by Amanda Wills
On Saturday morning Poppy walked to Ashworthy along the footpath at the front of Riverdale, her new hat under her arm, feeling equally nervous and excited. She’d spent so many years daydreaming about riding, imagining herself cantering along bridleways with the casualness of a cowgirl or at horse shows being presented with trophies so shiny she could see her face in them. What if she was useless? What if she was so incompetent she never got the hang of it? Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the front door. The sound set off a round of barking and she could hear a boy say, ‘Meg, be quiet! Oh, I think there’s someone at the front door.’
When the door opened, Scarlett was standing there clad in jodhpurs and a checked shirt, a smile on her freckled face.
‘There you are! We wondered who it was. Only the postman uses the front door. We always go around the back. But how would you know that – it’s the first time you’ve been here? Anyway, come in and you can meet everyone.’
Scarlett kept up a stream of chat as she led Poppy through the house. Ashworthy was the kind of farmhouse that Poppy had read about in books but never believed actually existed. The house had low ceilings, mullioned windows and the aroma of baking. It was shabby and threadbare in places but Poppy loved it. Scarlett’s mum, Pat, was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and dropping them into an enormous saucepan which sat like a witch’s cauldron on the Rayburn. A black and white border collie appeared, her tail wagging so quickly it was almost a blur. The dog woofed a greeting, pushing a wet nose into Poppy’s hand and giving her palm a soggy lick. She stroked the dog’s silky ears.
‘This is Meg. She seems to like you already. Oh, and that’s Mum,’ added Scarlett as an afterthought.
Pat smiled. ‘I’ve heard all about you, Poppy. It’s so nice for Scarlett to have someone her age next door. How are you settling in?’
Scarlett’s mum was as freckly as her daughter and had the same open, friendly face. Poppy instantly felt at ease. They chatted for a while until Scarlett grew impatient and dragged Poppy outside to meet Flynn and Blaze. Flynn was a rotund, dark bay gelding who made a beeline for Poppy’s pockets looking for a titbit. Blaze was a chestnut mare with a flaxen mane and tail, whose fox-red coat matched the exact shade of Scarlett’s hair, as if by design.
‘Doesn’t your brother ride any more?’ Poppy asked, as she stroked Flynn’s brown nose, trying to calm the butterflies in her stomach.
‘He’s thirteen,’ Scarlett said, rolling her eyes, as if his age explained everything. ‘He used to be fun but these days he’s so boring. He’s only happy when he’s got his head in a book. Right, shall we get started?’
Poppy finally summoned the courage to broach an issue that had been bothering her all week. ‘My stepmum has bought me a hat but I haven’t got any jodhpurs or boots.’ She looked down at her jeans and trainers in despair.
‘Minor details. I’m sure we can find some. Mum never throws anything away. You start grooming Flynn and I’ll go and ask.’
She returned a few minutes later with a pair of Alex’s old jodhpurs and boots which fitted well enough and they spent a happy morning with Scarlett teaching her friend how to tack Flynn up, mount and dismount, the correct riding position and how to hold the reins properly. Scarlett clipped a leadrope to Flynn’s snaffle bit and led him and Poppy around the farm, giving a running commentary as they walked sedately through fields and along tracks. Poppy felt exhilarated. Flynn was as round as a Thelwell pony but he was alert and forward going and Poppy had the feeling he was enjoying himself as much as she was.
Over the next three weeks Poppy learnt the basics of riding under Scarlett’s knowledgeable, albeit occasionally impatient, tutelage. The two girls spent every morning at Ashworthy. For a couple of days, Poppy remained on the lead rein. But eventually Scarlett taught her the aids, how to use her hands, legs and seat to start, halt, back and turn the long-suffering bay gelding. It was the sort of thing that was second nature to Scarlett, who had learned to ride almost before she could walk. By the end of the first week Poppy had fallen off four times but had mastered a sitting and a rising trot, although she was still too nervous to trot without stirrups. After two weeks she had successfully managed a couple of canters and Scarlett was muttering about trotting poles and cavellettis.
‘You do have a natural seat,’ said her friend, looking at Poppy with a critical eye as she sat on Flynn at the end of a lesson. ‘And I don’t mean to sound big-headed, but I do think I’m a born teacher,’ she added modestly.
‘You’re a hard taskmaster, that’s for sure,’ replied Poppy, who’d discovered muscles in places she didn’t know existed. She had bruises on her backside and blisters on every finger. But despite the aches and pains and occasional falls she was having the time of her life. She’d barely been at home since meeting Scarlett and her newfound friendship eased the loneliness she usually felt when her dad was away.
She’d finally met Scarlett’s brother, Alex. Tall and thin, with auburn hair a few shades darker than his sister’s, he had mumbled a greeting and not said a word since.
‘He’s so rude!’ Scarlett had complained, although Poppy recognised the signs and suspected he was just shy.
The McKeevers had been at Riverdale for a month when Pat invited them to Sunday lunch. Caroline had spent the first three weeks at their new house in a frenzy of activity, ripping up carpets, sanding and varnishing floorboards, stripping wallpaper and whitewashing walls. After transforming the house she’d started digging a vegetable patch while Charlie spent hours making dens and honing his tracking skills in the fields around Riverdale. Most evenings the children sat with Caroline after dinner and watched the six o’clock news in case their dad was on and every few days he rang from the Middle East for a short chat.
The lunch was a welcome distraction and when they arrived the three McKeevers were greeted by the sight of an enormous joint of Ashworthy lamb served in the centre of a huge pine table, surrounded by dishes of roast potatoes and parsnips and Pat’s home-grown vegetables. Charlie was his normal ebullient self, firing questions at Scarlett’s dad, Bill. ‘Can I have a go at shearing one of the sheep? What do you do with all the cow pats? Have you ever seen a big cat?’
‘As a matter of fact I think I have,’ Bill replied between mouthfuls. ‘It was during lambing last spring. It was so cold there was still snow on some of the higher tors. One night I was out at midnight helping one of the ewes deliver twins. Meg started barking at the line of trees at the edge of the field. I shone my torch over to see what she was fussing about but all I could see was a pair of eyes shining back at me in the torchlight.’
Scarlett, Alex and Pat had obviously heard the story a dozen times and carried on eating. Charlie had stopped, his fork raised half-way to his mouth, his eyes as wide as saucers.
‘Dad, it was probably just a fox,’ said Alex. Poppy looked up, surprised – it was the longest sentence she’d heard him utter.
‘I know, that’s what I told myself. Lord knows I’ve seen enough foxes in my time. But the eyes were spaced too far apart. And the reaction of the sheep was strange. They ran from that side of the field in a blind panic. I just can’t explain it. Anyway, whatever it was disappeared as quickly as it had appeared and I’ve not seen anything like it since.’
Charlie was agog and Poppy could practically see his brain whirring, dreaming up madcap schemes to track down the Beast of Dartmoor.
Talk turned to Riverdale and how the McKeevers were settling in. Caroline seemed subdued, Poppy thought, watching her normally chatty stepmother. She looked tired. Not surprising really. She hadn’t stopped since they’d moved to Devon.
‘How long did Tory live at Riverdale?’ Poppy asked.
‘All her married life and then she stayed there on her own after her husband died fifteen years ago. Douglas was a lovely man. It must have been lonely for her but she refused to move into the village,’ said Pat.
‘Did she never have children?’ Poppy thought of the red rosette she’d found in her bedroom
.
‘Yes, she has a daughter, Jo, but they haven’t spoken for a long while,’ Pat answered.
‘Why not?’ Charlie asked, through a mouthful of roast lamb.
‘Nothing for you to worry your head about, love,’ Pat said, as she stood up and started piling second helpings onto everyone’s already heaving plates.
After the meal, Poppy and Scarlett were sitting on the post and rail fence around Flynn and Blaze’s paddock watching the ponies graze. Poppy asked if her friend knew what had happened to cause the rift between Tory and her daughter.
‘No, Mum won’t tell me. Says it’s none of my business. I asked Tory once but she looked so sad I wished I hadn’t. I never asked her again.’
The conversation was quickly forgotten as the girls started discussing the next day’s lesson, when Scarlett was going to start teaching Poppy how to jump. Flynn, whose rotund belly was beginning to fade away with all the work he was doing, came over and nuzzled their pockets for a Polo.
‘Caroline’s really cool, you are so lucky to have her as a stepmum,’ said Scarlett suddenly.
‘What?’ asked Poppy, who had been wondering how many times she was likely to fall off in her jumping lesson the next morning.
‘My mum’s great, I know. She’s a brilliant cook and I know she loves me but she’s stuck in a time warp - she’s never even used a computer for goodness sake! Caroline’s so fashionable and she knows all about music and stuff. It must be great to have someone like her as a mum.’
Poppy looked Scarlett straight in the eye. ‘I’d rather have my own mum, Scarlett. Caroline doesn’t love me, not like she loves Charlie. Not like your mum loves you. Not like my mum loved me.’
Her friend took a deep breath and finally asked the question she’d being bursting to ask since the day they met.
‘What did happen to your mum, Poppy?’
Chapter Eight
Poppy had always felt responsible for her mum’s death. Although she had difficulty remembering details of her mum’s face - the exact shade of her green eyes, the curve of her smile - she had regular flashbacks to the accident in which every agonizing moment played out in her head.
They were walking home from school one bitterly cold afternoon not long after the snowman photo had been taken. Poppy’s right hand was clasped safely in her mum’s and in her left she held her beloved stuffed rabbit, Ears. They had crossed the main road at the top of their road when Poppy realised she’d dropped the rabbit. She slipped like an eel out of her mum’s grasp and darted back into the road to rescue him. Her mum turned and screamed, ‘Poppy, no!’ and ran towards her. Poppy could still remember the look of absolute terror on Isobel’s face when she saw a speeding car bearing down on them.
The next few minutes were a blur of disjointed sounds and images. The sickening squeal of brakes as the car shuddered to a halt. A flash of red as her mum was thrown over the bonnet. Howls from the young driver as he realised what he’d done. The screech of sirens as police cars and an ambulance arrived.
Poppy saw her four-year-old self standing at the edge of the road, clutching Ears to her chest, not understanding what had happened. Her mum was lying on the pavement a few feet away. She had run over and tried to shake her awake. But her mum hadn’t moved.
‘She’s sleeping,’ Poppy told the paramedics over and over again. They gently lifted Isobel onto a stretcher and covered her face with a blanket. Poppy pulled the blanket off. ‘Don’t do that. She won’t be able to breathe.’
A group of mums and children stood silently watching the paramedics lift the stretcher into the ambulance. A familiar figure burst through them and gathered Poppy into her arms. It was Sarah, Hannah’s mum. They usually walked home together, the four of them, but that day Sarah had stopped to speak to one of the teachers about a school trip.
‘Where are they taking my mummy?’ Poppy asked her.
Sarah’s face was wet with tears. ‘Oh, my darling. Mummy’s badly hurt. They’ve got to take her to hospital. You can come home with us and I’ll phone your daddy.’
For once Scarlett was silent as Poppy recounted the events of that day.
‘I still thought she would be OK,’ Poppy remembered. ‘No-one told me what had really happened. My dad was in Iraq at the time and it was two days before they could find the Army unit he was based with and tell him about the accident. He flew straight home but it felt like ages before he got back.’
Isobel had taken the full force of the impact protecting Poppy from the car. Countless well-meaning bereavement counsellors had told Poppy over the following months that it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t believe any of them.
‘After all, if I hadn’t run into the road my mum wouldn’t have died, would she?’ Poppy said flatly.
Scarlett didn’t know how to answer so tried to change the subject. ‘How did your dad meet Caroline?’
Poppy gazed towards the moor. ‘He refused to go abroad for the first year after Mum died so he could be at home for me. I had a childminder called Shirley who looked after me before and after school and in the holidays, but Dad was home every night. Then Caroline started working at the BBC. He said they became friends first and then he realised he was falling in love.’ Poppy pulled a face. ‘He started inviting her around to our house. She tried to be friendly, but she wasn’t Mum. I hated seeing them together. One day he picked me up from school, took me to our favourite cafe, bought me a milkshake and told me he had some ‘exciting’ news. Caroline was having a baby and he’d asked her to marry him.’
At Caroline’s insistence Poppy had been the bridesmaid at their wedding. Dressed from head to toe in cream silk to match Caroline’s elegant wedding dress, Poppy had spent the entire day missing her mum while all around her were smiling and celebrating her dad’s second chance at happiness.
‘Then Charlie was born, Caroline gave up work to be at home with us and my dad started going away for work again. I always felt like the odd one out but when it was just the three of us it was even worse. Luckily there was always Hannah.’
‘She was your best friend in Twickenham?’ Scarlett asked, trying not to feel jealous. ‘Does she ride?’
Poppy laughed, ‘No, horses are far too muddy and she’d hate mucking out. She hasn’t even got a pair of wellies. Hannah’s ambition is to win X-Factor. But we’ve been best friends since forever.’ The last remark was more to convince herself than Scarlett. Poppy had emailed Hannah once or twice a week since the move to Riverdale but whereas her emails were filled with the exploits of Flynn, Blaze and Chester, walks on the moor with Scarlett and Charlie and updates on the house and Caroline’s fledgling vegetable patch, Hannah talked about clothes she had bought, music she was listening to and her new group of friends. As the days flew by they grew further and further apart. Poppy supposed it was bound to happen.
She glanced at Scarlett, who was chewing on a piece of grass. Bubbly, generous Scarlett, who had welcomed her into her life with open arms. Poppy felt lucky to have found such a good friend.
‘To be honest, I have much more in common with you than I do with Hannah these days. At least we’re as pony-mad as each other. And you don’t want to be a pop star, do you?’
Scarlett grinned and shook her head vehemently. ‘I can’t imagine anything worse. I’d love to win Badminton maybe, but not X-Factor.’ Her face became solemn and she said quietly, ‘Thank you for telling me about your mum, Poppy. I’m so sorry about what happened. But you really mustn’t blame yourself. It was the driver’s fault, not yours.’
Poppy looked unconvinced. But Scarlett’s next words threw her completely.
‘Caroline does love you, you know. It’s completely obvious to me. Surely you can see it too?’
‘You’re barking up the wrong tree there. She puts up with me because she has to. No more than that.’
Chapter Nine
Charlie’s obsession with big cats was growing by the day. With Poppy’s help he’d Googled news stories of reported sightings on Dartmoor and was
convinced Bill hadn’t seen a fox while lambing the previous spring.
‘It could have been a puma or a jaguar, or maybe even a panther, which is another name for a black leopard,’ he informed Poppy and Caroline over breakfast one day towards the end of August. The holiday was slipping through the children’s fingers like sand and they only had a dozen days left before they started at their new schools.
‘Poppy,’ whispered Charlie, as Caroline bent down to empty the dishwasher. ‘It’s going to be a full moon tonight. Can we go to the river later, see who turns up for a drink?’ He winked conspiratorially at her.
‘OK, little brother. I’ll come along and hold your hand, in case there are any beasties about,’ she smiled.
For the rest of the day Charlie was fizzing with excitement. Caroline was suspicious. ‘I know he’s up to something. You don’t know what he’s planning do you? I’ve got a horrible feeling it’s something to do with this wretched big cat he’s convinced is living on the doorstep.’
Poppy couldn’t hold her stepmother’s gaze as she replied evasively, ‘I don’t know. He hasn’t mentioned anything to me.’
‘Sweetheart, you would tell me if you knew, wouldn’t you? I don’t want him to do anything silly.’
‘Don’t worry. I promise I’ll keep an eye on him.’ That much was true, at least.
‘Thank-you, darling,’ said Caroline, giving Poppy such a sweet smile she felt the usual twinge of resentment. Caroline was never as worried about her safety as she was about Charlie’s.
That evening Charlie went straight to bed without any of his usual time-wasting tactics, adding to Caroline’s unease. But she was too glued to the ten o’clock news watching Mike’s poignant report on a suicide bomber who’d destroyed a school in Afghanistan to hear the click of the back door as the two children let themselves out.