The next time Ginger and I were together in the orchard, she went on with her story.
“After my breaking in, a dealer sold me to a fashionable gentleman in London. There they used a very tight bearing rein, because they thought we looked more stylish with our heads held high. You have never worn one. Think of holding your head up high for hours, without moving it at all, until your neck aches so much that you can hardly bear it. And my bit was a sharp one. My mouth bled, and the blood coloured the foam on my lips. If I moved while we waited outside some grand party, they whipped me.”
“Didn’t your master think about you at all?” I said.
“No. He only wanted a stylish carriage, and he left the horses to his coachman, who gave me only a rough word or a blow. I was ready to work hard, but to suffer just so that they could look stylish made me angry. One day, when they were pulling my head up with that rein, I kicked with all my strength, broke the harness and got free.
“I was sold again, and at last I went to a good master in the country. But a new groom came, a hard man like Samson, who hit me with the stable broom. One day I bit him, and he hit me about the head with a whip. After that he never dared to come into my stall again, so I was sold once more. And I came here believing that men were my enemies. It is different here, but who knows for how long?”
“Well,” I said, “I think it would be a real shame if you bit or kicked John or James.”
“I don’t mean to, while they are good to me. I did bite James once, quite badly, but John said, ‘Try her with kindness.’ So instead of punishing me, James came to me with his arm tied up, brought me a bran mash and stroked me. I have never bitten him since.”
As the weeks went on, Ginger grew much gentler and more cheerful. One day James said, “I do believe that mare is getting fond of me.”
“Yes, Jim, it’s the Birtwick balls,” said John. This was a little joke of his. The Birtwick balls, he said, would cure almost any bad-tempered horse. They were made of patience and gentleness, firmness and petting, one pound of each, mixed with half a pint of common sense, and given to the horse every day.
The master noticed the change too. One day he stroked Ginger’s neck, and she put her nose up to him in a friendly way.
“We shall cure her yet, John,” he said.