There was no sleeping in barns that night. We were chivvied into hot baths, fed splendidly in a dining room and then given beds in the best spare room. June was delighted. I was filled with guilt; this wasn’t trekking at all.
In the morning it was just as bad. We wakened late, and I panicked as I imagined us arriving at the finishing point hours late with muddy horses, filthy tack and, of course, no diary, but when we got downstairs they told us that our horses were fed, our breakfasts ready. Later everyone helped us to get off.
It was a wonderful morning. The sky was cloudless blue, the sun hot, and North Moor stretched before us green and benign like a vast pleasure ground. The sky was full of larks singing and soaring.
“I wouldn’t mind doing yesterday’s trek again in fine weather,” said June suddenly. “I feel I’ve missed something. I mean, we had to hurry by the pool, and the cross looked quite interesting, and it was too dark to see the church. Let’s do it again, Fiona. If I came and stayed with you we could do that part of it in a day if we made an early start. And later on you could come and stay with me and ride on the sands; it’ll be fantastic in the autumn when the holiday-makers have gone.”
Suddenly I wanted to know the moor better, to ride up all the tors in turn and know the farms and streams. June would make a good companion: she didn’t fuss when things went wrong. But if she stayed with us, what on earth would Mum say about her make-up or Dad about her giggling? He only likes serious conversation. But then, I told myself, she’s my friend, not theirs, and who wants all their friends to think and look and behave exactly like themselves?
“Yes,” I said to June. “Let’s do that – soon – next week. I’ll speak to Mum about it as soon as I see her.”
A Real Live Ghost
Christine Pullein-Thompson
“Mandy, Mandy, where are you?” shrieked my brother Michael, taking the stairs two at a time.
I put down the book I was reading.
“You know the ponies in the park? They’re ill, they aren’t well. You must come and look straight away,” he said, his dark hair awry.
“But they’re nothing to do with us,” I said, slowly getting off my bed. “They belong to Mrs Horncastle.”
“Mrs Horncastle is dead,” answered Michael. “Now are you coming to investigate? I thought you cared about horses.”
“Of course I do,” I said, searching for my shoes. “But how was I to know that Mrs Horncastle was dead? No one’s told me until now. How did you find out, anyway?”
“I stopped at the shop. They knew. Anyway the house is shut up. It’s ghastly. I went for a bike ride. I was fed up and bored so I went down the drive and there they were. Two ponies, one lying stretched out as if it were dead; and the other as big as a mountain.”
“It was probably sleeping,” I suggested, following my brother downstairs. “After all, the sun is shining.”
We haven’t any ponies. We ride at the local riding school as often as we can afford it which is about twice a month. I don’t want to win prizes. I don’t even want to be an expert. But I would like a pony I could call my own, or rather two because a pony shouldn’t live alone. I would like them there all the time, something to love and fuss over. A mane or two to cry into when I’m upset, that’s all I really want.
I fetched my bike from the garage. Mum was out working for the local solicitors. Dad was abroad selling electrical goods. The sun was burning down, turning our small lawn the colour of old hay.
The drive to the Hall was stony and patchy with weeds. I had filled my pocket with lumps of sugar. Michael was steaming ahead, standing on his pedals with excitement, while I was still sceptical, not quite believing him because he’s younger and less horsey than I am.
We had all heard of Mrs Horncastle living alone in the Hall with her animals. Now she was dead and it was like the end of something, of a dream or a mystery or a cross between the two. We had never met her, but she was like a legend in the village.
We weren’t quite the village, being just outside it in a house in a row. We were known as the newcomers and there were several hundred of us. We had been told we would remain newcomers for at least twenty-five years, so we had ceased attempting to be anything else.
The park was fenced by old railings mended with wire where they had broken. There were rabbits everywhere and beyond, the great house stood shuttered.
I leaned my bike against the railings. The ponies were grey and chestnut and the grey was still lying down with a stomach like a football and his eyes besieged by flies. I knelt down beside him and offered him sugar, but he was beyond wanting anything.
“Don’t start blubbering, Mandy, because it won’t help. Let’s go and find someone – fast,” said Michael, wiping his own eyes with the back of his hand.
We mounted our bikes and I was blubbering now, the tears streaming down my face like rain.
The front door to the great house was bolted and barred, but we found a back door and an old man sitting in a lovely old-fashioned kitchen drinking beer out of a mug. “And what do you want?” he asked. “I’m in charge here.”
“It’s about the ponies. They’re ill. They need a vet,” I said.
“And if you’re in charge, you can help,” suggested my brother.
“There’s nothing wrong with the ponies. They’ve got the whole park to roam in and a tank full of water. What more do they want?” asked the old man, glaring at us with eyes which seemed to be saying “And you dare contradict me!”
“It’s too much. They’ve got too much,” I answered.
“I’m caretaker here and they’ll stay where they are until the future of this place is decided. And that will take a few weeks yet, so you just get on your bikes and skedaddle.” The old man turned away from us to throw the dregs of his beer into an ancient stone sink.
“They’ll die and what will the old lady think then?” I asked.
“She’s dead, ain’t she? So she can’t think. And she always trusted me. Gave me a key to the place when she went away and I never let her down, never.”
“Hasn’t she any relations?” asked my brother.
“Four children. They came to the funeral; then shoved off saying to me, you look after everything, Harry, we trust you.’ As soon as probate’s done they’ll be putting this place on the market. Most of them live abroad anyway; only one of them lives in London, and he’s only after the money.”
“But didn’t they say anything about the ponies?” I asked.
“Not a lot. But they are all right with me. They won’t come to no harm.”
We left Harry sitting on the stool in the kitchen.
“We had better call in the RSPCA, because there’s nothing else we can do,” I said.
“Silly old fool, that’s what he is, an old fool!” shouted Michael.
We were by the stable now. “Let’s just look inside, just for a second. It’s sure to be converted into a house as soon as the place is sold,” I said.
“Houses, more likely,” my brother answered.
The stable was ancient and cobwebby; loose boxes and stalls with Staffordshire brick floors which seemed to reek of history. The two smallest loose boxes had been used quite recently.
“I expect she shut them in there,” I said.
“Shut what in?”
“The ponies, of course, to stop them eating too much, you idiot,” I answered.
“I wonder how she died?” my brother said.
We were in what must once have been the harness room. Stairs led out of it to a loft. There were two head collars hanging on a hook and grooming tools in a bag.
“It’s so sad isn’t it? Like the end of a world. But we can’t stay, we must do something about the grey,” I said. “Come on, we’ve spent too long here already. Hurry, Michael.”
But Michael seemed spellbound and stood staring at the stairs which led to the loft overhead. I looked up and saw a lady coming down them, dressed in trousers and a sweater, neither young nor old. She stood and looked at
us, and I felt suddenly very cold, so cold that I started to shiver, while my brother kept muttering, “Yes,yes, it’s all right, don't worry,” as though he was talking to a nervous horse.
“I’m Gladys Horncastle. The ponies are mine. Please bring them in before they die. Please,” she said in an educated and timeless voice, which seemed to whisper yet was quite audible. It was a voice one automatically obeyed, so that my brother said:
“Yes, Mrs Horncastle, what should we do with them?”
“You can have them. You must have them. You will love them, and they need love. Ask Farmer Wells. He’ll take them. Tell him I asked him to do that for me. And keep them in or Soda will die.”
“She isn’t real, is she?” asked my brother, and now he sounded frightened.
“She’s a ghost,” I said, picking up the head collars. “A real live ghost.”
“That’s impossible,” whispered Michael. “You can’t be alive and a ghost.”
The voice seemed to follow us outside though there was no sign of anything now, just this voice saying, “They’re called Whiskey and Soda. Keep them in. Don’t let them eat too much. You are only just in time. I willed it. I willed you to come here. Don’t let me down.”
“I feel funny, sort of unreal,” Michael said, following me to the park.
“I feel sort of scared. And what will horrible Harry say?” I asked. “He won’t believe us. No one will. Have you thought of that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Michael said.
We dragged the grey, which we decided was Soda, to his feet. We had to push him and shout to get him to walk at all, but Whiskey was all right and hurried along, dragging us after him. We put them in the two used boxes and they went straight to the mangers, even Soda, hobbling like an old man. “You can’t have anything to eat, you’re far too fat already,” I told them.
The boxes were already bedded in shavings. We found buckets and filled them up with water. I looked at my watch. It was nearly one o’clock. “Mum will be home, let's go home and tell her about it,” I said.
“What about Harry? Shouldn’t we tell him what we’ve done?” asked Michael.
But at that moment Harry appeared. He looked old and bent, and very angry. “And what do you think you’re doing? I’m in charge here,” he shouted.
“Not any more,” I said. “Gladys Horncastle told us to put Whiskey and Soda in the stable. She begged us to look after them.”
“How do you know her first name? And their names, come to that?” shouted Harry.
“She told us, that’s how,” I answered, mounting my bike.
“But she’s dead. She died last week,” shouted Harry.
“Well, she came back to tell us. She knew Soda was dying of laminitis from overeating,” shouted Michael. “So leave the ponies where they are. We’ll be back later to see them.”
“They’re to go to Farmer Wells, that’s what she said,” I told him.
“But I’m in charge here.”
“Not any more. We’re obeying her orders, not yours,” I shouted back, pedalling faster and faster down the drive in pursuit of my brother.
Mum didn’t believe our story at first. Then she said, “I think I had better ring my boss. He’s got the Horncastle Will in the safe. And we need to contact that child of hers in London as soon as possible. We can’t just take the ponies away. But whether there’s a ghost or not, it’s obvious we must do something about them, even unhorsey I can see that. Poor old lady, fancy having to come back from the dead to tell you that they needed looking after. What awful children she must have,” Mum finished.
“So you do believe us then?” Michael asked.
“I’m trying not to, but it’s a pretty convincing story whichever way you look at it. And I know you’re not liars,” Mum said.
The solicitors gave Mum the name of Mrs Horncastle’s son. She telephoned him straight away at his office in London. Afterwards she told us that he seemed upset. He kept saying, “Oh dear. Oh dear. We just didn’t think. Yes, please take the ponies to the farmer my mother suggested.” He said that it was just like his mother to come back from the dead as she loved the ponies more than anything else in the end. She wouldn’t move, not into sheltered housing, nor a home.
“Apparently she died in the harness room,” Mum told us. “She fell dead by the stairs with a bag of grooming tools in her hand. Her son in London said that it was the way she would have wanted to go but that it was very sudden and unexpected. He sounded awfully posh, but nice with it. He says he’s coming down this weekend to sort things out,” Mum finished, collapsing into a chair. “And he’s writing to Harry straight away, you’ll be glad to hear.”
We went back that evening to look at the ponies. We gave them a few handfuls of hay from the loft, more water, then we brushed them. Gladys Horncastle didn’t appear again that day though we waited hopefully for some time by the stairs. But her face haunted me and it was weeks later, when the ponies had become ours and lived at the farm, that I knew why, for leafing through an old annual I had bought at a jumble sale, I found her featured as “The well-known rider Gladys Horncastle on her champion hunter King’s Realm.”
In the photograph she looked just the same, or almost. Not older, nor younger than her ghost, just a little more worldly! And she’s given us all I’ve ever wanted – two ponies to love. I just wish we could have saved the stable as well because it is going to be converted, which means we will never see Gladys Horncastle again. But whenever I ride Soda or Whiskey I am so grateful to her. And though few of our friends believe our story, Michael and I know it’s true, and that’s all which really matters.
Miserable Wreck
Christine Pullein-Thompson
“Why did you buy him for heaven’s sake? He’s so ugly!” cried Maureen.
“And thin,” said David.
“And he’s got sickle hocks and a goose rump,” added Maureen.
“And a ewe neck and a fiddle face,” added David.
I looked at my new horse. He was dun with dark points and as thin as a razor. He had a dorsal stripe down his back and was just fifteen hands.
“I was sorry for him and I fell for his eye. It’s so big and kind,” I replied.
I recalled him standing in the market, his head hanging. I remembered him raising it to look at me, our eyes meeting. “I fell in love with him,” I confessed.
“He must be riddled with red worm. Have you had the vet yet?” asked Maureen, large in stretch jeans, her eyes made up, wearing a shirt with save the horses written across the front.
“Not yet, but I’ve wormed him.”
“Are you calling him Thin Man or Toast Rack?” asked David, laughing.
“I’m calling him Mariner, and why don’t you leave with your nasty remarks?” I said. “Just come back in a month and see how he is then.”
“He won’t be here in a month, he’ll be dead,” replied David.
“Oh, I’m sorry, we don’t mean to be nasty, but really, Carol, he is a sight. I mean, didn’t you look at him properly before you bought him?” asked Maureen.
“He’s just thin,” I answered stubbornly, though inside I was devastated by their remarks. “He’ll pick up when the new grass starts growing. You wait and see.” They mounted their bikes and rode away. I put my arms around Mariner’s neck and my mouth was salty with swallowed tears.
I fed Mariner hard food three times a day; also carrots, apples and the best hay.
Mum said, “You’re going mad. Can’t you think of anything else, darling?”
Dad wasn’t there – he had left us for someone else.
I started to lunge Mariner. Then I rode him quietly alone in the field. He was too thin and weak to take to horse shows, so that at times I almost hated him, wondering why I had bought him instead of waiting until I had found something which could jump and gallop. But at least he was still alive! At other times I knew I had done the right thing, saving a horse from the abattoir, a horse with the kindest nature I had ever met, with lar
ge eyes which looked at me from under a dark forelock with such honesty and affection.
David and Maureen rode their horses with the drag hunt. I stayed at home and, hearing the horn in the distance, wept.
I was grooming Mariner several weeks later when Mum called, “Darling, there’s someone to see you. It’s about Mariner.”
And I thought, It’s The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and they’ve come to prosecute me!
Then I saw a lady wearing brown cords and a thick jumper running towards me. “Thank heavens I’ve found you,” she cried before throwing her arms round Mariner and muttering, “Oh, my poor poppet, my poor little horse.”
She’ll take him away I thought. Obviously he was stolen. And my heart seemed to fall into my boots.
“You bought him from a horse dealer, didn’t you?” she asked next. “I’ve been looking for him ever since I returned from abroad. He was the best horse I ever owned.”
“He was skin and bone and he still looks terrible. I’m sorry,” I replied guiltily.
“But I’m so grateful,” replied the lady, who was called Angela Gray. “You see, I’ve discovered that all last year he was kept on a tether. I was so afraid he was dead. I thought I had sold him to a perfect home, but he was sold on and on. But I can see he’s all right with you. I’m so happy!” she finished.
I imagined my ugly duckling turning into a swan. I imagined us competing all over England. I imagined David and Maureen watching.
“If you ever want to sell him, I’ll buy him back,” promised Angela Gray later, getting into her car, “and here’s my address.” She handed me a piece of paper. “I just thank God you rescued him,” she said, driving away.
I put the piece of paper in my pocket, went back to Mariner and looked at him again. Now his hocks seemed straighter and his neck thicker and his quarters much rounder. And everywhere the grass was growing, and the winter mud drying, and the whole summer lay ahead. And I knew now that I had been right. I had rescued a miserable wreck who had once been a winner. I had bought him out of pity and he was soon to pay me back tenfold, but that’s another story!
The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories Page 34