Christine Pullein-Thompson
PHANTOM
HORSE
ISLAND MYSTERY
AWARD PUBLICATIONS LIMITED
ISBN 978-1-84135-929-8
Text copyright © Christine Pullein-Thompson
Illustrations copyright © Award Publications Limited
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Illustrations by Eric Rowe
Cover illustration by Jennifer Bell
This digital edition first published 2012
Published by Award Publications Limited, The Old Riding School, The Welbeck Estate, Worksop, Nottinghamshire, S80 3LR
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Contents
Title
Copyright
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
More Phantom Horse Adventures
1
It was summer. We were sitting in the garden with the hum of the bumblebees in our ears and the apple blossom like snow upon the grass.
“Must you go? Can’t you say no for once?” I asked.
Dad shook his head. “I wish I could, but it’s a matter of life and death,” he said.
“It always is,” said Angus with bitterness in his voice.
“We’ll miss all the shows, and Phantom is just ready. He’s at his peak. You realise that, don’t you?” I asked.
“Stop it, do you hear? Stop it!” cried Mum. “It’s your father’s duty to go, and my duty to go with him.”
“I know what we can do,” said Angus. “I’ve thought it all out. There’s this most marvellous place in Scotland where you can be coached. Couldn’t you send us there?”
“Coached? Coached in what?” asked Dad, sitting up straight on his sun-lounger.
“In almost anything actually,” replied Angus, suddenly sounding confident.
“In maths? Can you be coached in maths?” asked Mum.
“Yes, and in pottery and sailing, and you can be taught high-class riding, the sort Jean likes – dressage, instructors’ certificates, the lot. It’s in the Sunday paper. Hang on, I’ll get it,” finished Angus, disappearing at high speed.
Phantom grazed in the orchard, gold and silver, beautiful beyond words. I saw myself learning dressage, returning, riding in horse trials. I imagined Scotland – purple hills, grey houses, men in kilts, bagpipes playing.
“Here’s the article about it – look, I’ve marked it,” said Angus, handing Dad a Sunday paper. “The school is called The Island School and College of Further Education. The headmaster is a Mr Carli.”
“What a romantic name for a school,” said Mum.
We watched Dad reading the newspaper report. There were dark circles under his eyes. I suddenly realised that he did not want to leave home once again; that Mum was right. He was only going because it was his job. Sparrow Cottage dreamed behind us in the summer sun. We all loved it, but if you work for the Foreign Office you go where you are sent.
“It seems all right on the surface. What do you think, darling?” he asked, handing Mum the paper.
Over her shoulder, I read an article about a school on an island called Uaine where you could ride, swim and snorkel; where you could be coached in maths, French and Latin; where seals played on white sand and sheep grazed the hills. It sounded fantastic.
“It will be very expensive,” Mum said. “So you must make full use of the amenities.”
“We’ll have to get some references. You can’t just go off into the blue for five weeks,” Dad said.
But they were pleased. “It’s a solution anyway. A bearable one, and much better than having Aunt Nina again,” muttered Angus.
“And not too far for Phantom,” I added.
“I suppose you have to take him?” asked Dad.
“Yes, he’ll be turned into a dressage horse and come back worth thousands,” I answered. “Besides, I always take him.”
“And Killarney will go to Dominic, because Scotland isn’t his sort of country,” said Angus.
I thought of Dominic, who loved grey Killarney, riding him through the tall beech woods; Dominic who was our best friend, sometimes our only friend, and I felt very happy.
“I can’t wait to go,” I decided. “I’ve never lived on an island before. Will there be cars?”
“We’ll find out. I’ll write straight away,” replied Dad, leaping to his feet. “I envy you; it’s going to be much more fun than the Middle East.”
I think I should explain that Dad is a sort of diplomatic troubleshooter. He assesses difficult situations abroad and reports back to the government. Mum goes with him because they are also expected to socialise, and because she thinks Dad needs her.
We went to the local comprehensive school, and Angus had failed his maths after a retake in the autumn. If extra coaching at The Island School could get him through the exam, our parents wouldn’t hesitate to send him.
A week later a letter came back with photographs of a grey house with turrets at each end, and of prefabricated classrooms. There was a list of courses you could follow – pottery and needlework, riding and swimming, as well as more academic subjects. There were letters from satisfied clients and photographs of Highland ponies, teachers – including the headmaster – lined up by a stately front door, and a dormitory with duvets on the beds.
Dad said, “It’s qualifications which count and there seem plenty here,” in satisfied tones.
“What about a bit of domestic science, Jean?” suggested Mum.
I shook my head. “I just want to ride,” I said, “to become really good at dressage and pass my A Test with the Pony Club.”
“We’ll put you down for domestic science anyway,” Mum said. “It will be for life.”
“Not for me, please. When I have my riding school I won’t have time for anything but horses,” I replied.
Later I tacked up Phantom and rode to the farm where our friend Dominic lived.
When I had finished telling him about Uaine, he said, “So you’re off again, Jean. You’ll miss the local horse show. Don’t you mind about that?”
“Yes, but this is going to be the experience of a lifetime, and there are more important things than shows,” I answered, quoting Mum.
“You could have stayed with us,” he said.
“I’ll write. I’ll send you gorgeous postcards.”
“You’ll miss Milestone and his rider; they’re coming to demonstrate to the Pony Club,” continued Dominic. “You know, he’s the greatest Australian showjumper of all time. The team is in Britain for the summer, competing in all the big shows and getting ready for the next Olympics.”
“You always miss something if you go away; it’s inevitable,” I said.
“Well, you know I’m here if you need me. You’ve got the number?” said Dominic.
“I know it by heart,” I replied.
“How’s Phantom travelling then?”
“Dad’s fixing him up. He’s got this marvellous secretary who can fix anything.”
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Dominic looked at me with his grey-blue eyes. “Be careful,” he said. “Scots can be awkward at times.”
“Mum’s Scottish and she’s never awkward,” I said. “Angus will be bringing Killarney over tomorrow. You do want him, don’t you? You can ride him at the show. He’s entered and he’s sure to be placed in the hunter class.”
I was disappointed with Dominic. I had wanted him to share my excitement, to be envious. But he never went anywhere because it was always milking time, or harvest time, or time for drilling, so he knew nothing about discovering new places.
“I’ll write,” I said, turning Phantom round. “Don’t work too hard.”
“I’ll keep an eye on the cottage. Have a good time.”
Dominic stood waving as I rode away: fair-haired, tall and immensely strong. I wish he would travel, I thought, then he would have something to talk about besides the sugar beet and the calving. He’s becoming staid and dull, and he’s only eighteen.
Soon we were packing. We were going by train to a town called Teanga and then across the sea to Uaine. Phantom was going to Perth with two brood mares and then on by private plane. Incredibly, the school had its own plane which could be used to carry horses. Mr Carli, the headmaster, had arranged Phantom’s journey while on the phone to Dad.
“They won’t load him,” I said over and over again. “They’ll never get him beyond Perth.”
But no one would listen to me.
Dad was so busy doing ’paperwork’ on the Middle East that we hardly saw him, and Mum was occupied taking valuables to the bank and buying clothes suitable for a hot climate.
Angus and I packed nearly all our clothes – I had warm jerseys, summer clothes, my riding hat, two pairs of jodhpurs, three pairs of jeans, my one and only summer dress, a swimsuit and a bikini, plus shoes, pants, riding boots and a host of other things. When I had finished my case weighed a ton. Then I started packing for Phantom.
Angus rode Killarney down to the farm while I groomed Phantom because I wanted him to arrive bright and shining, like gold. All the time I was imagining the island with seals sunning themselves on rocks, and the cry of gulls. Phantom was fidgety, as though he knew we were soon to be moving on, and every few minutes he neighed for Killarney.
“You’re going on a plane,” I told him. “Be sensible, keep calm. It’s going to be all right.” But he only stared into the distance and neighed.
Next day he followed me up the ramp into a horse box, calm and trusting. I hated leaving him. It was like a betrayal.
“Don’t worry,” said the driver, “we’ll take good care of him.”
“He won’t go on the plane,” I said, my eyes suddenly full of ridiculous tears. “I know he won’t …”
“He will. I’ve never failed to load a horse yet,” replied the driver, climbing into the cab, reversing, and driving away into a bright summer morning and to Scotland.
“You’re not crying, are you?” asked Angus, staring at me suspiciously.
“No, I’m not,” I insisted. “Why would I cry?”
I rushed indoors, imagining Phantom fighting on a runway, until in desperation he fell over backwards and broke his neck. I imagined a message arriving, saying simply: Horse dead. Letter following. I wished I had gone with him.
“All right? Has he gone?” asked Mum, combing her hair in front of the hall mirror.
“Yes.”
“You’re not crying, are you?” she asked, turning round. “Oh, Jean, you are a goose. He’ll be all right.”
“He won’t get on the plane. I know he won’t,” I cried.
“He’ll be all right. I know he will,” she said.
“I should have gone with him.”
“You know you couldn’t. There wasn’t room,” said Mum, putting an arm round me. “Cheer up. You’ll be there yourself in two days.”
Next morning the telephone rang.
I stood shouting, “Telephone!” then answered it myself, certain that it was from Perth airport telling me that Phantom had slipped on the runway and was dead.
“It’s Mr Carli,” a voice said, “the headmaster of The Island School. I rang to say your horse has arrived and is in good shape.” His voice was soothing; the kind doctors use when they are explaining something to a patient.
“Thank you, Mr Carli, thank you very much,” I answered.
“Is that Jean?”
“Yes.”
“We look forward to having you. Have a good journey,” said Mr Carli.
I put down the receiver and rushed into the garden, shouting, “Phantom’s arrived. He’s all right. The headmaster rang. He sounds nice, very nice. He must have known how I felt. He must be nice to ring like that. He must be fond of horses …”
“Must you be so exaggerated, Jean? Phantom is only a horse,” Dad said wearily, looking up from a pile of papers.
“But he’s arrived. He’s there waiting for me. I’m going to get everything ready in the hall. What time do we leave tomorrow?”
“Not until six in the evening. You’re booked into a sleeper on the train,” said Dad with a sigh, returning to his papers.
We checked everything. Counted our money for the tenth time – we each had plenty, because there might be no bank on the island. I put a book called Dressage From Novice to Prix St George by H. Goodfellow in my hand luggage, and Angus packed old maths papers.
We went to bed and I dreamed I was in a cave with no way out, and Phantom was drowning in dark, oily waters. I was thankful when morning came at last, pale pink and grey. The orchard looked empty without our horses, while far away the roar of commuter traffic was already beginning.
The day dragged. Mum and Dad packed, we locked the windows and put out the oil-fired Aga in the kitchen.
“We will simply drop you,” Dad said. “Go straight to platform five; we will be going on to the airport.”
“Mr Carli will meet you at Teanga,” Mum told us. “Don’t talk to strangers.”
Then at last it was time to go. We took sandwiches with us and a flask of coffee. Our parents’ suitcases were labelled and Mum wore a strange hat and a new blue suit. The station was crowded when we reached it.
“I’m parked on a double yellow line. Go,” shouted Dad, as we fumbled with our luggage and kissed Mum goodbye.
Our train was in. Angus started to sing. I thought of Phantom waiting for me somewhere on an island as I turned to wave a final goodbye to Mum and Dad.
“Hurry, let’s find where we are,” shouted Angus, running along the train. “This is going to be the best holiday ever, except for the maths.”
“It will be like going home,” I answered. “I wish our Scottish granny was still alive …”
“We’re free,” said Angus, leaning out of a window. “For a whole month we can do what we like, except for maths. I’ve packed Grandpa’s binoculars, the ones he had in the war. I’m going to bird-watch.”
I wondered if it was true, if we were really free, and, as the train left the station, whether it was even possible to be really free.
“Stop thinking about Phantom, look at the scenery,” cried Angus. “Wasn’t it clever of me to find the place? Aren’t you grateful?”
“Yes. But we aren’t there yet,” I said.
“The mountains and the sea will meet; there will be salmon and lobster for dinner, and handsome young men who will flatter you,” Angus said. “It will be a holiday to remember.”
2
As we drew near the end of our journey, the train stopped more often, picking up ladies with shopping bags, children with buckets and spades, men with fishing-tackle. Then we could glimpse the sea. There were wild, beautiful hills and the cry of gulls, and low crofts perched among the hills like birds nesting. Then we could see tall masts and almost smell the sea. We stood at the corridor window, staring out on a wide bay.
“We had better get our things,” said Angus, his voice trembling with excitement. “We’re almost there.”
The ticket collector walked down
the platform calling, “Teanga. All change!” Children ran down the corridor; their voices high-pitched with excitement. A woman pushed past us with two terriers on a lead. Doors were being flung open. We seized our cases, while outside voices called, “Hello. Did you have a good journey?” Then a child’s voice cried, “Granny!”
We threw our cases out. The air was soft on our faces.
“That must be him. Look, over there. He’s looking at us,” cried Angus.
Mr Carli was tall, with dark hair which was silver at the temples. He had a scar which ran down one cheek like the cut of a knife. He held out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said. “Did you have a good journey?”
We nodded, suddenly tongue-tied. His handshake nearly left my hand in pieces. His face was deeply lined, but there was an air of energy about him which made his age impossible to guess. He wore a gold cross inside his summer shirt, cotton trousers and sandals.
“Phantom is grand, Jean,” he said, taking my case. “He’s settled in just fine.”
There were cars waiting for a ferry. The houses on the edge of Teanga met the hills and were lost amid the heather. The sun shone on our backs.
“This way,” said Mr Carli, “I’m taking you. I have my own boat. That’s Uaine.” He pointed across a shimmering sea to an island shaped like a Cornish pasty, but green and purple instead of pastry-coloured, with hills, bays and trees, and the white spray of the sea breaking against her rocks. “Jump in. We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” said Mr Carli.
“What a wonderful place!” exclaimed Angus. “How did you find it? You’re not Scottish, are you?”
Mr Carli shook his head. “I wanted to escape, to leave behind the noise and the bustle. Uaine is my newest venture. I’m still developing it. Next year there will be chalets, a heated swimming pool, and a covered riding-school, Jean.” He turned to smile at me and his eyes were the strangest I had ever seen, very dark with large pupils. They seemed to be somewhere else even while they looked at you.
Phantom Horse 5: Phantom Horse – Island Mystery Page 1