“I was in the North. I’m a dealer – not in horses, in other things, antiques mostly. Got your ropes, boys?” he said. The youths nodded and went across the yard to the paddock.
“They would have gone for meat. Don’t you care?” Hugh asked.
The man handed my brother a card which had JACK SWORDER – GENERAL AND ANTIQUE DEALER on it.
“I picked them up at a sale. I wanted the vehicles for clients, a nice little phaeton and a dogcart,” he explained, crossing the yard and leaning on the paddock fence. “They were sold as one lot, horses and vehicles together. Their owners were killed in a car crash. They used them for films and weddings.”
Marian was crying. I looked at Hugh. His face was shuttered. He was fighting emotions which he preferred to keep hidden, I thought.
“What are you going to do with them now?” he asked.
“Send them to another sale, or else straight to the abattoir.”
“You won’t get much. They haven’t any meat on them,” Hugh said.
“The profit is in the vehicles,” answered Jack Sworder. “They were selling everything at knockdown prices.”
“We can get more for them as riding and driving horses,” continued Hugh. “They are good horses. We might get four hundred for the grey and seven hundred for the chestnuts. And they won’t fetch that for meat, not in their present condition, and then there’s transporting costs.”
“Money doesn’t come into it. I’ve done all right on the vehicles.”
“You won’t lose anything,” my brother insisted. “When we sell them, we will give you a thousand pounds, and if we can’t sell them, you can enter them in next month’s sale and they will be a lot fatter by then; so the meat men will pay more and everyone will be happy.”
“Except the horses,” I muttered.
“So it’s a bargain whichever way you look at it,” finished my brother. The man’s eyes were wavering now.
Bargain was probably his favourite word. He was that sort of man, the sort who can’t see beyond bargains and money, who lives for nothing else.
”Come inside and have a cup of tea,” I suggested.
“Or something stronger,” added Hugh.
“And your assistants, I’m sure they are thirsty too,” I said. So we all went inside and introduced Jack Sworder to Mummy, and sat drinking tea in the kitchen.
When we went outside again, Jack Sworder shook Hugh’s hand, then mine. His hand was large and rather soft. “It’s a bargain,” he said. “Come on, boys, we’re going.”
“Now we are the dealers,” Hugh exclaimed as the three of them drove away.
“And we had better get cracking before our parents turn nasty,” I replied.
Then Mummy appeared shouting, “He’s gone without the horses, run after him, Hugh – quick! Don’t stand there gawping!”
As though horses were like shopping.
We started to laugh then. “We’re the dealers now,” cried my brother again. “We are going to make a lot of money.”
But I knew that money was not important; it was finding the right homes which mattered, nothing else.
Only a month, but the horses had already had one lucky escape – it was up to us to see that they had another and we would make sure that they did!
The Storm
Josephine Pullein-Thompson
Laura had been counting on her mother coming home. When she had telephoned, it had been some comfort to think that Stephen, her stepfather, was on his way. But now both parents had been delayed and the thunderstorm was crashing round them. Becky, one of the two dogs, was cowering in a cupboard and Lottie was wailing about her headache.
“My head’s aching, too,” moaned Ben, as the storm flashed and thundered.
“You’d better both have an aspirin,” said Anna briskly, taking control of the situation. “Peter, could you fetch them from the medicine cupboard – they’d better have the junior ones. I’ll start cooking the chops, if someone will do the veg.”
Anna, Peter and Ben were Stephen Dalton’s three children; Tom, Laura and Lottie were his wife Carol’s three, and they were learning to live together as one family.
“Mummy was going to buy vegetables today, at the market near her office,” Laura explained. “There aren’t any potatoes left, but there are still some frozen peas.”
“I’ll cook spaghetti,” offered Tom. “Is there any of that ready-made sauce left?” He put a pan of salted water on to boil and then, as the storm grew more violent, went through to the dining-room window. The lightning and thunder were now almost simultaneous.
“It’s the worst storm I’ve ever seen,” said Tom as Peter, having handed out the junior aspirin, joined him. “Look at that great zigzag – is that forked lightning?” Peter’s answer was drowned in a nerve-wracking crack that seemed to be immediately above their heads.
“I wish you’d come away from that window,” said Anna. “I’m sure you could be struck.” The boys, a little afraid, moved back without arguing.
“I’ve found two bananas and one rather withered orange in the larder. Shall I add them to some tinned fruit and make a fruit salad? We could put in some apples, too,” said Laura.
“Good idea,” said Anna. She made a face at Laura. “Ben and Lottie can help you.” Laura took the hint. She got Ben opening tins, Lottie slicing bananas.
“Here’s the rain,” announced Tom. “It’s coming down in torrents. I’d better shut the upstairs windows.”
Peter ran out after him, and Laura called, “You’d better check the sitting room, too. It would be awful if all that decorating was ruined.”
“It’s even worse up there,” said Peter, when they came back. “And the roof’s leaking into the attics.”
“We looked out of the windows, but we couldn’t see any ponies,” added Tom. “I hope they’ve found somewhere to shelter.”
“If they’ve any sense, they’ll be in the hollow,” said Anna. “You don’t get struck by lightning in hollows.”
By the time supper was ready the rain had ceased to fall in such tropical torrents, and the thunder and lightning seemed to be moving away; but now the wind was getting up and the trees and laurels outside the kitchen window were waving and tossing with increasing violence as the gusts gathered force.
“It’s beginning to sound like a horror film,” said Tom, as doors slammed, the whole house creaked and groaned, and the wind howled outside.
“I hope the roof doesn’t cave in,” said Ben.
“It’s more likely to sail away and land somewhere else.”
“Leaving us to get wet.”
“Can you see Dad’s face if he arrived tomorrow morning and found a topless house?” They giggled weakly as Laura served the fruit salad, dividing it exactly, determined to be fair.
Becky had crawled out of her cupboard, and sat shaking, listening for the return of the thunder. Jemima, trying to comfort her, began washing her friend’s ears.
Then there was a sudden sharp crack, followed by a prolonged crash, the sound of a falling tree. They all ran to the dining-room window.
“Can’t see anything, it must be in the lane.”
“Let’s hope it was one of the dead elms.”
“Yes, that would save Dad a job.”
“Treacle’s going to have plenty of work this weekend.” They went back to their fruit salad.
“I do wish the wind didn’t have such an eerie voice,” complained Lottie.
“It’s howling worse than a pack of wolves,” agreed Ben with a shudder.
“We might all play something when we’ve washed up,” said Anna. “There’s no point in going to bed till this racket stops.”
“Play what?” asked Ben.
“I don’t mind – Monopoly, snap, anything.”
Peter and Ben were arguing about which game would be most fun with six players, when there was another crack, the sound of splintering wood, a long rumble of falling masonry, a tinkle of glass.
“Oh, now what’s happe
ned?” said Anna irritably as they all ran to the dining-room window.
“It sounded like Mr Hunt’s cottage,” said Tom.
“We’d better take a look,” decided Peter, making for the front door.
“No point in everyone getting soaked,” said Laura, holding Lottie back as Tom and Peter ran down the drive.
“Quite right,” agreed Anna. “If you want to go, Ben, you’re to put on a mac.”
Ben and Lottie, seeing the sense of this, went to find mackintoshes. Laura and Anna, standing in the doorway and peering out into the gloomy night, heard a shout. The words were whirled away on the wind, but a second shout had an urgent note. They knew that they were wanted and they ran, heads down, into the buffeting wind and the stinging rain.
They found the boys at the corner of the walled garden, where the path led to Mr Hunt’s back door. The whole area was strewn with chunks of stone, beams of wood, tiles and broken glass. They realised that the row of outhouses and greenhouses that had stood against the garden wall had collapsed into rubble and, among their ruins, lay the frail figure of Mr Hunt.
“He’s hurt,” yelled Tom, trying to be heard above the roar of the wind in the storm-torn trees. “He can’t get up.”
Anna and Laura knelt down beside the old man. “I didn’t hear the car,” he told them, “so I thought I’d come over to the house and make sure all was well. Then this lot came down, knocked me for six. I felt something snap in my shoulder, but I’m not too bad. If you can find my sticks I daresay I’ll be on my feet again soon.”
Tom had picked up Mr Hunt’s torch; it was still working, so he shone it among the broken timbers and scattered stones and they all searched for the sticks.
“Are we going to take him to our house or back to his own? It’s nearer,” asked Peter.
“To ours,” said Anna, “so we can telephone for the doctor.”
The sticks were found, and Mr Hunt insisted on getting to his feet. He was so thin and light that they heaved him up very easily, but Laura saw his face twist with pain. He soon found that his left arm was useless. He could only use one stick, but he started on his slow hobble to the house in a very determined manner.
“I think we ought to find some sort of stretcher,” shouted Peter.
“We could easily carry him on a chair with two poles,” replied Tom.
“What about a wheelbarrow?” shouted Lottie. She and Ben had joined the group, standing in the pelting rain and watching Mr Hunt’s slow progress, not knowing how to help him.
“Some of you run ahead and put the kettle on,” he said between two gusts of wind. “I could do with a nice cup of tea.”
“Yes, go on some of you,” ordered Anna. “And Laura, he needs a sling, do you think you can find one of your mother’s scarves? A large square one would be best.”
“What about the doctor? Shall I ring him?” shouted Tom.
“No, don’t worry him. I’ll be better by and by,” said Mr Hunt. But Tom was beaming the torch on their faces and he could see how wretchedly ill the old man looked. He flashed it on Anna’s face and saw that she was mouthing “yes” at him.
Laura ransacked the drawer where her mother kept her scarves, trying to find one that was large and square; she took the three best and ran downstairs. Tom was shaking the telephone. “It’s not working,” he said. “There’s no dialling tone, just silence. I’ve tried 999 as well as the doctor, but there’s just nothing. Do you think a tree could have fallen on the lines?”
Anna and Peter were helping Mr Hunt on to the sofa, which had been put into the dining room for watching television.
“Would you like to take your mac off?” suggested Anna.
Mr Hunt shook his head. “I think we’ll let the arm be,” he said. “But if you’ve got that sling handy…”
Lottie brought tea, Ben followed with sugar and milk. Tom had fetched the fan-heater; he arranged it pointing at Mr Hunt and turned it on full. Peter was trying the telephone; Anna went through to the kitchen and tried it, too.
“One of us will have to ride to the village and fetch the doctor,” she said.
“He lives in the red house on the left, doesn’t he?” asked Tom.
“Yes, past the shop and the church and the Three Horseshoes. There’s a row of old cottages and then a modern house.”
“Well, I’m willing.”
“So am I.”
“We’re all willing, but someone must stay and look after Lottie and Ben as well as Mr Hunt.”
They went through to the dining room to tell the old man their decision.
“Wait a bit,” he said. “The pain’s not so bad now I’ve got the arm in a sling and I’m resting. You go and get out of those wet clothes and then we’ll see what the storm’s doing.”
They changed, putting on sweaters and jeans, for now that the thunder had passed it seemed much colder. Then they went back to Mr Hunt. He looked ill: his face was very white and he was shivering.
“I’ve been thinking that you could take me up in the little cart,” he said. “Ten to one Dr Hoylake will want to send me into hospital for an X-ray. And the ambulance will never find its way down here on a night like this. Save everyone a lot of trouble if I was up there in the village.”
“But what about the jolting?” asked Laura. “Won’t it be bad for your arm?”
“And do you think we can get you up into the cart?” asked Tom.
“We’ll manage if we take it nice and steady,” said Mr Hunt.
“Okay, we’ll go and catch Treacle.”
“I think three of us had better go,” said Anna, following the Brodies into the kitchen. “Someone had better ride, then if there’s a fallen tree and the cart has to turn back, the mounted person can go on to the village. You two had better go with the cart and either Peter or I will ride. Shall we toss for it, Pete?”
While the Daltons tossed a coin, the Brodies pulled on mackintoshes. Anna won. “Look after Lottie,” Laura told Peter. “Don’t let her do anything mad.”
Tom had opened the back door a few centimetres and was peering out at the pitch black of the raging night. “How are we going to find any ponies in that?” he asked, shutting the door quickly.
“Dad’s torches,” said Anna, feeling on the shelf above the coats. “He always buys these huge, powerful things and now, for once, they’re going to be useful.”
One torch was long and made of rubber, the other red and lantern-shaped; they took them both and went out into the noise and violence of the storm. Lashed by the rain and buffeted by the wind, they collected head collars and made for the field. At the gate they shouted, calling the ponies against the roar of the wind. They called again and were answered by frantic neighs. Treacle and Ambrose appeared at the canter; they were dripping wet and trembling with fear, or excitement.
Anna called again, hoping for a Dalton pony or Sheba but no more ponies came galloping out of the darkness and, when Tom shouted that she wouldn’t be too heavy to ride Ambrose just to the village, Anna agreed.
“We can’t waste time wandering about the field in this,” she yelled back.
Both Ambrose and Treacle seemed to be thoroughly unnerved by the storm. They shivered and shook and stared wildly about them all the time they were being saddled and harnessed.
“You must calm down,” Laura told Treacle as they led her out to the cart. “You’re an ambulance horse tonight, you’ve got to be very steady.”
“I expect they’re cold,” said Anna. “They’ll quieten down once they’re on the move.”
When they reached the front door, Peter appeared with the small stepladder and, letting down the tailboard, placed it behind the cart. Then Lottie and Ben came out with Mr Hunt. No one spoke much; it was such an effort to be heard against the roar of the wind and the tearing noise it made as it rushed through the branches of the tormented trees.
Tom was having first drive, so Laura screwed herself into the back of the cart and they set off sedately, Anna in the lead, lighting the way with t
he long torch, while the lantern-shaped one was hooked on the front of the cart. Down the drive the ponies walked with bowed heads, trying to escape the stinging rain.
The lane, enclosed between high hedges, was more sheltered, though the sound of the trees groaning and cracking overhead terrified Laura, who expected one of them to crash down at any moment. She wished they could tear along at Treacle’s fastest trot; danger seemed less frightening if you were able to flee from it. Crawling along at this snail’s pace, with the rain bucketing down, the enveloping darkness and the sound of the tortured trees, she found she was becoming stiff with the effort of controlling her terror.
There were leafy branches torn from the trees and scattered all over the lane. Several times Anna dismounted to move larger ones that could become entangled in the wheels of the cart. Then, at the top of the hill, there was a really large bough barring their way. Anna dismounted and began to tug at it. Laura, delighted to have something to do, jumped down and ran to help. They pulled and heaved, but it wasn’t until Tom gave the reins to Mr Hunt and came too that they managed to drag it to one side and make room for the cart to pass.
On the road, the gale seemed to be blowing harder than ever. The wind came in ferocious gusts, almost knocking the ponies off their feet. The road was strewn with tiles and slates blown from roofs and littered with leaves and branches; the roof of a garden shed lay smashed across a gateway. All the cottages and houses had their lights on, but the noise of the storm drowned the sound of hoofs and cartwheels and no one looked out to see who was riding on such a night.
By the time Tom drove the cart into the doctor’s drive, Anna had already found the emergency bell with the light above it and pressed it hard. She also seemed to have thought out what she was going to say, for when Laura jumped down and joined her on the doorstep she was explaining to a grey-haired woman what had happened – and doing it very clearly and calmly.
“I’m Mrs Hoylake,” the woman said when Anna had finished. “And I’m afraid the doctor’s been called out – a new baby. They came to fetch him – our telephone is out of order too.”
The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories Page 30