It is a simple pleasure that very few experience to have a skill that one does well and that so many of one’s fellow villagers find useful. So it was with Eric Gange. Even though many people believed the internal combustion engine would eventually replace the horse, agriculture, at this time, still relied heavily on equestrian power.

A farrier wasn’t a blacksmith. He knew iron and he knew the forge, but mostly he knew horses.

Eric had learned his trade from his father and grandfather. When the Great War had started, the Army requisitioned every able-bodied horse over fifteen hands. On top of this, they imported beasts from America and Canada, thousands upon thousands of them.

In 1914 Eric Gange was thirty-five. He didn’t want to go to war but on the other hand he knew that all those horses would need shoeing and caring for. He hated to see animals suffer.

In France and Belgium he saw enough suffering to last a lifetime, both men and horses. He could do nothing for the men but Eric could help the animals.

He wanted to forget, and he did forget, that he probably dispatched nearly as many horses as he shod, at least, that is the way it felt to him. It wasn’t just battlefield injuries that brought on their demise. Most of the horses and mules simply keeled over from exhaustion or disease.

By 1918, he could finally return to Piddletrenthide, to his forge and most of all to his Ada.

The couple had married in their early twenties. At first Ada was reluctant. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to be a farrier’s wife. But Eric had persuaded her that he would do all he could to make her happy and that’s what he had always tried to do.

Parting during the war years had been hell for Eric. True, he was never quite sure if he had ever made Ada entirely happy but it made him happy to try.

The problem was that Ada could read and she loved to read. Eric wanted to make her happy so he had bought her all the books that she ever wanted. Books about romance and adventure. Books where young ladies were swept off their feet by knights in shining armour, taken away to country mansions, or enchanted by Arabian tales of magic carpets.

Nothing that Eric could do would ever quite live up to the tales that leapt out from the printed pages. When they made love, Ada was warm and willing but he always had the impression that in her mind she was being ravaged by someone else, somewhere else, maybe on the Spanish Main or in a rain-swept, wind-swept castle in Scotland.

He had a lovely house and, to make life happier for Ada, he employed a maid, Daisy, to help with the heavier domestic work. This left Ada more time to read. Daisy was about thirty and not the brightest of girls but she was strong.

Ada had always had that apple-round face that was so common in these parts and now at the age of forty she had a backside and bosom to match. Still Eric loved her and wanted to make her happy.

Each evening, when Eric’s day’s work was done, he was content to sit by the fire and smoke his pipe while Ada read. His only wish was that she was happy. He had enough letters to conduct business but on the odd occasion that he tried to read a book or a newspaper he had fallen asleep on the first page.

Within a couple of years of the war ending Eric’s business was booming. The number of agricultural horses that needed shoes had returned to their former levels. He felt a little treacherous when he purchased a small van but it proved invaluable. The van could fetch and carry in half the time it took with a horse and cart.

An added advantage was that Dorchester was now within easy reach. Eric took so much pleasure from the delight on Ada’s face the first time he took her to the Palace Theatre in Durgate Street. They called it a theatre but they only showed moving picture films. He had to stop himself asking why in case it made him look foolish.

After that they went every week.

Ada was entranced. She loved everything that was presented but she particularly liked adventure films where the heroine was in danger and had to be rescued by the film’s hero. Eric quite enjoyed them too but he sometimes had trouble following the plot if the captions went off the screen before he had a chance to read them. What he did love was the pianist that accompanied the films; the man improvised as the action became more dramatic.

All the way home, Ada would chat about the film. What had happened to the woman and what she thought might have happened but which they weren’t allowed to show. Eric was happy to see her happy.

“Do you never wish that you could be one of those film heroes?” asked Ada, as they trundled home one evening.

Eric thought for a moment before saying, “No, not I. I am happy to be a farrier, and your husband, of course.”

As with everything new, it took a while for the latest pictures to reach Dorset. The national newspapers reviewed newly released films sometimes weeks before they were shown at The Palace. This added to the sense of expectation for Ada.

Like so many, she was eagerly awaiting ‘The Sheik’ starring Rudolph Valentino. Evidently, it was very controversial, as much for what it implied as for what it actually portrayed. It had been based on an even more controversial book by an Englishwoman called Edith Maud Hull. Although it was classed as romantic fiction, some found it shocking which had only added to its popularity. If the film had implied salaciousness, the book had implied even more.

On the return journey, Eric had expected Ada to be gushing. Instead she spent most of the time deep in contemplation. He had thought that the film was alright, although he found Mr Valentino a bit oily, but with its exotic setting and suggested muckiness he could easily see how Ada would like it.

Four days later Ada insisted that Eric go to a Dorchester bookseller and order a copy of Mrs Hull’s book.

“You are the fifth gentleman to order a copy this week,” said the bookseller, “they’ve all mentioned that it was for their wife.”

“Well, we have to keep the little women happy,” remarked Eric.

The shopkeeper laughed and said, “I wish my wife was happy with a book, I’ve got plenty.”

“Yes, that’s why I never give the missus horseshoes,” said Eric.

Even at the village school, Ada had been considered a dreamer. She was bright enough, the first to read and write in her class. Somehow she had never quite come to terms with the world as it was. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if...” were the words which began so many of her utterances.

In lots of ways she was fortunate. While the other girls went off to work on farms or in big houses, Ada had been earmarked as a companion to a doctor’s widow. The lady was blind and so needed someone to read to her each day. The doctor’s library was filled with novels and works of classic fiction as well as non-fiction books of all sorts. Ada had free rein to select any books she chose. Her mistress liked the works of Charles Dickens or Thomas Hardy best of all but she was equally content to hear adventure stories. Ada interspersed tales of London, Essex and Kent, or Wessex, with those of Hispaniola or La Mancha or the forest home of the Mohicans.