A HORSE CALLED SEPTEMBER

by Anne Digby

  Feeling weak at the knees, Mary tip-toed over to September and flung her arms round his neck. The words had been like music to her ears.

  'Everything's all right, September,' she whispered. 'It really is. You're still Anna's horse and you always will be. They won't be sending you away from Chestnut Farm – they can't. And once Anna's been home a few days, everything will be just like it always was!'

  In the week that Anna was due home, Mr Dewar took September round the jumps only once more. It could not have been a happier occasion. September, knowing that Mary was happy, and that his mistress was returning at any moment, was tranquil and eager to please. His rider, too, was more relaxed and good-humoured than Mary had seen him all summer. Now that Anna had won the Imperial Trophy, Mr Dewar's hopes for her winning the Western Counties' Championship had returned in full flood.

  'Well, what did you think of him, Mary?' he asked afterwards, as she took September's rein. 'That last round, eh?'

  It took Mary a moment or two to recover from the shock of being spoken to almost as an equal by Anna's father.

  'Wonderful, sir. The best ever.'

  'No more school, Mary?'

  'We broke up today.'

  'That's splendid. Because you've got a lot of work to do in the morning. Anna gets home after lunch. And when she arrives I want this horse to be the first thing she sees. And I want you to groom him as if you were preparing him for a show. The full treatment in the morning, Mary.'

  Mary nodded. That was exactly what she had been planning on herself.

  By lunch time the next day, Mary was exhausted but happy. She had never given September a grooming like it. After washing him from head to toe in warm soapy water she had plaited his mane and pulled his tail. She had brushed his coat until it shone, picked out his hooves and oiled them, and then put a touch of grease round his eyes for added lustre.

  'You look like a fashion plate, September,' she giggled excitedly. 'Anna will hardly recognize you!'

  The horse seemed as excited as she was.

  While she was having lunch with her father, she heard the Dewars' car go off to the station to meet Anna's train.

  Now that the moment had almost arrived, Mary felt quite tense.

  'You're not eating your lunch, girl,' observed John Wilkins. 'You must be hungry after all your hard work this morning.'

  'I am hungry, Dad, but I just can't eat.'

  'That's plain daft,' he said, giving her an uneasy glance. 'The whole place seems to have gone mad lately, just because Anna's coming home.'

  'I know, Dad. It's been miserable while she's been away, that's why. Everything's going to be all right again now.'

  'I hope you're right, Mary,' her father said gruffly. 'I only hope you're right.'

  At any other time, her father's pessimistic tone would have cast Mary down at once. But today nothing could touch her. Anna must be stepping off the train just about now. Her father would load her suitcase into the boot of his car, a few minutes' drive from Silverstock and she would be here!

  After the meal Mary just had time to give September's tack one last shine with the leather and then she saddled him up. Slowly she led him out of the stable into the farm yard, step by step, full of pride as she looked at him. He was holding his head beautifully, his coat was shining, he was a picture of health. She heard the car's engine, growing louder as it came down the lane, and then the car came bumping into the farm yard. It braked abruptly outside the farmhouse.

  A shiver ran through Mary as she saw the familiar figure, sitting in the front seat next to her father. She saw the mauve blazer with gold braid, the fair hair a little longer than she remembered. September seemed to want to gallop forward; Mary had to restrain him.

  'Yes, she's home, boy, Anna's home. But whoa back, slowly does it.'

  They continued forward, across the farm yard, step by step. The horse's hooves rang out loudly on the cobbles. At any moment Anna must surely look this way and see them. Why didn't she look? Why were the three of them just sitting in the car, taking amongst themselves?

  Mary could restrain herself no longer. Was the spell of Kilmingdean still clinging to her friend? Now surely was the moment when it could be broken. Here was September in the flesh, looking so beautiful, waiting to see his mistress again, as he had waited all these weeks.

  'Anna!' she cried. 'Welcome home, Anna!'

  The eager cry fell upon deaf ears. Anna was too busy quarrelling with her father. Furthermore, she was in floods of tears.

  EIGHT

  DISASTER

  As she realized that Anna was crying, all Mary's excitement slipped away. She stood frozen to the spot, clutching September's mane. The horse obediently came to a halt, no longer straining eagerly forward to see his mistress. He, too, sensed there was something wrong.

  'Miss Jensen offered us King of Prussia! She offered him to us! Why did you refuse to buy him, Daddy? Why?'

  'Calm down, child, calm down.'

  On this hot July afternoon the car windows were wide open and Mary could hear every word that the Dewars were saying, although Anna, her shoulders heaving, was completely unaware that Mary and September were only a few feet away.

  'I could have had King for my very own – for always! I could have had him at school every term time and brought him home in the holidays. I know he would have cost a lot of money —'

  'A very great deal of money, Anna. Especially when you consider you already have a fine horse— '

  'September's gone off! You wrote and told me so! King would soon have paid for himself. You want me to win the Western Counties', don't you—?' Anna's voice was rising higher, she sounded almost hysterical. 'Well, I'd have won it on King! Now the school's decided he's got to be sold anyway. If not to us, then to somebody else.'

  Anna's sobs broke out afresh and she buried her face in her hands.

  'Do you realize he won't be there when I get back next term? That I'll never, never see him again?'

  As Anna's mother leant forward to touch her daughter's hair and comfort her, Mr Dewar glanced round for the first time.

  As soon as Anna had grown calmer he said sternly:

  'Mary has brought September to see you. Don't you think you should get out of the car and say hello to them?'

  Anna lifted a tear-stained face. Slowly she turned and gazed past her father to where Mary and September stood in the farm yard, as though only dimly recognizing them and remembering who they were. Mr Dewar got out of the car, went round and opened the passenger door and helped Anna out.

  Gripping her arm he brought her round to this side of the car. She took two or three steps forward towards Mary. For an instant, September perked up.

  'H-hello, Mary.'

  She tried to form her lips into a smile, but they kept trembling.

  'Hello, Anna,' began Mary, in a very small voice. 'I – I—'

  Before she could think what to say Anna's face suddenly seemed to crumple. With a violent jerk, she pulled away from her father, turned and ran towards the house.

  'Come back, Anna! Come back at once!' cried Mr Dewar.

  Anna did not seem to hear. Blindly she raced towards the front door, which was slightly open, and disappeared into the house. Her mother got out of the car and hurried after her, looking forlorn and anxious.

  Mary clung very tightly to September. He lowered his head and let out a series of strange, sad little whinnying sounds.

  Mary was so concerned about him that she did not notice Mr Dewar until he was right beside her.

  'I'm sorry about this, Mary.' He glanced towards the house, his face pale.. and tense. 'You've gone to a lot of trouble with the horse. I'm afraid Anna is in a very emotional state at the moment, but she'll get over it, you'll see. You'd better unsaddle him and put him out to grass for the rest of the day.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  As Mary turned September's head round and led him away, Mr Dewar called:

  'I want him saddled up for nine o'clock in the morning. Anna will be taki
ng him over the jumps, I'll see to it that she does. She'll have recovered by then.'

  In the stable Mary hung up the horse's tack. She could hardly bear to look at him. His eyes had grown dull, his movements were listless, and even his shining coat seemed to have lost some of its lustre.

  'Oh, September.' She put her arms around his neck. 'Anna may have recovered by the morning – but will you? I don't think so, somehow.'

  All her forebodings about September, and his future here at Chestnut Farm, had returned with full force.

  As the day wore on, and she was busy about the farm helping her father, she began to feel hurt for herself, as well as September. Not once did Anna emerge from the farmhouse or make any attempt to find her and speak to her. Mary had looked forward to this day for so long, ringed in red in her diary! The day of Anna's return – the day when she could begin to forget about Kilmingdean School and start to think about Chestnut Farm again! The day when, so Mary had fondly imagined, a forgotten friendship would be remembered and then gradually renewed.

  When she went to bed that night, Mary took off the St Christopher on its chain and placed it on her chest of drawers. Somehow she did not want to wear it any more for the time being.

  Promptly at nine o'clock the next morning, she led September out to the meadow, saddled up and ready for work. As Mr Dewar had forecast, Anna was out there, ready and waiting. Although Mary could tell from the dark rings under her eyes that she had probably been crying a great deal through the night, she had all the outward appearances of someone who had indeed 'recovered'. With her long fair hair brushed and gleaming in the morning sunlight and her figure trim in riding jacket and jodhpurs she was a picture of composure.

  She was standing with her father and a family friend, surveying the jumps with an experienced eye. As Mary led September through the gate she immediately left her father's side and came across.

  'Mary,' she said. 'It's wonderful to see you again.'

  Mary stared.

  'What's the matter, aren't you pleased to see me?'

  'I – er – yes, of course, Anna,' Mary said. But inwardly she felt a cold hand about her heart. Anna was different! Her smile was different, a bit artificial somehow. And her voice! She hadn't noticed yesterday, but even that had changed. The soft Devonshire accent had almost disappeared.

  It's the spell of Kilmingdean, and it's certainly not going, Mary thought with something like panic. It's even worse than I thought.

  Thus, after the first shock, Mary could not feel any further shock at Anna's next words, spoken in loud carrying tones:

  'I must say I'm thrilled to bits that Daddy's been paying you a small wage while I've been away. I've never seen September in such good nick, darling. As a matter of fact my friend Delphine's got a full-time groom for her horses but I've told her he's not a patch on you.'

  As Anna rattled on, Mary saw that Mr Dewar was glancing towards them with approval. It was as though he were relieved and delighted that at last his daughter was being sensible in her attitude to his cowman's daughter.

  'And how are you, old chap?' Anna was saying, some genuine affection creeping into her voice. She reached out to touch September's muzzle but he drew his head back and gazed at Mary with big mournful eyes, as if to say: This isn't the Anna I remember.

  She took his rein but he was reluctant to move away from Mary.

  'Go with Anna,' Mary said, in a tiny little voice. 'Go with her.'

  After the first hesitation, September was totally obedient to Anna. He allowed her to mount him. When she commanded him to walk round the field, he walked. When she commanded him to canter, he cantered.

  This was the girl who had schooled him, after all. This was his mistress. Sad and dispirited he might be, but the habit of years of being obedient and loyal to his mistress was deeply ingrained, even though he knew that her feelings towards him had changed.

  Mr Dewar watched his daughter and the horse with growing pleasure. He did not notice September's lack of spirit, only the blind obedience.

  'You can still do anything with him, just as you always could!' he called out. 'Start a few low jumps now. Build him up to the big one.'

  As Mary watched September going over those preliminary jumps she knew that all her fears were justified. His performance was ordinary and no more; it lacked all zest and sparkle.

  'Once more round the field, and then the big one: The Demon's Dyke!' There was a shake of excitement in his voice. He had waited for this moment for so long. He was in a fever of impatience to see his daughter do the difficult jump that he had so often rehearsed with September: do it with all the new-found skill and finesse that she had learnt at her expensive school. 'Come on, Anna. Why are you slowing down?'

  'I don't feel he can do it yet!' shouted Anna. 'Not this morning. It's just a feeling I have—'

  'Of course he can do it!' yelled Mr Dewar, suddenly exploding with anger. 'What do you think I've been working so hard on all these weeks. He can do it easily, and that's with me in the saddle. Now he's got you.'

  'No, Daddy, I know he can't —' Anna's thin layer of composure was cracking apart. Her voice was edgy and tearful.

  Mary stood there in silence, not daring to speak, but willing with all her heart that Mr Dewar would listen to his daughter. How could he be so stupid as to ignore what she was saying!

  Yet her words seemed to goad him from anger to fury.

  'Get a grip on yourself, Anna! Stop talking such nonsense. Don't you realize Uncle Michael here has come twenty miles to see you do this. Do it, I say! Take him over!'

  Pale and frightened, Anna cantered September round in a semi-circle and then headed him for the high brushwood fence with the huge ditch beyond it.

  'Come on, boy, you've got to jump it. I'm telling you. Come on—'

  As Mary watched September gather speed she knew that nothing could stop him now. Anna had given her order and he would not disobey her. She also knew that this morning the animal had a heaviness and a weariness about him that made such a jump impossible. He would try but—

  'September!' she screamed, as his front legs caught the top of the heavy brushwood. He was plunging down, down, into the ugly ditch with his right foreleg caught up awkwardly beneath his body.

  'September!' she gasped, running hard until she came to the ditch.

  He was lying there, unable to get up. Anna had been thrown clear. She staggered to her feet, bruised but otherwise intact.

  'September's hurt!' cried Mary, the tears running down her cheeks.

  Within seconds Mr Dewar was on his knees beside the animal.

  'Run and 'phone the vet!' he shouted to his friend Michael.

  Together he and Mary and Anna got September to his feet. But the horse was holding his fore hoof off the ground.

  'He's lame, Daddy!' said Anna, in distress. 'September's lame.'

  'The Western Counties',' was all Mr Dewar could say. 'The Western Counties'.' He said it four times in all, and his face was ashen.

  NINE

  DEATH SENTENCE

  They got September to the stable, limping badly, and Mary made his loose box comfortable with fresh straw, so that he could lie down until the vet arrived There was a wound near the knee and a great deal of swelling of the foreleg.

  Mr Dewar, his friend Michael and Anna waited by the horse for the vet to arrive. After a while Mrs Dewar came across from the farmhouse with mugs of coffee and waited with them. They all looked drawn and anxious and spoke little. No one noticed Mary, who pretended to busy herself by washing down the saddlery with leather soap in a corner of the stable, although having done it the previous day it did not really need doing again.

  She tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. She could not bear it if she were sent away. She had to be there when the vet arrived, to know at once how things were for September.

  At last Mr Peters arrived, with his big leather bag. He entered the loose box and knelt beside the animal, saying nothing for several minutes as he worked, tr
eating the wound with penicillin and then applying poultices to the swollen flesh. All this time September was in pain, but he lay still and obedient.

  'A good animal,' said Mr Peters at last, getting to his feet.

  He started to pack his bag. Across the stable, Mary kept all thought and feeling suspended, even her very breath seemed to stop as she waited to hear his verdict.

  Mr Dewar, too, for different reasons, was in an agony of suspense.

  'Is his knee broken, Peters?' he rasped out at last.

  'No.'

  'It's not?' the relief rushed out of Mr Dewar. The questions poured out. 'Will he be all right then? He's entered for the Western Counties – let me see – September 14th – nearly eight weeks' time. Anna's riding him. It's very important to us. Is he going to make it?'

  Mr Peters gave the farmer a peculiar look.

  'I doubt it,' he said shortly.

  'Why?' demanded Mr Dewar, in anger and disbelief.

  'Let's put it this way, you certainly couldn't bank on it. I've known a horse with a sprain as bad as this to recover completely, with weeks of rest and careful nursing. But that's unusual. I'm inclined to think he might have lost some joint oil. Even if he hasn't, the odds are that when he's recovered he'll never be fit for really hard work again.'

  'You mean his show-jumping days are over?' asked Mrs Dewar, stunned.

  'I can't be as definite as that,' said the vet, addressing Anna's mother more gently than he had her father. 'You can never tell with something like this. Those are the indications at present. He must be rested for a month, with the gentlest of exercise. The leg must be poulticed three times a day. When the swelling has gone down, the leg must be strapped up to give it firm support. Only then can we begin to tell if there's any hope of his returning to show-jumping.'

  As the vet left, Anna fell on her knees beside September.

  'Oh you poor thing,' she sobbed. 'You poor, poor thing.'

  Standing in the shadows, with the leather soap still in her hand, the tears began to trickle down Mary's cheeks, too. For a moment she felt close to Anna again. It gave her comfort, even hope, to know that the girl who had once been her best friend, who had returned from Kilmingdean a stranger, could weep like that. Surely she must still be the same Anna underneath?