The Rocking Horse

When I was small, my parents would send me away to stay with my Poppy and Gran at the sea. It was probably my favourite thing to do in the holidays. I would play down in the waves, climb the fig tree in Gran’s yard and pick the purple flowers growing down by Pop’s shed. The best thing was always hearing Poppy’s stories of when he went to war.

When I asked Pop about the war, he always made it such an adventure. Fighting the enemy, doing the country proud. I wanted to be in the light horse. If I’d been in the war, I would have been in the light horse.

Poppy told me about all the beautiful horses and his own one, Flash. A shining chestnut with flaxen mane and tail. Four dazzling white socks and a star on his forehead to guide him, that’s what Poppy said. Flash was the bravest horse of all which was why Pop was able to win the war.

I often asked what happened to Flash after the war was over. It was different every time. Old Flash retired happily in a lush green field. Given to a little girl like me, who cared for him until he died happily of old age. Different variations of this, I thought were the same story. Flash lived happily ever after.

Poppy took me to his shed one year. He’d been making something all for me. It wasn’t finished yet, but he would let me peek. Poppy’s shed was a big, grey barn full of dusty things. Wandering through the cobwebs, everywhere were remnants of Poppy’s farming days, when he was just my age. Thick films of dirt hid treasures, like the old shire horses’ special brasses, and greying desert pictures from Poppy’s war years.

Creamy timber pieces cut into shape lay on Poppy’s workbench. A horse all of my own. I had to promise to look after this horse because animals are a big responsibility. That summer, I watched this little horse grow. Shining painted coat of chestnut gold. Four glistening white socks and a star on his forehead to be guided by. Soft mane of flaxen cream from Gran’s knitting basket.

Finally, my pretty horse, my rocking horse, was finished. Poppy brought the horse up to the house and I was allowed to ride. “What will you call him?” Poppy asked.

“Flash,” I replied, like Poppy’s special horse. I didn’t know why, Pop’s eyes grew dull. Gran asked me to wash up for dinner.

That night after dinner, I asked about Poppy’s war stories. “Tell me the one about Flash,” I begged. “What happened to Flash?” Poppy had cried then. Gran sent me to bed. I was confused. Was what I had said been wrong?

I never saw my Flash again. Only now I understand, and the reason why the purple poppies grow down by the old shed. The horses who were sent to war and been so brave could not come home like their riders. The last torturous act. To relinquish them to little known hands, or fell them with their own.

Now I stand in old Poppy’s barn, looking for one thing, searching amongst the unfinished projects, never to be complete. Pop’s gone to be with Flash now. My family has come to help Gran move to our city home.

I found the little rocking horse, wrapped in a woollen blanket. The stories of the light horse brigades, brave horses with shining coats come flooding back. The bravest was always Poppy’s Flash. Glimmering coat of chestnut. Flaxen mane and tail. Four dazzling white socks and a star on his forehead to guide him.

The purple poppy is a symbol of remembrance for animals who served in wartime. It is ever important to remember the horrors of the past so that they may never be repeated.