by Amanda Wills
Poppy considered this. She would lay down her life for Cloud. She could understand why Alan Morgan had been prepared to take such a risk. But it didn't make it right.
The back door banged shut and Jodie appeared, wearing a clean, if a little creased, red Nethercote tee-shirt, navy jodhpurs and black riding boots. Despite her wan face she looked upbeat, as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
‘Are you ready for your moment of fame?’ Caroline asked.
Jodie grimaced. ‘My stomach's churning, my mouth is as dry as sandpaper and I've absolutely no idea what I'm going to say. But otherwise, yes, bring it on.’
‘We can have a run-through if you like,’ Poppy said shyly. ‘I can pretend I'm the reporter and ask you some questions.’
‘And I'll be the cameraman,’ said Charlie, sticking an imaginary camera in Jodie's face.
‘Anything that'll help.’
Poppy and Charlie had watched their dad on the news enough times to know how to conduct a television interview and they spent the next ten minutes grilling Jodie until she was word perfect. They had hardly drawn breath when a spotless black BMW pulled up at the gate.
‘Oh God, they're here!’ Jodie cried, smoothing her hair self-consciously.
‘You'll be fine,’ Caroline told her. ‘Forget the camera's there and just be yourself.’
A man in his thirties dressed in a cream linen suit and reeking of a spicy, pungent aftershave introduced himself as reporter Ben Byrne. He shook everyone's hand and gave Biscuit a tentative pat while his cameraman, a smiley girl called Pippa, fiddled with her camera.
‘We'll do the interview first, then Pippa will get some general shots of the yard and we'll finish with a piece to camera,’ Ben told them.
Biscuit watched with interest as Ben held out a microphone and said, ‘Can you give us your name for the level?’
Jodie cleared her throat. ‘Um. Jodie Morgan.’
‘Great. And can you spell your name for the tape?’
‘J-O-I-D. Sorry,’ she said, shaking her head and shooting a desperate look at the others. Poppy gave her an encouraging smile and Caroline mouthed, ‘You'll be fine.’
‘J-O-D-I-E-M-O-R-G-A-N.’
‘Wonderful. Let's get started.’
After the first couple of questions Jodie's nerves vanished and she talked animatedly about the rescue horses. Ben asked her about Biscuit and his condition when he'd arrived at Nethercote.
‘The vet said he'd never make it. But Biscuit's a fighter. In fact he's as stubborn as I am. He refused to give up.’ Jodie scratched the pony's forehead and he gave her an affectionate nudge. ‘I promised him that if he pulled through he would never have to leave. And now I'm not sure I'll be able to keep that promise,’ she said, her voice thick with emotion.
Poppy, who was standing behind the camera, could see that Pippa had zoomed in on Jodie's face, catching the single tear that slid down her cheek.
Interview over, they took Pippa on a tour of the rescue centre so she could get shots of horses grazing contentedly in the paddocks and looking over their stable doors.
‘Jodie can send you some of the before pictures,’ said Poppy, thinking of the photos of horses with matted coats, hollow necks, overgrown hooves and bony rumps that had had such an impact on her at the summer fete.
When Pippa had finished they returned to the yard.
‘We don't need you for this bit, Jodie. I'm going to do a piece to camera telling everyone about the appeal,’ said Ben.
‘Why don't you hold Biscuit while you're doing it?’ Pippa suggested.
Poppy untied the appaloosa and handed his lead rope to Ben, who took it gingerly.
‘It's alright. He won't bite,’ Jodie laughed.
Poppy darted forwards and brushed the reporter's linen jacket. He looked at her in bemusement.
‘Just a bit of fluff,’ she said, retreating to where Caroline, Charlie and Freddie were watching the proceedings.
Ben smoothed down his hair, glanced at his notebook and switched on his mike. Pippa squinted through the eyepiece of her camera and gave him the thumbs up. He gripped Biscuit's lead rope tightly and gave the camera a dazzling smile.
‘Biscuit and his equine friends here at Nethercote Horse Rescue have been given a second chance by Jodie Morgan. But unless the rescue centre can raise more funds their future is uncertain...’
While everyone else was watching the reporter, Poppy's eyes were trained on Biscuit. Come on, she willed him silently. You can do it.
Ben was wrapping up his piece to camera when the gelding suddenly raised his head and sniffed the wind. He gave a comedy snort and turned towards the reporter. There was a glint in his eye as he gave Ben a purposeful nudge and started nibbling at his jacket. Momentarily thrown, Ben raised his eyebrows and shrugged theatrically. Biscuit, still picking at Ben's jacket, breathed in a lungful of the reporter's tangy aftershave, turned to face the camera and curled his top lip as if he was laughing his speckled head off.
Poppy held her breath as she watched Pippa focus on the appaloosa's yellow teeth. Beside her Charlie stifled a giggle. Poppy elbowed him in the ribs and held her finger to her lips. This was television gold. They'd never re-create it if they had to do a second take.
Ben had thrown his head back and was also roaring with laughter. ‘And with that, it's back to you in the studio,’ he spluttered, as Biscuit rolled his eyes at the camera and sneezed explosively all over the reporter's cream linen suit.
‘That horse is a comic genius. You ought to get him an agent,’ said Ben, as he helped Pippa heft the camera into the boot of the BMW.
‘Comic genius? A total delinquent more like. I'm sorry about your jacket,’ Jodie said for the umpteenth time.
‘No worries. I'll get it dry cleaned on expenses.’
‘What time will Jodie be on the news?’ asked Charlie.
Ben checked his watch. ‘Half past one and again at six thirty.’
‘And you'll include the link so people can donate if they want to?’ Poppy checked.
He nodded. ‘I think people will be falling over themselves to help once they see Biscuit in action. He's a star in the making. I was well and truly upstaged,’ he said ruefully.
‘I bet I look like a complete and utter loser,’ grumbled Jodie, as they settled in Nethercote's living room to watch the lunchtime bulletin.
‘You don't need to worry. People'll be more interested in Biscuit than you,’ said Charlie kindly.
‘Thanks - I think.’
Poppy felt a flutter of nerves as the titles came up and the familiar soundtrack began to play. She was the one who had convinced Jodie this would work. What if it didn't? If no-one supported Biscuit's Appeal Jodie would be right back at square one. Actually worse than that. Poppy had already scuppered her money-making plan to smuggle phones into Dartmoor prison.
A willowy presenter with an improbably unlined forehead and immaculately coiffured hair swept into a chignon was sitting on a red sofa. She shuffled some papers on her lap and looked up as the titles ended. Poppy's mind wandered as the presenter read the headlines with a practised smile.
‘- but first we go to a Devon horse sanctuary that needs your help. Ben Byrne reports.’
The camera cut to the main paddock where the plump, sleek Nethercote horses grazed serenely under a canopy of ancient oak trees, and then cut again to Ben's interview with Jodie, which was peppered with some of the less graphic photographs of the rescue horses. Jodie scowled when the camera zoomed in on the tear rolling down her cheek.
‘Why did they have to show that?’
‘It makes great television,’ said Caroline.
Poppy's phone buzzed with a text from Scarlett.
OMG Poppy, you need to turn on the telly like NOW!! Jodie's on Spotlight!
I know, Poppy tapped back. I fixed it.
I'm recording it so I can show Red later.
You're nuts. He's not a human you know.
Yes he is!! Hey wait a minute,
what d'you mean you fixed it?
Poppy grinned to herself. It's a long story, she tapped back. Tell you later.
Ben was now with Biscuit, doing his piece to camera.
‘What I don't get is why he started eating Ben's jacket,’ said Jodie.
Poppy absentmindedly fingered the packet of Polos in her jeans. She'd slipped one into the reporter's pocket when she'd pretended to dust off the piece of fluff, hoping that Biscuit would sniff it out. What she hadn't bargained for was the potency of Ben's aftershave, which had prompted the gelding to flash his teeth to the world.
‘I never knew horses could laugh until Biscuit did that,’ said Charlie.
‘He's not laughing. It's called the flehmen response. I read it in my pony magazine,’ Poppy said. ‘When horses smell something they're not sure about they curl back their upper lips and breathe in with their nostrils closed. It must have been Ben's aftershave.’
‘I'm not surprised Biscuit didn't like it. It was totally yuck,’ Charlie said.
The appaloosa's reaction to the reporter looked even funnier on television. Even the presenter was hooting with laughter by the time Ben handed back to the studio.
‘And they've remembered to include the link to the website,’ said Caroline. ‘I'd say that was a job well done.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Slivers of sunlight stole through a gap in Poppy's curtains and danced on her closed eyelids with dogged determination, willing her to wake up. She yawned, stretched her arms above her head and rotated her bad ankle. Relieved to discover it was well and truly on the mend, she reached for her phone and tried to open the Nethercote website.
Large red letters told her the server application was unavailable. She hit refresh but the page failed to load. Poppy stabbed at the refresh button a couple more times before texting Jodie.
What's happened to the website? It won't load.
Her phone beeped within seconds.
Damn thing's crashed. No idea why.
A smile crept across Poppy's face. She had a sneaking suspicion. And if she was right it could only be good news for Nethercote. She Googled the rescue centre and half a dozen stories appeared. Biscuit had made headlines in the Daily Mail, the Daily Mirror and even a couple of the broadsheets. A clip of Spotlight's news item on YouTube had been viewed just over nine thousand times. Poppy checked the Daily Mail's Facebook page. The story had been shared by almost three hundred people. She typed #Biscuit into Google. Dozens more tweets, posts and Instagram tags popped up. She sighed with satisfaction. Her plan had worked. She was a public relations genius. Biscuit the Laughing Horse had gone viral.
Poppy cantered Cloud across the field to Ashworthy, humming happily to herself. Caroline had taken a bit of convincing that her ankle was OK to ride but had finally relented when Poppy had promised she'd hack out with Scarlett and Red. Soon the two girls were heading out across the moor.
‘The YouTube views went up by almost fifteen hundred in the time it took me to eat my breakfast,’ Poppy told Scarlett.
‘That's amazing. But no-one will be able to donate if the website's crashed.’
‘It's back up and running now. Jodie said donations have already reached twenty eight thousand but they're still pouring in. Channel 5 is sending a reporter over this afternoon and ITN is doing an outside broadcast from Nethercote this evening.’
‘Better tell Jodie to wear lots of perfume,’ Scarlett said.
‘I can't imagine her smothering herself in Christian Dior, can you? She's more like us. Prefers Eau de Horse,’ Poppy giggled.
Scarlett ran her hand along Red's neck. The gelding's chestnut coat gleamed.
‘Did you give him another bath this morning?’
‘Just a quick one to get rid of his stable stains. It's quite exhausting, keeping him spotless,’ Scarlett admitted.
Poppy looked down at the grass stains on Cloud's front legs. ‘Why don't you chill out? A few stable stains aren't going to kill him.’
‘I know.’ Scarlett was silent for a while. Then, as they skirted the base of the Riverdale tor, she said, ‘Where are we going to go?’
‘We need to ride to Witch Cottage. There's something I need to do.’
Scarlett groaned. ‘But I hate it there, you know that.’
‘It's just a derelict old cottage, Scar. Stones and mortar. There are no ghosts.’
‘So why are we going?’
Poppy wondered where to start. She had a feeling that, in her excitement over Red, Scarlett had all but forgotten the existence of the phones Poppy had discovered hidden under the green tarpaulin in the croft's tiny attic. She may have realised that they were the ones stolen from the warehouse in Plymouth. But Poppy knew for certain that she had no clue they had been destined for the prison, and that Jodie had been pivotal in the whole shady enterprise.
Poppy and Scarlett now had to accidentally stumble across the cache of phones, paste on innocent faces and report their find to the police, as Poppy had promised Jodie she would.
‘Poppy,’ Scarlett repeated. ‘Why do we need to go to Witch Cottage?’
‘I'll tell you when we get there.’
The warm summer breeze tickled Cloud's silver mane and he snatched at the bit. His excitement was infectious. Poppy felt giddy with relief. As though it was seven o'clock on Christmas morning. Or the first day of the summer holidays. Everything had worked out just fine. Better than fine. Absolutely gobsmackingly brilliantly. And who could have guessed, a week ago, that Nethercote would be saved by an amazing, courageous, laughing horse?
The wiry moorland grass felt springy and perfect for a canter. Poppy kicked Cloud on. Red caught up with the Connemara in a couple of strides and soon the two ponies, one dappled grey, the other the colour of butterscotch, were galloping neck and neck towards Witch Cottage.
As they raced across the moor, their ponies' tails streaming like banners behind them, Poppy imagined Caitlyn and Jodie making the same journey on a warm summer's morning just like this one, their destination a tumbledown cottage with a teardrop-shaped tarn, a catslide roof and secrets woven into its granite walls.
Poppy glanced at her best friend. Scarlett must have sensed her gaze as she turned her head. Her hazel eyes sparkled.
‘It feels like we're off on an adventure!’ she cried.
Poppy, who was crouching low over Cloud's neck as he covered the ground in long, easy strides, couldn't help but agree. One adventure was over, but she was pretty sure there was another waiting for them, just beyond the vast Dartmoor horizon. And she couldn't wait.
Missing on the Moor
Chapter One
Poppy McKeever stared into the bathroom mirror and a ghost girl stared back. A ghost girl with an ashen face and hollow eyes, tinged with pink, like an albino rat in an animal testing laboratory. She grimaced as she registered the dark purple shadows under her bloodshot eyes and her straggly, dull brown hair, scraped back into an untidy ponytail. A wave of nausea rolled over her and she clung onto the rim of the basin until it passed.
‘You look terrible,’ piped a voice behind her.
Poppy turned to see her brother on the landing.
‘I love you, too,’ Poppy said, but her sarcasm was lost on eight-year-old Charlie, who was staring at her in fascination. She ran a flannel under the cold tap and pressed it to her face.
‘You look like a zombie. One of those scary undead people who go around terrifying everyone. But Halloween was ages ago. Oh, wait, it's not a getup, it's really you,’ he smirked.
Poppy shook the flannel in Charlie's direction but he ducked out of the way.
‘Only joking, sis. You don't really look like a zombie. Shall I get Mum?’
The queasiness returned and Poppy held her hand over her mouth. Charlie, who despite his daredevil attitude to life was as squeamish as a sissy, backed down the landing with a look of horror on his face. Soon he was crashing down the stairs three at a time, yelling for Caroline.
Her stepmum ran upstairs with a roll of kit
chen towel, an orange bucket and a concerned expression on her face.
‘Are you poorly, today of all days? What bad luck.’
Poppy nodded mutely. Caroline felt her forehead and frowned. ‘You don't have a temperature. Come and sit down and tell me your symptoms.’
She led Poppy into her room and they perched together on the bed, the bucket on the floor between them.
‘I couldn't sleep last night. I was awake for hours just staring at the ceiling. And then when I got up my heart was racing and my hands were shaking. Look!’ Poppy held out her hands to show Caroline her trembling fingers. ‘Charlie says I look like the walking dead. And I feel really sick. My tummy's turning somersaults. I think I've got gastric flu.’
A look of understanding flitted across Caroline's face. She took Poppy's hands in hers. ‘Have a shower and get dressed. You'll be absolutely fine once you get going.’
‘Are you mad? I can't go to Claydon Manor like this. I'm on death's door!’ Poppy shrieked.
Caroline patted Poppy's thigh and stood up.
‘I was exactly the same on the morning of my first show. It's not gastric flu, sweetheart. It's nerves.’
Poppy pulled on her thickest fleece, filled a bucket with warm water and let herself out of the back door. A blast of cold air hit her in the face and she breathed deeply, as Caroline had instructed her to do whenever she felt anxiety begin to worm its way back into her stomach. She felt a bit sheepish that she'd let her nerves get such a grip and she marched over to the stables, determined not to let them ruin her big day.
Cloud and Chester watched from their stable as she set the bucket down and kissed them both on their peachy-soft muzzles. Cloud blew warm air into her face and Chester banged his leg against the door, impatient for his breakfast.
Poppy gave the donkey's ear an affectionate tug and disappeared into the tack room to mix their feeds. While they ate she filled two haynets and studied the list she'd written the evening before.
‘Feed by seven at the latest,’ she read, checking her watch. It was five to. She was on schedule. ‘Fill haynets. Groom and plait. Pack grooming kit and tack. Don't forget water bucket. Put on travel rug and boots.’
