Club Foyer>The Riding Mac>Riding for Pleasure>
by
Eli
Imogen and Eli first met at the Purser's Office of the ferry from Holyhead to Dublin in the early Summer of 1973.
They were both heading for the Summer Riding School at Kilcullen, but from quite different directions, and their joining instructions suggested they might like to meet for the journey. 'You could meet at the Purser's Office, say 10 o'clock. Wear something horsy' they were told, 'and you will be sure to recognise each other.'
They both liked the idea of meeting up. - And they had the same idea about how to be recognised - both arrived wearing their riding macs, and both had bags with crops sticking out of the end.
They couldn't mistake each other, and despite the drizzle and the wet they flung their arms noisily round each other without any preliminaries. What fun they were going to have!
They found the tiny cabin that had been booked for them, heaved their bags onto the luggage rack, took off their mackintoshes, and with a jingling sound that only the buckles on the leg straps of a riding mac makes, threw them too onto the rack.
"My wet mac's making it a bit pooey in here," said Imogen, 'hope you don't mind!'
Actually it was. There were the two macs, both wet, and their rubber riding boots - not wet but contributing to the tackroom atmosphere nonetheless - and they were crammed rather into the tiny cabin and the two-storey bunks.
'Oh no, not at all, and it's my stuff too,' said Eli. 'It always gets like this in the Landrover.'
'You should shoot the dog!'
'No, stupid, not the dog! Often it's four of us, macs almost steaming when the heater gets going. We leave them on till we get home, better that way, or you get wet unloading.'
Imogen said, a bit teasing: 'Actually I quite like it.'
'Quite like what, getting a soaking?'
'The atmosphere I mean. The atmosphere when you've got your mac wet. It's sort of strong, masterful. I know it's horrid really but I sort of like it as well.'
'You don't!'
'Yes, really! Even when it's not wet it's kind of nice. Don't you think?'
Eli knew exactly what she meant but had never dreamt some body else was like her! She said: 'You mean the smell is ...'
'Spiffy!' Imogen completed the sentence for her. 'Sort of strong and pushy and commanding, makes you actually feel quite gooey sometimes. We all used to swoon over it at school.' School was two years ago, gone but not forgotten. Both girls were at Uni now.
Eli was dumbfounded - when she locked the door of her room at Uni - having just got ready for bed, it usually was - slipped out of her sleep T and put on her mac - it had never crossed her mind that there might be others like her! Others who loved to button up to the collar and pull the belt really tight, then those fantastic thigh straps - and just wriggle and gasp with the feel and smell of it - could there be others? Was Imogen one of them?
Imogen had got out of her bunk. 'Surely you like just putting it on sometimes?' She had got down from her bunk. She took her mac off the back of the door and was putting it on.
She did up the buttons right up to the neck. 'You do everything up - thigh straps really tight - so - and the tab across the mouth - she buttoned it across - and then you have to pull the belt really tight.' She yanked the belt and buckled up. - Don't you think? And the collar! You stand it up, then hands in pockets like - so! She posed, left leg forward, hands on hips, eyebrows raised, a sort of haut-en-bas smile as she looked at Eli, gobsmacked on her bunk. 'Now then Miss Armstrong', she admonished, 'Are you going to admit it or not? Isn't it just terrific?'
Eli thought Yes!! Definitely definitely Yes!!! But couldn't say a thing. Imogen was an absolutely secret dream suddenly exploded into life. And she had taken Eli's breath clean away.
Imogen sashayed over to her, in insofar as you can sashay in a tight little cabin. ' It's gorgeous, don't you think?' She pulled her nose up clear of the throat tab and sniffed appreciatively, leaning over Eli so she could share the swirling odour of the warm wet rubberised cloth.
'Yes', Eli said, in a weak voice, all but overwhelmed. 'Yes, yes, it's ... it's ... lovely... '
"Come on then!" Imogen pulled back, snatched the other coat from the door and threw it over to her friend. "Get it on!" You can't leave me all on my own!" And she pirouetted, hands on hips.
Eli caught the coat, and began pulling it on, trying to keep the wet bits away from her T and shorts. "Actually, Imma, turn round, would you? I usually... I mean, I don't want to wet my things, so I'll take them off, if you don't mind, just if you would turn round a sec..."
Imogen stopped mid pirouette with her back to Eli. But she looked over her shoulder. "Oh, yes, good idea, it's what I usually do, but I didn't want to scare the horses! - Do hurry up though! I want to see how it looks when it's just you and it!"
Eli had pulled off her T and kicked away her shorts in a second. "OK, thanks," she said pulling her mac on and turning her back while she buttoned up.
She turned round, modesty restored.
Suddenly Imogen was reaching close to help her with the belt, and the slightly distinctive odour of someone else's mac swirled into Eli's nostrils. She flushed and then felt herself slipping away rather, as Imogen pulled the belt really tight - really gently, but really tight, just as she loved it of course - and buckled up. Eli managed to hold her elbows clear as the belt end was 'stowed neatly away,' her friend's fingers so firm as they made a way through between waist and tight, tight belt and slotted the free end through it.
"There," said Imogen, now standing back,"that's ace!"
Eli sat down, or subsided rather onto the bunk. "I think the belt might be a bit tight," she said weakly. But made no move to loosen it. "You.. you look lovely too..."
As she collapsed onto the bunk the buckle on her thigh straps did their usual jingle - the noise they always make when they're not done up.
"Oh, your thigh straps!" said Imogen. "You're half-undressed! Let me see." She reached and flipped back the fabric.
Eli's knees snapped together! She felt the cold of the buckle Imogen was going to reach for and it was in a totally impossible place! The mac had rucked up rather as her fluttering knees had demanded that she sit. And her shorts were on the floor...
"Come on," said Imogen, the loose end of the strap in her hand, "You've got to be done up properly!"
"It's OK, OK, I'll do it..." Eli was desperately scrabbling herself backwards, trying to slide her mac down while keeping her legs locked. Her flush was almost phosphorescent - no I think I mean incandescent - in the dim lighting of the cabin.
Imogen was leaning close: "No, I'll do you up," she said teasing, "I'm the Mistress! Just move this a bit so the dog can get at the rabbit." And she laid her hand on Eli, cajoling her leg aside.
With the touch, Eli's insides somersaulted: somersaulted, then dissolved. Her thigh did as it was bid. Imogen reached down, slid the strap into the buckle that was now revealed and pulled. She pulled gently but oh so firmly: so that when Eli felt the tightness finalized around her, so near to her, and felt the closeness of this person who had done this to her, knew how to do this to her, knew this was what she wanted, had wanted, so much, for so long, she flung her arms around her and burst into tears, and clung and wept, the tears running down onto Imogen's almost dried-out mackintosh, which didn't mind one little bit.
Eight hours later, with the boat about to dock, both women felt somehow it would be a bit of a betrayal to wear those adorable macs of theirs again, so soon, in the real uncomprehending world. - Even if, as Imma had suggested, they were to wear each other's...
The riding school Mistress was there to meet them as promised - they spotted her from the boat, standing unmistakably in helmet and jods and boots at the back of the car park on the right.
But because they had left off their riding gear she didn't spot them.
The Riding Instructress was wearing, they couldn't help noticing (!), one of those greasy Australian Stock coats on top, the sort the riding crowd at that time were starting to favour.
Imma and Eli looked at it, and at the rather gaunt-looking person underneath it: and at each other.
"Not sure I remember very clearly what it is I liked about horses," said Imma. Eli squeezed her hand. "I do," she said.
So they turned not right but left.
Even if you were not on a horse, they discovered, it always rained in Ireland, and if you were able to take a walking holiday with your best friend, of course you should both expect to wear your macs.
And something on your head of course. Riding helmets were suddenly not the thing at all! They managed to sell them in a wonderful secondhandy place called Horse Trading on Bishop's Road and picked up a couple of Sou'Westers instead.
They were shiny black with brims big enough to fold back, and they taped each other tightly into them before launching themselves, laughing for the joy of it, each with a hand on the other's mackintoshed hip, into the sluicing rain.
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