As Doctor Theodore Higgins dried his hands and peered over his tiny spectacles at the sleeping lad in the bed near the
roaring fire hearth, he dutifully waited for the impending question from the man toying with the frayed piece of harness at
the kitchen table. There were dark circles under Jimmy Dougie's eyes and considering the squeals of pain he'd released
during the setting of his leg, Higgins concluded the would-be jockey's body was reacting by transporting him into the less
strenuous world of dreams. Some call it a faint.
The kid was young, but that leg would certainly put treacle on riding in the race next week. Even though Higgins had been
in the business for almost thirty years, a broken leg still required over six weeks to recover. It didn't matter how you cut the
pie, you still had pie he thought to himself as he watched young man's chest rise and fall steadily.
Anyway -he mused, Dawes can always get one of his other stable-hands to ride that damned horse.
Moving the badly-daubed ceramic bowl of water over to the gnarled oak sideboard near where Stanley Dawes sat brooding
on today's misadventure in the paddock, Doctor Higgins noticed it matched an equally repugnant container standing further
along the bureau. He'd known Stanley's mother before she'd gone over and just like her son with his taste in crazy horses,
she'd had no penchant for nice things either.
"How long Doc?" Stanley Dawes asked sullenly, the wall-lantern's glow dulled slightly as if to display the stable owner's mood
visually. Moving his gaze from the equipment that had caused the accident to the boy's splint-wrapped leg sticking out from
beneath the bed covers, Stanley resisted explaining to the saw-bones that the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race
was to be the biggest event around these parts and it was only a week away.
"James won't be riding in the Hunt, if that's what you're asking..." Doctor Higgins replied frankly and folded the towel into his
dark-leather bag, "...the lad needs rest and I won't allow him to be on that leg until spring comes around" he added sternly as
he picked up his coat from the nearby armchair.
The bushy eyebrows of the fifty year-old arched in a pleading expression to the village's time-worn practitioner as he looked out
of the window at the frog-striper flooding the muddy track from Dawes' sprawling property to his little house in Dibbleswith. But
Stanley's gesture of supplication went unseen by the good Doctor and so the tactile examination of the worn leather resumed.
"You'll heed my words, Stanley, the boy isn't to be moved until I say so" Theodore warned again and steeled himself from the
inevitable thunder that came after the bright flash of lightning.
Stanley's shoulders sagged his response and listening to God moving his furniture about in the dark sky, the glum stable owner
was about to begin his mental gander of who could replace the Dougie boy, when he saw the Doctor pull his coat-collar up. The
usual hint that a payment was due. Grunting in his exertion, Stanley rose and went to a large ornate -but ugly, urn that his mother
had left him when she'd passed over ten years ago.
The woolly-haired man in the weathered canvas waistcoat glanced over to see if the Doctor was watching his antics as he quietly
lifted the porcelain lid with the half-naked mermaid on it that the stable-owner had guessed was painted by a semi-talented drunk,
but Higgins seemed more interested in the deluge that had been hanging over the Dawes estate since yesterday.
Plucking a single numma from the small pile of coins and deftly replacing the marine-themed cover back on the varnished clay pot,
Stanley ran his thick fingers through his tightly-curled hair and prepared himself to give money away. It took a lot of mettle and the
fifty year-old bachelor mentally wagered it hurt like Jimmy's leg, but he paid his bill. Ferrymen and Doctors.
...................................................
The stable-hand murmured in his sleep as his boss twiddled with a broken piece of bridle, Diabolus was well-named, the black
stallion had tossed three of his ostlers into the dirt since Stanley had bought him. He knew good running stock, his late-father had
taught him well and when Stanley had first set eyes on the young Stygian-hued colt at Hexham Horse Fair, he knew that somewhere
in that two year-olds lean body lay the need to be a winner.
Maybe the saddle-girth had been missed during his inspections and maybe Stanley had deliberately avoided close scrutiny due
to his funds dwindling, but he now felt bad on taking out his anger on Pip and Farra -the other two grooms, for the cause of the
accident. Gazing towards the fireplace and allowing the hypnotic flames take him to a similar realm Jimmy currently frolicked in,
the last member of the Dawes family capered in own his memories of the day his Pa had brought home the Annual Summertide
and Barnstead Hunt trophy.
Oracle's Grace had been a fine mare, a brave horse supposedly named after a fortune-teller his father had visited at a travelling
carnival when he'd been Jimmy's age. And by Herne -Stanley fondly recalled, that thing could jump and when thinking about those
treacherous fences of the Hunt race, it needed to.
With a wincing cough from Jimmy, Stanley left his daydreaming of those halcyon days and returned to thinking about his dilemma
with Diabolus. It was looking good that the big brute may have took a shine to Doogie, Jimmy had walked it around the stable-yard
as he'd done many times and taking it out for a morning run hadn't seemed a problem. The watchful owner's hopes were dashed
during a mild canter on the Gallops this morning and even though Stanley would like to blame the muddy conditions and his own
lax approach on tack, in his heart he knew the midnight-coloured monster had thrown Jimmy just for the hell of it.
The lightning set the night alight again outside and for a moment, Stanley spotted the huddled silhouette of Doctor Higgins slipping
and sliding his way to his little home and his cantankerous wife. The rain was coming down in bucket-loads and the miserable vista
only added to the stable-owner's woes. Still, poor Higgins had to endure the drencher and then suffer the storm clouds of his Missus,
Stanley attempted to take some solace from the fact that the horse-from-Hell had ruined his season and maybe this weather would
put-paid to Lord Tatem's chance to take the cup again. But it didn't work.
Pushing the frayed strip of leather into his trouser pocket as another ribbon of white lightning tore across the night sky, the forlorn
stable-owner pondered that bad-luck may have two hands and deals its misfortune like manure being spread across a field.
Everyone gets a bit.
Yes, a hefty dollop of misery had certainly spattered itself on the front door of the Dawes Riding Stables for sure, but as Stanley
left the rain-laced window to warm himself at the fire, he also considered that a person would have to be as crazy as that cursed
Diabolus to be out on a night like this.
...................................................
"Next time yer' daft bugger, yer'll choose te' check the weather before yer' leave a warmer place of shelter" Peggy Powler scowled
to herself as Herne the Hunter's grumble once again vibrated the cob-web-covered eaves above her. Holding her arms across her
bare breasts and remaining resolute to keep her hat on, she spat at the torrent and muttered a cuss. It wasn't much of a campfire,
but Peggy could gain some comfort from the couple of flickering flames, another act of defiance towards the drumming rain on the
roof.
The thunderstorm had been crossing the land until it seemed it had found the Last Witch of Underhill travelling along a tiny country
track that paralleled Calder's Way and decided to accompany the little sorceress on her wanderings. The surrounding bushes and
her wide-brimmed hat had done their their best to deter the rain from soaking Peggy's poncho, but she knew if a cow byre or a barn
didn't appear soon, she'd be sleeping damp in her satchel when the night came.
The old remains of a long-forgotten stable came into view ten minutes later and considering what the Fates had threw at her back
at Pook Hill, Peggy deemed their principle-compass must swing in a more favourable cardinal direction from time to time. Now, with
her only garment hanging on a nail close to where the struggling fire fought with a chilly breeze that had snuck into the tumbledown
structure, the little Witch shivered in her nakedness and returned to question her evaluation of what the guardians of her destiny had
considered a good place to get in out of the rain.
As the darkness approached the rickety home of a once-champion of the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race, lightning
would expose an unclothed grumbling woman clambering into a canvas bag dangling from a wooden peg in the out-of-the-way stable.
Oddly enough, this same hook once held the bridle-ware of the famous horse from around these parts, but now the dusty timber stay
accepted the weight of someone of similar renown, but not as tolerant to the elements.
roaring fire hearth, he dutifully waited for the impending question from the man toying with the frayed piece of harness at
the kitchen table. There were dark circles under Jimmy Dougie's eyes and considering the squeals of pain he'd released
during the setting of his leg, Higgins concluded the would-be jockey's body was reacting by transporting him into the less
strenuous world of dreams. Some call it a faint.
The kid was young, but that leg would certainly put treacle on riding in the race next week. Even though Higgins had been
in the business for almost thirty years, a broken leg still required over six weeks to recover. It didn't matter how you cut the
pie, you still had pie he thought to himself as he watched young man's chest rise and fall steadily.
Anyway -he mused, Dawes can always get one of his other stable-hands to ride that damned horse.
Moving the badly-daubed ceramic bowl of water over to the gnarled oak sideboard near where Stanley Dawes sat brooding
on today's misadventure in the paddock, Doctor Higgins noticed it matched an equally repugnant container standing further
along the bureau. He'd known Stanley's mother before she'd gone over and just like her son with his taste in crazy horses,
she'd had no penchant for nice things either.
"How long Doc?" Stanley Dawes asked sullenly, the wall-lantern's glow dulled slightly as if to display the stable owner's mood
visually. Moving his gaze from the equipment that had caused the accident to the boy's splint-wrapped leg sticking out from
beneath the bed covers, Stanley resisted explaining to the saw-bones that the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race
was to be the biggest event around these parts and it was only a week away.
"James won't be riding in the Hunt, if that's what you're asking..." Doctor Higgins replied frankly and folded the towel into his
dark-leather bag, "...the lad needs rest and I won't allow him to be on that leg until spring comes around" he added sternly as
he picked up his coat from the nearby armchair.
The bushy eyebrows of the fifty year-old arched in a pleading expression to the village's time-worn practitioner as he looked out
of the window at the frog-striper flooding the muddy track from Dawes' sprawling property to his little house in Dibbleswith. But
Stanley's gesture of supplication went unseen by the good Doctor and so the tactile examination of the worn leather resumed.
"You'll heed my words, Stanley, the boy isn't to be moved until I say so" Theodore warned again and steeled himself from the
inevitable thunder that came after the bright flash of lightning.
Stanley's shoulders sagged his response and listening to God moving his furniture about in the dark sky, the glum stable owner
was about to begin his mental gander of who could replace the Dougie boy, when he saw the Doctor pull his coat-collar up. The
usual hint that a payment was due. Grunting in his exertion, Stanley rose and went to a large ornate -but ugly, urn that his mother
had left him when she'd passed over ten years ago.
The woolly-haired man in the weathered canvas waistcoat glanced over to see if the Doctor was watching his antics as he quietly
lifted the porcelain lid with the half-naked mermaid on it that the stable-owner had guessed was painted by a semi-talented drunk,
but Higgins seemed more interested in the deluge that had been hanging over the Dawes estate since yesterday.
Plucking a single numma from the small pile of coins and deftly replacing the marine-themed cover back on the varnished clay pot,
Stanley ran his thick fingers through his tightly-curled hair and prepared himself to give money away. It took a lot of mettle and the
fifty year-old bachelor mentally wagered it hurt like Jimmy's leg, but he paid his bill. Ferrymen and Doctors.
...................................................
The stable-hand murmured in his sleep as his boss twiddled with a broken piece of bridle, Diabolus was well-named, the black
stallion had tossed three of his ostlers into the dirt since Stanley had bought him. He knew good running stock, his late-father had
taught him well and when Stanley had first set eyes on the young Stygian-hued colt at Hexham Horse Fair, he knew that somewhere
in that two year-olds lean body lay the need to be a winner.
Maybe the saddle-girth had been missed during his inspections and maybe Stanley had deliberately avoided close scrutiny due
to his funds dwindling, but he now felt bad on taking out his anger on Pip and Farra -the other two grooms, for the cause of the
accident. Gazing towards the fireplace and allowing the hypnotic flames take him to a similar realm Jimmy currently frolicked in,
the last member of the Dawes family capered in own his memories of the day his Pa had brought home the Annual Summertide
and Barnstead Hunt trophy.
Oracle's Grace had been a fine mare, a brave horse supposedly named after a fortune-teller his father had visited at a travelling
carnival when he'd been Jimmy's age. And by Herne -Stanley fondly recalled, that thing could jump and when thinking about those
treacherous fences of the Hunt race, it needed to.
With a wincing cough from Jimmy, Stanley left his daydreaming of those halcyon days and returned to thinking about his dilemma
with Diabolus. It was looking good that the big brute may have took a shine to Doogie, Jimmy had walked it around the stable-yard
as he'd done many times and taking it out for a morning run hadn't seemed a problem. The watchful owner's hopes were dashed
during a mild canter on the Gallops this morning and even though Stanley would like to blame the muddy conditions and his own
lax approach on tack, in his heart he knew the midnight-coloured monster had thrown Jimmy just for the hell of it.
The lightning set the night alight again outside and for a moment, Stanley spotted the huddled silhouette of Doctor Higgins slipping
and sliding his way to his little home and his cantankerous wife. The rain was coming down in bucket-loads and the miserable vista
only added to the stable-owner's woes. Still, poor Higgins had to endure the drencher and then suffer the storm clouds of his Missus,
Stanley attempted to take some solace from the fact that the horse-from-Hell had ruined his season and maybe this weather would
put-paid to Lord Tatem's chance to take the cup again. But it didn't work.
Pushing the frayed strip of leather into his trouser pocket as another ribbon of white lightning tore across the night sky, the forlorn
stable-owner pondered that bad-luck may have two hands and deals its misfortune like manure being spread across a field.
Everyone gets a bit.
Yes, a hefty dollop of misery had certainly spattered itself on the front door of the Dawes Riding Stables for sure, but as Stanley
left the rain-laced window to warm himself at the fire, he also considered that a person would have to be as crazy as that cursed
Diabolus to be out on a night like this.
...................................................
"Next time yer' daft bugger, yer'll choose te' check the weather before yer' leave a warmer place of shelter" Peggy Powler scowled
to herself as Herne the Hunter's grumble once again vibrated the cob-web-covered eaves above her. Holding her arms across her
bare breasts and remaining resolute to keep her hat on, she spat at the torrent and muttered a cuss. It wasn't much of a campfire,
but Peggy could gain some comfort from the couple of flickering flames, another act of defiance towards the drumming rain on the
roof.
The thunderstorm had been crossing the land until it seemed it had found the Last Witch of Underhill travelling along a tiny country
track that paralleled Calder's Way and decided to accompany the little sorceress on her wanderings. The surrounding bushes and
her wide-brimmed hat had done their their best to deter the rain from soaking Peggy's poncho, but she knew if a cow byre or a barn
didn't appear soon, she'd be sleeping damp in her satchel when the night came.
The old remains of a long-forgotten stable came into view ten minutes later and considering what the Fates had threw at her back
at Pook Hill, Peggy deemed their principle-compass must swing in a more favourable cardinal direction from time to time. Now, with
her only garment hanging on a nail close to where the struggling fire fought with a chilly breeze that had snuck into the tumbledown
structure, the little Witch shivered in her nakedness and returned to question her evaluation of what the guardians of her destiny had
considered a good place to get in out of the rain.
As the darkness approached the rickety home of a once-champion of the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race, lightning
would expose an unclothed grumbling woman clambering into a canvas bag dangling from a wooden peg in the out-of-the-way stable.
Oddly enough, this same hook once held the bridle-ware of the famous horse from around these parts, but now the dusty timber stay
accepted the weight of someone of similar renown, but not as tolerant to the elements.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.