Every month at our Uxbridge Writers' Circle meeting, we members read a piece that we've written that incorporates words we selected the previous month.
The words are shown in italics in my story below.
I and my husband are breeders and owners of thoroughbred racehorses. (The picture is of a racehorse we part-own).
This story of fiction uses some of my experience of this "world".
Optimism
I’m pretty sure that I’m not making the
same mistake twice as I move into this farm.
The
barn has ten well-constructed stalls with oak walls and rubber matting, as well
as a window in each, with the necessary bars for the horse’s protection. The
small farmhouse has brick walls, gingerbread trim and a cold, damp,
stone-walled cellar. A lot of restoration and upgrading is called for. When I
first looked around, I knew that I’d never be able to keep the place warm.
There’s a vintage wood-burning stove in the kitchen, and that’s it. It
would be warmer sleeping in the relatively well-insulated barn with the horses until the place is renovated.
The
barn is what drew me to the property and compelled me to make a submission to
the owner. It was like an interview process. The old man reserved the right to
refuse anyone he thought wouldn’t respect the land and the buildings. He was an
avid horseman, he told me, but had to sell his beloved mares when he fell ill
about five years ago, and now he had to leave. There was no family to give it
to. He wanted someone to be a caretaker, a custodian of his beloved home of
over sixty years.
Despite
recent events, I wondered if I was headed for more heartbreak and
disappointment when I shook his hand and agreed to his conditions.
My
passion is thoroughbred horse-racing and breeding. Those of you who’ve had any
experience with it would have guessed most of what I’m about to tell you, but
not all.
It started when my
relationship with Sally ended. I purchased a modest farm with lush fields and stately
maples that guarded its frontage and entrance. This was to be the realization
of my vision. As a young boy, I yearned to live in the country and have
racehorses, just like my grandfather. I did my research and bought mares and
yearlings at the sale that had great potential for breeding and racing.
I had nothing but
bad luck, or so I thought.
Two mares lost
their foals early in their pregnancy, two other mares proved impossible to get
in foal, and the fifth was found to have a large glass marble inserted into her
uterus. This is sometimes used as a way to reduce the symptoms of heat during
the racing season, but also prevents conception.
The three young
ones didn’t make it to the races. They suffered repeated episodes of colic,
skin diseases, coughs, foot issues, eye infections and so on. In brief, they
were unwell most of the time.
We thoroughbred
racehorse owners and breeders learn to live with disappointment. The few highs
we get, have to carry us a long way. Only optimists can survive.
At first, I
accepted all that happened as bad luck. But as the stress crept up on me and
consumed me, and my optimism wavered, I imagined ghosts, curses and other
menaces invading my farm to destroy my hopes and dreams. I got sick, lost my
job and consequently sold everything.
With my dreams
shattered, and my self-esteem at rock-bottom, I knew I had no hope of securing
another job, so I became a day-trader on the encouragement of a buddy of mine.
I had a bit of luck almost as soon as I started, and built on it. But one day,
as I stared at the computer screen with its graphs, data and talking heads, I
thought of Sally.
This part of the
story is long, so I’ll cut it to a bare minimum. I hired a top-notch private
investigator and she infiltrated Sally’s circle of friends with ease. The golf
course, the gym, the book club.
The PI told me
that she found Sally to be a bitter, vindictive woman who must not be crossed
and needed to be in control. She couldn’t help herself and asked me how on
earth I got into a relationship with a woman like Sally. She said you only have
to look into those cold, steel-grey eyes to see the iciness inside.
But it wasn’t long
before the PI got close enough to Sally to share stories about past
relationships. (I made the mistake
of ending my relationship with Sally abruptly, on her birthday).
My hunch was
right. Sally had sabotaged my life. She didn’t hold back as she told the PI how
she’d contaminated the horses’ feed, poisoned the water troughs, infected the
grooming brushes and done many other heinous, harmful things.
The PI was
astounded, horrified and distraught that anyone could hurt beautiful, innocent
horses, as she put it. I was relieved that there had been no ghosts or curses
and thanked my lucky stars that Sally hadn’t burned the barn down with the
horses in it.
I told the PI that
I wasn’t going to report it.
She said she would
take the case to the SPCA and that it was out of my hands. I gave her the vet
bills, the specialist assessments, copies of x-rays and ultrasounds.
The upshot of all
of this, is that Sally’s serving six months in jail for animal cruelty, starting
yesterday, and I’m moving into my new farm today. And the PI is moving in
tomorrow.
The horses arrive
next week. I can afford first-rate security systems and I’m using them. No
horse is going to suffer again, through human interference, on my watch.
We’ll soon be able to sit on the
verandah and gaze at the horses. And, with a glass of wine
each, we’ll toast our future in the horse-racing business.
Queen’s Plate,
here we come!
Vicky Earle Copyright 2019
