‘I’m going to run back and get my hat,’ I tell Sarah. She lives in town, so she walks home, and at my words she just pulls up her jacket hood and shrugs.
‘See you then!’ she says.
I am sprinting back up to the school, dodging the crowds of kids going the other way, when I catch sight of something very odd fluttering from the school flagpole in the breeze.
My panda hat! I am outraged. Who would do such a thing?
I frown as a memory surfaces.
‘Like the panda hat,’ Lawrie Marshall had said at breaktime. And what he meant was that he didn’t like the panda hat – the curl of his lip and the tone of his voice made that very clear.
I don’t think he likes me and I definitely do not like him, but still, he wouldn’t do something like this – would he? He seems too gloomy, too sour – I am not sure that practical jokes are his style. Then again, he sits right across the aisle from me in science, and if the hat had been at the top of my rucksack he could have swiped it easily.
I take a deep breath and storm across to the flagpole.
It takes forever to work out how to control the lines that hoist things up and down, and by then my hair is frizzy from the rain and I am very cross indeed. Eventually I manage to haul down the hat and untie it, and even though it is dripping wet I pull it on because at least that way I won’t lose it again.
Seriously, if I find out that Lawrie Marshall is responsible for this I will make sure he is an endangered species himself. I leg it across the grass towards the bus stop, but as I run through the playground I have a bad feeling, a very bad feeling. It is too quiet, too empty. There are no clumps of kids, no waiting school buses, just a few stray students hurrying away, umbrellas angled against the rain. I must have been messing around with that stupid flagpole for longer than I thought because I’ve gone and missed the bus.
Great.
I slow to a walk. Once upon a time Skye and Summer would have made sure the bus waited for me, but they are at the high school now. My friends from junior school, Amy and Jayde, usually save me a seat, but I can’t blame them for not getting the driver to hang on – they probably thought I was doing something after school.
I have riding lessons on Fridays, at the stables on the edge of town, and on Tuesdays I have Save the Animals Club, which I invented and which usually consists of me, Sarah, Amy and Jayde talking about pandas/whales/tigers to assorted Year Five and Six kids. Lately, our numbers have dwindled and the week before half-term even Sarah made an excuse not to come, so it was just me, sitting alone in the science room after 3.30, looking at my home-made endangered species leaflets and wondering if I was the only one who actually cared. Sometimes I skip the school bus anyway, and walk up to meet Skye, Summer and Cherry at the high school, and we go into town and drink smoothies and mooch around the shops and catch the town bus home at half five.
It looks like I’ll be catching that bus today. I trudge out of the school gates and turn the corner, my panda hat dripping, and walk right into a nightmare.
Lawrie Marshall is in the shady walkway next to the school gym. He is locked in battle with a small, scrawny kid, holding him by the jacket, shaking him, growling something angry right into his face.
The kid looks terrified, his eyes wide with fear, and I recognize the weaselly Year Six kid from earlier, the one who thought that pandas should branch out a bit and eat Big Macs and chocolate fridge cake.
My heart thuds. I hate bullying of any kind, and this is not name-calling or teasing, it is full-on aggression. Lawrie shoves the little kid up against the gym wall, and the kid winces. He wriggles helplessly, trying to get away, but Lawrie is two years older, six inches taller and a whole lot angrier. The little kid is going to be mincemeat.
‘Let him go!’ I scream, and two pairs of startled eyes swivel to look at me.
‘Push off, panda girl,’ Lawrie snarls. ‘This is none of your business!’
That does it. I think of my hat, fluttering from the flagpole, a dozen nasty, snide remarks Lawrie Marshall has made in the year since he joined our school. I look at the Year Six kid, squirming as he struggles, and I see red.
I fling myself at Lawrie Marshall, grabbing his arms, pulling him backwards, away from the boy. His victim slithers free, grabs his abandoned sports bag and sprints off along the walkway, and Lawrie Marshall rounds on me, his face dark with fury.
‘You idiot!’ he yells. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’
‘Idiot? Me?’ I yell back at him. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself! You’re loads bigger than that little kid, and old enough to know better … bullying sucks! Only losers have to threaten those who are weaker than themselves to feel good. D’you think it makes you tough? D’you think it makes you hard? It doesn’t, it just makes you a lousy, rotten bully!’
Lawrie Marshall looks disgusted. His lip curls, his eyes flash and his nostrils flare dangerously. His fists are clenched and trembling, as if fighting the urge to lash out at me. Suddenly I’m scared, aware that I have just broken up a fight, yelled at a bully, shouted insults at the school misfit. Here I am on a shady walkway tucked away from the road with a psychopathic schoolboy, and trust me, he is not happy.
‘Idiot,’ he says again, his voice thick with scorn. ‘You really think you’re something, don’t you? You reckon you can save the world, rescue the panda and wipe out bullying all in one day, then go home and eat your stupid little cakes. You don’t have a clue about the real world! You don’t know what you’re talking about!’
Lawrie Marshall strides away, leaving me alone in the rain.
4
I spot the scrawny Year Six kid in the school corridor on Friday and corner him, concerned. ‘Are you OK?’ I ask. ‘He hasn’t bothered you again, has he?’
‘Er … no,’ the boy says shiftily. ‘And yes, thanks, I’m fine. No hassle. No worries.’
His friends hover nearby, smirking. I can sense that the kid just wants to escape, but I grab his sleeve and haul him back and he rolls his eyes and tells his mates he’ll catch up with them. You’d think he might be at least a little bit grateful that I saved him from being mashed to a pulp, but I guess that’s boys for you.
‘Have you told the teachers?’ I push. ‘Bullying is out of order, you know. Only lowlifes and losers pick on little kids. If that creep can do it to you, he can do it to others too, so speaking out really is the only way to stop it. Do you want me to say something to your guidance tutor?’
‘No!’ the kid gulps. ‘No, honestly, don’t say anything, I don’t want a fuss … I’ve sorted it now. It won’t happen again, I’m pretty sure of that. But thanks for looking out for me the other day. You saved my skin, and I appreciate that.’
I smile. ‘Well … as long as you’re sure everything’s OK now?’
‘I’m sure,’ he says. ‘And … look … I’m sorry about the hat.’
He races off along the corridor like a mad thing, bashing into a couple of Year Fives as he goes.
Boys. I will never understand them. And what did he mean about my hat?
‘That was the kid Lawrie Marshall had a hold of the other day?’ Sarah enquires.
‘Yup. Poor thing.’
Sarah frowns. ‘He doesn’t look like a victim,’ she says. ‘More of a troublemaker. And what did he mean about your hat? Perhaps he hoisted it up the flagpole!’
‘No, that had to be Lawrie,’ I frown. ‘He hates me, and he hates the hat. And he sits across from me in science, so …’
‘So what?’ Sarah shrugs. ‘That proves nothing. You could have dropped the hat, or the Year Six kid could have taken it out of your locker …’
‘Nah, I don’t think so,’ I frown.
‘But whoever pulled the stunt with my hat, it doesn’t change things. Lawrie Marshall is a bully, pure and simple.’
‘He’s definitely a loner,’ Sarah says. ‘He never seems to have any friends around. Maybe that’s because of his temper?’
‘Probably,’ I agree.
‘He’d be quite nice-looking if he ever smiled,’ Sarah considers. ‘In theory, of course. He never DOES smile – he is the sulkiest boy I know.’
‘He never smiles because he is a horrible, bad-tempered bully,’ I say. ‘You should have seen him the other day, Sarah, it was horrible! He practically had that little kid by the throat!’
‘Maybe the kid deserved it?’ Sarah suggests.
‘Nobody deserves that. Trust me, Lawrie Marshall is bad news.’
As I finish speaking, the boy in question appears in the distance and stalks along the corridor towards us. As usual, he treats me to his best glare.
‘Idiot!’ he snarls as he passes.
My eyes widen in shock and my cheeks burn with embarrassment as I try to dredge up a reply.
‘Oh boy.’ Sarah blinks. ‘I see what you mean!’
‘Loser,’ I mutter, but it’s too little, too late, of course.
Lawrie Marshall has long gone.
I am out of sorts all day after that, but I have a riding lesson after school and that is the one thing that is pretty much guaranteed to put the smile back on my face. My lesson isn’t until four, so I have lots of time to walk down to the stables on the edge of town. With every step the day’s irritations loosen and lift away.
I have been learning to ride since Christmas, and although I know I still have a lot to learn, I love it. I love the smell of the stable yard, all fresh hay and ponies and leather. I love the paddock exercises my instructor teaches us for balance and confidence, scissors and frogs and round-the-world turns and riding with no stirrups. I love hacking through the countryside or riding along the beach, trotting or cantering with the wind in my face and the feeling that I’m free, soaring, that anything at all is possible.
Most of all, though, I love a pony called Caramel.
I liked her first of all because of her name – caramel, as you know, is my favourite sweet treat. Then I fell for her looks because Caramel is possibly the most beautiful pony in the world. She is a pure-bred Exmoor pony, twelve hands high and a beautiful dark bay colour, rich as caramel. Around her eyes and muzzle are pangaré markings, mealy-cream, and her mane and tail are thick and coarse and wild. She looks timeless, noble, magical, as though she could have ridden out of the Dark Ages, been the pony of a princess warrior or a Celtic queen from thousands of years ago.
She is my perfect pony, but I have never ridden her because unlike most Exmoors, who are steady and calm and trustworthy, Caramel can be hard to handle. The bosses at the riding school, Jean and Roy, think she was ill-treated in the past – she can be jumpy, unpredictable, flighty. There have been a couple of unpleasant incidents with Caramel this year, and Jean and Roy are wary. They make sure that only older, more experienced riders take her out these days.
It’s the story of my life – everybody thinks I am too young for everything. They don’t take me seriously at all.
For example, a couple of weeks ago there was a part-time job advertised at the stables for someone to help with mucking out and grooming, just a few hours for a couple of days a week after school. When Mum picked me up after my lesson that day, I was full of it – how I could spend more time with Caramel, get more experience with horses, cover the cost of my lessons and bring a little cash in on top of that. I thought she’d go for the idea for sure, but I was wrong.
Surprise, surprise, she said I was too young.
‘You’re only twelve,’ she’d said on the drive home, as if I might have forgotten this vital fact. ‘They probably wouldn’t consider you for the job at that age, and besides, there’s no need to start thinking about part-time jobs just yet! Just focus on your friends and your animals and your studies!’
‘But …’
‘No buts,’ Mum insisted. ‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry to grow up, Coco. Enjoy your freedom while you can! If it’s the money you’re thinking about, I’ll have a word with Paddy – now that the chocolate business is starting to take off, we might be able to give you a bit more pocket money.’
Pocket money? Honestly, I felt about five years old. As far as my family is concerned I might as well be – it’s as if there is one rule for my sisters and another for me.
OK, I’m twelve. So what? At twelve Summer had been a regular student helper at the dance school for years. By the time she was thirteen she worked a whole week there in the summer holidays in exchange for extra lessons, and Skye was thirteen when she helped out with the costumes on the TV film they made in Kitnor a few months back. The twins aren’t all that much older than me, but they get to do what they want.
As for Honey, she may not have had a job at twelve but she had way more freedom than any of us. She was a pre-teen drama queen – she didn’t bother to ask permission for the things she wanted to do, she just went ahead and did them anyway. She still does. Maybe I should take a leaf out of her book?
I push through the gates of the Woodlands Riding School, breathing in the smell of fresh hay and happiness. I am a little early, but I like it that way. I wave at Kelly, one of the teenage instructors who sometimes takes the paddock classes or leads the treks, then step into the warm office building, stash my rucksack in a locker and nip to the loos to change into my riding gear. Folding away my school uniform and replacing it with outsize jumper, jodhpurs and waterproof, I am the happiest I have felt all day. I leave my uniform in the locker and scoop up my riding hat, pulling it on as I wander back out into the stable yard.
Then I see a familiar figure in the doorway of one stall, gruff and grim in wellies and muddy jeans, forking manure into a wheelbarrow.
Lawrie Marshall looks up at me and his face registers surprise and then disgust. I am pretty sure my face mirrors those emotions too, and then some.
5
‘What are you doing here?’ Lawrie Marshall asks, and I swear I am so cross at this comment that if I could I would tip that barrowload of manure right over his head, then jab him with his own pitchfork, just for good measure.
‘I am here for my riding lesson,’ I tell him. ‘The same as I have been every week since January. And I have never seen you at Woodlands before, so I think I could ask what you are doing here!’
Lawrie curls his lip. ‘I work here,’ he says icily. ‘Started this week, three forty-five till six, Tuesdays and Fridays. If I’d known they gave lessons to fruitcakes like you, I might have had second thoughts …’
Fruitcake? Me? I am pretty sure this is an insult and not a reference to my baking abilities. And worse, it looks like Lawrie Marshall has my job. He is the same age as me, twelve years old … is that fair? Is that right? No, it is not.
‘Oh … fruitcake to you too!’ I snap.
As comebacks go, it isn’t the best. You might even say it is lame and laughable, and Lawrie seems to think so because his lips twitch into a sour kind of smile and he starts shovelling manure again, a little carelessly. A clump of something deeply unpleasant lands sloppily on my boots, and I am pretty certain it wasn’t an accident.
Words fail me. I turn on my heel and march over to Caramel’s stall, seething inwardly. I reach up and stroke her face, press my cheek against the roughness of her through-a-hedge-backwards mane, inhaling her smell which is like dust and hay and sweet molasses all mixed up together.
‘I do not like that boy,’ I whisper so that only Caramel can hear. ‘I do not like him at all.’ She nuzzles
me gently and I slide my arms around her neck, letting my anger dissolve. A few minutes later I am smiling again, feeding Caramel slices of apple from my palm.
‘She likes you,’ Kelly says, behind me. ‘Caramel. You’re good with her, Coco … not many people are. Come on, let’s get you saddled up. Jean and Roy aren’t here today, so I thought we’d do some exercises in the paddock … who would you like to ride, Bailey or Jojo?’
I frown. I like Bailey and I like Jojo, but the pony I most want to ride is Caramel. I am pretty certain she would behave well for me. She likes me – even Kelly can see that. And Jean and Roy are not here today, so maybe we can bend the rules a little?
‘Can’t I ride Caramel?’ I plead. ‘Jean said I was getting much better, much more confident. She said I would be ready to take Caramel out …’
She did say this, but she didn’t specify when. I have the feeling the date Jean had in mind was several years ahead, but Kelly doesn’t need to know this.
‘I don’t think so,’ Kelly frowns. ‘Not today. Caramel can be pretty tricky. Jean and Roy aren’t even sure she’s the right kind of pony for us – a riding school horse has to earn its keep, and Caramel can be unpredictable …’
I bite my lip. This doesn’t sound good. If Jean and Roy aren’t sure about the little Exmoor pony, she may be coming to the end of her time at the Woodlands Riding School. Unless I can prove once and for all that she can behave well?
‘Jean said I could!’ I argue, aware that I am stretching the truth more than a little. ‘She says I have a connection with Caramel, that I’m a natural with her! Please let me try, Kelly? It’s only in the paddock. What could go wrong?’
‘Plenty,’ Kelly says, but I can tell that she’s weakening. ‘Maybe if Jean was here …’
‘She isn’t, though!’ I sigh. ‘Please, Kelly? I’ve been looking forward to this all week!’
Kelly rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, go on then,’ she says. ‘But if it all goes pear-shaped …’
Chocolate Box Girls: Coco Caramel Page 2
