Samphire Song

by Jill Hucklesby

  We’re heading towards our first challenge, a wooden gate with four bars. Eight horses jump before we do and the rest of the field is on our tail.

  Three, two, one, fold, my inner voice tells me and I bend forwards over Sam’s neck as he tucks his front hooves under and launches us into the air. We clear the top with room to spare and land well, ready to speed away. Sam is responding so intelligently; it’s as if he can read my mind. The slightest movement of my hand on the reins changes his direction and a gentle squeeze from my calf alters his speed.

  So far, the course isn’t daunting him. We’re holding our position as we navigate through empty sheep pens, jump a log stack and canter down a slope with grass-covered obstacles at the bottom. The horse in front balks at the sight of a whirling scarecrow and veers to our left. Sam has no such worries and weaves nimbly between log poles before leaping the series of cattle troughs.

  Ahead of us is a straight, stony track with tall maize growing either side of it. I sense Sam shift up a gear. In moments, we are galloping neck-and-neck with a roan mare that seems to be labouring under the weight of a heavy male rider. He’s using his whip and kicking her belly, poor thing. We nudge past her as the next challenge comes into view – some hay bales on top of a wide cattle grid.

  ‘Steady, Sam,’ I say. He needs no encouragement. The Arabian stallion in him takes over and propels us forwards. He jumps too soon, but the leap is so huge, it feels as if we’re flying. Sam’s feet hardly touch the ground before we’re speeding at a gallop towards the woods, about twenty yards behind the leaders.

  I shiver as we enter the cool shade of the trees. Sam senses this and his stride falters for a second. We’re both remembering another time, just months ago, when we were running for our lives on narrow paths between trees, and every step seemed like it could be Sam’s last.

  But today, his courage is matched by his strength. He must look like a bolt of white lightning streaking through the dappled shade. Maybe his mane is full of fairy dust, eh, Dad? The thought makes me smile.

  One by one, we tackle the jumps laid out along the route through the Forest. Some have flags and wind chimes hanging nearby to add distraction and to test our mettle. One even has posters of bears on it (Ed would love it!). Lord Lynton promised us a few surprises on the way!

  There’s another grey close at our heels, but we lose him after he refuses the three parallel stacks. I hear his rider arguing with the race official who has disqualified him. It won’t do any good. The rules of the day were very clear. One hesitation and you’re out.

  I’m staying low over Samphire’s neck, trying to make us as aerodynamic as possible. Every so often, I glimpse a glint of horseshoes in the shafts of sunlight ahead. The thud of hooves is reverberating through the trees, pounding through my body. I’m sweating and my vision is starting to blur.

  ‘Come on, Jodie, you’re doing fine,’ encourages a voice in my head. I could swear it’s Dad’s . . .

  I can see bright daylight now beyond the line of beeches – the front-runners are spreading out into the open ground. We’re not far behind them and, with just three jumps to go, I’m daring to think that we might make an attempt for third place. Ed and I have already discussed what we would do with the prize – two hundred and fifty pounds. We were having one of those, ‘In your dreams, if you were rich, what would you buy?’ conversations. We decided Mum should have a special present, like a spa break or a trip to see some beautiful gardens in France or Italy, and agreed we would save up for this in any case. Neither of us expected Sam and I to be in with a real chance of coming in the top three.

  Imagining Mum’s happy face as we present her with the prize makes me urge Sam on even faster. He responds willingly. I notice his neck is damp with exertion. I relax the reins a little, not wanting to push him beyond his limits, but he just thrusts his head out and gallops flat out.

  I glance back. The next competitor is quite a long way behind us. I can afford to focus fully on the leaders – a black gelding and a chestnut hunter. The gelding looks like a tank on legs, almost unstoppable, but the hunter is on his tail. There’s a piebald and a bay behind them, side by side. Sam and I will need a huge helping of luck to get past them.

  We tuck in just behind them and as we approach a bench jump, they diverge and create space and Sam claims it as his own. We take the jump just after the bay and the piebald is forced to hold back. Now Sam is neck and neck with the piebald, which is grunting with the effort of the fast pace.

  The finish line is in sight, about a hundred yards away, and spectators are lining the route. There’s a lot of noise and applause, but I can hear someone shouting ‘Go on Sam, go on Jodie.’ It’s Rachel. She must have run all the way to the end of the course to cheer us on. There are still two jumps before the final gallop to the finish. As we approach the huge grass mound with the steep drop to a stream, I try to steady Sam’s head, but he’s having none of it. We’re moving past the piebald and gaining ground on the hunter.

  Flecks of foam flick on to us from the chestnut’s mouth. She’s giving it all she has. We are almost level with her shoulder. The jump is wide and we take it together, landing on the top of the bank, leaping down over the stream. The hunter stumbles as she lands, giving us a fraction of a second’s lead. Sam accelerates away, like a lightning bolt.

  Incredibly, we’re in second place. Ahead of us, the black giant is lining up for the last jump, the gates laid out in a V shape. The angle for take-off is really tricky. I paced it out on my walk-round, but now I can’t remember. Was it better from the left or the right?

  ‘Come ON, Fosca,’ the gelding’s rider is shouting. Tension is so high now, I feel Sam shudder at the sound of her voice.

  ‘Just one more, boy,’ I say to him. The crowd is roaring on our left.

  Fosca’s long stride is putting distance between us as we descend a gentle slope leading to the gates. It’s a good thing he is ahead on this stretch. I’ll be able to see which part of the jump he’s going to leap. We need to give him space, or the result could be catastrophic – a mid-air collision.

  As Fosca heads towards the right-hand gate, I guide Sam to the left, giving the dangerous V-shape a wide berth. I expect to see the huge black frame airborne any second, but Fosca suddenly balks at the sight of the structure and veers across our path, taking off over the left-hand gate. Sam swerves and I’m flung out of the saddle. My right knee is still hooked over the pommel and I manage to haul myself back into a seated position just as Sam makes a decision and launches us into the air.

  We soar over the sharp apex of the gates, stirrups flapping, and make a secure landing. Fosca must be about five seconds ahead of us. His head is stretched out and he’s galloping as if his life depended on it.

  ‘GO ON!’ yells his rider, using her crop on his glistening flank.

  ‘GO, SAM, GO!’ I respond, willing my beautiful, brave horse to give our adversaries a run for their money. Sam needs no incentive. Ahead of him lies a flat stretch of ground. He knows what to do. It’s in his genes. I grip my knees tight into the saddle. My feet locate my stirrups, but I don’t kick back. I don’t need to.

  Fosca is listing to the right, his gait unsettled by his near-refusal. It gives us a chance to ease forwards, to race shoulder to shoulder with the dark colossus, whose eyes are white-rimmed with exertion.

  The line is a few yards away, we are behind Fosca by a nose. My eyes are fixed on the ribbon ahead, my body is low over Sam’s neck. The noise from the crowd is a wall of sound. As if in response to it, Sam almost leaps forwards. He’s running like he never has before, stretched and sleek, his tail flying like a bright silver-white flag. Maybe he is Pegasus, after all.

  Fosca’s great head is dropping behind us. A nanosecond later, we’re crossing the finish. Someone is screaming. I think it’s me!

  ‘You total STAR!’ I praise him, reining him in and turning him in a victory circle. Sam whinnies and stamps, tossing his mane, showing off, which makes the crowd laugh. He trea
ts us all to a burst of his song, ending with a loud snort.

  ‘You should enter him for Eurovision,’ suggests a man behind the ropes. ‘We could do with the help.’

  ‘In first place, with Samphire, Miss Jodie Palmer,’ announces the tannoy. A race official directs me to approach Lord Lynton, who is holding a trophy and an envelope. Samphire frisks and sidesteps prettily. Somewhere nearby, a band has struck up, and I could swear Sam is moving in time to the music.

  ‘Very well done,’ says Lord Lynton. ‘That was a fine race. Congratulations to you and your splendid horse.’ He gives me the silver trophy and I shake his hand. The crowd applauds and I lean forwards and give Sam the biggest hug ever.

  ‘And I’m delighted to award you a cheque for one thousand pounds,’ Lord Lynton announces. ‘That should keep Samphire in pony nuts for a little while!’ There is laughter and more applause. As I take the silver-edged envelope, my hand is shaking and there are tears of happiness stinging my eyes. It feels like a dream, except I’m aching and stiff and Sam is covered in sweat and dust.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I answer. A photographer is taking pictures of us. He doesn’t need to ask me to smile. I’ve realised I’ll be able to treat Mum and Ed to a special celebration now. And it’s all thanks to Samphire.

  We wait while Fosca and the hunter are awarded second and third place prizes. Sam nickers when Fosca walks past us. It sounds like a greeting of respect. The gelding looks like a war horse. He towers above Lord Lynton.

  Mum, Ed and Rachel are waiting to greet us – I can see them waving madly from behind the rope barrier. There’s something I have to do first. I dismount and feel in my jacket pocket for Sam’s favourite treat – a peppermint.

  ‘You deserve this,’ I say in his ear. Sam’s nose moves over my hand, searching out the sweet. When his tongue finds it, his throat rumbles with pleasure.

  Two seconds later, we’re both enveloped in a mad group hug, instigated by Ed and Mum. It gets bigger and madder as Poppy, Rachel and the crowd from the stables join in.

  ‘You don’t look like a stick in those clothes,’ observes Ed. I think that’s a compliment.

  ‘You’re amazing, both of you,’ says Mum, emotional and giggly at the same time.

  ‘Not me,’ I reply, pointing to the real star of the show and giving him a kiss between his eyes.

  ‘Excuse me,’ says a deep voice, close by. We all turn to see a man of about forty in a smart, country-style suit, approaching. I recognise him as one of the judges from a previous event and wonder if he’s going to tell me that there’s been some mistake – that Samphire isn’t the winner after all. My grip on my trophy tightens a little.

  ‘Bernard Ashton-Cook,’ he says, offering his firm handshake in introduction to Mum first and then to me. ‘I was one of the race officials today and I wanted to say how impressed I was with your performance, young lady.’ His eyes rest on me. They are smiling but cool at the same time.

  ‘Thank you,’ I respond, unsure what else to say.

  ‘I’m also on the look out for new additions to my eventing team and wondered if Samphire might, at some point, be for sale? I think he could go all the way, with the right development.’

  I’m a little taken aback by this. Does he think I’m just a kid playing around at being an owner? That I don’t have the expertise or commitment to let Sam reach his full potential? I see that Mum is holding her breath.

  ‘He’s not for sale,’ I state, simply.

  ‘I would give you eight thousand pounds. It’s a generous offer. I think it reflects his future potential as an event winner. You could buy a nice little horse for that. Stallions aren’t for young girls,’ says Ashton-Cook, eyes hardly blinking. I can tell he’s used to wheeling and dealing and getting his way.

  ‘Samphire’s part Arab and he’ll be worth that just as a sire, let alone as an event horse,’ I respond. ‘Even if you offered me a million pounds, the answer would be the same.’ I turn away and busy myself unstrapping Sam’s girth. I sense that the man is appealing to Mum’s sensibility in a gesture, inviting her to take his side.

  ‘Jodie’s given you her decision,’ says Mum, coolly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re taking Samphire home for a family celebration.’

  ‘If she should change her mind, here’s my card,’ he informs her, his tone much less friendly. He turns to look at me.

  ‘I won’t,’ I state, holding his gaze. Mum declines his card. He turns and strides away, very disgruntled.

  ‘That was a rude dude,’ observes Ed, before he’s out of earshot. Samphire gives a short, sharp whinny in agreement.

  Chapter Forty

  Hooves thundering across sand, glinting in sunlight, galloping free across the wide sweep of the sun-washed bay. The taste of the ocean in the tears squeezing from my eyes, trickling to my lips. The ripple of muscle against thigh as maximum, bareback speed is breached. And behind, the sky; a flaming pink and orange watercolour through the salt-spray in our wake.

  Three years ago, it was Dad who was setting the pace, challenging me to raise my skills, take risks and outride him if I could. Today, I’m racing my very own part-Arab stallion, who has changed my world and rescued me, Mum and Ed from our isolated island. Even though our opponent is missing four legs and has the added advantage of wings, Samphire is proving a worthy match.

  I think Dad would approve, especially as the gleaming Spitfire in my eye line was presented to Ed in recognition of his selflessness and bravery by Dad’s very own squadron.

  When I glance over my shoulder, I can see the small figure of Ed, his control box in his hands, probably wishing he had a red button that says ‘turbo power’ on it – and that he hadn’t bet me five pounds that his plane could outperform my brilliant horse.

  Somewhere near Ed, lying on our picnic rug watching the proceedings, is Mum, looking radiant and relaxed and more at peace than I ever remember.

  Our finishing post, the rocky pinnacle of stone that juts out of the sand like a finger at the end of the bay, is about thirty yards away. It’s time to let Samphire set the pace. He accelerates just as Ed’s Spitfire performs a loop the loop in the sky behind us.

  ‘Go, boy, go!’ I exclaim, as Sam’s shoes splash through the shallow rivulets of incoming tide and I hear the Spitfire gaining ground. I imagine Ed sitting at its controls in the cockpit, the rock in the centre of his sights. ‘Fly, Sam,’ I urge and my horse responds, lengthening his stride, pushing through the wind with every muscle, every ounce of energy.

  We are galloping and I sense Sam’s joy in his speed, which is leaving a trail of spray mist suspended in the air. His movement is even more fluid and assured without a saddle. We’re running free and it’s the best feeling ever.

  Suddenly, I notice we have company. The plane has drawn level with us and, in less than five seconds, we reach the rock together. I’m laughing out loud as the Spitfire waggles its wings before soaring vertically towards the sun. And just in case past and present are merging for a moment and the wind can carry words across the shifting space of time, I yell at the top of my voice: ‘We made it, Dad. Yeeeeeha!’

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks to all at Egmont for many, many things. For their welcome, which came with a tea party. For their complete professionalism and creative flair and for their ongoing efforts to launch Calypso and Samphire on their journeys. Special thanks to Leah Thaxton for saying yes, to lovely editor Ali Dougal, Victoria Berwick and the PR team, and designer Emma Eldridge. Also to Rosemary Canter, Jodie Marsh and Jane Willis at United Agents. And to Chris, Maddy and Henry, always.

  Meet Jill Hucklesby

  Hi, Jill. Tell us a bit about your childhood and teenage years. Where did you live, and what were your interests?

  I was born in Brighton and lived at the top of a hill with my parents, my sister and brothers in a flat with a spooky cellar. You could hear trains passing by in deep tunnels underneath. It made me think there was a subterranean world existing beneath my bed.

/>   Growing up was a bit of a bumpy time involving loss and the arrival of step family. I often escaped into imaginary worlds! I discovered a love for music and drama, and I also learned to sail.

  As a teenager, I worked in a sweet shop (bliss!), then at M&S, so life became a blur of school exams, bras and knickers (my department) and dates with a dark-haired student at college . . .

  Did you have any favourite books or authors?

  Yes, I loved stories about animals. Black Beauty by Anna Sewell, Call of the Wild by Jack London (cried for days), Tarka the Otter by Henry Williamson (ditto). Later, I studied English Lit and loved everything by D. H. Lawrence, E.M. Forster and Thomas Hardy, especially Tess of the D’Urbervilles. And if we’re including dramatists, Will Shakespeare, of course.

  Who’s your favourite fictional character?

  Two favourites: Tess from Tess of the D’Urbervilles, who is stalked by tragedy despite her innocence, and Flora Poste from Stella Gibbons’ Cold Comfort Farm, who hauls her mad, rural relatives into the twentieth century with cool, common sense. It’s one of the funniest books I’ve read.

  In Samphire Song, Jodie adores horses and finds solace in their company. Are you a rider too?

  I loved horses when I was young and was often in trouble for doodling ponies on my school work! On my seventh birthday, my mum and dad took me to a riding school called ‘Hope in the Valley’ and I had my first lesson. It was the happiest day of my life! After that, I did little jobs like dog walking for elderly people to earn money for lessons. But then family life changed and we moved counties, so I had to leave my favourite horses behind. In my teens there were other adventures, including a breathtaking gallop along the sands of Ferring in Sussex with my brother, who was a soldier in the Royal Horse Artillery and a birthday hack on a horse that tried to rub me off against every tree it saw. Now I’m happy just to admire them in the fields near where I live and stroke their soft noses (which are in my top ten of everything!).