The Riverdale Pony Stories Box Set (Books 1-6)

by Amanda Wills

  ‘Mum!’ she yelled. The woman tied the grey pony next to the bay mare, took the palomino’s reins and gave her daughter a leg up. Georgia turned the pony and clattered off towards the outdoor ménage where riders were warming up over a couple of jumps.

  ‘Good luck, Georgie,’ the woman called to her daughter’s retreating back. But her words were carried away with the wind. When she turned back to the bay mare her face was resigned.

  Scarlett raised her eyebrows at Poppy, Hope and Caroline. Once they were out of earshot she said, ‘Georgia’s mum used to work in a supermarket and her dad was a builder. They lived in a three bedroomed semi and had a clapped out old hatchback. Now they live in this enormous mansion, her dad drives around in a Bentley and her mum has a Range Rover.’

  Hope’s eyes widened. ‘Did they win the football pools or something?’

  ‘Georgia’s parents always claimed they inherited the money but Mum is convinced it was a lottery win. And a big one at that. Georgia used to beg me to let her have a ride on Blaze. Now she has a string of about five jumping ponies and her own personal riding instructor. Imagine that!’

  ‘Were you friends at school then?’ Poppy asked, surprised. She couldn’t imagine Scarlett befriending the haughty Georgia Canning.

  ‘Not really. She was in the year above me. But our mums were friendly. I think they used to take us to the same toddler group. You know what it’s like around here, Poppy. Everyone knows each other,’ Scarlett grimaced. Sometimes she found village life suffocating and longed to live in a place where no-one knew her name, let alone remembered her wearing a false beard to play the part of Joseph in the school nativity when she was five. ‘Shall we go and watch them warming up before we go inside?’

  They leant on the post and rail fence of the outdoor ménage. Poppy studied Georgia’s face as she trotted the palomino around the ring. She had china blue eyes and hair as black as molasses. With her high cheekbones and flawless English rose complexion she could have been a child model if it hadn’t been for an imperfection Poppy only noticed when she cantered past. In profile Georgia had a hooked Roman nose that was at odds with her otherwise perfect features. It lent her face a superior expression that bordered on arrogance. She turned the pony towards a spread and jumped it easily, the palomino’s tail swishing as it landed.

  ‘She’s a really good rider,’ Poppy observed.

  ‘We all would be if we had our own riding instructor and the best ponies money could buy. I’m going to outgrow Blaze any minute now and there’s no way Mum and Dad can afford to buy me one new pony, let alone five. Not with the way things are with the farm at the moment. It’s alright for some,’ Scarlett said gloomily as Georgia cantered past.

  ‘Cheer up,’ said Poppy, linking arms with her friend. ‘I think you’re a brilliant rider, much better than Georgia Canning. Come on, let’s go and watch the jumping.’

  They found their seats in the spectators’ area and settled down to watch a BSJA affiliated open class for ponies up to 148cm.

  ‘That’s 14.2hh to you,’ Poppy told Caroline kindly. ‘They’re jumping a 100cm course, which is three feet three inches high if you were born in the Dark Ages.’

  ‘Yes, thank you for that Poppy,’ her stepmum replied drily. ‘I’m not that old, you know. It’s just that when it comes to horses I’m conditioned to think in hands, feet and inches.’ They watched a girl on a blue roan demolish the wall, sending bricks flying. ‘I wonder how many clear rounds there have been.’

  As she spoke the girl on the roan pony exited in tears and Georgia Canning entered the ring, her back ramrod straight and her jaw set. Her pony looked balanced and alert.

  ‘She looks as though she means business,’ Poppy said. She was right. The pair executed a textbook clear round, the palomino sailing over the jumps with ease. There was a faint ripple of applause and Georgia gave a superior smile. But she didn’t pat her pony, Poppy noticed.

  ‘Georgia’s mum paid over ten thousand pounds for that pony apparently,’ said Scarlett. ‘He a JA, of course.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Hope, who had been watching the round mesmerised.

  ‘That he’s won more than £700 in prize money. He’s her top jumping pony. She competes all over the South West on him.’

  ‘Look, Sam’s next,’ said Caroline.

  ‘Who’s Sam?’ asked Scarlett.

  ‘He’s Bella Thompson’s grandson and he works at Redhall Manor. We see him when we have our lessons every Thursday. His pony’s a Connemara like Cloud, but she’s a mare and she’s called Star,’ said Hope, pleased to be able to put Scarlett in the picture for a change.

  ‘I’ve heard all about Bella, Rosie and Buster. You didn’t mention Sam though, Poppy,’ said Scarlett, an amused expression on her face.

  ‘Oh, didn’t I?’ Poppy asked airily. ‘Yes, anyway, that’s him.’

  Sam, who had been scanning the spectators as he cantered past, saw where they were sitting and waved. Star’s black coat gleamed. Her mane and tail were plaited and Sam had brushed a checkerboard quarter mark on her rump. She looked stunning. The bell went, Sam ran his hand down Star’s neck and cantered towards the first jump, a blue and white painted spread.

  Poppy was so engrossed watching Sam and Star fly round the course that she didn’t notice Bella sit down next to them and jumped when Bella boomed, ‘Good job, Sam!’ as her grandson cleared the last fence with inches to spare. Poppy grimaced at Bella’s habit of talking at the same volume regardless of whether you were at the other end of the indoor school or sitting right next to her.

  ‘That’s six clear rounds, so he’ll get a ribbon whatever,’ she told them with satisfaction. ‘With any luck he’ll show that Canning girl a thing or two in the jump-off. I used to teach her, you know. Then she decided she wanted some fancy trainer from I don’t know where and left Redhall.’

  The stewards came in and raised some fences for the shortened jump-off course. A boy on a fleabitten grey was first to jump. The pony was totally over-excited and crabbed into the ring sideways. The bell went and the boy gave the pony his head. He raced towards the blue and white spread and took off far too early, jumping flat and knocking a pole out with his back legs. The boy struggled to regain control and notched up a cricket score by the time he finished the round.

  The next rider fared no better. Attempting to turn too tightly into the gate the pony lost its impulsion and refused. The third rider, a girl on a diminutive Exmoor with characteristic mealy markings around its eyes and muzzle, jumped clear, to a loud round of applause, but at well over a minute her time was slow. The fourth rider was eliminated after taking the wrong course and then it was the turn of Georgia Canning, who cantered in on her flashy palomino as if she owned Redhall Manor.

  ‘She’s fast,’ said Poppy, as Georgia and her pony galloped around the course. They were jumping clear until the last jump, a double. The palomino flew over the upright but flattened over the spread, giving the pole a hefty clout. It rattled in the cup and Poppy saw Georgia glance over her shoulder, her face like thunder. But luck was on her side. The pole didn’t fall and the pair notched up their second clear round in a time of fifty six seconds.

  ‘Sam and Star have their work cut out to beat that,’ Caroline said.

  ‘The fastest horses don’t necessarily win,’ Bella told her. ‘In a jump-off it’s often the balanced, accurate riders who take the shortest route who clinch it. And jump-offs are Star’s speciality. She loves them.’

  Sam trotted into the ring. He halted, nodded to the judge and squeezed Star into a canter. The black mare’s ears were pricked as she approached the first jump. Poppy realised she was holding her breath. Sam might be irritating but Poppy had taken an instant dislike to the spoilt, sneering Georgia Canning. She knew whose side she was on, no question.

  Sam and Star’s round was a lesson in accomplished horsemanship. He sat quietly, perfectly balanced as the pony soared over the fences. They turned inside the wall, saving crucial seconds, but s
till managed to leap over the gate almost from a standstill. Poppy checked the clock. Forty five seconds with only the double to go. They cleared the first part but as Star took off for the second part of the combination Poppy gasped – one of the cups was dangling precariously where it had been knocked by Georgia Canning’s palomino, leaving the back pole hanging on a thread. Star cleared the pole by an inch but the impact of her landing was enough to dislodge it and it crashed to the ground as the mare crossed the finish line in just fifty one seconds. Sam looked back ruefully, wrapped his arms around his pony’s neck and cantered out of the ring.

  ‘That’s not fair!’ cried Hope, who had been sitting on the edge of her seat, chewing her nails. ‘Star didn’t even touch the pole. It was Georgia who knocked it.’

  ‘That’s the luck of the draw, I’m afraid,’ said Bella. ‘I should have asked the stewards to check the fence. Still, he’s got third place. And the satisfaction of knowing that he knocked five seconds off the Canning girl’s time. On any other day he would have been first.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Georgia Canning accepted her small silver cup with a supercilious smile and kicked her palomino into a canter to lead the lap of honour. But the biggest cheer went to Sam and Star as they cantered past the spectators.

  ‘That’s because everyone knows he should have won,’ said Hope with feeling.

  When they joined Sam outside the indoor school he was as sanguine as his grandmother. ‘It’s just one of those things. Luck’ll be on my side next time,’ he assured Hope.

  Scarlett dug Poppy in the ribs. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us then?’

  Poppy sighed. ‘Scarlett, this is Sam. Sam is Bella’s grandson and works at Redhall. Sam, this is my best friend Scarlett. She talks a lot.’

  ‘Charming,’ said Scarlett. ‘Hello Sam. I’d love to say I’ve heard all about you but it wouldn’t be true. Anyway I thought you and Star were brilliant and -’.

  Before Scarlett could finish Georgia rode up. ‘Bad luck, Sam. It really wasn’t your day, was it? Only managed to scrape a third on home turf? Not much of an advert for Redhall, is it?’ she taunted.

  Scarlett’s auburn eyebrows shot up so high they almost touched her hairline and Poppy stared at Georgia in stunned silence, astonished at her audacity. Only Sam seemed unperturbed.

  ‘Oh well, you can’t win ‘em all. Star was the fastest on the day, and I’m happy with that,’ he said, patting his mare’s coal-black neck and smiling at the three girls.

  ‘Brought your fan club today, I see. Wait a minute, don’t I know you?’ she said to Scarlett.

  ‘Never seen you before in my life,’ said Scarlett, deadpan. Georgia frowned and was about to speak when her palomino shied at a passing lorry. She cursed under her breath, gathered her reins and turned her attention to Sam again.

  ‘Our offer still stands, you know.’

  ‘The answer’s no. Again,’ he told Georgia. His hand was clenched tightly around Star’s reins and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

  ‘You won’t get a better offer,’ she insisted.

  ‘She’s not for sale. And even if she was I wouldn’t sell her to you if you were the last person on earth, Georgia Canning. Come on girl, let’s get you back to your stable,’ he told Star. He held up his hand in a mock salute to Poppy, Scarlett and Hope and turned his mare towards the yard. Georgia watched them go, her expression stony.

  A paint-splattered Shelley opened the door of Flint Cottage when they dropped Hope off on their way home.

  ‘Are you rushing off?’ she asked Caroline. Poppy crossed her fingers inside her jacket pocket hoping Caroline would say no.

  ‘Actually I could murder a cup of tea. But we can’t stay too long. I promised I’d get Scarlett back before six,’ she said.

  They piled into the lounge. Scarlett had never been inside Flint Cottage and she looked around avidly. Her eyes widened when she noticed the flat screen television.

  ‘Blimey Hope, your TV’s as big as a cinema screen. It must have cost a fortune.’

  ‘What? Oh, it’s ex-display or something,’ she muttered, sitting next to Poppy and chewing the nail of her index finger.

  Shelley appeared from the kitchen carrying a teapot and mugs on an old metal tray. She swept a tabloid newspaper, a holiday brochure and some clothing catalogues off the coffee table and kicked them under the sofa before placing the tray on the table. ‘Try not to knock it flying this time, you clumsy oaf,’ she told Hope coldly.

  ‘So, did you enjoy your first horse show, Hope?’ Caroline asked.

  Hope hadn’t stopped talking about the show on the way home. As she’d chattered about the ponies they’d seen and the riders they’d met even Scarlett had struggled to get a word in edgeways, and that didn’t happen very often. But suddenly Hope was monosyllabic.

  ‘It was OK, thanks,’ she said, her knuckles white as she clasped her mug of tea.

  ‘She had a great time,’ Scarlett told Shelley. ‘Though we were all fed up when Georgia Canning won the open jumping. But it’s easy to be the best if you throw enough money at it. Mum reckons they won the lottery a few years back, though no-one knows for sure. They’re really cagey about it. But it must have been a massive win.’

  Shelley’s eyes lit up. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘They live in a huge mansion, drive flash cars and own loads of ponies. Georgia’s an only child and she’s spoilt rotten. The pony she won the open jumping on cost ten thousand pounds,’ Scarlett continued.

  ‘Ten grand? For one pony? You’re kidding, right?’ Shelley was incredulous.

  ‘That’s a drop in the ocean for the Cannings. Apparently their house is absolutely rammed full of antiques and works of art.’

  ‘Have you been to their house? Where is it?’

  ‘It’s called Claydon Manor and it’s on the outskirts of Tavistock. You know the kind of place. Wrought iron automatic gates, a long, sweeping drive and security cameras everywhere. I think they even have guard dogs. I suppose they’re worried about being burgled.’

  ‘Honestly, it makes me sick. Here I am, a single mum with next to nothing, doing everything I can to send my poor daughter to America for life-saving cancer treatment when people like that have so much money they could write a cheque for the whole trip tomorrow if they wanted to,’ said Shelley.

  Hope stood up abruptly, muttered something about needing the bathroom and disappeared out of the room. Caroline looked at her watch, taken aback by the seething resentment in Shelley’s voice.

  ‘Heavens, it’s ten to six. We’d better make a move.’

  Poppy stared at her reflection in the car window on the way home, half-listening to Caroline and Scarlett as they talked about Christmas while her mind drifted over the events of the day. She wondered what Georgia Canning, the girl who had everything, would be given for Christmas. Not Star, that was for sure. Apparently there were some things money couldn’t buy after all. Poppy pictured Shelley’s face, calculating and covetous. Scarlett had certainly touched a nerve when she’d described the Cannings’ fortune. Yet for someone who was always pleading poverty Shelley always seemed to be spending money – on herself at least. And finally, Poppy thought about Hope. All she must want for Christmas was a chance to get better. But would she be given that chance?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Poppy couldn’t shake a growing sense of unease that behind the shabby front door of Flint Cottage all was not as it should be. On the car journeys to Redhall Manor Hope opened up like a flower, talking about Buster and his idiosyncrasies and quizzing Poppy about Cloud and Chester. The minute they dropped her home she clammed up. Her face was guarded. Wary, even. The day they’d walked to the top of the Riverdale tor Poppy knew that Hope was a heartbeat away from confiding in her. But since then Hope changed the subject every time Poppy tried to raise it and she was no nearer to gleaning the truth.

  One night, as she sat at the kitchen table struggling with her maths homework while Caroline tested Charlie on
his spellings, a theory began to take shape. It was formed by a chance remark from Charlie, who hated homework more than he hated Brussels sprouts. And that was saying something.

  ‘I bet Hope never has homework,’ the six-year-old grumbled. ‘She doesn’t even go to school. I thought everyone had to go to school. So how come Hope doesn’t?’

  ‘You know why, Charlie. It’s because she’s got cancer. Her mum is giving her lessons at home because she has a weak immune system,’ Caroline reminded him.

  ‘She looks pretty healthy to me,’ he said.

  ‘Charlie!’ Caroline admonished. ‘She’s in remission, that’s all. She’s still a very sick little girl.’

  ‘Well, I’d like to be in remission if it meant I didn’t have to do stupid spellings,’ he announced, flinging down his pencil in disgust. ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘Come on now, there’s no need to throw a strop. Homework is really important, isn’t it Poppy?’ Caroline looked to her stepdaughter for support, but Poppy’s thoughts were far away in Flint Cottage. Random images that had seemed unrelated were gradually connecting in her mind.

  ‘Poppy?’ Caroline repeated.

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away. Yes, Charlie, homework is really important. Speaking of which, I need the laptop to look up something for science. Is it OK to take it up to my room?’

  Poppy spent the next hour on the internet hopping from one website to another, frowning to herself as pieces of the puzzle gradually fell into place. True, she had made a few assumptions and a lot of her ‘evidence’ was conjecture. But there were far too many coincidences for her liking. Just as Poppy knew it would never hold up in a court of law, she was also certain she was right.

  When she woke the next morning she had come to a decision.

  ‘I’ll be on the late bus tonight. I want to pop in and see Tory,’ she said over breakfast.