by Anne Digby
'All in all, I feel a bit fed up with Daddy – don't breathe a word of this to anyone will you? I only hope I don't let him down after all this. I'm going to work really hard and the one bright spot is the horse I'm going to ride this term. If we get on well, Miss Kilroy is going to enter me for several events. His name is King of Prussia, and he really looks like a king, the most beautiful horse you ever saw, very regal –not a bit like darling old September! I'm going to ride him for the first time on Monday. Of course no horse can ever take September's place, I miss him so much I could cry. Tell him that, won't you?
'I do hope he'll settle down with Daddy soon. I was so hoping that Daddy would let you give him all the jumping he needs, somehow he's never quite cottoned on to the fact of how good you are, but there it is.
'I do miss the farm. I'm already counting the weeks till the end of term! I wonder if the thrushes have hatched yet in the hedge by your back door? I'm missing you, too. I put the shell to my ear last night, and I heard the waves as clear as anything. Please write again soon and give me every tiny scrap of news, especially about September! '
Mary read the letter through three times in all, savouring every sentence to the full. She was sorry that Anna was not settling down well at Kilmingdean so far – sorry, and yet – what a wonderful letter! It gave Mary the reassurance she longed for. Her father was wrong, and she was right! Anna hadn't forgotten her, anything but. She wasn't going to change and this letter proved it.
She put it carefully back in her satchel. Like the chain that hung around her neck, it would be another precious talisman to speed her through the weeks that lay ahead.
That weekend Mary was as happy as she had ever been. Chestnut Farm seemed to be bathed in permanent spring sunshine. She spent most of Saturday with September, cleaning out his stables, grooming him from head to foot, and then riding him in the woods which were blazing with wild flowers.
'Just look at the lambs, frolicking about among the trees!' she murmured to the horse. 'They're getting so big already.'
September seemed to sense Mary's new-found happiness that weekend and it put him in a calm frame of mind. At any rate when Mr Dewar spent an hour jumping with him on Sunday afternoon he performed quite well.
'Much more like his old self today,' said Mr Dewar afterwards, as Mary came across to take him back to the stable. 'Now he's ready to move on to bigger things.'
He handed Mary a pound note.
'Here's the rest of your wages for this week. You're doing a good job.'
She took the money in some embarrassment. She was still not reconciled to being paid for something that she regarded as a pleasure and privilege, but nothing could mar her happiness this weekend.
'Thank goodness you're settling down with him,' she told the horse, as she unsaddled him and prepared to feed him.
'I shall write to Anna tonight. She's going to be very pleased with you.'
By the time she had fed September, given him a thorough grooming and cleaned all the tack, it was time to cook supper for her father. Tired though she was, she found the energy to write Anna a long letter before she went to bed, full of news and tit-bits about the horse and the farm.
'P.S.' she put at the very end of the letter, 'the thrushes have hatched, I heard them cheeping below my window when I woke up this morning. Please write soon.'
During the next few days Mary learnt what Mr Dewar had meant about September moving on to bigger things. In their spare moments two of the farm hands were hard at work in the meadow, digging a huge ditch. On one side of the ditch they then constructed a high brushwood fence.
By Wednesday evening the work was finished. Mary went out into the meadow to bring in September who had been grazing there all day. She found Mr Dewar standing by the ditch speaking to Henry, one of the farm hands.
'It'll do for now,' he said, eyeing the ditch. 'Though I fancy we may have to widen it as time goes on. It's the same width as the Dyke now, but I won't be satisfied until September can jump something even wider. That way we take no chances when the big day comes.'
He came across and gave the horse a slight slap on its hind quarters.
'Take a good look at it, old chap,' he said. 'It's Chestnut Farm's own Demon's Dyke – and we've built it specially for you. You're going to learn how to jump it – and jump it well.'
To Mary's eyes the jump looked rather terrifying and it seemed to her that the horse thought so too. Whether it was Mr Dewar's uncompromising tone of voice, or the sight of that wide ditch and high brushwood fence, September started moving his head around rather fretfully.
'What's the Demon's Dyke, sir?' she asked at the same time patting the horse's neck to calm him down.
'It's where they all come unstuck at Imchester,' replied Anna's father tersely. 'Even the best show jumpers in the country.'
Mary understood now. The Western Counties' Championship was always held at Imchester. She started to lead September away.
'One minute, Mary.'
'Yes, sir?'
'I'm at market all day tomorrow. I want to start him on this new jump as soon as possible, but it'll have to be Friday. When you get home from school get him all ready for jumping, will you?'
'On Friday? Yes, sir.'
Mary was gripped with uneasiness, but she tried to hide her feelings from the horse. In the stable, as she fed him, she said:
'I'm sure it's not half as difficult as it looks. You can do it, September, I know you can. Then we'll have some more good news to write to Anna won't we?'
At the mention of his mistress's name, September's ears seemed to prick up, and he looked round towards the stable door.
'No, she isn't here,' laughed Mary softly. 'She's still away. But she's here in spirit – and she wants to know everything you're doing.'
Mary got up eagerly the next morning, feeling sure that the postman would bring a reply to the letter she had posted to Anna on Monday morning. But nothing came. By Friday morning she was so convinced that there would be a letter from Anna that she went up the lane to meet Tom on his rounds.
'Sorry, love. Just some bills for Mr Dewar. Would you like to take them back for me?'
The letter came by second post and was waiting for Mary when she got back from school. She had the cottage to herself and slit the envelope open eagerly, using a knife from the kitchen drawer.
'Dear Mary, It was so good to get your letter – what a sport to write back so quickly when I was feeling low. You'll be glad to know I'm much more cheerful now, in fact I'm quite ashamed of that silly letter I wrote you. (Be a dear and tear it up.) First of all, King of Prussia is quite the most fantastic horse – we seem to be made for each other. Even Miss Kilroy is delighted and that's saying something. And since I've been jumping him the girls here have really been sitting up and taking notice, and I've made one friend in particular – her name's Delphine (she's Judge—'s daughter). You'll never believe this, but Del's family live in an old castle – a real one – near Oxford, and she's asked if I'd like to come and stay with them over half-term!'
The rest of the letter blurred in front of Mary's eyes. She looked in vain for the name that was so beloved and familiar, but it came only at the very end of the letter:
'What a joy that September is settling down with Daddy now. Give him a hug and a kiss from me, and tell him to keep up the good work.'
FIVE
HOPING AGAINST HOPE
'Put the kettle on, Mary! '
As her father banged on the back door and called out, Mary leapt up and hurried to fill the kettle, leaving the letter on the kitchen table. She could hear him scraping the mud off his boots outside.
'Another letter from Anna then?'
He had come into the kitchen before she could hide it.
'Yes,' said Mary, and put it in her pocket.
John Wilkins glanced at his daughter's face and said nothing.
'Mr Dewar's putting the horse over the big new jump this afternoon ain' he?' he said at last. He could sense that Mary
was unhappy and was trying, in his own awkward way, to make conversation. 'You'll have work to do.'
'Yes.' Mary glanced at the kitchen clock. 'I've got to go over to the stable in about ten minutes and get September saddled up.'
'Just time to have a cup of tea and a sandwich, then, girlie .. .'
But Mary hardly heard him. September! Now that she had spoken the name out loud, tears began to well into her eyes and she had to fight to keep them back. She vowed to herself that she must hide her feelings from September; if he was to master 'Demon's Dyke' this afternoon, it was important that nothing should upset him.
In spite of her good intentions, the sight of him waiting for her at the meadow gate was too much for her. She opened the gate and led him out, in the direction of the stable. She tried to make her voice sound bright and cheerful but there was a little break in it that she simply could not control.
'Come on, boy. We've got to get you saddled up. You're going to do the big one today – the new jump.'
He knew at once that she was unhappy. As she saddled him up in the stable, he nudged her shoulder with his nose, and whinnied. After that Mary could not stop the words pouring out:
'You've got a rival, September. So have I. I don't know which is worse. I've had another letter from Anna today. Not a bit like the first one. I'm so miserable I could die. I was going to hide it from you, but what's the use? We can't hide anything from each other. She's starting to forget us, boy, both of us ... I really do believe she is. We're in exactly the same boat, you and I.'
After that it was a relief to let the tears come and then rest her tear-stained cheek against September's silky coat, until some of the emotion had passed. All the time, he pawed the ground fretfully, as though he had understood every word.
'Mary!'
'J – just coming, sir.'
The sound of Mr Dewar's voice as he called to her to bring the horse out, brought something like panic to Mary's heart. What had she done?
'Oh, September,' she whispered, soothing him with her hand. 'I'm such an idiot behaving like this. You mustn't take any notice of me, you really mustn't. You've got big things to do out there. And I know you can succeed, I just know it.'
But from the moment Mr Dewar cantered the horse round the meadow to loosen him up, Mary knew that it was going to be a bad session.
He took three or four hurdles carelessly, as though his heart wasn't in it. Then Mr Dewar headed him round in a tight circle towards the high brushwood fence that lay on the near side of the new jump. September took three or four strides towards it and then, as though changing his mind at the last moment, stopped dead.
He had balked.
'What's the matter with you, you brute! '
Mary winced as the farmer struck the horse hard with his crop, all his pent-up tension and disappointment expressed in the blow. She felt as though she herself had been struck.
'Now take a note of that. You're going to do it, d'you hear?'
Then he shouted to Mary :
'Give Henry a hand. Take off the top layer of brush.'
Mary rushed forward and helped the farm hand carry away some of the brushwood. Now the jump did not look half as formidable and after very slight hesitation, September cleared the barrier easily. He was not expecting the wide ditch on the other side, however, and got across it with only inches to spare.
'That'll do for today,' said Mr Dewar, as he dismounted. He led the horse across to Mary. She noticed that there were beads of perspiration on Anna's father's forehead, quite out of proportion to the amount of riding he had done. 'I can see I'm going to have to take him into it gradually. I don't know what's the matter with the animal. A taste of the whip's the only thing he seems to understand today.'
As soon as they were alone together in the stable, Mary flung her arms round the horse's neck.
'Oh, you poor thing,' she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. 'There was no need for that. I don't know what's the matter with him, these days. Fancy taking you straight into the fence at full height, anyway. He must have known you were unsettled today.'
It was some relief to Mary's guilty conscience to know that, even if September had been in a calm frame of mind to start with, Mr Dewar would soon have unsettled him today. Anna's father was obsessed with the Western Counties' Championship and was displaying an impatient and intolerant side of his character that she had never been aware of before.
She rubbed the horse down and thought: He's so highly strung. Things are communicated to him so easily. Mr Dewar's going to have to be much more relaxed than this. And I've got a responsibility, too. I mustn't show September when I'm feeling down. I've got to try and hide it from him somehow.
So it was that before she left him, she forced herself to be encouraging:
'You know something, September. That "Demon's Dyke" thing will never be as bad again. It's always worst the first time. You know what it's like now – you know all about that whopping ditch that lies on the other side of the barrier. All you've got to do is jump better and better until you can just curl up your lip and laugh at it.'
In her bedroom that night she sat down and wrote Anna a long account of how September had got on. Somehow it was second nature to confide everything to her, and hadn't she herself said in that first wonderful letter : 'You must tell me everything—don't keep things back will you?'
In the cold light of morning, Mary remembered that Anna had said that before Delphine had come along, and before she had started to ride King of Prussia, the horse that looked so beautiful and regal, 'not a bit like darling old September'. She was undecided whether or not to post the letter and then she overheard a conversation between the Dewars which finally set her mind against it.
Mary had scarcely seen Mrs Dewar around the farm since Anna had left for Kilmingdean and she had guessed that she was missing her daughter a great deal. Once she had noticed her in the kitchen garden, a tall figure with hair very fair like Anna's but flecked with grey, wandering along the paths, stooping now and then to tend a plant, her shoulders hunched rather forlornly.
But she was out and about this Saturday morning. The sun had brought her out and in fact she had walked down the lane with her husband to the cow sheds, having decided to see the little brown and white calf that John Wilkins had nursed back to health.
They came into the dusky sheds and did not see Mary in the stall by the door, trying to find an overall that her father had mislaid. They were deep in conversation. Embarrassed, Mary stood silent in the shadows.
'We must write to Anna this weekend,' Mr Dewar was saying. 'But we had better not tell her how disappointing the horse's performance is lately. You know, Sarah, I'm beginning to wonder if the animal is past his best.'
'Surely not, Richard. He's not that old.'
'Some reach their peak early.'
There was a pause and then Mrs Dewar said in a bitter voice:
'I couldn't bear to think of such a thing. We have no hope of buying a better horse before the championship. It's been such a sacrifice, sending Anna to Kilmingdean – in more ways than one. If it were all in vain—'
'I've said all along it's a gamble, Sarah.'
'I couldn't bear to think of it all being in vain.'
Their footsteps echoed over the stone floor and then the subject was changed as they stopped in front of one of the stalls.
'There she is. Little Mirabelle. John was quite wonderful with her.'
'He's a man in a thousand. We're lucky to have him, Richard.'
Cheeks burning, Mary tip-toed out of the sheds and fled up the lane to Primrose Cottage. In her bedroom she read what she had written to Anna, a faithful account of how September had balked at the 'Demon's Dyke'. Now Mr Dewar's words were running through her head, over and over again :
'I'm beginning to wonder if the animal is past his best.'
To Mary such a thought was preposterous. But supposing, just supposing, Anna began to think along those lines – began, perhaps, to compare September dir
ectly with the 'fantastic' King of Prussia who so filled her thoughts at the moment?
She tore the letter into tiny pieces. She would not write a word to Anna until he had some really good news to report on September's progress: could describe his achievements in glowing terms, and thus remind her with which horse her affections – and her future – truly lay.
It was two whole weeks before Mary could write such a letter. At last, after much tribulation, and with a great deal of behind-the-scenes encouragement from Mary, September cleared the 'Demon's Dyke' with the brushwood fence at its full height, and cleared it magnificently. He went on to repeat the feat the same afternoon.
'Your father was very pleased, naturally,' wrote Mary. 'Now he is going to set the men on widening the ditch next week and make the jump even more difficult than the real Demon's Dyke. After that he's going to make a "crowd" of us stand by the jump, because on the real course the Dyke is right on a corner, where all the spectators gather and there's a lot of noise. So you can see he's thought of everything ...'
Three weeks passed before Anna replied to Mary's letter. While briefly praising September ('tell him jolly good from me, won't you?') her letter was mainly devoted to detailed accounts of two local events she had entered on King of Prussia, and won. Delphine had come with her and been 'an absolute brick'. But it was the last paragraph that Mary stared at in disbelief :
'Half-term starts on Thursday and of course I'm going straight to Delphine's and – guess what – we've been invited to a Hunt Ball on Friday night. My godmother has sent me a beautiful dress to wear. As if that isn't fantastic enough, we shall probably meet you-know-who at the Ball (that's right, royalty) ... I can't tell you how far away Chestnut Farm seems these days, light-years, I can tell you!'
