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

by Amanda Wills

  ‘Trust her to be number one,’ Scarlett muttered.

  Poppy felt her patience snap. ‘For God's sake, Scarlett, will you give it a rest? You're doing my head in. Can we please just watch the jumping?’

  Scarlett's eyebrows shot upwards. ‘Alright, keep your hair on. I was just saying.’

  ‘Well, don't.’

  ‘Where is she, anyway?’

  ‘How would I know?’ Poppy craned her neck towards the entrance, but there was no sign of Georgia or her palomino gelding. People in the spectators' gallery were beginning to fidget.

  ‘Calling number one, Georgia Canning on Pearl Barley,’ blared the Tannoy. ‘This is your final call.’

  ‘They'll be eliminated at this rate,’ remarked Bella with satisfaction. They watched the collecting ring steward scuttle over to the judge and whisper urgently into his ear. The judge nodded, wrote something on his clipboard and beckoned over the other stewards who began building the jump-off course.

  ‘I bet she heard the European squad man's here and chickened out,’ said Scarlett.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Poppy. But she didn't believe it. Georgia Canning was the most competitive rider she had ever met. Her blatant desire to win radiated off her in waves. She wouldn't be put off by the fact that Peter Frampton was here. Far from it. She'd be doing everything in her power to impress him.

  So where was she?

  Poppy and Scarlett bumped into Charlie as they made their way back to the trailer. He was holding Freddie's lead in one hand and a triple cone ice cream in the other.

  ‘I thought you were getting a hot dog,’ said Poppy.

  ‘The stall had gone.’ Charlie took a huge mouthful of ice cream and juddered. ‘Urgh. Brain freeze. How did Sam do?’

  Poppy smiled. ‘He walked it.’

  ‘Someone needs to tell him he's never going to win like that.’

  ‘You are an idiot sometimes. It means he won. Really easily. Georgia Canning was a no show.’

  Charlie took another slurp of his ice cream. ‘Perhaps she got food poisoning from her dodgy hot dog after all.’

  Chapter Six

  Poppy woke on the morning of the donkey auditions to a heavy hoar frost. Feathery wisps of ice like spun candyfloss clung to fences and branches and the grass was crunchy underfoot. She watched her breath unfurl like smoke from a chimney as she crossed the yard to the stables.

  Charlie was already there, dressed in his pyjamas, wellies and Poppy's old parka. He had a bulging carrier bag beside him.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ said Poppy suspiciously.

  ‘Making Chester nice and festive for the auditions,’ said Charlie, as though it was blindingly obvious.

  Poppy let herself into the stable. Charlie pulled a length of silver tinsel from the bag. ‘I thought this'd look nice in his mane. And I was going to try to hang a bauble from the top of his tail.’

  ‘You're joking, right? He's not a flippin' Christmas tree,’ said Poppy, rubbing the old donkey's ear.

  Charlie's face fell. ‘I know. I just wanted to make him stand out.’

  Poppy knew how excited he was about the auditions. He had talked about little else all week.

  ‘I don't think they had tinsel in those days, Charlie. But I tell you what, we can thread some of the tinsel around his headcollar and lead rope. How would that be?’

  ‘That would be good,’ said her brother. He eyed her hopefully. ‘And maybe a couple of paperchains around his neck?’

  Poppy rolled her eyes. ‘Don't push your luck.’

  The auditions were being held in St Mary's Church after the Sunday morning service. Terrified about being late, Charlie had insisted they left Riverdale in plenty of time. As a result, the congregation was still singing a hymn as they rounded the lane to the tiny 12th century church.

  Charlie let Chester graze on the verge opposite the entrance while they waited for the service to finish. He looked as pale as Poppy had on the morning of the show.

  ‘I wonder what the competition will be like,’ he said, hopping from one foot to the other.

  ‘I can't think of any other donkeys in Waterby,’ said Poppy.

  ‘But the village website said 'Waterby and surrounding villages',’ he fretted. ‘There might be hundreds in the surrounding villages for all we know.’

  ‘I don't suppose there are,’ soothed Caroline.

  ‘Look, here comes one,’ said Poppy, pointing up the lane that led to the village shop.

  Caroline and Charlie followed her gaze.

  ‘That's not a donkey, it's a Shetland pony!’ said Charlie, outraged.

  ‘Maybe he's a method actor,’ Poppy giggled. Charlie shot her a filthy look.

  ‘Sorry Charlie. Oh look, here comes another one.’

  They watched, speechless, as what was clearly two people in a slightly moth-eaten pantomime donkey suit lurched up the lane, fore and hind legs completely out of synch.

  ‘He looks as though he's been at the Christmas sherry,’ said Caroline finally. Poppy snorted loudly, causing the pantomime donkey to stand stock still and waggle his head at her.

  Even Charlie was laughing when the donkey walked up to Caroline and offered her a hoof to shake.

  Poppy was stroking the pantomime donkey's neck when she heard a muffled but familiar voice from inside the costume.

  ‘My back's killing me, Scott. I need to stand up or I'll never walk upright again.’

  ‘Sam, is that you in there?’

  The donkey broke in two to reveal Sam in the hind legs and Bella's godson Scott at the front.

  Sam grimaced as he stretched his back. ‘Meet Delilah. As you can imagine, she was Scott's idea. Gran had the costume up in the attic. I think the last time she had an outing was before the war.’

  ‘Hi Poppy, how's things?’ said Scott, running his hands through his hair. ‘And you must be Caroline and Charlie,’ he said, flashing them a disarming smile.

  Charlie seemed as immune to Scott's charms as Poppy had always been.

  ‘You're here under false pretences. That's not a real donkey,’ he said, pointing to Delilah's head, which was hanging lifelessly from the crook of Scott's arm.

  ‘The poster didn't actually specify that the donkeys had to be real,’ Scott pointed out.

  Charlie rose to his full height. ‘But that's not fair on the real donkeys!’

  Sam stepped forward. ‘It's OK, Charlie. We just came 'cos Scott wanted to see if we could make the front page of the Herald. We're not bothered about being in the actual Nativity, are we, Scott?’ He elbowed Bella's godson in the ribs.

  ‘God, no. I've got a hot date that night. And sorry to disappoint you, Samantha, it's not with you.’

  Poppy caught Sam's eye and they exchanged a wry smile. Scott hadn't changed, it seemed.

  The heavily-studded church doors swung open with a loud creak and the congregation began filing out. The last few were followed by a slim, bright-eyed woman in black vestments and a dog collar. She saw the small group waiting by the entrance and scuttled over, her hands outstretched.

  ‘Welcome to our donkey auditions! Marvellous! I'm so pleased you could make it! As you know, our incumbent, Rusty, has retired so we are looking for someone with star quality to step into his shoes, or should I say hooves!’

  Poppy couldn't help warming to Reverend Annette Kirton. She was one of those endlessly enthusiastic people whose speech was littered with exclamation marks.

  ‘So, who do we have here? My goodness! Three lovely auditionees!’ she trilled.

  ‘I'm not sure that's actually a word,’ said Poppy. But Reverend Kirton didn't hear. She was too busy shepherding Chester, the Shetland and Delilah into the church.

  A car drew up outside and two men let themselves out. One was tall and stooped, the other short and stout. Poppy recognised them immediately as Henry Blossom and Sniffer Smith, the photographer and reporter from the Tavistock Herald.

  Sniffer did a double take when he saw the three McKeevers. ‘Small world, eh?’ he
said, whipping a pen from behind his ear and jotting something down in his battered notebook. Poppy had a horrible feeling it was something to do with the time she and Charlie had seen the big cat on the moor the first summer they'd moved to Riverdale. The wily old hack never missed an opportunity to embellish a story if there was a chance of flogging it to the nationals.

  Henry strode over and shook their hands. ‘Good to see you again. And how's that wrist of yours?’ he asked Caroline.

  ‘As good as new,’ she smiled. Sniffer may have been a scheming chancer, but Henry was a genuinely nice man.

  Reverend Kirton clapped her hands. ‘We're all here. Wonderful! We need to know that our four-legged star is happy walking down the aisle of a packed church to the stable in front of the altar. So, if everyone not leading an auditionee can pretend to be in the congregation we'll make a start!’

  ‘Who's going to lead us?’ said a muffled voice from inside Delilah.

  Poppy sighed. ‘I suppose I can.’ Her heart sank as Henry rattled off a couple of pictures of her holding the thin leather strap. ‘You two owe me,’ she hissed into the pantomime donkey's threadbare ear.

  The Shetland went first. Despite his owner's best efforts he tried to nibble the flower arrangements on the end of each pew and refused point blank to walk up the two steps to the area in front of the altar.

  ‘Well done!’ said Reverend Kirton. ‘Chester next, I think.’

  Charlie scratched the old donkey's poll and led him quietly and without incident up the aisle. Chester stood serenely in front of the altar as if he had been attending church every Sunday all his life.

  ‘Bravo!’ cried the vicar. ‘And finally, our pantomime dame, the delightful Delilah!’

  Poppy gave the leather strap a vicious tug, ignoring the indignant cry from inside the costume. Delilah sashayed up the aisle as if she was on the catwalk of a Milan fashion show and when she reached the altar danced a little jig before collapsing on the stone floor in a tangle of legs.

  The tiny congregation was laughing so hard at Delilah's antics that no-one heard the click of a latch. Poppy was the first to see a grey-haired man in a flat cap and a shabby Barbour jacket shove open the doors of the church. He was holding a frayed black lead rope, on the end of which was a thin grey donkey with the saddest eyes Poppy had ever seen.

  The man swore loudly as the donkey registered Delilah, who was now taking a bow, and froze. He yanked the lead rope. ‘Gerrup you stupid mule!’ he growled, flicking the end of the rope at the donkey's bony rump. The donkey skittered forwards. The congregation fell silent.

  The vicar fixed a smile to her face. ‘A fourth auditionee! What a wonderful surprise!’ She clapped her hands again. The donkey started shaking. ‘And who have we here?’

  The man shrugged. ‘She don't have a name. I only picked 'er up from the market yesterday.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Reverend Kirton, for once lost for words.

  Poppy stepped forward and held out her hand to the donkey, who was still quivering by the man's side.

  ‘Female donkeys are called jennys. You could call her that,’ she said softly, offering her a Polo. The donkey stretched out her neck to sniff the mint, but before she could take it the man yanked her head back.

  ‘Hey, why did you do that?’ Poppy cried. Caroline slid out of the pew and stood beside her.

  ‘She needs to be taught some manners,’ the man growled, winding the lead rope around his hand and pulling the donkey towards him.

  Ignoring his filthy look, Poppy bent down and stroked the donkey's neck. She could feel how thin she was under her thick winter coat. One of her eyes was red and inflamed. It looked as though she was weeping. Poppy felt tears prick her own eyes.

  Reverend Kirton finally found her voice and began telling the man what she wanted him to do. While his attention was focused on the vicar Poppy sneaked Jenny the Polo. The donkey snuffled it from her hand so gently that Poppy felt her heart break.

  As she watched Jenny being dragged towards the altar she realised there was something familiar about the man's puffed out chest and wheezy voice. A memory of a grey-haired man tugged at her subconscious. A man wearing corduroy trousers and a brown hacking jacket as he talked to Hope Taylor's mum, Shelley, at the Waterby dog show.

  Poppy shivered. Jenny's new owner was the man who had bought Cloud from Tory after Caitlyn was killed. The same man who had beaten the Connemara half to death after he had been rounded up in the drift. A man whose stinginess was legendary and whose cruelty had given Poppy nightmares.

  Jenny's new owner was George Blackstone.

  Chapter Seven

  Poppy wrapped her coat tightly around her and huddled into the hedge as she waited for the school bus to trundle into view. The sky was granite grey and a bitterly cold wind was systematically stripping the trees of their few remaining leaves, whipping them into eddies at her feet.

  She checked the time on her phone. Ten to eight. The bus was due any minute and Scarlett was nowhere to be seen. She'd miss it at this rate. As if on cue, Poppy heard the unmistakable hiss of air breaks as the bus rounded the corner.

  ‘No Scarlett today?’ asked the bus driver, a cheery woman called Val who was also secretary of the local Women's Institute.

  Poppy shook her head. ‘I don't think she's sick. She would have told me otherwise.’

  ‘We'll give her a couple of minutes,’ Val said, letting the engine idle.

  Poppy smiled gratefully and found a seat. The window was clouded with condensation and she wiped the glass with her sleeve so she could watch for her best friend. She couldn't imagine buses in Twickenham waiting for anyone. The slower pace of life was one of the things she loved about Devon.

  ‘Here she is,’ said Val, throwing the gearstick into first.

  Scarlett jumped onto the bus, her face pink with exertion. ‘Thanks for waiting, Val,’ she panted. Spying Poppy, she slid into the seat beside her.

  ‘You were cutting it a bit fine,’ said Poppy.

  ‘I've run all the way. I wanted to show you this,’ Scarlett said, fishing about in her school bag. ‘It's today's Herald. You're famous!’

  Poppy grabbed the paper and stared at the front page photo. There she was, holding Delilah the pantomime donkey's lead rope. Standing either side of them were Chester, Jenny and the Shetland.

  ‘Sniffer Smith made us all line up for a photo at the end of the audition,’ she said gloomily. ‘Everyone's going to be taking the mickey at school.’

  ‘Never mind that! You know who that is, don't you?’ said Scarlett, her finger jabbing the newspaper.

  ‘The one and only George Blackstone. I remembered seeing him talking to Shelley Taylor at the dog show. Speaking of which, I had an email from Hope this morning. She's got a two-day-a-week share in a pony at a barn near her dad's. She's so excited.’

  Poppy scrolled down her phone to find the pictures of the bay gelding Hope had sent her and showed them to Scarlett.

  ‘I also had a text from Sam.’

  ‘Did you now?’ said Scarlett, raising her eyebrows.

  Poppy elbowed her best friend. ‘Stop stirring. He was just letting me know he has been picked as first reserve for the Pony European Championships squad. There are six in the squad so he'll only get to travel to Denmark if one of them is dropped.’

  ‘That's a shame.’

  ‘He doesn't seem to mind. I think he's just pleased to make it onto the team. And there's always next year.’

  ‘Georgia missed out. I wonder if she's recovered from her food poisoning,’ said Scarlett.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Poppy mildly. ‘All I know is that I'm going to have to ride over to Claydon on Saturday to get my new gloves. I must have left them in the arena when we were watching Sam jump.’

  Scarlett, who had got out a pen and was drawing horns and a beard on the photo of George Blackstone, tutted.

  ‘Well, don't think I'm coming with you. I have absolutely no desire to go there, thank you very much. You're on your own.�
�

  By Saturday the bitter wind had blown itself out and the morning was mild and murky. The kind of damp, dank day that made your hair frizz like wire wool.

  Poppy pulled on her best jodhpurs and gave her boots a quick polish before heading out to the stables. She'd turned Chester out after breakfast and the old donkey was grazing in the far corner of the field. Cloud, still in his stable, whinnied impatiently as she slammed the back door shut.

  ‘I know. But you'd only have rolled in the muddiest mud you could find and I want you looking smart for our trip to Claydon,’ Poppy said, offering him a carrot.

  She undid his rug and set to work, humming to herself as she groomed him from head to foot. Jodie had brought her clippers to Ashworthy the previous month and given both Cloud and Red trace clips. Charlie called them their go faster stripes.

  Poppy brushed the knots from Cloud's tail and gave his mane a quick pull. She scooted inside for a bucket of warm water and sponged his eyes and nostrils. Finally, she picked out his feet and oiled his hooves.

  She wasn't really sure why she was making such an effort. She knew that having a grey pony meant it was pointless getting precious about yellow feathers or the odd stable stain. Sometimes Cloud was so filthy he could easily be mistaken for a skewbald. She was used to being covered in grey hairs and laughed hollowly when Scarlett complained about keeping Red's four white socks clean. She had long ago come to terms with the fact that she was never likely to win a best turned out class. But Georgia and her pony were always so immaculate they could have stepped out of the pages of a riding magazine, and they left Poppy feeling inadequate.

  Not today, she thought with satisfaction as she tacked Cloud up and led him out of the stable. Today he looked a million dollars.

  They set off through the gate that led to the moor. Cloud felt fresh and full of energy and once they'd left Riverdale behind she gave him his head, relishing the cold air on her cheeks as they galloped past black-faced sheep, huddles of Dartmoor ponies and one lone backpack-clad rambler, trudging along a faraway ridge. By Poppy's reckoning Claydon Manor was almost an hour's ride away so they should make it there and back before lunch.