The Wild Boy and Queen Moon

by K. M. Peyton

  ‘Why’s that then?’

  ‘Her money’s been stolen. All that money in her mattress.’

  Duncan stopped, in mid-fling, and looked down from the stack, shocked. Sandy tried to notice if it was play-acting, but it was difficult in the half-light.

  ‘Who’d do a thing like that?’

  Exactly. Stealing from an old girl like Gertie was too awful. There was no way she could mention the penknife. He would think she was accusing him.

  He went home after stacking the straw, and the livery people started to dribble in to hear the news. There was no sign of Sneerwell, as usual, so Sandy got a headcollar and went down to catch King of the Fireworks out of the field, with Polly and Henry. They were going to ride, although it was nearly dark. They schooled in the field just down from the yard, which was flat and gravelly and didn’t get too poached.

  ‘The police are coming.’

  ‘They think it’s one of us!’

  Sandy put Sneerwell’s horse in its box, changed its rug and went back to Polly, who said she had her livery money to give her.

  ‘I had it in my pocket last week,’ she said. ‘But when I came to give it you, it was gone. I blamed my own carelessness, but if there’s a crook like that around – who knows?’ She passed Sandy a twenty-pound note. ‘Perhaps someone pinched it.’

  Sandy was horrified. ‘Don’t say that!’

  ‘I never thought it before. But now . . . I left my jacket in the tackroom. Anyone could’ve done it.’

  Polly was a blunt, down-to-earth female in her early twenties. What Ian called a ‘real horsy woman’. She was a very hard worker and tough, but easy enough to get on with, and Sandy depended quite a lot on her knowledge and expertise. She really knew horses and thought of little else. Her horse was a dark grey, rather funny-looking ex-racehorse called Charlie’s Flying. Although he had rather a lot wrong with him, he was a good jumper and fast, and the best Polly could afford. She loved competing on him, but rarely won anything. Polly worked in the local supermarket. She was quite pretty when she made an effort, which was rarely, but her shrewd eyes and hard manner put the men off. Sandy liked her a lot and thought she looked marvellous on her horse in her competition gear – like a being from another planet. Sometimes Sandy went to events with her, to help, and she was always impressed by the way Polly got Charlie’s Flying round the cross-country course – no easy option.

  She hung over the stable door, while Polly gave her horse a quick brush over and put on the saddle and bridle.

  ‘Will you tell the police about your money?’

  ‘If they ask, I suppose. Mind you don’t lose it!’

  Sandy put the note in the zip pocket of her jods. Nobody would take it from there.

  ‘Is our friend Sneerwell coming down tonight?’ Polly asked. ‘That horse is tragically wasted on that young man. I’ll give him lessons, if he wants.’

  ‘He doesn’t think he needs them.’

  Polly gave a snort of derision. ‘Poor deluded soul.’

  She led Charlie’s Flying out of his box and hopped up into the saddle, quick as a sparrow. Charlie’s faults: too long a back, sloping rump, dishing action, cow hocks, bowed tendons – all seemed to disappear when his rider collected him up and sent him on at a perfectly collected trot. Polly was an ace rider.

  Sandy felt gloomy, fingering the twenty-pound note that nestled in her groin. Polly’s information was bad news. She would have to tell her parents.

  She went to fetch George and Puffin, who now came in at night. They were waiting by the gate, and Leo came down on her bicycle to coincide with Sandy in the gateway. They led the ponies with baler twine; they would have come home without anything. Leo rode her bike and held Puffin’s mane, and Puffin pulled her along. Sandy told Leo about Polly’s twenty-pound note disappearing. ‘But don’t tell anyone else!’ She wasn’t going to tell Leo about Duncan’s penknife. Not anybody.

  George and Puffin seemed to get smaller and smaller. After handling King of the Fireworks the contrast was marked. Or were they – their riders – growing? Panic seized Sandy when she thought of being too big for George. Her father would never buy her another, not when he couldn’t even afford a new baling machine.

  ‘Anyway, George, I don’t want another one. Only you. Why can’t you grow too?’

  George was only interested in his feed bucket. Sandy knew he wasn’t anything special, but she loved him. He was a goer and a fun ride and hardy: he never got tired. Polly said he should pull a cart. His markings were good – more brown than white, evenly distributed, and he had a pretty head and good eyes – a touch of quality, Sandy liked to think. Everyone thought their pigs were pearls. She wasn’t the only one. Only Sneerwell, who had a peerless horse, didn’t think he had anything special. He was pig ignorant and couldn’t see a pearl when it was under his nose. Sandy fed Sneerwell’s pearl as its owner appeared, as usual, not to be coming.

  By the time she had done this the two police cars had arrived in the front drive. Sandy came out of Fireworks’ stable and, as she did so, Julia rode in on Faithful (having been for a smart canter in the dusk) and said, ‘The wild boy is coming along the sea-wall, if the police want to see him. Shall I tell them?’

  Without waiting for an answer she rode through the archway into the drive and approached the policemen, who were talking beside their cars. One of the policemen got back into his car and drove it out down the drive and into the lane, blocking it. This movement looked very threatening, Sandy thought, although she could see it was perfectly practical. Literally ‘stopped by the police’. She and Leo wanted to hang around to witness the taming of the wild boy but without making it obvious. It was a bit tricky. Then one of the policemen came over to Sandy and asked her if she could let ‘the liveries’ know they would like to ask them if they had seen anything untoward the evening before. Was there a room they could use, to take notes?

  ‘You can use the tackroom. There’s a table and chairs.’

  ‘That will be fine. Thank you.’

  Leo then said, cleverly, ‘Shall we stop the boy on the grey horse and tell him you want to speak to him?’

  ‘That would be very helpful. Then we needn’t wait up there.’

  Sandy and Leo scampered down the driveway to the junction with the lane and peered through the dusk in the direction of the sea-wall. They were just in time, for the boy was coming up at his usual gallop. Fortunately, he could see the police car blocking his way and started to pull up before he reached the girls. Even with only a halter for control, he had the horse perfectly in hand and it pulled up as if it were in a dressage arena, dropping its nose obediently.

  ‘What’s the game?’

  The boy looked down on the girls angrily, even defiantly. He did not look scared or guilty, they noticed, only annoyed. At close quarters he seemed to be about sixteen, slenderly built and certainly gypsy-looking, with tousled black hair and frowning dark eyes. He had high cheekbones and a hawkish nose and an undoubted air of superb self-confidence, bordering on arrogance. Although it was quite cold he wore only a dark T-shirt and faded jeans.

  Leo stepped forward and said boldly, ‘The police are questioning all the people who were down here yesterday evening – all of us, that is. And you were too. The old lady who lives in the cottage up there was robbed of all her savings.’

  ‘I didn’t do it!’

  ‘No. It’s only routine questions, in case you saw anything.’

  ‘I didn’t see anything either.’

  ‘No. You have to tell them though. Your name and all that.’

  ‘I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘You’re always in a hurry.’

  The boy hesitated and looked at Leo more closely. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘Nothing. We just said we’d stop you, that’s all. To help them – the police. If you ride on, they’ll probably think you’re guilty.’

  ‘Where are they then?’

  ‘In the stable-yard.’

  The boy stared
at the police car and hesitated some more, then he saw the sense of Leo’s argument and shrugged. The girls started back for the yard and he followed. His grey horse, from being all fire, was now as mild as milk, not tizzed up like most horses after a gallop, but gentle and quiet. At close quarters the grey, a mare, was beautiful; Sandy was entranced with her. She had enormous dark eyes like her owner and a fine silver mane. She was lightly built but very compact, about fifteen hands, and she moved like a dream. She was slightly too thin, no doubt with all the galloping, but the loveliest horse Sandy thought she had ever seen.

  They went into the yard and one of the policemen was standing in the doorway of the tackroom. The boy rode over and pulled up beside him. The policeman asked him to dismount. He slipped off with one agile movement.

  ‘What is your name, sir?’ the policeman asked.

  ‘Jonas Brown.’

  Sandy and Leo knew they couldn’t stand there gawping, so retreated into George’s loosebox and sat in the straw.

  ‘Jonas! What a gorgeous name! Isn’t he heavenly!’

  ‘And the horse, the mare! She’s a dream horse!’

  ‘You don’t think he did it, do you?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘You ought to get them here – as liveries! Wouldn’t it be wonderful? That boy – he’s fantastic!’

  ‘The Magic Man?’ Sandy enquired.

  ‘Oh yes!’

  ‘I think the horse is magic.’

  Julia went past, saw them and came in.

  ‘Who’s that boy then?’

  ‘Jonas Brown.’

  ‘Oh, him. Is that who he is? Fancy.’

  ‘What do you mean? Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Julia. ‘He used to show-jump when he was little. I didn’t recognize him on the sea-wall.’

  ‘Where does he come from?’

  ‘His father’s a fisherman from Riverhead. A very rough man. His mother left, that’s why he didn’t come show-jumping any more. She was the horsy one. She taught him.’

  Sandy and Leo digested this in silence. Trust Julia to know! She would no doubt take him over, as she had taken over Sneerwell. She seemed to have no inhibitions when it came to barging in.

  ‘He could’ve done it. His father’s not very honest. Got done for pinching a horsebox once,’ Julia said coolly.

  ‘How could he have done it, with the horse?’ Sandy demanded hotly.

  ‘It stands when he asks it. I’ve seen. Down on the sea-wall once, he got off to go out to a boat – a yachtsman he knew wanted some help to get his engine started or something – and it just stood there, not even tied up. Didn’t graze or anything. Like in a cowboy film.’

  Sandy looked out and saw that the mare was standing now. Jonas was in the tackroom. She leaned her chin on the half-door, disturbed. All these things – first Duncan, then Polly saying she had lost the twenty-pound note, and now the wild boy – her solid world was beginning to revolve.

  She slipped out, leaving Leo and Julia, and went over to the mare. The mare put her soft muzzle in Sandy’s hand and gave her a friendly shove. All she had for a bridle was a piece of rope knotted over her ears and round her nose – nothing through her mouth. Her grey coat was pale in the dusk, ghostlike; she would soon be pure white.

  While she was standing there, Jonas came out.

  Sandy said, ‘What’s your horse’s name?’

  ‘Queen Moon.’

  ‘She’s lovely. I wish you kept her here.’

  The boy looked at her, not crossly but apparently interested.

  ‘I haven’t got anywhere to keep her. Only a shed.’

  ‘You could come here!’

  He shrugged. ‘Costs money.’ He mounted with one easy hop. ‘I haven’t got any.’

  ‘It’s very cheap here. I’d look after her for you.’ She hadn’t meant to say this, it just slipped out. She felt almost desperate to see more of this lovely mare.

  The boy was riding out of the yard. He half pulled up, looked down on Sandy, and actually smiled.

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  His smile showed teeth as white as his mare’s mane, shining in his gypsy face. Sandy felt her heart turn over. The Magic Man indeed! But she would never admit it to Leo, never. Leo made a joke of everything. Sandy felt that something very serious had happened, meeting Jonas Brown and his mare Queen Moon.

  ‘WE REALLY MUST do something about it,’ Polly said to Sandy. ‘He’ll ruin that horse if he goes on like this.’

  Sneerwell was riding King of the Fireworks in the schooling field, trying to make him jump. The big horse did not know what was required, as every time he set off towards a jump, Sneerwell, in his nervousness, pulled hard on his mouth, restraining him. Sneerwell called it ‘steadying for the approach’. He had read it in books.

  ‘Do teach him!’ Sandy pleaded. She couldn’t bear it either. ‘He must realize by now that he’s getting nowhere!’

  It was gone Christmas. The year had so far been surprisingly mild and dry and sometimes, already, Sandy thought she could smell spring. The days were slowly drawing out.

  Polly and Sandy leaned on the paddock rails and watched Sneerwell steer for a pair of low rails set on blocks. He had a good natural balance and plenty of enthusiasm, but no sensitivity at all. King of the Fireworks was a highly schooled horse and could not make head or tail of what was expected of him. He refused and showed his disapproval by bucking.

  ‘Old boot, you!’ Sneerwell shouted.

  He rode across and said to them, ‘Honestly, this horse is useless. You saw him there. What am I supposed to do with him?’

  Polly straightened up and said purposefully, ‘Do you really want to know, Mr Speerwell?’

  He looked rather surprised, glaring down. How handsome he was, Sandy thought, his colour raised and his bright blue eyes sparkling with annoyance! What a pity he was such a nerd.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Marlow,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘Miss Marlin,’ Polly corrected him. ‘As in spike.’

  He grinned. ‘Very appropriate.’

  ‘Yes. What you should do,’ Polly said very pointedly, speaking as if to an infant, ‘is learn to ride properly.’

  ‘Like you, I suppose?’ he said insolently.

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a long silence. They stared at each other. Sandy could sense decisions being taken, and realized, with both amazement and relief, that Sneerwell was actually digesting Polly’s criticism. His thick, thick skin was showing cracks. It had taken long enough.

  ‘Four months you’ve had that horse, and you haven’t yet jumped it successfully in the paddock, let alone across country. Even Sandy here could get him over these schooling jumps.’

  Afterwards, Sandy felt somewhat grieved about the ‘even Sandy’, but at the time she was too pop-eyed at the course the conversation was taking. Sneerwell slumped in his saddle and looked quite pathetic.

  ‘Get off,’ Polly said.

  He obeyed. Polly climbed the fence, hopped up on King of the Fireworks and shortened her stirrups. She had never ridden him before. Sandy saw the horse come together in his lovely noble fashion, prick his ears and paw the ground to go. Polly rode him away at a lovely gliding trot, beautifully on the bit, light as a feather. After three circuits she turned him towards the rails that Sneerwell had been trying to jump and popped him over without any effort or fuss. He never once looked like jibbing or refusing, and jumped with a lovely arch and obvious pleasure. Polly rode back to the fence.

  ‘Your aunt knew what she was doing. This horse is an absolute saint. They come like this once in a blue moon. You, even you, Anthony Speerwell, could learn to ride this horse cross-country if you take lessons.’

  ‘From you, I suppose? Well, I do need the money,’ he said. ‘I really do.’

  ‘What’s this deal then? Your aunt left you something in her will if you got round a team-chase course?’

  ‘She left me the horse. This on the strength of my staying with her a few time
s when I was little. She got me a pony and I used to gallop about and she said she hoped I would be a great horseman. Then I didn’t see her for years, did I? And she died. I got this horse delivered to me along with a great spiel from her solicitor, saying that she wanted me to carry on the horse tradition in the family and if I took King of the Fireworks team-chasing successfully then that would be proof that I was worth her faith in me and she would leave me all the family silver. This is worth about seventy thousand quid apparently. My parents say she’s raving mad, but the solicitor says it’s a perfectly legal and watertight arrangement. I have three years in which to do it.’

  ‘Have you got to win? How many have you got to win?’

  ‘No. Just be in a team, she said, and complete the course. Five times.’

  Polly’s eyes gleamed. ‘Why didn’t you say all this before? Of course you can do it! If you learn, that is! Heavens above, Tony Speerwell, what an offer! You can’t fail with a horse like Fireworks! We’ve got the makings of a team from this stable – you and me and Julia – we only want one more . . . If you really want this, you can’t fail!’

  ‘I thought it would be easy, but—’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you say all this weeks ago, instead of poncing about telling everyone you could ride?’

  ‘I can ride!’

  ‘Rubbish. You’re hopeless. But I’ll teach you, if you want. I’ll teach you to ride!’

  Polly positively vibrated with excitement. Sandy watched the two of them, fascinated by seeing Polly’s will acting on Speerwell’s arrogance. His realization at last that he needed help to win his fortune was very hard for him to accept. The struggle showed as he glared at Polly. Nobody had told him to his face that he was hopeless before.

  ‘Look, if you want it, you’ll learn,’ Polly said. ‘But only if you accept right at the start that you don’t know anything. The only thing you’ve got going for you is good natural balance, and that is a very good bonus. Apart from that, you’re hopeless. You’ve got to acknowledge it.’

  ‘If I can’t ride, how do I know you can teach?’

  ‘You take my word for it. If I can’t get you jumping round this paddock by the end of the month, I’ll – I’ll—’ Words failed her. ‘I just will. You can start now, if you like.’