Christine Pullein-Thompson
PHANTOM
HORSE
WAIT FOR ME
AWARD PUBLICATIONS LIMITED
ISBN 978-1-84135-930-4
Text copyright © Christine Pullein-Thompson
Illustrations copyright © Award Publications Limited
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Illustrations by Eric Rowe
Cover illustration by Jennifer Bell
This digital edition first published 2012
Published by Award Publications Limited, The Old Riding School, The Welbeck Estate, Worksop, Nottinghamshire, S80 3LR
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Contents
Title
Copyright
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
More Phantom Horse Adventures
1
“She’s all alone much of the time, poor kid. It’s no life for a girl,” said our help, Mrs Parkin. She was talking about the new family who had bought Hill Farm House, which had once been decrepit and tumbledown but was now done up with coaching lights at the end of the drive.
“What about her parents?” Mum asked.
“They’re kind enough. I’m not complaining,” replied Mrs Parkin with a sniff. “They fetch me, take me back, pay on the dot – over the odds often as not. It’s just the kid’s so much on her own, it isn’t natural.”
Mrs Parkin has worked for us for years. She always knows what is going on in the village.
“Why don’t you ride over and call on her, Jean? Phantom needs exercise,” suggested Mum.
“And what would I say – Are you lonely?”
“No, just stop and wave over the fence.”
“They’ve got a swimming pool, Jean. You and Angus could swim there sometimes. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” said Mrs Parkin.
“Will you ride over with me, Angus?” I asked my brother, who was looking out of the window.
“If you insist,” he said, turning to face me. “After all we might like her, and they must have pots of money to buy a place like that.”
“She’s called Rachel,” said Mrs Parkin, before switching on the vacuum cleaner and drowning all further conversation.
It was summer, with the orchard full of buttercups and the apples beginning to change colour on the trees. There were dancing clouds in the sky and a smell of roses in the garden. Our horses were standing together in the paddock under the oak tree, which is nearly as old as the cottage where we live.
“I bet she’s awful,” said Angus, grooming grey Killarney.
“She’ll talk as though she has a marble in her mouth,” I suggested.
“No, a plum,” replied Angus, laughing. “A large purple one.”
“The house is ruined anyway,” I said. “It doesn’t look like a farmhouse any more.”
“It looks American – an American ranch house,” said my brother fetching his saddle and bridle from the tack room.
Phantom’s coat was gleaming gold, his mane silver, his muscles rippling beneath his skin. I had never seen him look fitter.
He opened his mouth for the bit and stood patiently to be saddled. Another minute and we were riding away down the tree-shaded road, the clip-clop of hoofs like poetry in my ears. “Rachel what?” asked Angus.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s going to be a scorcher today,” observed Angus a minute later. “Hotter than yesterday, and I could sure do with a swim.”
“Is that why you came?”
“I guess so.”
“Stop being American.”
“I’m practising. I’m going to pretend I’m from the States,” said Angus.
Hill Farm House is a mile from us. It stands at the end of a short drive, which a year ago had been a rutted track with nettles on each side. The house then had hidden behind a tangle of ivy, brambles and overgrown roses. The windows had been grimy, and dogs had guarded the shabby back door. Now all was changed. The dogs and the creepers had gone. The bricks were revealed and the windows restored and cleaned. The huge, battered farm buildings, which had stood on both sides of the house, had been demolished and replaced by grass and shrubs. A grey wood smoke no longer emerged from the chimneys; hens no longer scratched busily in the yard. Two garages had replaced the cowsheds at the back, and the paddock, once fenced by overgrown hedges, was now enclosed by a white-railed fence, the ancient horse pond becoming a feature of the garden with a fountain worked by electricity. Once it had looked like a Domesday house, now it looked like a rich man’s folly. The sight brought tears to my eyes.
“I hate looking at it,” I said. “I keep thinking of all the horses which must have drunk at the old pond, and the barns that were so lovely.”
There was a notice which read CAUTION – GUARD DOGS. I pointed at it while Angus said, “You can’t stop change. I’ll hold Phantom while you knock on the door. There aren’t any dogs because there’s no sound of barking.”
“Oh yeah? Why me?” I asked.
“Because you’re more tactful.”
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” I said, dismounting nevertheless, wondering what to say as I handed Angus my reins.
There were steps up to the front door. Once you had to thump on the door with your fists, willing the dogs not to bite. Now there was a new bell which I pushed and pushed again.
“Obviously she isn’t in,” I said, with relief in my voice.
“So we can go home. It’s time for elevenses and I feel like bread and cheese,” said Angus, who was always hungry and couldn’t last from one meal to the next.
“Hang on, I hear footsteps,” I said.
Another second and Rachel appeared – at least we guessed it was Rachel. She had long tawny hair, varnished nails and was wearing a bikini. She had eyes which were not English – Slavic I guessed – and long brown legs. Her feet were bare. Angus gave a small gasp and then, squaring his shoulders, announced, “I’m Angus and this is my sister Jean. We live in Sparrow Cottage and thought we would see whether you are all right.”
“All right? Of course I’m all right. I was by the swimming pool getting a tan. Are these your horses?”
I nodded. “Phantom and Killarney. Phantom’s American, Killarney’s Irish and we’re English-Scottish,” I told her.
Rachel stood staring at Angus before saying, “Mrs Parkin thought we should meet. You have her two mornings a week, is that right?”
“Yes, we have for years and years,” I replied quickly.
“And your father works for the government, and it’s very secretive,” she continued.
“Yes, but it’s not always like that,” replied Angus, laughing, so that I thought: he likes her, he’s smitten.
“Sometimes it’s quite ordinary. Sometimes he works from home, and sometimes he is sent places,” I explained.
There was a huge dish-like gadget by the house. “It’s something to do with satellites,” whispered Angus.
“My father is in communications,” explained Rachel. “That’s
why we’ve got a burglar alarm and that silly notice about guard dogs. He has masses of very complicated equipment. There’s more inside. Do you like swimming?”
“Yes, very much,” replied Angus quickly.
“You must come and swim then,” she said. “Come this afternoon, and by the way, I love horses. I’m going to buy one. Will you help me choose?”
“Of course,” replied Angus.
“You see I don’t know anything about them. I’ve only ridden at a riding school, but I would like an Anglo-Arab,” continued Rachel.
“We’ll help you any time,” offered Angus. “Just name the day.”
“Mrs Parkin suggested Reading market,” Rachel said. “That’s on a Friday, isn’t it?”
“But quite unsuitable,” I told her.
“We needn’t buy anything. We can just go and look,” said my brother. “Just to get your eye in. There won’t be Anglo-Arabs, but you might just find a bargain.”
“Father has given me a thousand pounds,” she said. “Is that enough?”
“Hardly, but we might be lucky,” Angus replied, beaming at her, showing off his even teeth and his brown eyes full of appreciation, while I felt like an intruder – an outsider of no significance whatsoever.
“We had better go home, or you won’t get your elevenses, Angus,” I said, mounting Phantom again.
“Friday then,” Angus said.
He looked at Rachel who asked, “But how do we get there?”
“My mother will take us,” Angus replied, without looking at me.
“Wear dark glasses and bring a large handkerchief,” I shouted over my shoulder, riding away.
“Jean always cries at the market. She doesn’t like horses going for meat,” explained my brother before catching up with me.
“What’s the hurry?” Rachel called. “Come and swim whenever you like. Don’t forget.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Angus when we were out of earshot. “She’s like a film star, isn’t she?”
“You don’t like swimming, you always say you don’t, anyway,” I answered.
“Depends whom I’m swimming with,” replied Angus, laughing.
“She looks older than us,” I said as we reached the road.
“Only more sophisticated,” Angus said happily, which made me think: he’s seventeen, soon he will be leaving home. Soon he will be grown up and the best years will have gone. I did not want to grow up. I wanted life to go on being just the same, with hunter trials and Pony Club camp. I did not want to earn money or have a career. Dad thought I should take a secretarial course, Mum wanted me to learn about computers, while I just wanted life to stand still.
We put the horses in our old-fashioned stables because of the flies. The sun was still shining and Mrs Parkin was drinking tea with Mum in the kitchen.
“She’s asked us to go swimming,” Angus said, taking off his riding hat. “She made Jean look like a country cousin.”
I looked at Angus and said nothing. Once we had been close, now we were growing apart; it was a fact of life and nothing would change it.
“Did you like her, Jean?” Mum asked.
“She’s all right,” I said. “But she wasn’t interested in me, only in Angus.”
“She wants us to help her find a horse. Can you take us to Reading market on Friday? The sale will be on the first Friday in August, won’t it?” asked Angus.
“That’s right. Is today Monday?” asked Mum.
“Yes,” said Mrs Parkin. “Well, I must get on. Anyone seen my dusters?”
I remembered I had borrowed them to polish Phantom’s bit and went out to the tack room. It was very hot now and everything seemed dry and still, except for the flies which were everywhere. I kept remembering Hill Farm House as it had once been, reeking of history.
Angus was still talking about Rachel when I returned to the kitchen. He was saying, “Honestly, she looks just like a film star. She’s stunning. That’s the word: stunning.”
“So, Jean, you didn’t like her?” insisted Mum, taking the dusters from me.
“She’s not my sort of person,” I said. “She looks quite a lot older than me.”
“Mrs Parkin says she’s only sixteen. I’ll just write Reading market in my diary or I’ll forget,” Mum said.
Angus returned to Hill Farm House in the afternoon, while I spent the afternoon schooling Phantom. It was very hot.
“Why didn’t you go with Angus? You are a goat,” said Mum, when I went inside to drink three glasses of orange squash.
“They don’t need me,” I said. “Can’t you see Angus has fallen in love?”
“Well, it had to happen sometime. At least she’s close to home!” replied Mum, laughing.
Angus returned at eight o’clock. “I’ve met her parents. They’re great. They offered me a Campari and orange – I could have had anything I liked – and they wanted me to stay to dinner,” he said. “They’re not like us at all. They may be getting three horses – one for each of them – so we had better start looking straight away. And, oh, they want to meet you Mum – and Dad. They are terrifically hospitable, real live wires. Rachel’s mother is beautiful, too. Her father looks a man of the world. He speaks three languages and drives a Mercedes. They made me feel a bit of a pauper, actually.”
“Some of us don’t wear our wealth on our sleeve,” replied Mum.
“Everything’s new – from Harrods, actually. They used to live abroad. They’ll certainly wake up this sleepy old village,” continued Angus.
“Where are they going to put their horses? They’ve knocked down the old stables,” I said.
“They’re going to build new ones.”
“They’ll need a groom,” I said. “I can’t see Rachel mucking out.”
“Perhaps you would like the job,” suggested Angus, laughing.
I threw some orange squash at him and could hear him still laughing as I wandered outside, wondering why people have to grow up and fall in love.
The summer is ruined, I thought. I wish Rachel and her parents had never moved here. I saw Angus talking of nothing else, morning, noon and night.
I saw him riding with Rachel through the woods I loved. I saw him talking like she did, thinking like she did, becoming a different person. For years we had done everything together. Now I would have to go it alone.
2
On Friday, Rachel arrived at our place at ten minutes to nine. Dad had left for work and the kitchen was piled high with washing-up. The horses were waiting to be brought in.
Angus opened the door to her still in his pyjamas, his hair in chaos and his feet bare.
“You’re early. I thought we were picking you up,” he cried, his face slowly turning to the colour of beetroot.
“I thought I would see where you lived. It’s such a lovely morning.” She was wearing jeans – the expensive kind with the right label on the back – an open necked shirt and high-heeled, thin-strapped sandals.
“Come in. It is Rachel, isn’t it?” asked Mum. “Angus, go and get dressed.”
“Yes, Rachel Finbow,” she said. “What a quaint old place.”
I fled to the stables. Phantom was standing at the gate nickering. The sun was merciless in its heat, the sky cloudless, the grass turning yellow.
She isn’t real I thought, as I brought the horses in. She’s like a dummy in a shop window. She’s pretending, wearing a veneer. Angus is so smitten he can’t see it, but I can feel it in my bones.
When I returned indoors, Mum was showing Rachel over the cottage. I wondered what she thought of my bedroom, full of china horses, my teddy bear on my bed, my bookshelves stacked with childish books as well as Dickens, Jane Austen and Wuthering Heights. Piles of Riding in one corner. Photographs of Phantom everywhere. No make-up to be seen.
Later we drank coffee in the kitchen and Rachel talked to Mum. Then Angus appeared, full of apologies.
“We don’t need to be there until eleven because they sell the tack first,” Mum said. “Unless you want
to shop.”
We did not want to shop, so Angus and Rachel talked. Then they sat in the sitting room listening to Dad’s records and looking into each other’s eyes. Soon they’ll be holding hands, I thought.
Rachel wanted to ride. “Couldn’t I ride Jean’s horse?” she asked Angus. “Then we can go out together.”
Angus looked at me.
“Sorry, you can’t. He’s peculiar,” I answered. “Nobody could ride him when we caught him in Virginia. I’m the only person he trusts.”
She doesn’t believe me, I thought, and imagined her on Phantom, his eyes fearful, her legs too far back, her hands moving up and down as she trotted.
“Then I could ride your horse, Angus,” she suggested.
“But I can’t ride Phantom,” Angus said.
Suddenly it was time to go. I put on my dark glasses and filled the pockets of my jeans with tissues. We walked straight out of the cottage as we always did. I remember the brick path was strewn with rose petals and somewhere a bird was singing. The horses were dozing in the stable, sleek in their summer coats.
Mum was wearing a denim skirt, a checked shirt and flat shoes. She looked young, too young to be Angus’s mother.
The road to Reading was full of cars. Everyone seemed to be going shopping.
“Do you like it here, Rachel?” Mum asked.
“Yes, it’s terrific.”
“It’s very nice of you to ask us round to drinks on Sunday.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Rachel said. “I’m so glad your husband can come. My parents very much want to meet him.”
I thought of Dad: tall, his hair turning grey. Lately he had seemed withdrawn; hardly with us. Mum had said, “He has worries. But he can’t talk about them; that’s what makes it so hard.”
“He’s rather busy at the moment,” she said to Rachel, stopping at traffic lights. “I hope he can make it. He brings a lot of work home, you know.”
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