by Amanda Wills
The track onto the moor was bone dry and the horses' hooves sparked little puffs of dust every time they hit the ground. They passed a herd of solemn-faced black and white belted Galloway cattle.
‘They always remind me of zebra crossings,’ Poppy said inconsequentially.
‘If you say so,’ said Scarlett.
Soon they reached the gate to the lane which led past the farmhouse where Poppy had called the ambulance. The farmer's wife must have heard them coming, because an upstairs window was thrown open and she leant out.
‘You found him then?’ she called.
Poppy ran her hand along Cloud's neck and smiled back.
‘Actually, he found me.’
They reached the wide grassy ribbon of a track where it had all gone wrong. Bella pulled Floyd up.
‘I don't think we'd better canter today,’ she said.
‘I do,’ said Sam.
‘But what about the rabbit hole?’
‘It's not there any more. I brought the quad bike up the day after the accident and filled it in.’
‘Nice work, Samantha,’ Scott said.
Sam rolled his eyes and tightened his reins. Star tossed her ebony head and crabbed sideways but he sat easily in the saddle.
‘So are we going to lay those ghosts to rest or not?’ he asked.
‘Yep,’ said Scarlett. Poppy nodded.
‘If you're sure,’ said Bella, kicking Floyd into a canter. Sam and Scott followed suit, still riding side by side. Poppy clicked her tongue but Cloud needed no encouragement. He cantered behind the others, his neck arched proudly and his mane rippling. She crouched low over the saddle as Cloud lengthened his stride and soon they were galloping as one across the moor towards the distant horizon.
Poppy glanced over to Scarlett and was shocked to see a single tear sliding down her best friend's cheek.
‘You OK?’ she called.
Scarlett nodded. ‘Just thinking about Niamh.’
‘Niamh's going to be OK, Scar. I know she is,’ Poppy said.
And in that moment, as she and her friends galloped across their beloved Dartmoor, the wind in their ears and their horses' hooves thrumming on the springy grass like a beating heart, Poppy knew with absolute certainty that she was right.
The Secret of Witch Cottage
Chapter One
Poppy McKeever squinted into the sun, her eyes never leaving her best friend Scarlett as she cantered off towards the horizon. Scarlett's shoulders were stiff and unyielding, in contrast to her loose ponytail of auburn curls, which bounced jauntily on her back with every stride. Her Dartmoor pony Blaze was growing smaller by the minute. Which was ironic, Poppy thought wryly, as that had been the catalyst for their row. Cloud stamped an impatient foot, desperate to gallop after them, but she ran a hand down his neck and shook her head.
‘Let them go. She'll come round once she's had a chance to cool off. Drama queen,’ she added under her breath.
Cloud gave a tremulous whinny.
‘She'll be fine. All I did was tell her that she looked like a drum on a pea when she rode Blaze these days. It was meant to be a joke and she totally over-reacted. Ridiculous.’
Poppy sighed. On reflection, it had sounded pretty mean. And she felt a small sliver of remorse as she remembered Scarlett's last words before she'd taken flight.
‘I know I'm too big for Blaze, Poppy. You don't have to rub it in. It's alright for you. You've got Cloud. Mum and Dad have already told me they can't afford another pony. It's Blaze or nothing.’
Poppy had tried to backtrack but Scarlett, her eyes shining with unshed tears, had held her hand up to silence her.
‘Save your breath. I'm not interested. I'm going home.’ And she had wheeled Blaze around and kicked her into a canter, leaving Poppy gaping at her retreating back, completely lost for words. It was only when Blaze had disappeared that Poppy realised she didn't know the way home. Bored with their usual rides, Scarlett had taken them on a new route across the high, open moorland towards Princetown. Poppy loved the bleak, windswept panoramas they had crossed, but landmarks were few and far between and one craggy tor looked much like another. She patted the pocket in which she kept her mobile but pride stopped her from phoning Scarlett.
‘We can find our way home, can't we Cloud?’ The Connemara flicked an ear back and stamped his foot again. Poppy gathered his reins and clicked her tongue. ‘Come on, let's go.’
Before long the wide, stony path split in two. The first track was deeply rutted and lined with a gorse hedge and veered off sharply to the left. The second path was narrower and less well trodden and led in arrow-like precision towards a cluster of conifers straight ahead.
Poppy glanced over her shoulder. She could just make out the high granite walls of HMP Dartmoor. The impenetrable building, constructed two centuries before to hold prisoners of the Napoleonic Wars, dominated the skyline on this part of the moor. Her brother Charlie was fixated with the prison and had a ghoulish fascination for stories about the many convicts who'd escaped over the years.
‘If Princetown is behind us, we must be facing east, so I think we need to follow the farm track,’ Poppy said. Cloud was sniffing the wind, his nostrils flared and his eyes fixed on the conifers. He whinnied again, the tremors shuddering along his dappled grey body like a mini earthquake. Perhaps he'd caught the faintest scent of Blaze and the chestnut mare was ahead, hidden from sight in the trees. Poppy trusted her pony implicitly. After all, he had roamed wild on the moor for years. If he couldn't lead her home to Riverdale, no-one could.
She gave him his head and he stepped onto the narrow path. It was a gloriously sunny afternoon in the middle of August yet the ground was still boggy in places. Poppy admired the way Cloud instinctively avoided the squelching peat by sticking to the grassy tussocks. At the edge of the band of trees the grass gave way to a carpet of rust-coloured pine needles and pine cones and when the path petered out Cloud kept walking, his ears pricked and his eyes still fixed ahead.
The deeper they walked into the trees the more the light leached away like sand in an hourglass. It was as if someone had pressed fast-forward to dusk. Charlie would say the shadowy forest was a perfect place for escaped prisoners to hide. Poppy shivered in her thin cotton tee-shirt.
They skirted a fallen tree and a clump of acid-green forest ferns. Poppy twiddled with a length of Cloud's silver mane.
‘Are you sure this is the right way?’ she said. But Cloud ploughed on through the towering conifers. Scratchy branches grazed Poppy's bare arms and the scent of pine needles filled her nostrils.
‘Scarlett!’ she yelled. ‘Are you there?’ Poppy cocked her head to listen for an answering shout, but the only sound was the static-like crackle of Cloud's hooves hitting the forest floor. ‘Ridiculous!’ she muttered again, as a branch caught her cheek. She was sure Scarlett would never have ridden this way home. But they had come so far she was curious to see what lay beyond the trees, and why Cloud was so intent on leading her there.
Gradually the gaps between the conifers widened and the sunlight streamed through the green canopy once again. Cloud stepped out onto open moorland, sniffed the wind and whickered softly. Poppy gazed around in astonishment.
‘This is beautiful,’ she breathed.
The small forest of evergreens concealed a teardrop-shaped tarn, on the banks of which stood a tumbledown cottage. A dry stone wall circled the cottage like a granite necklace. Poppy slithered to the ground and laced her fingers in Cloud's mane. He whickered again and began walking resolutely ahead.
‘Wait! We don't know who lives here,’ she whispered, tugging his reins. She stared at the cottage, looking for signs of life, aware they could be trespassing on private property. What if it was the home of a terse old hill farmer, with a distrust of strangers and a shotgun under the bed? Poppy's eyes travelled over the building, taking in the gaping hole in the catslide roof, the front door hanging off its ancient hinges and the rotting wooden window frames. She realised that the co
ttage must have been abandoned decades ago. Cloud strained forwards and Poppy finally relented.
‘You win,’ she told him. ‘We'll go and explore.’
The cottage was tiny, as small as a shepherd's croft. A battalion of nettles, heavy with tiny white flowers, guarded the front door. Poppy looped Cloud's reins over an old fence post, edged past the nettles and gave the door a tentative push. It swung inwards, hitting the wall with a clatter. She took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold.
The front door led straight into a small, empty square room that Poppy supposed must once have been the parlour. The air smelt fusty, as if it hadn't been disturbed in years, and when she ran her fingers along the windowsill they picked up a layer of fine, sooty dust. Blackened beams intersected the low ceiling and the uneven floor was laid with cracked and stained quarry tiles in shades of sienna and ochre. On the outside wall was a fireplace with a granite hearth and a simple wooden mantelpiece. Opposite the fireplace was another door. Poppy tugged at the tarnished brass handle.
The kitchen was even smaller than the parlour and was also empty apart from a stone sink under the window and a rusty range. A creaky narrow staircase led to two tiny rooms in the eaves. Poppy inched her way across the woodworm-ridden floorboards in the larger of the two bedrooms to the window to check Cloud was still happy nibbling grass where she'd left him. A movement in the corner of her eye made her jump, but it was only a swallow, swooping out of a gap in the roof towards the still waters of the tarn. Hearing high-pitched cheeping, Poppy craned her neck and saw four baby swallows peeking out of their mud nest tucked under the eaves.
An old hessian sack had been tossed into one corner and two wooden crates were arranged in the middle of the floor facing the window. Almost like chairs, it occurred to Poppy. The silence in the old cottage was absolute. She wondered what kind of person would choose to live such a remote and lonely life so high on the moor. She gazed at the sloping ceilings and uneven walls, but the cottage wasn't giving away any of its secrets.
Feeling a sneeze looming, Poppy tramped back down the stairs. Cloud lifted his head as she emerged into the sunlight and she unhooked his reins and led him to the water's edge. He grazed while she threw stones into the dark water of the tarn, enjoying the ripples they made as they sank out of sight. Cloud seemed so at ease Poppy was sure it wasn't the first time he had been to the cottage.
‘This place is so cool. Charlie and Scarlett will love it,’ she said, before remembering that Scarlett wasn't talking to her. Poppy's earlier irritation had waned, to be replaced by an anxious knot in her stomach. She hated conflict and usually avoided it at all costs. She knew Scarlett was devastated that she had almost outgrown her beloved Blaze and was gutted that her parents couldn't afford another pony. It was hardly surprising she'd had a serious sense of humour failure. Poppy wished she could turn back the clock. Falling out with her best friend in the middle of the summer holidays was the last thing she wanted to do. She reached for her mobile and tapped out a quick text.
Sorry Scar, didn't mean to upset you. Still BFF???
But the screen remained stubbornly blank. After half an hour of checking and re-checking her phone she admitted defeat, dragged herself to her feet and swung back into the saddle. She and Cloud re-traced their steps back through the conifers.
‘This time we'll go my way,’ she said, turning him down the gorse-lined farm track to their right. ‘These tractor tracks must lead somewhere.’
The track climbed steadily until Poppy could see over the band of conifers to the cottage and lake below. After a couple of miles the track became even more rutted. The gorse bushes were replaced by an old stone wall, which they followed for another mile or so to a farm tucked in the hollow between two tors. The farmyard was deserted, save for a couple of bantams scratching around in the dirt. When the track merged with a tarmac lane Poppy squeezed Cloud into a trot. Eventually they reached a staggered crossroads and a lichen-covered sign. Waterby four miles.
Poppy wondered if Scarlett was still seething at her thoughtless jibe. She could kick herself for being so insensitive. As she turned Cloud towards home one thing dominated her thoughts. How could she make amends?
Chapter Two
The next morning Poppy found Charlie helping Caroline stick labels onto dozens of jars of homemade raspberry and strawberry jam.
‘You haven't forgotten it's the fete today?’ Caroline mumbled, a pen between her teeth.
Poppy groaned. ‘Do I have to come?’
‘You promised to do pony rides, remember? Cloud's one of the star attractions. You can't let all those children down,’ her stepmother said.
Poppy pulled a face. ‘He's not a novice ride. Some awful screaming toddler is bound to fall off and end up with concussion. And then I'll be sued. I don't think I should go.’
‘No-one is going to fall off. Cloud will be on the lead rope and the children will be wearing hats. You never know, you might even enjoy it,’ Caroline said.
Charlie licked a label and smoothed it onto a jar of strawberry jam.
‘Charlie, that's disgusting!’ Poppy shrieked.
‘Someone got out of bed the wrong side this morning,’ said Charlie, smoothing out the air bubbles with his thumbs.
Poppy shot him a filthy look and slammed two pieces of bread in the toaster. She had woken up grumpy and her mood hadn't improved when there was still no text or missed call from Scarlett. At least her best friend had agreed to help with the pony rides, giving Poppy a chance to apologise face to face.
The phone rang. Caroline stuck the pen behind her ear and answered it.
‘Hello Pat! Yes, the tombola's done and we've almost finished the jam. We just need to load the car and we're ready. Poppy will ride Cloud over and meet us there.’ There was a pause. Caroline frowned. ‘Oh, that's a shame. I hope she feels better soon. Give her our love, won't you?’
‘What's happened?’ Poppy demanded.
‘Scarlett's not feeling too well. She's decided not to come.’
Poppy gouged a piece of butter from the tub and began attacking her toast. ‘Just brilliant,’ she grumbled.
‘Why are you in such a bad mood?’ said Charlie, who had finished packing the jam into cardboard boxes and was counting the float.
‘I. Am. Not. In. A. Bad. Mood,’ Poppy growled. But Charlie wasn't listening. His eyes had taken on a faraway look and a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth.
‘Mum, do we have any brown wool?’
‘I expect so. Have a look in the dresser.’
Charlie scrabbled around in a drawer and pulled out a ball of soft, mocha-brown wool.
‘Perfect,’ he said.
Despite herself, Poppy was curious. ‘What do you want it for?’
‘You know I'm doing pin a tail on the donkey for the Canvas Challenge?’
Poppy nodded. Charlie's Cub pack had launched an appeal to raise money to buy new camping equipment to replace its leaky tents. Charlie had spent the last week tracing out and colouring in a huge, lop-sided donkey which he'd pinned to a cork board and planned to set up on an old easel Caroline had found in the loft. Blindfolded fete-goers would be invited to try their hand at pinning the tail on the donkey for fifty pence a go, and anyone who managed to pin the tail anywhere near its backside would win a plastic cup of sweets.
‘I'm going to do a 3D version,’ he announced.
Now Charlie was a dab hand with Lego but Poppy sincerely doubted that even he could knock up a donkey in the hour they had before they had to set off for the fete.
‘I just need to make a tail out of this,’ he said, waving the wool in Poppy's face, ‘and check Chester's nice and clean and we're in business.’
Poppy almost choked on a mouthful of toast.
‘You are not using Chester for pin the tail on the donkey!’ she screeched. ‘Are you mad?’
‘Why not? Chester loves children and he's too old for donkey rides.’
‘You can't have people sticking drawing pins int
o him. It's animal cruelty!’
Charlie gave her a withering look. ‘I wouldn't use drawing pins, grumpy-pants. I'm not that stupid. We've got some double-sided sticky tape in the craft box. I'll use that instead.’
Caroline held up her hands. ‘That's enough, you two. How about a compromise? We bring Chester along to the fete so children can make a fuss of him, but we use Charlie's lovely picture to pin the tail on. I can still make you a wool tail if you want, Charlie?’
Appeased, Charlie nodded.
‘We'll leave at nine. That'll give us plenty of time to set the stall up before the fete opens at ten,’ said Caroline.
The annual Waterby summer fete, held on the third Saturday in August, was one of the highlights of the village's social calendar, eclipsed only by the Christmas Eve nativity service, which drew people from far and wide. The nativity boasted real animals in a lovingly re-created Bethlehem stable at the front of the church. More impressive still, the youngest babe-in-arms in the parish was always given the honour of playing Jesus. One especially memorable year, when there had been a shortage of babies, the job had been given to a wilful eighteen-month-old toddler called Isaac, who had thrown his swaddling cloth off just as the Three Kings arrived, climbed out of the manger, pointed at Mary and bawled, ‘That's not my mummy!’ It had made headlines in the Tavistock Herald.
Every group in the village ran a stall at the summer fete to raise funds for their own organisation and the competition to outdo each other was fierce. Caroline had been roped into running the tombola for Charlie's school's PTA, and had, through a combination of cajoling and coercion, amassed a vast array of prizes, from cans of fizzy drink and bottles of bubble bath to food hampers and, the star prize, a digital camera.
When Caroline had first asked Poppy if she and Scarlett would like to organise the pony rides it had seemed like a good idea. Poppy had been obsessed with horses all her life and it wasn't so long ago that she would have happily traded the clothes on her back for five minutes on someone else's pony. It would be good to let other pony-mad kids have a ride on Cloud. She and Scarlett would have a laugh. But running the pony rides on her own wasn't going to be half as much fun.