Richard

Richard the farm manager on his ex-racehorse. Not the 19th-century colonial plantation owner with a whip and inspecting the labourers. Far from it. Richard was a very kind, softly spoken boss, but he did expect perfect work.

Richard had been a keen hobby rider in England and the chance came up to buy the horse cheaply as she was unsuitable for the race course. When excited, she bled through the nose. And she was a nervous type. Being on the farm, there were no real costs for him except no doubt some feed.

Richard treated her as his child, very gentle and kind and thus it wasn't long before she became ridable even for me.

I am not sure whether he was that keen on me riding but I guess as my father was his boss and we all got on very well as friends, he agreed and without showing any reservations. Naturally, there was an eye kept on what I was up to!

This holiday I spent quite a bit of time up on the farm as all my childhood friends and families had been recalled by BP and were now scattered around the globe.

The one remaining family, the mother was my mother's best friend, were now living in the capital Port of Spain, several hours away. The only person of about my age, back at the residential camp, was the daughter of the big Texan general manager of the company that had bought out BP's interest in Trinidad in a 50/50 partnership.

Gretchen was a bit bigger than father and frightened the life out of me, so I was always pleased to escape up to the farm. But had to rely on being driven there, so a few days of the holiday were passed with Gretchen at the pool and her father only too keen to see a friendship develop.