From where I work at the Vauxhall City Farm to Hyde Park, is probably the worst, most dangerous and complicated mile of commute. But, I wanted to do it. Here is Part 1."I think that you might have just made yourself a deal."
Preston was always wearing pink, he had worn the same shade, and perhaps the same shirt at the last auction I had been to. Unlike the other auctioneers, he didn't like the calf length white coats. "Makes me look like a butcher," he said.
"If you buy a horse at the gypsy fair, make sure you go with it. No good paying good money for a horse just to send him off to a nice home with the driver." Preston was full of good advice.
***
In the back corner was a thick and covetous stud, black all over with big feathers and a torrent of mane and tail. He was bouncing about in the little stall like a caged bouncy ball. He was three years old and reminded me of the Frisian in the mask of Zorro that I met once in the Hollywood hills. But rounder and shorter, just like real people in Southall vs the movie star who was riding him.
The virile black shiny thing was terribly interested in the little filly getting shod in the ally next to him. All 14 hands of stud, wriggling to get a look at her. She was stood there like a scared schoolgirl. Her hoof captured between the legs of the dreadlocked farrier. She was pretty and fine and black and white.
"From the look of her, she isn't old enough to buck."
"She's over three," the young guy who was twitching her for the farrier replied." She got the teeth."
"Just out of interest," I turned to Preston, he seemed like an honest man and I thought I would put it to the test, "How old is that horse over there?" I asked pointing to the filly.
"I can only tell form their teeth you see. But I'll have a look for you." We walked over to the young paint that Sarah had spotted before. She had really liked her and had worked out which stable she would fit in back at the farm.
Preston and his pink shirt importantly opened the little one's mouth, and with stubby and grubby fingers he inspected. "Three going on four," he called out in a loud voice over the horse's head.
Bollocks.
Either I am no good and judging a horses age or I am no good at judging a man's character. He seemed like a straight man. I thought he was honest, but there is no way in hell that horse is three.
Something else.
Preston sidled up to me. "You see, the thing with these gypsies is that you can never trust them." The stage whisper rang out around him once we were out of earshot of the pikes. "I grew up in the rag and bone trade me, had a stable out in Elephant. So I know how to be around them but I know not to trust `em. You see, that horse you had me looking at earlier," he nodded conspiratorially toward the alley, "not a day over two if I'm an Englishman. But you got to play by the rules."
* * *
"Do you know the gay pub in Vauxhall?" I asked innocently.
"Oh yeah, just there is it?" Mr. Champion asked me.
The portly man regrettably agreed to let me hitch a ride back to the farm with my brand new horse. The little boy of about seven seemed put out that I was coming with them and sat and frowned at me for the ten minutes it took to locate the keys.
"I don't have to go into the Congestion Zone, do I?" Mr Champion asked me as he sat down heavily in the rickety cab of his horsebox. "Cos I'm not doing that," he frowned. He was wearing a dusty black suit. The jacket of which, crumpled with the hem falling out at the back, stretched across his fat shoulders. He wore a midnight blue shirt beneath and a black tie.
"Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your Saviour?" he asked casually as we trundled out of the market. "You see, there's a reason that God let you buy that mare you got there. And let you get a ride with us, it is all part of God's plan."
Mr. Champion, the grumpy grandson, and the slightly lumpy 30-year-old son all looked at me from across the cab. Their eyes a bit like lost puppies. I felt I had to listen. I had to let them feel they were getting somewhere. It was the duty of gypsy-born-again-Christians to spread the Good News and, having just bought my new horse, I didn't want to dampen the flames of Hell and damnation that they talked of so fondly.
As promised, I didn't direct them into the Congestion Zone and we pulled into the loading bay across the main road from the infamous pub. With my handbag dangling from my shoulder, and my new horse bounding about at the end of the lead rope, I crossed the Vauxhall Cross roundabout and took my new horse home."
