by Anne Digby
Mary Wilkins, the unknown daughter of an unknown cowman, had won one of the most coveted show-jumping trophies in Britain –and a cheque for £3,000 for her father, as the owner of a completely obscure horse known as 'Good Fortune'.
As Mary dismounted and led September from the course, she felt weak, exhausted by her great effort, but exhilarated at the same time.
People pressed around her, shaking her by the hand; boys and girls thrust autograph books and Biros under her nose. A press photographer appeared and she heard his camera click, not once, but several times. Then, all round the show ground, the loudspeakers crackled and a voice came over:
'That's it, then, ladies and gentlemen. After that very exciting jump-off, this year's winner of the Western Counties' Championship is Number 23, Miss Mary Wilkins riding Good Fortune, owned by Mr John Wilkins. They completed a clear round in 3 minutes and 48 seconds. The presentation will be made on the rostrum in five minutes' time. Please allow the competitor to come to the enclosure. Thank you.'
It had all really happened! Mary flung her arms round September's neck, tears of happiness in her eyes. He nuzzled her gently.
'We've won,' she whispered. 'We've won!'
Where was Anna?
She gazed at the faces pressing in on her, but Anna's was not amongst them.
The crowd cleared a path so that she could get to the enclosure.
Foolishly, Mary half expected that she might find Anna waiting for her in the enclosure. Instead she saw only some stewards – and Colonel John Markham. He was watching arms folded, as his groom unsaddled Stardust and started to rub him down. But he turned his head as Mary came in with September.
'Congratulations, young lady.' He was smiling. 'D'you know you've broken the Duke's six-year run here, with that horse of yours? My life won't be worth living when he hears I've been beaten by a slip of a girl.'
He shook her by the hand, and she blushed. Then a deep Devonshire voice behind her told her that her uncle Henry had arrived in the enclosure.
'I'll bet the Duke would like this fellow in his stables, Colonel Markham, sir,' he chuckled. He took Mary by the arm and she saw that his face was redder than ever and a vein was throbbing in his neck, so great was his excitement. 'I'll unsaddle him and give him a rub. You give your hair a comb, girl, you've got to be up on the rostrum in a minute. The television camera's there an' all. Didn't I say your dad would see you on telly tonight? It's goin' to be on the Regional news at six o'clock, that's what they tell me.'
When Mary walked up to the rostrum, hands reached out and patted her on the back. There was a very good turn-out indeed and a great deal of noise. This died down to a whisper when the President of the Show Jumping Association stepped forward, shook Mary by the hand, and presented her with a large silver cup and an envelope containing a cheque for £3,000 for her father.
In the silence Mary could hear the whirring of the television camera, and was dimly conscious that the President was saying kind and flattering things about her. 'A brilliant display ... I believe we have witnessed here today ... the birth of a new star in the world of show-jumping ... let us all give a big hand ...'
As people applauded, Mary's exhilaration began to be mixed with annoyance. Surely the Dewars must be here in the crowd; applauding her with the rest? In spite of everything, surely Anna would not deliberately stay away from the presentation?
But as Mary scanned the upturned faces spread below her, she suddenly felt sure that Anna was not here.
She came down from the rostrum, clutching the cup, hardly aware of the cheers and applause. She had to find Anna! She had played out the scene in her imagination so many times – now she must play it out in real life. She would not be robbed of it. She ran through it all again, for the very last time ...
Anna's shock when she told her that 'Good Fortune' was none other than September, the horse she had come to despise, that she believed to be dead! Anna's chagrin. She would realize that she had been quite wrong to prefer King of Prussia. She would beg her father to buy back September, and the horse would remain happily at Chestnut Farm for ever more, and Mary would never be parted from him again.
As for Mary herself – well, after what she had pulled off today, Anna would see her in a different light. She would treat her with respect, beg her forgiveness for treating her so condescendingly in recent weeks ... in time, their friendship would be back on its old footing. Everything would be happy at Chestnut Farm again, the way it always used to be.
So it all ran in Mary's imagination. But it did not turn out like that.
She found the Dewars, alone, at the far end of the competitors' marquee. Anna was sobbing in her father's arms and he was comforting her, his face as dry and grey as the stone walls that surrounded Chestnut Farm. He looked like a man who had lost everything.
There was no new-found respect in Anna's face as she turned to Mary, only bitterness.
'If you knew your uncle owned a horse like that, don't you think it was your place to give us the chance of buying him and letting me win the championship?'
'What a nerve —' gasped Mary, but did not get any further.
'Your future's at stake, too, you know!' Anna's voice was high-pitched, almost a scream. 'You like your cottage, don't you? You once told me it was the dearest little house in the world, full of memories ... memories of your mother ... Well, you're going to be turned out of the cottage now, just as we'll be turned out of the farm. Your father will be out of a job —'
'Anna!' remonstrated Mr Dewar, but Mary was already at Anna's side shaking her furiously by the arm.
'What do you mean? What are you talking about?'
'My father's broke, that's what. Gone bust. The farm's going to be sold. Broken up into lots and sold. A few thousand pounds, that was all we needed—'
She started to sob. Mary had gone very pale. As Mrs Dewar put an arm round her daughter, her husband did a remarkable thing. He took Mary's hand very gently in his.
'I didn't want the news to be broken to you like this, Mary. But everything Anna says about the farm is true. You're too young to realize, but farmers have had a very bad time for the last two years, and I've had a worse time than most. I've reached the limit with the bank – they just won't lend me any more money. I know that in a few months I could have got the farm back on its feet – there's been important changes in Government policy, you see. But I haven't got a few months—'
'And – and you thought, that if Anna could win the prize—'
'Not the prize money on its own, Mary. We could have sold King of Prussia for a great deal of money if he'd won today. We – might just have pulled through. I gambled everything on this, even sending Anna to an expensive school to be coached in riding. It was foolish of me, foolish of me—'
'But you could have helped us, Mary,' said Anna. 'I simply hate you now.'
'Don't take it out on Mary,' said Mr Dewar sharply. 'It's not like you, Anna. What's happened to you?'
'Can't you see what's happened to her?' asked Mrs Dewar in exasperation. It was the first time she had spoken. 'You've done this to her, Richard. Sent her to that school, turned her into a snob – the worst kind of snob because she knew in her heart that she couldn't really keep up with the other girls there. And worst of all we've put a burden on her shoulders that no young person should have been asked to carry. She – she's little more than a child, Richard. We should never have expected all this of her, never! It's made her quite, well, different.'
'I know,' said Mr Dewar, his voice barely audible. He let go of Mary's hand. He was overcome with despair. 'Chestnut Farm has been in our family for over 200 years. It's, well, a little piece of the English countryside that's been entrusted to me, if you like. The men who work for me, their fathers and grandfathers worked for my father and grandfather ...
'What I did, I did for the farm – to try and keep it intact, the way it had been passed on to me. And most of all for the men who've worked for me a lifetime, who look on the farm as their ho
me, depend on me – people like your father, Mary.'
He shook his head and covered his face with his hands.
'I've failed all of us,' he said. After a few moments he dropped his hands back to his side. 'There's really nothing more to say.'
Mary turned away, her lip trembling. How different day dreams could be from reality. She had expected this moment to be so sweet, and how bitter it was. Her father to be out of a job! Strangers – living in Primrose Cottage. Chestnut Farm to be broken up – to be sold. It was rather like being told that the world was coming to an end.
Uncle Henry came into the marquee, looking for her.
'I want you to take me home now, please, Uncle,' she said.
He became nervous as he saw the Dewars, sensed the white-faced tension all around him. He spoke without thinking.
'Right, girly. I'll get September into the horse-box.'
'September?' gasped Anna. Her eyes looked wild. 'But he's dead.'
'No,' said Mary. Her voice was sad and flat. 'My father bought him back from the slaughterhouse. He didn't want you to be offended, so he dyed his coat.'
SIXTEEN
RETURN TO HAPPINESS
Mary's father very rarely watched television. But that evening he sat on the edge of the armchair in the living-room, his gnarled hands gripping the arms tightly, and watched the Regional News on their ancient black and white television set.
Be could not believe that he was watching his own daughter jumping with such brilliance on that gruelling course at Imchester; his own little Mary mounting the rostrum for the presentation, being described as a new show-jumping star in the making. Except it had to be Mary, because he would have recognized those faded old jodhpurs and battered riding hat anywhere.
He got up and turned off the set and walked across to where the trophy stood on the table. He picked it up and gazed at his daughter.
'So that's where you went today?'
Mary nodded, unable to speak. The sight of herself on television had been something of a shock.
John Wilkins then picked up the envelope containing the cheque.
'£3,000.' His fingers shook a little. 'It's yours by right.'
'No, Dad. It's made out to you. You're September's owner, you paid for him.' She turned to her Uncle Henry, who had stayed on at the cottage to watch the News. 'At least you can pay Uncle Henry back the money you owe him now!'
'What I think,' said her uncle, 'is that you should stop looking so miserable, John, and go out and buy some champagne. If this doesn't call for a celebration, then nothing does.'
John Wilkins shook his head.
'I'd rather keep the celebrations till I've found a job,' he said.
Of course none of them knew that at that moment, less than six miles away, a portly figure was switching off the colour television set in his study, even more deeply in thought than John Wilkins.
How could they?
The next morning Curry, King and Fenton, the Silverstock estate agents and auctioneers came to survey Chestnut Farm and make a valuation, prior to putting it up for auction in six lots. They were there for most of the day, two men in tweed caps and raincoats, wearing wellingtons especially for the occasion. One of them carried a briefcase from which he produced a very long metal rule on a spool from time to time, while the other one made notes.
Inside the farmhouse they measured up the rooms exactly and when they came out they used the rule to measure the exact dimensions of some of the outbuildings. For other measurements, like the length of the kitchen garden and the adjoining farm yard, they paced it out in strides.
Several of the farm workers came to watch them from time to time. Mary could not bear to watch for longer than a few minutes, especially when the man with the briefcase produced a small camera and began to take photographs of the farmhouse from many different angles.
All summer there had been undercurrents of unhappiness at Chestnut Farm and now at last it was all out in the open.
'How blind I was,' thought Mary, 'not to realize there was something like this in the wind. I was so wrapped up in myself – and September – and my stupid hurt pride over Anna —'
The shock and unhappiness was written on everyone's faces that day. Old Matthew, who was in his eighties, but still made himself generally useful around the farm, just sat outside the cowsheds, staring into space, the tears rolling down his cheeks.
As for Anna, she wandered about the farm like someone in a daze, her face white and drawn. Mary wanted to speak to her, but did not dare. Instead she went round to the back of the cottage where September was grazing and with a sponge and a bucket of hot, soapy water, she started to clean off all the black dye which had made his coat so matted and dull for the past weeks.
'At least you can look like yourself again, September,' she said.
And at least the job was a long and arduous one (the horse's coat had to be sponged down many times) and gave her something to do on this most terrible of days.
At tea-time, just as her father had sat down, the two men appeared at the back door of Primrose Cottage. They were very polite.
'We've inspected the other two cottages – we've left this one till last.'
'If we could just take a few measurements and check over its general state – it won't take us long. Then we'll be getting back to Silverstock.'
'We'd be most grateful!'
'So sorry to disturb you in the middle of tea. But you just sit right there, while we whip round.'
The words just blurred inside Mary's head. She found great difficulty in forcing her tea down as she watched the men measure up the little sitting-room and then remove the photograph of her mother while they inspected the state of the plaster on the big chimney breast.
She and her father never exchanged a word as they heard the men tramping round upstairs, their footfalls loud in the bedrooms above. It was as though strangers had already taken possession of their home and that they, eating their tea in silence, no longer had any right to be there.
But as soon as they had gone, Mary found her voice.
'The money, Dad,' she said, haltingly. 'I've been thinking about it. Couldn't you make a loan of it to Mr Dewar? Of course, I realize it wouldn't be enough on its own. But – but if we could...' she stumbled over the word, 'sell September, for a lot of money? I mean that was what Mr Dewar planned to do, in the beginning, wasn't it? To – to try and save the farm.'
'Aye, I've been thinking about it, too,' replied John Wilkins.
He looked very thoughtful. Mary waited with bated breath. It had taken all her courage to speak to her father like that, but his words last night had suggested that she had some claim on the money – on how it was spent.
'It would have to be such a lot of money that I doubt if anyone would pay it, Mary,' he said. 'Anything less wouldn't do – it would be throwing good money after bad. And in the meantime –' he spoke very, very slowly, '– you would have lost September.'
'But, Dad, we could at least try and advertise him and see—'
'No, Mary. We're not going to sell the horse. You're going to enter competitions with him – all over the country. The first thing I'm going to buy with that prize money is a car and trailer, to get us and the horse around to all the events you need to enter to make a name for yourself. Then I want you to get yourself some decent riding clothes and a few of the other things that other girls have –' he swallowed hard, 'which I've never been able to give you.'
So her father had decided that they were going to keep September, for good! That she was going to enter shows with him, try and make it as a show-jumper! For a moment tremendous joy surged through Mary – she wanted to rush outside and tell September, hold him close to her.
Yet the joy only lasted for a moment. It was overshadowed by a feeling of melancholy. Her father did not think it was a practical proposition to try and save the farm. And he understood financial matters, far better than Mary.
'I know it's going to break your heart, girl, leaving this pl
ace,' he said, reading her thoughts. 'It doesn't make me exactly happy, either. Chestnut Farm, well it's part of me, just like it was part of your mother.' Before she had married John Wilkins, Mary's mother had worked in the dairy here, and her mother before her. 'We just haven't any choice, that's all. I'll find another job sooner or later, an' a cottage to go with it, an' that'll have to be our new home, Mary.'
He pushed his plate away and lit up his pipe, slowly and thoughtfully. Mary knew that he had more to say. Her father had never said so much to her in one go for as long as she could remember.
'I haven't made much of my life, Mary. Not as much as I would have liked—'
'Oh, Dad —' said Mary. She knew that her father had always longed for some land of his own to farm, but that Uncle Henry, being the elder of the two brothers, had been the one to inherit their uncle's small farm outside Silverstock. 'It wasn't your fault.'
'The thing that matters, Mary, is that you've got a future now. You've never had anything, not even a horse of your own. I've never even been able to pay for you to have proper riding lessons – but look at you. You've got a great future, that's what they say. Nothing's going to rob you of it. I owe you that, girl'
Mary went over to her father and put her arms round him, and kissed him gently on the cheek. Then briskly and clatteringly she started to clear away the tea things, hoping that he would not notice the tears glistening in her eyes.
That evening when she went out to the shed to give September his oats, she pulled up short outside the door.
Anna was inside, with her arms round the horse's neck, crying softly, and whispering to him.
'I went away to school and forgot about you, didn't I, boy?' she said hoarsely. 'And from that moment on, nothing went right. I've really lost out, haven't I? I'm not going back to school, well I'm not sorry about that, but they've got to sell the farm, and they say they can't afford to keep King and – and you'll be going away, with Mary. I'll never see you again – or Mary – and –' Anna's sobs were loud now, 'and it's all no more than I deserve. Please forgive me. I know Mary won't.'
