by Amanda Wills
The snow kept falling, covering their footprints almost as soon as they had made them. It was as if they were ghosts, already dead, Poppy thought with a shudder. The five minutes were up and she led the pony back into the stable.
How could he have suddenly developed colic? She hadn’t changed his food or bedding. He’d seemed perfectly fine on Christmas Day. A bit bored maybe, but that was it. She cursed herself for not checking him on Boxing Day. But she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to drag herself out of bed. And then she remembered Charlie in his doctor’s outfit, taking her pulse, offering to feed Cloud and Chester. She pictured him in the tack room, lifting the lid on the feed bin nearest the door, not realising that Poppy had re-arranged everything when she’d had her big clear out. Not noticing that the pony nuts were in fact unsoaked cubes of sugar beet…
Poppy thought she was hallucinating again when Cloud curled his lip up at her as if he was laughing, as if he thought it was all a massive joke. But she remembered it was another symptom of colic, and stroked his neck gently, murmuring to him softly. Chester watched them from the corner of the stable, his brown eyes sadder than she’d ever seen them. He knew, she thought wildly. He knew that Cloud was going to die. She checked her watch. Half past five. Another fifteen minutes and she’d take him out again. Cloud’s legs started buckling as he prepared to sink down and roll.
‘Cloud, no!’ she shouted in alarm. ‘Stand up, you must stand!’ She grabbed the cheek straps of his headcollar and, with a superhuman effort, hauled him to a standing position. He gave an almighty shake, the lead rope rattling in her hands. Poppy felt waves of desolation and exhaustion wash over her.
‘Don’t die, Cloud. Please don’t die,’ she sobbed. But the pony looked defeated, his head low and his eyes dull.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and howled.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘Poppy! What on earth -?’
Caroline’s anxious voice roused Poppy from her torpor. She looked up and saw her stepmother’s white face over the stable door.
‘It’s Cloud,’ she said flatly. ‘He’s got colic. He’s dying.’
‘What?’
‘I heard him crashing about in his stable last night. He was in agony. I walked him up and down like you’re supposed to but it was no good. I couldn’t save him. Just like I couldn’t save him from the drift.’ Poppy’s voice was hoarse, her face wet with tears.
‘But Poppy -’ Caroline began.
‘It’s my fault. If I hadn’t moved the feed bins around Charlie wouldn’t have got the sugar beet mixed up with the pony nuts and everything would have been alright. It’s all my fault,’ she repeated, her voice a monotone.
‘I’ll call the vet. Maybe there’s a chance she can get here.’
‘There’s no point. He’s twisted his gut, you see,’ Poppy continued, looking at her stepmother with puffy eyes. ‘He can’t have long left.’ She swallowed a sob.
Caroline took in the scene before her. Poppy, purple shadows under her eyes and her face drawn, propped against Cloud. The grey pony stood as still as a statue, his eyes on Caroline. At the back of the stable Chester’s head was drooping as he dozed. The straw bedding looked as if it had been whipped up and flung around by a band of whirling dervishes. A pile of fresh droppings on the stable floor steamed in the cold.
‘Are you sure?’ Caroline pressed.
‘Of course I’m sure. I’m staying with him until the end. I promised him I’d never leave him.’
Caroline suddenly found it difficult to speak. In that moment she knew she loved her shy, complicated stepdaughter as if she were her own. Poppy could be insecure and stubborn, but her courage and loyalty took Caroline’s breath away. She let herself into the stable and touched Poppy lightly on the shoulder. The girl looked up, her face anguished. She took two shaky steps towards Caroline and buried herself in her stepmother’s arms, her body racked with sobs.
‘Oh sweetheart, don’t upset yourself. It breaks my heart to see you like this,’ she whispered.
‘I’m going to lose him. I can’t bear it.’
But something was niggling Caroline. As her gaze swept over the stable for a second time her face cleared.
‘Poppy, Cloud’s been to the toilet. Look!’
Poppy shrugged, broke away from Caroline’s embrace and wiped her tear-streaked cheeks. ‘So?’
‘Don’t you see? The blockage in his gut must have shifted. It means the worst of the colic has passed. Quickly, see if he wants a drink.’
Poppy still looked dazed so Caroline picked up the closest water bucket and held it under Cloud’s nose. He sniffed it cautiously then drank thirstily. He finished half the bucket and snorted loudly, spraying Caroline with droplets of water. She laughed. ‘See? You did exactly the right thing, Poppy. You saved him!’
They stood together and watched Cloud. After ten minutes or so he edged over to the hayrack and pulled out a couple of wisps of hay. When he lifted his tail and deposited another mound of steaming manure by their welly-clad feet they clutched each other in joy.
‘I’ll call the vet anyway, just to be on the safe side. Even if she can’t make it out here she can give us some advice on the phone. But I think he’s going to be fine, Poppy. Thanks to you.’
Poppy was just about to reply when the ground shifted beneath her feet and her head felt so light she thought it might float away. The last thing she noticed before she lost consciousness were black spots dancing in front of her eyes and a ringing in her ears.
When she woke up she was back in bed, the worried faces of her dad, Caroline and Charlie looming over her.
‘You fainted. Not surprising really. You’re recovering from the flu, you’ve been up half the night and you haven’t eaten for forty eight hours,’ said Caroline. She offered Poppy a mug of tea. ‘It’s got plenty of sugar in it. Please try to have some.’
Poppy sat up in a panic, almost sending the mug flying.
‘Cloud? Is he OK?’
‘Yes, he’s fine. I’ve phoned the vet and explained everything. She’s happy. We’ve just got to keep an eye on him over the next day or so.’
Relieved, Poppy took the tea and sipped. Caroline and her dad left the room but Charlie stayed. He hovered by the door, red-eyed. When he eventually spoke his voice was small.
‘I’m sorry I gave Cloud the wrong nuts, Poppy. I didn’t mean to give him tummy ache.’
‘It wasn’t your fault. You were only trying to help. I should have told you I’d moved the bins about. You weren’t to know. And he’s alright, so there’s nothing to be sorry about.’
Charlie didn’t look convinced.
‘Honestly Charlie, it’s OK. Want to come for a cuddle?’
He stuck his thumb in his mouth and nodded. Poppy patted the bed and he sidled over.
‘What would cheer you up?’ she said, as she wriggled up the bed and put her arm around his shoulders.
Charlie thought for a moment. ‘A snowball fight?’ he said hopefully. ‘I think that would probably do it.’
Poppy laughed. He really was incorrigible.
‘It’s a deal. But first I must have breakfast. I’m so hungry I could eat -’
‘A horse?’ her brother suggested.
‘No!’ Poppy pretended to be outraged and was glad to see Charlie giggle.
‘A full English breakfast, is what I was going to say. Sausages, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, a fried egg,’ she listed, ticking each off on her fingers. ‘Oh, and toast. Loads and loads of toast.’
Only once Poppy had seen for herself that Cloud was settled and eating normally again did she agree to sit down and have breakfast, by which time her stomach was growling ominously.
‘I hope I haven’t made his fracture worse,’ she said, as she demolished an enormous plateful of food.
‘You did exactly the right thing,’ replied Caroline firmly. ‘OK, so even if he has damaged his foot the worst case scenario is more box rest. But the vet didn’t seem to think walking up and
down in the snow every half an hour would have made a huge difference. In fact she said he was more likely to have made it worse thrashing and banging about in the stable. So stop worrying. And that’s an order,’ she added, waving a spatula at Poppy.
Poppy knew her stepmother was probably right and for once she let herself feel optimistic. Her phone bleeped.
‘It’s Scarlett. She wants to know if we’d like to go tobogganing at Ashworthy. Can we go?’ Poppy asked.
‘Only if I can come, too. I used to love tobogganing when I was your age. There weren’t many chances to do it in London. I might even try to drag your dad along. He could do with the exercise,’ her stepmother answered.
The family spent the next couple of hours climbing up and whizzing down Ashworthy’s top sheep field on plastic fertiliser sacks filled with snow, shrieking with glee as they sped feet first down the hill and laughing wildly as they collided in a heap at the bottom.
Pat invited them to stay for lunch and as they squeezed around the pine table in the kitchen they regaled her and Bill with stories of hotly-contested races and spectacular tumbles. Pat had made two vast dishes of cauliflower cheese which they mopped up with chunky slices of granary bread. Despite her massive breakfast Poppy was ravenous and was soon having second helpings.
Conversation drifted from sledging to her dad’s trip to Syria. The room was silent as he described his life as a war correspondent.
‘It must be difficult not to get too emotionally involved,’ observed Bill from the head of the table.
‘It is, sometimes,’ her dad admitted. ‘I’m supposed to be objective, to be an observer, but it is hard, especially when children are involved.’
‘Speaking of which, how’s young Hope Taylor?’ asked Pat.
‘Oh, she’s still in remission, isn’t she Poppy?’ said Caroline. Poppy shot a glance at Scarlett, who was listening intently.
‘I save all my two pound coins and give them to a different charity every year. Last year we gave more than £300 to the RSPCA. I thought I’d like to donate them to the Hope for Hope Appeal this year,’ said Pat.
Across the table Scarlett made a strange gurgling noise as she choked on a piece of cauliflower. Her dad patted her on the back. ‘That’s a nice idea, love,’ he told his wife.
Poppy looked at the kind, open faces of Pat and Bill. Farming was a tough business and she knew they sometimes struggled to make ends meet. She thought about the piles of dog biscuits she and Scarlett had spent hours baking and Tory’s £500 cheque, all the quiz nights and raffles. It was no good. This had to stop.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Over the next 24 hours the snow disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived. Mild westerly winds coaxed the temperatures above freezing and soon the countryside had shed its white winter coat and was green once more. Poppy checked Cloud obsessively but he seemed to have made a full recovery and if anything was more impatient than ever to escape the confines of his stable. Letting Chester out each morning had become a two person job – one to lead out the old donkey and the other to police the stable door to stop Cloud barging his way out behind him. When Poppy laid a palm on Cloud’s dappled grey flank she fancied she could actually feel the pent-up energy pulsing through his veins in time to her own heartbeat. Poppy, back to full strength, was also restless, although she couldn’t say why. The only time she felt settled was in Cloud’s company. He, too, was less edgy when they were together so she spent hours in his stable, grooming him, tacking him up and dreaming of the day she could jump on his back and they could ride off into the sunset together, as if they were the stars in their own cheesy film.
The start of term was looming when Shelley called Caroline asking if she could look after Hope while she went to London for the day.
‘Off to see the cancer specialist again is she?’ asked Poppy cynically. ‘Funny, isn’t it, how she always comes back from seeing Hope’s oncologist,’ Poppy emphasised the word heavily, ‘with a new outfit and hairdo.’
‘Poppy!’ said Caroline, shocked. ‘The appeal’s nearly reached its £10,000 target, apparently, so she’s going up to finalise details of their trip to America.’
‘I bet she is,’ muttered Poppy under her breath, remembering the holiday brochure Shelley had kicked under the sofa at Flint Cottage.
Either Caroline hadn’t heard or she had chosen to ignore Poppy’s remark. ‘I can’t believe how quickly they’ve raised the money. People have been so generous. But then it is such a great cause. Think how wonderful it would be for Hope and Shelley if the treatment works this time.’
‘What time is she dropping Hope off?’ Poppy asked, knowing she must seize this chance to tackle her friend while Shelley was well out of the way.
Caroline looked at her watch. ‘In about half an hour. I’ve got to go to the supermarket later so you can have an hour in Tavistock together if you like. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No, it’ll be good to catch up. I haven’t had a proper chat with Hope for ages,’ she said.
Poppy was in the stable grooming Cloud when she heard Shelley’s engine revving and a car door slamming. She let herself out and met Hope as she appeared around the corner of the house.
‘Poppy! Your mum told me about the colic. It must have been terrifying. How is he?’
‘Better now, thanks.’
The concern in Hope’s pale blue eyes appeared genuine and Poppy wondered yet again if she’d got it all wrong. It was all so far-fetched.
‘Can I give you a hand?’ Hope asked, interrupting her thoughts.
‘Uh, yes, sure. You brush his tail while I do his mane. He’s still a bit head shy with people he doesn’t know so well.’ Poppy picked up the comb and began running it through Cloud’s silver mane, teasing out the knots and tangles as gently as she could. As she combed she wished life was as easy to untangle.
They worked in silence for a few minutes before Poppy cleared her throat and took the plunge. ‘So, how are you feeling?’
‘I’m OK. Same as usual,’ Hope answered, uncertainly.
‘Yes, you’re looking well. The picture of health, some might say.’
‘Poppy, you’re being a bit weird. Is something wrong?’
‘You tell me, Hope. I don’t want to sound unsympathetic but you don’t seem very ill to me.’
Hope didn’t reply but her face was flustered.
‘I was thinking this morning how generous everyone has been towards you and your appeal,’ Poppy continued, her jaw tight. ‘Tory gave her washing machine money, Dad and Caroline gave a couple of hundred pounds, Pat and Bill are donating their coin collection and Scarlett and I spent hours baking dog biscuits to raise money. That’s just the people I know about. Hundreds of others have been raising money. Sponsored walks, boot fairs, quiz nights, you name it, they’ve organised it. Remind me, what’s it all been for?’
‘Mum’s appeal,’ Hope whispered so quietly that Poppy had to strain to hear.
‘Yes, the appeal. That’s right. But what’s the appeal actually paying for? Specialist cancer treatment in California, or a holiday in Florida? And let’s not forget the flash telly and the spanking new outfits your mum seems to be wearing every time I see her. What’s really going on, Hope?’
‘You already know this, Poppy. I have an aggressive form of leukaemia. It’s a cancer of the blood. Doctors here say it’s terminal but there’s a new treatment in America that’s going to cure me,’ Hope intoned. It was as if she’d learnt the script by rote.
‘So you say. But I’m afraid I don’t believe you.’ Poppy slipped a hand in her pocket and fingered the folded sheet of A4 paper she’d printed out at Lizzie’s house in Bromley.
‘This is your last chance to come clean, Hope. I want you to tell me the truth.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Hope blustered.
Poppy pulled out the printout, unfolded it with exaggerated care and held it out to Hope. ‘Take it,’ she ordered, her voice grim. ‘It’s from the Croydon News four ye
ars ago. I want you to read it. Although I have a feeling you already know what it says.’
She watched Hope’s face for a reaction. If she’d needed any convincing that her theory was right the evidence was there in front of her. Guilt was written all over Hope’s thin face.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hope shrank back against the wall of the stable, her eyes glistening with tears. She glanced at the printout and shook her head.
‘Please, no,’ she whispered.
‘Have it your way,’ said Poppy. ‘I’ll tell you what it says, shall I?’
Poppy had read the newspaper report so many times she could have probably recited it from memory.
‘A Croydon woman who shaved a girl’s head in an elaborate cancer scam has been told she was lucky to escape jail.
‘Michelle Turner pretended the six-year-old had leukaemia and set up a £5,000 appeal to raise money to send her to America for life-saving treatment.