by Amanda Wills
Charlie had insisted they both cover their faces with the camouflage face paints that their dad had brought home from one of his trips to the Middle East. He’d been given them by a British soldier he’d interviewed in the desert.
‘I knew they’d come in handy one day,’ whispered the six-year-old, his face streaked with brown and khaki-green, his ultramarine eyes glittering with excitement.
It was a cloudless night and the full moon cast a benevolent light on the pair as Poppy once again followed her brother across the field, over the fence and into the wood.
This time, in place of his bow and arrow, Charlie carried a pair of bird-watching binoculars around his neck and the small digital camera he’d been given for Christmas in his pocket. The spindly beams of light cast by their head torches helped them pick their way through the undergrowth until they reached the river. They turned left to follow it upstream, scrambling over fallen branches until they came to the bend where the river widened out.
Before they reached the small sandy beach Charlie stopped, motioning Poppy to follow suit.
‘We don’t want to get too close,’ he murmured. ‘We need to find somewhere good to hide.’
Poppy looked around, her gaze settling on a fallen oak tree with a girth so wide they could easily take cover behind it. She pointed and they crept silently towards it, slithered over the tree and positioned themselves as comfortably as they could behind it. Charlie grinned at Poppy and pointed at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. It was ten to eleven and Caroline was probably in bed by now, oblivious to their exploits.
At first it was exciting listening to the sounds of the night and watching the bats swoop over their heads to drink from the stream. Twice they heard the long, eerie screech of a barn owl. The sudden noise was so close it made them both jump. After half an hour Poppy had cramp in one foot and even Charlie the expert tracker was beginning to get restless.
‘Five more minutes,’ she said softly. Charlie nodded and once more they settled down to wait.
Charlie was the first to hear a rustle in the undergrowth and he clutched Poppy’s arm. The sound was coming from the far side of the river and they strained their eyes to see. Behind the undergrowth and interwoven branches was a ghostly shape which gradually began to take form as it drew closer. Charlie’s grip on Poppy’s arm grew tighter and she realised she was holding her breath as the shape finally emerged from the trees. Poppy felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
It wasn’t a puma or a jaguar. It was a dappled grey pony, which stopped and sniffed the air cautiously before stepping forward to drink from the river. The pony was bigger than Blaze and Flynn and was of a much finer build. He had dark grey points and a tail so long it brushed the floor. He drank thirstily, his coat briefly turning silver in the moonlight. Poppy gazed at the pony, wondering where he’d come from and how he’d ended up in their wood. She was surprised he couldn’t hear her heart hammering.
She was so focussed on the pony that she didn’t see Charlie reach into his pocket, take out his camera, point it and click. For a split second the flash lit the air and the pony half-reared in shock, whinnied and wheeled off into the trees.
Poppy rounded on her brother. ‘Charlie, you idiot! Look what you’ve done!’
‘Sorry Poppy, I didn’t mean to scare it away. I forgot about the flash.’ He looked so crestfallen she didn’t have the heart to say any more.
‘Anyway, we’ve seen loads of Dartmoor ponies since we moved here. Why are you so upset about this one running off?’ he asked.
‘That was no Dartmoor pony,’ replied Poppy, standing up to let the blood flow back into her cramped foot. ‘I don’t know where he’s come from or why he’s living wild but I intend to find out.’
Chapter Ten
The next morning Poppy was so convinced that the pony was a figment of her imagination that she’d gone into Charlie’s bedroom, found his camera and checked that the photo he’d taken actually existed. After scrolling through various out-of-focus images of her and Caroline and a few of Chester, she came to the photograph she was looking for. Charlie had captured the pony half-rearing in the moonlight in the moment before he turned and fled. Although the image was fuzzy Poppy could make out his flared nostrils and brown eyes full of fear. The sight made her heart twist painfully.
‘Where could he have come from?’ she asked Scarlett later that morning, as the pair tacked up Flynn and Blaze before setting off on a gentle ride on the moor. Poppy loved hacking out. Flynn was such a gentleman that she overlooked his tendency to grab a mouthful of grass whenever he thought he could get away with it.
‘I’ve no idea but I bet I can guess who does,’ Scarlett replied.
‘Tory!’ Poppy answered. She’d spent the morning wondering if the old woman knew more than she was letting on. Her evasiveness and the wistful way she’d looked into the wood suggested she might know something about the mysterious grey pony. Poppy was desperate to quiz Tory about him.
As luck would have it she didn’t have to wait long. After weeks of sun the weather finally broke the next day and, faced with the unappealing prospect of a rainy Saturday afternoon at home entertaining an energetic Charlie, Caroline had suggested they go into Tavistock for a trip to the library followed by a cream tea.
‘While you two are in the library, could I go and see Tory? I want to show her the photos Charlie took of Chester after I gave him that bath,’ Poppy asked, holding her breath while Caroline considered the request.
In Twickenham her stepmother never let the children out of her sight but she’d become much more relaxed since they’d moved to Devon. Poppy was eleven and about to start secondary school after all. She needed some independence.
‘Good idea. I’ll drop you off at Tory’s flat and then we can meet in the cafe opposite the town hall at three o’clock. I’ve got her address here somewhere.’
Caroline fished about in a drawer in the oak dresser until she found the scrap of paper she was looking for.
‘Here it is. Right, shall we go? Charlie, have you got your library books?’
The windscreen wipers were going nineteen to the dozen as Caroline drew up outside the block of sheltered flats where Tory lived.
‘Tory’s flat is number twelve. Give her our love and we’ll see you at three,’ Caroline said. Poppy pulled on her hood and made a run for the flats. As she splashed through puddles to the disabled ramp at the front of the building, the strident tones of a woman’s voice made her start.
‘Hello! Can I help you?’ It sounded more like a threat than a question. The woman stuck her head out of the entrance door and looked at a rain-sodden Poppy with distaste, as if she was something the cat had dragged in. ‘I’m Mrs Parker and I’m the warden here. You’re not one of those dreadful hoodies are you?’ she said, peering closely at Poppy. She was, Poppy guessed, in her late fifties and had a helmet of tightly permed grey hair that didn’t move when she looked Poppy up and down. She wore a heavy tweed skirt of a nondescript brown and a fawn-coloured twinset with an obligatory string of pearls. Unfortunately the lady-of-the-manor look was ruined by her pink, fluffy, rabbit-shaped slippers. Mrs Parker caught Poppy staring at her feet and the girl’s perplexed expression seemed to antagonise her further.
‘Well, do you have a tongue in that head of yours?’ she asked sharply.
‘I’m Poppy. I’m a friend of Tory’s. Can you show me where her flat is, please?’ Poppy attempted a winning smile.
‘I might have known,’ Mrs Parker muttered, opening the door wide enough for Poppy to step inside. The warden’s helmet of hair remained motionless as she turned and pointed along a dimly lit corridor.
‘Down there, second door on the right. She’s in - I can hear her television from here. Well, what are you waiting for - Christmas?’ Mrs Parker asked rudely, as Poppy stood rooted to the spot. ‘And I don’t want any trouble from either of you!’ With that, she turned on the heel of her slippers and stalked off in the opposite direction.
&
nbsp; Poppy pulled back her hood, sending raindrops scattering, and walked along the corridor, stopping when she saw a ceramic plaque painted with the number twelve and a pretty border of pink roses. She knocked softly and then with more force so Tory would hear her over the sound of the television. Her friend opened the door a crack and, seeing a bedraggled Poppy standing outside, opened it wide, a broad smile on her weather-beaten face.
‘Poppy! What a lovely surprise. Come in, you look absolutely soaked. Sit down over here. You can tell me how Chester is while I make you a drink. I’m missing the old boy dreadfully. Did you meet Mrs Parker? See what I mean? She has me down as a trouble-maker, all because I’ve started organising a poker night in the residents’ lounge every Friday. It’s very popular but the old dragon doesn’t approve, says it’s lowering the tone. And it’s not like it’s strip poker! This place needs livening up a bit if you ask me.’
Poppy sank gratefully into one of the two armchairs in Tory’s front room and looked around her while Tory turned off the television and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Tory’s lounge had a window overlooking a small courtyard. Doors led off to a galley kitchen, a tiny bedroom and an even smaller bathroom. There was a faint smell of toast. Poppy got the impression that more furniture than there was room for had been shoehorned into the flat. The two armchairs were covered in a busy floral fabric and each was draped in lace antimacassars. Against one of the magnolia walls was a glass-fronted dark wood cabinet filled with porcelain figurines. An old oak gate-leg table with barley twist legs stood between the two armchairs, its surface covered in framed photographs.
As Tory chatted away in the kitchen, Poppy stole a look at the pictures. One, a sepia portrait of a young couple looking seriously into the lens, must have been Tory and Douglas on their wedding day. There was a photo of the couple and a small girl aged about five standing in front of Riverdale. She must be Jo, the daughter Tory had fallen out with. Other pictures showed Tory’s family through the passing of years and Poppy was beginning to lose interest when a photo half hidden at the back caught her eye. She reached out to have a closer look and what she saw made her stomach flip over. The photo showed a girl on a dappled grey pony being presented with a red rosette by a man in a hacking jacket. Peering closer, she could just make out the words Brambleton Horse Show around the edge of the rosette. As Tory shuffled slowly in with Poppy’s tea she guiltily tried to put the photo back in its place but in her haste toppled over the two frames in front of it.
‘I wondered if you’d notice that,’ said Tory, gently placing the mug on a small stool next to Poppy’s armchair.
‘It’s the same pony I’ve seen in the wood, isn’t it Tory? You know where he came from, don’t you? Please tell me.’
Tory picked up the photo and sat down heavily in the other chair. She looked at the girl and pony and her face sagged in sadness.
‘Yes, I do know where the pony came from, pet. But it’s a long story with no happy ending. Are you really sure you want to know?’
Chapter Eleven
‘I used to be a bit of a rider myself in my day,’ Tory began, settling herself into her armchair as the rain pounded against the window.
‘You didn’t tell me that,’ said Poppy, taking a sip of the milky tea, feeling its warmth spread through her. She held the mug in both hands as Tory smiled.
‘Nothing major but I used to compete in local shows and hunter trials. A couple of times I even entered the showjumping classes at the Devon County Show on my mare Hopscotch. She was a chestnut thoroughbred, a beautiful horse, so willing and nice-natured. You would have loved her. When our daughter was born I assumed she would be as pony-mad as I’d been but Jo suffered badly from asthma and being around horses often brought on an attack. Perhaps because of this she was always nervous around them and, of course, they picked up on it. It wasn’t a happy combination.
‘Then, 18 years ago, Jo’s daughter Caitlyn was born. Almost from the time she could walk Caitlyn lived and breathed horses and would pester her mum into bringing her to Riverdale to spend time with Hopscotch and Chester. Hopscotch was virtually retired by then but I used to put Caitlyn up on her and take them both onto the moors on the leading rein for hours at a time. Cait looked like a pea on a drum but she loved it.
‘When she was about six I was given Sparky, a roan Dartmoor pony, on loan as a companion for Hopscotch and Chester and, of course, he soon became Caitlyn’s pony. Jo wasn’t best pleased but Caitlyn adored him and the two of them joined the pony club and competed in gymkhanas and local horse shows.’
Poppy tried not to feel envious of Caitlyn, who’d had the kind of pony-filled childhood she’d always dreamed of.
‘Eventually Caitlyn grew too big for Sparky. Jo didn’t want her to have a bigger pony and was keen for her to give up riding altogether to concentrate on her schoolwork, but I disagreed. Cait was a really instinctive, gutsy rider and I felt sure that with the right pony she could compete at a county level, if not higher.
‘Then I heard about a shipment of ponies that had come over from Ireland and were being sold at the next horse sale at Newton Abbot. I drove over there in my horsebox one April afternoon thinking it was worth a try.’
‘How long ago was that?’ Poppy asked, intrigued.
‘Let me think. It must have been six years ago now. Caitlyn was 12 at the time. I didn’t tell her or her mother what I was doing. I didn’t want to get Cait’s hopes up and I knew Jo would try to talk me out of it. So I turned up at the sale and there was the usual mix of coloured colts and mares with foals at foot with the odd riding pony thrown in. The Irish ponies were listed last. They were all nice-looking ponies, mainly Connemaras that had been backed but needed bringing on.
‘But the last pony really caught my eye. He was a 14.2hh dappled grey with a handsome face and lovely conformation. He was very nervous and skittered around the ring shying at everything. But he had the kindest eyes. I had a gut feeling he was the right pony for Caitlyn.’
Poppy knew the answer but she asked anyway. ‘Did you buy him?’
‘Yes. I got him for a song because it was the end of the day and I think people were worried he was a bit flighty. Jo was so cross she wouldn’t speak to me for a couple of days but Caitlyn was on cloud nine. She fell in love with him in an instant. And that’s what we called him - Cloud Nine, or Cloud for short.’
‘What was he like?’ asked Poppy.
‘He was gentle with me and Cait but he was a different pony around men. When the farrier came to shoe him he went berserk in his stable and it took over an hour for him to calm down. I’m sure he must have been treated roughly at some stage. But he and Cait clicked straight away. We spent the first few weeks gaining his confidence, just grooming him, tacking him up and taking him out for hours on long reins. All the handling paid off and when Caitlyn did finally ride him he went like a dream.
‘Soon they were jumping at local shows and winning their classes easily. Cloud would do anything for Caitlyn. They trusted each other completely. She was desperate to follow in my footsteps and compete in a hunter trial. Her mum was dead set against it. She said it was too dangerous but I talked her around.’
Tory picked up the photograph of the girl and her pony again as if drawing strength for the final part of her story. ‘We found a novice hunter trial for her in Widecombe. She was so excited she and Cloud practised for hours jumping fallen trees and ditches on the moors. After weeks of dry weather the day of the competition was as wet as today.’ Tory looked at the window where the rain was still beating a steady drum against the glass.
‘The course was as slippery as a skid pan. Jo pleaded with Caitlyn not to compete but I convinced her they would both be fine, that Cloud had studs in his shoes, he was a really careful jumper and that he’d look after her.’
Poppy could hardly bear to hear what happened next.
‘They set off well and Cloud was jumping out of his skin.’ Tory gave a half sob before carrying on. ‘Every hunter trial has i
ts bogey fence and this one was a drop fence followed by a ditch three quarters of the way around the course.’
Poppy had seen drop fences at Badminton and Burghley. Often a log or brush fence, they looked straightforward but had a steep drop on the other side so horse and rider landed on a lower level than the one they’d taken off from.
‘The bank on the other side of the fence had been completely churned up and those horses that hadn’t refused were slipping down it,’ remembered Tory. She and Jo had been standing close to the fence as Cait and Cloud galloped towards it. Tory remembered the pony’s ears flick back as he hesitated for a second before taking off.
‘I don’t know what happened next, no-one really did. Whether he had been spooked by something in the crowd or by the height of the drop I don’t know, but Cloud suddenly twisted in mid-air. As he landed he lost his footing and somersaulted over, throwing Cait underneath him.’
Five years later the scene was still imprinted on Tory’s memory as if it had happened that morning. Cloud had struggled to his feet and given an almighty shake. Below him Cait was lying motionless on the ground. Jo had screamed and together they had run over, Tory repeating under her breath, ‘She’s just winded herself, she’s just winded, she’ll sit up in a minute.’
But thirteen-year-old Caitlyn never did sit up. Within minutes an ambulance, its blue lights flashing and its sirens screaming, arrived and a screen was erected around the young rider, shielding her from the crowds as the paramedics carried her still body onto the ambulance and away.
By now the tears were streaming down Tory’s lined cheeks. ‘Her death was all my fault. I should never have encouraged Cait to enter the competition. If it wasn’t for me she’d still be here. She would have been eighteen by now. She had her whole life ahead of her and because of me she never even reached her fourteenth birthday.
