Samphire Song (4 page)

And now, here I am, about to transfer my loyalties to a rival; a phantom horse that still only exists in my imagination, but could soon be taking all my attention.

The thought causes a sharp pain, like a lightning bolt, down my spine. I know this sensation. Guilt. It was a regular visitor after Dad died and I would lie awake wishing I’d done more to make him proud; been kinder, less selfish, a better daughter; spoiled him more on his birthdays, told him I loved him every time he said goodnight.

‘I won’t abandon you,’ I whisper in Rambo’s ear. He snorts back at me, softly.

‘There. You’re perfect and I’m hungry,’ I tell him, giving him a last scratch on his blaze. I wrap my brush
and comb back in my carry roll and shift the stable-door bolt back before Rambo can try his usual delaying tactics – biting my jumper being his favourite. As I secure the lock from the other side, his head appears, his expression full of anticipation.

‘Last one, greedy guts,’ I whisper, delving into my pocket for the final piece of apple. Rambo lifts it from my hand and makes a big deal about chewing it, determined to get every last drop of flavour out of it.

‘Night night, Bo,’ I say, planting a kiss on his head. He yawns, and on his ridiculously long tongue there are bits of squishy apple. ‘Ugh. Your table manners are awful,’ I mutter, moving away across the yard, which is quiet, but for the occasional noise of hooves on straw and the contented munching of ponies enjoying their evening feed.

A figure emerges from the side of the office, carrying two pails of water. From her confident stride, I know it’s Rachel. She’s always the last to leave with Sue, the owner. Sue usually gives her a lift home.

‘All done with that naughty boy?’ she asks me.

‘Yup,’ I reply. Part of me wants to blurt out my good news, yet something is telling me to be cautious. Lots of the girls who come to the stables tell Rachel they are getting their own horse to try and impress her. Often, it’s just make-believe. I can’t exactly ask her to keep it a secret and I don’t want everyone to know just yet. For a while, I want to hold on to it, like a glittering trophy, in the core of my being.

But in good time there will be practical issues to sort out. I’ll speak to Sue about livery and whether I can work some paid hours to offset some of the costs. I’ll need tack and equipment and lots of advice about vet checks and health monitoring.

First of all, I must start my search for the finest horse in the land.

‘See you tomorrow then,’ says Rachel cheerfully.

‘Okey dokey,’ I reply, brightly. Rachel almost does a double take. She’s used to monosyllables from me. Okey dokey is out of character; it’s Ed’s standard
phrase and has obviously wormed its way into my subconscious.

Something definitely feels as if it’s shifting. As I freewheel out of the yard on my bike and on to the lane, my headlight illuminating the path ahead, the smile on my face is as curvy as the crescent moon.

Chapter Seven

I’m running in my ugly dog pyjamas and polar bear slippers down our drive like a clown, my dressing gown flapping and its belt dragging on the path. Charlie Bradstone, who delivers our papers and is always yabbering into his iPhone, is at this very moment stuffing
The Times
and
The Hampshire Clarion
into the green post box outside our gate, his bike between his legs. He looks a bit surprised at my crazy outfit.

‘It was like . . . well awesome,’ he’s saying into the phone. ‘He was offside, though, like, totally.’

‘Morning,’ I say, climbing the first bar of the gate, leaning over and snatching the
Clarion
from the mouth of the box. Charlie, who is fifteen, stubbly on odd parts of his face and always half-asleep, raises one eyebrow
(which for him is a gesture of mild shock) as I retreat towards the house.

‘Thanks,’ I call, glancing back over my pastel blue shoulder. Charlie is riding away on his bike, still in conversation. He waves without turning back.

‘You shouldn’t have done that, Stick,’ yawns Ed as I slam the front door behind me and wipe my slippers on the mat.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Terrorised the wildlife,’ he replies, scampering towards the kitchen, from which fantastic croissant smells are wafting. ‘The squirrels have died from shock.’

‘Ha ha,’ I say, already flicking through the paper to find the small ads at the back.

Mum is up and dressed in jogging pants and a sweatshirt, her hair in a messy pony tail. There’s chocolate spread in a jar on the table and some apricot jam we bought from the country fair last month. She’s pouring hot, frothy milk into two mugs. She stirs white chocolate flakes into both and gives them to us as we sit down.

‘You’re up early,’ I comment as she tweaks my nose.

‘Ed wants to go to the plane shop in Southampton,’ explains Mum.

‘That sounds fun, not,’ I say, pulling a face of mock disgust.

‘If you’re not shovelling poo, you can come too,’ suggests Ed, white froth covering his top lip like a moustache.

‘It’s Saturday, dur.’ Nothing stops me going to the stables at the weekend. A pang of something approaching regret grumbles in my stomach. A trip to the city would mean I could check out the ads in all the horsey mags.

My eyes scan the box ads in the
Clarion
– there are several photos of horses, large and small. ‘Aw, look,’ I murmur, my gaze drawn to a furry brown dumpling on legs.

‘What is it?’ asks Mum, removing golden croissants from the oven just as the pinger goes off.

‘A Shetland called Tubs,’ I reply.

‘Your feet would be on the ground,’ Ed responds, dismissively. ‘You need one bigger than a toy.’ For once, he’s being sensible.

‘How many hands?’ I ask, testing him.

‘They only have feet, doh.’

‘So how big’s this plane shop?’ I say, showing willing.

‘Largest in the south of England,’ he answers.

‘Poor Mum.’

‘It’ll be fun,’ says Mum, looking on the bright side, as ever.

‘It’s not like we’re going to be in there
all
day,’ says Ed. ‘I know what I want.’

‘I’m all ears,’ I reply.

‘A one-point-six metre Spitfire, with hand-painted camouflage colour scheme and warbird pilot with removable helmet.’ Ed beams. ‘I’m going to get it on the net, but I want to look at one first.’

‘You sure you don’t need a licence to fly one of those?’ I ask.

‘Nah. Just a six channel radio and lots of sky,’ he answers, sending Mum a grateful grin. ‘Soooo exciting,’ he mutters, mouth emitting doughy flakes like anti-aircraft fire.

‘Gross, little brother,’ I tell him, shaking my head. He responds by covering his head with a paper serviette.

‘Better,’ I say. Ed pokes eyeholes in the paper so that he can see. He looks like a ghost.

Mum has given each of us a budget of fifteen hundred pounds for our chosen present and will keep a fund for ongoing costs – travel expenses for finding suitable spots to fly the plane and feed and keep for my horse. My costs will outweigh Ed’s by a long way, so Mum’s also putting an equivalent sum in a building society account in Ed’s name.

She’s being brilliant about everything.

‘What about a special treat for you, Mum?’ I ask suddenly. It’s only just occurred to me that she’s left herself out of the equation. She looks a bit taken
aback and sad, all at the same time.

‘Oh, well. I’ll have to think about that, won’t I?’ she replies, thoughtfully.

I feel stupid and insensitive. It’s obvious that what she really wants is the one thing she can’t have – Dad. Ed makes big eyes at me under his serviette, which tell me I am the dumbest person in the universe. I lower my gaze and return to the ‘Horses For Sale’ columns in the hope there will be something here to spark a new line of conversation.

None of them has the wow factor, though, not even the year-old bay colt with famous grandparents. My heart feels heavy in my chest. I close the paper quietly.

‘Nothing?’ asks Mum gently, recovering her smile.

‘Nope,’ I reply.

‘He, or she, is out there somewhere,’ she tells me. ‘Keep your compass open.’

‘You can’t do that, you might stab someone by mistake – that’s what they say in maths,’ says Ed.

He’s walking round the kitchen, still under his
serviette, making a strange humming sound, with a fork and a knife held out in front of him.

‘Nutter,’ I say, giggling. When I look at Mum, she’s chuckling too.

Chapter Eight

I arrive at the stables on my bike just as Rachel is being dropped off by her dad. She’s carrying a tray covered in a tea towel, which is good news. Rachel’s mum sometimes bakes cakes at the weekend for the team at the stables and it looks like today is our lucky day.

‘Hi, Jodie,’ says Rachel. ‘Mum’s made lemon cupcakes – we’re her guinea pigs.’

‘Wow,’ I reply, licking my lips and lifting the tea towel to take a peek. The cakes smell fantastic. ‘Actually, there’s something I’d like . . .’ I begin, but excited girls have appeared from all corners of the stables and are surrounding Rachel, hoping for a treat.

‘Mucking out first, cakes later,’ Rachel laughs, holding the tray out of arm’s reach. The girls sigh, disappointed.

I lock my bike to the fence and walk to the office to check on the ride timetable for the day. There’s no sign of Sue, but her lists are all set out on the table. I see that Rambo is out twice on hour-long hacks. He’ll love that, provided his rider is firm and keeps him moving. My initials are next to his name, which means I’m responsible for all aspects of his care, so my first job is to prepare his tack ready for his nine-thirty ride.

Of all the different areas at the stables, I think I love the tack room the most. Bridles and saddles line the walls, all shapes and sizes, each with a name plate and a photo of a furry face beside them. The low-beamed room smells of leather and linseed oil, saddle soap and horse sweat. It’s sweet and musty, warm and inviting. There are spare boots lined up against the wall and lunging reins in one corner. The stone floor always has sawdust on it and the window that overlooks the yard is always steamed up.

Adventures begin here as soon as a bridle is lifted from its hook. The horses sense it even before they
hear the clink of metal bits and the scrape of eager boots in the yard. They begin to murmur and whinny and inquisitive heads appear over stable doors. I know Rambo will already be nibbling his, peeling off a layer of wood with his teeth. He does that when he’s excited. I move instinctively to his tack and as I run my hand over his smooth saddle, I feel a familiar thrill run down my spine, even though I’m not riding today.

By the time a group of ten eager riders has arrived in the yard, Rambo is looking his beautiful best; groomed and saddled. I even polished his stirrups with my sleeve. The morning light is making them sparkle. He’s nuzzling at my pocket, ever hopeful. I help his rider, a girl of about eleven, mount up and then give him a slice of apple. He snorts his appreciation and is still chewing when Sue appears on Juniper, a chestnut gelding, to lead the line of horses out.

‘Walk on,’ she instructs and the riders shorten their reins and the sound of forty-four hooves on the move echoes round the yard. I watch Rambo until he’s out
of sight. He has already tried to eat some low-hanging leaves on a tree. I think Natalie, his rider, might have her hands full for the next hour.

Rachel is organising the younger helpers, giving them jobs. She’s in charge when Sue is out on a hack. She always asks you to do things with a smile and she lets us have the radio on, which is usually against the rules. It keeps everyone happy and makes the work more fun when you can sing along. Misty, one of the Shetlands, even joins in sometimes, but she’s tone deaf!

When I look at the clock in the yard, it already reads 10 a.m.

‘Cake time,’ says Rachel, a while later, appearing in the open doorway of Rambo’s stall.

‘Yeah!’ I exclaim with a huge grin. I’m always starving by mid morning. I spread the last of the fresh straw on the ground quickly and brush my hands together.

‘You do a great job here, Jodie,’ Rachel tells me, as I pull the bolt across and secure Rambo’s door. ‘Sue
really appreciates how hard you work. She thinks you have quite a gift with horses.’