Samphire Song by Jill Hucklesby Page A

as there’s a girth strap imprint in his belly hair. She says he may have had a bad experience – an accident, even – and that’s why he was labelled ‘unbroken’ by his previous owner.
    I want to tell him I understand about scars caused by pain and sadness, scars that can’t be seen. I know I have to earn his trust. But I must also prove to him that I’m not a pushover who will tolerate bad behaviour. If he has no respect for me, we’ll never make progress. I think he knows I’m nervous about today – he can sense it.
    We’re in the yard. Sue and Rachel are with me. Rachel is riding Rambo and Sue is going to school us in the outdoor ring, if we get that far.
    Samphire is sidestepping and arching his neck as I shorten the reins. When my foot slips into the left stirrup, he wheels round, knocking me to the ground. Sue helps me up. I feel embarrassed and a bit taken aback. I look at Rambo with sudden pangs of nostalgia.
    ‘Let’s walk him up there,’ suggests Sue. ‘Follow Rambo – he’ll soon get the idea.’
    I take his reins and fall in step behind my old favourite, who clip-clops up the ramp by the side of the office towards the training circle. Samphire keeps pace with me, his head by my shoulder. I don’t look at him. He needs to know he’s in my bad books.
    The ring is enclosed by fencing in a small field. We enter by the gate and wait for Sue to take up her position in the centre of a circle worn to dirt by the pounding of hooves. I’ve had an occasional lesson inhere before, when I’ve earned enough time through helping out. It feels strange to be back again in these new circumstances. After what just happened, my confidence is quite shaken.
    ‘Ready to try again?’ asks Sue, gently. I nod and take Samphire’s reins in my left hand, holding the stirrup with my right. ‘As lightly as you can,’ she advises.
    I give a little spring and am halfway towards the saddle, but Samphire is skittering away sideways. I’m holding on to the pommel as hard as I can and not letting go and when he reaches the fencing and can go no further, I swing my leg over and sit firmly on his back.
    ‘Well done, Jodie!’ calls Sue. ‘Try and rein him in now. Nothing sharp. Keep your movements firm and determined, show him who’s boss.’
    He is
, I’m thinking, as Samphire takes me on a fast trot round the field, as close to the wooden posts as he dares. Any moment now, he’ll scrape me off and make a run for it. He
is
a devil horse, after all. I’ve workedtwenty hours this week to pay for his food and stabling and this is how he repays me.
    ‘I’ll put the lunge rein on and see what happens,’ says Sue, approaching. Rambo is watching all this patiently, occasionally snorting into the warm afternoon air.
    Samphire’s having none of it. He’s pressing me against the gate and I’m raising my right leg at forty-five degrees to avoid it being totally squashed.
    ‘I have an idea,’ says Rachel. ‘What if Jodie rides Rambo and shows Samphire what to do?’
    ‘It’s worth a try,’ agrees Sue, dropping the lunge rein on the ground. As she does so, my hyper animal seems to calm down. He lowers his head and breathes heavily, allowing me to pull my leg back. I dismount quickly, my head hot with frustration. My hair is clinging to my forehead under my hat.
    ‘Just walk away,’ says Sue. ‘Don’t look at him. Go straight to Rambo.’
    Rachel has dismounted and gives me the reins. I swing up on to Rambo’s sturdy back, adjust the stirrupsand encourage my old friend into a lively walk, circling Sue. On her command, we trot and then ease into a controlled canter. Samphire watches, pawing the grass, his ears forwards and his gaze never leaving us.
    ‘He’s jealous,’ Sue calls to Rachel, who’s gone to sit on the fence. She nods and smiles.
    After ten minutes of perfect schooling, shortening and lengthening strides, turning, manoeuvring, Rambo and I take a rest. I lean forwards and give him a carrot from my