The Riverdale Pony Stories Box Set (Books 1-6)

by Amanda Wills

  ‘No problem. I’ll see to Chester and Cloud so there’s no rush. Give her our love.’ Caroline’s blonde head was bent over the dishwasher and her voice was muffled. She and Charlie were so lucky, Poppy thought. Caroline was such a kind, easy-going person. Perhaps her only fault was that sometimes she only saw the good in people. When her stepmum straightened up Poppy crossed the kitchen and gave her a quick hug.

  ‘Hey, what’s that for sweetheart? Everything OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ Poppy brushed her fringe out of her eyes. ‘I’m just glad you’re you, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re you, too, angel. And I’m glad Charlie is Charlie. Most of the time anyway,’ she laughed. ‘Right, we’d better get ourselves into gear otherwise you’ll both be late for school.’

  Poppy kept her head down as she arrived at the block of sheltered flats in Tavistock. She was hoping to avoid the warden, an overbearing woman called Mrs Parker, who usually bent her ear for ten minutes berating the youth of today. But luck was on her side and there was no sign of the old battleaxe. Poppy sighed with relief as she scooted down the dimly-lit corridor, stopped outside Tory’s front door and knocked. Tory’s lined face creased into a smile when she saw Poppy.

  ‘Hello pet, how lovely to see you. Come in. I’ll put the kettle on.’ Tory reached down for Poppy’s rucksack. ‘Lummy, what’ve you got in there – bricks? It’s a wonder you haven’t given yourself a hernia carting that around all day.’

  ‘You get used to it after a while. And who on earth is Lummy?’ said Poppy, taking the bag from Tory and hefting it over her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, it’s an expression my old mum used to use. I don’t suppose anyone says it any more. One sugar, isn’t it? Or would you prefer a hot chocolate? I’ve plenty of milk.’

  ‘Hot chocolate please, Tory.’ Poppy shrugged off her coat and blazer and sat down in the stiflingly hot sitting room while Tory pottered about in the kitchen. Poppy automatically reached for the framed photograph of Caitlyn and Cloud, taken at the Brambleton Horse Show more than five years before. Although she had consigned it to memory long ago she still scrutinised the photo every time she visited. It fed her obsessive need to find out everything she could about Caitlyn. Cloud’s mane was plaited and his dappled grey coat gleamed. He looked muscled and fit, every inch the champion pony as the red rosette was hooked onto his browband. Caitlyn’s black show jacket matched her polished black leather riding boots and her white breeches were spotless. She was grinning into the camera, her joy at winning the open jumping class pure and unadulterated. No-one looking at the golden pair could have predicted that a few months later Caitlyn would be dead and Cloud would be a broken shadow of himself, running wild on the moor with the Dartmoor ponies. Poppy knew it was crazy to be jealous of a dead girl. She placed the photo carefully back on Tory’s oak side table and remembered why she had come.

  ‘So how are you all? How are Cloud and Chester?’ said the old woman as she settled herself in the other armchair.

  ‘They’re both fine. Cloud’s still putting on weight and is much less nervy around people, especially Caroline. He’ll even let her pick up his feet now. Dad’s in Syria at the moment.’

  ‘I know, pet. I saw him on the late news last night.’

  Poppy took a deep breath. ‘Tory, what would you do if you thought someone you knew had committed a crime?’

  The old woman paused before she replied, her eyebrows knotted in concern.

  ‘What kind of crime, Poppy?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you at the moment. But it’s not murder or anything,’ she added quickly.

  ‘Well, I suppose I would tackle the person I thought was responsible and give them the chance to own up. And if they weren’t prepared to do that I would tell the police myself. I don’t think I could turn a blind eye. It wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘Mm. That’s what I thought, too. I just wanted to run it past someone first. Thanks Tory.’

  ‘You’re not in any trouble are you?’ asked her old friend.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me. I’ve just discovered something that needs to be put right. I’ll tell you as soon as I can.’ Poppy was silent until a thought occurred to her. ‘Does George Blackstone have any children?’

  ‘Goodness me, no. Can you imagine anyone wanting to marry him?’ Tory chuckled. ‘He had a brother, Cyril, but he died thirty odd years ago. His widow was left to bring up their daughter all on her own.’

  ‘Does she live in Waterby?’

  ‘No, she moved away with the little one soon after Cyril died and hasn’t been back since.’

  ‘Can you remember what the daughter was called?’

  ‘It was a long time ago. I’m afraid my memory isn’t what it was. I can hardly remember what I had for breakfast these days.’ As the smell of toast constantly pervaded Tory’s small flat Poppy thought she could probably hazard a guess, but kept the thought to herself. Tory, meanwhile, was adding two and two together and getting pretty close to the mark.

  ‘Is this anything to do with the secret you’ve uncovered,’ she asked, her faded blue eyes suddenly flint sharp.

  Poppy realised that she should have been more subtle in her line of questioning. ‘I just wondered, that’s all.’ As she looked around for inspiration her eyes fell on the clock on Tory’s mantelpiece.

  ‘Crikey, is that the time? I’d better go or I’ll miss the bus.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  For the next few weeks Poppy was swept up in the build up to Christmas. During their weekly riding lessons she watched Hope like a hawk. The Tavistock Herald continued to print updates on the Hope for Hope Appeal as villagers organised quiz nights, boot fairs and even a sponsored walk to raise money to send Hope to America. Poppy knew she would have to tackle her friend soon, but the days were so packed with school carol concerts, end of term productions and Christmas shopping expeditions that she didn’t have time to stop and think.

  The weekend before Christmas Caroline drove them to Bromley to stay with her sister Lizzie. Scarlett had offered to look after Cloud and Chester while they were away and was patiently responding to the text messages Poppy was sending hourly to check all was well.

  On Saturday evening, after a frenetic trip into London to see the Christmas lights, Poppy sat curled up on the sofa in Lizzie’s chaotic kitchen watching the two sisters prepare dinner. Charlie was on the rug by her feet playing with an old box of Lego that Lizzie had unearthed in the loft. Poppy was exhausted. She’d felt strangely out of place as they’d jostled with hordes of Christmas shoppers in Oxford Street. They’d only moved from Twickenham to Devon six months earlier but she already felt like a country mouse visiting her cousins in the city. She wasn’t used to seeing so many people in one place at one time. She also missed Cloud with an ache that refused to go away. After texting Scarlett yet again she picked up a crumpled copy of the local paper from the arm of the sofa and began flicking through it. As she scanned story after story of police incidents, council intrigue and court cases she had a flash of inspiration.

  ‘Auntie Lizzie, can I borrow your computer for a minute? I want to Skype Scarlett, just to check how things are at home.’

  Lizzie stopped chopping vegetables. ‘Of course you can, darling. You know where it is, don’t you?’

  Poppy nodded and made her way to the cellar, which had been converted into a den. She switched on the computer and within a couple of minutes the freckled face of her best friend was grinning at her as if she was in the same room, not two hundred and fifty miles away on the edge of Dartmoor.

  ‘How’s London? Did you get a chance to go to Harrods or Hamleys? What were the Christmas lights like? I bet they were a million times better than the ones at home. Honestly, Poppy, sometimes I feel like I live in the back of beyond.’

  ‘You are funny, Scar. I can’t wait to get home. London is so busy. Anyway, how are Cloud and Chester?’

  ‘They’re fine. We’ve just been over to check. Cloud was lying down in hi
s stable and Chester was standing watching over him. They’re so sweet together.’

  ‘I know. It’s almost as if Chester is Cloud’s guardian angel. I miss them so much.’

  ‘You’re back tomorrow evening, aren’t you? Only one more sleep,’ teased Scarlett.

  ‘Thank goodness. Have you seen Hope?’ Poppy asked.

  ‘No. We spent yesterday in Plymouth finishing off the Christmas shopping and drove over to see Great Aunt Lucy today.’

  ‘Where does she live?’ asked Poppy, homesick for Devon.

  ‘Near Holsworthy. She’s my dad’s spinster auntie and used to be the head teacher of an all-girls boarding school. She’s totally terrifying. But she makes a lovely fruit cake.’

  ‘While we’re on the subject of old ladies, what was the name of the woman who lived at Flint Cottage before Hope and Shelley?’

  ‘Mrs Deakins. She died ages ago.’

  ‘So why would someone be sending letters to Flint Cottage addressed to a Mrs M. Turner?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘Scar, I’ve been thinking about Hope and her mum, about the appeal and everything.’

  ‘And?’

  Scarlett listened intently as Poppy voiced her suspicions. Even to her own ears they sounded implausible. And yet…

  ‘Are you sure?’ Scarlett was scandalised.

  ‘Not one hundred per cent,’ Poppy admitted. ‘Maybe my imagination’s running away with me. But there are too many coincidences. I just need to find a way of proving I’m right. What would the name Shelley be short for?’

  ‘Michelle?’ Scarlett hazarded.

  ‘That’s what I thought. Look, there’s something I want to try. In the meantime promise me you’ll keep it to yourself? It would be awful if I was wrong.’

  ‘Of course I promise, you twit. As long as you promise to keep me posted.’

  They ended the connection and Poppy sat twiddling a strand of hair that had come loose from her ponytail. She began typing furiously into a search engine and at last found a website that confirmed her suspicions. The reason for Hope’s secrecy was there in black and white. But Poppy felt no sense of triumph. She switched off the computer with a heavy heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Poppy carried the weight of her untold secret heavily until Monday morning, the first day of the Christmas holidays. After mucking out and feeding Cloud and Chester she ran virtually all the way to Ashworthy. By the time she reached Scarlett’s back door she was panting heavily. Scarlett led her up to her bedroom, where Poppy collapsed on the floor in a sweaty heap.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Scarlett.

  ‘I was right. Look, it’s all here,’ said Poppy, waving a printout from Lizzie’s computer in Scarlett’s face. She grabbed it and Poppy watched her eyes widen as she started reading.

  ‘Poor Hope,’ Scarlett whispered. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Nothing. At least not for a few days.’ Poppy had made the decision in the early hours. ‘Let’s all enjoy Christmas first. Then we can come up with a plan of action.’

  Mike McKeever’s plane was due to land at Heathrow early on Christmas Eve and he’d promised to be home just after lunch. Poppy spent the morning sweeping out the tack room, wrestling with spider webs and re-arranging the grooming kit, tack, rugs and feed bins into some semblance of order before giving Caroline a hand indoors.

  ‘Just as well your dad’s back today,’ Caroline remarked as she and Poppy wrapped streaky bacon around cocktail sausages and rolled sage, onion and chestnut stuffing into balls. ‘Snow’s forecast tonight.’

  ‘A white Christmas! Seriously?’ said Charlie. ‘That would be epic!’

  Poppy had purloined the McKeevers’ old artificial tree for her bedroom and had adorned it with the leftover tinsel, baubles and homemade creations she had found at the bottom of their enormous cardboard box of Christmas decorations. Some, including the toilet roll fairy for the top of the tree, had been made when Poppy was at pre-school and her mum was still alive. Right at the bottom of the box were a couple of red felt stocking decorations that Poppy still remembered embellishing with buttons and ribbon. She pictured her four-year-old self, her brown hair falling forward and her tongue between her teeth as she concentrated on getting glue on the buttons and ribbons and not her fingers, her mum helping with the tricky bits. The memory made her smile.

  Just after two o’clock she heard car doors slam and by the time she had run downstairs her dad was already in the hallway, hanging his jacket on the bottom of the bannister. Poppy flung her arms around him.

  ‘Hello, my gorgeous girl. How’s Cloud? Is his leg better yet?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re hopeless, Dad. It’s his foot, not his leg. And no, not yet. His next X-ray is due in a fortnight.’

  ‘Foot, leg, it’s all the same to me. How are the riding lessons going?’

  ‘Brilliant. We’ve moved on from flatwork to pole work and a bit of jumping now. I’m working on my contact and impulsion and getting Rosie into a nice outline.’

  Her dad ruffled her hair. ‘I’ve got absolutely no idea what you’re talking about but it all sounds very impressive.’

  They spent the afternoon catching up and, after an early tea, settled down in front of the fire to watch a Christmas film.

  ‘I love Christmas Eve better than Christmas Day, if I’m honest,’ said Caroline. ‘I remember when I was your age Poppy, I used to creep downstairs in the middle of the night to go and see Hamilton.’ Poppy pictured a young Caroline tiptoeing down the stairs to see the fleabitten grey pony she’d owned as a girl. ‘I’d read about this legend that claimed that animals were able to talk at the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve,’ her stepmum continued. ‘I tried it two years running but no luck. He was pleased to see me and I think I got a whicker but he never said a word. I gave up after that.’

  That night Poppy set the alarm on her mobile phone for a quarter to midnight, making sure it was on vibrate mode before shoving it under her pillow. When the pillow started shuddering a couple of hours later it took her several minutes to come to but when she did she dressed quickly. She tugged the duvet from her bed, dragging it silently behind her like a bride’s train, down the stairs, through the hallway and into the kitchen. Stuck on the back door was a note, written in Caroline’s familiar handwriting.

  I thought you might be heading for the stables. Give Cloud and Chester my love and don’t forget to tell me if the magic works for you!

  Poppy was grinning as she pulled on her coat and wellies and let herself out of the back door.

  It was a cloudy night and bitingly cold. She could almost taste the ice in the air. She lent on the stable door and peered in. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the inky blackness inside but as she stared the outlines of Cloud and Chester slowly began to take shape. They were standing nose to tail, their heads drooping as they slept.

  Poppy checked her watch. Ten to midnight. Almost Christmas. The day was always bittersweet. It was the day more than any other that she missed her mum. Poppy often wondered if the gash in her heart left by Isobel’s death would ever fully heal. Her mum had adored Christmas and had always gone completely over the top, throwing decorations at their Twickenham home until it resembled Santa’s grotto in Hamleys. She’d insisted on inviting more relatives than could comfortably squeeze into their terraced home, and the party usually lasted for several days. Caroline’s approach was more measured. They’d still had a six foot tree in the bay window of their front room but until this year they had always spent the day itself at Lizzie’s in Bromley.

  Poppy gazed at Cloud, his face now so familiar to her that she could have drawn it from memory. Something cold landed on her nose, making her start. It was a flake of snow, sparkling in the beam cast by the security light over the stable door. She squinted into the dark. More flakes were coming, falling from the sky like tiny parachutes, dancing in the gusts. It was going to be a white Christmas. Charlie would be so excited. For the first time since Isobel’
s death, Poppy felt her mother’s presence so keenly it was as if she was standing beside her, her arm wrapped around Poppy’s shoulders.

  She eased open the bolt on the door and crept into the stable. Cloud, who had only been dozing, woke and turned towards her. When he realised it was Poppy he gave the softest whicker. Chester jerked his head up, opened his liquid brown eyes and hee-hawed loudly.

  ‘Shh! It’s only me,’ whispered Poppy. ‘I wanted to wish you both a happy Christmas.’ And see if you would talk to me at midnight, she thought, even though she knew it was as unlikely as finding snow in the Sahara. Chester shook his woolly head, dismissing such nonsense, walked over and started nibbling her pockets. Cloud gave her a friendly nudge.

  ‘OK, OK, be patient,’ Poppy told them, fishing around for a packet of Polos. She gave them one each and popped a third into her mouth before settling in the corner of the stable, the duvet wrapped around her. As all three crunched companionably Poppy smiled contentedly. She checked her watch. A couple of minutes to go.

  ‘If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be spending the next Christmas Eve with my own pony and donkey I’d have thought they were crackers,’ she said. Right now Dartmoor seemed light years away from leafy Twickenham. ‘I thought I was the unluckiest girl in the world when my mum died. I thought so for years. But not anymore. It’s like my luck changed the moment we moved to Riverdale. Perhaps there is magic here.’

  Cloud locked eyes with her and she crossed her fingers, willing him to speak. ‘It’s midnight, Cloud. It’s now or never,’ she whispered.

  The stable was so quiet a field mouse could have dropped a miniature pin and no-one would have heard it fall. Poppy held her breath.

  Cloud, her perfect pony, her beautiful boy, lifted his silver tail and broke wind noisily. The sound reverberated around the stable’s four walls like a rumble of thunder. Poppy felt bubbles of laughter rising from deep inside her belly and was soon bent double, cackling like a hyena. ‘So much for Christmas Eve magic,’ she spluttered. ‘Wait until Caroline hears about this!’