As he approached the house on his walk back from the town, Steve noticed that two men were busy in the garden erecting the estate agent’s ‘For Sale’ sign. “Morning squire” said the older one, “Reckon you’ll get a pretty penny for this little lot. Land and stables too, just suit my missus down to the ground having horses at the bottom of the garden.” Steve was going to explain that the place wasn’t his, but instead just nodded, gave a friendly smile and walked on. He decided that as the Governess was no longer living there, he’d make himself coffee in the kitchen, so he put the kettle on, and found coffee still in the larder. Sitting down he spread out his copy of ’Horse and Hound’ and turned immediately to the situations vacant section at the back of the magazine.
Some of the adverts he ruled out straight away. They were either abroad, or in racing stables where he knew his height and weight would rule him out, or it was insisted that any applicant must hold BHS teaching qualifications. That still left a dozen or so, that he felt were worth applying for. He’d left the water in the kettle to start to cool, so he re-boiled the kettle, picked up the extension phone which, much to his surprise was still connected, made himself a drink and dialled the first number.
The woman on the other end of the line was friendly, but apologetic. The advert had been in for two weeks, but the vacancy had been filled after it had appeared the week before, she said she was sorry that he had wasted his call. The man at the next number was quite abrupt and told him that he only employed female grooms, not males, due he said, to the fact that there was only one set of accommodation, and he couldn’t have men living with the girls he already employed. As he worked his way down the list of vacancies, the story was pretty much the same with all of them. Either he didn’t have enough qualifications, or they didn’t think he’d fit in, or the position was filled. By the time he’d got to the bottom of the list, he was filled with a mixture of despair and anger. The only advertisers left to try were the agencies that sent grooms to different locations for varying lengths of time. But, thought Steve, work is work and beggars can’t be choosers, and with a little trepidation he rang the first one.
The girl on the other end of the line, sitting behind a desk somewhere in greater London, took his details, then asked for an address where they could contact him when a suitable vacancy came up. He told her honestly that this was his last day at his present job, and that from now on, he had no address “Oh, that’s OK, just give me your home address and we’ll contact you through there.” Steve had to admit that he had no home, which was why he was only interested in applying for jobs that had accommodation. “Well then,” she said “We really can’t help you if we can’t get hold of you when you’re needed, sorry.” With a click the phone call was cut off from her end. The second agency decided almost straight away that he wouldn’t be suitable to go on their books… “You say Mr Ross, that after you came out of prison you were sacked from your next post at a Squire’s stud due to your involvement with a motorcycle gang that terrorised horses, then you were sacked by your next employers niece, is that correct?” “Well, not exactly, I was never involved in the motorcycle gang, and…” said Steve, but the voice at the other end of the line cut him dead. “Frankly Mr Ross, we have a very exclusive clientele, and I’m afraid your record and work history doesn’t fit with the services we offer, but I wish you well in the search for a new job, goodbye.” That left him with only one more ad to try, almost reluctantly he dialled the number.
The man at the other end sounded almost tired, his day was being almost as frustrating as Steve’s. But he listened to Steve’s story, jotting down the relevant points on an official application form as they were told to him. A couple of times he had to ask Steve to spell the names of the places he had worked, the line wasn’t too good, and the man was a confirmed Southerner, having very little interest in anywhere north of Birmingham. “Right,” he started “we’ll just need to clear up a few points… Firstly you say you were imprisoned for striking some one who was abusing a horse, correct?… Right I’ll list you as standing up for horse’s rights. Now, about this motorbike thing, you were only chasing those responsible for attacking the horses, yes?… And finally, you think you were dismissed from this horse rescue farm due to an almost intimate relationship with the owner’s niece, would you say that was fair?” By that stage Steve was getting a little irate, and told the man that he didn’t want to blacken Dora’s character by admitting to intimacy, even if telling lies like that would get him work. “Now look,” he started, “It’s obvious that you’re not going to be able to help me, and I’d rather not waste any more of both our times talking like this….” “Whoa now Mr Ross,” came the voice from the telephone, “I only have two more questions for you. Can you be in Brecon, South Wales by 9a.m. Saturday, and what are you like with children?”