Tivington Nott Read Online Free
the stables. These are off to one side, through an arch in a brick wall which is connected to the kitchen end of the establishment. There’s a sandpit and first-class accommodation for four hunters with a tack room and feed store. Through a gate in the adjoining hedge I see an extensive vegetable garden, laid out in rows, and several hothouses.
She’s watching me taking it all in.
And I realise it’s her. She’s the worker round here. Not a minute to lose.
She doesn’t go near Kabara. He’s checking us out from his stall. She points in his direction and says, ‘I suppose you must know what to do or he wouldn’t have sent you would he?’ I get the impression she’d be happy to see the back of the horse. ‘Give us a yell when you want a cup of tea,’ she says and heads for the house.
The horse is no trouble to me. As the weeks go by I realise it’s a decision he’s made. I’m no Irishman to work magic with horses. It’s him. He has decided I’m okay. And pretty soon the Tiger starts showing more than an idle interest. The ease with which I get along with Kabara intrigues him. But he keeps his distance. Leaving it all to me. Not making his interest too plain; watching to see how things work out. Making no move to get to know Kabara. Nothing like that. Staying a stranger to the horse. And that’s his mistake.
I’m watching the Tiger too. Keeping abreast of his little schemes as they’re running through his head. I have to. And I don’t think he understands that this horse is not really the good-natured nag he seems, but is a potential stroke of lightning. Looking back it is easy to see how Tiger makes this mistake. He sees me crawling all over Kabara without any caution and jogging along the Wiveliscombe road with a loose rein and no saddle.
But I never forget for a minute the energy of this entire, and his potential for something like heroic action. You can’t touch him without knowing it, no matter what you might imagine from a distance.
It’s in his blood.
A feeling that he’s preparing for something.
A big day when it’s all going to come together for him. When all the lineage, and all the breeding and all the care and all the years and the generations of refining are going to be called finally into action. He has a performance in him, and being close to him I feel it. But it’s held in reserve and would have to be called out of him at the big moment. His rider would have to be his equal in potential or the limit would not be reached. That’s the way he makes me feel. He’s ordered, disciplined, quietly under control. Waiting. For the day. This is the only way it makes sense. My ‘good’ reflexes are a joke in comparison with his. Kabara can react and restore his balance in the instant before I have had time to register what is going on. So I don’t kid myself. I’m just taking care of him. He’s out of my class. Out of Alsop’s too. Out of most people’s. Needing someone as special as himself to call out that performance. So I don’t try anything fancy with him. I let him know what’s going on, but I let him lead.
I say nothing to anyone about all this. And between haymaking and everything else, whenever we get the odd chance, which turns out to be mostly around late evening, me and Kabara are left alone to get on with things for a while. The Tiger keeps his eye on us and slips the odd question about the horse, but I don’t say too much and I can see he’s seriously starting to entertain the idea of hunting on him one day himself. Maybe it’s no more than an outlandish fantasy at this stage rather than an actual idea. But the germ of it’s there sure enough.
This horse is not an Exmoor hunter. Without superior horsemanship he’s the wrong horse for this place. The first time I take him out on the Chains he panics when his feet start sinking into the bog. The local ponies skip their way over such places. Kabara thinks the earth is opening under him. And when I show it to him
She’s watching me taking it all in.
And I realise it’s her. She’s the worker round here. Not a minute to lose.
She doesn’t go near Kabara. He’s checking us out from his stall. She points in his direction and says, ‘I suppose you must know what to do or he wouldn’t have sent you would he?’ I get the impression she’d be happy to see the back of the horse. ‘Give us a yell when you want a cup of tea,’ she says and heads for the house.
The horse is no trouble to me. As the weeks go by I realise it’s a decision he’s made. I’m no Irishman to work magic with horses. It’s him. He has decided I’m okay. And pretty soon the Tiger starts showing more than an idle interest. The ease with which I get along with Kabara intrigues him. But he keeps his distance. Leaving it all to me. Not making his interest too plain; watching to see how things work out. Making no move to get to know Kabara. Nothing like that. Staying a stranger to the horse. And that’s his mistake.
I’m watching the Tiger too. Keeping abreast of his little schemes as they’re running through his head. I have to. And I don’t think he understands that this horse is not really the good-natured nag he seems, but is a potential stroke of lightning. Looking back it is easy to see how Tiger makes this mistake. He sees me crawling all over Kabara without any caution and jogging along the Wiveliscombe road with a loose rein and no saddle.
But I never forget for a minute the energy of this entire, and his potential for something like heroic action. You can’t touch him without knowing it, no matter what you might imagine from a distance.
It’s in his blood.
A feeling that he’s preparing for something.
A big day when it’s all going to come together for him. When all the lineage, and all the breeding and all the care and all the years and the generations of refining are going to be called finally into action. He has a performance in him, and being close to him I feel it. But it’s held in reserve and would have to be called out of him at the big moment. His rider would have to be his equal in potential or the limit would not be reached. That’s the way he makes me feel. He’s ordered, disciplined, quietly under control. Waiting. For the day. This is the only way it makes sense. My ‘good’ reflexes are a joke in comparison with his. Kabara can react and restore his balance in the instant before I have had time to register what is going on. So I don’t kid myself. I’m just taking care of him. He’s out of my class. Out of Alsop’s too. Out of most people’s. Needing someone as special as himself to call out that performance. So I don’t try anything fancy with him. I let him know what’s going on, but I let him lead.
I say nothing to anyone about all this. And between haymaking and everything else, whenever we get the odd chance, which turns out to be mostly around late evening, me and Kabara are left alone to get on with things for a while. The Tiger keeps his eye on us and slips the odd question about the horse, but I don’t say too much and I can see he’s seriously starting to entertain the idea of hunting on him one day himself. Maybe it’s no more than an outlandish fantasy at this stage rather than an actual idea. But the germ of it’s there sure enough.
This horse is not an Exmoor hunter. Without superior horsemanship he’s the wrong horse for this place. The first time I take him out on the Chains he panics when his feet start sinking into the bog. The local ponies skip their way over such places. Kabara thinks the earth is opening under him. And when I show it to him