Read Springtime at Cherry Tree Cottage for Free Online Page B

intelligence – but stallions can be unpredictable, so I treat him with extra respect.
    I wonder if Robbie might want to get on with something else, but he stays, chatting with me and Mel. A few minutes later, an older version of Robbie, not quite as tall and with shorter hair that’s greying at the temples, joins us with a tray of tea and biscuits. He places it on the roof of the Toyota, out of reach of the dogs, who are waiting for me to make a start.
    Mel introduces me to Neil, Robbie’s father.
    â€˜I never thought I’d see the day.’ He removes his rimless specs and wipes them with a handkerchief from the pocket of his pale cotton trousers, before putting them back on so he can get a better look at me. ‘I’m not sure this is a good idea. Women shouldn’t be shoeing horses – it’s dangerous. I’d hate to think that one of our horses had hurt someone.’
    â€˜Give her a chance,’ Mel says. ‘She knows her stuff.’
    â€˜Excuse me,’ I say, speaking up. ‘I am here.’ A certain amount of curiosity is acceptable, whereas blatant sexism isn’t. I still find it weird that when I was working in an office environment after my degree, there were all kinds of rules as to what constituted sexism and sexual harassment, but when I was out and about with Tony and the male apprentices, demeaning and lewd comments were encouraged – and the smuttier the better.
    Robbie glares at his father. ‘There’s no need to look at Flick as if she’s an alien. Women can do anything they choose nowadays – you know that. I trust Mel’s judgement.’
    â€˜It wasn’t my intention to offend, but if I have …’ Neil is well-spoken and in his fifties. His fraying blue and white striped shirt appears to be from the same era. Smiling apologetically, he reaches out for my hand.
    â€˜I find your opinion patronising, but I’ll forgive you.’ We shake hands. ‘You men are all the same.’
    â€˜We’re what?’ Neil says, his eyes narrowing to slits.
    â€˜She’s winding you up, Dad,’ Robbie says.
    â€˜Oh, I see.’
    â€˜I think we’ve all been guilty of sexism at one time or another.’
    â€˜I’ve been harassed many a time,’ Mel says. ‘When I was an apprentice, a lady owner slapped me across the rump for walking behind her horse without letting it know I was there.’
    I can’t help smiling. I’ve been guilty of harassment on a small scale too. When I was in my teens, we had two farriers. I classed the boss as ancient – as in, about the same age as my father. His assistant was in his twenties, shy and handsome, and I used to fancy the chaps off him. He used to drink every mug of tea that I brought him until he must have been brimming over. My mum took every opportunity to put him down – he wasn’t good enough for me because he was ‘only a blacksmith’. I was destined for Maximilian, who played polo; even though, as I pointed out to her, he was clearly gay.
    Robbie turns to me. ‘What made you want to shoe horses anyway?’
    â€˜One of my first memories is the sound of the farrier on my parents’ farm.’ I recall the clank and hiss of hot horseshoes being dropped into water to cool, and the tapping of nails being hammered into the horses’ hooves. ‘When I realised I was going to die of boredom working in the corporate world of sales and marketing, those memories returned. From then on, I didn’t want to do anything else. I resigned from my job, applied for a pre-farriery course and never looked back.’ I pause. ‘I’d better get on.’
    â€˜Yeah, sure. Go ahead.’
    I approach Nelson and give him a pat. I pick up his forefoot and start to remove the shoe. It sounds painful to the uninitiated, but it’s attached via bevelled nails, usually seven of them, to the wall of the hoof, where there