Free Tivington Nott by Alex Miller Page B

things down.
    I leave the martingale as loose as I dare. Even then it’s a distraction for the big horse. Whichever way I look at it, the Tiger’s going to tell me to tighten it a notch or two, so the looser the better to begin with. Finisher’s harness falls into place of its own accord. Always adjusted to the same holes, the dark wear-bars across the leather tell me exactly what to do. But with Kabara it’s still a matter of style and opinion at this stage. Like his ownership, unsettled. No routine to call on. Anybody’s guess you might say, and one idea pretty much as good as another.
    We’re ready at last.
    I lead them both out into the yard by the bridles. And we wait. The three of us. Facing the closed kitchen door. Me in the middle. On parade! I’m wearing my cap, my Harris tweed jacket and my clean corduroy breeches. I’ve given my leggings and boots a rub with hoof oil. Not too bad!
    There should be someone to take our picture!
    It’s a masquerade for me.
    And here he comes! Right on cue! Flinging the kitchen door open and striding towards us. Backed up by Roly-Poly standing in the doorway and with her arms folded. Expecting the worst. Hoping for it! And he’s not carrying his stick. It’s his riding-crop this time.
    ‘Good morning, Boss.’
    Wearing his pale, fine-twill tailored breeches with the expensive buckskin strapping. Black bowler, brown boots and leggings and a coat and tie. His coat done up by the top button, showing most of his waistcoat underneath, tight over his gut. It’s the tailored breeches that are a sign to those who know! Too smart for a tenant farmer. A giveaway to his secret dreams! That other person; hunting squire Westall!
    He’s gone round behind us without a word. But I know exactly where he is because Roly-Poly’s following him every step of the way with her toad-wife gaze. She’s all set to start tut-tutting and ooh-aahing and nodding her squat head the minute he finds something wrong with the way I’ve done things.
    Not a word out of him yet!
    I’d like her to be disappointed.
    We have never spoken to each other. I tried a ‘good morning’ on her once, but she looked away, letting me know she hadn’t heard. And the time Morris and I shifted her hen houses for her she supervised the manoeuvre, which took us all morning. But she didn’t speak to me once. Everything went through Morris. She even asked him if I wanted sugar in my tea! She’s an extremist. A fanatic about what she holds to. And I’m a headache for her. A long-term illness. A nagging irritation. Something not right about the place. She feels in her bones that people like me and Alsop shouldn’t be allowed. We ought to be banned if governments did their job properly.
    And the truth is, I’m no use to her. She sees through me. Through the masquerade. I’ve got no right to love this country! It’s hers! And if I weren’t such a glutton for hard work she’d soon convince the Tiger to blast me off the premises. She’s hoping for a big mistake from me. That’s why she’s watching the Tiger so closely now, working his way round these horses, inspecting! But not a word! He’s tugging at this and poking and picking and pulling at stuff, lifting the saddle flaps, checking the billets, the girths, the stirrups, and who knows what else? He’s leaving nothing to chance but he’s still not finding anything to scream about. And here he is, by my elbow, at the throat-latch at last, jiggling the martingale under Kabara’s neck, the horse eyeing him, tense, ready to react.
    ‘Tighten it!’
    I do as I’m told and he hands me his rolled riding mac to tie on behind Finisher’s saddle. Then he bids me ‘good morning’.
    It’s time to mount up.
    Morris must have come in without me noticing him. He’s left the road gate open and I see him now going across the yard with a barrow load of chopped mangolds for the cows. He looks across at us, pausing to watch the Tiger, who is dancing around with one foot in