65° - 01.09.1967, Side 28

THE GIFT HORSE by alan boucher
It began when Jon took the family to the races
on Whit Monday.
Jon was not what anyone would call a horsey
kind of man. He had been born and bred in the
country, and looked with ill-concealed contempt
at what he referred to as the ‘weekend cavaliers’
— those fellow-citizens who sought physical exer-
cise and social status, as he would say, in Sunday
excursions on horseback.
“Amateurs!” he would exclaim, when he drove
past a cavalcade on his way out of town. And the
traditional Icelandic connexion between the
saddle and the bottle was often the occasion of
harsh comments on the injustice of a law that
made drivers of motor vehicles who had a couple
of drinks liable to severe penalties, while turning
a blind eye to the state of some riders, who had
only the sagacity of their animals to thank for a
safe homecoming.
“It’s all a form of reaction,” he would explain
wisely. “The reversion to the primitive of an
urbanised society.”
When he talked like this, his wife, Sigga, would
usually tell him not to be an ass, and would add,
“It wouldn’t do you any harm to do a bit of
riding, Nonni minn; it might take a few centi-
metres off your waist, anyway.’
He had tried dieting, swimming and steam-
baths, and there had been a tentative move to-
wards getting him to play golf.
But, as I was saying, the turning point really
came when Jon took the family to the race course.
They were selling sweepstake tickets on the
course — in aid of the Riding Club — and absent-
mindedly, out of habit, he bought a handful. The
only occasion on which he had ever won a prize
in a sweepstake had been at a club Christmas
party; and then it had been a pair of nylon
stockings!
“First prize, a trip for two to the Canary Islands.
Alan Boucher, PhD. in Icelandic literature and
language, has been an organizer and producer
with BBC for the last 13 years. Author of many
childrens books, he now resides in Iceland and
teaches at the University.
I wouldn’t say no to that,” he remarked. “Some
hope, though! ” He looked up ot the sky, thinking
wistfully of sunshine and blue seas, and wonder-
ing whether it was going to rain before the races
were over.
It did, and they all got soaked, with the result
that Jon caught cold and had to spend several
days in bed. The doctor told him that he was run
down and needed a holiday in the sun, and this
made him think of the Canary Islands and the
sweepstake tickets he had bought. One never
knew ... Because he was bored and had nothing
better to do, he began to search the daily papers
for an announcement about the winning number
-— not very hopeful, it’s true, but still, there was
always the chance ...
He found it at last at the bottom of a column
among articles for sale and help wanted: “The
Riding Club Sweepstake, the following numbers
have been drawn. First prize ...”
“Sigga!” he shouted, “where are those tickets I
bought at the race course? I left them in the
pocket of my coat.”
The tickets where found and the numbers com-
pared. Alas, no holiday in the sun for them! No
television set, either. But what was this? Feverish-
ly he checked and re-checked the numbers: Yes,
there seemed to be no doubt about it; unless the
paper had made a mistake, he had won the third
prize — a riding-horse with complete harness!
His yell brought Sigga running to his bedside,
pale and fearing the worst. “My God,” she cried,
“what is it, my love? Shall I get the doctor.”
“Damn the doctor!” he exclaimed, “ring this
number and find out if they’ve got it right. I
believe we’ve won a prize in the sweep!”
She snatched the paper from him, and then the
ticket ... and then looked at the paper again,
and then said, weakly, “Oh no, not a horse!”
“And why not?”
“Because ... because ... Well, who’s going to
look after it, I’d like to know.”
“We’ll keep it on a farm,” he replied. “And we
can drive out at weekends and have a ride. Think
of the children,” he added. “What an opportunity
for them. After all, it is a gift horse, and you
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