by Amanda Wills
‘Mr Blackstone?’ His voice came out croakily and he tried again, louder this time. ‘Mr Blackstone! Is everything alright in there?’
There was no reply. Jimmy released the ramp and crept up. He stood for a moment trying to see, but the back of the lorry was in complete darkness. He became aware of laboured breathing. ‘Mr Blackstone, are you OK?’
He remembered the small pen torch on his key ring and grappled around in his trouser pocket until his fingers closed around it. The tiny beam of light was next to useless but Jimmy shone it into the depths of the lorry anyway, praying it would reveal nothing but a lame, bedraggled grey pony and that his boss had gone back into the farmhouse while he was out in the paddock tending to the ponies. His hand was shaking, causing the pinprick of light to dance like a firefly inside the lorry. Jimmy took a deep breath and tried to steady both his hand and his nerves.
But when the light came to rest on a prone body lying on the straw all coherent thoughts vanished. Jimmy opened his lungs and screamed.
Chapter Thirty-One
Mike McKeever’s plane touched down at Heathrow the next day after an uneventful six and a half hour flight. As he and his fellow passengers on board the airbus sat waiting for the seatbelt lights to go off he thought about the last few weeks. It had been a good trip and the programme editor had been pleased with Mike’s reports from the front line. He had a natural empathy with both the British soldiers and the local people, which always came across in his pieces. He loved being in the thick of the action and told friends he had the best job in the world. Yet recently he found he was missing Caroline and the children more and more and was beginning to wonder if a desk job back in London might be better for the whole family.
Leaving them for this trip, so soon after the move to Riverdale, had been a real wrench. Charlie was his father’s son and took his dad’s work trips in his stride but Caroline, normally so cheerful, had seemed unhappy when he’d left. And there was Poppy. With her pale, heart-shaped face and green eyes she looked so much like Isobel that sometimes it took Mike’s breath away. She was skinny, shy and awkward but Mike knew that one day she would be as beautiful as her mother.
From the moment Mike and Isobel had met during a lecture in their first year at university they’d been inseparable and were married within three years of graduating.
They’d had their lives mapped out. They’d both wanted careers – Mike at the BBC and Isobel as a primary school teacher - a family home, four children and a golden retriever. Within a few years they’d had the jobs, the Victorian terrace in Twickenham and, most importantly, Poppy. Mike felt the luckiest man alive. Then life dealt him its worst possible hand.
His grief after Isobel’s death had threatened to consume him, but somehow he’d managed to hold everything together for Poppy’s sake. Overnight she’d morphed from a confident and carefree four-year-old to a withdrawn, clingy and painfully shy shadow of her former self. Father and daughter had clung to each other like the battered and bruised survivors of a shipwreck.
Slowly the pain had lessened. Mike still missed Isobel acutely but he began to enjoy work again, and sometimes hours went by when she didn’t fill his thoughts. Then Caroline had started working in Mike’s department and the two had become friends. They were both gregarious and shared the same quirky sense of humour. To the delight of their friends and families they’d fallen in love. The arrival of Charlie was the icing on the cake.
Mike felt so grateful he’d been given a second chance. He wished Poppy felt the same. But no matter how hard Caroline tried Poppy refused to let down her defences. Caroline never complained about Poppy’s remoteness and Mike was away so often it was easy to pretend everything was OK. Deep down he knew it was anything but.
The seatbelt light finally went out. Mike stood up, stretched his legs and reached for his hand luggage in the overhead locker. He knew that once he was home he would have to sit down and talk to Poppy about Caroline. Mike had once found an old shoebox filled with photographs of a pony, schedules from long-forgotten gymkhanas and dog-eared rosettes at the bottom of Caroline’s wardrobe. His wife had been as pony mad as Poppy was at her age. They had so much in common, if only Poppy was prepared to look.
His taxi driver was a taciturn type so Mike was spared the effort of making small talk on the long drive back to Riverdale. Instead he spent the journey deep in thought, wondering how he could bridge the gap between his wife and daughter.
As they neared Tavistock the traffic slowed to a crawl and Mike realised they were stuck behind several livestock lorries all heading in the same direction. The taxi driver drummed the steering wheel with his fingers and let out the occasional deep sigh.
‘It’s like Piccadilly bleedin’ Circus around here today,’ muttered the driver, throwing Mike an accusatory look through the rear view mirror, as if he was personally responsible for the traffic jam. Mike smiled inwardly while trying to look sympathetic. They trundled on for another couple of miles. When they reached the outskirts of the town he saw a sign with the words ‘Horse Sale, first left’ on the side of the road.
It must be the auction where the Dartmoor ponies were sold, Mike thought. Caroline had mentioned the annual event in an email. Apparently it was quite a spectacle. His mind was racing. He remembered Poppy, white with disappointment when she’d realised there was no pony waiting for her at their new home the day they’d moved to Riverdale. He thought about the emails she’d sent him since, brimming with news about Chester, her new friend Scarlett’s two ponies and little else. He pictured Caroline’s scruffy shoebox, buried at the bottom of her wardrobe, filled with memories of her own pony-filled childhood.
Mike made a split decision. He tapped the driver on the shoulder, dazzled him with his practised television news smile and, with just the right mix of persuasion and authority, said, ‘Actually, could you just take a left here? There’s somewhere I need to go.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Tavistock Pony Sale in the town’s livestock centre was the first of the annual drift sales and drew people from far and wide. Everyone, from the farmers to the workers running the sale, seemed to know exactly what they were doing. Mike, still in the crumpled suit he was wearing when he left the Middle East, felt distinctly out of place. He picked up a sale catalogue and studied it carefully, trying to glean as much information as he could. The sale had started at ten o’clock and was due to finish at four. He looked at his watch. Three thirty. He was worried he’d left it too late. But ponies were still being sent into the ring one by one. Mike watched as the onlookers cast critical eyes over the fillies and colts, searching for good conformation and the potential to make a decent riding pony. Standing over them all, in a wooden construction that resembled a prison watchtower, was the auctioneer, whose sharp eyes roved keenly over the crowds, so as not to miss a single bid.
The ponies were being sold in guineas. Mike caught the eye of the woman standing to his right. She was wearing a quilted jacket and a headscarf and looked like she might know a thing or two about horses. ‘Excuse me, I’m new to all this. How much is a guinea?’
‘Well, in old money it would have been one pound and one shilling, but these days it’s £1.05,’ she answered, happy to share her knowledge. ‘Until recently ponies were selling for as little as a couple of guineas. They were worth more dead than alive. So sad. Now there’s a minimum price of 10 guineas on every pony.’
Mike smiled his thanks and turned back to the ring where a diminutive chestnut foal was trotting obligingly around the ring, its ears pricked and its head held high. The bidding had reached 42 guineas.
‘Are you buying or selling?’ the woman asked. Her greying brown hair, long face and large front teeth reminded Mike uncannily of Chester.
He shook the thought away and replied, ‘To be honest, it was a spur of the moment thing. I happened to be passing, saw the sign and thought I’d pop in and have a look.’
‘I’ve bought a bay colt for my grandson,’ she informed him. �
��Silly really – Matthew’s still in nappies. But by the time he’s ready to ride the pony will be rising five. He’s a fine looking fellow and should make a terrific riding pony.’
‘My daughter Poppy’s horse mad,’ said Mike conversationally. ‘She’d love a pony more than anything else in the world, but I know as much about horses as I do about quantum physics.’
‘Well, it would be a mistake to buy a foal. Putting two novices together is a recipe for disaster. Much better to buy her a ready-made riding pony, if that’s what you were thinking,’ said the woman.
‘I don’t really know what I was thinking, if I’m honest,’ admitted Mike. ‘But she’s been through a tough time and I think it would be good for her.’
‘I agree. I think pony mad girls deserve their own ponies. But then horses are my thing,’ said the woman. ‘I’m Bella, by the way. Bella Thompson.’
‘Mike McKeever. Nice to meet you,’ said Mike, extending his hand. ‘We’ve not long moved to Devon. We live near Waterby.’
‘I know the village well. My old friend Tory Wickens used to live there, though I hear she’s moved to Tavistock now. Haven’t seen her in yonks.’
Mike laughed. ‘It’s a small world – we bought Riverdale from Tory at the beginning of the summer. Poppy inherited Tory’s old donkey Chester, although it’s a pony she’d really like.’
‘Well I never,’ replied Bella, pumping Mike’s hand vigorously. She had an extraordinarily firm handshake for a woman in her sixties.
They turned to watch another couple of foals take their turn in the ring. The crowd had started to thin out and bidding had slowed right down. Mike checked his watch again. Nearly ten to four and the sale was almost over. He remembered the grumpy taxi driver still sitting outside.
‘It was lovely to meet you, Bella, but I’d better be off. You’re right – it was a crazy idea to even think about buying a foal for Poppy – she’s only eleven. If we’re going to get her a pony we should do it properly. Get some proper advice, find something safe for her to ride.’
As he spoke the gate into the ring opened to reveal a much bigger pony, twice the size of the foals but with none of their bounce. Receiving a forcible shove from the man at the gate it limped painfully in. Bella, who had been about to give Mike’s hand another hearty shake, turned back to the ring, her attention fixed on the pony now hobbling around the inside of the rails. It was what Mike would have called white and Poppy would have said was grey, though it was hard to tell – its hair was matted and streaked with what looked suspiciously like blood.
‘Now that, if I’m not much mistaken, was once a top class riding pony, though it’s hard to believe it looking at him now,’ said Bella. ‘In fact, if I’m right, and I’m pretty sure I am, you might be interested to know that that poor pony once belonged to Riverdale,’ she continued, turning to Mike with a glint in her eye.
Mike had been about to leave but his interest was piqued. ‘Belonged to Riverdale? What do you mean?’
‘I’m pretty sure that’s Cloud Nine, a Connemara pony Tory Wickens bought for her granddaughter Caitlin years ago. He was a beautiful pony and he and Caitlin made an unbeatable team, that is until the accident -’
Bella was interrupted by the auctioneer, whose ringing voice was met with jeers from the handful of people still lining the ring as he attempted to get the bidding started.
‘I know we’ve only just met and you probably think I’m a mad old woman for saying so, but you should bid for that pony. Buy him for your daughter,’ said Bella.
Mike looked at her, his eyebrows raised. The pony looked half dead as it plodded unevenly around the ring. He shrugged his shoulders. He was beginning to wonder if it was all too much hassle, and turned to go.
‘Trust me. Just start bidding!’ said Bella urgently, tugging his sleeve.
Mike looked at the pony again. Head nodding with every painful step as he limped around the sale ring, he looked as though he’d lost the will to live. Could this sorry excuse for a pony really be the answer he’d been looking for, a shared interest to bring Caroline and Poppy together? Deciding he had nothing to lose, Mike reluctantly raised his hand and tried to catch the auctioneer’s eye. He remembered what Bella had told him about the minimum sale price and said in a loud voice, which sounded more confident than he felt, ‘Ten guineas.’
A man wearing dirty blue overalls standing opposite them immediately bid eleven, and when Mike raised his hand again there was a ripple of laughter.
‘You’re bidding against the knackerman!’ hissed Bella. ‘Keep going!’
The next couple of minutes passed in a blur of bid and counter bid. Mike felt confident that he could outbid the man from the slaughterhouse, and he was starting to picture Poppy’s delight when he brought the pony home to Riverdale. But just as he was about to raise his hand for what he was certain would be the winning bid a man with a weasel-like face standing to his left dropped a bombshell.
‘I’d save your money if I were you, mate. Did you know that animal killed a girl?’
‘What?’ demanded Mike. He stopped bidding and turned his full attention to the man.
‘It’s a bad ’un, you mark my words. The knacker’s yard is the best place for it, if you ask me.’
‘I didn’t ask you,’ Mike replied icily and turned back to the ring.
But it was too late. The sale had been made. The grey pony had disappeared and the auctioneer had already moved on to the next lot.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Poppy was lying on her bed, her chin cupped in her hands and a riding magazine open on the duvet in front of her, trying to pass the time until her dad arrived home. She’d barely glanced at the magazine. When she wasn’t staring morosely out of the window at the darkening sky, she was watching the minute hand of the old Mickey Mouse alarm clock on her bedside table. The harder she looked at the dial, the slower the hand seemed to move. Her dad had been due home at four o’clock. It was now half past, and there was still no sign of him.
Poppy looked down at the magazine. It was open on a feature about first aid for ponies. ‘How to save your pony’s life!’ ran the headline. She scanned the top ten things to include in a first aid kit and she skim-read the tips on treating wounds and common causes of lameness. Everything she saw, read or heard made her think of Cloud. She knew in her heart that he would never have been able to outrun the drift and by now was almost certainly back at George Blackstone’s farm. The thought chilled her to the core.
Twenty five to five and her dad was still a no-show. Poppy could make out the sound of Caroline singing along to a song on the radio in the kitchen. Knowing Caroline, she was probably dancing around the kitchen table, too, and the thought made Poppy smile. She and Caroline had had a heart to heart earlier, just the two of them. Poppy had been mucking out Chester and Caroline had come to see if she needed any help. They chatted easily now and Poppy no longer felt awkward around her stepmother. For the first time she could remember they’d talked about Isobel, and it had been OK. Better than OK, in fact – it had been good. As she looked over to the clock again her eyes fell on the photo of her mum. Poppy still missed her deeply, but she no longer felt so alone.
The distant rumble of a lorry interrupted her thoughts. It was a welcome distraction and she flung the magazine on the floor. The rumble grew louder and was followed by the crunch of tyres on gravel.
‘Dad’s home!’ yelled Charlie at the top of his voice, and Poppy could feel the walls of the old house tremble as he galloped along the landing and down the stairs. By the time she reached the hallway Charlie had already flung open the front door. She had been expecting a taxi but was flummoxed to see a sleek horsebox parked outside.
‘That’s weird,’ she said, half to herself. The horsebox was steel grey with a berry red logo. Poppy could just make out the words Redhall Manor Equestrian Centre. It was probably trying to reach the farm but had taken the wrong track, she thought. Then the passenger door opened and her dad jumped out. Charlie whoope
d and ran into his outstretched arms. Poppy waited a heartbeat and followed. Her dad’s suit was crumpled and there were shadows under his eyes but his face was tanned and he was grinning from ear to ear.
‘Come here and give your tired old dad a hug, kids,’ he commanded.
‘Mike!’ called Caroline from the front door. She stopped in her tracks when she saw the horsebox. ‘What on earth -?’
‘I cadged a lift with Ted in Tavistock,’ Mike said, gesturing at the driver, who was also jumping down from the cab. ‘We got delayed for one reason or another and my taxi driver had another airport run to do. I bumped into Ted and he said he was coming this way and would give me a lift in return for a cup of tea.’
They all filed into the house, congregating in the kitchen where Caroline made tea. Mike looked at his daughter, who was offering everyone a slice of coffee cake. She was growing up so fast. ‘Be an angel and go and get my hand luggage out of the horsebox, Poppy. It’s in the groom’s compartment, through the door on the side. There’s a light switch on the left, I think. There might be something for you both in there,’ he added, winking at Charlie, who whooped again. As she crossed the gravel to the lorry she heard him yell after her. ‘Poppy! I nearly forgot. Your present might be harder to spot. Just keep looking and I’m sure you’ll find it.’
She walked around to the far side of the lorry and let herself in, feeling in the darkness for the light switch. After a couple of sweeps of the wall she found the switch, flicked it on and looked around curiously. She’d seen plenty of horseboxes in her pony magazines but had never been inside one. Scarlett just had a trailer on the farm, which her dad towed behind his old Land Rover. The groom’s accommodation reminded her of the inside of a caravan. There was a small sink and draining board with cupboards and a tiny fridge underneath, a sleeping area over the cab and a long seat the length of the wall opposite the door.