks. Often when he came out he was drunk and quarrelsome and then my poor mouth suffered even more than usual. Oh, it was a hard life and pulling Master’s cart is paradise in comparison! Well, to cut a long story short, Bert w
as careless; sometimes when he left me he put on the drag and sometimes he did not. One day when he forgot it, I said to myself: “Why do I wait so patiently outside every customer’s house and every tavern or hostelry? Why do I obey this man, who hits me and hurts my mouth? Who dallies drinking and then drives me home too fast, up and down hill, with the whip so painful on my back”.’

  ‘But if we do not obey our masters,’ put in Mollie a brown mare, ‘they shoot us. I have seen it happen.’

  ‘Not always, and Bert was not my master but only my driver,’ answered Tomtit stamping in the dust. ‘An ignorant man! Well, to carry on with my tale, when the fellow came out of the tavern one day, by jove, I had gone, milk churns, float and all. I would have dearly loved to have seen his countenance at that moment.’

  ‘But where? Go on, don’t stop,’ I urged, for I greatly valued these stories which told me about the world I was soon to enter.

  ‘Out of town and away. Not too fast or I would have called attention to myself, but at a steady trot. A boy tried to stop me, but a nip on the arm made him drop the reins with a squeal. I kept trotting until I met a tinker’s cart and then I fell in behind it, for I could see the horse was a friendly sort, and the man was singing, and I love a good song. The tinker turned off into an alleyway, and then he approached me speaking soft and slow, so that I trusted him and stood quite still. Gently he unharnessed me, and put a rope and canvas halter over my head. Then he painted me with a liquid which turned the hair on my off pastern white so that I now possessed a white sock, a temporary disguise. All this took nearly an hour, but the alleyway was deserted and no one saw us. Directly he had finished this work, the tinker hitched me to the back of his cart and continued his journey.’