Читать книгу A Country Girl - Nancy Carson - Страница 7

Clara Stokes, although adamant about not leaving her fireside in the evenings, was often faced with no alternative during the day. Her family, not unreasonably, expected to be fed, and not every morsel of food was delivered to the lock-keeper’s cottage. So she had to make trips to Brierley Hill High Street for meat and provisions, for fruit and the fresh vegetables her husband could not grow himself.

Sometimes, they would be given a rabbit, a wood pigeon, or even a pheasant, any of which would make a cheap yet perfectly acceptable dinner. A bunch of beetroots or a bag of freshly dug potatoes often arrived with the compliments of a neighbour, but you could never depend on it. In fact, if you waited for somebody to donate something like that, just when you needed it, you’d go hungry. It was a perverse principle which dictated that such offerings were only ever presented when the larder was full, never empty. Naturally, Will Stokes would return the favour whenever possible; his rhubarb was coveted for its flavour and gentle but very definite powers to relieve the Buckpool and Wordsley constipated, and his kidney beans were noted for their tenderness and delicate taste when in season. Most neighbours, as well as many of the boat families, would trade food in this way at some time.

It was the second Thursday in May and a fine sunny morning when Clara Stokes set out on her walk to Brierley Hill, shopping basket in one hand and gallon can in the other to hold the lamp oil they needed. The clatter and smoke of industry was all around her. Carts, conveying all manner of finished goods and raw materials, drawn by work-weary horses, passed in either direction, the drivers nodding to her as they progressed. Small children with runny noses, too young yet for school, were as mucky as the dirt in which they scrabbled; poorly clad and often even more poorly shod.

Clara went first to the cobbler to pick up a pair of Will’s shoes that had been in for resoling.

‘I heeled ’em an’ all,’ the bespectacled shoe mender informed her. ‘It’s on’y an extra tanner, but it’ll save yer bringin’ ’em again to be done in another six weeks.’

Clara smiled at his enterprise and paid him one shilling and ninepence, the cost of the repair. Next she visited the ironmongery of Isaiah Willetts, who filled her gallon can with lamp oil after she’d bought candles, washing soda and a bar of coal tar soap. She passed the drapery, mourning and mantles shop of Eli Meese, avoiding glancing into the window lest old Eli himself spotted her and she had to stop and talk. So that she could buy elastic, since Will’s long johns were hanging loose around his waist and needed new to make them grip him comfortably again, she visited the haberdashery store a little further along the street. At the greengrocer’s she bought a cabbage, onions, carrots, parsnips, spuds and a cauliflower, by which time she was laden down, and she hadn’t been nigh the butcher’s yet.

Of course, there was a queue at the butcher’s. But at least she could rest her basket on the sawdust-covered floor, along with her gallon can and the sundry brown carrier bags she’d acquired. Murdoch Jeroboam Osborne, in his white, blood-flecked cow gown and navy striped apron, greeted her warmly as soon as she entered, and she watched him chop off the heads of various fowl, a hare and several rabbits, until it was her turn to be served.

‘A quart of chitterlings, please, Murdoch,’ Clara requested familiarly.

‘A quart of chitterlings coming up, my princess,’ Murdoch repeated with an amiable grin. ‘How’re you today, Clara my treasure, ha?’

‘Aching from carrying all this stuff,’ she replied, nodding in the direction of the purchases at her feet. ‘Who’d be a woman fetching and carrying this lot?’

Murdoch smiled sympathetically and turned around to scoop up a quantity of chitterlings, which were pigs’ intestines that had been washed and cooked and were a tasty delicacy. ‘Have you got e’er a basin to put ’em in?’ he enquired.

‘Not today, Murdoch. Can you lend me summat?’

‘I’ve got a basin in the back, my flower. Just let me have it back next time you come, ha?’

‘Course I will.’

‘I’ll go and rinse it out.’ He returned after a minute with the basin and filled it with the chitterlings. ‘Anything else, my flower?’

‘Will fancies a bit of lamb for his Sunday dinner.’

‘Leg or shoulder, ha?’

‘Shoulder’s tastiest, I always think, don’t you?’ Clara asked.

‘Just as long as it ain’t cold shoulder, ha?’ He winked, and Clara chuckled as he set about carving a section of shoulder. ‘By the way, Clara, I was glad to see as your daughter’s decided to join the Amateur Dramatics Society,’ he added, while he worked. ‘She’ll make a fine little actress. Nice-looking girl, ain’t she, ha?’

‘For Lord’s sake, don’t tell her so. She’s already full of herself.’

‘Gets it off her mother – the good looks I mean,’ he commented warmly, heedless of the other women queuing behind her. ‘I don’t mean the being full of herself bit, ’cause you ain’t full of yourself, are you, Clara, ha?’

Clara tried to pass off his compliment with a dismissive giggle. She always felt a warm glow talking to Murdoch Osborne, for they’d known each other years, and he made her feel like a young girl again. ‘Oh, you do say some things, Murdoch.’

‘I mean it an’ all.’

‘I bet you say it to all your customers.’

Murdoch Osborne grinned waggishly. ‘For all the good it ever does me … Here’s your shoulder of lamb …’ He held it up for her to inspect. ‘Does that look all right?’ Clara scrutinised it briefly then nodded her approval. ‘Anythin’ else, my flower?’

‘I’d better take four nice pieces of liver for our tea. And I’ll have two pounds of bacon, as well.’

She watched him slice the bacon and the liver expertly, and wrap it. When he’d bundled all her purchases together in newspaper, he took his blacklead pencil from behind his ear and tallied it up, writing the amounts on the corner of the wrapping. Clara watched, trying to discern the upside-down amounts, then paid him. He handed the package to her, but Clara had no room in her bags for anything else.

‘I’ll struggle with this lot.’

‘Tell you what,’ Murdoch said, not oblivious to her difficulty and keen to curry favour, ‘why don’t you let me deliver that lot to you later?’

‘That’s ever so kind of you,’ Clara answered with a grateful smile, ‘but I shall need the liver for our tea.’

‘Then just take the liver and whatever else you need, and let me deliver the rest.’

‘I don’t want to put you out, Murdoch,’ she said, as he pulled out the parcel of liver and handed it to her.

‘It’s no trouble. Now give us the rest o’ your tranklements.’

She handed him the stuff she didn’t need and kept the bag containing the vegetables and the liver she’d just bought.

‘There you go. I hate to see a lady struggle. Soon as I’ve shut the shop, I’ll have a ride over to your house and deliver this little lot.’

‘I’m that grateful, Murdoch.’

‘Think nothing of it. Enjoy the rest o’ your day, and I’ll see yer later.’

It was just turned half past six when Murdoch delivered Clara’s shopping. The magical aroma of liver and onions still lingered in the air as Will Stokes answered the door to him.

‘By God, that smells good, Will,’ Murdoch commented. ‘I’ve brought the shopping. Your missus was struggling to carry it all when she left me shop, so I offered to bring it.’

‘She told me,’ Will replied, and took the basket and a carrier bag from him. ‘And it’s very decent of yer, Murdoch. Fancy a cup o’ tea while you’m here?’

‘I could be tempted. I’d be lying if I said otherwise.’

‘Come on in then.’

Murdoch entered and Will led him into the small parlour. Clara and Kate were at the stone sink in the scullery, but ceased their chores as soon as they realised Murdoch Osborne was a guest.

‘Thank you for delivering me things, Murdoch,’ Clara said when she saw him. ‘It’s service you don’t expect these days.’

‘No trouble at all.’

‘Our Kate, put the kettle on,’ Clara suggested. ‘Let’s make Murdoch a nice cup o’ tea. Can I get you something to eat, Murdoch?’

‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble, Clara, ha?’

‘One good turn deserves another,’ Clara responded, while Kate went out to fill the kettle and Murdoch’s eyes followed her. ‘I bet as you’ve had nothing all day.’

‘It’s true enough.’

‘Well, I can imagine how it is for a man who ain’t been widowed long. It must be hard for yer, Murdoch, since your poor wife passed on, but you need to look after yourself.’

‘Oh, I don’t go without, Clara.’

‘Well, let me get you something to eat. What d’you fancy? It’s a pity all the liver’s gone – it was beautiful, by the way … I could always fry you bacon and eggs …’

‘Bacon and eggs?’ Murdoch said with a smile of enthusiasm, directing his comment to Will Stokes. ‘What more could a man ask for but bacon and eggs and a bit o’ fried bread, ha?’ Will noticed how Murdoch cunningly added the fried bread to the meal. ‘But only if it’s no trouble, Clara.’

‘I told you, it’s no trouble.’

‘You’re a lucky chap, Will, having a wife who’s handy with the frying pan.’

‘I’m reminded of it every day, Murdoch,’ Will answered dismissively.

Kate returned and hung the kettle on a gale hook over the fire. It spat and hissed as a few drips of water fell into the burning coals.

‘So how’s our Kate shaping up in this here amateur dramatics group?’ Will enquired as Clara set about frying Murdoch’s treat.

‘Oh, she’ll do very nicely, Will. I’ve got her to agree to play the part of Pocahontas in our next play.’

‘Poker who?’

Murdoch guffawed. ‘Pocahontas. A celebrated Red Indian princess from the Americas who became a Christian and married an English chap. She was very beautiful, if recorded history’s to be believed. Kate’s got the right sort of colouring and figure for the part, I reckon, ha? She read it well an’ all, when we tried her out for it.’

‘I’m glad to hear as she’s some use for summat,’ Will remarked dryly. ‘Even if it is only acting up.’

Kate, who had been preening herself in the mirror, turned round and shot daggers at her father, who she felt had not only never understood her, but had signally failed to realise her latent talents as well.

‘Oh, I reckon she’ll be a valuable asset to us,’ Murdoch affirmed. ‘We’ve been lacking a wench with your Kate’s qualities.’

‘What qualities am they then?’

‘Good looks, a certain grace …’

‘Gets it off her mother and no two ways,’ Will said.

‘I wouldn’t argue with that, Will …’

At that, Algie appeared and stood in the scullery doorway wiping his hands on a towel.

‘How do, Mr Osborne,’ he greeted cordially. ‘You brought our stuff then?’

‘Aye, I brought it, lad … We was just talking about your sister Kate and the Little Theatre.’

‘Oh? Think she’ll be any good?’ he asked, as if it would be a surprise if she were.

‘I reckon so. I was just saying as much to your father. And if you reckon you could act as well, young Algie, we’d be pleased to welcome you into the group, a good-looking young chap like you.’

‘No thanks, Mr Osborne,’ Algie replied unhesitatingly. ‘I don’t think it’s my cup of tea, all that reciting lines. Anyway, I see enough of Harriet Meese without going to the Drill Hall with her as well. It’s a good excuse for a night off when she goes to the Amateur Dramatics rehearsing.’ He winked knowingly at Murdoch, who smiled back conspiratorially. ‘But if our Kate enjoys it, all well and good …’ He turned to his mother in the scullery. ‘What’s that you’re cooking, Mother? It smells good.’

‘I’m doing bacon and eggs for Mr Osborne. He’s had nothing to eat all day, poor chap. He’s got nobody to look after him, like you and your father have.’

‘Can you drop some in the pan for me as well? I’m famished.’

‘But you ain’t long had liver and onions.’

‘I know, but I’m hungry again.’

Clara tutted. ‘I can’t seem to fill him up, you know, Murdoch,’ she announced over her shoulder.

‘Oh, I was just the same when I was his age,’ Murdoch replied. ‘It’s to be expected, ha?’

The following Sunday, Algie decided to put his new bike, his pride and joy, through its paces along the towpath. The weather remained settled and it was a lovely warm, sunny day. He cycled first towards Wordsley, waving to the boatmen he knew and their wives, whose narrowboats he passed. Since it was the Sabbath many were moored up, generally close to a public house, their horses left to graze the tufts of grass that lined the canal. Algie had had no more trouble with his chain coming off since he had tightened it by moving the rear wheel back sufficiently in its forks. He cycled confidently now, in the certain knowledge that it would not come adrift again.

When he reached the Red House Glassworks with its huge brick cone towering over everything, he reckoned he’d gone far enough in that direction. He was keen to try the uphill ride back. The towpath followed the topography of the canal so it was flat for the most part, the ascent appearing in stages at the ten locks on that stretch of the canal, and the humpback bridges that spanned them. His intention was to cycle in the other direction as far as the Nine Locks at the area known as the Delph, about a mile as the crow flies, but nearly two miles along the meandering canal. He hoped he might espy the Binghams. But long before he reached the Nine Locks, he spotted a pair of narrowboats lying low and heavy in the water, plying the bend in the canal at the Victoria Firebrick Works. Thirty yards in front, a piebald horse was hauling them, its long face in a nose-tin. The stocky figure of Seth Bingham was leading it.

Marigold! Algie’s heart skipped a beat. He smiled to himself and raced towards them. He bid Seth good day as he whizzed past, looking for Marigold, and saw her bending down at the tiller of the butty, the Odyssey. She was wearing a sunbonnet and failed to see him at first. It took a shout to draw her attention, whereupon she stood up and looked about enquiringly. When she eventually spotted him she smiled and waved.

‘How do, Marigold,’ Algie called, an amiable grin on his handsome face. He turned around and rode alongside her, matching the sedate pace of the narrowboat she was steering.

‘Hello, Algie. You got your bike then.’

‘What d’you think of it?’

‘It looks nice. You ride it well.’

Mrs Bingham, at the tiller of the Sultan, the horse boat, turned around when she heard her daughter calling to Algie, and smiled to herself, not averse to the romance she perceived blossoming between them. This Algie Stokes was at least likeable, unlike that ne’er-do-well she’d taken to in Kidderminster.

‘I’m getting used to it now, Marigold.’

‘How long you had it?’

‘A couple of weeks. Hey, I ain’t seen you for ages. Ain’t you been down this cut since last time I saw you?’

‘No,’ she called. ‘We’ve been up again’ Cheshire and back a few times, though, and to Birnigum.’

‘So you’re on your way to Kiddy again?’

Marigold nodded coyly, aware of all it implied.

‘So you’ll be doing a spot o’ courting tomorrow night then?’

She shrugged and felt herself blush.

‘Are you mooring up by the Bottle and Glass?’ he asked.

‘I reckon so. Me dad likes the beer there.’

‘Yes, you said. So d’you fancy coming a walk with me again when you’ve had your dinner? It’s a nice day for a walk.’

‘If you like,’ she answered, and Algie was encouraged by the spontaneity of her acceptance.

‘I’ll give you a ride on the crossbar, eh?’

She shrugged, still smiling with pleasure at seeing him. ‘If you like … So how fast can you make the machine go?’

‘Here on the flat I can make it go proper quick.’

‘Show me, then.’

The lad that was in the man grinned boyishly at the welcome challenge; at the opportunity to impress. ‘All right. Watch this.’

He raised himself from the saddle and exerted all the pressure he could muster onto the pedals for a rapid acceleration. Just as he was drawing level with the horse, the chain came off the sprocket and, because of its sudden and unexpected lack of tension, his right leg slipped off the pedal and he banged his crotch again on the crossbar. The instant, unbearable pain caused Algie to wince and he veered straight into the horse, its head still in its nose-tin. Shocked out of its wits, the animal panicked, but it had only one place to go – into the canal, followed at once by Algie and his new bike.

Animal and lad thrashed about looking very undignified. Algie surfaced with a look of disgruntled surprise on his face. He gasped for air as the chill of the water, coupled with the excruciating agony of testicular pain, robbed him of breath. His normally curly hair was a black, wet mop clinging to his head and he spluttered foul water in indignant astonishment. The poor horse, meanwhile, its eyes white and wild with fright, was drowning in its own nose-tin as it flailed about, desperately trying to regain its feet on the slimy bed of the canal. Seth realised the animal’s plight and at once threw himself down on his belly at the edge of the towpath, reaching out, frantically trying to free the nose-tin from the horse so that it could breathe air without either choking itself with feed, or drowning.

‘Hey up!’ he cried, in a panic of concern. ‘Steady on, old lad. Let me get thy nostern off, else you’m a goner.’

He managed to loosen the strap, which was attached to a metal ring riveted to the nose-tin on the side nearest to him. The horse coughed and spluttered and, in its continuing terror, lost its footing again in the slime.

The trailing narrowboat, by virtue of the impetus of its sheer uncontrolled weight, was in danger of crushing the horse between it and the canal wall. Seth yelled to Marigold to watch her steering. Suddenly, Marigold’s eyes were filled with apprehension as she immediately understood the danger. She grasped the tiller, holding it with all her strength to alter the course of the heavily loaded craft, to bring it to the bank without maiming the horse. Seth, meanwhile, rushed to his feet and tried shoving the Odyssey away from the horse, mustering all his strength. He succeeded, but stretching too far in his urgency, he, too, dropped into the canal with an unceremonious splash.

Algie was too concerned with his own predicament to notice the commotion he’d caused. He was submerging himself repeatedly as he tried to locate his new investment, his precious bike, obscured in the murky water. ‘I can’t find me bike,’ he declared in horror. ‘It’ll be ruined. What if the narrowboat’s mangled it as it’s gone over it?’

‘Never mind the blasted bike, you daft bugger,’ Seth Bingham rasped angrily, freshly saturated and surfacing behind him next to the increasingly perplexed horse. ‘My hoss is more important than that blasted thing o’ yourn. Mek yourself useful and fetch somebody who can help we get the hoss out the cut.’

‘When I’ve found me bike,’ Algie called defiantly. ‘It cost me twelve quid.’

‘And a new hoss’ll cost yer a sight more. You barmy bugger, what did you think you was a-doing, eh? Wait till I tell your fairther. Now get out of the cut and help me. You caused all the bloody trouble, showing off like that. You bloody imbecile!’

Algie cringed under the tirade, but was diverted by a piercing scream that came from Marigold. One of her young brothers, a mere child, had suddenly appeared from the cabin to see what all the fuss was about, and was standing alongside the tiller. She had instantly perceived the danger as somebody, thinking they were helping when the danger of crushing the horse was over, was pulling the stern in towards the towpath. She yelled a warning and shoved him out of the way a mere fraction of a second before the rudder hit the bank, which in turn caused the tiller to swing violently across the stern, just missing the child’s head. She sighed, a profound sigh, having just averted what would have been a tragedy. Marigold breathed a sigh of relief and picked up the child, taking him out of harm’s way.

Algie found his submerged bike at that very moment. He lifted it over his head, mucky water and weeds cascading over him, and placed it on the towpath with a look of demoralised anguish. Then he clambered out, forlorn, bedraggled by the same cold water. By this time, the pair of narrowboats had come to a stop.

‘Catch this rope, Algie.’ It was Hannah Bingham’s voice.

Algie turned and looked just as Hannah tossed it to him. When he stepped forward to catch it his boots squelched, oozing slime and mud.

‘Chuck one end to Seth,’ Hannah yelled. ‘He’ll fasten it to the hoss. You can help pull the poor thing out.’

Algie tried not to look at Marigold, but could not resist casting her a glance. He felt immensely stupid. She was obviously concerned at the sudden plight they all found themselves in, and she looked bewildered and flustered. She must think him such a fool. Surely, she must blame him for all this. He had ruined any chance he’d ever had of success with her.

Seth seemed to be making some progress calming down the frightened horse. He spoke to it as softly as the desperate circumstances would allow, and patted its trembling neck reassuringly. He fastened the rope to its collar, then tried to get the horse to limber up the vertical side of the canal.

‘Pull the rope,’ he called to Algie.

Algie pulled, but the horse resisted.

By this time a small audience had gathered, people using the towpath as a shortcut, and advice was not long in coming. ‘Tie some planks together and put one end in the cut, the other on the towpath, and walk him out,’ one man advised. ‘But planks’ll float,’ reasoned another. Somebody else suggested that they fix a blanket under the horse’s belly, then yank him out with a crane.

‘Where are we gunna find a crane of a Sunday?’ Algie queried impatiently, quietly shivering from the icy cold water that was running down his back, squishing inside his clinging clothes.

‘They must have one at the firebrick works.’

‘That bloody saft Algie ought to be made swim with the hoss to the nearest steps,’ Seth declared from the middle of the canal.

For half an hour they endeavoured to coax the horse to jump up onto the towpath, but in vain, for the sides were too high and too steep. Until Algie, desperate to avoid swimming to the nearest escape steps with the horse, and to redeem himself in the eyes of Marigold, had an idea.

‘Got any carrots, Mrs Bingham?’

‘Yes, by God,’ Hannah replied, at once catching on.

By this time, the pair of narrowboats had been hauled alongside the towpath and moored. She delved inside her cabin and emerged clutching several carrots. Algie squelched towards her and took them.

He made his way to the horse, sat on his haunches and offered the animal a carrot, which it sniffed suspiciously, then took in its mouth and chomped.

‘Here’s another,’ Algie said, dangling it in front of the horse’s long face, but about a foot out of its reach. ‘This time, though, you gotta come and fetch it.’ He stood up and moved away, but still held out the carrot for the horse to see.

‘Goo on, lad,’ Seth encouraged, acknowledging the vain possibility that this ploy might work. ‘Goo on, get the carrot.’

The animal fidgeted about fretfully in the water, evidently lacking the confidence or the will to attempt a leap. Algie moved towards the horse again, allowing it another sniff of the carrot, then backed away once more. The horse shifted backwards, and for a moment looked poised to leap, then seemed to change its mind. Seth, Algie and all the others offered more vocal encouragement until, with a monumental effort, the plucky little horse leapt up. Its front hoofs scraped on the compressed ash of the towpath, while its hind legs flailed to and fro, trying to find some purchase on the smooth blue bricks that formed the edge. At the same time, the men pulled on the rope. For a moment it looked as though the horse would fail and hurt itself as it tumbled backwards into the cut again. But miraculously, it made it, and a loud cheer rang through the spring air.

‘Thank God,’ Hannah exclaimed with a sigh of relief.

Algie kept his promise to the horse, which was now only concerned with acquiring the carrot, and popped it into its mouth. ‘Good lad,’ he said, patting its neck. ‘I’m just sorry as I caused you so much trouble in the first place. Now enjoy your carrots, ’cause they was sure to be for your master’s dinner.’

‘Well, at least you got him out,’ Marigold said, sidling up beside him. ‘That was a good idea to tempt him with a carrot.’

He turned to her. ‘I didn’t think for a minute that it’d work,’ he admitted, relieved and surprised that she was still speaking to him. ‘But I reckoned it was worth a try. I felt I had to do something, since it was me that caused all the upset in the first place. And I know that horses like carrots better than anything.’

‘It’s a good job as yo’ did,’ Seth Bingham interjected, his pique subsiding. ‘Else Lord knows how we would’ve got the poor bugger out.’

‘I’m really sorry, Mr Bingham,’ Algie remarked with earnest repentance. ‘The chain came off me bike just as I was going past the horse. It caused me to fall into him, and it startled him, I reckon.’

‘Did you hurt yourself, lad?’

Algie grinned self-consciously. ‘Gave me taters a right bang.’

‘Aye, well it’s over and done now. Now all we need do is change into some dry clothes. Hannah, find me another pair o’ trousers and a shirt, and chuck me a towel, eh?’

‘I feel I ought to make it up to you, Mr Bingham,’ Algie said. ‘To say how sorry I am.’

‘Like I said, lad, it’s over and done with.’

‘Let me buy you a drink in the Bottle and Glass.’

Seth managed a smile at last. ‘If yo’ insist. But we’n gotta get there fust. I’ll gi’ the hoss five minutes to get over the shock afore I get him to haul we there. The poor bugger was frit to death.’

‘I’d better get home and change into dry clothes as well, Mr Bingham.’

‘That you had, lad. Is your two-wheeler any the wuss for having took a look in the cut?’

‘It’ll dry out,’ Algie replied with resignation. ‘It’ll very likely dry out as I ride it home. I just hope the rust don’t set in.’

‘Aye, well just be careful where you’m a-going next time.’

‘I will, Mr Bingham. I promise.’

Algie retrieved his bike from the towpath and inspected it. As he reinstalled the errant chain on its sprockets, Marigold stood beside him, watching and waiting.

‘I don’t suppose you want to come a walk with me now, do you, Marigold, after making a fool of meself like I have?’

‘Why should it make any difference?’ she said pleasantly. ‘It was an accident. Anybody could see that. At first I thought it was funny, till I saw Victoria was in trouble. Then, when that ninny pulled us into the bank and the tiller swung round …’ She put her hands to her face with the horror of recalling it. ‘Well, our Billy’s lucky he didn’t get his head wopped off. Anyway, Algie, you did well to get Victoria out.’

‘Victoria? Is that what you call the horse? Victoria?’

‘Yes. After the queen. What’s wrong with that?’

‘But it ain’t a mare, is it?’ He grinned amiably, amused at the incongruity of the horse’s name and its gender. ‘Even I can see it’s got a doodle.’

Marigold chuckled at his irreverence. ‘The horse don’t know it’s a girl’s name,’ she reasoned.

He chuckled. ‘I suppose not. Anyway, if it’s good enough for a queen, it’s good enough for a horse, I reckon. Male or no.’