There was somewhere in Len’s remote memory the image of a girl. Or maybe she was actually a woman, a being fully grown, an adult? But no, Len preferred the girl image instead. The girl he was thinking about would be a woman now he understood, but the memory of her from his schooldays was far more engaging. She was winsome and pretty, with mouse brown hair and the occasional spot amongst her freckles. Maybe he’d see her again sometime and she’d remember him. Such were Len’s musings as he ambled along on his dog walk, smoking his eighth cigarette of the day, unaware of the scent of early bluebells drifting from the woodland floor as he trampled them underfoot. His dog was off somewhere and Len’s big boots raised soft divots from the saturated ground.

The trees swayed and shivered in a chill spring wind as Len’s dog came bounding up and turned almost immediately away again. He took a long drag and fancied he saw a girl come slowly into focus. Len’s memory flashed so many convincing images that he almost called out to her. It was as well he didn’t because the girl that Len could see wasn’t a girl at all, definitely not a teenage girl and not even a young woman. The person who came into view was muddy, slightly overweight and dressed in too-tight jodpurs and top boots. An ugly crash hat was crammed down over her brow, its forlorn silk hanging wet and loose. This was definitely a woman, older by far than the pictures in his head now evaporating into wispy scraps and fragments. Noting the mud and that she wasn’t walking quite straight, Len called “are you alright?” As she approached he saw a tear stained face and the drooping silk. He could see it was attached to the helmet and wondered what it was for.

“No I’m not alright,” she said crossly and then more politely. “Have you seen a chestnut horse come this way? Filthy dirty? We fell over in a boggy puddle that was deeper than it looked. She took off”. Dozey Bitch was fawning at the woman’s knees and she pulled off a glove to fuss with the dog’s ears. She waited for some response from the man who seemed to Melanie to be a few pennies short of a pound. He might have been trying to parse what she had said as he puffed his cigarette. Too impatient to care Melanie decided he was probably just a bit simple. “Have you seen a loose horse pass this way?” she said slightly more loudly and with suppressed impatience. He wasn’t short of pennies, but in the wake of his nostalgic musings Len was indeed struggling to keep up. He watched his fickle dog make a new friend and mumbled something about horses not really being his thing, but that Dozey Bitch was enjoying herself. He stumbled forward to reclaim the dog apologising, “no, sorry, no sign of a horse, but we’ve only just come onto this path”. He tried to be helpful adding “your horse maybe headed up to the fields, maybe it followed the light?” He’d heard somewhere that animals and people went for the light or downhill when they were lost. He wasn’t sure if it was made up or not. He was sure that he’d headed downhill when he’d started losing track of his life. Perhaps it made some sort of sense for horses too. 

Melanie considered this a not unreasonable suggestion and revised her opinion of the slow-witted man, upgrading him from stupid to simply vague. She glanced about looking for where the most light might be, standing in silence with the man and his dog for a moment. Len couldn’t bear the empty quiet and started to move along saying “we’ll be off and we’ll keep an eye out”. In an effort to be helpful he added “maybe you should head up that way”. And as he turned and pointed away towards the fields at the edge of the wood, they saw the golden outline of mud splattered horse. It was nosing at a patch of grass, its reins on the ground and a stirrup flung over onto the wrong side of the saddle. The horse gave its nose a blow as it looked up, noted their presence and then went back to grazing.

Melanie was beaming. “I don’t suppose you’d mind just standing here while I catch her would you? I don’t want her to think she’s being chased. She can be a bit flighty sometimes.” “Not at all” Len said wondering if the horse was looking flighty or not. She just looked like a horse covered in mud and eating grass. He admired her tail floating sideways as the chilly breeze gave it a lazy push. Len looked on as Melanie walked carefully towards her horse. Something in her movement brought back the image of that girl he knew at school. It was the same image that had been floating in his brain when he’d seen this horsey woman from afar, and past bled into present. He watched her approach the horse and catch hold of the rein as she gave the horse a little pat. He continued to watch as she peered about looking for something that would work as a mounting block. Len wondered what she was doing. Horse people. He didn’t understand that the days when Melanie could just vault into the saddle from a standing start were no longer hers. They belonged to a time long ago, to her teens. And the times when she could put her foot into the stirrup and spring up into the saddle were also long gone. She remembered sometimes that they ended somewhere around the time of her second child’s fourth birthday. Much ended at around that time, although it had taken some years for Melanie to notice.

With nothing to use as a step, Melanie had no option but to ask for help. “I don’t suppose you could give me a leg up could you? My name is Melanie by the way, and this is Rizzo.”  It took Len a moment to understand that Rizzo was the horse and not an imaginary friend, as he raised a hand in greeting. He pulled Dozey Bitch back in time to stop her planting a couple of paws on Rizzo’s foreleg. “Len. And this is Dozey Bitch, DB for short. Happy to help. Not sure if I can but I’ll try, a first for everything right? What do I do?”

Rizzo and Dozey Bitch were giving each other little nose to nose kisses, but the mare was less inclined to get up close and personal with Len. He had a strange scent about him and he held onto the dog a little too tightly. At least that’s what Rizzo had got from the dog in their brief conversation. Melanie still could see nothing she could stand on where overhanging trees didn’t get in the way of her swing, or where there would be room for Rizzo to stand while Melanie climbed aboard. The wind was getting colder, she was wet and her hands were freezing. What had started as a glorious excursion in the early spring sunshine was turning miserable. Len was still there standing with a dead fag end in his fingers and a gormless smile on his face. It was a kind face Melanie noted.

He repeated that he was “willing to have a go, but what should I do?” “Ok. What you have to do is to cup your hands, so that I can put my foot into them like they’re a stirrup. “Right” said Len observing the muddiness of her booted foot. “Then on the count of three, you give me a boost and I get into the saddle. Does that make sense?” Len pondered this. Given his twenty a day habit, total lack of upper body strength and Melanie’s general bulk, he should have said that it made no sense whatsoever. But with remnants of his teenage fantasies tangling his memory and his manly pride in play, Len did not say this. Instead he crushed his defunct dog-end into his pocket and found himself bellowing with considerable enthusiasm “Perfect. Absolutely. Let’s get this done”. Melanie looked at him askance as he crouched down and leading her horse away took Dozey Bitch to a nearby tree. She looped the lead over a low branch and knotted it tight. She then came back to Len, still bent over, positioned Rizzo closer to him and waited. He became aware that Melanie wanted to give him instructions, so he uncurled and stood upright. “This is how you need to stand and how you hold your hands,” she said, crouching down in a half-squat with her hands cupped in front of her, arms extended, elbows slightly bent.” 

As she showed him what to do, Len was reminded of how rugby players get into position for a scrum and remembered that once upon a time, he played rugby for his school. He could even run quite fast. But that was before the fags and the stress of business, marriage and kids, relocations and missteps, all the things that made him feel so very old. How did he get such a distance from the Len who played rugby, the Len besotted with a spotty teenage girl whose image had unexpectedly floated up from the bluebells on chilled spring air.

He cleared his throat with a little harrumph and looked to the side. He made a vague engineer’s calculation of the total load, the height he would have to lift up to and the duration of the carry. “How hard can it be,” he said with a laugh as he approached the mare and went to half-heartedly pat her neck. She immediately swung away from him, a suspicious look in her eye. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll have hold of the reins and keep her head facing in your direction.” Rizzo, well aware of the entertainment value in swinging away from Melanie when she tried to mount, understood that this new version of the game might even be better. Rizzo could smell the stranger’s concern mingling with his peculiar bodily stink and the sweet aromas of bluebells and aconites. Melanie was waiting. Len nodded and stretched up manfully ready for a go at the required half-squat. “Let’s give it a try shall we?” she said trying to sound encouraging. Melanie was getting cold and the mud was drying on her clothes, as well as on her horse. It would be too chilly to hose Rizzo down once they got home so she’d need to be brushed, she thought crossly. “Ready?” she said plastering a bright smile on her face. She gathered up her reins taking care to hold the nearside one a little shorter and half turned towards Len who shuffled closer, his hands ready to take Melanie’s left foot. But he wasn’t quite close enough and as Melanie placed her muddy left boot into his cupped hands the mare took a small step sideways and Melanie swung over into empty space as Len tumbled forwards into her ample rear. He let go of Melanie’s foot and fell to his knees as she also fell while DB barked her encouragement. Unperturbed Rizzo rested a hind foot and gave her head a little shake. Melanie tried hard to be patient and not irritated, as she helped Len back onto his feet. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m so sorry. What did I do wrong? I’ll get it right this time.” His voice was shaking a bit, as he searched for the someone lost in his life’s maze who was the man who could do this. Surely he was still there. Surely he could be sufficiently bold to stand close enough to a horse to help a lady get back into the saddle. Trying hard not to hiss as she spoke, Melanie pointed out that he needed a) to be sideways on to the horse and b) close enough to said horse that his shoulder was almost touching her. She added that c) he should give her, Melanie, the biggest boost he could muster. And that he should let go of her foot once Melanie was airborne. 

These instructions Len repeated, a), b), c) trying to joke that c), a), b) probably wouldn’t work. Melanie gave him a blank look and began to think that walking home was an attractive option, despite the lowering sky and the oncoming dusk. One more try though, so they got into position for the second attempt. Rizzo’s reins were more tightly held and Len’s back more tightly bent, his legs more firmly planted. Melanie got her foot into his hands once more and felt an upward boost at best described as pathetic. It got her ample bosom only as high as Rizzo’s saddle, and she had no prospect at all of casting a leg across the horse’s back. Dropping back to the ground Melanie noticed that Len was wheezing as he tried to make light of the second failure. “Well, at least she stood still this time,” he observed encouragingly. “Let’s give it another go, I think I’ve got the movement now”. 

Len crouched once more, braced and ready to put every bit of his middle-aged unfit self into the heaveho. On the third attempt Len lifted her so forcefully that Melanie shot up into the air and came down hard onto her horse’s back. A much surprised Rizzo shot forward in alarm almost unseating her rider and knocking Len once again to the ground. Melanie lost hold of one of the reins so Rizzo, pulled to the left and circled back towards Len now on his knees coughing and spluttering. He struggled upright in time to feel Melanie’s foot hit square and hard in his chest, as she reached for her stirrup. An epic coughing fit turned his face a shade of sunset crimson and he dropped his hands to his knees in an effort to get back his breath. Her stirrup, reins, control and composure regained, Melanie pulled up her horse, turned her and returned to her new friend at a measured jog. His face still puce but his breathing getting steadier, Len was wrestling with the very tight knot Melanie had put in his dog’s lead. He had almost stopped coughing and wheezing and vowed aloud that he should stop smoking. “Yes you should,” Melanie agreed as she turned towards home. “Thanks again for your help. Are you sure you’re alright?” “Fine. Fine. Glad you’re back on board” he wheezed. Len clutched at Dozey Bitch’s lead and headed for home. He watched as Rizzo, carried her bouncing mistress away and out of sight. He leant over to cough with more vigour but the cold air was making his lungs hurt. He let DB off the lead and saw her head off at speed after Rizzo. DB ignored Len’s feeble calls and he soon reverted to his coughing. The afternoon chill reached into his over extended lungs, slicing like razor blades. Len tried to find the space where he’d been a mere half an hour ago, calmly smoking and lost in the memory of a teenage crush and youth’s warm glow. The sound of his wheezing reminded Len that he wasn’t dead yet and that he probably shouldn’t try to hurry after his dog. He even wondered if she might follow Rizzo home, and that Melanie might try to bring her back to him in the dark and chilling woods. A teenage girl on a horse and a promising rugby player might yet end up somewhere warm, somewhere they could come in from time’s unrelenting cold.