Near Fore, by Walter Kitto

An original novel extract set in the twentieth century.

I had brought Marigold back from the gallops at a walk, and with every step I felt it in my own body: the little hitch, the nod of her head when the near fore went down, as if she were apologising. By the time we reached the yard I could not look at her. I had taken her over the rough ground by the chalk pit because the other lads were watching and I wanted them to see how she could go. Mr Brannigan had told me twice never to take her that way. He had told me in front of everybody.

Now he stood in the doorway of her box with his arms folded and said nothing at all, which was worse than any shouting. Somebody had gone for Mr Pinder, the vet. Everyone in the yard knew what it meant when Mr Pinder was fetched for a lame filly. I had seen the gun once, in its canvas case, and I had seen the cart that came afterwards.

I held her head. She kept nudging at my pocket for the peppermints I kept there, trusting me, which I could hardly bear. I thought of my mother, who had told everyone in our street in Bury that her boy was going to be a jockey. I thought of the long walk to the station with my box on my shoulder. Mostly I thought of Marigold, who had never done anything wrong in her life except belong to me for an afternoon.

Mr Pinder was a long time with the hoof. He tapped it with a little hammer, and pressed with his thumbs, and grunted. I watched the back of his neck. I counted the swallows over the half-door, eleven, twelve, thirteen, because if I stopped counting I would have to think.

Then he straightened up. ‘Bruised sole,’ he said. ‘She’s trodden on a flint. Poultice it, box rest a week, and she’ll be as right as rain.’

My knees went. I do not know how else to describe it. They went like string cut on a puppet, and I sat down in the straw with Marigold’s nose in my hair, and I laughed, a stupid, shaky laugh, while the tears ran off the end of my chin.

Mr Brannigan looked down at me. ‘You’ll be mucking out every box in this yard till Christmas,’ he said.

‘Yes, Mr Brannigan,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Mr Brannigan.’ And I meant it more than I had ever meant anything.

How does the writer show the narrator’s thoughts and feelings while he waits to learn what is wrong with Marigold?

You should consider:

• what the writer says about the narrator
• the writer’s use of language to show his thoughts and feelings

You must refer to the text to support your answer, using relevant subject terminology where appropriate.