Phantom Horse 1: Phantom Horse

by Christine Pullein-Thompson

  Christine Pullein-Thompson

  PHANTOM

  HORSE

  AWARD PUBLICATIONS LIMITED

  ISBN 978-1-84135-925-0

  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

  www.awardpublications.co.uk

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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

  “We've got news for you,” Dad said, brandishing a letter.

  A new pony, I thought, and saw a spirited, grey four-year-old grazing with Moonlight and Mermaid in the paddock. My brother Angus was looking out of the window to where the lawn was dappled with sunlight.

  “We're all going to Washington,” Dad said.

  For an awful moment I couldn't think where in the world Washington was situated. Then Angus enlightened me.

  “You mean America?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes, to the United States of America, for three years,” Dad replied. “We'll leave in a few months’ time.”

  I felt a lump rising in my throat. I didn't want to live in America. What was to happen to Moonlight and Mermaid? And what would we do with Sparrow Cottage?

  Angus was more sensible. “What fun!” he exclaimed. “But what will we do with the ponies? We can't take them with us, can we?”

  “You can lend them to anyone you like,” Mum replied. “We'll let the cottage, and you'll go to American schools.”

  “We'll be living outside Washington, so you'll be able to ride as long as it isn't too expensive,” Dad said in reassuring tones.

  “Lots of Americans ride, particularly in Virginia. I think you'll have a lovely time,” Mum told us.

  “We'll be going by plane!” Angus shouted. “How long will it take?” He sounded excited. I imagined him telling the boys at his school all about it.

  I think I had better explain that Dad is in the Foreign Office and liable to be sent anywhere at any time. It might have been Cairo or Paris, or Pakistan or Chile or Australia. Really it was lucky for us that we were to go to America, for at least we could all go, and there would be suitable schools, and we more or less knew the language. I thought of all this as I looked at our ponies grazing in the paddock beneath tall poplars which are supposed to be dangerous, but at this moment were just turning green and looking fantastic against the shifting April sky.

  We discussed America for ages and all the time I had an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. Angus seemed terribly excited. He has Dad's mania for travel; they're really very alike, both having dark hair, brown eyes and rather sensitive faces.

  I'm more like Mum, who has nut-brown hair and blue eyes. I could see that she didn't want to move either, as we all stood together in the little front room we called the playroom, on that sparkling April day.

  I thought of all we would leave behind – friends, ponies, early morning rides through sombre beech-woods, hunting, gymkhanas, the Pony Club, Sparrow Cottage. I didn't think America would give us much in exchange for these. Little did I dream then of the crises and adventures which awaited us in Virginia, or that one day I should come to love the Blue Ridge Mountains almost as much as I loved Oxfordshire.

  Mum told us that we were to live in a small white house in the heart of Virginia. “And you'll be lent ponies and there's a paddock and what Americans call a barn,” she added, and I suddenly felt much happier.

  The flight to America passed very quickly. There was a car waiting for us at the airport. We climbed inside and I must have fallen asleep immediately for the next thing I knew was Dad saying “We're in Virginia now.” Then, at last, we saw our house. It stood on the side of a hill and was white, and built mostly of wood. It was called simply Mountain Farm, and I think I loved it from the first moment. Behind the house there was a building, which looked like a stable, and then a field fenced by walls. After that the land was rough and strewn with boulders until it reached the Blue Ridge Mountains, which aren't really mountains in the European sense, but more like wild, wooded hills.

  We approached Mountain Farm by what Americans call a dirt road. As we drew near, I saw that a stream ran along one side of the house, and that there was a small lawn in front and some trees.

  “Well, do you like it?” Dad asked.

  Angus and I were very enthusiastic.

  Mum said, “Don't be too pleased. We haven't seen inside yet.”

  “And the stables may be awful,” Dad added.

  There was a hammock slung between the trees on the lawn, and a garage at the back of the house.

  “The ponies haven't arrived yet,” Dad said, after we had put the car away. “The paddock's completely empty. I'll ring up Charlie tonight – just to let him know we're here.”

  Charlie Miller is an old schoolfriend of Dad's who married a rich American and has lived in Virginia ever since. It was he who leased us Mountain Farm and promised to lend us ponies.

  The house was sweet inside, with a large kitchen, a tiny dining-room, a sitting-room and three bedrooms. There was also a bathroom, and a larder which we found already stocked with food. There was a huge piece of smoked ham hanging from a hook, a heap of American corn, a whole shelf of tins, a carton of milk, cheese, eggs and butter, and some obviously home-made bread.

  It was Angus's and my first taste of American generosity and we were rather surprised.

  “That's just like Charlie and Ann,” Dad said.

  “They must be really nice people,” Angus replied. “Do you think all this stuff is really a present?”

  “I expect so,” Dad answered.

  Mum and I started to prepare a hasty meal, while Dad and Angus carried the luggage upstairs. Mum and I cooked ham and eggs, to be followed by bread and cheese. We all felt rather sleepy, but happy, when we sat down to supper. It was nearly dark outside and the mountains looked blue, misty and romantic. Fresh air floated into the kitchen smelling a little like mountain air and, at the same time, of dry earth, boxwood and burnt grass.

  When we had washed up we wandered outside to admire the landscape. It was then that we heard the sound of a car coming along the dirt road and saw the flash of headlights.

  “Not visitors already?” Mum exclaimed.

  “It's probably Charlie. He never could wait for anything,” Dad replied.

  The car swung into our yard and, for a moment, we were all blinded by its lights. Then a chorus of voices cried “Hiya”, and suddenly the yard was full of people. Dad was shaking someone warmly by the hand and introducing us all to Mr and Mrs Miller, who introduced their three children: Phil, Pete and Wendy. I felt in a daze and suddenly shy. The Miller children lo
oked so old; years older than Angus and me. Wendy took charge of us. She explained that she and her brothers lived just over the hill. She asked whether the food had arrived all right and whether we liked Mountain Farm. She wanted to know whether we had enjoyed our flight and how long it had taken us to get to the house. Then Phil interrupted.

  “We'll be bringing a couple of horses over for you tomorrow,” he said.

  Before we could say thank you, Pete said, “Has anyone told them about the wild horse?”

  “No, tell them, Wendy,” Phil answered.

  “There's a wild horse around here in the mountains,” Wendy began.

  I saw by the light of the headlights that she had hazel eyes and was nearly as tall as Pete, but that neither she nor Peter were as tall as Phil, who towered above us all.

  “At least, he's not really wild,” she continued. “He's a thoroughbred with a touch of Arab in him, and he's a palomino because of his colour. He's the most beautiful horse you've ever seen, and whoever catches him can have him: that's the deal.”

  Suddenly I didn't feel sleepy any more. If only Angus and I could catch him, I thought. If only…

  “They wanted to try him on the racetrack,” Pete said. “I guess he's the fastest little horse in the state of Virginia. We want you two to help us catch him. Then we can tame him together.”

  Charlie Miller interrupted. “Don't you listen to them, son,” he said, slapping Angus on the back. “No one will ever catch that darned horse. He's as wild as they're mad and nuts into the bargain. One day someone will get up and shoot him and get a few dollars for his hide.”

  “Boy! You should see him jump!” Wendy exclaimed, ignoring her father. “All the mares are crazy about him. They jump out of their fields and disappear, sometimes for weeks on end. That's why everyone's so mad about him.”

  “And remember: whoever catches him keeps him,” Pete said.

  “We'd love to help you,” I said. “We've ridden quite a bit, though we aren't experts by any means.”

  “We'd sure appreciate your help,” Phil replied. “With five of us we might drive him into a corral.”

  “Come on home,” said Mr Miller. “That's enough of that darned horse for one night.”

  Phil, Pete and Wendy shook us by the hand before they left, and I noticed that they were all wearing jeans and checked shirts, and canvas shoes which we later learned to call sneakers.

  The yard was very quiet when the Millers had gone. Mum said, “What an invasion. But it was nice of them to call.”

  None of us could keep our eyes open any longer. Mum leaned wearily against the garage wall. “I suppose we ought to have asked them in,” she said. “We weren't very hospitable.”

  “I did, but they didn't want to bother us,” Dad replied.

  “Isn't it wonderful about the horse?” Angus asked. “Just supposing Jean and I caught him. We'd really have a horse of our own then.”

  I felt too tired to speak. A century seemed to have passed since we left England.

  “I don't want you to do anything silly,” Mum said, moving towards the house.

  “Remember, this isn't England, and it's easy to get lost,” Dad warned us. “Charlie's children are very anxious to ride with you and I don't want you to ride alone, for the time being anyway. Is that quite clear?”

  “Quite,” I replied.

  “We'll remember,” Angus promised.

  “How about bed?” Mum suggested.

  My bedroom was at the back of the house. It looked across the field to the mountains. It smelled of washed linen and boxwood. There was a painting of a horse above my bed and a pile of books on the table. The walls were white and newly painted. There were rush mats on the floor. I turned the books over and saw that they were, without exception, about horses, and that in each one Wendy's name was clearly written on the flyleaf. I realised she had left them here for me and I marvelled again at the Millers' hospitality and generosity. Had Peter and Phil left books for Angus? I wondered.

  The last thing I saw before I fell asleep was a large orange moon riding high in the sky over the mountains.

  2

  I woke up next morning with a light heart. Birds were singing outside my window. The sky was a cloudless blue. So this is America, I thought dreamily, climbing from my comfortable bed to gaze at the Blue Mountains, serene and beautiful in the sunlight. It was still early but already there were men hurrying across the hill to the farm below. I could hear some of them singing, and from the highway came the sound of distant cars.

  A girl in jeans stepped out of a van and put letters in our box by the gate. She was small and attractive with long fair hair, and singing a sloppy sort of love song.

  Later the Millers arrived with a clatter of hoofs which fetched us all from the kitchen where we were eating breakfast. They looked marvellous coming into the yard with the sun behind them, like something out of a Wild West film. They were mounted on a variety of horses: Phil rode a tall dun mare with a fiddle face and large ears; Wendy was on a roan pony of about thirteen hands; Pete sat astride a chestnut with a streak of white down her face.

  “Hi! Are we too early for you?” Wendy cried as we emerged. “We thought you wouldn't want to wait to see your horses.”

  Angus was still half asleep. Five minutes ago he had been in bed, fast asleep.

  “It's nice of you to bring them,” I replied, looking at the horses Pete and Phil were leading. One was a nicely-marked skewbald, the other a bay.

  “I hope they're all right.” Wendy sounded anxious. She looked even taller sitting astride the little roan than she had in the dusk the evening before. She was wearing a red checked shirt and the inevitable jeans; her hair appeared almost chestnut in the sunshine.

  “They look absolutely super,” I replied, patting the skewbald's neck.

  “What does super mean?” Peter asked. Angus started to explain.

  “They're nothing of the kind,” Phil said after a moment. “The spotted mare's lazy and the bay mare's just a green four-year-old. But maybe you'll make something of them. They've been reared on the mountains, or near enough, and that's important because it means they know their way around. An imported horse doesn't last a month over here.”

  “Well, thanks very much for lending them to us,” I replied.

  “Yes, thanks,” said Angus.

  “I shouldn't say too much until you've ridden them,” Phil answered, and I saw that he was laughing.

  The Millers were riding on a variety of saddles. Wendy had a steeplechase saddle on her roan and rode with short stirrups. Phil was riding long with a Western saddle and wooden stirrups. Peter looked cramped on a straight-cut show saddle, which appeared out of place with the breastplate and martingale he had attached.

  Wendy's eyes followed mine. She said, “We've lent you a couple of English saddles. I hope you like them.”

  “They're great. Much better than anything we've got at home,” Angus answered.

  “It's really nice of you to lend us so much,” I said, looking at the horses' shoes which had calkins both hind and fore.

  “We came early because in a couple of hours it will be too hot to ride,” Peter told us.

  “Okay, we'll dash and change. Come on, Angus,” I cried, remembering that I was dressed only in shorts and a sort of sun-top.

  “We won't be a sec,” Angus cried, before following in my wake.

  We put on jodhpurs and tee-shirts, and I dragged a comb through my hair and wished that my eyes were hazel like Wendy's instead of large and blue – doll's eyes Angus called them.

  When we dashed outside the Millers were calmly talking to Dad and I realised that our rushing had been quite unnecessary. They looked as though they could wait all day, quite happily chatting in the sunshine.

  “The spotted mare's for you. Her name's Frances,” Phil told me. He held her head while I mounted, and helped me adjust my stirrups. It felt marvellous to be on a horse again.

  Frances was narrow with a prominent wither and rather long
ears. Her mane changed colour halfway up her neck and three of her hoofs were light coloured. She felt tall after Moonlight and Mermaid, who were barely fourteen hands.

  Angus mounted the bay. She had a well-cut, keen head and an excitable eye. She stood about fifteen one and Angus's feet only reached fifteen centimetres below the saddle flaps.

  Mum appeared from the house and said, “Why haven't you put these on?” and waved our riding-hats. We had always worn them at home, but seeing the Millers dressed so casually had made us leave them where they were in our bedrooms. Now we felt foolish.

  “You are twits,” Mum said. “Why do you think you're less likely to have accidents here than at home?”

  “It wasn't that,” I replied.

  “What was it then?” she asked, and we felt more foolish than ever.

  “Oh, nothing,” Angus said.

  “Do you always wear hats then?” Wendy asked.

  Hats, hats, hats I thought. Will they never stop talking about hats?

  “More or less. Mum likes us to, anyway,” Angus replied.

  We put on our hats.

  “We wear them hunting, of course,” Wendy told us.

  “Mind you're back by one,” Dad said.

  “Be careful,” Mum added.

  We rode out of the yard into the bright sunshine. Frances jogged. Angus grinned and said, “Our first ride in Virginia, Jean.”

  I felt like singing. America seemed far nicer than I had ever thought possible. I imagined the letters I would write home to my friends, Pam, Pat and June. I was certain that Angus and I were destined to be happy at Mountain Farm.

  There was an odd humming noise in the air, rather like the incessant buzz of flies but with more of a croak in it and more substance. As we rode along the dirt road, Phil said, “If you're trying to guess what the peculiar noise is, Jean, I'll tell you. It's the frogs. The land around here is full of them. Sometimes you can hear them the whole night long.”