Samphire Song

by Jill Hucklesby

‘Morning,’ I say, climbing the first bar of the gate, leaning over and snatching the Clarion from the mouth of the box. Charlie, who is fifteen, stubbly on odd parts of his face and always half-asleep, raises one eyebrow (which for him is a gesture of mild shock) as I retreat towards the house.

  ‘Thanks,’ I call, glancing back over my pastel blue shoulder. Charlie is riding away on his bike, still in conversation. He waves without turning back.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Stick,’ yawns Ed as I slam the front door behind me and wipe my slippers on the mat.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Terrorised the wildlife,’ he replies, scampering towards the kitchen, from which fantastic croissant smells are wafting. ‘The squirrels have died from shock.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ I say, already flicking through the paper to find the small ads at the back.

  Mum is up and dressed in jogging pants and a sweatshirt, her hair in a messy pony tail. There’s chocolate spread in a jar on the table and some apricot jam we bought from the country fair last month. She’s pouring hot, frothy milk into two mugs. She stirs white chocolate flakes into both and gives them to us as we sit down.

  ‘You’re up early,’ I comment as she tweaks my nose.

  ‘Ed wants to go to the plane shop in Southampton,’ explains Mum.

  ‘That sounds fun, not,’ I say, pulling a face of mock disgust.

  ‘If you’re not shovelling poo, you can come too,’ suggests Ed, white froth covering his top lip like a moustache.

  ‘It’s Saturday, dur.’ Nothing stops me going to the stables at the weekend. A pang of something approaching regret grumbles in my stomach. A trip to the city would mean I could check out the ads in all the horsey mags.

  My eyes scan the box ads in the Clarion – there are several photos of horses, large and small. ‘Aw, look,’ I murmur, my gaze drawn to a furry brown dumpling on legs.

  ‘What is it?’ asks Mum, removing golden croissants from the oven just as the pinger goes off.

  ‘A Shetland called Tubs,’ I reply.

  ‘Your feet would be on the ground,’ Ed responds, dismissively. ‘You need one bigger than a toy.’ For once, he’s being sensible.

  ‘How many hands?’ I ask, testing him.

  ‘They only have feet, doh.’

  ‘So how big’s this plane shop?’ I say, showing willing.

  ‘Largest in the south of England,’ he answers.

  ‘Poor Mum.’

  ‘It’ll be fun,’ says Mum, looking on the bright side, as ever.

  ‘It’s not like we’re going to be in there all day,’ says Ed. ‘I know what I want.’

  ‘I’m all ears,’ I reply.

  ‘A one-point-six metre Spitfire, with hand-painted camouflage colour scheme and warbird pilot with removable helmet.’ Ed beams. ‘I’m going to get it on the net, but I want to look at one first.’

  ‘You sure you don’t need a licence to fly one of those?’ I ask.

  ‘Nah. Just a six channel radio and lots of sky,’ he answers, sending Mum a grateful grin. ‘Soooo exciting,’ he mutters, mouth emitting doughy flakes like anti-aircraft fire.

  ‘Gross, little brother,’ I tell him, shaking my head. He responds by covering his head with a paper serviette.

  ‘Better,’ I say. Ed pokes eyeholes in the paper so that he can see. He looks like a ghost.

  Mum has given each of us a budget of fifteen hundred pounds for our chosen present and will keep a fund for ongoing costs – travel expenses for finding suitable spots to fly the plane and feed and keep for my horse. My costs will outweigh Ed’s by a long way, so Mum’s also putting an equivalent sum in a building society account in Ed’s name.

  She’s being brilliant about everything.

  ‘What about a special treat for you, Mum?’ I ask suddenly. It’s only just occurred to me that she’s left herself out of the equation. She looks a bit taken aback and sad, all at the same time.

  ‘Oh, well. I’ll have to think about that, won’t I?’ she replies, thoughtfully.

  I feel stupid and insensitive. It’s obvious that what she really wants is the one thing she can’t have – Dad. Ed makes big eyes at me under his serviette, which tell me I am the dumbest person in the universe. I lower my gaze and return to the ‘Horses For Sale’ columns in the hope there will be something here to spark a new line of conversation.

  None of them has the wow factor, though, not even the year-old bay colt with famous grandparents. My heart feels heavy in my chest. I close the paper quietly.

  ‘Nothing?’ asks Mum gently, recovering her smile.

  ‘Nope,’ I reply.

  ‘He, or she, is out there somewhere,’ she tells me. ‘Keep your compass open.’

  ‘You can’t do that, you might stab someone by mistake – that’s what they say in maths,’ says Ed.

  He’s walking round the kitchen, still under his serviette, making a strange humming sound, with a fork and a knife held out in front of him.

  ‘Nutter,’ I say, giggling. When I look at Mum, she’s chuckling too.

  Chapter Eight

  I arrive at the stables on my bike just as Rachel is being dropped off by her dad. She’s carrying a tray covered in a tea towel, which is good news. Rachel’s mum sometimes bakes cakes at the weekend for the team at the stables and it looks like today is our lucky day.

  ‘Hi, Jodie,’ says Rachel. ‘Mum’s made lemon cupcakes – we’re her guinea pigs.’

  ‘Wow,’ I reply, licking my lips and lifting the tea towel to take a peek. The cakes smell fantastic. ‘Actually, there’s something I’d like . . .’ I begin, but excited girls have appeared from all corners of the stables and are surrounding Rachel, hoping for a treat.

  ‘Mucking out first, cakes later,’ Rachel laughs, holding the tray out of arm’s reach. The girls sigh, disappointed.

  I lock my bike to the fence and walk to the office to check on the ride timetable for the day. There’s no sign of Sue, but her lists are all set out on the table. I see that Rambo is out twice on hour-long hacks. He’ll love that, provided his rider is firm and keeps him moving. My initials are next to his name, which means I’m responsible for all aspects of his care, so my first job is to prepare his tack ready for his nine-thirty ride.

  Of all the different areas at the stables, I think I love the tack room the most. Bridles and saddles line the walls, all shapes and sizes, each with a name plate and a photo of a furry face beside them. The low-beamed room smells of leather and linseed oil, saddle soap and horse sweat. It’s sweet and musty, warm and inviting. There are spare boots lined up against the wall and lunging reins in one corner. The stone floor always has sawdust on it and the window that overlooks the yard is always steamed up.

  Adventures begin here as soon as a bridle is lifted from its hook. The horses sense it even before they hear the clink of metal bits and the scrape of eager boots in the yard. They begin to murmur and whinny and inquisitive heads appear over stable doors. I know Rambo will already be nibbling his, peeling off a layer of wood with his teeth. He does that when he’s excited. I move instinctively to his tack and as I run my hand over his smooth saddle, I feel a familiar thrill run down my spine, even though I’m not riding today.

  By the time a group of ten eager riders has arrived in the yard, Rambo is looking his beautiful best; groomed and saddled. I even polished his stirrups with my sleeve. The morning light is making them sparkle. He’s nuzzling at my pocket, ever hopeful. I help his rider, a girl of about eleven, mount up and then give him a slice of apple. He snorts his appreciation and is still chewing when Sue appears on Juniper, a chestnut gelding, to lead the line of horses out.

  ‘Walk on,’ she instructs and the riders shorten their reins and the sound of forty-four hooves on the move echoes round the yard. I watch Rambo until he’s out of sight. He has already tried to eat some low-hanging leaves on a tree. I think Natalie, his rider, might have her hands full for the next hour.

  Rachel is organising the younger helpers, giving them
jobs. She’s in charge when Sue is out on a hack. She always asks you to do things with a smile and she lets us have the radio on, which is usually against the rules. It keeps everyone happy and makes the work more fun when you can sing along. Misty, one of the Shetlands, even joins in sometimes, but she’s tone deaf!

  When I look at the clock in the yard, it already reads 10 a.m.

  ‘Cake time,’ says Rachel, a while later, appearing in the open doorway of Rambo’s stall.

  ‘Yeah!’ I exclaim with a huge grin. I’m always starving by mid morning. I spread the last of the fresh straw on the ground quickly and brush my hands together.

  ‘You do a great job here, Jodie,’ Rachel tells me, as I pull the bolt across and secure Rambo’s door. ‘Sue really appreciates how hard you work. She thinks you have quite a gift with horses.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, really chuffed. Now’s the moment. I take a deep breath. ‘Actually, there’s something I’d like to ask your advice about, both of you.’

  ‘Of course, anything,’ says Rachel.

  ‘I’m getting my own horse,’ I tell her, quietly, so no one else in the yard hears. My voice has gone quite squeaky because it’s so full of excitement.

  ‘Jodie, that’s FANTASTIC!’ she responds, giving me a huge hug. ‘I’m so happy for you.’

  ‘I’ve only just started looking and I wondered if you and Sue could let me know if you hear about any good ones for fifteen hundred pounds?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course,’ agrees Rachel. ‘Will you want to keep it here?’

  ‘Yes. I need to ask Sue about livery and whether I can do more hours to help with the costs.’

  ‘I’m sure that won’t be a problem,’ confirms Rachel. ‘I can speak to her first if you like, sound her out.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That would be great, thanks. There’s just one thing . . .’

  ‘You’d like to keep it quiet from the gang,’ says Rachel, smiling. She reads me like a book. I nod, relieved.

  ‘Just for now, until I get it all together in my head,’ I tell her.

  ‘That’s fine. So let’s get those cakes shared out. There are enough for everyone. But the others won’t know it’s a secret celebration,’ says Rachel, conspiratorially, an arm around my shoulder.

  Chapter Nine

  It’s the first of August and a very special day. That’s not just because the weather forecast said it would be the hottest day of the year, or because Ed has gone to his mate Alex’s for a sleepover party (his illness usually means he wants to stay at home). Today, Mum and I are going to the New Forest pony sale. More than five hundred horses, ponies and donkeys are being auctioned. We picked up the advance brochure last week because Sue tipped me off about a lovely pony she’d heard about through the grapevine.

  I’ve waited months to find the right horse. Once the summer term started, I agreed with Mum that it would be sensible to buy at the start of the hols, so that my new horse and I could get to know each other really well.

  The pony we’ve come to see is called Lady. She’s an eight-year-old chestnut with a good track record in local shows. At fourteen hands, she’s going to cope with my ever-lengthening frame. She has a gentle temperament. Her dam was a prize-winning mare called Tiger Lily. In less than five minutes, I will be looking at her in her sale enclosure, and in twelve hours, she might be starting a new life at the stables, with Rambo as her new best mate.

  My breathing is short and almost panicky, but from excitement, not fear. I never want Mum to see the attacks that come out of nowhere, narrowing my surroundings into tunnel vision, and causing sweat to pour from my body and nausea to rise from my stomach towards my throat like lava. So far, that doesn’t seem to be happening.

  Mum is parking and we’re getting out into the warm, early morning. The air is full of whinnying – the animals are scared of this clearing in the Forest, with its holding stalls, narrow walkways and the wooden auction ring. Some must have travelled quite a distance to be here – journeys that began in the dark. They will have been tethered for several hours in a moving vehicle, with standing room only. Poor creatures.

  We’re making our way to the registration vehicle to pick up an auction brochure. This will tell us where Lady is on the order of sale, and once we have her number we can find her in the enclosures. Mum gives our details and pays the fee. We’re given a number – four-two-five – on a white card that we can hold up if we’re lucky enough to offer the winning bid.

  Lady is twentieth on the list and we’re pointed in the right direction to go and see her. My palms have gone quite cold, which is spooky. Weird things, which feel like frogs, are leaping about in my abdomen. I want to love her on sight. But what if we lose her in the bidding? Mum gives me a squeeze. She feels as much on edge as I do.

  Suddenly, there’s frenzied neighing and whinnying coming from the unloading area – a real commotion with voices raised and the stamping of equine feet on a ramp. The tone coming from this horse is angry, not fearful. I’m intrigued and turn my head to see what’s going on.

  I’m looking at a grey stallion, ragged and untrimmed, with the most beautiful, arched Arab neck I have ever seen. Two men are trying to lead him with ropes out of the trailer. They’re yanking and pulling at the tethers but he is standing firm and proud. He does not want to come out into the crowd that has formed.

  I push my way to the front of it, leaving Mum a bit behind. The men are trying to clear a space, waving their arms and tugging at the horse in turn. No wonder he’s apprehensive. I feel myself moving forwards.

  ‘Stand back!’ they warn. Instead, I offer out a hand, indicating that I will take a rope. The men exchange glances, almost smirking. They try to wave me away. The younger man grabs the horse by his forelock and tries to drag him down the ramp. A front hoof lashes out in response.

  ‘He’s a devil,’ says the older man, lifting his cap and wiping his brow. ‘I’ll be glad to be shot of him.’

  ‘What’s he called?’ I ask, holding the horse’s backward gaze. The man shoots an irritated look at me.

  ‘Samphire. Like the wild plant. On account of his raggedy mane.’ He’s holding the halter with two hands now, yanking it viciously.

  ‘Hey, Samphire,’ I say quietly, approaching him, ignoring the man’s attempt to block my way. ‘They need you to come out, boy. Will you walk with me?’ I hold my position. Samphire’s ears move backwards and forwards. He extends his nose towards me, sniffs, jerks his head back, stamps his feet. I’m getting the once-over, horse style. His eyes dart between me and the men. He seems to be weighing up his options.

  With a deep grumble and a flaring of nostrils, he takes a step forwards, then another. The man grudgingly lets me take the halter. I keep it loose and hold eye contact with Samphire. Once down the ramp and on the grass, he raises his head and paws the earth with a hoof.

  ‘He must like you,’ says the man, taking the halter back from me, a half-smile on his lips. ‘Never seen him that amenable.’ He starts to lead Samphire towards the enclosures, but the stallion’s feet are sidestepping, resisting his will. ‘I’ll do for you!’ the man shouts, exasperated, as Samphire rears up a little. The stewards are helping now, opening an enclosure door, ushering the animal inside.

  Mum has caught up with me. She has a pained and concerned expression, like the one she used to greet me with after I’d run off in a department store and had to be collected from Customer Services.

  ‘Oh dear.’ She sighs.

  ‘What?’ I ask, half in a dream.

  ‘I know that look,’ she says. ‘It means you want that crazy horse.’

  ‘I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life,’ I answer.

  ‘Don’t you think you should look at Lady?’ Mum asks. ‘She’s lovely – gentle, quiet, perfect.’

  ‘What number is Samphire?’ I ask the man, who is leaning on the enclosure door, staring at the horse who is soon to be converted into a fistful of cash.

  He takes my auction catalogue from my hand, flicks t
hrough it and opens up the page where Samphire is listed, pointing to the entry with a black-nailed, mud-stained finger.

  ‘He’s there, large as life. Don’t you go bidding for him, now. He’s not fit for a young’un like you. Someone needs to break his spirit, teach him some manners. He’ll probably need a whip, not a whippersnapper, that’s my advice.’

  I read the entry. Number 50. J Ingram Esq. Grey Arab cross stallion. 3 Y.O. Moves beautifully. Has been halter broken. Ready to bring on.

  I want to tell him that I don’t want his advice and that he’s wrong about Samphire. I just know he is. Mum is holding my elbow, urging me to come away. With a final glance at the enclosure where Samphire is pacing, ears folded, I let Mum guide me through the crowd, along a walkway and into the labyrinth of the animal maze. We pass donkeys, miniature Shetlands, Forest ponies, Falabellas – the tiniest of all horses, so tiny you can pick them up and cuddle them. In the holding pens, there’s a mixture of singles, doubles, small groups. My head is starting to spin. The air is heavy with dung and straw and fretful snortings.

  Moments later, we are right by lot number twenty and I cast my eyes into the space beyond the wooden door, hoping that lightning doesn’t strike twice. Lady stands quietly in one corner, chewing hay. Her current owner, a woman in her twenties, is brushing her pony’s chestnut coat for a final time before she’s taken to the ring. She looks immaculate. Even her hooves are oiled. Her tail is smooth with no hairs twisted. Her mane is cropped and combed and she has recently been clipped too.

  ‘There,’ says Mum, encouragingly. ‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’

  ‘She’s a bit like a horse the Glossies would ride, all pretty and perfect.’ This comes out of my mouth like a big criticism and her owner, who happens to be wearing pink lipstick, gives me a withering look. I know that if I hadn’t seen Samphire, I would probably have fallen for Lady. But even now, I can hear his whinny above all the others. It’s as if he’s speaking to me, as if we’ve connected somehow.

  I’m starting to feel quite sick. I hate it when Mum disapproves of things I’m thinking or doing. And I’m about to do something so reckless it might cause real trouble between us, which would be unbearable.