“Damn the moped and damn Monday,” I shouted. “You haven’t got a heart, Angus. You don’t give a damn where poor Killarney goes.” I threw my dirty plate in the sink and rushed upstairs.
Later, Mum rang from Geneva, but she was in a hurry so I didn’t tell her about Killarney, only that we were still alive, and eating properly, cleaning our teeth, and locking up before going to bed. She rang off, and I returned to bed filled with a great sadness which weighed on me as heavily as a load of bricks.
It was raining the next morning. Angus was up first, grooming Killarney, taking off his bandage, praying that he was sound. I turned Phantom straight into the orchard.
“I shall never sell him,” I told Angus. “He’s my best friend and one doesn’t sell friends.”
“No one would buy him anyway, he’s far too difficult,” replied Angus, laughing.
The church bells were ringing across the fields, telling us it was Sunday. Were they ringing in Geneva, too? I wondered.
“I suppose I had better clean his tack,” said my brother, rolling up a bandage.
“Please yourself,” I answered.
“Why don’t you go out for a ride, or something?” asked Angus. “I don’t need you.”
“I want to see where Killarney goes, so that when I make my fortune I can buy him back,” I answered.
“Great words,” said my brother.
I felt too upset for breakfast. Angus trotted Killarney along the road and he was still lame. Rain began falling in torrents from the sky.
“I wish he would come,” said Angus. “I want to clinch my deal over the moped.”
We returned indoors and made coffee. The church bells had stopped ringing. “Are you going to cook a joint?” asked Angus. “There’s one in the freezer.”
“No, how can I if it’s still frozen? We’ll eat ham out of a tin,” I answered disagreeably.
“I can see I need a girlfriend,” said Angus. “My shirt’s lost a button and my jeans are split.”
“Buy some new ones, then,” I said, going upstairs to brush my hair – then changing my shirt, wishing that my nose was straighten my brow higher; my legs thinner. Stupid Angus, I thought, he’s like a child of ten. And he’s a male chauvinist!
Soon after, a car turned into the yard and I rushed down to meet Geoff Craig and his daughter, who was called June. They were already looking at Killarney over his box door when I arrived, but Angus had the decency to say, “This is my sister, Jean.” They turned to smile at me and I saw that Geoff Craig had a bluff, unlined face, with eyes too small for his plump cheeks, and thick lips, and that June was wearing nail varnish and was slim with immaculate jodhs, long polished boots, a proper riding coat and gloves.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said without enthusiasm.
“He looks a good sort,” said Geoff Craig, referring to Killarney. “What do you think, June?”
“Yes, not bad at all,” she answered without much interest in her voice.
“Can we see him out?” asked Geoff Craig.
“Yes, of course,” said Angus.
They looked at Killarney for ages, and when June wasn’t looking at Killarney I could see her sizing up Angus, and I soon decided that she liked what she saw.
“Shall I trot him up?” asked Angus.
“Not too far if he’s lame, son,” said Geoff Craig. “We just want to see his action. That’s right, isn’t it, June?”
“Sure,” she said.
I thought of someone buying me a horse. I would be overcome with excitement, wildly enthusiastic.
I looked at June and she was studying her nails. “Have you many horses?” I asked.
“Only two or three,” she said.
“Why do you want Killarney then?”
“To bring on,” she said, looking at Angus again as though she was viewing him rather than Killarney.
“Well, what do you want to do – come again when he’s sound?” he asked.
We were all wet now – it was still raining.
“Let’s talk inside somewhere, shall we?” suggested Geoff Craig.
“Yes, of course, come indoors and have a drink,” said Angus, sounding like Dad. “Jean, take them in.”
I led the way indoors. The cottage was in a bit of a muddle.
“What will you drink?” I asked, going to the cupboard.
Geoff Craig chose whisky, his daughter wanted a gin and tonic. I went to the kitchen for ice. When I returned, Angus had arrived and was mixing the drinks. It was noon by this time and we all sat down and muttered “Cheers”. Angus was drinking beer. I had some lemonade although I didn’t really want anything to drink.
“Well, it’s like this,” began Geoff Craig after a short silence. “I like the horse. He’s just what we are looking for, but of course we haven’t tried him, so we don’t know how he goes, though I’m willing to take your word for it.”
“He’s super. I can guarantee that,” Angus said.
“And then, of course, he is lame and we don’t know why.”
“Exactly,” agreed Angus.
“And that’s the second drawback.”
“Yes, of course,” replied Angus.
“I tell you what,” said Geoff Craig, after rather a prolonged silence, when June stared solidly at Angus, who turned red, “I’m willing to buy him at a price; it’s a gamble, of course.”
“Wouldn’t you rather wait and have a vet’s certificate?” I asked. “We want him to have a good home, that counts more than anything else.”
“He’ll have that all right,” replied Geoff Craig. “I can promise you that. June looks after her horses like babies, don’t you, dear?”
She was studying her nails again, but she managed to say, “Yes, Dad.”
She’s an imbecile, I thought, and imbeciles are not capable of looking after horses. “I think it would be fairer to wait for a vet’s certificate,” I said.
Geoff Craig ignored me. He plunged his hand into his coat pocket and drew out a plastic bag. Taking notes from it, he said, “There is fifteen hundred pounds here in cash. How about it?” as though he was bestowing a gift on us.
I said, “It’s too little. He’s worth more than that.” But Angus was looking at the money and, as he looked, a cold shiver went down my spine and I thought: Oh no, he’s thinking of that moped and he’s going to say yes.
“Count it. Here, take it.”
The money was in Angus’s hands, fifty-pound notes, which Angus started to count.
“It’s too little,” I said again. “Killarney would be cheap at two thousand five hundred pounds. Even three thousand is a giveaway price. Fifteen hundred is absolutely ridiculous.”
“I don’t usually buy lame horses, but we’ve come a long way and we’ve got the trailer outside. I don’t want to go home empty-handed,” explained Geoff Craig, helping himself to more whisky as though he owned the place.
Angus was still counting. He looked mesmerised. I said, “We can’t sell at that price, Mr Craig,” but he ignored me.
June said, “He isn’t your horse.”
“He’ll have a lovely home, I promise you that he’ll want for nothing. We spoil our horses. My wife treats them like children – carrots on Sunday, sugar at teatime – you know what I mean, don’t you?”
Angus suddenly smiled, as though he had just won a mental battle and was going to announce his decision.
I felt faint with fear. I put my head in my hands and waited.
“Have some more beer, Angus,” said Geoff Craig. “Where’s the bottle? And how is your glass, June? Here, let me top it up.”
“We can’t sell Killarney for that price,” I said. “It’s far too little. It’s total madness.”
They continued talking as though I didn’t exist, and now they were laughing and I heard Angus say, “Yes, that’s all right if it’s a good home. Take him, it’ll save Dad the vet’s bills.” He put the money in his pocket and he didn’t look at me. Then they all shook hands, and June nodded farewell to me wit
h what I thought was triumph in her eyes. I looked at Angus and thought: Judas.
I followed them to the stable yard. It wasn’t raining any more. Killarney whinnied when he saw Angus, bringing tears to my eyes.
“You’re going to a new home, old fellow,” said Angus, putting on a head collar. “Now be a good chap and always do your best. I want to see your name in the papers – First, Killarney, ridden by Miss June Craig.” He smiled at June as he spoke and she smiled back.
Killarney followed Angus into the trailer, his wise eyes calm and trusting, while I stood numb with misery, suddenly speechless.
They tied him up. Angus threw up the ramp and they were still laughing. Then Geoff Craig turned to me and said, “Don’t worry, Jean, he’ll have the best home in the world, I promise you that.”
Angus waved them into the road and Phantom started to gallop round the orchard, neighing in a demented manner. I started to cry. Then Killarney neighed from the trailer and it was like a last farewell and I started to scream at Angus. “How could you? How could you sell him to them?”
He raised his eyebrows and said, “I don’t know what you mean.” There was laughter behind the words, which made me feel like murdering him.
“We don’t know them. You didn’t even ask where they lived,” I screamed.
“I shall be able to get my moped tomorrow,” Angus said, whistling. “You heard what they said – it’ll be a good home. Better fifteen hundred in hand than three thousand in the bush.” It was like beating your head against a brick wall. Angus refused to understand. He wanted his conscience to be clear; he didn’t want to feel guilty. He wanted his hands to feel clean.
Steam was rising from Phantom’s back. I caught him, pushed him into his box and slammed the doors, top and bottom.
“He won’t stay alone. I shall have to go down to the farm and get one of our ponies back to keep him company. I won’t bother with lunch,” I shouted after Angus’s retreating figure.
I threw water on my tear-stained face and found a jacket and two head collars. The rain had stopped. Everything was glistening and the birds were singing again. A rainbow stretched across the horizon and the sky was suddenly clear and everything smelled of spring. I stared at Killarney’s box, knowing that he would never look over the door again. Then I set off for the farm, thinking that in time I would feel better, and when I see Killarney’s name in the paper, I shall be able to say, “He used to be ours.” But it didn’t help.
4
Dominic’s farm lay in a valley. The house was built of brick and flint and there was a garden in the front with a wall round it where straight rows of vegetables grew. There was a large porch full of Wellington boots, and over everything hung the soothing smell of cow. Mr Barnes was large and weatherbeaten, with ruddy cheeks and grey hair. Mrs Barnes was tiny, and rushed hither and thither, rather like a hen scratching for worms. Dominic was somewhere between the two, of average height, with fair hair and blue-grey eyes. He was immensely strong. I had known him and his parents nearly all my life, and they had become as familiar as the landscape. In fact, until today, I had never really thought about them, they were just there, like a tree or a hill.
I banged on the doorknocker while a cat purred round my legs and a dog barked. Mrs Barnes opened the door. “Oh, hello, Jean,” she said. “Come in.”
“I won’t, if you don’t mind. Is Dominic around?” I asked.
The house smelled of Sunday lunch and though I wasn’t hungry, or thought I wasn’t, my mouth started to water. Mrs Barnes was wearing an apron and bedroom slippers. She wore her hair in a plait round her head.
“Dominic, it’s Jean,” she called.
His boots were in the porch, and he was in his socks, a thick pullover and corduroy trousers.
“Hello, Jean,” he said.
“I wondered if I could take one of the ponies home,” I asked. “Killarney’s gone.” And though I was trying to be sensible, there was a croak in my voice.
“Gone?” asked Dominic, putting on his boots.
“Sold.”
“That’s a shame,” he said. “Which pony do you want to take?”
“Well, not Mermaid because your cousin rides her, doesn’t she?” I asked.
“Yes, she does. But she is your pony, Jean,” he answered.
“So I suppose Moonlight and Twilight.”
“Tell you what,” said Dominic, leading the way to the ponies’ field. “Why not separate them? It’s time they were parted. Why, Twilight is more than a year now, isn’t he? I’ll come with you, Jean, to make it easier and then I’ll bring Moonlight back. How about it?”
“But what about your lunch?” I asked.
“That can keep,” he answered, and started to call the ponies.
Mermaid was small and dapple-grey, like a rocking-horse. Moonlight – Angus’s old pony – was a lighter, roany grey and bigger. Twilight, her foal, was pinky roan with a dear little star on her forehead.
“Here, you take Twilight and I’ll go first with Moonlight,” said Dominic. “It’s a nice day for a walk.”
The Barneses are always busy and yet somehow they always have time to help anyone in trouble. Time and time again they have come to our rescue, towing our car with a tractor, delivering hay in a snowstorm, looking after our ponies when we’ve been away. Dad calls them the salt of the earth.
We led the ponies across the fields to Sparrow Cottage and, as we walked, we talked.
“I’m sorry Killarney’s gone, Jean,” said Dominic. “Who bought him?”
“A man called Geoff Craig. His daughter hopes to win some events on him I think. I didn’t like them much.” And my stupid voice came out shaky, because I was still upset and near to tears. “I hate discussing it,” I said. “I don’t want it mentioned.”
“Did you say Geoff Craig?” asked Dominic.
“Yes,” I shouted, trying to walk ahead because I was crying again.
“How come?”
“What do you mean, how come?” I asked.
“Well, he trades in horsemeat,” said Dominic.
I stopped in my tracks and said, “What do you mean?” again, while hammers seemed to be pounding in my head and every bit of me wanted to cry, “It isn’t true!”
“He’s always at the market. He buys up half the horses every month. He’s got the horsemeat business buttoned up. He ships the meat to Europe. The Shetlands go to Holland because they like little ponies for their sausages; the others go to France and Belgium. Didn’t you know, Jean?” asked Dominic.
“No.” I felt quite speechless and now I was shivering. “But he brought his daughter with him,” I said, after a short silence.
“Oh, everyone knows her – June, isn’t it? Quite a reputation in town. Mind you, she can ride, Jean. She’s won quite a lot. She keeps her horses a little way from those condemned to die. By the way, what made Angus sell Killarney in the first place?”
“It’s a long story. He wants a moped,” I replied miserably, sick with anguish.
“I could have let him have one, Jean. I’ve got one in a shed at the back of the house. I’m sick of the darned thing,” said Dominic.
I remembered Killarney leaving; the way he had looked at Angus and trusted him. And Angus had betrayed that trust.
“What are we going to do?” I asked. “Are you sure he will go for meat?”
“Yes, Jean, because June has several horses already – she wouldn’t want another. I would have bought Killarney if you had offered him to me. I had no idea he was for sale. How much did you get?”
I was ashamed to tell him. “Fifteen hundred miserable pounds,” I answered. “Too little, far too little. I told Angus so, but he had the money in his hands, lots of miserable, grubby fifty-pound notes.”
“Has Angus gone mad, Jean?” Dominic asked.
“I don’t know. Our parents are away. I thought we were going to have a lovely time riding, but it’s been awful, horrible …”
We reached our cottage. Phantom was still pound
ing round his box. I opened the top door, and, seeing Moonlight and Twilight, he neighed. “I’ll put him out in the orchard,” I said.
We put Moonlight in Killarney’s old box and turned the other two out. They pounded round the orchard like mustangs, Twilight tiny with a sweet stumpy tail, Phantom gleaming gold and silver, more beautiful than any other horse I had ever known. Moonlight ate hay, unperturbed.
“I think she’s glad to be rid of her. She’s an awful tease,” said Dominic, looking at Twilight with affection. “Well, I must be going now, Jean,” he said, a minute later.
“Not yet, not until we’ve decided something. We can’t let Killarney go for meat,” I cried.
“Do you want to buy him back, then?” asked Dominic.
“Yes, definitely,” I cried.
Dominic said, “I’ll tell you what we will do then, Jean. I’ll borrow the Land Rover and we’ll go to the abattoir first thing, and we’ll wait for him to come in.”
“And then … ?” I asked.
“We’ll say he was bought under false pretences and make one hell of a row,” said Dominic.
“Do you think it will work?”
“It will have to, won’t it, Jean? It’s lucky you sold him on a Sunday, or he might be dead already. Geoff Craig only keeps the thin ones, he fattens them, but Killarney has plenty of flesh on him,” said Dominic.
“Where is the abattoir?” I asked.
“Fifty miles from here, and it opens early, so you had better be up at six,” replied Dominic.
“We’ll pay for the fuel.”
“We’ll talk about that later.” Dominic was leading Moonlight away.
“Will you hoot or something?” I asked.
“Yes, at the gate. Be ready. And eat some breakfast – abattoirs are sickening places at the best of times,” answered Dominic. “And don’t forget the money.”
I walked indoors, longing for the comforting presence of our parents, who would have known what to do, who could manage Angus.
“Killarney’s gone for meat,” I cried, my voice still shaky with emotion. “Do you hear? – for meat!”
Phantom Horse 4: Phantom Horse in Danger Page 3