by K. M. Peyton
‘There aren’t any gypsies around here, not that I know of.’
‘And where does he keep the horse?’
‘Perhaps he’ll bring it here!’
It was their dream to have a Magic Male, with a magnificent horse, to upgrade their yard. The only males so far were Henry and a bumbling old man they called Uncle Arthur with his ewe-necked chestnut mare, Empress of China. (‘Now that’s a splendid name!’ said Sandy’s mother. ‘That’s noble!’ ‘But you should just see her!’ the girls wailed. ‘Empress!’)
‘We’ve absolutely got to meet him,’ Leo said firmly.
‘Catch him!’
Sandy laughed. ‘George isn’t fast enough!’
‘Julia could, on Minnie.’
‘How sickening, if she gets to know him!’
They made coffee, dreaming their dreams. Their mothers thought ponies kept their minds off boys.
Before they had finished, they heard the sound of a lorry coming up the lane behind the yard. There were useful cracks in the timbering of the old loft which gave them a lookout across the lane, so they investigated.
‘Horsebox! No-one we know.’
‘It’s got a horse in, hark at it kicking!’
‘New customer.’
‘We’re not expecting anyone.’
‘It’s a man!’
‘Stopping.’
‘Getting out . . .’
‘Let’s go down!’
They scrambled down the ladder into the yard and out through an archway which gave on to the lane and the house. The horsebox driver turned round and greeted them.
‘I say, can I leave a horse here?’
He was young, about eighteen, and had a very educated voice, and a superior, bossy manner. He was rather handsome in a stuck-up way, with very blue eyes and close-curling but severely cut hair. Both girls stared at him, trying to work out if he could possibly be the Magic Man. There was a lot in his favour, but his approach was damning.
‘Who runs this place?’
Sandy straightened up to her full, impressive five foot three and said, ‘I do.’
‘Have you got a spare box then?’
There was a drill for new customers. If Sandy didn’t like the look of them, she said the place was full. If she did, she had to take them up to the house to be vetted and approved.
This time she hesitated.
Leo glanced at her, appalled. ‘There’s the corner box,’ she said.
Sandy gave her a betrayed look.
‘I don’t know—’
‘If it’s empty tonight, I’ll take it,’ the man said peremptorily. ‘I’ll probably find something better when I’ve had a chance to look round. I got this horse rather unexpectedly – my great-aunt died and left it me, and her head groom sent it down without any advance warning. Stupid thing to do. It’s been travelling all day.’
It was the nearest he could get to an appeal.
‘Oh, poor thing,’ said Leo. ‘Can we look at it?’
Before the man could say anything, she had opened the groom’s door and climbed up. Sandy followed her. They looked up and saw a head, very high up, looking over a partition, arrogant of expression and noble in profile. Definitely out of the George and Blackie league. Not the sort of horse they were used to at all. Seeing the faces in the doorway, the horse whinnied imperiously. It was a dark chestnut with a white stripe on its face, and must have been at least seventeen hands high. Its eyes were large and bold and agitated. The horsebox rocked as it stamped its feet.
They were very impressed.
Leo hissed, ‘You must take it!’
‘The man’s horrible!’ Sandy hissed back.
‘But look at the horse!’
Sandy knew that opportunities should be seized. How did she know that this young man hadn’t got a heart of gold underneath the arrogant manner? Very shy people sometimes gave a bad first impression, she remembered her mother telling her. You think they’re stuck-up, but really they’re shy.
‘My name’s Anthony Speerwell. I live at Brankhead.’
Leo gave Sandy a violent nudge. The Speerwells of Brankhead were well known, having made a lot of money out of development and speculation in nearby towns. Unlike most builders, Mr Speerwell had thrived even through hard times. He had bought the lovely old Brankhead House in order to turn it into flats, but it was listed and he couldn’t get planning permission. Sandy’s father said he must have thought he could ‘buy’ permission, but so far he hadn’t managed it, so had moved in with his family. Instead of being bowled over with joy, Mrs Speerwell kept complaining about being too far away from Marks and Spencer.
Leo’s nudge nearly knocked Sandy over.
‘Tonight,’ Sandy said. ‘There’s a spare box. But I can’t promise—’
‘I’ll unbox him then.’ (No grateful thanks, no charming smile.)
‘We’ve got to get the stable ready first.’
‘I’ll wait then.’ (No offer to help.)
‘What’s the horse called?’ Leo asked.
‘King of the Fireworks. He’s said to be one of the best hunters in Leicestershire.’
‘Cor!’ said Leo.
‘You are a creep!’ Sandy railed as they went to fetch the straw. ‘The Speerwells are horrible! Everyone knows that!’
‘He’s terribly handsome. And the horse looks fabulous. I thought we wanted some class around here? Blackie – and Empress of China – I ask you! Henry’s one-eyed Dodo—’ Her voice was deeply scornful. ‘How are you going to attract class horses if you turn away the only decent—’
‘Oh, shut up! The horse is all right – but him! Anthony Speerwell – Sneerwell, more like it!’
It was going dark. Sandy switched the yard lights on and they humped four bales of straw from the barn into the empty corner box between Blackie and Empress of China. Empress of China stuck her ewe neck over the door and watched with interest. They filled a large haynet and put it up, and Sandy staggered across the yard with two water buckets, then they went back to the lorry, where Anthony Sneerwell was sitting in the cab, smoking.
‘It’s ready.’
‘You’ve been a long time.’
‘This is a do-it-yourself yard,’ Sandy said crossly. ‘Didn’t you know? It’s not our job.’
‘I can pay you.’
He stubbed out his cigarette and got down. The girls stood back as he let down the rear ramp of the lorry. Sandy wanted to see if he knew anything about horses, as she rather suspected he didn’t. King of the Fireworks was crashing around inside, obviously thinking it was time he was released, and she saw Anthony hesitate as he went to reach up to undo the headcollar rope. She saw that the horse, untied, was going to leap out headlong, and ran up the ramp just in time to hang on.
‘Steady on!’
The horse all but lifted her off her feet, but she stopped him from plunging out in a heap, and made him look what he was doing. Anthony just held the end of the rope. The horse picked his way down the steep ramp and stood looking about him, head up. Leo’s eyes were gleaming with excitement. In the dusk, even under his rugs, the horse had an undoubted quality: both blood and substance, with a beautiful head and bold, enquiring eyes. He looked all round and whinnied.
‘Shall I take him?’ Sandy asked – but knew at once it was a mistake. Anthony was not going to submit to a girl.
He didn’t reply but marched ahead, and Sandy could see straightaway that he was not experienced with horses, although the horse was too well-mannered to play him up. It was nervous though, in a new yard, and it was only when Sandy took the head-rope that the horse consented to enter the prepared box.
Perhaps Anthony realized that he had been found wanting, for he showed no sign of wanting to stop and gloat over his new acquisition, but turned to go.
‘You have to look after him,’ Sandy said anxiously. ‘You’ll come up in the morning to feed him and exercise him?’
‘I’ll probably find a better place tomorrow. Yes, I’ll be back.’
; He departed without a word of thanks.
‘I don’t believe it! That anyone can be so rude!’ Sandy raged. The responsibility was hers if he didn’t come. She was quite sure he knew nothing about mucking out. ‘A better place! Not for what we charge! The cheek of it!’
She was deeply insulted by the boy’s arrogance. But the horse was gorgeous.
‘You have to admit, he’s a winner,’ Leo sighed. ‘Don’t send him away!’
Leo thirsted to have lovely things in her life. Her pony was a scrawny little roan gelding called Puffin which she adored, because he was a goer and honest and wanted to please, but he was no looker. Her parents could not afford the likes of Big Gun from Minnesota, could hardly afford the modest livery charged at Drakesend, but they approved of Leo’s interest and had scraped to buy her Puffin. She knew when she was well off, but she couldn’t help her dreams.
They gave the new horse a feed from their own store, and then escaped before their liveries came back, pleased to think how amazed they would be when they saw the handsome new head looking over the corner door. King of the Fireworks and Empress of China seemed to have taken to each other and, just managing to touch noses, were whickering lovingly at each other.
‘All these names!’ Leo said. ‘King of this and Empress of that. Let’s call ours King George and Prince Puffin.’
‘Baron Blackie and Sir Surprise!’
‘D – d – Doctor Dodo—’
‘Duke Dodo.’
They could feel the giggles rising. Leo fetched her bike.
‘Goodnight, Lady Leo.’ Sandy bowed deeply.
‘Goodbye, Senorita Sandy.’
Sandy went indoors. The Fieldings lived mainly in their kitchen, which was large and warm, with a lobby full of muddy gumboots, old jackets and dog baskets. Her father, Bill, wasn’t in yet; Ian had been and gone. Mary Fielding was looking in the oven.
Sandy told her about Anthony Speerwell.
‘He’s absolutely horrid. But it’s only for one night.’
‘They’re not into horses that I know of. Fast cars and big dinner parties is what I’ve heard.’
‘It’s a gorgeous horse. He kept saying it’s only till he finds something better.’
‘There’s nowhere better,’ Mary Fielding said staunchly. ‘More expensive, perhaps.’
‘There’s nowhere else at all, unless he goes miles.’
It was a remote area. There was no hunting, and the scattered population was not heavily into horses. There was a Pony Club but rather far away, a dealer’s yard, and one riding school with quiet hacks.
‘It’s a pity he’s horrid,’ Sandy said, and went into a dream about Anthony Speerwell being as gorgeous as his horse, and after a few years falling passionately in love with her and taking her to live at beautiful Brankhead Hall, while his mother removed herself to a Marks and Spencer part of the world.
Sandy went into dreams quite a lot. Much as she adored George, a fat skewbald of thirteen and a half hands (the sort, as Leo pointed out, that was more often to be found on a tether at the side of a road), she hankered after a pony that would win at shows and move like a dancer and turn on its hocks at a touch of the heel. A pony that would cause people to stare and envy, and who would put its trust in her completely, do anything for her, greet her with a loving whinny. George greeted her with a whinny but only if she had a food bucket with her.
Both she and Leo were getting big for George and Puffin now. Neither of their fathers sounded as if they were going to shell out for new ponies, quite understandably, as they seemed to find it hard to pay for boring necessities like blazers and shoes and a hockey stick, not to mention a new car. Sandy knew better than to mention it. She knew she was lucky. But the Julia Marsdens of this world . . . ! Sandy knew that her remark in the school bus had been provoked by jealousy, and felt ashamed. Julia had everything and hated it. What was there to be jealous of?
Disturbed, Sandy went upstairs to her room. Sometimes it was hard to know what she wanted – this great, strange, throat-lumpy feeling of longing and longing for she knew not what would take her up and make her head spin: as if she was drifting through outer space amongst the galaxies that were so far away they were a mere blur of paleness in the sky, not even proper stars. Sometimes she wondered why she was Sandy – who had arranged it? – that she should have been born at Drakesend, instead of in Bombay or Japan or Tierra del Fuego. Why did Ian, too, want what he couldn’t have, while Duncan, the boy who did the cows, said he would give his right arm to be Ian and have his own farm to inherit? Who arranged all that so badly? God? And why did they have wishes at all, when they were loved and fed and happy, and millions were starving and dying and didn’t have so much as a string vest let alone a pony? Why was Anthony Speerwell so horrid when he had everything a rich boy could desire? Why was her sister Josie so happy when she lived in a house without electricity and a lavatory down the garden and had a baby she hadn’t meant to? (Actually, there was an answer to that one: she was in love and lived with her lover, Glynn, who laughed a lot and loved her back.)
Nobody knew Sandy had funny thoughts like this: she was known as ‘stolid’ (not an uplifting word) and unimaginative. She got jobs at school like clearing up sick because she wasn’t squeamish and she didn’t complain. She was said to be dependable. They liked her. She was boring, she thought. They didn’t like Julia, but Julia was spirited and pretty and temperamental, not stolid. They liked Leo but found her confusing because she was quirky and too clever and sometimes malicious in her teasing way; they were never sure of her, like they were with boring Sandy.
So Sandy, not pleased with herself, gazed out of her bedroom window in the darkness and saw the beautiful scene she was so used to that she really never took it in: the marsh fields seamed with ditches lying like silver threads, and the river winding like a silver serpent in the moonlight.
And on the sea-wall, lit by the moon and the stars, a boy on a pale grey horse galloping, silhouetted against the glittering river.
Sandy sucked in her breath, staring – the Wild Boy! The rider no-one had seen close to, no-one had spoken to, no-one knew about . . . the boy who rode at night. As she watched, he turned the horse and came down the wall in one bound and headed for the lane where Julia had ridden earlier, the lane that came up close to the farm and past Flirtie Gertie’s. If she were to go down now, run, she might see him at the corner of the lane, coming up from the river.
Sandy ran. She jumped down the stairs three at a time and ran down the passage and through the kitchen, where her father was just coming in.
‘Whatever—?’
But Sandy shoved past and out of the door. She ran as if she were being chased, as fast as she could, past the back of the stables and down the farm drive towards its junction with the lane. She heard the hooves coming up the lane, still galloping, and ran till her heart nearly burst, but all she saw was the tail of the grey horse passing and the silver glint of its flying shoes. There was a slim boy bareback, leaning forward, with black hair flying, and no saddle, and only a rope for a rein: that much Sandy saw, but no more. The horse was gone and the thudding of its hooves receded into the silent autumn night.
There was a mist curling up slowly over the water-meadows and nothing moved again, only a heron kraaked from the reeds, and Sandy walked slowly home.
‘HURRY UP, JULIA! You’re number ninety-four, and eighty-five is just going in now – you’ve got to warm him up!’
It was always a rush, getting home from school, boxing up and getting frustrated in the rush-hour traffic on the way to the Equestrian Centre . . . trying not to forget anything. Once she had forgotten her jodhpurs. Julia scowled as she pulled up Minnie’s girths.
‘He doesn’t need warming up. He needs cooling down!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
Julia’s mother was a hyperactive, leathery lady in her forties who drove her family with passion to achieve the heights in the sport she had once excelled in herself. A bad accident had stoppe
d her riding several years ago but hadn’t stopped her drive. She held the dancing Minnie’s head while Julia mounted.
‘It’s your attitude that’s wrong, Julia,’ her mother snapped.
Julia was perfectly well aware of this. As she rode out of the horsebox area through the big doors into the collecting-ring, she was also perfectly well aware of the spectators’ eyes fastening on her entry: Julia Marsden on Big Gun from Minnesota, the one they all had to beat. The big tan-bark indoor ring was occupied by the next ten or so ponies to go, warming up, taking turns over the practice jump. Julia knew them all well, and knew she had only one to fear – a boy called Peter Farmer on a strongly bitted grey gelding called Spaceman. His father had put the practice bar up to a ridiculous height and Spaceman was flicking over it contemptuously.
Julia despised such ritual as showing-off. Father Farmer was an unpleasant goader, interested only in winning (rather like her own mother). Peter was all right, but a bit thick. Julia was not friendly with many of her fellow competitors and knew they thought she was stuck-up too, like the people at school. She rode round miserably, putting Minnie through his beautiful paces, circling in both directions, slowing and quickening, and the spectators leaned over the wall and admired her cool, her professionalism.
It was a cold evening. The ponies’ breath smoked in the hangar-like indoor school and the lights glared harshly. From the adjoining arena where the competition was taking place came the familiar frantic thud of hooves, the occasional hollow booming of a falling pole, and the sporadic applause. The usual group of parents and hangers-on clustered round the entrance between the ring proper and the collecting-ring, criticizing and gossiping.
Just as Julia was riding past this group, a competitor came out. The round had been audibly unsuccessful and Julia looked to see who had wrought such disaster on the ring. It was no-one she knew, a slightly too large boy on a sweating bay pony. Not unusually, the parents went to meet him and give him a dressing-down.
‘She’s useless! The knackers’ is all she’s any good for!’ he shouted at them angrily.
‘We paid enough money for it!’ they screeched back.
