‘Surprise!’ they all shout, letting off some more poppers.
Seeing all of them and Rambo, a huge rush of emotions floods through my system; sadness, excitement, even a burst of happiness. If Dad and Samphire were here, it would be the best, best, brightest birthday ever. I hug them all in turn and Rambo most of all.
His mouth is exploring my pockets for slices of apple and he nickers, disappointed, when he doesn’t find any. I take a whole one from the fruit bowl and offer it to him. He whinnies in thanks and makes us all laugh.
‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STICK!’ yells Ed above the racket. It is already, thanks to my family and friends. It’s the perfect time to put Plan A – Rescuing Samphire – into action.
‘Hi, everyone. Wow, thank you for all this. I don’t know what to say, except . . . I have an announcement.’ And I tell them what I hope to do.
Rachel, who is always totally fantastic, immediately says, ‘How can I help?’
From today, a new phase of my life has begun. I’m on a mission. Look out world. Jodie Palmer is coming back and she means business!
Chapter Twenty-nine
‘Come too,’ pleads Ed, nearly yanking my arm out of its socket. ‘It’ll be fun at the beach, Stick.’ Piles of coins and notes, which I’ve been counting on my bed, cascade into each other. Erg, now I’ll have to start again.
‘I can’t. I’ve got homework and then I’m walking Snap, Crackle and Pop,’ I tell him. These are the yappy terriers that live down the lane. Their owner has had a hip operation and needs help with their exercise, so I’m walking them regularly in my quest to save up. I also have a morning paper round, lead young kids on pony walks from the stables and help out with yard duties. Rachel and I did a cake sale at the stables this week, which raised fifty pounds.
Mum’s been fantastic, as usual, and has given me a thousand pounds from her feature writing money. I’m on track to raise the extra twelve hundred for Sam’s purchase by the end of this month.
Leila’s dad hasn’t called yet. Mum says I should ring him again when I’ve reached my target. And by then, she should be able to add some cash if necessary.
‘I’ll let you fly the Spitfire,’ Ed says. His computergeek mate Leo is loitering just outside my door, probably picking his nose. Leo’s mum has offered to take them out today.
‘I’m sorry, Teddy,’ I say, gently. ‘I need to work.’
‘How much have you got?’ my brother asks, eyes wide at the sight of so many ten-pound notes.
‘About nine hundred. Just three hundred to go before I make that call.’
‘You’re doing a good job, Stick,’ my brother says.
‘Trying,’ I nod. ‘I’ll get there. Have a good time, OK? And don’t decapitate anyone, Wing Commander.’
‘Affirmative, Squadron Leader,’ replies Ed, saluting me.
‘Bye, Leo,’ I call.
There’s an odd shuffling sound and the clearing of a throat. ‘Yeah. Laters,’ comes the shy, nasal grunt from the hallway.
I watch out of my window as Leo’s mum reverses her car from our driveway into the lane. I can see the boys in the back, heads and hands moving like manic puppets, excited to the point of frenzy. I’m thinking how much Dad would have loved flying planes with Ed, sharing boy-time with him. Leo, who loves all things technical, is a good match for Teddy, though. It’s funny how reading the spec of aircraft out loud passes for conversation between them. When they speak on the phone, it’s like a code, full of numbers, followed by, ‘Aaah, sweet.’
The air coming through my window is full of summer scents. Birds are hopping about, pulling worms from the damp grass. I’m longing to be outside. Suddenly, my maths prep seems less than appealing and I’m putting on my trainers.
‘Doing the dogs!’ I call to Mum as I rush through the hall downstairs. She’s on the phone, doing research for her feature on gazebos.
‘See you soon,’ she mouths at me, her hand over the receiver.
Moments later, I’m outside on my bike, pedalling furiously, lifting my legs in the air as my tyres swish through the shallow puddles by the verges. It’s so great to be moving, breathing in the energy all around me. A warm wind whistles around my ears, whispering hope into my heart. It’s a good start to Sunday, even if the hour to come will be full of terrier squabbles, muddy paws and mini poo bags.
My hands are off the handlebars and I’m perched up on the saddle, hurtling down a small hill, which ends in a curve. Snap, Crackle and Pop’s cottage is about half a mile further on. With luck, I might be able to freewheel some of it.
But just as I hit full speed, a glimpse of something white and large among the trees distracts me from my descent. I brake cautiously, aware that it’s coming closer, keeping pace with me. Glancing sideways, I realise it’s a stunning grey with an adult female rider, turned out in smart cross-country kit, travelling at full canter. She’s urging the filly on with determination. They are keeping pace with me on the parallel forest track, navigating the mulch-covered pathway with precision. The horse looks like an experienced eventer and must be about seventeen hands – my heart is thundering in unison with its hooves, enthralled just by the sight of it, majestic in sunlight, a regal vision flashing intermittently between the lines of trees.
I slow the bike so that they will reach the bend before me and I’m rewarded with a full view as they cross the lane and set off on a new bridle path, which borders a stream. I watch impressed as they easily jump a large trunk obstructing the track. Two seconds later, they are gone, forging further into the Forest, leaving me in awe, with a new ambition surging through my veins.
I’m going to ride like that, some day, fast and fleeting like an arrow, flumes of mud flecks spattering from the hooves speeding on the wet terrain, the smell of fresh pine and fern bombarding my face. But I have a secret pact with Samphire, never to mount another horse until he’s safely home. He and I will be reunited soon, I feel sure. And there will be a whole new world of challenges to explore together.
Was this a sign? A promise of things to come? I cross all my fingers at once to seal my wish.
Chapter Thirty
Darkness. Eyelids drooping, sleep creeping across my consciousness. A grey horse, galloping, riderless, in slow motion through shallow water; spray misting the mossy banks; the end of a rainbow, arcing through the droplets to the Forest floor. I’m waiting, counting the splash of hooves. He’s coming, mane flowing, ears forward, flank flexing with the easy strides. His gaze is focused. He doesn’t see me, even though I wave and shout his name over and over. He thunders past, forcing me to leap for cover. When I look into his eyes, they are made of glass. There’s a key buried deep in his side. Where it has been turned, blood trickles down his belly.
‘Samphire!’
There is a gasp and a rattle near me. I snap awake to find a figure near the end of my bed, fiddling with something on my desk.
‘You gave me the heebie-jeebies, yelling like that,’ says the voice of Ed, accompanied by the chink of coins against glass.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, accusingly, clicking on my bedside light. Ed has his hand in my money jar. I wait for an explanation. Ed just shrugs, sheepishly. ‘If you needed to borrow money, Teddy, you should have asked.’
‘I don’t,’ he replies.
‘What?’ I sigh. I look at my clock. It reads two a.m.
‘Need to borrow money,’ he states.
‘Your hand is still in my jar,’ I point out.
‘There’s a good explanation,’ he says, with maturity.
‘All ears,’ I tell him, plumping up my pillows and leaning back on them.
‘Keep your voice down.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t want Mum to wake up,’ he answers. ‘She doesn’t know and she’ll be cross, I think.’
‘What have you done, Teddy?’ I whisper, my voice full of warning.
‘I don’t want to say,’ he replies.
‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY ROOM AT 2 A.M.?’ I demand.
‘Shhhhh, Stick,’ he pleads, his finger to his mouth. The other hand seems to be stuck in the neck of the jar.
‘I’m going to count to ten and then I’m calling Mum,’ I warn him. ‘One . . .’
‘It’s nothing bad,’ he tries to reassure me.
‘Two.’
‘I just wanted to make things better.’
‘Three.’
‘Doh. It won’t come off.’ Ed is trying to extricate his right hand.
‘Four.’
‘OK. But I don’t want you to be mad at me. Do you promise?’
‘Five, six.’
‘That’s not fair. You did two in a row,’ he complains.
‘Seven.’
‘Ouch! There, it’s out,’ Ed sighs, relieved.
‘Eight.’
‘I think you’re going to freak out. You weren’t supposed to wake up and see it.’
‘Nine.’
‘OK,’ he says, ‘I sold the Spitfire and all my kit planes to Leo and he gave me two hundred and fifty squiddles so I was putting it in your jar and it was mostly notes but the coins were noisy, so there smarty pants, stuff that in your jodhpurs and sit on it.’ Ed’s chest is heaving with this rapid-fire revelation. He is looking at me, waiting for a reaction. I know that my mouth is open, but nothing is coming out, even though ‘ten’ is on the tip of my tongue.
‘Why?’ I ask, my brain struggling to catch up.
‘You gave up Samphire for me. I can help you get him back,’ he answers with a shrug.
‘But your planes . . .’ I say. Ed’s massive sacrifice is taking a while to sink in.
‘They’re for kids. I’ll have a real one one day, like Dad,’ states Ed. He’s trying to be manly, but that’s hard when you’re wearing Spider-Man pyjamas. ‘Are you mad at me, Stick?’
‘Yeah. Really, really mad. Get in,’ I tell him, holding the duvet open. He grins from ear to ear and launches himself on to my bed.
‘Can I stay till morning?’ he asks.
‘Yup,’ I answer, turning off my light. Ed is a terrible wriggler so this is a big gesture on my part.
‘You’re not going to give me a Chinese burn?’ he adds, suspiciously.
‘Nope,’ I confirm.
‘So, you’re not mad at me?’ He’s poking my arm with his finger.
‘Teddy, what you’ve done is the kindest thing ever. I don’t know what to say, because “thank you” seems a bit naff, and not nearly enough,’ I tell him. ‘You are very special, little brother, and I think Mum will be really proud of you,’ I add, tousling his hair, but Ed is already asleep, or pretending to be, the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile.
Chapter Thirty-one
Today’s the day. One hundred and twelve paper-round miles, fifty-six dog-walking miles (times three), and forty-eight pony-leading miles since I started my fundraising, I’ve reached my target. With everyone’s help, I have raised enough money to buy Samphire back and pay a small sum towards his livery.
I’m pressing numbers on our phone and waiting for a connection sound. Mum and Ed are next to me on the sofa, gripping hands and holding their breath.
‘It’s ringing,’ I confirm.
‘We know, we can hear it, Stick,’ shrieks Ed, unable to control his excitement.
‘Yes?’ answers a deep voice, slightly impatient. I recognise it as Leila’s dad.
‘Hi, can I speak to Leila please?’ I ask, trying to sound confident.
‘She’s not here. Staying at a friend’s. You can leave a message if you like,’ he says.
‘It’s Jodie Palmer. You bought Samphire from me,’ I explain. ‘Did Leila give you my message? I rang a few weeks ago about buying him back. I wondered . . .’
‘Yes?’ comes the sharp response.
‘Whether you’ve decided to sell him?’
‘That horse was nothing but trouble from day one. Always trying to throw her. She lost interest so I sold him last month,’ responds Mr Mackintyre, no trace of kindness, no regret in his tone. He sounds as if he’s going to ring off. My head is suddenly throbbing with the rising pressure of blood in my veins.
‘But Leila said she would phone me!’ I exclaim.
‘That’s not my problem,’he says, curtly.
‘Please can you tell me who bought him?’ I ask, panicked.
‘Some bloke who paid cash. He went out of the county, that’s all I remember. Glad to see the back of him. You had no business selling a horse in that state.’ The line goes dead, anger hanging in the air.
I’m staring at the receiver. Mum and Ed are looking at me in disbelief. I can feel my bottom lip trembling. Mum puts her arm around me.
‘It’s all been for nothing,’ I say, tears welling in my eyes. ‘Why didn’t Leila ring me?’
A wave of despair mixed with something vicious sweeps over me. I think it must be fury. It feels white hot. I’m rigid, like stone. There are so many questions stabbing at my brain. Did Leila forget our conversation? Or worse, did she decide not to contact me out of spite? I should have phoned earlier, been more persistent. But maybe it wouldn’t have done any good.
‘It’s all my fault,’ says Ed, running out of the room and up the stairs.
‘It isn’t, Teddy.’ I try to follow him, but my legs won’t move.
‘I’ll go,’ says Mum. ‘You start thinking about Plan B.’
‘He could be anywhere.’ My spirit is shredded like a shot helium balloon.
‘He could be horse meat,’ wails my brother’s voice from the top of the stairs.
‘Ed!’ Mum exclaims.
‘Sorry, Stick,’ he says. ‘Didn’t mean to say that out loud.’
I know that tracking Sam down will be almost impossible without an owner’s name to go on, unless he becomes registered with the Pony Club or something like the British Show Jumping Association for events under his original title. But he could be called something different. The only way I’ll find him will be by placing adverts in papers and magazines with a photo, which will cost a lot of money, or scouring the country and looking in every stable and field.
It’s a no-brainer. My hopes have hit a wall. Everyone’s kindness, support and generosity have been wasted. It’s not true that sacrifice is rewarded.
‘We’ll think of a way,’ says Mum, after retrieving Ed from the landing. ‘The Palmers don’t give up.’
Mum’s words ring in my ears as I ride my bike recklessly through the Forest, following a narrow track that weaves and winds its way between the oaks of the ancient woodland, ducking overhanging branches, swerving around deep, crusted ruts and roots.
I don’t care about the uncomfortable vibration rattling my arms or the thin stems of foliage whipping my cheeks. Where the track forks, I take the worstlooking option, shrouded in bushes and obstacles, the path less travelled, and I push down on the pedals harder, faster, until pain screams in my calves.
When my luck runs out and my bike and I part company, I land with a thud, my face in foul-smelling leaf mould. My jeans are torn and blood seeps through the frayed cotton from a graze on my knee. I can taste the dankness of mushrooms and soil. My back wheel clicks as it spins to a stop, deformed by the impact with the stealthy stump, hiding under ivy.
I’m crying in big, desperate sobs, until I have no energy left.
I lie still, no will to get up. I feel like a fighter who has taken a massive punch. Shocked, winded, hurting, I’ve been backed into a corner. I’m on the ropes. Voices in my head are like a crowd, chanting for me to throw in the towel.
‘Just give in, forget about him, get on with your life,’ they shriek.
But here on the forest floor, where there’s nowhere further to fall, something deep inside me is stirring. A fragment of defiance? The instinctive feeling that Samphire isn’t far away? Perhaps a memory of Dad; something he said years before.
No decision is ever set in stone. There are always choices.
So do it, Jodie, my brain tells me. Get up. Brush yourself off. And while you’re at
it, why not get a few things out of your system?
For the next five minutes, I rampage round the small clearing, a large stick in my hand, thrashing at everything in sight. I’m yelling at the top of my voice, hammering with a fist on rough bark like an insane woodpecker, hanging by my arms from a bough, trying to wrench it from its source.
I drop back to the ground and stay hunched for a moment. The crack of twigs makes me look up. Ed is standing close by. I can see his bike leaning on a tree. I wonder how long he’s been there, watching me lose it.
‘You OK?’ he asks.
I shrug and stand up. ‘How did you know where to find me?’
‘You always come here when you’re mad.’ Ed grins and I find myself smiling back. I’m really pleased to see him.
‘I got you buttons.’ Ed holds out a purple packet of my favourite chocs.
‘Thanks, Teddy.’
‘It’s true what Mum said, Stick,’ he tells me.
‘Yeah, I know. We won’t give up.’
‘Never,’ says Ed, making us put our fists together in a promise.
Chapter Thirty-two
‘No news?’ asks Rachel, popping her head round the office door at the stables. I’m sitting at the desk, poring over all the latest magazines, in the hope of spotting a photo or a mention of Samphire. I’m here more and more, as the summer days turn into weeks, trying to keep the vision of him real in my memory. I imagine him back in the yard, grazing with Rambo in the field, giving me a hard time in the ring.
‘Not yet,’ I respond, trying to sound bright. Everyone here has been so supportive. Sue even gave me some money to offer as a reward for information leading to positive identification. I’ve kept up my regime of fundraising through the holidays and pleaded with Mum not to book us a mini break so that I don’t have to leave ‘Campaign HQ’, as Ed calls home.
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