Book 10 – Jill and the Prize Winners

by Charles Ravenscroft

Chapter One

I hadn’t wanted to write about my leg. My wretched, dragging leg. I hated how it ruled my life as if it were an entity in itself. I had had polio several years ago and ended up with a limp; what my mother had unconvincingly declared was a distinguished limp.

This watershed event in my childhood resulted in me taking up riding, taught by Claire at a riding school in Eastbridge. I bought my beautiful grey mare, Secret. Even as a raw novice, with the help of Claire, I had managed to compete in Foxhunter showjumping competitions. I had even qualified for Wembley in that first season but had chosen not to go. Secret and I were still too inexperienced.

Eventually, I returned to school, and I was miles behind. I was supposed to devote myself to my education to catch up with my peers. Then I entered the competition in the magazine Riding. The first round of prize winners was to go to Blainstock Castle in the Scottish Highlands with, or without, their own horse, for two weeks. They would compete in several different competitions, and the winner was awarded the grand prize, a weekend for two, at the Spanish Riding School in Vienna. The original competition was to write about what riding meant to you. Thus, I had written about my leg, learning to ride, Secret and my passion for showjumping.

I had no idea I would win and should have the opportunity to go to Scotland. I told my parents, expecting they would say that schoolwork should be my priority, but again they came up trumps. They said it was a brilliant opportunity, and it was the Easter holidays anyway so I wouldn’t miss too much school, and you were only young once, and Mummy thought that a weekend in Vienna would be rather fun and if I won she would accompany me.

The magazine organised that Secret and I would be picked up and taken to Scotland in a horsebox. Mummy packed me an enormous food hamper. It was a long trip. I had never been to Scotland and envisaged purple moors, huge mountains, deer with impressive antlers and people wearing kilts.

We arrived at dusk, and the castle (it was a castle!) was outlined against an impressive Highland sky, full of dark, sinister clouds. Although I knew what to expect, more or less, it was a shock. This was no chocolate box scene but something huge, magnificent and medieval.

The stables, situated outside the castle walls, were equally impressive. A modern complex with an indoor riding school. This place was the stuff of dreams! 

I led Secret down the ramp, and she was relieved to be on solid ground again. She looked around curiously, staring at the horses’ heads hanging over the stable doors. There were small ponies, middle-sized ponies, and horses. A glorious collection of equines!

A man, Hugh Gillis, hurried forward and introduced himself and shook my hand.

“Welcome to Blainstock. You’re the first of the prize winners to arrive. The others are coming tomorrow,” he explained. “We’ll put your mare in this loose box down here. She’ll be stabled next to the other horses coming up for these two weeks. When you’re not riding her, there’s a wee field over there that she can go in during the day if the weather is good. It’s unpredictable up here, the weather.”

Secret seemed satisfied with her living conditions. She walked around, sniffed at the thick bed of golden straw, dipped her muzzle in the bucket of fresh, cold water and pulled a shred of hay out of the well-stuffed hay net.

“Linda, my wife, will take you over to the castle and introduce you to Mrs Micheldever. She’s in charge of sleeping arrangements,” he told me.

I liked him. He seemed very capable, and the way he spoke of his wife, Linda, with such a tone of pride, impressed me. Linda was much younger than him. Tall, slender with long dark hair. 

“How long have you been married?” I asked, intrigued by this unlikely couple. She looked surprised at such a personal question. Mummy had drummed into me that I should not ask intrusive, impolite questions, but my curiosity was insatiable. I was at the age when human relationships were at the fore of my mind.

“We married about three months ago, just after Christmas,” she replied.

“Is your husband the stable manager?” I asked.

“He was, for many years, but things have changed now. Hugh, me, John, previously the groom, and Jill, the daughter of Mrs Micheldever, are now equal partners in the Blainstock Stables. We’ve been trying to build up the new business. That’s how we got to be a prize in the Riding competition. We’re promoting the stables and also the castle, hoping for more paying guests who come up not just for the shooting in the autumn but for riding or an experience of the Highlands.

Then it struck me. I knew that the name Blainstock had a familiar ring about it. Jill, the daughter of Mrs Micheldever, was the famous Jill Crewe who had written all those books. Fiction and reality were merging as we approached the castle, a formidable structure looming out of the dark.

“Do you also live in the castle?” I asked.

“No, Hugh and I have our own cottage near the stables,” she replied. “But John does. He’s got rooms out the back, near the kitchen.”

“What a wonderful place to live! Is Jill here this fortnight?” I asked.

“She’s due back from Australia any day,” said Linda. “She’s been over there on a showjumping tour.”

“What an amazing life,” I commented.

“She’s a lively one,” agreed Linda.

Mrs Micheldever was very kind but somewhat distracted. She had a young toddler, appropriately called Hamish, and he was tugging at her skirt, demanding attention. 

“Hamish, give me a minute,” she cried. “Charles isn’t it,” She turned to me and smiled. “You’re the first of our prize winners, so you can have your pick of the guest rooms. Please come with me.” 

She dumped the noisy boy in a playpen, calling for someone to keep an eye on him, and we climbed a curving staircase to the next floor and followed labyrinthine corridors to come upon a row of doors painted in different colours.

“We’ve colour coded so people can remember which is theirs,” she explained. “Personally, I like the red room. A magnificent view of the moors stretches out on this side of the castle. Or from the blue room, you can see the stables.”

“I’ll take the blue room,” I said, thinking I could keep an eye on my beloved Secret.

“Dinner is at seven. We dine early here. There’s a castle map on the bedside table, so you don’t get lost,” said Mrs Micheldever.

“I don’t want to end up in the dungeons,” I said lightly. She smiled at me kindly. I was probably the hundredth guest to make such a joke.

After she left, I opened my suitcase, hung my jackets and trousers in the large wardrobe, and placed my thick woollen jerseys and underclothes in the dresser’s drawers. I had brought my badges that showed my membership of the BSJA (British Show Jumping Association) and the pony club and decided that as my father wasn’t around to criticise, I would wear them proudly. At home, he had complained and I had been forced to hide them under my lapel like an American special agent.

There was an hour before dinner, so I decided to dash over to the stables to check on Secret. She had looked interested and contented when I had left her, but I reasoned that it would be all very strange for her, and I wanted to set my mind at rest. I 

had packed a flashlight and took it with me as it was very black outside. I tried to remember the way to the stables. I followed the map and made my way down some corridors to a wooden door decorated with metal studs that led outside into the large courtyard at the front of the castle. Then, there was a track to the wall with a small personnel door. I let myself through and followed the path that led to the stables.

Secret was munching on her hay net and took not the slightest notice of me. I slipped into her loose box and put my arms around her neck for a moment. I needed some reassurance in this strange place. I hadn’t been away from home in years, except, of course, when I had spent those months in hospital when I had had poliomyelitis. I know that I should have been more self-confident at nearly eighteen years old, but since my illness, I have developed all sorts of minor complexes. My doting parents were worried that I had become solitary and peculiar, but I found it hard to meet new people with my wonky leg. For some reason, I felt extremely awkward trying to explain to them what had happened to me.

When I learned that I was one of those chosen to participate in this round of the competition, I received a letter from the magazine outlining the schedule for these two weeks: a mixture of instruction, competitions and fun activities. I hoped that the instruction would be of the sort approved by Claire, my teacher at the riding school. When I had first bought Secret home, influenced by my coven of cousins, loud and annoying Patience, Prudence and Jackie, I had got muddled and tried all sorts of different styles of riding. Secret had begun to rush around with her head in the air, and it had all been a disaster.

I had returned to Claire at the riding school, and she had set me firmly back on the right track, and now I was a devotee of the 

Continental seat, with my feet beneath me, not stuck out in front, short reins and most importantly, at all times, keeping Secret on the bit.

Dinner that night was informal, and I was disappointed to see that neither Mr Micheldever, nor Linda and Hugh were present. Tentatively, I raised the question of what sort of instruction we would be receiving.

“I’m not sure of the programme, but Linda usually takes charge of that. She had her own riding school, you know. Before she married Hugh and brought her horses here. Of course, Jill is involved, too, when she is at home. Linda learned a lot about dressage when she was living in Germany, and I believe she is very good. We’re so lucky to have her and Hugh,” Mrs Micheldever replied.

I turned my attention back to my plate of lamb stew with a hearty serving of boiled potatoes and thought about this. Dressage in Germany sounded impressive, and I couldn’t imagine Linda adopting the ghastly style of 

riding that my cousins used with their feet stuck out in front of them, sitting back in the saddle with long reins and their hands in their stomachs. But, even if Linda did instruct us in a style I knew Claire would disapprove of, I hoped that I would have sufficient strength of character to withstand the wrong advice.

I limped up to bed that night. My leg was aching. The long journey in the horsebox had caused it to cramp up. I did some exercises in my bedroom and went to sleep. The rest of the prize winners arrived tomorrow, and I hoped they would be good company.

I went down for breakfast early the next morning. There was an air of expectation, and people were rushing about, from here to there. Tentatively, I helped myself to some scrambled eggs and fried tomatoes from the sideboard and sat down to eat. Although people smiled at me and there were scattered good mornings, I sensed there was much to be done, and I tried not to get in the way.

Mrs Micheldever came dashing in and sat down next to me.

“Charles, dear,” she began and paused. I wasn’t sure that I liked being addressed as ‘dear’, but she was a sweet, well-meaning woman, and I took it in good part. “We’ve got a lot to do today, settling the other prize winners. Hugh suggested that you might like to go on a ride with John. Get a glimpse of our glorious countryside before we get started on the schedule. If you don’t think your mare is up to it, we would be happy to lend you a horse.”

I didn’t need to think about it. I could imagine nothing better than getting out and exploring this wild countryside. 

“I’m sure Secret would enjoy it after being cooped up in that horsebox for so many hours,” I replied. 

I had got it spot on. Secret was full of beans and jiggling around the yard. John held her while I mounted from the mounting block. We rode out of the stable yard. He was riding a 16 hh gelding called Shadow. He told me that the dam of this impressive gelding was a Highland cross thoroughbred mare named Bonnie, who had been bred with a Premium stallion. Somehow, Shadow had been overlooked and left in a field for years and had only been brought in and broken a few months ago. He was good to ride but still learning to balance himself with a rider’s weight, and if I didn’t mind, it would be a long, quiet hack.

“That sounds just the ticket,” I replied. “He’s certainly a good-looking horse.”

“We’ve got his full-brother here as well. He’s called Balius, and he belongs to Jill. She broke him in herself and has competed with him. He’s a bit taller and perhaps a bit plainer to look at.”

I told him about Secret and how I had bought her as an eleven-year-old in poor condition and had been training her for over a year now. I talked about showjumping and competing in Foxhunter events. John listened attentively but didn’t seem to share my obsession with the sport. He was certainly a good rider. Claire would have approved of his position and strong seat. 

“Look up there on the moors,” said John pointing away in the distance as we walked up a path between small stone-walled fields where different horses grazed in the spring sunlight. “There’s the first of the heather coming into bloom. You know there are three main types of heather: cross-leaved, bell and ling. The red grouse adore the stuff, eat it, shelter in it, nest in it, and raise their young. We have grouse shooting on the moors in August and September. That’s the main part of the business. But now things have changed, and we’re working on putting the stables themselves on a business-like footing, with riding lessons and equestrian events.”

By now, we had left the fields behind and were riding around a loch that looked exactly how I might have imagined such a thing. The water was obviously deep, with a stiff breeze making ripples run across the surface. Just looking around at this landscape was an invigorating experience. I felt as if I were absorbing the beauty and magnificence of it all. 

Then we turned off onto a narrow track.

“If you follow this path, it will take you all the way to the edge of the land, and I’m sure, if the weather holds, the whole bunch of you will spend a day riding to the sea,” said John. “But today, that’s too far, and I thought we might head up north for a bit.” 

The path was narrow and winding, and Secret fell in behind Shadow, content for him to lead the way.

We came to a rough part of the moors and stopped at the top of a hill to look down at an intricate maze of bogs and heather, rock and peat that was threaded by the meandering crisscrossing paths used by the sheep and rabbits. We continued along the path, descending into a small, hidden glen that nestled in the fold of a hill. There was a spring and rushing burn, fringed by the green shoots of fern.

“This is just like something described by the poets,” I cried, but I couldn’t think of exactly which poets might have written verse about Scotland. My literary knowledge was sketchy.

“Those gorse bushes will be bursting with golden buds soon,” commented John

“It will be beautiful then,” I said politely. I tried to imagine living up here with all this wild beauty, so different to the orderly green fields and civilised hamlets of Oxfordshire. I realised then how small my horizons were. Beyond holidays to the seaside and visits to distant relatives in London, I had never really travelled. First, there was my illness, then my all-absorbing passion for showjumping. Now, I began to see a huge, big world out there, waiting to be explored.

We rode in manly silence, and I imagined not only winning more Foxhunters but going on to jump in Grade A and then shortlisting for the British Olympic team. I added some flourishes to these well-practised dreams and went sightseeing in the foreign cities where I would be showjumping. I would visit the great museums and art galleries of Europe. 

Lately, my parents had started wittering on about me becoming horse-mad, saying I should widen my horizons. I would tell them about my plans. I resolved to buckle down and apply myself to studying French more conscientiously. Anyway, here I was! Seeing the Highlands for the first time, travelling beyond my small circle of existence.

We came to a ruined stone building. I asked John whether it had been a small castle, perhaps belonging to some feudal lord. He didn’t know. The track was twisting and turning now, with little hillocks, dips and crags. The sky suddenly clouded over, and the sunlight was gone. The dark high-flying clouds threatened rain.

“Perhaps we’d best turn for home,” said John. “The weather can get bad up here in a minute.”

I was happy to do this. Suddenly, I shivered at the strange wildness of it all. As soon as the path levelled out, John suggested that we trot. The horses were keen to return to the stables. They must have sensed that bad weather was coming. 

I was glad I was with John, who knew this country very well. I would have hated to be out exploring on my own. I was relieved when the loch came into view. We were nearly back, and I suddenly wanted to be seated beside a comforting fire drinking tea and eating scones with jam and cream.

The rain began to pelt down as we entered the stable yard. John told me to run to the castle, and he would see to the horses. I trusted him now. He was a solid chap, and Secret was happy to be led away. I wasn’t really much of a runner these days, but I hopped along back around the path into the courtyard and up to the front entrance of the castle.