The Vulture

‘The Vulture’ (Exemplar for AQA Recreations unit, inspired by ‘Vultures’ by Chinua Achebe)

I cannot see them, but I know that they are there.

For weeks now, they have watched me, holding me captive within their telescopic glare. I feel their eyes upon me the moment I bury my face deep in my pillow, yet I am powerless to stop them as they swoop down to smother my dreams.

This world is awash with greys and blacks. There is no colour, no light at all, only emptiness, and nothingness. Yet they are very much real. They sit, two of them, high up on the broken bone of a blackened dead tree, coldly surveying the landscape they have claimed as their own. My landscape. My mind.

I am an untouched island in a sea of ruined corpses; all around me lie the battered and bloodied bodies of the already-dead. It is surely a matter of time before they come for me; is that not what they are waiting for? I give a muffled cry as I recognise the stricken, swollen form of my best friend beside me. Her hair is matted and tangled, and like a curtain, it shields her face from my view. Not wanting to believe, I reach out to touch her, wincing and trembling at the terrible coldness. Gently, I smooth her dark hair away from her face, only to gasp in horror as I realise that her eyes are gone.

I give a shriek, a high, piercing, haunting sound. And as I shriek, the vultures take flight, lifting up, up, high into the air. I look up, and just for a moment I stare at them in awe, wondering how such an awkward beast of a bird could ever manage to accomplish anything as graceful and elegant as flight.

Now, I can smell burning. The air is dense and smoky, yet the stench itself is odd. Familiar, yet alien; comforting, yet strangely disturbing, all at the same time. I inhale deeply, and almost choke as the fumes hit the back of my throat. This, I realise with a sudden rush of panic, is not a friendly smell. I turn to the girl beside me, the girl who I thought to be my friend, and as I see her face again, I scream. An unearthly scream, a scream that tears me apart, a scream that leaves me hoarse and breathless and fighting to scream again.

I want my father. There are many things in this world that I do not understand, but the one thing I do know is that when he is with me, I feel strong. Only he could fight the flames and banish the vultures that plague my dreams; only he has the power to chase off the evil demons that have taunted and tortured me since he went away all those weeks ago. But I know he won’t come. Violently, I turn away from the melting body of the girl beside me, and I try to escape.

“Daddy,” I cry and I whimper, again and again, reaching blindly into the darkness. And suddenly he is there, grasping my hands, soothing me with his deep, lilting voice. At last, I am safe. I sit up, my heart pounding with the effort of freeing myself from the horror-filled depths of the nightmare. I reach for him, and he embraces me, enveloping my sweat-soaked body in a bear-like hug. I snuggle against the comforting warmth of his body; the blue-grey wool of his uniform soaks up my tears, the harsh fabric scratchy yet strangely reassuring against my face. I inhale deeply.

And that’s when I gasp. The smell is on him…it is him. It is engrained in the woollen fibres of his jacket, his trousers, his shirt. His hair. His skin. It is he who has brought this dreadful, cloying stench into the room. The fire is his fire.

I scream then, and he recoils from me, confusion furrowing his brow. His eyes squint down at me, and I am reminded suddenly of the vultures, high up on their tree, fixing their cold-eyed stare upon me, assessing and calculating. As I look up into those eyes, my next scream fades and dies, unformed, upon my lips. I am trembling now, but I can bear to look at him no longer. Balling my hands into fists, I curl myself tightly into a ball, and I turn my face to the wall.

“Sleep now,” my daddy shakily whispers to me, in a voice I realise I barely recognise. “You’ll feel ok in the morning. Go back to sleep.”

I close my eyes again, willing my restless mind to sleep. But sleep will not come, no matter how hard I pray for it. It will not come…

*

Silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway, the vulture pauses, turns. And waits.

A taster of my current project....

CHAPTER ONE

“We thought, for once, that we might be early,” Cassandra Hinton sighed, gazing sadly at the long line of stables, over whose doors around twenty contented little pony faces looked out in excitement. “But we only got to the end of the lane when I realised that I’d forgotten my bridle, and after last time, what with leaving my girth and all, well…” Her voice tailed off, as she absentmindedly began to chew upon an already-bleeding nail. Della Carter, having just removed the burgundy travelling boots from the legs of her big bay gelding, Sylvester, gave a chuckle.

“I shouldn’t worry,” she told Cassandra brightly, “You’ve still got the DC’s welcoming speech to look forward to! And you didn’t have to help catch one of the other girl’s ponies when it took off out of the trailer! And anyway, you’re not the last to arrive. Jody’s not here yet!”

Cassandra, who always refused to answer to any name other than Cassie, continued to stand mournfully by the side of her family’s ancient horsebox, in which her New Forest pony, Clover, waited patiently. Observing the ongoing action around her, as the excited little Pony Clubbers buzzed around their stables like honeybees, Cassie seemed frozen to the spot, so great was her remorse at being late yet again. Suddenly her mother, Minnie, burst around the corner, face flushed, hair flying.

“Cassie!” she erupted, startling the youngster so that she almost jumped out of her skin, “Get the pony out! I told you, there’s no time to dawdle around; you should be ready!”

Della smiled wryly, tugging a reluctant Sylvester off to his stable. Some things, she thought to herself, will never change. Like the Hintons, always trying their best to arrive on time, and yet always being delayed by either some unforeseen misfortune, or else by the recurrence of Cassie’s habitual forgetfulness. And like the Bustle family, who actually made it their business to never be on time for anything.

Cassie, having finally snapped into action, helped her mother to lower the ramp, and then heaved herself in through the side door, almost tripping over her five-year-old brother, JJ, who was busily zooming his toy cars around the floor of the horsebox. In the back of the lorry, Clover stood squarely, munching contentedly on her half-full haynet, her kind, dark eyes almost concealed beneath a thick black forelock. She gave a sigh – Pony Club again - and gently clopped down the ramp. Dark bay Clover was one of the more elderly ponies attending camp. In her nineteen years, she had witnessed many Pony Club sights, and carried numerous youngsters up through the early ranks. She was one of the quieter, kinder mounts, but still could not have been described as ‘a push button pony,’ as seven years spent in a riding school had ensured that she had grown wise to the habits and traits of many a leg-flapping child rider. Now, with eager eyes and gentle clopping hooves, she followed Cassie to the barn, where everybody seemed to be assembling.

“Cassandra! How wonderful to see you!” the booming voice of Winifred Howles, the new District Commissioner, echoed off every barn wall, “For a little while we wondered what had happened to you!”

Cassie cringed; she did not need reminding of her lack of punctuality, nor did she appreciate the DC’s use of her full name. Blushing with embarrassment, she caught sight of the senior members clustered together on three straw bales. Dauntingly, they seemed almost adult, with their immaculate hair and mascara-lined eyes. Now, having already put their horses to bed, carried all their belongings to their tent and had time for a drink, they were tutting and shaking their heads at the inability of the younger riders to arrive on time. I’m never going to be as grown up or as sophisticated as that, thought Cassie to herself, blushing even further as the DC, with wisps of yellow straw firmly entwined in her curly grey hair, pointed energetically to a laminated stable chart.

“Here you go, Cassandra,” Cassie winced again, “darling little Clover is to live in Stable 21, next to…Twizzle. If you wait here for a minute or two, I shall get someone to – ah! Susie! Just the person I wanted to see.” Beckoning over the slight, short dark-haired girl who had just tried to slink unnoticed around the corner, Winifred discarded the stable chart. “Susie,” she smiled, “Would you be so kind as to show Cassie to her stable?”

“Sure,” Susie replied, grinning as she caught sight of a crimson Cassie. Setting off down the yard, trailing the softly plodding Clover, the two girls managed to escape as Winifred pounced on a sulky looking Malcolm Pratt, another latecomer, who dragged along an equally-sulky looking chestnut mare in his wake.

Susie Hill, with her short, sleek bob and round face, could almost have been mistaken for a boy. At ten years old, she was among the older juniors, although she had not ridden for as long as many of the younger members. This was her first year as a Pony Club member, and the two pre-camp rallies, which all members had had to attend, had been her first. Although she had known no-one, Susie had quickly bonded with Cassie, especially when the two girls discovered that they actually attended the same school, albeit in different year groups. But beyond their love of horses and relatively close proximity to one another, the similarities between Cassie and Susie were few and far between. As an only child, Susie had witnessed the breakdown of her parents’ marriage when she was very young, and now lived alone with her father John and a new stepmother, Anne. Unfortunately, neither of them shared Susie’s passion for horses, and as an only child, she had been forced to further her hobby alone.

Since she and her father had moved in with her new stepmother, Susie had chosen to walk to school each day. She quickly made friends with a Twizzle, a little grey pony who lived in a paddock not far from the school, and after a few weeks Susie had summoned the courage to speak to the elderly gentleman who owned her. After a little gentle persuasion, she had managed to get him to let her have the pony on loan, in return for her running a few errands for him and weeding his garden each week. Twizzle was by no means an ideal ‘first pony’; she had only really been broken to harness and as a result, was very naughty when ridden, but Susie was determined to make the best of what she had. Now, as the two girls neared Stables 21 and 22, the tiny dappled grey mare caught sight of her recent new acquaintance, and gave a shrill neigh.

“Jeez, Twiz,” Susie moaned, putting her hands over her ears, “Do you want to deafen everyone? Keep it quiet!” She held the door of Clover’s stable open, “You’re a lucky one, Cassie,” she said, as Clover clopped in through the door, “You get a stable with nice clean shavings. Twizzle’s stuff looks like it’s been in there for six weeks and never seen a pitchfork, let alone a wheelbarrow!”

Cassie smiled, removing Clover’s headcollar. Twizzle, having been denied the chance to greet her new friend, gave a disgruntled whinny.

“Do you reckon,” Cassie said, bolting the stable door, “that Mrs Howles is going to call me ‘Cassandra’ all week? I don’t think I can take it!”

Susie laughed. “She probably will,” she replied, “I mean, she called me ‘Toby’ at one of the rallies a couple of weeks ago. I know I’ve got short hair, but come on!” Susie’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “And anyway,” she went on, “with a name like ‘Winifred Howles’, think of all the come-backs we can use!”

“I suppose so,” replied Cassie, pausing to offer Clover a Polo mint, then nearly having her hand bitten off by Twizzle, who gave a squeal of jealous rage, before kicking her door with her front hooves. Suddenly, Cassie caught sight of her mother, approaching the nearby tackroom, weighed down by a saddle, two bridles, a hat and a body protector. “Whoops!” she whispered, “I better go help Mummy, or else! I’ll catch you later!” And with that, she scampered off back to the trailer.

*

At a quarter past four, over two hours after the designated time for arrival for the Pony Club campers, the Bustle family had not even made it through their farm gates. Firstly, there had been the problem of the errant pony; Jody’s little coloured gelding, Cadbury, had somehow managed to untie his lead-rope and escape from the yard – where the gate had, as always, been left open – and, by the time they had managed to track him down in the vegetable garden, where he stood, knee deep in cabbages and courgettes, his newly-scrubbed white patches had turned a very definite shade of green. There had been no time to rewash him, and so Cadbury, with a disgruntled expression on his face and a carrot dangling from his lips, had been ushered into the partition-less trailer, to be shortly followed by little Ella’s pony, Puddle. Next, Jody had been unable to find her left stirrup, and, after much searching, had been forced to steal one from her father’s event saddle. Finally, with their old silver Mercedes piled high with suitcases, tack and camp beds, Molly had ushered both girls in, only to have to frantically drag four-year-old Ella back into the house when, in her excitement, she proudly announced she had had ‘a little accident’.

When at last, they seemed ready to be on their way, Jody suddenly gave a screech, whose sound was rivalled only by that of the wheels of the Mercedes, as a terrified Molly jammed her foot on the brake.

“What on earth is it now, Jody?” she cried, as Jody leaped out of the car and sprinted off towards the barn.

“I’ve forgotten my grooming kit,” Jody called back, returning a few minutes later with her father’s old black toolbox, its lid firmly taped down. She carefully placed it on her lap, having uncharacteristically decided to let her little sister travel in the front seat. Molly began to pull away again.

“How long have you been using Daddy’s toolbox for your brushes?” she asked, a little suspiciously, as the tyres scrunched away along the gravel drive.

Jody shrugged, and tossed back her long auburn hair. “Oh, a few weeks,” she replied, “I’m just using it for…um, extras, you know. Hoof oil, shampoo…and stuff.” This answer seemed to satisfy Molly, who, having at last made it out of the gates, now pulled over again to say goodbye to Big Al, their elderly, whiskered, outspoken housekeeper, whose overbearing stature would be enough to scare even the bravest of burglars. Jody, knowing how her mother had a tendency to spend hours talking even when on a strict time schedule, lay back on the seat and pretended to snore loudly. A sudden squeak, just as Molly had been about to tell her to not be so rude, made Jody sit up, and she gave a long cough. Molly merely raised her eyebrows, as Big Al peered in through the window, eying the black box with suspicion.

“What you got in the box, Dodo?” Big Al asked, squinting her wrinkled eyes.

Jody went red. She was wary of Big Al, with her constant need to gossip and her beady, watchful eyes. Fortunately, she was saved from any kind of reply by Molly who, having glanced at her watch, gave a sharp squeak herself.

“My goodness!” she cried in dismay, “Is that the time! We must go! Goodbye, Big Al! Goodbye, farm! We must go at once!”

And with that, the rattling old Mercedes was finally on its way.

Three quarters of an hour later, Molly turned into the farmyard, giving a cry of excitement as she spied the waiting tents in the field.

“Look, darlings!” she cried, “Look at the tents! This is going to be wonderful, absolutely wonderful! Look, Ella! Look at where we’re going to be living for the next week! And look, Jody, look at the ponies in the field! Puddle and Cadbury will be so happy!”

Jody hung out of the window, waving delightedly to Cassie, Della and Susie, who were about to go and sit in the barn, where the impatient DC was trying desperately to gather everyone together. The Bustles were the last but one family to arrive, and their lateness meant that the Welcoming Speech would be delayed even further. Having succeeded in summoning around thirty members – a combination of minis, juniors and seniors – Winifred gave a despairing sigh as three of them sprinted over to the Bustles’ car, and five of the senior members, bored after having been sat on the straw bales for almost an hour, sneaked off around the back of the barn. It was now a quarter past five, and so far, short of welcoming each member on their arrival, Winifred had not yet had the chance to speak to the group as a whole. How, she thought in anguish, am I ever going to be able to gain control, let alone keep it, for a whole week? She turned to the beautifully laid-out notice-board, which she and her daughter Harriet, the Chief Instructor, had painstakingly created, having stayed up into the early hours of the past three mornings. Everything will be fine, Winifred told herself firmly, determined not to let anxiety and apprehension override her reputed organisation skills and meticulousness. Everything will be just fine.

My Drawings and Paintings

Memento Mori - written in 2008

The modest, dark-clad crowd stand quietly beneath the ancient oak tree. A tree which, over the course of centuries, has gathered all the boughs of wisdom such a place has to offer. It has heard the desolate cries of anguish, the sobs of despair and loneliness; it has witnessed the carefree joys of human union and birth. And now it stands motionless, as ever, offering whispering shelter to all those who have come to mourn you.

Those carefully chosen words are muffled and carried by the bitter wind, reaching the ears of few who are stood near. Those who are able to depict them care little, so shocked are they at life’s terrible injustice. The icy rain falls relentlessly to mingle with plentiful tears; heartfelt sobs are stifled by the swishing of the leaves of that knowing old oak tree. And still, I feel nothing.

We stood here once before, you and I. Frightened, confused and alone, we clung to one another as they lowered her into the ground, both of us wondering how we could ever cope without her, and wondering why she had chosen to make us have to. And now I am here again, wondering once more why you have made the choice to follow her. My fingers brush lightly against the envelope in my pocket, and yet I still cannot bring myself to open it, for there can surely be no reason, no excuse for what you have done.

As a child, you were always vibrant and headstrong, yet the irony is that it was always me who dreamed of the bright lights. Dreams were all I would ever have, but you were the one who possessed the ability to follow them. Cool, confident and always grinning, you could scramble onto the back of the most unwilling pony and coax from it a seemingly unbelievable result. And you never felt any need to trumpet your success; your actions spoke louder than any words ever could.

Her death changed you. You lost that innocent sparkle, and the grin that once beamed out from every photograph became a dark, troubled stare. Yet your determination to succeed seemed to flourish; you were fearless in your pursuit of the ultimate goal, to the point that your self-preservation knew no boundaries. In the years to follow, we battled through, just the two of us, chasing a dream that we feared we had lost, determined that we should not lose our grasp on the precious foundations she had laid for us. And all the while, I knew it was only a matter of time before your compulsion became a reality.

Winning is not enough, you once said to me. You had just won your first major chase; the racing world were alerted to your presence that day, as they watched you urge home a decrepit old horse who never deserved to win. You stared down at me from the battered saddle – that long, intense stare that was to become your trademark – and your future intent burned bright as a beacon in your eyes.

From that day forth, your quest was not to beat the opposition, but to obliterate it. Victory never tasted sweet to you unless your rivals lagged ten lengths behind; to win by a mere nose or neck was, in your eyes, a failure on your part. You cultivated a reputation built upon the principles of hard labour and dedication, and as such, you could not cope with the fame that all your commitment brought upon you. And still, even when hailed as a national hero, you lived in denial of yourself.

For eight years, you reigned supreme in the sport of kings; for eight years, you struggled to cope in the world you had strived so hard to be a part of. Each time you set foot in the stirrup, it was as if you were willing to give your life for the cause. Deep down, I knew you were falling apart, but I was powerless to help you, for in shutting yourself away from the world, you closed the door to me, too. And now I am left alone, more isolated than ever, wondering what I could have done to drag you back from the brink.

My trembling fingers find the sealed envelope once more. I do not want to open it, but I know that I must. I am too scared of the reasons you will have tried to give, too afraid that a weak and pitiful excuse will make me want to hate you. And yet, when I lift the contents from the tattered little envelope, I find not a letter, but a photograph. It is not a recent image; yet the sandy shores of Lacken Strand are a sight that I recognise all too well.

From the photograph, your youthful face beams out, triumphant, carefree beneath an over-large skull cap, showing not a trace of the troubles that were forever more to plague you. That feisty, fine-blooded chestnut pony stands to your left, snaking his sweaty neck round to try to nibble the hard-earned trophy that is grasped firmly in your hands. And by your side, wearing handmade T-shirts crafted to match your green-and-yellow silks, our mother and I stand together.

For a second, I pause to wonder why it is that you would have chosen to leave me this. Did you do it knowing that, faced with such a stark reminder of a time when our turmoil lay only ahead of us, I would be forced to contrast the happy-go-lucky lad you were then, with the white-faced, troubled shadow of a man you became?

It puzzles me; this cryptic style is not your own. For all your faults, you always believed in honesty and forthrightness; leaving me guessing would not be your way. I turn the photograph over, and as I stare down at the flip side of the picture, I notice nine or ten lines of handwriting that simply could never be yours. Addressed to no-one, nor signed by anyone…yet, even though some characters are blotted and smudged, perhaps with tears, perhaps not, I know instinctively that the writing is hers. And the last line stands out from the rest:

Forgive me…it could never be enough.

* * *

The oak tree stands tall, unyielding, enduring. It shelters me from the biting wind; its leaves and limbs keep the rain at bay. For the past few minutes I have stood slumped against its massive trunk, trying to make some sense of the inconspicuous little document still clutched tightly to my heart. I realise now that you never felt you were good enough; nor did you believe that you could ever make yourself so. Her weakness, the weakness that I so despised and could never bring myself to fathom, was to prove to be your failing, too. Now you have followed her, having lived a life on the brink, a life that, no matter what, could never be enough for you. You lost your way in life, and in doing so, you sacrificed your grasp on the very concept that keeps us whole.

We are only mortal.

Soldiers & Kings - written in 2006

“History has known many monarchs. You can look at the timeline of practically any nation, and stumble upon a succession of rulers. Most were memorable, many were illustrious, and all were united as one in terms of duty and role.” The teacher paused, having caught sight of a deftly-moving pencil at the back of the room. Abandoning her somewhat elaborate pose at the whiteboard, she let her arms fall to her sides, staring, eyebrows raised, until the blushing young culprit dropped his pencil and refocused his attention. Suppressing a knowing smile, she continued:

“These were those whom we speak of as kings. But what does ‘king’ mean? The dictionary definition of the word ‘king’ makes reference to honour, nobility, bravery and leadership. A king is one whom others are inspired to follow, one whose regal qualities set him apart, and whose desire to succeed, even in the bleakest of situations, will always surpass his need for selfish comforts. But,” she paused, aware that she had long ago lost the attention of many sat before her, and that, as the clock’s hour hand ticked its way towards three, the majority of these adolescent minds were already tiptoeing towards the intangible cartoon world they were soon to re-enter. Replacing the lid on her board pen, she looked thoughtfully round at them all. ‘Think about this one question: to how many past monarchs can we truly relate this title? What makes a true ‘king’?”

As she continued, conscious of the further-waning attention of the class, she once more caught sight of the young lad at the back of the room. Deep in thought, his pencil hovering uncertainly above a half-sketched hoof, his mind had strayed not to that world of fantasy and caricature, but to some other, darker place, a place which seemed to simultaneously bring him both solace and terror. She did not need to wonder where it was that he went, for she already knew. They all knew.

Long after the class had been dismissed, the lad remained motionless. In his bright, shy eyes, she could see his pain, could sense that in every passing footstep, he detected some far-off echo of the hoof-beats he had known and loved.

“Tell me, Miss,” he murmured softly, “Can a horse ever be a true king?”

* * *

I see him. I feel him. Every day that goes by brings him closer to me, and yet every passing hour steals him further away. In my sleep, I see him clearer than when he stood before me; when I look, I can find no trace of him. The newspapers have long forgotten him, yet his image still haunts the television screens, for there is not one contest whose history is not permanently inscribed with his name, not one trainer who cannot recall even his most trifling victory. But there again, was there ever such a thing? Nothing, not one single thing in his life can ever truly be deemed trivial. From the moment he entered the world, crumpling and thrashing upon those tiny, insignificant little limbs, to that final instant when he faltered for the last time…there was nothing insignificant. Everything had meaning. For him, there was always a purpose.

* * *

The teacher regarded him quietly, feeling his heartache as, indeed, the entire nation had felt it. Looking into his tear-filled eyes, she nodded her head. Her reply was a certainty, a surefooted statement of truth. “Yes, Timmy. I believe so.”

* * *

He was a king. He ruled our hearts as he ruled the racecourse, proving the inspiration we had sought for so long. He represented the hopes and dreams of a nation; in this magnificent, brave little horse were mirrored all the qualities of a true sovereign. He lived as a gentleman, endearing himself to the nation, and to those who were fortunate enough to have known him, he must have seemed nothing less than a saint. As a racer, he was the bravest of the brave, striving to succeed with each majestic stride, never resigning himself to failure, never once giving up. He was one with whom everyone could identify, the kind of horse whose equivalent may never be found in the human world. And until the very end, he fought.

* * *

Unwittingly, the lad’s delicate little fingers had once more found the pencil; the tip had strayed back to the stark white page. Bemused, the teacher watched him, as, stroke by stroke, the horse came trotting slowly back to life before them. There was his long, noble face, the dark, flowing forelock, the huge, deep brown pools of those beautiful eyes. He strode out from the page, free of bridle and restraint, his unshod hooves imprinting not on turf, but on wild meadow grass. A single tear fell upon the page, casting a blurred shadow upon the horse’s heart. Timmy looked up.

“If he truly was a king,” he murmured, “then why did he die as he did? Why couldn’t he have retired, like the best of them do? We’d have loved him still; if anything, we would have loved him even more! Why? Why did it just have to end?”

She watched as his head fell forward, as the memory of what he had lost once more began to tear at his soul. She could not offer him all the answers; all she knew was what her heart dictated. She lifted his chin, as he blinked back the tears. “Do you know something, Timmy? I think it’s the manner in which he died that gives us the real reason he can be considered a true king. He fought, he conquered, he was never surpassed, and his heart gave in before his mind and his spirit had the chance to do so. He could have carried on racing, as many before him have done, and succumbed to the new young challengers. He would have had to pass over his crown in the public eye, having been reduced from that all-conquering star we all loved, to a defeated shadow of his once-dominant self. And where is the pride in defeat? Many so-called kings of the past have succumbed to such challenges, and have chosen to wither away their final days in solitude, fearful of succession or confrontation. But your little horse was not just a king, he was a soldier too. And a king who embraces every soldierly duty and responsibility is a rarity. He fought on until the end, and when the end came, he accepted it with dignity, as any true soldier would.”

Timmy’s eyes, still bright with tears, now flickered with growing understanding. He nodded slowly; together, they stood up. She smiled at him gently.

“You run off home now, Timmy,” she said, “There are other horses back there waiting for you. Somewhere in those fields, there’s another would-be prince vying for his chance. It’s up to you to show him how.”

She held the door open for him, watching as he scuffled off towards the old oak tree by the school gates, pausing momentarily to give her a shy, thankful smile.

They live as kings; as soldiers, they fall.

My first pony - Lable

LABLE

I was just two years old when Lable came into my life - or rather, I toddled into his. At 33 years of age, he didnt have much to look forward to, having seen generation upon generation of youngsters up through the lower ranks of Pony Club

and beyond; when we were offered the chance to have him, he had been turned out alone in a small paddock for two years. We went to see him for the first time....and nobody, not my aunt, my dad or my mum, could get near him! Whilst they all traipsed dejectedly back to the fence, their attempts at catching Lable thwarted yet again, I snuck under the rails and shuffled towards him, a Polo in my outstretched palm. And sure enough, Lable walked up to me (or permitted me to get closer to him, I cannot remember which!) and that was that! He came home with us that day.

He may have been in the twilight of his life, but Lable showed us that we would be foolish to write off an old pony. He, my dad and myself became undisputed champions on the local Lead Rein Jumping circuit; our only defeat occurred during a competition when my dad got a little carried away, and forgot to hold me on board...I slipped out of the saddle whilst going round a sharp corner, yet he and Lable carried on regardless, oblivious to the fact that I was bawling on the floor at Fence Seven! We would have won the class by three seconds...

Lable and I's other major successes occurred in the magical world of Fancy Dress. We began our campaign dressed as a mermaid/seascape, and graduated to a butterfly/tree. Most successful of all, however, was our most long-lived and spectacular attire - the bumblebee and flower. We made the front pages of several newspapers, and even managed to beat Prince Harry on more than one occasion!

Lable and I had three wonderful years together. In the October of 1993, we had just finished our weekly riding lesson when Mum noticed that Lable was not his normal, happy self. He started to go downhill over the next week or so, and we made the decision that his time had come. My last memory of him is of us standing together in our old yellow Rice trailer - I was feeding him Cool Mix, and he was whuffling in my ear the way he always did. At five years old, perhaps I was too young to truly understand the concept of death and dying - but I did know that Lable was going on his last journey, and would not be coming back.