Phantom Horse 1: Phantom Horse

by Christine Pullein-Thompson

  I washed Frances. The sky turned blue; the sun shone. It was like a warm March day in England.

  “I'm afraid it's going to be too bright for much scent,” Angus said.

  We mucked out the boxes and then dashed indoors and gobbled a breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast.

  We had decided to plait the horses' manes. I had two reels of thread for Frances, one chestnut, one white. We groomed the horses first and then we plaited, which took ages. Frances had a thin wispy mane. The bay mare's was thick. I sewed some plaits three times and they still looked awful, and then it was too late to resew any of them. By this time the bay mare had six enormously fat plaits and a forelock; Frances had seven thin ones and lots of wispy hair which had refused to become plaits. We gave the horses feeds and hurried indoors. By now it was ten to nine.

  “We mustn't be late at the Millers',” Angus said.

  Angus and I bridled our mounts at half past nine. Our pockets were stuffed with sandwiches. We mounted and rode across the valley. Frances felt fresh; the bay mare jogged and wouldn't walk. We could see our parents waving by the back door.

  “Well at least we aren't late so far,” Angus said cheerfully.

  Wendy was waiting for us in the stable yard. She was dressed in light-coloured breeches, a black coat, a hunting-tie and black boots. She wore a bowler and carried an extremely elegant hunting-whip. Suddenly, our clothes seemed all wrong and rather shabby. Her hair was neatly tucked into a net; her clothes looked almost new. Somehow I hadn't expected Wendy to be smart. Normally she would ride in anything – worn jeans and sneakers; tattered breeches and decrepit Newmarket boots. A flying jacket, a leather waistcoat, a colossal jersey, moccasins and old slacks and a checked shirt. I was speechless for a moment. So was Angus.

  “Hi, you're in fine time. The truck's out in front,” Wendy said.

  “You look very smart. Really great,” Angus exclaimed.

  “I feel awful. I'm sure my coat doesn't fit. It was Mum's,” she replied.

  “Does it matter that we're wearing riding-hats?” I asked. “You see, we haven't got bowlers.”

  “Of course not. Everybody will think you're about ten anyway,” Wendy answered with a grin.

  “I don't think that's much of a compliment,” Angus said.

  Although Wendy had said “truck” from the beginning, I was surprised to see Pete's chestnut standing in an open truck. I had imagined a horse box. The truck looked small for three horses.

  “What's the matter? Don't you like our transport?” Wendy asked.

  I could see Angus looking at the three rails which served for sides. I saw that there was no ramp.

  “How do we get them in?” I inquired.

  “Just by leading. How the heck do you think? That's why the truck's against the hill. We have got a loading ramp which we drive the cattle down, but we find the horses like jumping in off the hill a whole lot more,” Wendy replied, leading the way towards the truck.

  I was glad Mum hadn't seen our form of transport.

  Pete's chestnut was wearing a rug. His mane wasn't plaited, but I saw that he had been clipped. Joe was by the truck and he grinned and waved when he saw us. “He's coming too,” Wendy said.

  Angus looked at the chestnut. “I feel very scruffy, don't you, Jean?” he whispered. “Wendy's so smart. Do you think everyone else will be?”

  “I expect so, but it doesn't really matter,” I answered without conviction.

  “I can't think why we didn't have the horses clipped,” Angus said.

  “It would have been awfully difficult and we would have had to buy the rugs,” I replied.

  “I wish we were rich. It didn't seem to matter in England, but it does here,” Angus said.

  “You mean us never having enough money?” I asked. “You can't say we're poor with Dad's job.”

  “But he isn't paid a million dollars a year.”

  “Do stop grumbling,” I said. “We're very lucky to be going hunting at all.”

  Joe took Frances and, after a little persuasion, she jumped into the truck. He tied her to one of the rails by her reins, which made Angus raise his eyebrows. The bay mare was more difficult. She ran backwards and reared and oats had to be fetched. Mr Miller appeared on the scene and everyone started to give each other instructions. Mrs Miller appeared and took photographs, which didn't seem to help much. Then, quite suddenly, the bay mare decided to be sensible and jumped calmly into the truck, and stood still beside Frances. Mr Miller cheered.

  Joe tied her to the rails by her reins and then he climbed into the cab. Wendy, Angus and I climbed in with the horses, though Mrs Miller seemed nervous and thought we would be better in the front with Joe.

  We waved madly as Joe drove the truck down the hill. I must say it didn't feel at all safe. The floorboards seemed loose and the rails at the sides were only fastened by a few nails. I hoped we wouldn't meet Mum and Dad before we reached our destination. The horses were restless, and I untied Frances because I didn't want her to break her reins before we reached the meet.

  Soon we were travelling along the highway. Air rushed at our faces and once Angus nearly lost his hat. Wendy started to tell us about the Master of the Jameson hounds.

  “He's madly handsome and has a sweet wife. He hunts hounds himself and he's really great on a horse. He's strict though, so be careful,” she warned us.

  I imagined a tall, slim figure in pink sitting astride an enormous well-bred hunter. He'll look disdainfully at our hacking-jackets, I thought, gloomily, and he'll send us home when he sees our riding-hats.

  “He's very nice though,” Wendy added as an afterthought.

  9

  The meet was outside a large, low, rambling white house. In front was a sweep of gravel; behind were the stables where we unloaded our horses on to a manure heap, there being no loading ramp or hill nearby. The stables were marvellous: built in a square, painted white with a veranda running round the entire yard, they were quite unlike anything I had seen before. Inside the buildings, the boxes were partly tiled and the saddle rooms were magnificently arranged with marvellous sinks and elegantly-tiled floors. Grooms were rushing backwards and forwards with tack and stable rubbers and tins of hoof oil.

  “Wow, isn’t this great!” Angus exclaimed.

  I was looking at other horses' plaits. I thought ours looked amateurish in comparison.

  “Let's go. I hope Dad's here,” Wendy said. She seemed nervous and ill at ease now that we had arrived. “I hope the horses behave,” she added.

  Joe held our stirrups while we mounted. Frances napped towards the bay mare. We rode round to the front of the house.

  There wasn't a large field by English standards. An elegant maid in uniform was offering coffee to the twenty or thirty assembled horsemen, and to the spectators who had arrived in cars. There were plenty of grooms, but no interested locals like you’d see at English meets. It was very much a class affair. Nearly all the horsemen were marvellously turned out in scarlet and toppers. There was one woman riding side-saddle, who had blue-rinsed hair which she wore in a bun under a top hat. Another woman wore a coat with swallow-tails. There was only one rider in rat-catcher besides ourselves, and she was an English girl of about eighteen.

  Hounds looked marvellous and all very much of a size. The Master rode a large chestnut. The one whipper-in was mounted on a bay. Wendy nodded to one or two people; then Mr Miller appeared and said, “You'd better meet Mr Smythe, the Master.”

  There was no sign of Mum and Dad.

  We followed Mr Miller across the drive and he introduced us to Mr Smythe as “Two visitors from England.”

  Mr Smythe smiled and said, “I hope we give you a good day.”

  Angus said, “Thank you, sir.”

  Then Frances started to run backwards into hounds and we hastily retreated.

  “It's not nearly as friendly as an English meet,” Angus complained.

  “It's probably only because we're strangers,” I said. But I thought of meets at hom
e in England. I remembered the crowds outside a country pub, mothers with push-chairs, children on bicycles, old-age pensioners, young men on motor-bikes, shabby foot followers. Everyone in the village would be there and everyone would know everyone else. There would be a fleet of cars and bicycles and foot followers behind the field when we set off to draw the first covert. There would be cameras clicking and a great feeling of comradeship. Here, in America, the sport seemed to belong only to a selected few. There was something missing, I thought, watching the maid hand Mr Miller a cup of coffee.

  “There's Mum,” Angus said.

  Our parents had arrived with their weekend guests. Dad came across to where we stood.

  “Where's Mr Miller? I thought he was going to look after you,” he said.

  I suddenly had an awful empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was obvious that Dad expected Mr Miller to be mounted. It's funny how we just can't do anything right, I thought.

  “He's over there,” Angus replied, pointing to where Mr Miller stood talking to a fat man who was mounted on a small bay horse.

  “But he's not even dressed for riding. How can he look after you without a horse?” Dad asked.

  Then Mum appeared. “Where's Charlie?” she inquired.

  “He's following in the station wagon. He always does,” I replied.

  “I don't see how he can look after you when he's in a car,” Dad said.

  “It doesn't sound a very good arrangement to me,” Mum said.

  “I suppose we can't do anything about it now,” Dad told us, “but I wish you had explained the situation to us before.”

  “We didn't really think about it,” I replied truthfully. “Wendy just said that he would look after us and would be following in the station wagon.”

  “They're just going to move off,” Angus said, looking at the hounds.

  “Well, do try and be careful,” Mum said.

  “I'll keep an eye on them,” Wendy promised.

  “Remember, they don't even know the country,” Dad said.

  The Master blew a short toot on his horn. We rode away down the drive in bright sunlight. The sky was still blue. It was the beginning of our first hunt in America.

  A crowd of second horsemen followed the field at a respectful distance. We crossed a road and passed through an open gate into a large meadow where everyone started to canter. The bay mare bucked; Frances banged the woman with the blue hair with her quarters. Wendy said, “Don't thrust, Jean,” and I felt furious because I had hunted quite often in England and didn't wish to be told elementary things by Wendy.

  The first covert was a small wood. Frances was sweating when we halted and Angus was having trouble with the bay mare.

  “Why the heck don't you keep away from everyone else?” Wendy asked.

  I tried to move Frances, but she clung to her stable companion and the bay mare clung to the other horses.

  “It's all very well for you to talk. You're on an experienced hunter,” I replied.

  “There's no need to get mad. I'm only trying to help,” Wendy said.

  Frances banged the blue-haired woman again and she cried, “For heaven's sake, keep that mare still!”

  The bay mare lashed out sideways at a tall man on a large grey. Angus said, “Sorry, sir.”

  I realised that I wasn't enjoying my hunt much so far. The English girl in rat-catcher grinned and called, “What are they – young horses?”

  Then I heard someone say, “We're going to organise a real round-up on Monday,” and my mind leaped to attention.

  “I hear he's as wily as a grass snake,” the man on the grey replied.

  “We'll take him dead if not alive,” someone said and I suddenly felt quite empty, because I knew they were talking about the wild horse. I glanced at Angus and saw that he too was listening to this conversation.

  “He's done too much damage already. He's quite nuts. He's got three of Sam's horses with him right now,” the tall man said.

  “I suppose his darned pelt will be worth a few dollars,” someone said with a laugh.

  “Well, let's hope it doesn't come to shooting. I don't like the idea of putting a bullet in any horse's skull,” the tall man replied.

  There's only tomorrow, I thought desperately, and then a hound spoke.

  Another hound picked up the line. “They've found,” the English girl said.

  Frances started to fidget. I thought of Monday. I saw scores of riders approaching the mountains. Someone hollered. I heard the horn and suddenly I was galloping with everyone else, feeling a faint breeze in my face, hearing the “gone away” echoing across the sunlit Virginian fields. We came to a wall which Frances took in her stride; we swung left and there was a hill, and at the bottom a large line of rails. “They're too big for our horses,” Angus cried, suddenly beside me.

  “Perhaps someone will break them,” I replied.

  Wendy was in front. She seemed to have forgotten all about us. Frances settled down.

  I watched the Master jump the rails without changing the pace of his hunter. Other people followed.

  “They certainly jump,” Angus said.

  Beyond the rails was more grassland and in the distance a wood. I didn't think the hounds spoke as much as an English pack, and the Master didn't blow his horn again. But the country was far more open, so I suppose it wasn't necessary.

  A grey horse broke the rails right in the centre of the fence. Angus gave a cheer. Presently we were galloping towards the wood. Hounds checked and we saw a long line of cars coming towards us across the fields. Frances was blowing quite a bit and her long coat dripped with sweat. I dismounted and loosened her girth. Wendy came across.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Fine,” I replied.

  “Have you heard about the round-up? They're going to try and catch the wild horse on Monday. Isn't it awful?” Angus said.

  “Who are they?” Wendy asked.

  The stream of cars had arrived. People were getting out and hailing friends.

  “Everybody here as far as I can make out,” Angus replied, and there was despair in his voice.

  “Are you kids all right?” Mr Miller called, looking enormous in a camel-hair coat and Newmarket boots.

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied. At that moment a hound spoke. I pulled up my girth and mounted. There was a sudden burst of music as the whole pack picked up the line. We heard the “gone away” as we galloped towards the wood.

  “They've broken on the far side,” someone said. We jumped a smallish stile and then we were in the wood. I forgot everything but the feel of Frances's stride, the rushing air in my face, the music of hounds in full cry.

  We slid down a bank and jumped a stream and then we were out of the wood and in open country again. Hounds were running very fast and making very little noise. A couple of big hunters swept past Frances; in front was a wall, beyond were more huge meadows. I patted Frances and wondered how long she would stand the pace. We jumped the wall and I noticed a ditch beneath as we landed. I saw that the bay mare was over as we galloped on across grassland; in the distance a large house stood beyond a terrace gazing towards the Blue Ridge Mountains. It looked completely deserted.

  “That's the place Bill Matthews built for his first wife. He had to build another for his second wife, so now it stands empty,” said Wendy, suddenly beside me. I was appalled by such extravagance. The next moment Wendy was past and galloping close to a big chestnut horse, ridden by a man in scarlet.

  We turned left and galloped through a gateway and across a track. Hounds were well in front of the whole field. I don't think I'd ever seen a pack run so fast before. We jumped a “coop” set in a wire fence. We passed a herd of Angus cattle. I was with the tail end of the field; Angus just behind. The scene in front was like a modern sporting print though not really English in appearance because there weren't any hedges.

  The field doubled back because of wire, which enabled us to gain a little ground. The sun was still shining
and I was surprised that there was any scent at all.

  We came to a stream, wide and treacherous, and for a moment Frances hesitated, then we were over and galloping across grass again.

  As we jumped a low flight of rails, nearly ten minutes later, I realised that Angus and I were losing ground. Slowly the pack and the field mounted on fast, fit hunters were drawing away from us. Frances was tiring; the bay mare was dark with sweat.

  “Let's slow down,” I shouted to Angus. “It's their first hunt after all. We don't want to spoil them for the rest of the season.”

  We pulled up our horses and it was awful watching the hunt disappearing into the distance. But it was some consolation to know that we were doing the right thing. “What now?” Angus asked.

  “Home, I suppose,” I replied.

  “I wish there were more and bigger woods,” Angus said.

  “It's marvellous country for a fast, fit horse,” I replied. We couldn't hear the pack any more. It was dismal standing together in the vast Virginian countryside without a soul in sight. There wasn't even a cow within a mile of where we stood.

  “I hope you know the way home, because I don't,” Angus said.

  “I don't, but maybe the horses do,” I replied hopefully.

  “Remember they travelled to the meet by truck,” Angus said. So we were lost, I realised with dismay. All Virginia seemed to stretch before us.

  “Oh damn,” I cried. “Why can't we ever do the right thing?”

  “It's not as though we don't try,” Angus retorted. I saw us returning in gathering darkness; our parents waiting, anxious and angry, scanning the landscape, imagining ghastly accidents.

  “If we find the truck, we only have to wait for Wendy,” I said.

  “Quite – if we find the truck,” Angus replied.

  “Well, we must know the way we came,” I cried, turning Frances.

  We jumped the low flight of rails again. We rode across endless grassland, and then somewhere we went wrong. We came to a ploughed field, and we both knew that we hadn't crossed one earlier in the day.