From January until the end of April 1981, when I was in my junior year at Syracuse University, I did a semester-abroad program in London. Among the many experiences I had there, the most memorable was volunteering at a riding stable in Grosvenor Crescent Mews, near Hyde Park. One day a week our stable provided ponies for a riding program for handicapped kids (or, as they were known in the parlance of the times, “spastics”).
The riding program was held at the indoor riding ring at Buckingham Palace. Every week I got to ride a pony to Buckingham Palace with John, the groom from the stable. He looked old enough to be my grandfather, but he was a much more adept rider than I: he rode one pony and led two more through the streets of London on lead ropes. It was all I could to do manage my pony as we navigated the narrow piece of pavement allotted to us while double-decker buses and massive black cabs and the occasional privately owned vehicle sped past us. I did not have the experience or confidence to do what John did. However, I was definitely, and always, more sober.
The program was held over lunch hour and we had a routine: we rode through a gate into Buckingham Palace Mews, a quiet, peaceful space behind the Palace. There was probably a guard at the main gate, but I don’t remember interacting with anyone until we reached the doors to the indoor riding ring, where we were greeted by the ladies who ran the program. When we dismounted, they led the ponies into the ring. The first week I attempted to follow them inside, thinking I would be needed to help out, but they handed me a £1 note and told me to go have lunch with John.
Lunch, as lunch so often was in London back then, was at a locally owned pub. I followed John through the doors and to the bar, where I pulled up a stool next to him and ordered a shandy, beer with lemonade. John ordered a pint of Guinness and a shot of whiskey, which he proceeded to down in the time it took me to empty about one-fifth of my drink. I suppose the shock registered on my face, because that’s when John suggested, not unkindly, that I move to the other end of the bar, basically as far from him as possible. I switched seats and watched as he consumed more pints of beer, which he washed down with more whiskey.
When we left the pub, I turned left out of the door, back toward the Palace and the ponies. John pulled a flask out of an inner pocket in his riding jacket and took a swig. Clearly, he hadn’t gotten enough in the pub. After wiping his mouth and tucking the flask back into his jacket, he informed me we were going in the opposite direction.
“I want you go come to the bookmakers with me,” he said.
This thrilled me more than you might imagine. Even more than ponies and horses, I loved books, and I had never been to a bookmakers. I immediately forgave John for ignoring me and getting drunk at lunch.
When we got to the staircase outside the bookmakers, John handed me a folded up newspaper and pointed to the names he had circled. Then he handed me a £5 note and told me to place bets on those particular horses. It is a testament to my ignorance, not to mention my love of literature, that I still didn’t figure out that a bookmakers was a betting parlor, until I entered the hall, and instead of seeing rows of bookcases, I saw a wicket, behind which sat a person waiting to take John’s money.
John was waiting for me outside, leaning against the railing of the stairs, drinking again from his flask. I handed him his change and he waved me off. “Keep it,” he insisted. “It’s bad luck otherwise.”
When we got back to the stable minutes later, John could barely mount his pony. Given the amount of alcohol he’d consumed, this should not have surprised me. But he hadn’t any trouble walking, so on top of being surprised, I was terrified (if he couldn’t get on the pony, how was he possibly going to ride the pony? And lead the other two ponies?). I was also mortified. Was I supposed to have kept him sober? I looked at the women who ran the program, silently begging forgiveness. I needn’t have bothered. It was clear from the expressions on their faces that they saw this routine this every week. Clearly nobody expected me to break John of his lunchtime drinking habit. Also, once the women succeeded in pushing him onto the pony, he once again rode perfectly.
I stopped accompanying John when he left Buckingham Palace Mews after dropping off the ponies. I stayed behind and explored. One day, in a junk pile in a dark corner of the riding ring, I found one of those ginormous bearskin hats worn by the horseguards, the ones featured in the daily Changing of the Guards. It was genuinely furry, which surprised me. I’d figured bearskin was just a name and the hat wouldn’t feel like fur. I momentarily considered taking it as a souvenir. Clearly nobody cared about it—they’d dumped it in what looked like a junk pile. But it was far too big to smuggle out.
Another time I wandered back to the stable at the far end of the courtyard. I couldn’t believe how clean it was. The stable where I volunteered was overcrowded, dark and filthy. The owner, Lilo Bloom should have been arrested by whatever agency was charged with equine protection in the City of London. She kept two to three horses in a stall meant for one horse, except when she knew an inspection was happening, at which point she sent half or more of her stock out to the country and made us clean the place thoroughly.
The Queen’s stable was so sparkling clean you could have eaten off the floor which, as I recall, was covered with blue-and-white tiles bearing the Queen’s monogram ERII. The horses wore blue-checked blankets, which also bore the monogram.
There was a groom in the stable. As I recall he was sitting sentry near the entrance, and he welcomed me and answered all my questions, the first one of which was, “Does the Queen ride these horses?”
“No,” he explained. “She keeps her riding horses at Windsor. These are the carriage horses. The carriages are there”—he pointed outside at the two buildings perpendicular to ours. They looked like garages which, it turned out, they were—they housed the Queen’s carriages.
A few weeks later, walking through the courtyard, a handful of men—I believe they were grooms and footmen—hosed down a carriage that looked like something straight out of a live-action version of Cinderella, all gold and pumpkin-shaped. I stopped to talk to them, and they explained that the carriage had just been used by an ambassador from a Commonwealth country who had been presented to the Queen. The ambassador had been dropped off by a limo in the courtyard, whereupon he’d been seated in the carriage and ferried to the front entrance of the palace. When the visit ended, the carriage deposited him back in the courtyard and the limo took him back to his embassy. That explains why the only time you see those fancy carriages on main thoroughfares in London is for a royal wedding.
In fact, one of the footmen told me that there weren’t enough carriages for the upcoming wedding of Prince Charles and Princess Diana, so the royal family would have to borrow. I have no idea how I received this news, only that they must have figured me for a keener, because the next thing I knew, one of the footmen was handing me a whip to hold, and another said, “This is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to her,” as if 1) I wasn’t there and 2) holding a whip was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me.
It wasn’t. But I have to admit, looking back on that time, I can’t believe I had free rein (pun intended) to wander the back end of Buckingham Palace chatting with grooms and footmen and poking around junk piles. I wish I had taken pictures, but there’s no way I could have managed a camera and a pony. Apparently it’s now a tourist destination (here’s a link if you’re interested in visiting) so I suppose I could get pictures. But let’s face it, it wouldn’t be the same.
And while I know that Memorial Day is meant to honor the war dead, I think it’s also fitting to share some personal memories. Thanks for letting me share mine with you. If you’re so inclined, please feel free to share this with others.
Your bookmakers story reminds me of my childhood belief that a song about moonshiners was a fantasy about people who shone the moon.
Wow! How lucky were you!