That three-year-old, Farthing, had already got me through many days and nights and I really hadn't wanted her, which was why Mum didn't ask. She just rented the back paddock from Reg Francis next door, bought the yearling no doubt ridiculously cheaply from Iris, and borrowed a Shetland of Reg's for company. To my complete surprise, Farthing was there, in the field, skinny, skittish and nervous, when I got home from school.

"I was going to give up riding," I said, aghast, when Mum led me through the garden to meet her. Head and tail held high, she was cantering in an abandoned manner about her new territory, skidding to a halt in front of us, red velvet nostrils flaring. She gave a rolling snort.

“So you said, too frivolous, but you don't have to ride her, just bring her on. Iris says you can return her when it's time to back her, in a couple of years. And you'll make a profit."

"Oh"

This did appeal. For complicated reasons still to do with Dad, money was part of my crazy, half-formed plan for life. Lots of it. Back then, I associated it with success. Although, of course, this didn't come to anything with Farthing. Anyone who's brought on a young horse, overcome its manifold fears and suspicions, fed and watered it, brought it in when it's wet, pulled its cold ears in the stable till they're warm, murmured to it, rubbed a handful of straw on its back to dry it, kept the flies off it when it's hot, soothed and stroked its terrified neck all night in the stable on Bonfire Night, will know. Anyone, who then, a couple of years later, has gently, gradually introduced, not just a head collar, but a bridle, rested a saddle, too, lunged it on the end of a long rein, head on one side — me, that is — watched every tiny movement, every flicker of the eye, always on the lookout for fear, admired the flowing, fluid movement Mum was so clever to find, knows there's only one person who's eventually going to lie gently across that back, and finally sit upright. Who would I trust to do otherwise? Farthing stayed, and although hunting wasn't something I did regularly, I knew it would be good for her and, since the Cornish, like the Irish, bring horses on quickly, I took her out when she was four, with my mother, Iris and Babs beside me.

The first season was terrifying but thrilling: two emotions which my canny mother knew could have a good stab at trumping grief. Another was worry for my precious Farthing — was this all going to be too much for her? It was like her first day at school, and again, shrewd on my mother's part: I was caring for someone other than myself.