“That’s the penalty of success,” said Rachel, sounding at least twenty years old.
The market was full of farmers in caps and boots in spite of the heat; small children holding their parents’ hands, and horsey women talking about hocks and knees, necks and heads, throughpins and splints. Foals cried out for their dams and horses’ eyes searched about anxiously for lost friends. Two-year-olds were shod and advertised as “Quiet to ride”, while old horses stood resting tired legs, awaiting their end. A thoroughbred was crib-biting, while a bay pony dug frantically at the concrete with his hoofs. I was glad of my dark glasses because my eyes were already full of tears.
Angus led Rachel by the arm, reading out aloud from the catalogue, pointing out defects in a knowledgeable manner, saying, “That one isn’t big enough; and that one says nothing about being quiet to ride so he could be a rogue.”
Rachel rushed straight to the chestnuts and greys. She wanted four white socks and a blaze, or a grey with an Araby head and a ewe neck.
“There’s nothing here, can’t you see?” I said to them, swallowing my tears.
“Do shut up. We’re enjoying ourselves, aren’t we, Rachel?” Angus said.
She nodded, staring at a black without a speck of white anywhere, asking, “What about this one, Angus?”
“He’s sixteen-two. You would need a box to mount him,” Angus said.
“He would do for my father.”
“But we’re not buying for your father today.”
We bought ourselves coffee in thick mugs, and fattening lardy-cake. The noise was deafening.
“It’s like a slave market,” I said.
“You’re too emotional,” replied Angus, “and I bet you’re crying behind those idiotic glasses.”
I did not answer, for now I was imagining Phantom for sale with the other horses, having his mouth wrenched open, his teeth examined, his legs felt, his eyes looked into without a word of kindness from anyone.
“They’re fetching good prices,” said Angus, trying to sound knowledgeable. “They’ll be cheaper in the autumn.”
By now it was noon. We went outside and found Mum sitting in our rather battered estate car.
“Hurry,” she shouted. “I’m roasting to death.”
“Why didn’t you tell us? You should have come inside,” Angus said.
“Because I’m like Jean – it makes me cry,”Mum said, starting the engine.
Rachel made us stop so that she could buy ice creams. “I know I’m delaying things, but I shall be all alone once I’m home,” she said. “And this is my contribution to the petrol.”
“Are your parents always away then?” asked Mum.
“Not always, but mostly.” She had a way of smiling sweetly. I can’t describe it in any other way, and yet it seemed false just the same.
Soon we were stuck in a traffic jam.
“Have you no radio? No CDs?” asked Rachel, obviously amazed.
“No, not at the moment,” Mum replied.
At last we left the main road. Soon we could see the church, the pub and the village shop, then the road narrowed, and there, tucked away in a valley, lay Sparrow Cottage.
“Can you drop me first, please?” asked Rachel. “I’ve suddenly remembered that Mother was to phone me at one o’clock and it is important.”
So we flew past Sparrow Cottage and a few minutes later drew up outside Hill Farm House with a screech of brakes. Another satellite dish had been added alongside the one already there and stood stark and alien against the summer sky.
“I can’t thank you enough,” said Rachel, getting out.
“I can’t wait to see your paddock full of horses,” replied Angus, politely.
“Come and swim any time. You, too,” Rachel told Mum, running towards the house, “and your husband.”
“See you Sunday,” shouted Mum.
“All of you,” Rachel insisted, waving farewell.
“What do you think of her?” Angus asked as Mum turned the car.
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t. I have my reservations.”
“Why?” asked Angus, sounding disappointed.
“I don’t know. She seems to be trying too hard,” Mum said.
“But there’s nothing wrong with that,” Angus retorted. “Personally, I find her manners perfect.”
“I wish the weather would change. I want to jump and the ground’s like a rock,” I said suddenly, sick of discussing Rachel Finbow.
I find it hard to describe the next few moments. Mum told Angus to carry the shopping. The petals were still on the brick path. The sun was still shining. Nothing seemed changed, except that the back door was open.
“How extraordinary! I’m sure I closed it,” exclaimed Mum. “It’s lucky your father isn’t here, he would be furious. Who was last out anyway?”
“Not me,” said Angus.
“I can’t remember,” I said.
We went inside. “Funny, it smells of tobacco and none of us smoke … Put the shopping on the table, Angus, please,” Mum said, her voice suddenly shrill with anxiety.
She hurried out of the kitchen and we heard her gasp, before she came back running and shrieking, “We’ve been burgled. Come and look. They have been into all the drawers, upstairs and downstairs. The whole place is in chaos, just look. Oh, my God …!”
All the cupboards were open; the drawers pulled out, chairs toppled over, clothes and papers everywhere. Mum kept saying, “Oh my God, my God,” which made everything seem worse.
Angus tried to console her by saying, “Don’t worry, Mum, they haven’t taken anything. There was nothing valuable to take; you left your jewellery in the bank last month, don’t you remember, Mum? Don’t cry. I’ll tidy it up.”
I suddenly thought: Phantom! The tack! Supposing the horses have gone? I rushed out of the cottage, shouting, “What about the horses?” But they were all right, standing with their backs to the doors, resting their hind legs, and the tack was safe, too.
Mum was on the phone talking to Dad when I returned to the house. I could hear his voice shouting from the other end of the line, “Didn’t you lock up? Haven’t I told you time and time again to lock up?”
“Tell him they would have got in through the windows,” said Angus, “or through the other door.”
But I knew he was wrong because the windows at Sparrow Cottage are old and tiny, and the front door has three bolts and a chain on it.
“But it was morning and we were only gone two hours,” Mum said. “Who expects burglars in the morning?”
“Have you rung the police?” asked Dad, changing tack.
“Not yet.”
“Well, get on to them at once. I’ll try to get back as soon as I can. Don’t touch anything,” shouted Dad, banging down the receiver.
“He sounds in a right old flap,” commented Angus, tidying up.
“Leave it alone. Don’t touch anything,” shouted Mum. “Leave it, Angus. Do you hear?”
“It’s all right, I’m not a dog.”
“There’s no need to be cheeky.”
“The horses are all right,” I said.
“Oh, why did it happen?” wept Mum, while Angus stood dialling 999. The whole day was spoilt, and the time we spent at the market seemed to belong to another world.
“They’ll be over as soon as they can,” said Angus, replacing the receiver. “If we’re not having any lunch, and you don’t want me to clear up, I think I’ll pop over to Hill Farm House. At least I’ll get a welcome there.”
“You can’t just disappear as though nothing has happened. You’ve got to stay. The police may want to see you,” Mum said.
“I’ll make an omelette,” I offered. “And there’s some cake in the tin.”
But Mum didn’t feel like eating, so I went outside and, putting my arms round Phantom, told him what had happened. Presently there was a crunch of tyres on the gravel and the police arrived.
Later I found that my room had been visited, too. My clothes were
strewn everywhere, my nicest china horse was smashed and someone had scrawled some terrible words above my bed, words I did not understand, but which Dad was later to describe as those of the cesspit.
3
Dad looked haggard when he arrived.
“It’s all right, darling, there’s nothing valuable missing, only a few odds and ends like my camera and Angus’s stereo and we can claim for those on the insurance,” said Mum, flapping like a hen as she followed him from room to room.
“Have they fingerprinted? Have the police fingerprinted?” shouted Dad, as though we were all deaf. “Where’s Angus?”
“At Hill Farm House,” Mum answered.
“He’s in love with Rachel,” I added.
“We’ll soon get everything tidy. We’re not the first people to be burgled,” Mum said.
But Dad was like someone demented, going from room to room with sweat running off his face, muttering curses under his breath, asking, “Why do you both keep following me around?” “Go out, go out on Phantom, Jean. Leave him to me,” Mum said.
So I tacked up Phantom and rode through the valley where the corn was being cut. I thought that Dad was going mad and none of us knew why, not even Mum. If I ever marry, I’ll marry a farmer, I thought. Then I can always be at home and so can he, and we’ll have loads of horses and it won’t matter about the price of oats or the price of hay because we’ll grow them; we’ll spend our lives in old clothes and be happy and never have to know people like Rachel Finbow.
Phantom was lively, but as the flies retreated in the gathering dusk, midges appeared in clouds to drive us both frantic. When I returned home Angus was there, singing as he mucked out Killarney’s box.
“You should have come to Hill Farm House. We had the most fantastic tea – Black Forest gateau, ice cream, chocolate biscuits,” he said, “and as for music, well there’s just about everything on CD.”
“What about the cottage? Is it cleared up yet?” I asked.
“Not yet. They’re in a mood,” Angus told me. “Not speaking, actually. Dad’s drinking whisky.”
“Poor them,” I said.
“Poor me. I’ve lost my cassette-recorder and I’m not grumbling, am I? Not a whimper,” said Angus.
I untacked Phantom and turned him out.
“By the way, we’re seeing Maureen Nunn tomorrow about horses,” Angus told me, emptying the wheelbarrow. Maureen Nunn was our local horse dealer.
“How are we getting there? You’re not asking Mum again, are you?” I asked.
“No, not this time. Rachel’s mum is taking us in the Mercedes,” Angus said. “Okay? Or is that wrong too?”
“No, but you don’t need me,” I answered, hanging up Phantom’s head collar. “You can manage. You know more than I do.”
“No, I don’t. Anyway, two heads are better than one. Maureen likes you, she won’t cheat you.”
“She won’t cheat anyone,” I said.
“You can’t refuse.”
I like Maureen. I like her yard. I like looking at her horses. The chance to ride some of them was a chance I couldn’t bear to turn down. “All right. What time?” I asked.
“Ten o’clock at the front gate.”
“Have you told Maureen we’re coming?”
“Yes, and she’s got several animals which might do. You want to come, don’t you? You don’t mind?”
I shook my head and I think we both dreaded going indoors, but it was after eight o’clock now and long past suppertime.
“What on earth is the matter with Dad?” I asked, following Angus into the house.
“He’s lost something – and it’s confidential,” Angus replied.
By ten o’clock next day the cottage was shipshape again and the weather was scorching. The fields shimmered beneath the sun, the flowers wilted. The cottage windows were open. Mrs Parkin stood shaking mats while Dad was sitting in a deckchair sorting through papers, an ancient panama hat on his greying head.
“Don’t be late back, there’s something special for lunch,” Mum told us, still looking anxious, her neat brow a mass of furrows.
“Can we ask Rachel and her mother to lunch?” asked Angus.
Mum shook her head.
“You’re so inhospitable,” Angus complained, while I thought that it was typical of the Finbows to be late. They are those sort of people, I thought. All manners on the surface, but underneath they only care for themselves.
“Here they are!” cried Angus.
The Mercedes looked too big for our lane. Rachel’s mother pushed a button and the window on her side disappeared into the door.
“Hop in,” she said. “You get in the front, Jean; it is Jean, isn’t it?”
She was like Rachel, only the colour of her auburn hair wasn’t real and her clothes were even more expensive than Rachel’s. She smelled marvellous.
“This is exciting, isn’t it? I’ve never looked at a horse before,” she told me, driving on.
Rachel leaned over to push a CD into the player. The tune was the one Angus played over and over in his room upstairs.
“Which way?” Rachel’s mother called above the music.
“Left, then right, Mrs Finbow,” I said.
“I’m not Mrs Finbow; the name is Winter, Melanie Winter,” she told me. “What a fantastic day, we could be in the South of France.”
“Now right,” I said a moment later. “Slow down, we’re almost there.” Suddenly I wished we had come without Rachel and her mother. I felt ashamed of their rich appearance; they were simply not our sort of people. Hearing the car, Maureen appeared from the house. She was small with a mass of curly hair, a smile which showed a row of large, uneven teeth, and her eyes were grey. She was wearing jeans and a bright red shirt with a wide belt round her midriff. “This way,” she said. “I have three lined up for you. You can ride them for me, can’t you, Jean?”
I nodded. Once she had asked me to work for her part-time, just in the holidays, but my parents had said no. “You’ll break your neck or your teeth,” Mum had said. Dad said I’d become even more horsey than I was already.
A boy wearing Wellington boots led out a piebald and stood him up for us.
“No thank you. He’s a gipsy horse,” said Mrs Winter. “My husband likes style. Whatever we buy must have style.”
“Manners matter more than style,” I told her. “Not to mention soundness.”
The piebald was put away and a sturdy bay led out. “No, too plain,” said Mrs Winter. “Out of the question. David would never stand for him.”
She’s buying a dress, I thought, not a horse. She doesn’t know the first thing about them. She doesn’t care about Rachel. She only cares about status.
Maureen sighed and looked over to Rachel. “I have a part-bred Arab, but can you ride it? That’s the question, isn’t it?” she asked.
“I can learn,” Rachel said.
“But it takes time.”
“We’ll pay for her to have lessons,” said Mrs Winter. “Let us see the Arab one, it sounds more likely.” I looked at Angus. He was looking at the ground.
The boy brought out the part-bred Arab. More than fifteen hands, she was chestnut with three white socks, a wide forehead and cheek, and an eye which was both large and spirited.
“Ah, now we may do business,” said Mrs Winter.
I suppose it was inevitable that we should buy the chestnut. I rode her and I must say she went superbly. She felt as though she had springs in her pasterns and could go for ever without growing tired.
“She’s lovely, but she’s not a beginner’s horse,” I said, drawing rein, the sun burning through my shirt.
“But Rachel will learn. We can have her taught,” insisted Mrs Winter.
“I am not too happy about it, but if Jean will help …?” Maureen began.
“Yes of course we’ll help,” said Angus in a loud voice, answering for both of us. I was too much of a fool to argue, too polite, too undecided. Yet I doubted whether Rachel would ever manage t
he chestnut, which was called Marli, though probably she had a more complicated and far longer name on her papers, and I presumed she had papers.
Mrs Winter was pleased. “She will look good in the paddock. She will complement the garden,” she said, as though she were buying a statue rather than a horse.
Rachel all the while, said nothing, just stood languidly staring into space. This surprised me so that I turned to her asking, “What do you think? Do you think you will ever manage her?”
She started before returning to reality with a jerk. “Yes, in time,” she said vaguely. “In time, everything takes time …”
We walked into the house and stood in a large, old-fashioned dining room, with cheap rugs on old brown linoleum and antimacassars on chairs. It smelled empty and unused.
“Are you really sure? Wouldn’t you like to look at a few more horses, Mrs Winter?” I asked. “There’s no hurry.”
“Yes, of course … but I know what I like,” she said, taking a cheque-book out of her beautiful leather handbag, followed by a gold pen.
“But Rachel didn’t try her,” I insisted.
“Rachel will learn.”
She wrote the cheque in flowery handwriting and, saying, “David will be pleased,” she handed it to Maureen with a smile.
“You’ll have to ride with Jean and Angus,” Maureen told Rachel. “Do what they say. Don’t go out on your own to start with.”
The cheque was for three thousand pounds and Maureen folded it in two before putting it in a drawer.
“What about a vet? We haven’t had her vetted,” I said.
“I’ll write out a warranty for you, Mrs Winter. You don’t want to wait for a vet, do you?”
“Not if I can have a warranty,” said Mrs Winter.
“It will save you a lot of money.”
“What about tack?” I asked.
“I can supply that, too,” said Maureen.
We returned to the yard. The boy brought out an array of saddles. “Have a general purpose one,” my brother said. I had become speechless. Life seemed suddenly out of control and I could see nothing but disaster ahead. If Rachel is killed in a riding accident, it will be our fault, I thought, because we brought her here …
Phantom Horse 6: Phantom Horse Wait for Me Page 2