Free Tivington Nott by Alex Miller

history’s not working out well for him. He shouldn’t be skulking around down here between these old farm walls. There’s not enough room, here in this situation, for him to recover from the sort of mistakes he might get forced into. There’s nothing grand to meet him on his own ground. He should be standing at a great stable where he’d get his chance to be compared with the best.
    But the Tiger’s seen his chance.
    By the time I’ve cleaned his stall and chucked in a heap of fresh oaten straw Kabara’s settled down enough to let me start grooming him. I get going on him with the rice-root brush. I have to leave him standing free. I have a feeling he wouldn’t put up with cross-ties anyway. I’ve never tried tying him down or restricting him in any way. I’m no horse-master and couldn’t get him to do something he didn’t want to do. It’s always his decision that settles things one way or the other.
    When I’ve been over every inch of him with the soft brush I get started on the part he enjoys the most. I rub him vigorously with the palm of my hand, generating heat and bringing his body oils to the surface so that his fine raven coat will glow with all the midnight colours, blue and green and purple in the sunlight! He half closes his eyes and begins letting out the odd moan of sheer pleasure. And I’m grunting and sweating with the effort. Pushing my palm deep into his splendid muscle, holding myself against him with my other arm in order to keep my balance, and beginning to wonder what our disagreement was all about a minute ago. I tell him how beautiful he is. How everyone will stare at him and admire him and fear him. And when I’m doing his shoulder he reaches round and starts grooming me too. I get to work on his full mane then. Hand-picking every hair of it. Strand by strand. Dampening it with water where it needs it so that it will all fall on the near side. And finally back to his coat again. A last polish with a lightly oiled rag, smoothing it with the sweep and direction of the hide and bringing out the highlights under the yellow flame of the lamp. Reaching under his tail and down between his thighs, wiping the tense and bulging globes of his testicles, him grunting and tucking his belly—each ball the size of my clenched fist!—and on down his thighs, in behind the powerful muscles of the stifle and the gaskin, his legs planted firmly. Like polishing living gateposts! Back up over his croup and under the tail, and he’s tucking and wincing again. All that power there for breeding! How much is the Tiger going to insure these ballocks for? If he actually gets to own them?
    I get down and start crawling around under his belly. A minute and thorough check of his legs. Looking for anything I might have missed while grooming him, any small sign of a hurt or something that could be a problem starting to show up. But he’s clean. He’s begun feeding, lipping the sweet milled oats and the delicious flakes of linseed cake.
    We’re friends again.
    I stand and watch him for a moment, relaxed, within striking range of his deadly hooves. And I try to imagine myself telling the Tiger when he comes out all geared up and ready to go hunting this morning: ‘Listen, Boss! This horse is too good for you. You’re not up to him! He’ll get you into trouble!’ I can see him standing there calmly listening to all that coming from me! Advice on horse business to the Master! Me telling the Tiger how to lead his life!
    I leave the black horse to it, give him a chance to get a decent feed into himself, and I go in and give Finisher the treatment. What a contrast! I head for the cottage then, for a quick breakfast and change. Morris is having a lie-in. She’s given him his breakfast in bed and I can smell the smoke from his cigarette coming down the passage. He’s making the most of it. Sitting up in bed enjoying himself before he has to get over there and get on with the milking. He won’t mind doing it on