‘Oh, not really.’ Bryony blushed. ‘I’m just a bit pony-mad, that’s all, and read pony books all the time. They give me tips on things to try out, you know?’
Just then, above the deep wet rustle of the trees, Bryony heard the sound of footsteps.
‘Bry!’ called her brother from one side of the wood. And . . .
‘Emma!’ came a girl’s voice from the other.
Bryony then saw a girl with white-blonde hair heading through the tangle of trees. She assumed this girl was Emma’s friend and that they’d lost each other when Emma’s pony had bolted.
Emma saw her friend too and turned back to Bryony . . .
‘Sorry, I’ve got to go!’ she said quickly.
‘But—’ began Bryony.
‘Bye!’ Emma called, already leading her pony away. ‘And thanks again for stepping in just now. See you!’
Bryony did hope she’d see Emma again too as she’d seemed really nice.
‘Wait – Emma! Where do you live?’ called Bryony but the wind whipped her words away. Then Josh and Grandpa appeared in the clearing.
‘Hey, come see the fungi!’ grinned Josh.
‘I just need to do something first,’ replied Bryony, looking round for Emma again. But Emma, her friend and the beautiful bay pony had vanished.
*
Even the darkest and spookiest of caves didn’t stop Bryony thinking about what had happened in the beech wood. She really wanted to find Emma again. She was sure they’d get on well, especially as they had ponies in common.
As for her pony – he was gorgeous! Never before had Bryony felt such a strong connection with a pony.
She thought of his special little star, and the way he’d trusted and responded to her. And those eyes, with the hint of sadness behind them. But why would he be sad with such a nice owner as Emma?
After their picnic in the caves, the twins and Grandpa poked around in the rock pools and explored under the pier.
Bryony could remember the beach a bit from when they used to visit Grandpa before. But back then they’d been quite little, and after that Dad had got ill so Grandpa had come to visit them instead. This meant that Bryony’s memories of Brook Dale were quite hazy and distant now. All the more exciting to rediscover it!
As they left the beach the sun was out, and with it came more people. They were climbing some old stone steps back up to the prom when they bumped into a boy walking his bulldog. The boy, Bryony thought, looked about their age and was wearing a hoodie and the latest flashy trainers. His dog looked grumpy, as did the boy at having to stop to let them pass.
‘Cool dog!’ smiled Josh.
‘Hmm,’ grunted the boy. ‘You’re not from round ’ere, are you?’
The boy’s bulldog was straining on its lead and space was very tight so Grandpa and Bryony continued up the steps as Josh answered him.
As Bryony waited with Grandpa on the prom, she looked around at the sights. The place might be small but it was very pretty. In front of them was the lovely sandy beach, and behind them was ‘town’ and rolling green hills dotted with whitewashed cottages that looked like sheep!
Bryony also saw the harbour with its neat rows of fishing boats. And jutting into the sea in the distance was the headland, on which, as well as an old disused lighthouse, there looked to be a new building too. Bryony narrowed her eyes, just able to make out some children on ponies going into it.
‘Gramps!’ She pointed. ‘Is that a riding stable?’
‘Ah, yes,’ answered Grandpa as Josh joined them. ‘A brand new riding stable too. It’s called Seaview Stables and it’s—’
‘Not like you’ve got your own pony, though, is it?’ Josh chipped in, without thinking.
Bryony felt her face fall and Josh must have seen it too because suddenly he went quiet and looked really awkward.
‘I didn’t mean . . .’ Josh shuffled. ‘You could still go there though, right?’
‘It’s okay,’ replied Bryony, though quickly realising it didn’t feel okay at all.
Josh was right. She didn’t have her own pony. Or a bedroom that felt like hers. And what if she didn’t make any friends here either?
Bryony quickly blinked back the tears she could feel pooling in her eyes. If she let herself cry, she might never stop. And that felt very scary . . .
As they walked back through the beech wood, she listened for a pony in case Emma was still about. But this time it really was just the wind that she heard.
They arrived at Plum Cottage around teatime. Mum was out in the front garden eating a plum from one of their trees.
‘Hello! How was the walk?’ she asked. She was sitting on an old wooden bench, bare-footed, her canvas shoes lying on the grass. Threaded into her bun was a small yellow rose from the overgrown bush beside her.
‘Great caves,’ grinned Josh. ‘And there’s fungi in the woods! As soon as I find the tent I’m camping out there.’
‘How about you, love?’ Mum looked at Bryony.
‘I . . . I met a girl with a pony,’ answered Bryony.
Josh looked puzzled.
‘When?’ Grandpa asked.
‘When you and Josh were looking at the witches’ butter. But then she had to go before I could give her our address,’ replied Bryony.
Grandpa was very good at reading feelings. He caught Bryony’s eye and winked.
‘I’m sure you’ll meet her again, love,’ he said. ‘That’s the thing with little seaside towns – no one’s ever that far away.’
‘Yes, I guess so . . .’ Bryony nodded. She did hope Grandpa was right.
‘Right, then!’ said Josh. ‘What’s for supper, Mum?’
‘Josh, it’s hours till supper time!’ Mum laughed.
‘Well, I can definitely recommend the fish and chip shop,’ grinned Grandpa. ‘ ’Tis run by Saul Salmon, the fisherman!’
‘And . . .’ Grandpa looked at the cat on the window ledge, supremely ignoring the world, ‘. . . it even does scraps for rather grumpy moggies!’
The next day was beautifully sunny. Just the weather to not unpack! Instead, Bryony offered to go to the shops and post a parcel that her mum needed sending. It was a birthday present for Mum’s sister, Bryony’s aunt. Her mother had just found it buried deep in a packing box, already wrapped in brown paper, and Bryony was glad of the excuse to go off and post it.
‘Wait, do you even know the way?’ Mum called as Bryony headed out of the door.
‘I’ll work it out!’ Bryony called back. ‘Can’t be hard!’
She knew, from yesterday, she could go through the wood which would bring her out at the beach. Then she could backtrack uphill to the main street.
But Emma, she thought, might well live in one of the cottages on the longer way to town, so that’s the way she finally decided to go.
The front garden of Plum Cottage tumbled onto a narrow country lane. On the far side of this was a babbling brook that gambolled along beside it, like a puppy following its every twist and turn!
As Bryony walked on, the sound of bees filled the air and the hedgerows were crammed with lacy cow parsley bending lazily into her path. The air wore the perfume of summer too, made stronger after yesterday’s rain. Deep green grass, frilly flowers and moist brown earth filled Bryony’s lungs with the deep mysterious potions of the countryside. A busy ladybird scuttling along a wall, a frog springing across the lane and a paper-thin butterfly drifting by on the breeze made her feel like she was walking through the most beautiful dream!
Presently the lane widened out and a cluster of small cottages came into view. Their gardens were jam-packed with sweet-smelling flowers that spread out like a pretty patchwork quilt. Stocks, and delphiniums, and tall swaying hollyhocks. Bryony knew all the names from last term’s school project. Plus, before her dad had died her mum had been a florist. She’d had a break from it for a little while but Bryony hoped Mum would go back to it once they’d settled into Brook Dale.
Passing the cottages (with sadly n
o sign of Emma), Bryony followed the lane as it swept her around a dusty bend. After this, the lane became more of a road, with narrow pavements on either side. Walking on up a twisty hill, Bryony soon found herself in what she could only guess was Brook Dale’s main street.
‘Wow!’ said Bryony. She’d arrived in town. If you could call it that. Ancient and magical – this place was so different to the city’s wide, shop-lined streets. It looked like no other place she’d ever seen before. Like it belonged on a Christmas card!
The pavements were cobbled and the houses here had lost their quaint cottagey look, being much taller, thinner, and rather wonky!
They were not all whitewashed either, like the cottages up on the hills were. These houses had been painted soft ice cream colours: strawberry-pink, vanilla-yellow and a pale mint-green.
A few of them had shops on their ground floor and the owners lived above. Others were smaller and Bryony guessed that these ones must just be houses. Finally, burrowing between each of them was a rabbit warren of tangled lanes, leading to smaller, much artier shops behind.
The song of seagulls now filled the air and the smell of the beautiful cottage flowers had been replaced by a salty sea-tang.
Halfway down the street stood the fishmonger’s (which was also the fish and chip shop at night!). And beside it was an ancient coaching inn called The Bear and Porridge Pot.
Next to that, Bryony was pleased to find the very shop she was after. She read the tin sign propped up against its wall: The Old Post Office and Grocery Store.
It was a white building, rather like you’d see in Tudor times, with black beams that criss-crossed, and one big one across the top of the door.
Bryony stepped onto the old smooth step. Meeting new people was always a bit daunting so she took a few deep, calming breaths like she’d been taught in drama club. Then, gingerly, she opened the small creaky door.
Ting ting! Its top hit a little bell inside, which tinkled a cheery welcome. Bryony edged into the cool, polish-scented air and waited.
The place was empty. And no one seemed to be serving. But Bryony loved the look of it. It felt like she’d just stepped back in time, or was an actress in a film – set hundreds of years ago. It had wooden floorboards and the window was made up of lots of small thick panes of glass, which made the street outside look all wobbly and melted.
It had wooden shelves too, and tubs of ice cream in square blocks of colour, like a paintbox! As Bryony waited for the shopkeeper to appear, she decided to have a quick snoop round. The shop seemed to sell anything and everything. There was fruit and veg, and a whole shelf of home-made jams of various flavours. Their lids were covered with gingham hats tied with neat ribbons. There were balls of wool, hundreds of coloured threads, as well as crabbing nets and socks. On the wall behind the old-fashioned till were three very long shelves. Lining each shelf was a row of glass jars full of traditional sweets – liquorice and sherbet lemons and mints with brown stripes.
To the side of these jars was a latched pine door on which hung an old cork noticeboard. Pinned to this board were a number of dog-eared cards.
Bryony read the notices on each of the cards. Most of them were advertising things for sale. A bike, a wooden castle (with a dragon and some knights), an assortment of nearly new baby clothes. By the crumpled, yellowed look of the cards and their faded writing, most of these notices looked like they’d been there a while.
Bryony’s eyes were then drawn to a card that looked much newer and smarter.
‘Wow! What if it’s the pony?’ Bryony blurted out. ‘The one I met yesterday in the beech wood!’ And the girl she’d met – what if she was Emma Brook?
Then Bryony recalled the girl with white-blonde hair who had been with Emma too. Emma already had a friend to help her with the pony.
Bryony’s heart sank. That blonde girl must have got to this ‘WANTED’ card first. ‘But who says you can’t have two friends?’ said Bryony. ‘Or three, or four, or quite as many friends as you like!’
Just then, the latch on the pine door lifted and a wrinkled old lady shuffled through. She was wearing a flowery apron and tartan slippers with pompoms on.
‘ ’Ooo you gabbing to?’ the old lady snapped, peering around the empty shop.
‘Um, no one,’ Bryony squeaked back, going pink.
The old lady was as bony as a billy goat, with as hairy a chin as well! She had wispy, snow-white hair pulled back into a neat bun, and big owl-like eyes, except hers were violet blue.
‘Ah, but you’re the new girl!’ she cackled. ‘ ’Bout time an’ all! I knew you was coming to live ’ere – for months and months, you know!’
Bryony said nothing. But the old lady couldn’t have! Even Mum hadn’t known that . . .
‘I’m Miss Pigeon!’ the old lady went on, unscrewing a glass jar behind her and taking out two sticks of liquorice. One she gave to Bryony who thanked her, puzzled, and the other she popped behind her very wrinkly left ear.
‘And Pigeon is me real name before you goes asking!’ the old lady said with a nod. Despite trying to look stern, her violet-blue eyes were twinkling.
‘I’m Bryony – um, Mr Wallace’s granddaughter,’ Bryony replied uncertainly.
‘ ’Course you are!’ Miss Pigeon grinned. ‘I’m a fortune-teller. Well, part time, you knows, when I’m not serving in ’ere. And like I said, I knew you was coming – and ’ere yer are!’
Bryony blinked. A fortune-teller? Huh! More likely Grandpa told her they were coming, she thought, but she didn’t dare say it!
Instead, Bryony held her parcel out.
‘I’d, um . . . like to post this parcel to my auntie,’ she said.
‘ ’Course you would!’ Miss Pigeon nodded back. ‘I knew that too!’
She took the parcel and thumped it down on an ancient set of weighing scales. Now sucking on the liquorice from behind her left ear, Miss Pigeon popped a stamp on the parcel (upside down!). Then Bryony paid her, but instead of leaving, she stood there awkwardly hovering . . .
‘Err, Miss Pigeon . . .’ Bryony said. ‘Can I borrow a pencil and some paper, please?’
‘ ’Course you can, dearie!’ Miss Pigeon answered. ‘I knew you was going to ask me that so – ’ere!’
She whipped a scrap of paper from her apron pocket and a small brown pencil to go with it.
‘Thanks!’ said Bryony as the old lady passed them over.
‘Aye.’
Bryony got the distinct feeling that if Miss Pigeon liked you, you were fine. But, if she didn’t, watch out!
Bryony copied down the details from the ‘WANTED’ card and handed the pencil back. ‘Thanks.’
‘Ah, so you likes ponies, do you?’ asked Miss Pigeon, nodding to the card on the door.
‘Yes!’ Bryony nodded back. ‘Very much!’
‘Aye, well, you know what?’ Miss Pigeon winked. ‘There’s a riding stables ’ere, there is. Up on them cliffs. Seaview Stables, it’s called.’
‘Y-yes . . .’ Bryony smiled and was about to say, I know, when suddenly she stopped. Miss Pigeon was clearly trying to be kind. And even if the only one who believed she could read the future was the old lady herself, it wouldn’t harm for Bryony to play along and make her feel good.
‘Oh, great!’ gasped Bryony. ‘Thanks for . . . telling me. You must have known I was just about to ask that!’
‘Aye – nice spot,’ Miss Pigeon beamed. ‘Though right windy in winter. And summer too when a storm comes.’
‘I don’t mind wind!’ Bryony’s green eyes were twinkling. If she did become a friend of Emma Brook now that she had her phone number, they could ride the pony along the beach. And Bryony could visit the riding stables with Emma – and the blonde girl too. The more the merrier!
Waving goodbye to Miss Pigeon, Bryony hurried to the door. It suddenly felt like she was walking on air!
‘Have a nice day!’ Miss Pigeon called after her.
‘You too!’ called Bryony. ‘And thank you!’
Running back along the cobbled street, Bryony’s heart was beating fast. She was going to get a friend with a pony. This was perfect!
‘Mum!’ she cried, dashing into Plum Cottage. She waved her scrap of paper in the air.
‘Mum – please can you phone this number? I found it in the shop just now! Remember I told you about that girl? The one I saw in the wood yesterday? Well, it turns out she needs a friend to help look after her new pony! And—’
‘Whoa, slow down a bit!’ Her mother smiled.
‘But it’s Emma!’ cried Bryony, already dialling the number. She jabbed the phone back at her mum.
‘Ask if we can meet tomorrow!’ nodded Bryony. ‘Or today. Or – or – right now!’
Seconds later Mum was talking to someone on the other end of the line. Crossing her fingers tightly, Bryony waited as Mum explained all about Bryony, and how she’d found their number, and how she was longing to make a new friend.
‘And tell her I LOVE ponies!’ Bryony whispered.
‘And she really adores ponies,’ said her mum.
‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘Oh, I see. Yes, that would be lovely! Um, thank you, Arabella. Okay then – we’ll see you next Wednesday at two. Bye!’
Mum hung up.
‘Yay!’ cried Bryony. ‘We’re going round! But I have to wait until Wednesday?’
‘That’s right,’ smiled Mum. ‘It’s only five days away. Arabella’s invited us for tea!’
‘Did she sound nice?’ Bryony asked.
‘Yes,’ Mum nodded. ‘She said that they’d bought their daughter this sweet pony.’
‘E-Emma,’ said Bryony. ‘They’d bought Emma the pony?’
‘Um . . .’ Mum thought. ‘I’m not sure if she mentioned her daughter’s name . . .’
‘It must be Emma,’ Bryony smiled. ‘It just must!’
Bryony spent the next four days unpacking and finding places on the uneven walls to stick up all her pony posters (there were lots!). This she did without a single complaint as she replayed the scene over and over in her head of when she and Emma would meet again, and of course when she saw the gorgeous little pony again too.
The Pony With No Name Page 2
