A Unicorn in the Strawberry Patch

Well, now, my daddy remarked casually from where he was standing at the screen door, drinking coffee and about to light a cigarette, There's something you don't see every day.

What's that, Guy? my grandmother asked, distracted by the morning ritual of starting a fire in the old wood stove and not even bothering to turn.

There's a unicorn in the strawberry patch, Alice, he said.

At that, Nana did bother to turn, she spun on the heels of her sensible shoes, her elbow collided with the edge of the trustworthy cast iron beast, she cursed, and an armful of kindling scattered all over the newly waxed linoleum floor.

Sally Forth!  she exclaimed, inelegantly pushing my daddy aside, What in the name of all that's holy is Sally Forth doing in the strawberry patch and what in hell is that thing on her her head?

By that time I'd gotten between them and could see Sally Forth, Miss Hilda's new mare - imported all the way from Sussex, I remembered Miss Hilda saying pridefully - peacefully nibbling her way through the wild strawberry field that bordered the gravel driveway.  She was pure white from forelock to tail with a feathery mane blowing slightly in the morning breeze and a dignified, regal posture.  On her head, there was a shiny, silvery cone, wide and rounded at the base and coming to a sharp point at the end.  We didn't know it then, but it was a witch's hat with the brim cut off, adroitly wrapped in aluminum foil and meticulously attached with a network of thick, white string.  With the fog still burning off, so that the animal was framed with a soft and misty light,the effect was startling real, a fairy story come to life.

Close your mouth, you'll catch flies!  Nana snapped impatiently, Now don't just stand there gawking, you two, go and get her while I call Hilda!

The mare offered no resistance when my daddy slipped a rope over her head and neck and coaxed her out of the field and across the driveway to the back door, tying her makeshift reins to the woodbox and producing a carrot from the pantry.  He snipped the string with a pocket knife and carefully removed her tinfoil horn.

Fourteen hands if she's a foot, he told me though I had no idea what that meant, And somebody put some thought into this little decoration, I'm here to tell you.  This is some work!  It took him several minutes to cut the webwork of string and detach it and when he was done, he smiled at me, nodded toward her.

Want to ride her? he asked and I thought I might cry.

Waiting for Miss Hilda to arrive and reclaim her, my daddy circled the mare around the backyard and I rode, feeling like a princess in a fairy tale and instantly in love.  She was sleek and smooth, she moved with exquisite precision and grace, she high-stepped and whinney'd and I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

My ride ended when Miss Hilda arrived, striding down the drive in her jodhpurs, red blazer and shiny riding boots , carrying an English saddle under one arm and dark as a thundercloud.  She saddled and bridled the mare, thanked my daddy and my grandmother for keeping her safe, and crushed the aluminium horn under one proper and immaculate heel.  We watched her ride away on Sally Forth, horse and rider in perfect unison, a vision from an English fox hunting novel if ever I'd seen one.

Not everyone gets to ride a unicorn, I often reminded myself that summer, but beware if you do - there's a little magic in it.