A door slams and the car accelerates away, and I am left with a sinking feeling. New leaf? Honey? That’ll be the day.
14
It’s eerily quiet as I cycle along the lanes towards the moors. It’s not such a long ride as yesterday – according to Lawrie, the derelict farm is almost halfway between Hartshill and Kitnor as the crow flies, so I take the route Lawrie has suggested, staying well away from Blue Downs House. Once I reach the uplands I hide my bike in a coppice of hazel trees he told me to look for and find a tiny stream that is supposed to lead right up to the derelict cottage.
I leave the lane behind and begin to trek upwards, following the silver ribbon of stream as it cuts through the heather and bracken. Each step feels like freedom, like leaving the chaos of the big chocolate order and Summer’s illness and Honey’s latest rule-breaking all behind me. There is nobody else around, and all I can hear is the distant buzz of a car down below, the screech of geese flying overhead, the rhythm of my footsteps as I walk.
At one point I glimpse a herd of wild Exmoor ponies in the distance, their dark manes ruffled by the breeze as they watch me pass. If all else fails, maybe I could set Caramel loose on the moors and hope that she finds them? It would break my heart, but at least she’d be safe. That wouldn’t work for the grey, of course – she’s not an Exmoor, and her colour would mark her out from the herd instantly.
I am just beginning to worry that I’m following the wrong stream when the tumbledown smallholding appears in the distance. In the daylight I can see a rectangle of drystone wall enclosing an overgrown field and tall, ivy-covered walls shielding the garden. When I get closer, I notice a tatty red sign that reads Danger: Unsafe Building tied to the cast-iron gate.
As I duck through the gate a tangle of starry white jasmine flowers brushes against my face, the remnants of a long-forgotten garden now running wild. The air smells heady, musky, sweet, and everything seems peaceful in the fading sun – it’s the kind of place where time stands still.
Walking along the overgrown path, I see another sign, fixed above the broken doorway, faded, the paint peeling. Jasmine Cottage. I think again of the little girl with Seddon yesterday, her pale face stained with tears. He called her Jasmine.
Who lived here, long ago? Was there a family, kids playing in the stream, parents tending the vegetable garden, a couple of cows and sheep in the field, ducks and chickens perhaps? What became of them? Perhaps the children grew up and headed for the city, leaving their parents to grow old alone, their home falling into disrepair around them.
What would they think of our kidnap, the hidden ponies?
‘Hello?’ I call, and Caramel comes trotting towards me through the tangle of undergrowth, pushing her nose against my shoulder and making soft, whickering sounds as I stroke her neck.
‘Oh, Caramel,’ I whisper into her mane. ‘I’m so, so sorry …’
After a while I step back, taking an apple from my rucksack and cutting it into slices to feed to her.
The dapple-grey mare appears behind Caramel, shy and jittery. She seems too nervous to approach, but I stay still and quiet, my arm outstretched, the juicy apple slices on my open palm, tempting her. I have learnt that when an animal is frightened, the best way forward is to let it come to you; after a while she edges close enough to take the apple, her nose like warm velvet against my skin, her breath soft and warm.
‘Nice job,’ a voice says behind me, and I turn to see Lawrie Marshall sitting on the window sill of the derelict cottage. ‘That one’s really wary of people … with good cause, obviously. We’ll probably never know her real story.’
‘At least now we know it has a happy ending,’ I comment.
‘Well, maybe,’ Lawrie says. ‘Having a mare in foal really complicates things. She’s not in great condition and I’ve no idea when she’s due to foal. What if we’re lumped with delivering it?’
‘We’d manage,’ I say bravely, although I am starting to feel a little out of my depth.
‘Maybe,’ Lawrie says. ‘Right now, anything we can do to rebuild her trust has to help. You’ve got patience – maybe even a way with animals. I suppose everyone has at least some good points.’
‘Even me?’ I huff. ‘Careful. You almost said something nice then. Are you feeling ill or something?’
‘Funny,’ Lawrie says. ‘Look, I didn’t ask to be in this mess with you, you know. I can manage fine on my own if there’s something else you’d rather be doing.’
‘That’s rich!’ I splutter. ‘Whose idea was this rescue? Mine, Lawrie Marshall, OK? If it wasn’t for me, they’d still be stuck with that creep Seddon, half-starved and treated like dirt, so don’t you tell me to push off and go and do something else –’
‘Calm down,’ he says. ‘I didn’t say that. Look … can we try to get along? For the sake of the horses? I don’t much like you and I know you don’t like me –’
‘That’s the understatement of the year,’ I snap.
‘Fine,’ Lawrie shrugs. ‘Forget about getting along. Let’s just work out what needs to be done. I’ve brought up a net of hay and some grain, plus buckets for water and feed …’
I look around, taking in the feed buckets and the hay. My own effort – a rucksack filled with hay and apples – looks childish by comparison.
‘Seddon must have noticed by now,’ I say. ‘He’s bound to go to the police. Is it really safe to leave the ponies here?’
Lawrie shrugs. ‘I think so. I’ve been up here tons of times over the summer and never seen another soul. Walkers usually stick to the pathways and the house is pretty much a wreck – dangerous too, most of it. The garden’s secure and the wall is too high for anyone to notice the ponies from a distance, so I reckon they should be safe enough for now.’
‘Won’t Seddon search?’ I frown. ‘The police too?’
‘They might,’ Lawrie says. ‘I just don’t think they’d look here. They’ll assume whoever stole the horses is planning to sell them on, profit from them somehow … not hide them out on the moors. Moving them both now would be a big risk, but if we sit tight and keep them here, they should be safe. Trust me.’
‘Do I have a choice?’
Lawrie rolls his eyes. ‘If you have a better plan, go ahead and tell me,’ he says. ‘As long as it doesn’t involve petitions or cupcakes iced with panda faces. And be careful what you tell your friends about this – one careless word could endanger these horses.’
‘As if!’ I protest. ‘I’d never do anything to put them in danger.’
‘If you do say anything about it, leave me out,’ he adds. ‘I don’t want to be part of the gossip. This isn’t a game, Coco … it’s serious, or haven’t you noticed?’
‘Of course I’ve noticed,’ I scowl. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t exactly be spreading the word that you’re involved. I did tell my stepsister Cherry, but she won’t tell anyone – she promised.’
Lawrie curls his lip, as if he doesn’t believe in promises, or in me for that matter.
‘So, do we make a rota for coming up to feed and check on them?’ I ask. ‘Only it’s getting dark quite early now that the clock’s gone back, and school doesn’t finish till half three, so …’
‘Scared of the dark, are you?’ Lawrie shakes his head. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll bring up lanterns and candles, and you should carry a torch, obviously. How long did it take you to cycle to the hazel copse? We can meet down there most days at maybe half four, if you’re too chicken to come on your own. I’ll come up on my own on Tuesdays and Fridays, after work. Those can be your days off, and maybe you can do Saturdays for me in return? I have to take my little sister to dance class in Minehead
on Saturday mornings.’
‘No problem,’ I say. ‘I can do Sundays too, obviously, to keep it fair.’
‘We can take turns,’ he shrugs. ‘Whatever.’
I bite my lip, glad to know I don’t have to hike across the moors in the dark, alone – even if my companion happens to be the scratchiest, spikiest boy in Somerset.
‘I didn’t know you had a little sister,’ I say, wondering how she puts up with him.
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me,’ he replies. ‘She’s eight. I buy your cakes for her sometimes. She likes them, even the ridiculous panda-face ones.’
‘You say the sweetest things,’ I huff. ‘There was me thinking you cared about the plight of the giant panda. Another illusion shattered.’
Lawrie gets to his feet, gazing into the dusk at the two ponies grazing the knee-high grass. ‘It’s these two I’m bothered about right now,’ he tells me. ‘We may have got them away from Seddon, but we have to keep them safe and work out what to do with them. I don’t suppose your plan goes that far?’
‘Not yet,’ I admit. ‘I’m working on it.’
‘Work fast then,’ he says. ‘These two ponies are trouble. One of them is unpredictable, unrideable; the other run-down, neglected, terrified of humans and in foal. They don’t stand much chance of finding a happy-ever-after home if you ask me. That’s the trouble with bullies like Seddon – the damage they do goes on and on.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Not keen on bullies, all of a sudden?’ I ask.
‘Not keen on them, ever,’ he says. ‘I know you think I am one, but you couldn’t be more wrong. That day you found me scrapping with Darren Holmes from Year Six … well, I’d just stopped him nicking a tinful of crispy cakes from some Year Five girl. He’s the bully, and for the record, he’s the one who hoisted your panda hat up the school flagpole too –’
‘Hang on!’ I interrupt. ‘That kid you had by the collar – he was the bully?’
‘That’s right,’ Lawrie says. ‘OK, I probably shouldn’t have grabbed him like that. I know I shouldn’t. Makes me no better than Seddon, I guess. But … sometimes you just see red. I saw that Year Five girl and I thought, y’know, she could have been my sister – I couldn’t let him get away with it!’
Shame floods me as I remember wading in to drag Lawrie away from the weaselly Year Six boy. How did I get it so wrong? Instead of stopping a bully, I helped one escape.
‘But … why didn’t you tell me?’ I stammer. ‘You let me say all kinds of stuff – I feel awful now! I remember the little girl too. She was buying the cakes for her mum’s birthday.’
‘Most of them ended up in a puddle,’ he shrugs. ‘I didn’t tell you because … well, you wouldn’t have listened, would you? People like you never do. For the record, I hate bullies just as much as you do. More, actually. I can guarantee that. OK?’
I blink. What does that even mean? I look at Lawrie, taking in the proud set of his shoulders, the defiant tilt of his chin, the way his fringe flops down over his face, shadowing his eyes and giving him a distant, stay-away vibe. The look I mistook for surly aggression – could it be more about self-defence? He is still quite new at Exmoor Park Middle School, and nobody seems to know much about him. Perhaps he has been bullied himself?
Guilt lodges itself in my throat, awkward, embarrassing.
‘Look, I’m sorry if I got it all wrong, I really didn’t mean …’
Lawrie brushes off my apology. ‘It’s over now. Forget it. The ponies are fed and watered and safe. It’s getting dark; we should head down to the road.’
How do you say sorry to someone who thinks you’re annoying, who won’t let anyone get close?
I duck out through the rusty iron gate, stopping to pick a tangle of jasmine flowers as I go. Their rich scent wraps itself around me as I follow Lawrie Marshall slowly across the dark moor, keeping the silver-glinting stream to our right. When we reach the road, I shove the bunch of starry white flowers at him, grabbing my bike.
‘For your sister,’ I blurt. ‘She might like them.’
I think of another little girl, scared and crying, watching her dad training Caramel to the point of exhaustion, and I pedal hard all the way home, dynamo lights flickering in the moonlight.
15
On Monday lunchtime, I call an emergency meeting of the Save the Animals Club. I drag Sarah, Amy and Jayde down to the edge of the playing fields and into the woods that skirt the school boundary.
‘Why here?’ Amy is complaining, her Ugg boots sinking into wet leaves. ‘Why not the school canteen, or a corner of Mr Wolfe’s classroom? This is crazy!’
‘And cold,’ Sarah grumbles as we settle ourselves on to fallen logs and huddle into our coats. ‘Plus, we are breaking school rules – we’re not allowed in the woods outside of PE cross-country lessons, Coco, you know that!’
‘Which means it should be safe,’ I point out. ‘This is important!’
‘It had better be,’ Jayde huffs, snuggling into her scarf. ‘If you’ve brought us out here to start telling us about the plight of the South American great crested newt or the Siberian mongoose, I will not be happy!’
I wish my friends were a bit more supportive sometimes. They used to care about endangered wildlife and animal cruelty as much as I did, or almost; but over the last year they have totally lost the plot. Lately, they spend more time giggling about boys or flicking through the pages of the latest teen mags, discussing music videos or fashion or glittery nail varnish. I despair of them sometimes.
I watch, exasperated, as Jayde takes out a dog-eared romance paperback and Amy flicks open a compact mirror to apply a slick of lipgloss. At least Sarah is listening, for now.
‘I’m not actually sure there are great crested newts in South America, but anyway, it’s nothing like that,’ I say. ‘This is much closer to home. It’s big news – I happen to know that local animal rights activists rescued two ill-treated ponies from Blue Downs House this weekend.’
Jayde drops her paperback into the fallen leaves.
‘Wow,’ she breathes. ‘Really?’
‘Blue Downs?’ Amy echoes, snapping shut her compact mirror. ‘That’s near Hartshill, I think.’
Sarah doesn’t say anything, but her eyes narrow – I know that she is remembering Saturday’s phone call and texts, when I told her I was on a secret mission.
‘These local animal rights activists,’ she says. ‘Let’s see. They would be … you, Coco, right?’
‘Well … sort of!’
My three friends sit up straight, eyes wide. They are looking at me with a kind of admiration, which feels weird but nice.
‘No way,’ Jayde gasps. ‘You rescued two ponies? By yourself?’
I bite my lip. It feels wrong taking all the credit, but Lawrie was very definite about not wanting to be mentioned.
‘I had to,’ I say. ‘They were being ill-treated – anyone would have done the same. They are in a safe place for now, obviously, but this has to stay secret. I can trust you, right?’
‘Of course,’ Amy says. ‘We won’t breathe a word! Wow, Coco, I just can’t believe you did that, all by yourself!’
‘Safest way,’ I shrug, feeling guilty at the lie but pleased to have their attention again. Of course, if they knew Lawrie was involved in the rescue, I’d have their attention all right – but not in a good way. I give my friends an edited version of the kidnap, and they promise to keep my secret, offering to chip in with apples, carrots and alibis in case I need to come up with excuses for Mum and Paddy.
‘If the police come asking, we’ll say you were with us,’ Sarah offers. ‘A sleepover, or something. May
be we could say we were up till midnight, and that we looked out of the window and saw a big horsebox driving past. That would put them off the scent. They’d assume the ponies were long gone then!’
‘Maybe,’ I say, but I know that an alibi like that would never hold water, not for long. ‘Hopefully, the police won’t actually question us.’
Distant shouts ring through the woods, and the sound of breaking twigs jolts us to our feet. ‘Running club,’ Jayde says, picking up her abandoned paperback. ‘They practise on Monday lunchtimes. We’d better go.’
As we crunch back towards the school playing fields, we pass a couple of kids in running kit, red-faced and sweating, staggering in the opposite direction. ‘Cross-country running ought to carry a government health warning,’ Sarah muses. ‘Look how red-faced and sweaty they get. And all that jiggling about can’t be good for your insides!’
A lone figure crashes through the undergrowth and lopes towards us, long limbs pounding the muddy path. Lawrie Marshall doesn’t look red-faced or sweaty, just predictably grim, dark wavy hair flopping across his face, blue eyes guarded. He spots me and shoots me a disgusted look, the kind that could shrivel an oak tree, which I think is a bit harsh after our adventures this weekend. He could at least be polite – I tilt my chin and refuse to be frozen out.
‘Hello, Lawrie,’ I say.
‘All right,’ he mutters, and thunders past, splattering me with mud from a nearby puddle. Typical.
‘He spoke to you!’ Amy whispers the minute Lawrie has gone. ‘And you spoke to him. What’s going on? I thought you couldn’t stand him!’
‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘He drives me nuts. But I have decided not to let him get to me. If he scowls at me, I will smile. If he sneers, I will say hello. Why should I let him wind me up?’
‘Right,’ Jayde says. ‘A new tactic – save the world with smiles. I like it!’
‘Not sure it will work with loner-boy, though,’ Sarah muses. ‘Although he is quite good-looking, in a smouldering kind of way. Dark and brooding. Sort of wild!’
Chocolate Box Girls: Coco Caramel Page 7
