Second Chances

Standing before the Singapore Saddle Club’s executive committee at a general meeting, I explained my confrontation with Dieter Kluge. “I told Kluge to stop beating his horse. I pulled him away; he attacked me with his quirt.” I pointed to the welt across my left cheek below the ear. “I punched him several times before Beatrice Arbuthnot stopped us.”

An Englishwoman said, “Americans are so violent.”

“I stopped Kluge, a German, from beating his horse.”

Beatrice, the club’s president stood up and said, “Kluge claims the horse threw him because of an approaching snake.” Beatrice, a tall Englishwoman and the personification of noblesse oblige, continued, “Now how many of us have been thrown?”

All hands went up.

“Did any of us beat the horse that threw us?”

Hissing.

“Right,” Beatrice said, “I expelled Kluge from this club. Lilly, his horse, isn’t fit to be sold and boards here until she’s healed.” Pointing to me, “I’m thinking of asking the American to oversee Lilly’s recuperation. Objections?”

Silence.

Most British members acquiesced to Beatrice, but she annoyed many non-British English speakers.

To me, “Care for a drink?”

“I do.”

The meeting room emptied. Two large whiskeys appeared, and Beatrice said, “Germans, they’re so…”

“German?”

“Right. You’re good with horses. My proposal?”

“I’m flattered. I read about a widower and a pit bull rescued from a dog-fighting ring. The dog was wounded, aggressive and unpredictable. Against everyone’s advice, the widower took the dog. For several months the dog slept, ate and healed. The widower sang and talked to the dog as they walked together. After several months, the widower was sitting under a tree reading when the dog put his head on his lap and fell asleep. They spent the rest of the dog’s life together. With most animals — ourselves included — trust is important.”

“Keep that in mind,” she said.

“We should keep that in mind.”

“An order?

“A request for your help.”

She said, “I’m sensing your resentment?”

“We’ve been introduced three times, and you still call me the American.”

“You’re one of the few American members. Tell me, why are Americans so compulsively friendly?”

“I try for reserved and polite.” Two more large whiskeys appeared. “Why are English aloof and wary?”

Beatrice said, “We don’t trust foreigners.”

“Americans. Australians, Canadians and New Zealanders aren’t exactly foreigners.”

“They’re no longer British.”

“Many of our forefathers were asked to leave Britain, others were forced.”

Beatrice said, “The horse thieves were future Americans or Australians?”

“The first Australians were criminals who were sent — transported — to Botany Bay near Sydney. Future Americans were horse thieves, debtors, disliked religious minorities and so on. My request?”

“Agreed, we’ll use each other’s Christian names,” Beatrice said, “We’ll get along just fine.”

I could have said, “If you say so.”

●●●

The vet disinfected and bandaged the cuts across Lilly’s face. Kluge had used an aggressive bit that had cut and bruised Lilly’s mouth; I was given a tube of ointment to apply. Lilly was examined and pronounced fit but confused and depressed. Standing sixteen hands, over five feet at the withers, Lilly was a bay: the darkest brown with a black mane and tail.

After the vet, I led her out of the stable and tied her to a hitching rail. Lilly ate my apple slices and lipped the sugar cubes off my hand — horses love sweets. I hosed her down and applied a bottle of shampoo and rinsed. While she dried in the tropical sun, I trimmed her mane, ears, forelock and tail, and brushed her coat to a mahogany luster. I checked her hooves and shoes, applied a hoof emollient followed by glossy black polish. She looked fabulous and knew it.

“Lilly, how about a feedbag of rolled oats and molasses?”

A breathy whinny.

Beatrice and I decided to follow the widower. Each of us would spend at least an hour a day with Lilly. Neither of us sang well but we pressed on: Beatrice preferred Bing Crosby; Lilly liked my Stephen Foster inspired “I Dream of Lilly with the Dark Brown Coat.” After a couple of months, Lilly approached us without reservation, head and ears up, gentle snorting and nuzzling. Her face had healed leaving a crosshatch of scars; she guarded her face.

●●●

I was leaving the bank on a Saturday afternoon; Dieter Kluge, a tall man with troubled eyes, was waiting for me. With hands up, he said, “May I approach?” I nodded. “There’s something most wrong with me. My company wants me to return to Germany and get fixed. If you give me a Singapore dollar, I give you a gift.” I gave him one dollar and received an envelope.

It was a bill of sale for Lilly. I said, “Thank you. What is wrong with you?”

“My father was at Stalingrad. The Sixth Army, 300,000 men, went to Stalingrad; only 5,000 returned to Germany ten years later.”

“Your father was lucky.”

“My mother and I weren’t. He beat my mother and me. He’s sick, crazy. I hate him. Myself more. Lilly is the only animal I abused.”

“And women?”

“I use prostitutes. I know you’re repairing Lilly. If you’re successful,

please …” Dieter handed me an address in Germany and made that abrupt German bow with arms tight to his sides and turned to leave.

“Wait. You’re doing the right thing.”

“Pray for me?”

“I promise.”

●●●

Beatrice measured Lilly’s mouth, studied the placement of her teeth and sent the sketches to a tack (riding equipment) specialist in London. Two weeks later, Beatrice received a beautiful bridle with a gentle snaffle. Lilly struggled as Beatrice held the bridle while I inserted the bit. Once the bit was settled, Lilly relaxed; her ears were forward, eyes steady and she nuzzled my pockets for sweets. As she ate the apples, we sang to her.

Lilly had not been ridden since Kluge. Lilly and Beatrice’s horse were stabled next to other and got along. Beatrice and I saddled up and trotted off. I got Lilly into an easy canter and went over a small jump, then a couple of higher ones. After an hour of pleasant riding, we galloped home. Dismounting, Beatrice said, “Perfect. We’ve got an interested buyer.”

“Who?”

“A friend of ours. His son and daughter-in-law died in a plane crash. He’s raising his granddaughter, Edith — twelve, pretty, clever and crazy about horses. Saturday around 4:00, I’ll introduce you and Lilly to them.”

“I’ll be the picture of diffidence.”

“There’s a good fellow.”

We met Saturday afternoon. Edith swooned over Lilly and asked about the scars. I explained Kluge. Edith said, “Beating a horse is beyond me.”

“Me too,” I said. “A test ride on Lilly?”

Edith’s grandfather, Henry Palmer, was a horseman with horses stabled at the club. Beatrice rode with Edith and explained that Lilly hated whips, guarded her face; and on it went as Henry and I rode behind. I learned that Beatrice’s husband had served with Palmer in the Royal Engineers during the war. Afterwards both men came to Singapore and started a construction company. From the looks of Beatrice, Henry, Edith and their horses, the construction company had flourished. Before dismounting, Henry said, “Lilly’s a lucky horse.”

Edith said, “I’ve fallen in love with Lilly.”

Henry rubbed two fingers against his thumb.

I said, “Well, there were expenses and…”

Beatrice asked me, “You paid for Lilly?”

“One dollar.”

Beatrice said, “Henry, a dollar and Lilly’s yours.” Beatrice asked a syce (stableman) to take our picture. Edith was astride Lilly, Henry held the reins, and Beatrice and I stood beside him. Lilly was engaged; we were smiling.

As Beatrice and I walked back to the club, she said, “I have Kluge’s German address and will send him our photos.”

“Shouldn’t you find out how he’s doing?”

“I was harsh and confiscated Lilly; the snaps will cheer Kluge up.” Beatrice walked away.

At the club’s Christmas party several weeks later, Beatrice avoided me. At the bar, I tapped her shoulder, “You sent the snaps to Kluge?”

“Yes. I’m ashamed.” Beatrice spun away.

I touched her elbow, “Wait. I…”

In a loud voice, “Keep your hands off of me!”

All eyes were upon me.

●●●

Early March, I called Edith and asked if I could ride Lilly Saturday morning.

Edith said, “She misses you.” Edith and Lilly were beaming and waiting for

me. Edith said, “Beatrice is looking for you.”

“I hope she doesn’t find me.”

Lilly and I were cantering on a trail. I heard a galloping horse behind; Beatrice pulled up and said, “Haven’t seen you since Christmas.”

“You made me a pariah of sorts.”

“I know. My apology. Accepted?”

“Yes. Couldn’t stay away from this wonderful horse you and I saved.”

“I’m quite proud of that; you should be too,” Beatrice said. “An attorney

Representing Kluge’s family replied to my letter; it was devastating. Its essence?”

“Might as well.”

“Kluge beat a prostitute who had a straight-razor. Kluge bled to death in a whorehouse, the ignominy. Kluge’s mother has been committed to a mental facility. His father is believed dead.”

“None of that’s your fault.”

“My husband and I had a flaming row after the Christmas party. My husband accused me of being a British colour sergeant who bossed people around. He’s right and I’m going to stop, soon. I called your wife, Emily, about supper next Saturday night. She said it would be your decision and added that you enjoy French food and drink. 8:00 at the Saddle Club, black tie?”

Beatrice and her husband, Edward, Henry, Edith, my wife and I gathered in front of Lilly’s stable. A perfect table: white tablecloth, flowers, candles polished silver, sparkling crystal, great champagne, Tanglin Club catering and vintage wines. Edith brought poached apples for Lilly.

Beatrice stood up, glass in hand, “Many of us have been presented with second chances: Lilly, Edith and Henry. And tomorrow, with a headache, I swear I’ll cease being overbearing, especially to our English-speaking cousins. And a prayer for Dieter Kluge’s soul — and perhaps his second chance.”

The seven of us became good friends.