by Amanda Wills
‘How can you be so sure?’
Poppy’s green eyes were shining. ‘Because I’m pretty certain that for the last ten minutes he’s been following us.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Poppy’s conviction that Cloud was nearby started to waver when he didn’t immediately appear from behind the trees. When he still hadn’t showed after another ten minutes the fleeting elation she’d felt drained away to be replaced once again by nerves. Caroline gave her an encouraging smile from the log where she was stationed with Charlie. Poppy could see her brother was getting fidgety. Any minute now he’d realise he was hungry and then it would only be a matter of time before they had to abandon their rescue mission and head back home.
Just as she was about to admit defeat she heard the branches behind her rustle. Spinning around she almost cried out with relief when she saw Cloud’s familiar grey nose poking out from behind the russet and gold leaves of a beech tree. She looked over at Caroline and Charlie, pressing her finger to her lips. Charlie gave her the thumbs up and she could see Caroline crossing her fingers for luck.
Poppy started talking softly to Cloud, hoping he wouldn’t sense the nerves that were making her voice wobble. He emerged slowly from the trees and at once she could see that something was very wrong. His flanks were dark with sweat and he was trembling with fear. Yet he looked straight at her, his brown eyes locked on hers, as she held out the scoop filled with pony nuts. As he approached she realised with shock that Cloud was now so lame he couldn’t put any weight on his near hind leg.
‘You poor, poor pony. What’s happened to you? Did you get caught up in the drift?’ she crooned softly as he hobbled towards her. Still talking, she stretched out her arm. Cloud hesitated and Poppy thought for a moment that she’d lost him. But then, as if he’d made up his mind to trust her, he whickered, walked forward and started eating the nuts.
Poppy ran her hand along his neck and he leaned into her. She put the scoop on the floor and with one hand on Cloud’s neck slowly reached for the headcollar by her feet with the other. She put the leadrope around his neck while keeping up her monologue. Her fingers were shaking and she fumbled trying to undo the buckle of the headcollar. She glanced over at Caroline and Charlie, who were watching intently. The pounding in her ears almost drowned out the constant background rumble of quad bikes and neighing horses.
The buckle now undone, Poppy slowly edged the noseband over Cloud’s muzzle. His ears twitched back and forth but he didn’t pull away and as she pulled the strap over his poll with her left hand she felt a surge of triumph.
But just as she started to do up the buckle an explosion, as loud as the crack of a gunshot, pierced the air. Poppy jumped out of her skin, letting go of the headcollar, which slithered to the floor by her feet. Cloud half-reared in fright, turned in mid-air and fled back into the trees. Poppy sank to her knees, her head in her hands. Caroline and Charlie rushed over and Poppy felt Caroline’s arm around her shoulders.
‘What was it?’ she cried, tears running down her cheeks.
‘It sounded like a quad bike backfiring. I’m so sorry, Poppy, but Cloud’s gone,’ said Caroline.
‘That’s it, then,’ Poppy said, blinking back the tears. ‘It’s all my fault. I dropped the headcollar and now he’s going to get caught. I’ve failed him.’
‘Don’t say that, sweetheart. It’s not your fault. No-one could have done any more than you.’ Caroline held out her arms. ‘Come here.’
Poppy’s legs felt like jelly but she stood up and went to Caroline and they clung together, Poppy’s head tucked under Caroline’s chin, until Charlie started grumbling that he was starving.
Caroline stroked Poppy’s hair, lifted her chin and looked directly at her. ‘Don’t give up hope, angel. I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but these things have a habit of working out in the end, you’ll see.’
Once Poppy would have let rip, accusing her stepmother of not understanding or getting it all wrong as usual. But things had changed - she no longer felt angry with Caroline. Instead she nodded mutely, misery descending as she thought how Cloud, with his poor damaged leg, would never escape being caught now.
‘Would you like to see the last of the drift?’ Caroline asked gently.
‘No,’ Poppy replied. ‘I think I’d just like to go home.’
Half a mile away the last few stragglers were being rounded up by two men on quad bikes. A small herd of ponies, led by an old bay stallion who had witnessed countless drifts during his long life on the moor, had been discovered grazing on the edge of the Riverdale wood. The herd, half a dozen mares and their yearlings and foals, followed the stallion, delicately picking a path through the gorse and bracken that marked the end of the wood and the beginning of the moor.
‘I think this is probably the last of them,’ shouted one of the quad bike riders, a middle-aged man whose close-cropped hair was flecked with grey.
His younger companion was about to agree when he saw another pony emerge from the wood. ‘Hold on - look what the cat’s just dragged in!’
The two men stopped revving their bikes and watched a dappled grey pony approach. He was limping badly, his head nodding in pain every time he took a step. His flanks were dark with sweat and his mane and tail were matted.
‘Good grief!’ exclaimed the older man. ‘He’s in a sorry state. I’m not sure he’s going to keep up with the rest of them. We might have to take it slowly.’
One of the mares whinnied and Cloud whickered in return. ‘He’s not a Dartmoor pony but they seem to know him alright,’ said the younger rider.
‘I wonder –’ mused his companion. A couple of years ago, over a pint of beer, one of the old farm hands had told him about the Connemara pony that had killed Tory Wickens’ granddaughter at a local hunter trial. The pony had never been caught in the annual drift. Everyone had assumed it must have died during one of Dartmoor’s unforgiving winters. Apparently not.
The younger rider, itching to get home, started revving his bike and the grey pony hobbled over to join the rest of the herd.
‘Come on! We’ll be here all night unless we get a move on,’ he yelled. The older man nodded. He turned his quad bike and started driving the ponies towards Waterby. Although the grey pony was now surrounded by the herd he stuck out like a sore thumb. He stood a couple of hands higher than the native ponies and was obviously of a much finer build. He had a noble look about him.
The quad bike rider had the distinct feeling that if they managed to get this interloper to the village in one piece it was going to cause quite a stir.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
By four o’clock that afternoon the temporary corral at Waterby was thronging with horseflesh. The drift was the one and only time of the year that so many Dartmoor hill and the purebred Dartmoor ponies were seen in one place – usually they were dotted across the moor in their own small herds. Leaning against the rails of the corral were the farmers, also brought together from far flung corners for the annual ritual.
Henry Blossom was taking photographs of the bustling scene while Sniffer Smith chatted to a couple of the older farmers, whose eyes were roving over the ponies looking for their owners’ individual marks.
‘Remind me, how do you tell who owns which ponies?’ Sniffer asked the two farmers, pen poised over his notebook.
‘There’s some who favour ear cuts and others cut their ponies’ tail hair in different patterns, but mine all have ear tags,’ answered one gruffly.
‘’Course, the foals are all born between May and August so they have no mark, but they stick so close to their dams we know which are ours,’ added the other, eyeing Sniffer with interest as the journalist turned his words into shorthand squiggles on the page of his notebook.
‘And what happens now?’ Sniffer queried.
‘Once we’ve sorted the ponies they’ll go back to their own farms where they’ll be checked over and wormed. We’ll wean the foals and decide which ponies to send back onto the moor and
which to send to market,’ explained the second farmer.
His companion added, ‘Aye, it’s usually the colts and the older ponies that go to market. The hardiest go back on the moor to breed.’
As they talked a whisper went up among the people leaning against the rails. Sniffer - who was hard-wired to detect a good story a mile off – pricked his ears and looked around, trying to identify the reason for all the excited murmuring.
‘What’s everyone talking about?’ he asked the old farmers, who were chuckling quietly to themselves.
‘Well, lad, it’s not your Beast of Dartmoor, but it’s almost as infamous around here,’ said the first, giving Sniffer a toothy grin before pointing to the latest ponies being driven into the corral by two men on quad bikes. Sniffer stared at the newcomers but all he could see were more of the same. He looked at the two men quizzically.
The second farmer took pity on him. ‘Look at that grey pony, right at the back of the corral. That’s the pony that escaped from George Blackstone’s yard all them years ago, that is. Caught at last, the same year Tory Wickens moved out of Riverdale. Funny that,’ he smirked.
‘I don’t really see the relevance,’ said Sniffer. ‘Perhaps you could enlighten me?’ But before the farmer could explain Henry Blossom walked up, told Sniffer it was time they headed back to the office and steered him firmly in the direction of their car, which was parked on a verge nearby. Once the journalist and photographer had driven off down the lane towards Tavistock the two old farmers resumed their ponderings.
‘I wonder what old George’ll make of it all. He always thought there was cash to be had with that pony and you know how he likes his money-making schemes.’
His companion hooted with laughter. ‘Blackstone’s so tight moths fly out of his wallet every time he opens it. But I wouldn’t have thought he’ll be making much from that one. It’d be kinder to put the poor thing out of its misery, if you asked me.’
They both looked at the grey pony standing at the back of the corral. His head low, his ears flat, he exuded exhaustion from every pore. At the other end of the corral farmers had begun sorting their ponies. As soon as their marks were identified they were sent into smaller pens with a hefty slap on the rump. From the smaller pens they were herded up the ramps of waiting livestock trailers before being transported back to their farms.
‘Where is George, anyway?’ asked the first farmer, scanning the faces lining the corral for their neighbour.
‘Looks like he’s sent Jimmy instead,’ said his companion, pointing to an unassuming-looking lad a few feet away. ‘Blackstone’s probably back at home counting his money and dreaming up his next get rich quick scheme.’
‘Do you remember that time he tried selling bottled Dartmoor springwater to the tourists?’ said the first farmer, taking a pipe out of his pocket and planting it in the corner of his mouth.
‘Aye. You mean the water he was getting straight from his kitchen tap? He’d sell the coat from his own mother’s back if she was still alive, God love her.’
‘I hope he does right by that poor pony. You know me, I’m not usually sentimental, but look at it. It hasn’t had much of a life, that’s for sure.’
They both watched as Jimmy, George Blackstone’s faithful farm-hand, started driving his employer’s ponies into one of the smaller pens. The old bay stallion bore the Blackstone mark, a small nick to the left ear, as did his mares. Jimmy walked behind them, a walking stick in each hand to propel them into the pen. Only once they were all in did Jimmy notice Cloud for the first time. He’d still been at school when Blackstone had bought the Wickens’ pony but remembered the accident. The girl who died had been a pupil at his school, although a few years younger than him. He’d heard how Blackstone had been incandescent with rage when his new purchase had escaped and how, to the farmer’s intense annoyance, the pony had somehow managed to evade capture in the drift year after year.
I wonder, he thought to himself. What if this is the famous Cloud Nine? The pony was eyeing him warily. Jimmy had the uncomfortable feeling it was reading his mind. He couldn’t see Blackstone’s mark so, lunging forward, he tried to grab the pony’s left ear. But Cloud was too quick and, with teeth bared, he snaked his head away and squealed in anger. Smarting with humiliation and feeling the eyes of a dozen dour hill farmers on his back Jimmy retreated to the side of the corral to consider his options. He felt stuck between a rock and a hard place. This pony, almost certainly Blackstone’s, had plainly gone feral and was going to be a nightmare to get back to the farm. But Jimmy had been on the receiving end of George Blackstone’s vicious temper more times than he cared to remember and he had no intention of incurring the farmer’s wrath by failing to bring the pony back with the rest of his herd.
Squaring his bony shoulders Jimmy set off once again. Before the pony could react Jimmy raised his walking sticks in the air and roared, ‘Gerrup you old donkey!’
The two old farmers watching the scene unfold saw a spark of fight flare briefly in the pony’s eyes. But as one of Jimmy’s sticks connected heavily with the pony’s rump the spark died. Acquiescent, Cloud limped into the pen and Jimmy punched the air and whooped in victory. The pony watched defeated as the jubilant farmhand tied the gate tightly shut with a length of orange baler twine.
Chapter Thirty
Dusk was falling as Jimmy drove back to George Blackstone’s farm. Cloud and the rest of the ponies stamped restlessly in the back of the lorry as he negotiated the potholed track to the farmyard. The yard was empty. Jimmy swung through the gateposts and parked by the side of an open barn. He jumped out of the cab and strode over to the back door of the farmhouse. His arrival set Blackstone’s two border collies off in a frenzy of barking. Tied to a post inside the barn, the dogs strained against their ropes in their eagerness to reach Jimmy, who usually had a treat and a kind word for them.
The Blackstone farm was a gloomy place. It had been a thriving business when George’s parents were alive and the yard and farmhouse had been as neat as a pin. But over three decades it had slowly fallen to rack and ruin. George Blackstone was as mean as he was idle, and hadn’t spent a penny on the place in years. Buildings were patched together with old timber and hope and the field next to the barn resembled a tractor graveyard, a place where the farm’s once fine fleet of vehicles had given up and died.
Jimmy paused for a second by the back door. He hoped Blackstone would be pleased that he’d returned Cloud but you never knew. It had been a long day and the last thing he needed was a tongue-lashing. He rapped on the door and let himself in.
‘Jimmy, is that you?’ barked a querulous voice from the depths of the old farmhouse. Jimmy’s heart sank to the bottom of his mud-splattered boots.
‘Just coming, Mr Blackstone. And I’ve a surprise for you!’ he replied, shaking off his wellies in the filthy hallway. George Blackstone was sitting by a smoky fire in what had once been his mother’s best parlour. But her beloved knick-knacks had long been sold off and the once cream walls were now yellowed with nicotine. A half-drunk bottle of whisky and a dirty glass sat on a small table next to Blackstone’s armchair. Jimmy quailed. His boss was a vindictive drunk.
‘Did you bring back my ponies?’ Blackstone demanded, his sour breath causing Jimmy to gag.
‘Yes, Mr Blackstone. And not just the Dartmoor ponies. You’ll never guess what else I’ve got in the back of the lorry!’
‘Go on – surprise me,’ the old man replied.
‘You remember that pony you bought off Tory Wickens all them years ago?’ Blackstone nodded. It still sent his blood pressure rocketing whenever he thought about the money he’d wasted on that no-good Connemara.
‘Well, it was caught in the drift and I’ve brought it back for you.’
It took a moment for the penny to drop but when it did an unpleasant leer spread across his face. Jimmy could almost see the pound signs light up in his rheumy eyes.
‘Well, well, that’s a turn up for the books,’ he said, picking
up his walking stick and pushing Jimmy roughly out of the way in his haste to see Cloud.
Together they went out into the yard. While Jimmy shut the gate Blackstone let the lorry’s ramp down with a clatter. He peered into the dark interior of the lorry but all he could see were half a dozen terrified Dartmoor ponies staring back at him.
‘Where is it then?’ Blackstone howled. Jimmy rushed over to the lorry, tripping up the ramp in his hurry to herd the ponies out into the yard. Standing at the back of the lorry was Cloud, the whites of his eyes piercing the gloom. Blackstone laughed nastily and followed Jimmy up the ramp.
‘Go and see to the others, boy. You can shut the ramp behind me. I need to teach this one a lesson. No-one gets the better of George Blackstone,’ he said softly.
Jimmy suddenly felt sorry for the dappled grey pony. But his fear of Blackstone was far greater and he turned away from the lorry and did as he was told, flinching as he heard the desperate crack of wood meeting horseflesh.
An hour later George Blackstone’s Dartmoor ponies had been fed and watered and were huddled together in the far corner of a small paddock at the rear of the farmhouse. Jimmy had checked them over, paying special attention to the three yearlings he would be driving to the horse sale in Tavistock the next day. He fed the border collies and gave the yard a half-hearted sweep, but his gaze kept returning to the lorry, which stood in the glow cast by the security light above Blackstone’s back door.
After the first sickening crunch of wood on horse everything had been silent. Jimmy had gone about his jobs methodically, trying to blot out images of splintered bones and dark weals on once white flanks. But he couldn’t put it off any longer. Leaning the broom against the back wall of the farmhouse he walked over to the lorry, clearing his throat nervously as he went.