|
 | |  | |
Down through the years I have recorded a significant collection of reminiscences, always with the speakers' consent of course, and on the understanding that I may publish.
Sometimes I meet up with someone who is just bursting to tell a story.
Once I met a nonagenarian who had emigrated to Canada in his youth and who was on a visit to his native heath, which was Dollingstown.
He had been reading my column in the 'MAIL' overseas and was bursting to enlighten me about the hell he had gone through on a big local farm.
He contacted me and, in a few earthy phrases, led off. Before he had got very far I realised that I had met an old man who was haunted by his teenage memories of diabolical cruelty to horses which he had not only witnessed but also, unwillingly, had to aid
His language was blistering -- not so much about the Squire who had employed him, for he had spent most of his time travelling around as a horse dealer of international repute, but more about elderly fellow employees, some of whom he termed 'cute hoors' who had given him the dirtiest and most revolting tasks while they pocketed all the 'back handers' from satisfied customers.
The Squire who owned the place had held contracts to supply horses to various overseas Army buyers, and the dodges that were used to dress up old nags were hair raising -- and I mean hair raising.
Blackening grey hairs, plucking manes and tails, even inserting a grain of mustard in an animal's most sensitive area to give him a 'gee up'.
Bill was able to reel them all off without pausing breath. That wasn't what had vexed him however, but instead, it was the way horses had been tortured and mutilated by having their tails amputated to meet the specifications of various overseas Army procurement agents -- particularly Eastern European ones.
As I have said, Bill was made to help and the squeals of the wounded animals and the torture that they had suffered, had preyed on his mind all his life. He had come to me to have the story published and he named names with vengeance in his heart.
Needless to say, I am naming no names although those that Bill identified would have passed away long since.
Neither am I going to give a low-by-blow account of the revolting amputation system that I have on record. (I have actually handled and photographed the large secateurs which were used).
Docking horses tails has, of course, long since been outlawed in the UK -- and rightly so.
Sad to say, Bill broke a leg when he stumbled and fell as he struggled to his feet after I had recorded him and put the heart across me.
He was a big, heavily built man and I had sat him down on a low settee with the recorder at his feet on a small footstool. I had also given him a double Scotch to wet his whistle!
He had difficulty rising and actually struggled and slid off onto the floor in a tangle of loose cushions and wires of the recorder.
As he hit the ground I heard an ominous 'crack' My God, I thought, he has broken a femur!
Was I relieved when I had sorted him out to find that I now had a three-leggèd footstool and Bill was going well on his limbs!
| |  | |  |
To add a comment you must first login or join for free, up in the top left corner.
|
|
