Bruja

The parting

Choking pain closed my throat as the phone receiver quietly clicked into place. The blurred vision of my window drew me inwards to my memories, to my life. Today my best friend would die and I would have to do for her what she couldn’t do herself. I would have to take her life and set her free from misery.

Agony swept through me as my very heart beat at my chest, sobs wrecking my body, my tears washing the morning grime from my face. I couldn’t be like this for her. Today of all days I must be strong. I must give her the peace she deserved and ease the break to this world by sending her onwards with love. My husband called quietly from below. “It’s Bruja isn’t it”,

“Yes” I whispered, “It’s time for her to go”. He came up and sat beside me, knowing better than to try to hug and comfort me, he simple sat and let me remember.

The meeting

I pulled the seed off the “hairy man”, closed my eyes and spoke from my heart “I wish I had a horse”. Reverently I planted the seed hoping it would grow and grant my dream. I must have single-handedly planted most of the dandelions in our housing scheme in Mount Vernon; every one carried my prayer.

For as long as I could remember, all I ever wanted was to ride and own a horse. “That wean is horses daft” was the war cry of my Mum whenever she caught me galloping up and down the back green with her good sweeping brush, one of my Dad’s socks (invariably one of his good ones) stuffed with paper to make the shape of a head and tied to the end of the brush shaft.

Of course my Papa got the blame of my obsession, while my Dad was at work and my Mum went to her part time job, Gran and Papa looked after my brother and me. Papa would sit me on his knee and tell me stories of the big horses that he had looked after and how they used to pull the bread vans in Glasgow. He told me all of their names and the adventures they would get into. One name I still recall was “Chum”. My Papa made the fatal mistake on a hot summer’s day of taking pity on the poor sweating horse and stopped outside a well-known “Tally” shop near Thornliebank. This shop sold the best homemade Italian ice cream in the area and he bought Chum an ice cream “Tae cool down efter hiking up that big hill”. Of course every time he took that particular route with Chum, the horse would stop outside the shop, summer or winter and refuse to move till my Papa had bought him and Ice Cream. My most treasured possession is a chrome plated shoe from Chum and it hangs still in my house.

My imagination was fired; I too longed for that special friendship that I could tell my Papa had with all of his horses. On a visit to my Dad’s Uncle Charlie, a “doonhaimer” from Dumfriesshire, I remember what Mum said the first time that she met him. They had been talking for a while about things in general and she had mentioned my Papa and the bread horses. “Och lassie, I’ve followed the horses for years” he cried,

“Oh” replied my mother, “I didn’t know you were a betting man?” Uncle Charlie wheezed with laughter,

“No, no lassie, I wis a ploughman, you know the plough horses!” Uncle Charlie was a retired ploughman.

The highlight of that visit was when Uncle Charlie said we could go and see one of his horses who was retired in a field not far away. I watched in awe as a huge white horse lolloped down the field towards us when my Uncle Charlie whistled. I was allowed to pat him, give him slices of bread and given the most honoured privilege of sitting on his back. That was me hooked.

My Papa died when I was four, but the longing he had placed in my heart grew and grew. I begged and begged my Mum and Dad for a horse, “your too young”, “we can’t afford one” were the replies. I resigned myself to the fact that I would never be able to have a real live horse.

When I was eight my friend Scott was allowed to go to our local riding school Foxley Equestrian Centre for riding lessons. I begged and cried that I also be allowed to go and eventually my Mum gave in. My first lesson cost the enormous sum of £1.25 and lasted a full hour. It was an hour of heaven for me. A chance to sit on a real live horse and learn the majestic art of horse riding. I think to this day that my parents were hoping that I would “get it out of my system” if they allowed me to continue to ride.

At the age of 12 I was still riding once a week and was given the opportunity of “looking after” one of my friends horses at the weekend. My friend kept her horse at her uncle’s farm. In return for doing some simple work tidying up around the farm, I was allowed to brush, feed and ride Style, a 16.2hh Grey heavyweight Hunter. I am sure now that Style never realised that anyone was on his back! We were only allowed to ride in one field and my friend and I would jump on the horses without any hat, saddle or bridle and set off round the field as fast as we could go. I looked after Style, every weekend, rain or shine for a full year. I think by this time my Mum realised that I was not “going to get this out her system”.

“OK, you have one week to buy a horse. I only have £500 to spend and if you don’t get one this week then I will be buying a new 3 piece suite.” That was the ultimatum I was given when I was 13. Where do you buy a horse? I didn’t know. I was not going to let this little lack of knowledge foil me, I was being given a chance to get something that I had wanted all my life and I wouldn’t let it slip away. I picked up the yellow pages and looked up Horses. “See Dealers”, was the suggestion, so I looked up Dealers. The nearest Horse Dealer to us was Billy Stewart in Lesmahagow. So, taking the bull by the horns, I phoned the yard. I think that whoever answered the call must have thought I was mucking about.

“Hello, I want to buy a horse. Do you have any for sale?”

“Yes” was the reply. I was stumped, what do I say now?

“How much are they?”

“How much do you want to spend?” Should I tell him the full price or should I play it cool? At that point my Mum overheard my conversation, taking the phone off of me she apologised to the man and saved the day. It was agreed, we would go down to the yard and look at two horses the Dealer felt were suitable for me.

We arrived at the yard at night. My Mum, Dad and Gran (brought along because she knew about horses from Papa) all squashed into the car. Mr Stewart was there to meet us, along with his Head Lad. He took us into his main stable block and I was awe struck and the glorious animals in beautiful rugs. “Those are Showjumpers hen, I think they are a bit too expensive for you.” was the response to my wide-eyed appreciation. “ This one here would be good for your daughter” Mr Stewart continued to my Mum and Dad. I looked at a pretty little bay pony with big friendly eyes and a cheeky face. I liked him, but he was smaller than I had wanted.

“I was looking for a 15.2hh” I said, trying to sound knowledgeable (I had read in a book that this was a good average height for horses and I knew that even if I grew a bit taller I would still be able to ride a 15.2hh).

“Oh right, let’s look at this one then”. I was led to another stall with a larger Grey horse lurking within. I didn’t like the look on his face when the door opened and Mr Stewart held me back and told me to let his lad bring the horse out.

“It’s all right,” I said, “I don’t like this one very much.” “Could I see the bay again please”.

Mr Stewart patiently took us back to the little bay, “This horse is older and more experienced than what you were looking for. I know you wanted a five year old, but I think that this horse will teach your daughter better, it is a competition horse and ready to do shows.” My Mum and Dad nodded, agreeing with Mr Stewart’s sound advice, “He is a little bit more expensive though, this one is £800”. My Mum and Dad’s face fell, there was no way we could afford that much. My heart hit my boots, I was going to lose out after all. At that moment I heard a clatter of hooves behind me. Looking round I saw what looked like an enormous black stallion with a white face pawing the ground in frustration.

“Is that a stallion?” I asked in awe,

“No hen, that’s a mare just off the boat frae Ireland, she’s only angry cause she can’t eat her hay quickly with the bit in her mouth. She’s just a baby you see, only four, never been ridden and as green as grass.”

“Can I see her?” I asked. Mr Stewart obliged and opened the stable door. His lad took off the Dumb Jockey that the mare was wearing to get her used to the bit and bridle.

The horse immediately moved to the back of the box, her side pressed against the back wall, her head high in fear and confusion. She was almost black with four white socks and a white blaze. I walked straight up to her, “Careful hen, she’s just a baby!” said Mr Stewart. I wasn’t afraid, I could hear my Papa saying to me “This is your horse, take her.” I touched her shoulder and gently patted her. Turning to Mr Stewart I said,

“I want this one please.” His response was one of concern and worry,

“Listen hen, this is just a young horse, she’s never been ridden, I don’t know what she’s like. I can’t tell you anything about her. Why don’t you look at the other horses again, they can be ridden now.”

“It’s all right, I know I want this one.” I looked at my Mum and Dad, and they recognised the determination in my face.

“But Morag, listen to what Mr Stewart says, he knows about these things.” was the half-hearted response. At that point my Gran spoke up,

“If this is the one the wean wants then this is the one she should have.” Mr Stewart must have realised he was fighting a losing battle.

“How much is this horse?” asked my Dad.

“I’ll give her to you for £500.” replied Mr Stewart, “But here’s a suggestion. I don’t sell anything from this yard that I don’t know about. Leave the horse here for a week. I’ll back and break her, I’ll school the other two on and then your daughter can ride all three next time then decide which one she wants. If after a month it doesn’t work out, I’ll take the horse back again. How’s that?” And so it was agreed.

A week later we were back at the yard. I only wanted to see the “wee dark mare”, but I was given a ride on the Grey first. The horse was obedient and well schooled, but all I could think about was “the wee dark mare”. Finally Mr Stewart let me ride her. She was very, very green. All she could do was walk, trot, and a rather scrappy canter. I could tell that she didn’t really have a clue as to what I wanted her to do, but she tried her best and that is what impressed me. She didn’t understand, but she had the courage and kindness to try and please a total stranger. “I still want this one” I gasped as I pulled her to a stop. It was a done deal.

Mr Stewart must have felt sorry for us, he sold us the horse, saddle, bridle, headcollar and delivered her to the livery yard I was going to keep her at for a mere £550. The day she arrived, he led her off the horsebox, handed me the rope and I led her the 1/4 mile walk down the driveway of the yard. That was the first time I and my friend and companion for the next 20 years really met each other.

The arrival

“Very nice little horse.” “I like her colour,” “What’s her name”, were the barrage of questions fired at me by all the other livery clients. I was standing in the schooling area of a local DIY yard surrounded by knowledgeable, experienced people. A very green horse and an even greener owner.

I had read a book a long time ago called “The Wild Heart”. The horse in the book was called “La Bruja”. The story is one of great courage, love, loyalty and sacrifice. It has a rather sad/happy type ending and I swore that day as I turned the last page, tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat, that if I ever got the opportunity of owning my own horse I would call it Bruja. “Her name is Bruja”. I said, my heart bursting with pride as I led her to her first real home.

Of course I had never thought about where I would buy straw, hay or feeding for my horse and so she arrived on the yard to an empty concrete box. “Take a couple of my bales of straw and hay for tonight, you can give me them back when you get your own.” was the kind offer made by Carol, Ben’s owner. With her help we put down the bed and made sure Bruja was comfortable. “She’s settled down quickly,” said Carol, “eating her hay quite happily”. We left Bruja munching and walked about the yard meeting the other horses. Carol talked away about the other animals and how so and so had got cast one day. I looked at her bemused and asked,

“What do you mean cast?”

“It’s when a horse lies down and rolls and gets it’s legs stuck against a wall and can’t get up.”

“Is that bad?” I asked,

“Oh, yes, the horse could panic and give itself colic or injure it’s legs.”

“Colic?” Carol’s eyes narrowed as she regarded me thoughtfully,

“Colic, you know, sick, ill.”

“Can horses get sick?” This was a complete revelation to me, I never knew that a horse could get sick. All the horses that I had every ridden were always ready and tacked up for me to ride. I suddenly realised that I may be an adequate rider, but I knew absolutely nothing about looking after horses. Carol was pointedly staring away from me, not answering my question. “Carol, can I ask a big favour?” She looked at me again, “I don’t know much about looking after horses, I can ride OK, but now I know how little experience I have when it comes to care, can you teach me how to do it right?” Carol smiled,

“I’m so glad you asked me,” she said, “I wouldn’t have liked to offer, some people may take it the wrong way, but you’ve got your head screwed on straight.” I can honestly say that if it wasn’t for Carol teaching me all she knew I would never have survived the first year.

My parents were very clear as to where the responsibility for looking after my new horse lay. I had recently purchased a paper round and my profit of £10 per week was spent on my stable rent. My Mum and Dad paid for everything else of course, but in those days things were a little bit cheaper. My Mum and Dad were not really horsy folk and were nervous of Bruja at first. Mr Stewart had suggested that we keep Bruja in her stable for the first week, just till she got to know us and so, every night, my Mum bravely volunteered to lead Bruja round the exercise square as I mucked out her stable. My Mum would keep her eyes shut and kept saying to herself “I’m walking the dog, I’m walking the dog!” Bruja would quietly plod round behind her as quiet as a lamb.

One night as I came round to ask Mum to bring her in I found them standing in the middle of the yard. “What’s wrong” I asked,

“I think there is something wrong with her eyes,” was my Mum’s concerned response. “I was walking round and we were passing this jump but instead of Bruja walking round it she walked into it!” What had happened was Bruja was a little bit bigger than my Mum and (probably still thinking she was walking the dog) my Mum had squeezed through a gap that was too small for Bruja, who quite sensibly had simply stopped.

If it weren’t for the help of my Mum and Dad I probably would not have managed. Dad was nervous of horses and had never handled them. Despite this he would go up to the yard before his early shift, (5.00am) and put her out in the field. One morning Carol was up early and saw Dad leading Bruja with a strange contraption over her head. Carol burst out laughing when she realised that he had her headcollar on upside down. Again it was my fault, I never thought to show him how to put it on. Bruja had patiently been lead out to the field for at least a month with what must have been a rather uncomfortable harness.

I know that Bruja must have known how nervous my Mum and Dad were and she was careful to be quiet and gentle around them. However, Bruja definitely had a rather twisted sense of humour. I remember my Dad waiting for me after going up to the yard early to catch Bruja and bring her in. He looked rather annoyed and very hot. “That bloody horse of yours has just dragged me the length of the field” “What do you mean?” I asked, “I went out to catch her, but every time I got close to her she walked away. I just kept walking after her, and she led me up the entire field (20 acres) to the top corner then stopped and let me catch her!” One of Bruja’s favourite jokes no doubt.