“Someone has hitched my horse-box to their car”

WE FOUND a bunch of old pony tack when we cleaned out the shed this week.

As I pulled a spaghetti mess of bridles out of a box, images of my daughters from a pre-teen era rolled past.

“Do you remember when the girls…” I began.

“Don’t get sentimental,” my husband said, “it would be false.”

“But remember…” I said.

“How could I forget?” he said. “I took them to pony club every Saturday morning for four years. You waved us off and went back to bed.”

I could not argue a case for nostalgia in the face of such facts. A large part of me thought that pony club was a great idea for the girls when they were young. A larger part of me was preoccupied with trying to get out of taking them.

Turning up at pony club is like arriving in a different world; a sink or swim world that’s inhabited by women who can get wild-eyed ponies into horse-boxes simply by staring at them. Pony Club Woman is an alien breed of woman, redoubtable and loud-voiced, that thinks nothing of dispatching your child home for wearing grubby jodhpurs. And she speaks in indecipherable code about tack, hocks and wrong leading legs.

I had to face this world alone once, when my husband was away. “You need to learn how to hitch the horse-box to the car and load the pony by yourself, for when I’m gone tomorrow,” he says. While I think, “how hard can it be?” he says, “it’s different from watching someone else do it.”

He wants to prepare me rigorously and so we stand in front of the horse- box on Friday night in freezing blackness, for a dummy-run. He demonstrates how to “pull out the safety pin and lift up the handle, put this here, that there, wind this up, wind that down. Back the car, so cup and ball are aligned. Position the cup over the ball, push it down and don’t forget the safety chain.”

“Got it,”, I say coolly.

8am Saturday morning, I call the girls to catch the pony. I stand in a gale outside the house, clutching my husband’s scribbled instructions.

I am terrified. Three pairs of eyes — two human, one equine — look at me. All appear terrified too. “Dad has shown me exactly what to do,” I say, shaking.

I pull out the safety pin, lift up the handle, put this here, that there, wind this up, wind that down. I back the car, so cup and ball are aligned. I position the cup over the ball, push it down and I don’t forget the safety chain.

It’s different from watching someone else do it.

“Now load the pony,” I gasp.

The pony doesn’t want to be loaded, a problem we’re unable to resolve without all-round acrimony and baleful stares but finally, the pony is boxed and we’re off! I’m triumphant.

At pony club, while other mothers unload their ponies with regal flicks of the hand, I end up dragging mine out by the leading rein, puce and rickety with exertion. The girls tack him up and disappear into the arena, where I can hear my youngest being scolded; she’s forgotten her body protector. I’m ordered home to find it. I apply the hitching principles in reverse and remove the box, drive home and return with body protector.

Everyone but me is inside the arena. I breathe deeply, pull out the safety pin and begin re-hitching again. Half an hour of botched reversing later, I have missed the girls jumping but the horse-box is re-attached. “Home-run,” I think as I sink onto a stool beside the arena and listen to mothers talking in pony code. My adrenaline, which soared to unprecedented levels at 7am, starts to subside but when a man enters the stables saying loudly, “someone has hitched my horse-box to their car” it suddenly peaks again.

He repeats, “someone has hitched my box to their car” and sounds incredulous.

There is pin-drop silence.

“Who owns an old maroon Toyota?” He asks.

I put my hand up. “I do,” I say. Heads swivel.

I follow him outside. Attached to my car is an immaculate burgundy box. Next to it is our decrepit burgundy replica. He says graciously, “it’s an easy mistake to make.”

“Yes,” I say gratefully, “all the boxes look kind of the same. Sort of.”

“Would you like me to hitch you back up?” He asks. I have a feeling he might have heard my botched reversing.

“Yes please,” I quaver, defeated.