Samphire Song (16 page)

‘Not yet,’ I respond, trying to sound bright. Everyone here has been so supportive. Sue even gave me some money to offer as a reward for information leading to positive identification. I’ve kept up my regime of fundraising through the holidays and pleaded with Mum not to book us a mini break so that I don’t have to leave ‘Campaign HQ’, as Ed calls home.

There were a couple of calls, which sent us scurrying to Kent and North Wales. Both led us to grey horses that resembled Samphire. One was a wounded steeplechaser who had been taken in by an equine charity. The other was an eight-year-old eventer who had been bought in Austria and shipped over to England. Our hopes came crashing down on both occasions.

Even Mum, who has never before shown signs of losing enthusiasm for my quest, is beginning to question the amount of time I spend emailing riding schools and pony clubs. She’s mentioned it might be time to cut down on my part-time jobs and is concerned that my regular vigil at the stables is becoming a bit ‘obsessive’. (I only slept in Rambo’s stall once, but I can see her point.)

‘It’s like looking for a flake of snow in the Himalayas,’ Ed observed at breakfast. Since he’s had his hair cut short ready for our imminent return to school, he’s been coming out with quite profound
things. He’s also grown two inches during the summer. That must be a good sign. I don’t like the fact that he’s catching me up on the height chart on the back of our kitchen door, though.

‘Why don’t you come with me for a hack?’ asks Rachel. ‘It might be the last chance before school starts again.’ She pulls a face. At least she’s going back as a ten-A-stars student.

For a moment, I’m tempted. The idea of a gentle ride through the leafy countryside, along woodland trails, stopping to let the horses drink from crystal clear streams, is very appealing. After so many weeks out of the saddle, I feel fragmented, as if I’m only firing on two out of three cylinders.

But a promise is a promise.

‘No thanks,’ I reply. ‘I’m going to head off home soon. Ed’s going away camping and I want to be with Mum.’

Ed’s outdoor adventure is a first. Sleepovers in tents were never possible when he was having regular
dialysis. The consultant is really pleased with him, which has made Ed grow in confidence and start doing normal kid things. I’m not sure camping with Leo and his dad, who is a vegan Hell’s Angel, counts as normal, but each to their own. I don’t know what Ed will make of stewed vegetables for dinner. But after Mum’s cooking, he should be able to cope with anything unusual.

‘Jodie, are you going to stop riding forever if you don’t find Samphire?’ Rachel is voicing what everyone at the stables is thinking.

‘I will find him,’ I state, simply.

‘But what if you can’t buy him back?’ she persists. It’s a logical question, but my brain can’t deal with any options other than the one I’ve set my heart on. Flexibility isn’t one of my good points, I’m realising.

‘It probably sounds stupid, but I feel it’s going to work out,’ I tell her.

And maybe it’s just my imagination, but standing in the yard moments later, I can hear his song, so, so
faintly, carried on the warm air currents of August.

‘I’m not giving up, Sam,’ I say softly to the wind. It makes no reply, just carries my whispers away on an invisible journey.

Chapter Thirty-three

‘That’s so cool, Teddy,’ I say. ‘I never knew there were grizzly bears in the Forest.’ Mum and I exchange glances and a grin. Ed is regaling us with his night-time camping exploits, involving chasing away a huge, dark animal from the food supplies at 3 a.m. The three of us are sitting in Mum’s bed in our pyjamas, having hot chocolate and cookies. It’s after ten and the sky is a mixture of dusk and moonlight. ‘I saw its teeth – massive,’ breathes Ed, demonstrating a fierce bear face. ‘Leo’s dad told us to bash the saucepans together to scare it off, but when it didn’t move, he said we had to link arms and charge. Man, it was scary.’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t a pony?’ asks Mum.

‘It was standing up on its back legs and it had a big
hairy belly,’ replies my brother, earnestly. It sounds like Leo’s dad, I’m thinking.

‘Wow!’ gasps Mum, a little too theatrically.

‘You don’t believe me, but you weren’t there,’ states Ed, huffily.

‘It hasn’t put you off camping then,’ she smiles, grabbing him for a hug.

‘Nah. Didn’t get a lot of sleep, though. There was all this barking and neighing in the night,’ he yawns. ‘Leo’s dad really snored. And then some chickens started up before it got light. COCKADOODLEDOO!’ he screeches. ‘Nutters.’

‘What sort of neighing was it?’ I ask. Force of habit.

‘Mad. Like they were being attacked by wolves or something. But it was a long way off,’ Ed answers. ‘And it stopped in the morning.’

‘Maybe they were spooked by something,’ I suggest. Ed nods and yawns.

‘Bedtime for adventurers,’ Mum says, looking at the clock.

‘Can I sleep with you, Stick? Can I? Can I?’ Ed asks. ‘In case the BEAR comes.’

‘OK. Then it can eat you first,’ I reply, pulling him out of Mum’s bed by his arm.

‘At least I’d be tasty, not sticky.’ Ed has gone limp like a rag doll. I’m using all my strength to drag him towards the door.

‘Don’t forget to clean your teeth,’ says Mum, sleepily.

Ed and I go into the bathroom and jostle for the prime spot in front of the basin. Too much toothpaste gets squeezed on to our brushes so our mouths are soon full of white foam. Ed pulls monster faces in the mirror. Then he shrieks and squeals. His voice rises and descends like an opera singer performing while doing a bungee jump. The noise hurts my ears.

‘Enough, stupid,’ I complain.

‘Thas wha’ vee’orses thounded like,’ he says, plumes of white liquid spurting from his mouth.

‘Gross, Teddy,’ I moan, leaving him to it.

His impression has reminded me of something, though. I dismiss it from my mind, because it’s late and I’m tired, so I’m probably imagining things. But it’s a thought that won’t go away, even when Ed has curled into a hamster ball next to me and is snoring softly, and the only sounds from the world outside are the hoots of distant owls in the Forest. The more I think about it, the racket Ed made wasn’t just like an animal in fear or crying for help.

It was a horse’s song.

Chapter Thirty-four

‘Can you show me where you were?’ I ask Ed, as soon as he opens his eyes. I have an ordnance survey map of the Forest unfolded on my bed. Ed sits up, stretches, stares at the paper covering my duvet and hits his head.

‘Sorry, Stick. Brain won’t work without brekky.’

‘Can’t you just point to the area?’ I encourage. Ed’s index finger wags a ‘no’.

It takes twenty minutes and four home-made pancakes before Ed’s brain is willing to work out where he stayed on his camping trip.

‘It was quite hilly,’ Ed tells me, reaching for his fifth pancake. I shake my head.

‘Those are for Mum.’ Ed pulls a pained face. ‘Can’t you remember the name of the place?’

‘Nope. It was about half an hour from Leo’s house,’ he replies.

‘Which direction?’ I ask, trying not to get cross.

‘Um. Right, I think.’ Ed licks the maple syrup off his plate.

‘Teddy. This is important. Did you pass anything that could give us a clue? A school, a church, a bridge . . .?’

‘We passed a pub called the Snail and Rocket. Or was it the Rail and Snocket?’ Ed is creasing up with giggles. I throw my hands up in frustration. Mum comes in and kisses us both good morning.

‘Mmmm. Pancakes,’ she says, appreciatively.

‘Or the Nail and Sprocket!’ laughs Ed, holding his stomach. Mum sees that I’m starting to fume and gives Ed a cautionary glance.

‘Sorry, Stick. I could show you.’

‘Show her what?’ Mum’s ears have pricked up.

‘Where he camped,’ I reply, before Ed has time to answer. ‘I was interested.’

‘You’re up to something,’ says Mum.

‘I wondered if we could go and take a look, that’s all.’ I try to sound as if I’m not bothered, either way. ‘It’s an interesting place.’ That sounded a bit lame.

Mum’s got a strange expression on her face. She knows I’m not into geography. ‘Maybe tomorrow, if we get everything done for school,’ she says.

My heart sinks. There’s a long list of things to get ready for the new term, which will involve a trip to Southampton for some new trainers, a gum shield and sports bags for both of us. And tomorrow we’re having lunch with Rachel and her family. It’s our last two days of freedom. On Monday, we’ll be back to the old routine.

‘This isn’t anything to do with horses, by any chance?’ Mum says at last, holding my gaze. It’s no use pretending. She knows me too well. I nod.

‘They were in distress – Ed said so,’ I say.

‘Horses neigh for lots of reasons. I’m sure the owners dealt with it. I think you should put it out of
your mind,’ Mum suggests, giving me a squeeze. ‘How about I take you to the pizza place for lunch while we’re shopping?’

‘Ya ya ya!’ is Ed’s reply. I smile in agreement, but my thoughts from last night won’t be quieted. Ed’s story lifted the lid off a jack-in-the-box in my mind.

Chapter Thirty-five

‘This is a BAD idea, Stick. You will be in so much trouble,’ whispers Ed. We jump as an owl at the bottom of our driveway hoots just above our heads.

‘We’ll both be in trouble, you mean,’ I say. I’m holding my mended bike still so that Ed can swing his leg over the back wheel. He sits himself on the metal frame and puts his arms round my waist.

I feel bad about involving him but I need him to show me where he heard the neighing. He’s really excited and I keep having to tell him to whisper.

‘Chocks away, Squadron Leader,’ he instructs.

‘Wilco, Wing Commander,’ I reply, pushing off with my left foot. Ed is humming the theme tune from
The Dam Busters
, one of Dad’s favourite old movies.

In seconds, we’re speeding down the lane, our
progress helped by the last light of the day. I’m hoping that Mum will stay absorbed in her feature work, content in the knowledge that she has said goodnight to both of us. As far as she’s concerned, we’re reading in bed. If we find the location without a hitch, we could be back within an hour and a half, according to my calculations. I’ve left the utility room window open, so we can sneak back in without her ever noticing.

It’s risky, but I’m totally focused. Dad would never have abandoned a mission. I’m not turning back.

‘Stick, slow down,’ complains Ed, poking me in the ribs. We’ve only been going for about ten minutes.

‘Why?’ I ask, keeping my eyes fixed on the lane and my feet pushing the pedals.

‘Need a wee,’ he says, sheepishly.

I pull in to the verge and Ed disappears behind a tree. I use the opportunity to check the map with my LED pencil torch and flick on my bike lights. When Ed returns, I notice his pyjamas showing under his jeans.

‘What?’ he says, embarrassed. ‘I forgot to take them off, OK?’

We set off again, using the back lanes to Leo’s house and then following my plotted route through villages and across commons, past several families of grazing donkeys and Forest ponies, to the Snail and Rocket pub, which lies about four miles from our house. From here, I’m relying on Ed’s memory to get us to the location. We freewheel past at speed, trying to avoid attention, noticing the fairy lights in the crowded garden and the noisy banter emanating from the open door.