by Amanda Wills
Chapter 5
The first thing Poppy saw when she opened her eyes the next morning was her favourite photo of her mum. She’d unpacked it the previous night and it was back in pride of place on her bedside table. When Caroline came into her room a few minutes later, Poppy was lying on her side, staring at the picture with such a look of yearning on her face that Caroline felt the familiar jolt of inadequacy somewhere deep in her stomach.
“Breakfast’s nearly ready and it’s a beautiful morning!” she said brightly, pulling open Poppy’s curtains to reveal a cloudless blue sky. “What are you going to do today? I need to drive into Tavistock and hit the supermarket but you two can stay at home if you want. Your dad’ll be here getting ready for his trip - the flight’s at eight tonight so he’s going to need to leave by three.”
“Um, I thought Charlie and I might spend the morning exploring properly. I heard a neigh last night so I think we must have a herd of Dartmoor ponies quite close. I want to see if we can find them,” said Poppy, as she swung her legs out of bed and reached for her jeans.
“Good idea. Make sure he stays out of trouble. I could do without a trip to casualty today.” Poppy nodded. If there was a tree to fall out of or a river to fall into Charlie was always the first to oblige. As a result he’d been a frequent visitor to the accident and emergency department at West Middlesex University Hospital.
When she suggested to Charlie that they spend the morning exploring together his blue eyes shone in excitement.
“Cool! Can I bring my Nerf gun, just in case we meet any predators?”
“No! You’ll give the Dartmoor ponies a heart attack! They’ll never let us near them,” shrieked Poppy, who was beginning to doubt the wisdom of inviting him along.
“Some people say there are big cats living wild on Dartmoor you know. Dad told me,” Charlie said, sticking out his chin.
“Maybe, but the noise you make they’d run a mile anyway. Why don’t you bring your bow and arrows instead?” she suggested.
“Alright,” he grumbled. “But I have been practising tracking and stalking. The big cats won’t know I’m there until I spring onto their backs.” He demonstrated by taking a flying leap from his chair to the back of the nearby sofa. Poppy looked at Caroline and they raised their eyebrows in unison. Charlie’s passion for danger was fuelled by his addiction to wildlife and survival programmes. While Poppy followed top riders like Pippa Funnell and Ellen Whitaker and spent hours watching Badminton, Burghley and the Horse of the Year Show, Charlie’s heroes were Bear Grylls, Steve Backshall and Ray Mears and his ambition when he grew up was to track and film clouded leopards in the foothills of the Himalayas.
The two set off shortly after Poppy had fed and groomed Chester and turned him out in the smaller paddock to the left of the house. The paddock was bordered by a much larger field of pastureland that belonged to the farm next door and was grazed by a herd of black-faced sheep. There was a public footpath from the road at the bottom of Riverdale’s drive leading diagonally across the sheep field and Poppy and Charlie started their exploration by following it. At the far side of the field they came to a second unmade lane that ran parallel to the Riverdale drive but was more roughshod than theirs.
“I didn’t notice this driveway yesterday. I bet it leads to the farm Tory told me about. She said a girl about my age lived there,” said Poppy.
“Does she have a brother?” asked Charlie, bending down to inspect the ground, his bow and arrows slung casually across one shoulder. “Yes, that’s definitely sheep poo,” he said with satisfaction.
“Sherlock Holmes has nothing on you,” said Poppy drily, as she looked behind him to the field of sheep. “I don’t know if she has a brother, Tory didn’t say. She just said I should go over and say hello once we’d settled in.”
Poppy would have loved to have been the type of girl who thought nothing of casually rocking up on a stranger’s doorstep and introducing herself. Charlie had inherited their dad’s gregarious nature and didn’t think twice about bowling into new situations and making friends. But Poppy was often paralysed by her shyness. Knowing her luck she’d stand on the farmhouse doorstep and be rendered mute, opening and closing her mouth like a demented goldfish.
They re-traced their steps and crossed the Riverdale drive into the field to the right of the house. It was four times the size of Chester’s paddock and in Poppy’s opinion was the perfect size for a pony. The field was flanked by the dense woodland that Poppy had seen the day before. Charlie led the way, climbing over the post and rail perimeter fence and disappearing into the trees. Her usually boisterous, noisy brother turned back to look at her, holding his index finger to his lips as he warned her to be quiet. She followed as silently as she could as he led her soundlessly through the undergrowth. Eventually they came to the bank of a gently flowing stream.
“No wonder the house is called Riverdale,” whispered Poppy.
“Let’s follow the river upstream,” breathed Charlie. Life in Devon seemed a long way from suburban Twickenham and the potential for adventure appeared limitless. They came to a bend in the stream where it widened out and the water slowed pace. A small sandy beach in front of them was too much for Charlie to resist and he raced over, pulling off his trainers and socks, whooping with glee as he ran, his silent tracking temporarily forgotten. Poppy joined him and they paddled in the icy water until they couldn’t feel their feet. As they sat on a boulder drying their toes Charlie tugged at his sister’s sleeve.
“Look, there’s a hoofprint from one of your Dartmoor ponies,” he said, pointing to the sand in front of them. It was a shallow print, about the size of Poppy’s hand, facing the water. The ponies must come here to drink, she thought excitedly.
Charlie seemed to read her mind. “It’s like an African watering hole only in Dartmoor. They probably come to drink here at dawn and dusk, like the animals do on the savannah. We could come and watch them one night.”
“Fantastic idea, little brother. Shall we carry on?” Charlie nodded in assent and they continued to follow the river. As the trees thinned out, Poppy realised they had reached the moorland at the base of the tor which towered over Riverdale. In front of them was a small herd of seven Dartmoor ponies. Some bay, one chestnut and a couple of greys. When they heard the two children they looked up from their grazing. Before Poppy and Charlie could get any closer they ambled off together around the far side of the tor.
Charlie strode purposefully over to where one of the ponies had been standing and peered down at the ground.
“That’s a bit weird. Come and have a look,” he beckoned to his sister. The grass was marshy and at first Poppy wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be looking at.
Seeing her puzzled face Charlie explained, “Look, see the hoofprints in the mud. They’re tiny - much smaller than the one we saw by the river. That must have been made by a bigger pony, maybe even a horse.”
Poppy felt a fizz of excitement which made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “Very clever. Who needs Steve Backshall when you have ace tracker Charlie McKeever as your guide?” she teased him, wondering whether the mystery hoofprint had anything to do with the flash of white she thought she’d seen in the wood.
“No sign of any big cats though. I wanted to find at least a pawprint - maybe even the carcass of a dead sheep,” said Charlie glumly.
Halfway up the tor they found a boulder to sit on and Poppy produced two chocolate bars from the pocket of her sweatshirt. From their vantage point they gazed at their new home, spread out before them in the sunshine.
“I think I’m going to like living here. I thought I’d be missing Twickenham by now but Riverdale almost feels like home already,” mused Poppy. Charlie scrambled off the boulder. “Same. Come on, let’s go back now. It must be nearly lunchtime. The chocolate was nice but I’m still starving.”
By the time they reached the house Caroline was unpacking bags of shopping in the kitchen. Charlie rushed straight in and began regaling her with tales of
their morning’s adventures. As she walked to and fro finding space in the cupboards for the various jars, tins and packets Caroline occasionally ruffled his thatch of blond hair. Poppy hovered in the doorway, feeling excluded as usual, a feeling that was compounded when her dad came downstairs, joined Caroline and Charlie in the kitchen and started teasing Charlie about his big cat obsession.
Caroline unpacked the last of the shopping and looked over at Poppy. “I overheard a strange conversation when I popped into Waterby Post Office to buy stamps this morning.” She described how she’d been standing in the queue behind two old farmworkers. “They were talking about the annual drift. Did you know hundreds of Dartmoor ponies are rounded up off the moor every autumn before being taken to market?”
Poppy nodded. She’d read about the drift in one of her pony magazines. It was a tradition that had been going for generations.
“Anyway,” Caroline continued, “One said to the other, ‘I wonder if they’ll finally manage to round up the Wickens’ colt this year.’” Her attempt at a broad Devon accent was met with smiles from her husband and son.
“And the other one said, ‘Colt? He must be ten if he’s a day.’”
By now Caroline had everyone’s attention. “So the first one said he reckoned that the colt must have had help hiding from the drift all these years. And the second one seemed to find that funny because he was laughing when he replied, ‘Aye, but what’ll happen now that the help is stuck in an old people’s flat in Tavistock?’ Bit strange, wasn’t it?” said Caroline, giving Poppy’s shoulder a quick squeeze. Poppy shrugged off her stepmother’s hand.
“If you say so,” she shrugged again and left the three of them to their game of Happy Families.
