by Amanda Wills
‘Toast is fine,’ said Poppy, brushing her long fringe out of her eyes. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘In the shower. And Charlie’s still asleep. I’m making the most of the peace and quiet to get the last few jobs done.’
Caroline busied herself making toast, her back to Poppy. ‘How are you feeling about the move? I know it’ll be hard to say goodbye to the house but you’ll love Riverdale, I promise.’ How did Caroline know what she would love and what she wouldn’t, Poppy thought, aggrieved. She said nothing. Misinterpreting her silence for sadness, Caroline continued, ‘And I know you’ll miss your friends, especially Hannah, but you can keep in touch by email and phone and she can come to stay in the holidays if her mum agrees.’
‘Maybe,’ Poppy muttered, through a mouthful of toast. She knew Caroline was making an effort to talk and she was being monosyllabic in return, but she couldn’t help herself. It was the way it had always been. There was a time when Poppy had been chatty, carefree and confident in the knowledge that she was at the centre of her parents’ world. Not any more. Her mum had been gone for almost seven years and these days she had both Caroline and Charlie competing for her dad’s attention. No matter how hard Caroline tried to include Poppy she felt like she’d been sidelined, left forgotten on a lonely railway siding like one of Charlie’s wooden trains. She finished her breakfast, took her plate over to the sink and dashed upstairs to clean her teeth before Caroline could say any more.
Six hours later the McKeevers were stuck in crawling traffic on the A303, in the wake of their lumbering removal lorry. Poppy had lost count of the number of times Charlie had asked if they were nearly there. She stared out of the window, daydreaming about cantering along grassy tracks and soaring over huge cross country fences, a set of pricked grey ears in front of her. Her dad and Caroline were arguing about his next assignment - an eight week posting to the Middle East. Her dad was a war correspondent for the BBC. A familiar face on the news, he reported from the frontline of the world’s most dangerous trouble spots, from Iraq to Syria. Wearing his trademark beige flak jacket and often over the sound of distant shell-fire, Mike McKeever brought the horrors of war into people’s front rooms from Land’s End to John O’Groats. He was due to leave Riverdale the following afternoon.
‘Why do you have to go so soon? Couldn’t you have at least arranged to have a week off to help with the move? I don’t know if I’m going to be able to do it all on my own.’ Caroline’s usually calm voice rose as she turned to face her husband.
‘I know, I’m sorry. You’ll be fine. I’ll be back before you’ve even realised I’ve gone.’
‘By which time it’ll all be sorted. As usual,’ she grumbled.
Poppy was proud of her dad but she missed him desperately when he was away. She’d much rather he was a postman, or a mechanic, or worked in a bank. Anything really, as long as it meant he’d be safe and home for tea every night.
Fields gave way to houses as they approached Plymouth. They followed the removal lorry as it turned off the A38 onto the Tavistock road, the final leg of the journey. Riverdale was a thirty minute drive from the market town and by 3pm they were nearing their destination, the village of Waterby.
‘We need to take the second right after the church,’ reminded Caroline. They drove straight on for a mile and a half and then turned left down a track just past a postbox. ‘Look, kids - there it is!’
Poppy’s first impression of Riverdale was of a slate-roofed stone building with an almost melancholy air, which stood in the shadow of a small tor. The car had barely crunched to a halt on the gravel drive before she had undone her seatbelt, itching to be the first out. As she slammed her door shut behind her she heard Charlie’s gleeful tone, ‘Mum! Magpie’s just been sick all over his basket. Yuck, that’s so gross!’
‘You’ve found us then! I was beginning to think you’d got lost.’ Poppy spun round at the sound of a disembodied voice that appeared to be coming from the wooden porch at the front of the house. ‘I’m Tory Wickens. Welcome to Riverdale!’
A white-haired woman whose face was hatched with a lifetime of wrinkles stepped slowly out of the porch with the aid of two sticks. ‘I wanted to be here to welcome you to Riverdale. Couldn’t say goodbye to the old place without seeing who was taking it on. And you must be Poppy. You’ll no doubt be wanting to meet Chester. I need to show you how he likes things done.’
Her dad had parked the car and he and Caroline came up and shook the woman’s hand. They started chatting about the journey while Charlie struggled to pull Magpie’s basket out of the car and Poppy paced impatiently from foot to foot.
‘Can we please go and see the pony now?’ she asked, after what seemed like a lifetime of pointless talk about whether the A303 was quicker than the motorway.
‘Pony? Oh, you must mean Chester. Of course, silly me,’ said Tory. She beckoned Poppy through the open front door.
The photos of Riverdale hadn’t done the house justice, Poppy realised as she followed Tory along the hallway. There were doors leading off the hall to a lounge and a dining room. Both rooms were empty but light streamed in through tall windows and Poppy could see dust motes whirling in the shafts of sunlight. Floral sprigged wallpaper was peeling in places and there were darker rectangles where Tory’s pictures must have once hung. But the rooms were large and felt homely despite the faded decor. Tory continued her slow progress through the hall to the kitchen. There was a pillar box red range in the chimney breast and dark oak units lined the walls. The back door was straight ahead and Poppy felt her pulse quicken as they stepped through it to the outbuildings at the back of the house. Like the house, the buildings were built of stone and tiled with slate.
‘There are two stables and a small barn where you can store hay and straw. There’s enough in there to tide you over for a month or two. That door between the two stables leads to the tack and feed room. It’s only small but it’s plenty big enough for Chester’s things,’ Tory said.
She saw the barely suppressed excitement on Poppy’s face, smiled and pointed to the stable on the left. ‘That’s Chester’s stable. I’ve just given him some hay. Why don’t you go and say hello.’
Poppy walked the few steps to the stable door. The upper section was wide open and a horseshoe had been tacked to the wooden beam above it. A leather headcollar hung on a hook to the right of the door. The sun felt warm on Poppy’s back as she leant over the closed bottom half of the door and peered into the gloom beyond. Straw was banked up around the walls of the stable and she could make out a metal rack on the wall that was half-filled with hay. It took a few seconds for Poppy’s eyes to totally adjust to the darkness and when they did she thought she must be imagining things. She looked into the shadows again. Inside the stable, munching on the hay, was not a dappled grey 14.2hh pony but a small, hairy, long-eared donkey.
‘But where’s Chester?’ Poppy asked Tory.
‘That’s him, pet. That’s my Chester. He’s a beauty, isn’t he?’ the old woman replied proudly. At the sound of their voices the donkey turned around, saw Poppy’s silhouette over the stable door, curled his top lip and gave an almighty hee-haw.
Chapter Three
Disbelief and disappointment swept over Poppy. She felt Tory looking at her, the old woman’s snowy eyebrows raised in concern. Tory watched the expression on Poppy’s face change from excitement to shock. The girl looked crushed.
‘Did you think Chester was a pony? Oh, love, he’s my donkey. I’ve had him since he was a foal. I’ve told him all about you. He’s very pleased that you’re going to be looking after him from now on.’ Tory called softly to the donkey, who came over and nuzzled her outstretched hand.
Tears threatening, Poppy mumbled an apology and ran back through the house and out of the front door. Charlie was sitting on the doorstep with the cat basket on his lap, talking to Magpie. Her dad had started unloading the car and Caroline was issuing orders to the removal men.
‘Dad - you said there was a pony h
ere. It’s a donkey! You lied to me! How could you?’ The lump in her throat stopped her saying any more but tears started sliding down her cheeks. She brushed them away with the back of her hand.
‘A donkey! A donkey! Poppy’s pony’s a donkey! Wait until Hannah finds out! Serves you right for being such a show-off,’ crowed Charlie from behind Magpie’s basket.
‘Charlie, that’s enough. Poppy, I don’t understand. The estate agent was a bit vague but he definitely said it was a pony, at least I thought he did.’
Poppy refused to meet her dad’s eyes as she kicked the ground viciously. Caroline broke the silence. ‘Still, a donkey - how sweet. I know we were all expecting a pony but surely a donkey is better than nothing?’
Poppy rounded on her stepmother. ‘You don’t understand. You never do! What use is a donkey? I can’t ride that - I’d be a laughing stock. I hate you!’
Shocked by the venom of Poppy’s outburst, Caroline flinched and turned away. Poppy stormed off down the drive, her back rigid with tension. Halfway down the track she paused for a moment before climbing over a five bar gate into the larger of Riverdale’s two paddocks. She headed towards the far side of the field, where grass gave way to a band of thick woodland. She needed to get as far away as possible. Once she’d reached the post and rail fence that marked Riverdale’s boundary she sat down, facing the trees.
Poppy knew better than most how unfair life could be and if she was being honest she knew this latest disappointment wasn’t the end of the world. As her dad was fond of saying, worse things happen at sea. Yet she felt bereft. All her life she had fantasised about having her own pony. While some children had imaginary friends, Poppy had had an imaginary Welsh Mountain pony called Smudge when she was younger. She’d made him a stable behind the shed at the bottom of the garden and spent hours constructing cross country courses using bricks and bamboo canes. Eventually she outgrew Smudge but she never outgrew her passion. Some of the luckier girls at school had riding lessons every Saturday morning and she’d eavesdropped conversations about their exploits and the different ponies they rode, longing to be just like them. Her best friend Hannah wasn’t interested in horses. She wanted to be a pop star when she grew up and couldn’t understand Poppy’s fixation. Then her dad had told her about the pony at Riverdale and she’d spent the last three months believing that her dream was finally going to come true. How stupid she’d been.
Half an hour later her dad came to find her.
‘I thought I’d give you time to calm down,’ he said mildly, sitting on the grass beside her. Poppy still felt a huge weight of disappointment but now she’d cooled off it was tinged with shame at her outburst, which she knew had been totally uncalled for. She’d felt an instant liking for Tory and the old woman must have thought she was a spoilt London brat. And Poppy felt increasingly uncomfortable when she remembered how hard she’d been on Caroline.
‘Tory’s been asking after you. She feels that it’s somehow her fault. And Caroline was only trying to cheer you up. There was no need to take it out on her, Poppy.’
Her dad looked tired and Poppy felt mortified. She hated upsetting him.
‘I’m sorry, Dad. I’ll go and apologise to them both. It’s just - it’s just I was so excited. And now there’s nothing for me here. I’d rather be in Twickenham.’
‘Don’t be silly, of course there is. For starters, you need to come and learn how to look after Chester. You wouldn’t leave him at the mercy of your brother would you?’
Poppy managed a weak smile. ‘No, I suppose not. Charlie would probably end up using him for jousting practice or something. You go first. I’ll be over in a minute.’
She sat for a few moments more, thinking about Chester the donkey and the pony that never was. One day she’d probably be able to laugh at the afternoon’s turn of events, but not quite yet. She took a deep breath and prepared to face the music.
As Poppy stood up and brushed the dust from her jeans something caught her eye and she glanced into the wood. She thought she saw a flash of white in the trees. She paused, looked again, but there was nothing there except dark brown, tightly woven branches, heavy with leaves. Shrugging her shoulders she set off back across the field to the house.
Chapter Four
By tea-time the removal men had unloaded all the furniture and Poppy had been overloaded with enough information on Chester’s likes and dislikes to write, ‘The A to Z Encyclopaedia on Donkey Care.’
‘By rights donkeys don’t like living on their own but there again Chester has always had -’ Tory paused, gave a quick shake of her head and carried on. ‘You need to turn him out after his breakfast every morning and his stable needs to be mucked out every day. He needs fresh water in his stable every night and you also need to make sure the trough in the field is kept topped up
‘He loves his salt lick and he has a scoop of pony nuts a day, half in the morning and half when you bring him in for the night. There’s a sack in the dustbin in the tack room. It’ll see you through until you get a chance to go to Baxters’. That’s the animal feed place on the Tavistock road,’ Tory added, seeing Poppy’s puzzled face.
‘I’ve also left you his headcollar and his grooming kit. I’ve no use for them where I’m going.’ Tory was leaning heavily on her two sticks and her eyes had grown misty. ‘Anyway,’ she said, visibly collecting herself. ‘Use the dandy brush for his body and the body brush for his head. You might need to take the curry comb to his tail - he’s a terrible one for getting knotted in thistles. And you also need to make sure you pick out his feet twice a day. They say a horse is only as good as his feet, and the same goes for donkeys.’
Poppy was glad of her books. At least she’d be able to work out which brush was which. But Tory hadn’t quite finished. ‘He’ll also need his feet trimming once every couple of months. He’s not due for six weeks but I’ve left the farrier’s phone number with your mum.’
‘Caroline’s not my mum, she’s my stepmother,’ Poppy replied automatically. Tory looked at the thin, pale-faced girl and felt a wave of sympathy. It must have been a rollercoaster of a day. ‘Here’s Chester’s headcollar. Why don’t I show you how to put it on and you can have a go at grooming him. He’d like that,’ she said.
The donkey came up, nuzzled Poppy and obligingly held his head perfectly still while she grappled with the leather straps and, under Tory’s directions, put the headcollar on. As she picked up the dandy brush and started tackling the donkey’s thick grey coat she asked, ‘What did you mean when you said earlier that Chester wasn’t on his own?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about, pet.’
Poppy could have sworn the old woman suddenly looked shifty, although she had no idea why. The rhythmic sweeping of the dandy brush and Chester’s occasional friendly nudges had a calming effect and for the first time that afternoon Poppy felt her spirits rise.
‘I really am sorry about before. I didn’t mean to be so ungrateful. And I promise I’ll look after Chester properly.’
‘I know you will, pet. I’ll go back to the flat happy now I know he’s in good hands. I’ll miss both him and -’ she looked over towards the woods and stopped abruptly.
‘Well, it would be lovely if you could come and visit Chester - and me. It would be nice to have a friend here,’ Poppy told the old woman.
‘I’d like that, pet. And you’re always welcome to come and see me in my rabbit-hutch of a flat. But be careful of Mrs Parker. She’s the warden and she’s a formidable character. I’ve rubbed her up the wrong way already and I’ve only been there five minutes.’
They spent the next hour working together companionably, grooming and feeding Chester and settling him down for the evening. With Tory guiding her, Poppy picked out the donkey’s feet and untangled at least five burrs from his tail. By the time they’d finished Tory’s nephew had arrived to drive her back to her new flat. Clasping Poppy’s hand as she stood propped up on her sticks by his car Tory said, ‘Goodbye Poppy, see you soon. And thank
you for looking after Chester. He means the world to me.’
Poppy smiled. ‘Thank you for letting him stay at Riverdale. He can be my pretend pony. Who needs the real thing anyway?’
Charlie was unpacking his action heroes in the hall and Caroline was busy finishing tea when Poppy returned indoors.
‘Your dad’s upstairs making up our beds. Why don’t you come and help me lay the table. Dinner will be ready in a minute,’ said Caroline, drying her hands on a tea-towel.
Poppy looked at her stepmother. Caroline was tall, blonde and blue-eyed - the polar opposite of Poppy’s mum, Isobel, who had been green-eyed, dark and petite. Poppy knew deep-down that Caroline wasn’t your archetypical wicked stepmother. She was kind and patient and always put the children first but from the first day her dad had introduced them Poppy had felt prickly and defensive. She couldn’t even begin to explain why. But she noticed the way Caroline would suddenly scoop Charlie up into a hug, smothering his apple-pink cheeks with butterfly kisses. She tried not to feel jealous when Caroline tickled her irrepressible brother until giggles convulsed his whole body or when she stroked his hair absentmindedly while she was reading the paper or watching television. The pair had such a close bond and they strongly resembled her fair-haired father. Poppy, who was the spitting image of Isobel, felt like the cuckoo in the nest.
As she leant over to unpack the knives and forks from one of the dozen or so cardboard boxes in the kitchen, a fan of dark hair hiding her face, Poppy mumbled an apology to Caroline. Fortunately her stepmother wasn’t one to hold a grudge.
‘That’s OK, sweetheart. Your dad and I were just worried about you. I know how excited you were about the pony. Right, let’s get this show on the road. Can you tell the boys dinner’s ready?’
Before she went to bed in her new room at the back of the house, Poppy slipped out to say goodnight to Chester. It was a still night and the silence felt alien after the 24-7 noise of London. The donkey was quietly munching on some hay but when he saw Poppy’s head poke over his stable door he came over and gave her a nudge.