Free Dead Man Riding by Gillian Linscott Page A

another enclosed yard larger and more prosperous looking than the one by the house. It was paved in sandstone with a water trough and pump in the middle, loose boxes around three sides and a two-storey brick building backing on to the other yard. He opened the door of the building and let me into one of the finest tack rooms I’d ever seen. The walls were newly distempered, with saddles and bridles ranged on supports and hooks along them, all supple and newly cleaned. Gleaming window panes let in the light and gave an uninterrupted view of the stable yard. There was none of the casual muddle of the house. Everything was bright and orderly as a cavalry stables.
    â€˜That’s it,’ the Old Man said.
    He was looking at the wall at the end of the room. It had no saddles and bridles on it, just one huge painting. It was an oil more than ten feet high, almost filling the wall, and showed a group of Arab horses galloping along a beach with white crashing surf in the background.
    â€˜Who painted it?’
    â€˜Can’t remember. Got some young chap to do it for me, but I told him what to put in. Like the poem.’
    There was a gilt-edged panel under the picture, with lines of poetry inscribed on it. The Old Man started reading.
    â€˜With flowing tail, and flying mane,
    Wide nostrils never stretch’d by pain,
    Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein,
    And feet that iron never shod,
    And flanks unscarr’d by spur or rod,
    A thousand horse, the wild, the free,
    Like waves that follow o’er the sea.’
    Long before he got to the end I realised that he was reciting from memory, not reading. He repeated the last two lines, his eyes on my face. ‘Seawave, you see. Free as a wave on the sea. Know who wrote that?’
    â€˜Byron. It’s from Mazeppa .’ A fierce tale about a young man who made love to another man’s wife and in revenge was tied to the back of a wild horse to be galloped to death.
    â€˜That’s right, Mazeppa. Greatest poem in the English language.’
    I could tell it wasn’t an occasion to indulge in literary discussion and he’d said it the way he recited the lines, like a matter of religious faith. He stood in silence, staring at the picture then suddenly turned to me.
    â€˜I’m taking Sid on a ride to the sea, any day now. Want to come with me?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜As long as there won’t be any trouble about it. Had enough trouble. Which one of them do you belong to?’
    â€˜I beg your pardon?’ I stared at him wondering what he meant. College, political party?
    â€˜Which one of the men? If you get all that straight at the start, saves trouble later.’
    I suppose I just stood there, gaping at him. He grinned.
    â€˜I should hope my nephew’s taken the pretty one and the man with the laugh’s got his eye on the little one. Can’t make out you and the other two, though.’
    There was no need to draw myself up to my full height because I was already taller than he was.
    â€˜I can assure you for the three of us that we’re not in the ownership of any man and we never will be.’
    â€˜Of course you will. You all seem healthy nice-looking girls. You’ve got a bit of a temper by the look of it, but some men like that. You’ll marry all right.’
    â€˜If we decide to marry we shall enter into a free relationship of equals. The idea of a wife being subservient, let alone owned, as you put it, is downright disgusting.’
    I could tell he was enjoying himself, that he’d wanted to provoke an argument, and that made me more angry.
    â€˜It’s a law of nature, girl. You saw Sid. He’s the only stallion here and the mares are his mares. If another stallion came and tried to take them, they’d fight and tear out one another’s throats with their teeth till one of them gave in and probably dragged himself away to die.’
    â€˜So you’re implying that men and women