Springtime at Cherry Tree Cottage (7 page)

With the address for Nethercott Farm programmed into the satnav, I head south on the road signposted to the coast. At the top of the hill, I catch a glimpse of the sea glittering in the morning sunshine, confirming that I am going in the right direction. (Having been sent down a lane in the dark and straight into a flood that wrecked the engine in Tony's van when I was an apprentice, I have an inherent distrust of satnavs.)

When I arrive at the farm, I have to get through the gate into the yard and past a white Range Rover while an old fawn goat tries to get out, so I'm already stressed when I meet the horse owner, who is positively hostile.

‘You aren't Mel.' Her hair is thick and glossy, her make-up more evening than daytime, and her cropped top shows off her tanned stomach and a jewelled blue piercing. She's older than me, in her late thirties or early forties.

‘I'm Flick,' I say cheerfully. ‘You must be Gina.'

‘I was expecting Mel.'

I notice her looking down at my plaster, a blue one that Louise gave me to replace Peppa Pig. I hide it behind my back.

‘He promised me he'd fit me in before his op,' she continues.

‘He's having his surgery today.'

‘I don't understand why he didn't tell me.' She shakes her head. ‘I'm really not sure about this.'

‘Do you want me to shoe your horse or not?' I ask.

‘Obviously, my horse needs to be shod. He's a TB and has very sensitive feet.'

I sigh inwardly. From my experience, thoroughbreds are sensitive in every respect.

‘Mel's a miracle-worker, the only farrier who's been able to keep shoes on him for more than five weeks.' She pauses, making her decision. ‘I'll go and get him.'

She brings a chestnut gelding out of the loosebox in the corner of the farmyard and holds on to him.

‘He hates being tied up. The first time I had him shod, he pulled back and the side of the stable came down. He was petrified – it made him ten times worse.'

‘I'm not surprised. What's his name?'

‘Rambo. He's an ex-racehorse.' She gazes at him adoringly. ‘He only ran three times. He won once, was placed twice, and then he decided he didn't like racing – he didn't even get out of the stalls. My husband was part of a syndicate who bought him as an investment. Their loss is my gain.' She smiles. ‘I'm retraining him to jump. He's going really well now.'

I look at Rambo's feet. He's flat-footed with low heels and it's a challenge to remove his existing shoes without damaging his crumbly hooves, but I get a new set on and Gina seems pleased with the result. Crossing my fingers that they'll stay on until my next visit, I pack the tools and anvil away while she returns the horse to the stable.

‘I'll get the gate for you,' she says, reappearing.

‘You mean the goat?' I say, but she doesn't seem to have a sense of humour. I open the diary to look at the price list. ‘That will be …' I name the figure.

‘Oh no, you've got that wrong.'

‘It says here.' I run my finger along the line to show her.

She looks at me. ‘Mel and I have an arrangement.'

‘He's told me that everyone knows that it's cash on the day.'

‘No, I said Mel and I have an
arrangement
.' She emphasises the word to make it clear that she isn't referring to money. I guess she's talking about payment in kind, but what kind?

‘Look, I'll call him.'

‘You can't. He's at the hospital and I have his business mobile.'

‘I have his private number.' She takes her mobile out of the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Give me a minute.' She walks away until she's out of earshot. I stroke the goat until she comes back and hands the phone to me.

‘Hi Flick,' Mel says.

‘I'm sorry about this—'

‘Oh, don't worry about that. I'm still waiting to go into theatre,' he cuts in. ‘Gina is one of my specials.'

‘She says you have an arrangement.'

‘That's right,' he says smoothly. ‘She's set up a bank transfer so it's fine. All under control. How is Rambo?'

‘Okay, thanks.' My brain is racing. If they had set up a bank transfer, why didn't Gina just say so? Equally, why didn't Mel? ‘Good luck,' I add.

‘I'll see you in a few days.'

‘Cheers,' I say, handing back the phone.

‘Mel,' Gina says. ‘Mel? Oh, he's gone.' She looks at me. ‘Happy now?'

I nod. Happy, yes, but not satisfied that I really understand what's going on.

I say goodbye and repeat the game with the old goat at the gate while Gina looks on. Once outside, I reset the satnav for my next destination, where I shoe two ponies at a private house. On my way back towards Talyton St George, there's a call on the hands-free.

‘Hi,' I say.

‘Hello?' says a man's voice. ‘Can I speak to Mel?'

‘I'm afraid he's had to take some time off.'

‘He didn't mention it last time I saw him.'

‘He was supposed to have notified all his clients.'

‘Oh well, I don't think admin is one of Mel's strengths,' the man says with humour. ‘Do you happen to know who's covering his round?'

‘Yes, I am.'

‘You?' It's his turn to apologise. ‘I thought you were one of Mel's friends answering his phone. I'm Jack, Animal Welfare Officer for this area. I've picked up a pony abandoned in a field over at Bottom End and I'm taking him to the Sanctuary. I wondered if you could drop by ASAP to look at his feet. His hooves are so overgrown the poor thing can hardly walk.'

‘I can be there within the hour.'

I'm going to drop into town to send my mobile away for repair, and pick up some cash from the hole in the wall to pay for the hay for tonight and, in spite of my straitened circumstances, treat myself to a cream tea at the Copper Kettle, the teashop in Talyton St George first. It's a bit early in the day for scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam, but working outdoors gives me an appetite.

‘That's great,' Jack says. ‘See you later.'

The call cuts out and I realise I've forgotten to ask him for the address.

When I'm in town, I find the postcode in the back of the diary and head to the Sanctuary. I follow a narrow lane, which peters out into a long gravelled track where the hedgerows press in on either side. At the end, there's a gate. I open it and enter, parking in front of a bungalow that's surrounded by tubs of tulips in bud.

I slide out of the driver's side of the truck, but before I can follow the sign that reads ‘Visitors this way', a woman emerges from the bungalow. She's carrying a baby on her hip and I'm guessing from the blue dungarees and khaki sunhat that he's a boy. I'm not sure how old he is – a year, eighteen months, maybe. I'm no good at babies.

‘Hi, you must be Flick. I'm Tessa, Jack's wife. I'm the manager here.' The woman tucks a stray lock of wavy, almost black hair behind her ear. The baby turns away from me and rests his head against her breast. ‘Oliver, don't be shy.' She smiles warmly. ‘He'll be all right in a few minutes.' He starts to cry. She puts her hand in the pocket of her overalls and pulls out a soother, pops it into her mouth and then the baby's. Silence prevails. ‘Jack wanted to be here to meet you, but he's been called out to a car fire – nothing major.'

‘He's a busy man,' I say, noticing that Tessa appears to have another baby on the way.

‘He's a part-time firefighter. He's always on the go.' She pauses. ‘I'll take you to see the pony. The vet's on his way to look at him too. Oh, here he is now. That's his car.'

The vet parks his silver four-by-four alongside Mel's truck. He jumps out and greets us with a brief smile. About thirty-five years old and five foot ten, he has a rugged appearance with short brown hair, hazel eyes and a square jaw. He wears a check shirt and grey moleskin trousers and carries a stethoscope tucked into his breast pocket.

‘Hello Tessa, and …'

‘Flick.' I hold out my hand. ‘I'm the farrier.'

‘Ah yes – Mel told me you were covering for him. How's it going?'

‘Okay so far, thank you.' I hesitate, wondering if he's going to introduce himself. ‘I didn't catch your name.'

‘I'm Matt Warren from Westleigh Equine. Where's this pony?' he goes on. ‘I'm sorry to rush you both, but I have to get back for one of the horses at the clinic.'

‘He's this way,' Tessa says, and we follow her past a kennel block and cattery to the far end of a barn, where there's a small lean-to stable. She stands back with the baby while the vet and I peer over the door. ‘Jack says, please can you give us some idea of his age and breed, and check for a microchip. There's a head-collar on the hook. We had to take the one he was wearing off – it's left a wound across his nose.'

I take the head-collar and walk into the stable, where a chestnut pony with wary brown eyes, a white blaze down his face, patches of white where the saddle would sit if he had one on, and one white foot at the back is pulling strands of hay like spaghetti from the net hanging from the ring in the wall.

‘Hello, boy,' I say quietly, my chest tightening when I notice the band of raw flesh around his nose. I buckle the head-collar around his neck and lead him over to the door.

‘Bring him outside where the light's better,' Matt says.

I rub behind the pony's ears as I encourage him into the sunlight. He must be about 13.2 hands high – I can reach comfortably around his shoulders. His hooves are so overgrown that they remind me of Aladdin's slippers. I stand him just a few steps away from the stable door for Matt to have a look at him first. His ribs are visible and his coat is thick for the time of year and like a bear's.

The pony is happy for the vet to scan him for a microchip: there isn't one. He's reasonably cheerful about having his wounds examined and treated, and his girth measured so Matt can make a rough calculation of his weight, and fairly chilled about having his heart listened to, but before I can tie him up to look at his feet, he decides he's had enough. He tosses his head, kicks up his heels and canters off towards the paddock, with me in tow. As we reach the fence, he drops his head and tears at the grass, as if he hasn't eaten for a month.

‘I couldn't stop him,' I say, trying to catch my breath as I check my hands for rope burn and drag him back.

‘It's always the quiet ones,' Matt says. ‘Has he some ID I can use when I'm writing my report? What shall I put? Chestnut pony?'

‘He needs a name,' Tessa says.

‘What about Blaze?' Matt suggests.

‘I was thinking Paddington because he reminds me of a bear,' I contribute.

‘That's a great idea,' Tessa agrees.

‘Paddington it is then,' Matt says. ‘What are Jack's plans for him?'

‘If he can trace the owner, which is unlikely because he hasn't had any luck so far, he'll pursue a prosecution. The pony will stay here until he's ready for rehoming.'

‘We'll see what happens then. I'm sorry to rush off like this. It's good to meet you, Flick.' Matt leaves as I fetch my knife, nippers and rasp.

‘Don't let me hold you up,' I say to Tessa, who's waiting.

‘If you're sure.' The baby has settled. He smiles at me and the soother drops out of his mouth. Tessa catches it before it reaches the ground. ‘I've got pretty good reflexes now. There'll be hell to pay if he can't have it back.' Smiling, she pops it straight back into his mouth. ‘Thanks for coming out to us today. I expect we'll be seeing you again at some stage, not that we take in many horses here. If ever you want a couple of rabbits or guinea pigs, or a dog, we're inundated at the moment.'

‘I'd like a dog one day, but I already have a horse and he takes up most of my spare time.' I put Paddington's foot back down and straighten up, rubbing the painful knots from the muscles in my back. ‘I'll put him away when I'm done.'

When I've finished trimming his feet, I lead him into the stable, where he returns to his hay-net. He's a sweet pony, I think, and I can't help wondering what kind of life he's led, and what brought him to this.

By the time I get back to Furzeworthy, it's gone six, but Robbie doesn't seem to mind me turning up late. Dressed in a navy T-shirt, jeans and short boots, he waves when I arrive at the yard behind the house.

He's with Kerry and a bay mare of similar build to Nelson. Her coat gleams like a conker freshly split from the shell, and the tips of her ears, her knees and hocks, mane and tail are black. Kerry hangs on to her via a rope halter and aims a squirt of fly-spray at her. The mare strikes out with her front leg. Kerry jumps back and tries again from a safer distance. The mare rears straight up and slams her front feet back down on the concrete. Kerry swears and hands the end of the rope to Robbie.

He leads the mare forwards and asks her to move back again to make sure she's listening to him before he calls Kerry to continue with what she's doing. The mare flattens her ears and gives her handlers the evil eye. Robbie doesn't speak. Using pressure on the rope, he asks her to take a step forwards again, and rubs her neck when she obeys.

Kerry gives her another go with the fly-spray and, this time, she stands quietly with her head lowered.

Robbie turns and gestures for me to approach.

‘Hi, Flick. Come and join us, if you dare.' He chuckles. ‘Meet Diva, our new recruit.'

‘She's rather beautiful,' I say.

‘She's quite horrid,' Kerry says with feeling. ‘Robbie, I don't know what you and Dillon thought you were doing buying her.'

‘She has spirit, which is just what we need, along with bravery, courage and trainability.' He grins ruefully. ‘We'll have to see if we can win her round to our way of thinking. If not, she'll have been rather an expensive mistake.'