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

by Amanda Wills

  The question was, what could she do to make things right?

  Poppy flung her bike on the grass and vaulted the gate to Cloud and Chester's paddock. The Connemara was dozing by the far hedge but opened his eyes and whickered with pleasure when Poppy called him. She threw her arms around him, breathing in lungfuls of his pure, horsey smell, imagining how awful it would be if they had to sell up and move away. She felt a sob rising in her throat at the thought of him being driven away in someone else's horsebox to a yard who knew where. The prospect was too terrible to bear and she collapsed onto the ground, tears streaming down her cheeks. When Cloud nuzzled her neck and blew softly into her ear she wailed even harder. She stayed like that, hugging her knees, with Cloud watching over her, until she was all cried out.

  It was Chester who dragged her from her misery. The old donkey wandered over and gave her a determined nudge. As she gazed into his chocolate brown eyes she felt her resolve strengthen.

  ‘I know, I'm being wet and pathetic,’ she said in a quavering voice. ‘What would Tory say? That every problem has a solution, that's what.’

  She wiped her nose on the bottom of her tee-shirt and climbed stiffly to her feet. ‘I just need to work out what it is.’

  Her dad was in the lounge watching cricket, with Magpie on his lap looking daggers at Freddie, who was lying at his feet, his raspberry-pink tongue lolling.

  ‘Hello, daughter of mine.’ Mike McKeever patted the seat beside him.

  Poppy sat down and tickled Magpie's chin. The cat gave Freddie a supercilious look and began purring loudly.

  ‘Why the sad face?’ her dad asked.

  Poppy shrugged.

  ‘You never have time to talk to me these days,’ he said. ‘You're always too busy with the other men in your life.’

  Poppy looked quizzically at him until the penny dropped. ‘You mean Cloud and Chester?’

  Mike McKeever stuck out his bottom lip and nodded sorrowfully. He looked so like Charlie that she had to giggle.

  ‘You twit,’ she said fondly. ‘It's because I love them more.’

  ‘Fair enough. I know when I'm beaten. So I'm presuming that you've come to find me because you want something. A new Australian rug or some of those padded socks Cloud wears when he goes in Bill's trailer?’

  ‘You mean a New Zealand rug, Dad. And they're not padded socks, they're travel boots. No, I don't want anything like that. I need some advice.’

  Her dad muted the TV. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘If you had to raise a huge amount of money for a horse sanctuary, what would you do?’

  ‘How much are we talking?’

  ‘Thousands. And it needs to be raised quickly.’

  ‘Is this for that place Scarlett got her new pony from?’

  Poppy nodded. ‘Nethercote'll have to close if Jodie can't find a way to raise enough money. She's getting desperate.’ That was the understatement of the year, Poppy thought to herself.

  Her dad rested his chin on steepled fingers. ‘Britain is a country of animal lovers. If people knew her horses were under threat they'd dig deep into their pockets, I'm sure.’

  ‘That's the problem. People don't know.’

  ‘Well then, she must find a way to tell them.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘She needs publicity and she must think big. She needs to tell her story to the TV and newspapers. The money'll come rolling in, I guarantee it.’

  ‘But no-one's going to be interested in a tiny horse rescue place in Devon, Dad.’

  ‘That's where you've got to think smart. Jodie needs a hook to draw the journalists in. An animal with a tragic back story that'll grab the headlines.’

  Poppy pictured the real-life magazines her old friend Tory enjoyed with a cup of tea and a slice of Battenberg. There was no doubt Jodie could make a few quid selling her story. How I smuggled stolen phones into prison to save my horses. But Poppy didn't think any public relations guru worth their salt would recommend resorting to that particular course of action.

  ‘Every horse at Nethercote has a tragic back story, Dad. That's why they're there.’

  ‘Point taken. A tragic out-of-the-ordinary back story. You'll think of something, Poppy. You've lived with your old dad long enough to know what makes the news.’

  It was true, Poppy thought. But her dad was a war correspondent. He covered conflicts in the Middle East. Proper weighty crises and catastrophes in which lives were lost and worlds turned upside down. Stories that newsreaders read with solemn voices, not the light and fluffy news items which ended the bulletins, leaving viewers with a happy heart, their faith in humankind restored.

  ‘So if I do find a tragic, out-of-the-ordinary back story, can you help me?’

  Her dad ruffled her hair. ‘'Course I can, sweetheart. I went to journalism college with the producer of Spotlight. I'm sure I can pull in a favour or two. But the story needs to stand up.’

  Poppy gave Magpie a last chuck under his chin. ‘Fair enough. Better get started then, hadn't I?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hunched over the laptop at the kitchen table with a notepad and pen beside her, Poppy called up the Nethercote Horse Rescue website and clicked on a tab that said Our horses. Jodie had reproduced the photos that she'd used on the display panels at the fete. Kirsty, Mr Darcy and Percy were all there. Poppy even spotted the four white socks and white-splodged nose of Red as a foal, being bottle-fed by a much younger-looking Jodie. Poppy skim-read their stories, looking for a hook that would entice the local television station to send a camera crew to Nethercote. Each one was a litany of human cruelty, neglect and ignorance. But although they made Poppy feel sick to the stomach she knew such back stories were universal the world over. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

  Sighing, Poppy flipped the laptop closed and stared out of the window, hoping for an epiphany. But the harder she tried to think, the emptier her mind became. Caroline came in from the garden and began washing lettuce for their dinner. Her dad wandered by in search of his reading glasses. Magpie rubbed against her legs before settling into Freddie's bed by the range, the feline equivalent of a self-satisfied smirk on his whiskered face. Still Poppy's mind remained stubbornly blank.

  Her reverie was broken when Charlie bowled in like a mini hurricane.

  ‘Can I have a biscuit, Mum?’ he called, his hand already in the tin.

  ‘Just one. Dinner won't be long,’ said Caroline, taking a quiche out of the oven.

  Biscuit. The word reverberated around Poppy's head like one of those tiny silver orbs in a pinball machine. Charlie rammed a ginger biscuit in his mouth and crunched noisily. Biscuit. Poppy clapped her hand to her head and Charlie and Caroline looked at her inquiringly.

  ‘I'm so stupid! The answer's been there all along!’ Poppy flung her chair back and hugged her brother. ‘You're a genius, Charlie. An absolute, utter genius!’

  Charlie's eyes widened in surprise. ‘Usually you think I'm an annoying idiot.’

  ‘Not today, little brother. Today you are the cleverest person I know. A proper mastermind. Right, I need to see Dad.’

  He was in the lounge reading the paper. He peered over his glasses as she plonked herself on the sofa.

  ‘I've found an out-of-the-ordinary back story,’ she announced. ‘What if there was a pony at Nethercote who'd been airlifted by helicopter from the top of a tower block where he'd been kept alive on vegetable peelings, scraps of bread and rainwater?’

  Her dad folded the newspaper. ‘I'd say that was pretty out-of-the-ordinary.’

  ‘Caroline said this pony had even been on the news when he was rescued. So if his new home was under threat because of a lack of money, that might make headlines, right?’

  ‘I'd say so,’ said her dad. ‘And this pony actually exists, does it?’

  Poppy pictured Biscuit, the white spots on his chestnut coat like snowflakes as he snoozed in the daisies. His story wasn't on the Nethercote website, and in her desperation she'd completely forgotten him.
‘Yes, he definitely exists. So will you phone your friend at Spotlight?’

  Her dad was already reaching for his mobile. Poppy chewed a nail as she listened to the one-sided conversation. After what seemed like an age he hung up.

  ‘You're lucky - it's the silly season and they're scratching around for news. They're sending a crew around first thing in the morning. Unless something else breaks it'll be top item on tomorrow's programme. With a fair wind and a bit of luck it'll be picked up by the nationals and those donations will come flooding in.’

  Poppy hugged her dad. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ she gabbled into his lambswool sweater. ‘You don't know how much this means.’

  ‘No problem, sweetheart. You'd better go and tell Jodie the good news.’

  Poppy grabbed a slice of quiche and went to catch Cloud. If she cut across the moor it was only about three miles to Nethercote. The Spotlight reporter was due at half nine the following morning. She had to convince Jodie that the interview was the right thing to do. That the publicity it would attract would raise enough money to keep the rescue centre afloat. But, most importantly, Poppy had to talk Jodie out of her plan to smuggle the mobile phones into the prison. Poppy had a feeling that would be the hardest task.

  Cloud cantered across the moor, jumping a low stone wall with ease and flying over a small stream. Emotions churned in Poppy's stomach like a witch's potion in a steaming cauldron. Love for her pony. Terror she could lose him. Anxiety about the conversation that lay ahead. And a glimmer of hope that if she could change Jodie's mind, she stood a chance of making everything alright.

  Cloud looked around with interest as they walked up the Nethercote drive.

  ‘This is where your new buddy Red used to live,’ Poppy told him, trying to keep her tone light and her breathing steady. But the waver in her voice gave away her nerves.

  Jodie's Land Rover wasn't parked in its usual place. Poppy rang the bell by the tack room but no-one came. Perhaps Jodie was in one of the paddocks. Poppy led Cloud past the stables. His eyes rolled and his nostrils flared in mock horror as the rescue horses watched them walk by.

  ‘It's alright, silly,’ Poppy said, stroking his neck. ‘They won't hurt you.’

  Jodie wasn't in the paddocks either. Poppy checked her watch. Half past six. Time was running out. She knocked at the back door. Inside a radio was playing pop music. She knocked again, harder this time. A door slammed and heels clicked on a stone floor. Jodie's mum appeared, a lipstick in one hand and a handbag in the other. Bracelets jangled on her wrists and her hair had been newly blow dried.

  Poppy took a deep breath. ‘Sorry to bother you but is Jodie in?’

  ‘She isn't, I'm afraid. Disappeared about an hour ago. Didn't even stay for her dinner, the little minx.’ Her voice was indignant.

  ‘Do you know where she's gone? I really need to speak to her.’

  Jodie's mum looked cagey. ‘No idea.’

  ‘When will she be back?’

  ‘I don't know, love. I'm not her keeper. Look, I'm late for work. Can I leave her a message?’

  Poppy dithered. Could she confide in Jodie's mum? Cloud shifted his weight and nudged Poppy in the back. Jodie's mum looked at her watch and frowned.

  Poppy made a snap decision she hoped she wouldn't live to regret.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The air was close and alive with the hum of a million biting insects and the sun was disappearing over the horizon as they arrived home. Poppy untacked Cloud and sponged the sweaty patch under his saddle. Once she'd turned him out with Chester she mindlessly swept the yard until her back ached and sweat trickled down her forehead and between her shoulder blades.

  When she could sweep no more she leant on the gate and watched the pony and donkey doze. Every now and then one of them would twitch and shift their weight. Poppy was always dreaming about them. Did they ever dream of her? More likely their dreams were filled with newly-cut hay, sweet spring grass and carrots. Lots of carrots.

  She blew them a kiss and headed indoors, where her dad and Caroline were in the lounge watching television. Poppy slumped on the sofa.

  ‘OK sweetheart? Was Jodie pleased?’ said Caroline.

  ‘Yes,’ Poppy said. She kept her eyes glued to the screen so Caroline couldn't read her face.

  ‘Where's Charlie?’

  ‘Just gone up to bed. He's desperate to come over to Nethercote and watch the filming tomorrow. He's hoping they'll interview him as a concerned animal lover. D'you think Jodie would mind?’

  Poppy shrugged. ‘Probably not.’

  Her mobile beeped. She checked the message.

  I've made the call. It's over to you.

  ‘Scarlett?’ Caroline asked.

  Poppy nodded. Did it count as a lie if she didn't actually articulate it? ‘She wants me to go over and watch a film. Is that OK?’

  ‘As long as you're back by ten. And make sure you take your phone.’

  Poppy tapped out a reply and shoved the phone back in her pocket. For better or worse, the first part of her hastily-devised plan was in place.

  Poppy's bike was leaning up against the old stone wall around Caroline's vegetable garden, but she walked straight past it and headed for the tack room. Pedal power was no match for horse power in situations like this. She fixed her dad's head torch to her hat and grabbed Cloud's saddle and bridle.

  The Connemara showed no surprise when she let herself into the paddock, as if night-time hacks were an everyday occurrence. Poppy glanced nervously towards the house as the gate clicked shut behind her, but the blind in the kitchen was drawn. As long as she was back by ten her parents would be none the wiser.

  Something dark swooped in front of her face and she flinched, but it was only one of the bats that had made a home in the rafters of the barn. She led Cloud through the gate and jumped into the saddle.

  The setting sun had turned the rippled mass of altocumulus cloud such a vivid shade of fiery orange that it resembled molten lava. Beneath the sky the moss-green moor stretched before them unremittingly, the vast expanse broken only by rocky granite outcrops and the occasional sheep.

  Behind her, Riverdale was bathed in tangerine light. Poppy pictured her brother, tucked up in bed, his thumb in his mouth and Magpie curled in a ball by his feet, snoring gently; the television turned down low as her dad and Caroline chatted about their day; Freddie, fast asleep in his basket by the range, his beetle-black nose twitching as he dreamed his doggy dreams. The urge to turn back and join them was so strong Poppy almost succumbed to it. This was Jodie's mess. Why should it be up to her to sort it out? Jodie had made her bed. Let her lie in it.

  But Poppy knew it was too late. She'd set off a chain of events and had no choice but to see it through. She had to do right by the Nethercote horses. She just hoped her plan worked. And if it didn't....

  Anxiety gnawing at her insides, Poppy clicked her tongue and asked for a canter. Cloud needed no encouragement and sprang forwards. He was fizzing with nervous energy, his neck arched and his tail high. Poppy licked her lips and tried to slow her racing heartbeat. The last thing she wanted was for her pony to pick up on her tension. The Connemara lengthened his stride until he was galloping flat out. She sighed. It seemed he already had.

  ‘Hey boy, not so fast. There's a long way to go,’ she soothed. She tried checking him but the reins slipped through her clammy fingers. A dark stain of sweat was spreading across his neck and shoulders and his head was tucked into his chest. Poppy sat down in the saddle, kept her legs firmly against Cloud's sides and gave a firm, even pull with both reins.

  ‘Whoa,’ she murmured. Cloud flicked back his ears and finally slowed his stride. Poppy checked him again and he broke into a fast, unbalanced trot.

  ‘Steady,’ she said, sitting for a few uncomfortable strides until she was able to ease him into a walk. She bent down and stroked his neck.

  Poppy loosened the reins, relieved to have brought him back under control. He had never taken off like that be
fore. She kept up a stream of chatter as they crossed the moor, hoping her voice would keep him calm. The sun was sinking below the horizon and the sky had darkened to the grey of a stormy sea. By Poppy's reckoning they were over halfway. With any luck they'd reach the cottage before darkness fell. She'd hoped for a clear night but no such luck. She'd have to rely on her pony's instinct and the beam of the head torch to guide them home.

  They passed a small herd of Dartmoor ponies grazing by the side of a stream. A roan mare with a bay foal at foot lifted her head and whinnied. Cloud skittered to the left and Poppy clamped her legs to his sides and tightened her reins.

  After a mile or so Cloud finally began to settle. Poppy let the reins slip through her fingers so he could stretch his neck. As she relaxed into his long, loping walk her mind began to wander. Humming tunelessly, she scratched a mosquito bite on her arm and played with a hank of the Connemara's mane. She was so preoccupied she didn't see the flash of iridescent green until too late. As they approached a clump of gorse bushes a male pheasant squawked in alarm and swooped in front of them, its speckled conker and black wings outstretched. Cloud boggled and leapt about three feet into the air, throwing Poppy out of the saddle. For a split second, as she teetered on the brink, she thought she might save herself. But the saddle slipped and with it went her balance. The ground rushed towards her as fast as a fairground helter-skelter and Poppy landed heavily, her right leg buckling underneath her. She gasped as she felt her ankle pop. Intense pain shot up her leg. And then everything went black.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Roused from semi-consciousness by a draught of warm air, Poppy reached for the alarm clock on her bedside table. When her hand came into contact with wiry grass and a small slab of cold granite her eyes snapped open. Cloud's nose was a few inches from her own. He blew softly into her face, as if he was trying to wake her. That explained the warm air at least.