know,’ she said. ‘I don’t even know if the inquest has been held.’
I hadn’t heard about the case, or read about it, but I knew that the Coroner’s Court system, like every other aspect of the law, was slow and tedious at times. It wasn’t unusual for an inquest to be opened and adjourned for many months, even years. I made a mental note to look it up on the internet.
‘So, how’s my horse,’ I said, changing the subject.
‘Slow and fat,’ said Paul, laughing, ‘like his owner.’
I toasted our slowness and fatness with good red wine, and added a few more ounces with a second helping of macaroni.
I adored riding out on cold, crisp winter’s mornings with my breath showing in the air and the frost white on the ground, glistening in the brightness of the sunlight. Sadly, this Friday was not one of those. Rain fell steadily, the plop, plop of the large drops clearly audible as they struck my helmet from high above.
Sandeman and I were number six in Paul’s string of ten horses as we walked through Great Milton on the way to the training gallops beyond the village, the horses’ metal shoes clicking on the hard roads. Both horses and riders were soaked even before we had left the stable yard with the dawn at seven thirty sharp, and now the water ran in rivulets down my neck inside mysemi-waterproof jacket. But I didn’t care and neither did Sande-man. I could feel his rippling muscles beneath me. He knew exactly why he had been roused from his stable in the rain, and exactly where we were going. We were both clearly excited in anticipation of the gallop we would soon share.
The wind tore at my jacket and the raindrops stung my face, but nothing could wipe the grin from my mouth as we tore up the gallop at nearly thirty miles an hour with me trying hard to stop Sandeman going any faster. He clearly had recovered fully from the three miles last Saturday and he seemed as eager as I to get back on a racecourse.
Paul sat on horseback at the top of the gallop, watching as we moved smoothly up towards him. I was attempting to comply with the letter of his instructions. Asteady three-quarter-speed gallop, he had said, keeping up-sides with one of his other horses. He had implored me not to ride a finish, not to over-tire my horse. I was doing my best to do what he had asked, but Sandeman beneath me seemed determined to race, keen as always to put his nose in front of the other horse. I took another tight hold of the reins and steadied him. In spite of Paul’s sometimes casual manner with his owners, he was still a great trainer of racehorses and very rarely did his horses fail on the racecourse due to over- or under-training at home. I had never questioned his judgement in that department.
I pulled Sandeman up into a trot and then a walk, laughing as I did so. What a magnificent way to blow the courtroom cobwebs out of my hair. I walked him round and round in circles while he cooled and the other horses completed their work up the gallop. Then the string wound its way down the hill and back through the village to Paul’s stables.
Oxfordshire was coming to life and the road traffic hadincreased significantly during the time we had been on the gallops. Now, streams of impatient commuters roared past us on their way to join the lines of cars on the nearby M40 making the long drag into London. How lucky I am, I thought, to have this escape from the hurly burly of city life and, as I always did, I resolved to try to do this more often. Life here, deep in rural England, seemed a million miles from baseball bats and smashed computers. Perhaps, I mused, I should stay right here and let it all go away.
My dreams of leaving life’s troubles behind lasted only until we arrived back at Paul’s yard. Laura came out of the house as I was sliding off Sandeman’s back.
‘A Mr Lygon called for you about ten minutes ago,’ she said as I led Sandeman into his stable. She followed us in. ‘He seemed very insistent that
I hadn’t heard about the case, or read about it, but I knew that the Coroner’s Court system, like every other aspect of the law, was slow and tedious at times. It wasn’t unusual for an inquest to be opened and adjourned for many months, even years. I made a mental note to look it up on the internet.
‘So, how’s my horse,’ I said, changing the subject.
‘Slow and fat,’ said Paul, laughing, ‘like his owner.’
I toasted our slowness and fatness with good red wine, and added a few more ounces with a second helping of macaroni.
I adored riding out on cold, crisp winter’s mornings with my breath showing in the air and the frost white on the ground, glistening in the brightness of the sunlight. Sadly, this Friday was not one of those. Rain fell steadily, the plop, plop of the large drops clearly audible as they struck my helmet from high above.
Sandeman and I were number six in Paul’s string of ten horses as we walked through Great Milton on the way to the training gallops beyond the village, the horses’ metal shoes clicking on the hard roads. Both horses and riders were soaked even before we had left the stable yard with the dawn at seven thirty sharp, and now the water ran in rivulets down my neck inside mysemi-waterproof jacket. But I didn’t care and neither did Sande-man. I could feel his rippling muscles beneath me. He knew exactly why he had been roused from his stable in the rain, and exactly where we were going. We were both clearly excited in anticipation of the gallop we would soon share.
The wind tore at my jacket and the raindrops stung my face, but nothing could wipe the grin from my mouth as we tore up the gallop at nearly thirty miles an hour with me trying hard to stop Sandeman going any faster. He clearly had recovered fully from the three miles last Saturday and he seemed as eager as I to get back on a racecourse.
Paul sat on horseback at the top of the gallop, watching as we moved smoothly up towards him. I was attempting to comply with the letter of his instructions. Asteady three-quarter-speed gallop, he had said, keeping up-sides with one of his other horses. He had implored me not to ride a finish, not to over-tire my horse. I was doing my best to do what he had asked, but Sandeman beneath me seemed determined to race, keen as always to put his nose in front of the other horse. I took another tight hold of the reins and steadied him. In spite of Paul’s sometimes casual manner with his owners, he was still a great trainer of racehorses and very rarely did his horses fail on the racecourse due to over- or under-training at home. I had never questioned his judgement in that department.
I pulled Sandeman up into a trot and then a walk, laughing as I did so. What a magnificent way to blow the courtroom cobwebs out of my hair. I walked him round and round in circles while he cooled and the other horses completed their work up the gallop. Then the string wound its way down the hill and back through the village to Paul’s stables.
Oxfordshire was coming to life and the road traffic hadincreased significantly during the time we had been on the gallops. Now, streams of impatient commuters roared past us on their way to join the lines of cars on the nearby M40 making the long drag into London. How lucky I am, I thought, to have this escape from the hurly burly of city life and, as I always did, I resolved to try to do this more often. Life here, deep in rural England, seemed a million miles from baseball bats and smashed computers. Perhaps, I mused, I should stay right here and let it all go away.
My dreams of leaving life’s troubles behind lasted only until we arrived back at Paul’s yard. Laura came out of the house as I was sliding off Sandeman’s back.
‘A Mr Lygon called for you about ten minutes ago,’ she said as I led Sandeman into his stable. She followed us in. ‘He seemed very insistent that
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