‘Centaur Care.’
‘Yes. These horses aren’t fit to travel. I told Mr Tigwood but he insisted we bring them. Mrs Lipton’s worried they’ll die before we unload them...’
‘All right,’ I said decisively. ‘When you get near Pixhill, call me again on the horsebox phone and I’ll drive round at once. Don’t let the ramps down until I get there. Sit in the cab and write up the log sheet. Do anything. Understand?’
‘Thanks.’ One short word; a dictionary full of meaning.
‘See you,’ I said.
When I told Lizzie the problem she asked to come with me, and after Aziz had phoned again, round we went.
The scrubby Centaur Care paddock had been overgrazed to the point where the dark earth showed between the straggling tufts of grass. The roughly hard-topped parking area had weeds growing through cracks and the small concrete office was streaked with rusty rain marks. Behind it, the stables looked as if a good breeze would flatten them. Lizzie gazed at this magnificent spread speechlessly as we pulled up beside the elderly green paint of the front door.
We’d been there barely a minute before Aziz turned in slowly from the road and brought the nine-box to an exceedingly gentle halt. I walked across to his window as Tigwood and Lorna disembarked from the passenger seats on the other side.
Aziz opened the window and said, ‘They’re all still alive, I hope.’
There were sounds of the ramps being unbolted on the far side and I hurried round the front and told both Tigwood and Lorna to stop.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Tigwood said. ‘Of course we must unload them.’
‘I’d be happier to see them first,’ I told him reasonably.
‘Whatever for?’
‘Old horses might like five minutes’ rest at this point. There’s no mad hurry, is there?’
‘It’ll soon be dark,’ he pointed out.
‘All the same, John, I’ll just rub their noses.’
I opened the rear grooms’ door without waiting for any further objections and heaved myself up to horse level. Three patient old sets of eyes gazed at me, tiredness showing in the angle of the necks and in the lethargically turning ears.
In the space in front of their heads, where often an attendant travelled, stood an untouched bale of hay and the row of plastic water containers, all full.
I jumped down from that compartment and opened the centre grooms’ door, climbing up again into the space between the middle three stalls and the front three. In the middle three stalls stood another shaky trio, their heads hanging low with fatigue. I wriggled forward through the empty third of the front stalls and inspected the rest of the load, a horse so feeble that it looked as if the partitions themselves were all that were holding him on his feet, and a pathetic pony with acres of hairless skin and its eyes shut.
I descended to ground level and told Tigwood and Lorna that I wanted the vet round to see them before they were unloaded. I wanted an authoritative opinion, I said, that my firm had delivered them in as good a condition as possible.
‘It’s none of your business,’ Tigwood said furiously. ‘And it’s an insult to Centaur Care.’
‘Look, John,’ I said placatingly, ‘if the owners of those horses care enough about them to give them good homes in their old age, they’ll certainly pay for a vet to make sure they’ve come to no harm from the journey. They’re nice old horses but they’re very tired and I should think you should be grateful to have help with their well-being.’
‘John,’ Lorna said, ‘I’m sure Freddie’s right. I do think we should. They were a lot feebler than I expected.’
‘Did they drink before they set off?’ I asked.
Lorna looked at me worriedly. ‘Do you think they’re thirsty?’ she said. ‘Aziz was driving so dreadfully slowly.’
‘Hm.’ Through the open passenger door I asked Aziz to hand me the phone and without more ado got through to the local veterinary surgeon, explaining what I wanted. ‘Five minutes’ look-see, that’s probably all. But right now, if you could.’
He promised the right now and was as good as his word, a longtime friend who knew I wouldn’t call him out for nothing. He made the same brief inspection as I had and at the end gave me a hollow-eyed look, meaning more than he said.
‘Well?’ John Tigwood demanded, and listened crossly to the verdict.
‘They’re mildly dehydrated and probably hungry. Thin, too, though they’ve been adequately looked after in general. They’ll need good hay and water and a lot of rest. I’ll stay while you unload, I think.’
During the wait for his arrival, I’d introduced Lizzie to Tigwood and Lorna. They paid her scant attention, having thoughts only for the horses, and Lizzie herself was content just to watch and listen.
I lowered the rear ramp finally and John Tigwood untied the first of the passengers and led him to the ground, the old legs slipping and unsteady, hooves clattering, eyes frightened. He reached firm footing and stood still, quivering.
‘Lorna,’ I said, ‘how old are they?’
She produced a list and handed it to me mutely. The names, ages, and owners of the horses were there, some of them so familiar as to raise my interest sharply.
‘But I rode two of them!’ I exclaimed. ‘Some of these were great horses.’
‘Surely you realised that?’ Lorna said tartly.
‘No, I didn’t. Which is which?’
‘They have labels on their headcollars.’
I went to the horse Tigwood was holding while the vet looked it over and read the name, Peterman. I fondled the old nose and thought of the races we’d won and lost together twelve and more years earlier, days when the shaky frame had been taut and powerful, a proud head-tossing prince, a star in his time. At twenty-one, his age on the list, he was the equivalent of roughly ninety, in human terms.
‘He’s fine,’ the vet said. ‘Just tired.’
Tigwood gave me an ‘I told you so’ look of triumph and led my old friend off towards the stables.
‘He’s the youngest,’ I remarked, reading the list.
The daylight faded as the unloading progressed and I switched on all the horsebox’s lights, inside and out, to give passable illumination. The vet gave a provisional thumbs up to all of the travellers except the last two from the forwardmost stalls, both of which had him shaking his head.
The aged pony was worst. The poor creature could hardly stand, let alone walk down the ramp.
‘Advanced laminitis,’ the vet said. ‘Best to put him down.’
‘Certainly not,’ Tigwood pronounced indignantly. ‘He’s a much loved pet. I promised a comfortable home, and that’s what he’ll get. His owner’s fifteen. She made me promise.’
I thought of Michael Watermead’s remark about his own children: ‘they don’t understand the need for death.’ Tigwood understood it all right, but keeping life going at any cost was where both his income and his fanaticism seemed to lie.
‘At least let me dress his alopecia,’ the vet suggested, referring to the hair loss, and Tigwood resentfully said, ‘Tomorrow, then,’ and literally pushed the poor little beast until he had to totter down the ramp or fall down altogether.
‘It’s disgusting,’ Lizzie said under her breath.
Lorna heard and snapped at her, ‘It’s the people who kill horses just because they’re old who are disgusting.’ She was busy stifling her own doubts, I saw. ‘Old horses have a right to life. Centaur Care is a wonderful institution.’
‘Yes,’ Lizzie said dryly.
Lorna gave her an unfriendly stare which she then transferred to me.
‘You don’t appreciate John’s work,’ she accused. ‘And don’t give me all that crap about putting animals out of their misery. You can’t be sure they’re miserable.’