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During the summer you're supposed to stop mucking out. The wheelbarrow gets taken to the hose and washed down, removing the inevitable thick brown sludge that has hardened to a crust, to show the sky blue underneath. It slots into place against the wall, and lays there to grow dust and cobwebs until the third day of November, when it will be needed again.
My wheelbarrow has never been clean for long. It is June, exams are over, and it is hot. One of those blissful days when the sun shines down on the tarmac and dries the mud, which dusts about all over the yard and coats your bare arms in a fine layer of dirt. People around me smile and laugh; the little girls are out on their ponies. We all slave through the bitter winter for these few pleasant months when the horses live in the fields at night, and we can enjoy having time to ride.
My wheelbarrow sits by the stable door, propping it open so the sunlight can stream in and bounce off the white painted walls. A bee flies drunkenly in, stumbling around my fork and I before landing on the wall and crawling into that gap behind the rug rack. I’ve learnt to live with the bees; they’ve been my summer stable-mates for four years now and haven’t stung me yet. I never meant to spend much time in the stable during the summer months anyway.
I turn to start, lifting the droppings and examining them with a cursory glance. You become fascinated with shit when you have a horse; it’s part of your life. In June it’s green and a little shapeless, though with a stiffer consistency than a cowpat. That lush summer grass that looks so good in paintings and pictures cuts through animals like a laxative.
After I’ve dealt with the droppings I turn my attention to the bed, lifting the wet patches and leaving the clean. It’s not too bad today, merely thin. I sweep the last stray pieces into place and go in search of fresh cardboard. It is a hunt. There’s none in the byre where it is stored every winter. I walk past the arena, where others ride and laugh together, to the back barn where the pallets are. The bags are heavy, but the metal cart is too hot to use. They must be dragged down by hand, over the dry and rutted ground, whilst the sun streams on your skin. For a moment, I was revived as I passed the hose where a friend was cooling her horse after a long and luxurious ride.
Then I moved back into the dry white stable with its drunken bumbling bees. The fork is lifted, and the cardboard is spread to finish the deep bed. The water buckets, three for the heat, are filled and the haynet is hung. I lead my horse out of the sun and into the stable. She came in lame yesterday, limping on a front leg.
*
The heat wave is over and the rain has returned, lashing onto the yard and dragging stray pieces of cardboard down to the drains. Puddles form in the dips of the un-level surface. The holes in the tarmac are filling with mud washed from horses' legs. Their owners are hurrying them in out the torrent. Apparently horses are like witches, water melts them.
I think I would pay good money to see my horse wet again; I was never one for rushing them in. She stands and snorts at me instead, dry in her stable rug. Her turnout blankets cover the once white walls. They have not been worn in weeks, and my mare is as high as those rain clouds.
I lift the fork and she backs away, staring as if it is an extraordinary creature she's never seen before. I sigh and turn to the bed, carefully lifting the droppings as she hobbles her way around me. The shit breaks apart easily when dumped into to the filthy barrow, golden brown signal of the horse that doesn't eat grass and lives instead on hay. I hate that stuff. It falls apart and buries itself throughout the cardboard in tiny pieces. You can never muck it out properly; you need to start afresh. Brand new bed, fresh new start. I wish that opportunity would arise. Summer is half way through; and I’m still fighting for her.
A shout from outside and I set down my fork. The rain has stopped. Everyone is rushing out to ride quickly, before it starts again. Looking up, there is just a little bit of blue sky peaking through the grey. It cheers everyone else, a hint of the summer that disappeared far too soon. I do not wish for blue sky anymore; I’d ride in the rain.
*
The walls are visible once more; the rugs are now in storage. The white is no longer blinding as the smir blocks out the sun. It hovers in the air, the dampness that is never a torrent but is always there. You cannot escape it on the yard; it penetrates every inch of you. I prefer torrents; at least they end. Smir lingers indefinitely.
I push my fork into the cardboard and toss it blindly into a wheelbarrow that soon will be blue. There’s no need for delicacy anymore, no shit to care about. Just blank white walls and a stained concrete floor, that smells of antiseptic and ammonia.
Once the cardboard is removed, the jet hose will be used to wash away any remaining dirt. The smells will not linger, wiped clean. Even the bees will not be able to find their way home.
My friends tell me one day I will put cardboard back down. I’m not sure. It’s nice to hide at home out of the smir, and to go to Tesco for alcohol not carrots, without shit on my boots.
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