Angus was watching television with a plate of sausages and chips on his knees.
“How do you know?” he asked.
“Angus,” I screamed. “While you sit there watching that stupid film, Killarney could be being skinned, only it’s Sunday …”
“But how do you know?” asked Angus, following me into the kitchen. And suddenly I felt weary with emotion and an awful nagging sense of guilt.
“Because Geoff Craig deals in horsemeat,” I said.
“And June?”
“What does June matter?” I shouted. “She keeps her horses just a little separate and I dare say if they don’t win enough or have the misfortune to go lame, they go for meat too. She’s hard, can’t you see? She has to be, or she couldn’t stand it, could she?” I cried.
“Who told you this?”
“Dominic, and he’s taking us to the abattoir tomorrow morning at six. He knows where it is. He knows everything. I feel such a fool by comparison,” I cried. “And he’ll buy Killarney, I think, and he’s got a moped for you …”
Angus then fell into a chair and hid his face, and I knew he was crying. I had not seen Angus cry for years and I didn’t know what to say. After a time he started to wail, “I thought they were all right. I thought June was nice. I thought he would have a good home. How could they lie like that? The filthy swines, how could they?”
I put the kettle on while he continued moaning and crying, “God, how I hate myself, I’ll never touch that filthy money as long as I live. It’s like poison now. I’m going to wash my hands, they feel contaminated by it …”
He disappeared upstairs while I made myself a sandwich. The day seemed to have lasted for years already, though it was only half-past two. I wished it was tomorrow now, that we were already travelling to the abattoir in Mr Barnes’s battered green Land Rover. The night will be agony, I thought, and what shall we do with the rest of the day, with this hanging over us? I knew that there was nothing worse in the world than waiting, waiting for another day to dawn before we could solve our problem, not knowing whether we would succeed.
Later our parents rang us.
“Don’t tell them anything, Jean,” cried Angus. “Please.”
So I said that everything was all right and that we were eating lots of food and that Mrs Parkin was super. Afterwards, when they had rung off, Angus said, “Thank you. I don’t want to worry them. It would be different if they could do anything, but they can’t.”
I decided to leave Phantom out for the night as spring had really come at last, and we spent the evening watching television. But I didn’t really see it for I kept imagining Killarney’s grey body hanging in an abattoir while men in blood-stained coats sharpened knives and hatchets to turn it into meat for the French. Then tears blinded my vision.
I don’t think Angus took much in either, for he sat with his hands clasped together so tight that the knuckles showed white, and at every noise he jumped like a nervous horse in a strange field. At ten o’clock we decided to go to bed.
“I shan’t sleep,” said Angus. “I shall never sleep as long as Killarney’s with Geoff Craig.”
I nearly said, “And when he’s dead, will you sleep then?”
We set our clocks for half past five and crawled into our beds, sick with guilt and sadness. For a time I lay there, waiting for sleep to come, but I could see nothing but Killarney dying in terrifying circumstances. Finally, I knelt on my bedside mat and prayed, “Please, God, save Killarney. Please let us have him back safe and sound.”
Then I climbed into bed again. My room was full of moonlight, and I thought that Dominic Barnes was one of the nicest people I’d ever met, and if anyone could save Killarney he could. But it didn’t help. Anxiety gnawed at my stomach and I thought of Mum coming back and listening to our sad tale, and Dad threatening to sue Geoff Craig for buying Killarney under false pretences. Then I thought: If I hadn’t made Killarney lame by my prayers he would be with Lindsay Turtle now, and so it’s all my fault – and then, at last, I slept.
5
I woke before my alarm clock rang, to the sound of birds singing fit to burst their lungs. In the orchard Twilight neighed for her mother. I leaped out of bed and rushed to Angus’s room.
“It’s time to get up. We’re going to the abattoir!” I shouted, beating on his door with my fists. I was glad to have the night behind me, to be setting out to save Killarney, for while there’s life there’s hope, as doctors say.
“Go away. I’m awake,” said Angus. “It’s only half past five.”
I dressed in jeans, a checked shirt and a blue sweater. I rushed downstairs and put the kettle on to boil. Oh, for time to pass, I thought, to be nearly there. Why does time pass so slowly when you want it to pass quickly, and when you want to linger because you’re happy, it passes in a flash? It isn’t fair, I felt, while making some toast for myself.
The sky outside was rosy with the light of dawn. It was a day for hope, not despair, and it affected me. Everything seemed better this morning: more hopeful. It was as though salvation lay at hand.
“Why do you always get up half an hour earlier than necessary?” asked Angus, appearing in the kitchen. “I wouldn’t mind so much if you left me asleep, but you never do.”
He looked more hopeful too. His face had lost its anguish.
“Have you got any money?” he asked next.
“Only fifty pence.”
“We had better rob the housekeeping then,” he replied.
“Remember to bring all those grubby notes,” I said.
“I’m not an imbecile. And what if the abattoir men are paying a lot more?”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Dominic will think of something,” I said, after a moment.
“You talk of him as though he were God,” replied Angus.
“At least he helps and cares about us,” I answered. “If you ask me, he’s our one and only friend.”
“Your friend,” said Angus.
“You don’t like him, do you?” I asked.
“Not much.”
I wanted to say all sorts of things but I didn’t. The day was too lovely for argument and our errand too desperate. I went upstairs and helped myself to twenty pounds out of the money Mum had left locked in a cupboard. Then I ate breakfast, washed up, tidied the kitchen, and it was still only five minutes to six.
“Let’s lock up and wait outside,” I suggested, to which Angus agreed.
Phantom and Twilight were still close to one another. An energetic man in a track suit was running down our lane. The sky was blue, patterned with small floating clouds.
“Here he is,” said Angus.
Dominic stopped the Land Rover. “Hop in,” he said.
He was wearing a checked cap. He looked like a sporting farmer and older than his seventeen years.
“I’m afraid it makes rather a noise,” he said, referring to the Land Rover. “It’s getting on a bit now.”
Angus grunted in reply.
“We had Mike Davis out in the night to a calving cow. He said that your horse was lame on Saturday – was he really sound by Sunday?”
“No,” I said.
“I don’t suppose you’ll ever understand how horribly plausible Geoff Craig was,” said Angus. “He even told lies while he was drinking Dad’s whisky. He took me in all the way; so did June. I thought she was shy but I suppose she was just hideously embarrassed.”
“I expect she earned twenty quid for helping,” said Dominic. “She never does anything for nothing.”
“Is Moonlight all right?” I asked.
“Yes, fine. Have you brought the money?”
Angus nodded.
“What if Killarney doesn’t turn up?” I asked. “We’ll have to think again.”
We passed through a town and then on to a motorway where lorries belched fumes and angry businessmen hooted at slower drivers.
“Peace, perfect peace, with dear ones far away,” said Angus, to no one in particular.
; “I know Geoff Craig,” said Dominic presently. “I see him in the market every time there’s a horse sale and I always want to bash his head in. He buys all the sweet little ponies, and the old ones with years of work behind them who deserve a holiday before they die. He even buys mares and foals sometimes, and they say he buys stolen horses too, though no one has caught him yet – and he’s made a fortune. He drives a Mercedes. He makes me want to vomit. Those pink cheeks should be turned black and blue, that’s my opinion, anyway. What do you think, Jean?”
“I think he should be stopped, and the sooner the better,” I replied.
It was now seven o’clock. Dominic looked at his watch and said, “The abattoir opens early. I’m not sure of the exact time, but I think it’s about seven-thirty.”
“How many more miles is it?” asked Angus.
“About twenty.”
We left the motorway. Dominic drove with great confidence, but then he’d been driving round the farm for years.
“This road tends to be a bit slow, it’s all corners,” he said. “Luckily it doesn’t go on for long.”
Angus sat silently, his hands knotted together. At times I thought he was praying. Then we left the twisty road and entered a town. We crossed a river and travelled through miles of neat suburbs, where dustbins stood on pavements, waiting to be collected.
“Not much further now,” said Dominic.
And suddenly I realised I was frightened; frightened of not finding Killarney, of being too late, or simply of failing. At the same moment Dominic swore and pulled into the side of the road.
“No petrol,” he said. “The pump must have packed up.”
He jumped out of the Land Rover and threw up the bonnet. Sunlight danced on the windscreen. On each side, the gardens were full of crocuses and blossoming shrubs.
“Is it serious?” I asked, getting out. “Will we ever make it?”
“No problem, it’s packed up before. I’ll get it going,” said Dominic, fetching a spanner from a box under the front seat.
“Shall I go to a garage?” asked Angus.
“Hang on.”
But for how long? I thought.
“Try switching it on now. Turn the key.” Angus was in the driver’s seat, trying, but it wouldn’t start.
“Could we walk and catch a bus?” I asked.
“Please shut up. I’m doing my best,” said Dominic. His cap was in the road, his hands covered with oil.
“What about pushing it?” asked Angus.
“It hasn’t got a flat battery, so pushing won’t help,” cried Dominic in an exasperated voice.
Two children ran past us, laughing. People locked their front doors and set off for work. My heart was pounding against my ribs. I wanted to run on ahead – to do something – to be of some use.
“Try the starter again, Angus,” said Dominic.
The engine groaned and died.
“I’m going to walk, catch a bus, hitch. Where is the abattoir? What’s the address?” I cried.
“And what will you do there all by yourself, Jean?” asked Dominic with a smile behind his eyes. “Do you think you’re a match for that lot?”
“It will be better than doing nothing, than standing here until it’s too late,” I answered. “He could be going in now. They could be killing him now, at this very moment. Can’t we hire a car or call a garage? I’ve got twenty pounds.”
Dominic ignored me. His face looked shut. He was concentrating on one thing – getting the Land Rover going. Angus passed him tools, neither of them spoke.
“Okay, try again,” said Dominic. “Go on, keep trying.”
Now we could all hear the petrol pump ticking; Angus revved up the engine, Dominic and I leaped in, then we were moving again, racing through the flowery suburb, ignoring the speed limit.
“We’ll soon be there,” said Dominic, turning to smile at me. “And we won’t be too late. I bet you my best boots that Geoff Craig never rises before eight!”
We left the suburbs behind and drove along a road lined with factories. We passed an old car dump, a collection of gypsy caravans, and a tethered donkey.
Then we reached another town, turned left towards a murky river and stopped.
“Is this it?” asked Angus.
“Just about, just round the corner. Any questions or ideas?” asked Dominic.
“Nothing much,” said Angus.
“We just rush in then, like the Charge of the Light Brigade?” suggested Dominic, starting the engine again.
We drove across concrete to a wide open space. I saw big corrugated iron doors, a horse box, men arguing. I looked at Dominic and said, “Are we in time?”
Dominic was on the ground, looking about him.
I felt frozen to my seat, unable to move. There was no Killarney, no horse to be seen, just arguing men and a bright April day, with the sun shining over the murky river.
Dominic went across to the men. I watched them talking. Then he came back.
“They’re on strike,” he cried, beginning to laugh. “They aren’t killing anything today, or tomorrow. They have put in a claim for twenty pounds more a week and the management won’t pay it.”
“Aren’t there other abattoirs?” asked Angus after a moment.
“They’re all on strike,” cried Dominic, laughing. “The whole lot.”
He climbed into the Land Rover again.
“We should have listened to the news; I usually do. It might have saved us a journey,” he said, still laughing. “Can’t you see? We’ve got two days at least now. We’ve got time to make a plan, to save Killarney and who knows what else …”
He turned the Land Rover. I looked for piles of hooves, for rotting skulls, but there was nothing.
The abattoir was quite near civilisation but it seemed that no one knew or cared. Why don’t people parade with placards saying STOP THE KILLING OF HORSES FOR MEAT NOW, I wondered. Why doesn’t someone do something?
“People say we eat cattle, so why not horses?” said Dominic, as though he had read my thoughts.
“But you don’t ride cattle, persuade them to trust you, share your life with them. You don’t love them or tell them you’re their friend.”
“Exactly,” agreed Angus. “But what do we do next?”
“Make a plan – did Geoff Craig tell you where he lived?” asked Dominic.
Angus shook his head.
“Well, Dad will know,” said Dominic.
We had reached the suburbs again. We seemed to be travelling much faster than before. Dominic stopped to fill up with petrol and I handed him one of the ten-pound notes. He handed it back again.
“Don’t be silly,” said Angus. “You must take it.”
“But I’m going to do well out of it,” answered Dominic. “Because I want to buy Killarney for fifteen hundred pounds. I want to hunt and ride him in point-to-points. Dad’s old chaser is really past it and I’ve always envied your Killarney. I’m not doing this for love, you know, though Jean can ride him in the Ladies’ Race if she likes. I want the horse.”
Angus looked a little askance at this.
“And you can have my moped thrown in for nothing,” Dominic added. “I hate the thing. I’d rather have a horse any day.”
“Nothing is that simple,” replied Angus.
“Well, it is for me. Perhaps being a farmer brings one down to earth. I see black and white, not grey. Call and ride my horses any time, Jean,” Dominic said. “They don’t get enough exercise. And you too, Angus, if you can spare the time.”
We thanked him and fell silent.
Dominic dropped us at the cottage shortly after nine o’clock.
“Why don’t you come down to my place this evening? Mum will give you a spot of tea and then we can make a plan afterwards. Say after milking, about six – how’s that?” he asked.
“Great,” I replied, before Angus had time to speak.
“Six o’clock then.”
We watched him drive away.
“He�
�s arrogant,” said Angus.
“But kind,” I answered.
“I don’t know whether to let him have Killarney or not, because I want him back now. It’s just that after exams it would be nice to go abroad for a bit,” Angus said.
“But we haven’t got him back yet. We may never get him back. Geoff Craig may refuse to sell. Haven’t you thought of that?”
“Of course I have,” replied Angus.
When we went inside we found Mrs Parkin cleaning the cottage, so I decided to school Phantom in the paddock. He still wasn’t stopping straight and his canter lacked cadence.
Angus rang up the people who were keeping the moped for him. “I can’t buy it,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” But he didn’t sound sorry.
I ate bread and cheese washed down with tea before catching Phantom. The day still felt full of hope, and everywhere plants were breaking into bud, the leaves were new and green on the trees, and the grass was pushing through the mud of winter, thin and weak but still there.
Phantom liked work. He would be a good circus horse. He learned very quickly, but this also had disadvantages, for he was capable of learning a dressage test in no time at all, and then he anticipated everything and his movements became abrupt and jerky instead of calm and balanced.
When I had finished schooling it was lunchtime. Mrs Parkin had made steak and kidney pie, and rhubarb crumble. “I can see you haven’t been eating properly. You look terrible,” she said.
“Thank you very much, but it’s something else making us look terrible,” Angus replied.
After lunch he showed me a piece of paper on which was written:
SAVING KILLARNEY. Suggestions.
1. Offer to buy him back – this is unlikely to succeed.
2. Sue for purchase under false pretences. This will take too long.
3. Steal. This is unlawful.
“So you see, there’s nothing we can do,” he said mournfully, when I had read it. “We have absolutely no basis for getting Killarney back.”
“We must keep thinking. Dominic may have an idea,” I answered.
Phantom Horse 4: Phantom Horse in Danger Page 4