The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [83]
‘Now.’
In a trice she'd bundled it all back in the barrow again and was legs astride, hands on hips, facing me, her athletic stance reminding me of a keep-fit instructor from the fifties. ‘Personal hygiene.’
I guiltily clamped my arms to my sides. I was a bit warm. It had been a sweaty morning, one way and another.
‘Orbviously you pick his feet out every day, and you brush him down, ya?’
‘Ya.’
‘Then you clean his eyes and his hoo-ha with a damp sponge, but you must also clean his sheath.’
I stared at her. I had a vague understanding of what that word meant, but I hoped I was wrong.
‘Sheath?’
‘Because it gets a bit crusty, hm?’
Oh dear God.
‘So like this, with a wet wipe…’ She produced a packet from her Puffa pocket, flicked out a wipe, bent under his tummy and… I couldn't watch; pretended I was rubbing my nose with my fingers, but also couldn't help peering through with morbid fascination as she took hold of his… thingy… which was whopping… pulled it right down, then pushed back… oh, gross. Even Caro was finding it hard to keep a yuck-a-roony face at bay, and her ‘soopers’ were fainter now, as good old Camilla, good old dauntless Camilla, swabbed it down. Poor chap. Did he want that done to him? I looked at his quietly bulging eyes. So what if it was crusty? So what? I felt like whispering in his blond old aristocratic ear, which had a touch of the Michael Heseltines about it, that fear not, never would I be interfering with him in that way.
‘And eyes before hoo-ha, orbviously,’ she said, lifting up his tail and peering in intrusively. ‘Don't want any muck on the sponge. Don't want him getting an eye infection.’
‘No,’ I agreed faintly, making Michael Heseltine another silent promise. Not only wouldn't I touch his sheath, but never would I touch his hoo-ha, either.
‘Want to hop on?’ She swung about, legs planted, beaming broadly.
‘N-no,’ I cringed. ‘No, I'm fine, honestly.’
‘I'll do the honours then.’ In one fluid movement she'd seized the reins, put her foot in the stirrup, and sprung up into the saddle.
‘Manege?’ She looked enquiringly at me. I gaped.
‘Evie,’ I croaked. Had she forgotten my name?
She looked impatient.
‘Yes, yes, in the manege, sooper,’ twittered Caro.
In a trice they were off: Hector and Camilla, trotting away towards the sand school, Caro trotting behind. After only a moment's hesitation, I too was scampering in their wake.
Camilla trotted efficiently around the sand-menage in big circles, then smaller circles, then sweeping figures of eight. Even to my untutored eye I could see this pony was cool. All archy neck and high knees and pointy toes. She came to a halt in the middle of the school.
‘I'll just pop a cavaletti,’ she called.
Pop what? I tried to see if she was delving in her Puffa pocket for drugs. But no, she appeared to be trotting towards a jump, which Hector hopped over effortlessly. She came trotting back.
‘OK?’
‘Sooper,’ I whinnied, tossing my head.
‘Right.’ She vaulted off smartly. She was taking the tack off now, busily putting a head collar on. Everything this woman did was at breakneck speed.
‘Caro, where are you putting him?’ she barked.
My sister-in-law jumped to attention. ‘Oh, I thought in the front paddock. With Pepper, Phoebe's pony.’
‘Ragwort?’
‘No, not a bit.’
Camilla threw the end of the head collar rope at me, and they marched off together to inspect the paddock. Clearly Hector wasn't going anywhere Camilla hadn't thoroughly vetted first. Which left us alone, Hector and I. We eyed each other warily as I very much held the very end of the rope.
‘Good boy,’ I whispered. I could have sworn his lip curled contemptuously back.
The paddock evidently got the seal of approval and, moments later, they were back. Camilla relieved