The Wild Boy and Queen Moon (2 page)

‘And you don’t like me, you pig, do you?’ she said out loud, and gathered up her reins and sent him on at a swinging trot down the grassy path. He had beautiful paces – if only his temperament were as sweet! She wouldn’t let him canter because she knew he would buck.

She let him scramble up the sea-wall, and stopped him for a moment to look down the river. The tide was out and the river – called the Branklet – was only a channel between banks of shining mud. The Branklet wound lazily across the marshes, a small tributary of the big river, the Brank, some three miles away which went directly out to sea. The Branklet was navigable at high tide to some three or four miles beyond Drakesend, and one or two fishing boats came in and out when the water was there; small yachts came up to anchor so that their crews could walk up to the pub over the fields. There was a grass-covered wall on either side which was lovely to ride along, and the marsh below was patterned with reeds and ditches frothing with meadowsweet and ancient hawthorns gnarled from the east wind. Julia liked things like that, unlike her mother. Her mother thought there was nothing to beat riding in a menage with rails round it. She only sent Julia on hacks to try and ‘let down’ the evil Minnie. Tomorrow it would
be
the floodlit show-jumping arena again.

In the summer if the water was high on a hot day, Sandy and Leo would ride their ponies down to the wall and turn them loose while they had a swim. Julia had seen them. Imagine doing that with Minnie!

Minnie was tired of her dreaming and started to pull again. The turf on the top of the wall was springy and full of flowers. Julia’s arms ached so she gave up holding on and let Minnie go. As she galloped, she thought how much she hated all this action and spite, and wished with all her heart she could just lie in the grass until the sun went down over the trees behind Drakesend. And never go show-jumping again.

‘I say, look at Julia go!’

Sandy and Leo were getting two of the horses in from the bottom field. (Do-it-yourself was a somewhat lax term, several of the owners much preferring Sandy to ‘do it’, rather than ‘themselves’.) As they walked down, swinging the headcollars, they could see the distant Big Gun from Minnesota tearing along the sea-wall in the distance.

‘The clock goes back at the end of the month,’ said Sandy. ‘She won’t come down here then.’

Sandy didn’t like meeting Julia when she rode out. Julia always gave her a terrible inferiority complex. Minnie was so brilliant, and dear George
would
amble along while Minnie went on springs. Sandy didn’t know what it felt like to ride a pony like Minnie, and was aware of her ignorance. She supposed she knew as much about looking after and handling horses as Julia, because Julia’s place had grooms. But there was nothing impressive about that, compared with show-jumping.

‘I wouldn’t like to be Julia, all the same,’ Leo said, guessing her thoughts. ‘You don’t enjoy things you’ve
got
to do. We only do this because we like it. We haven’t got to.’

‘Speak for yourself! Miss Ball asked me to get them in. She can’t come down tonight!’

‘She’s a bit batty, Miss Ball. The weather’s beautiful. Why bring them in?’

‘Because the little darlings like their beddy-byes. You know her.’

Miss Ball was a retired school teacher who had bought a black mare, which she christened Blackie (‘Oh, the imagination!’ cried Sandy’s mother), at a car-boot sale. She brought it to Drakesend and hacked happily around until, one morning, Blackie was found with a foal beside her. This was called Surprise. Miss Ball was over the moon with delight, in spite of having to pay two liveries, and now doted on her couple like a mother hen. Miss Ball, who was short and round, had a friend called Miss Stitchman, who was tall and thin. Sandy’s father called them Stick and Ball.

The girls put Blackie and Surprise in their adjoining boxes where large haynets were hanging ready for them. Most of the horses were still at grass, the weather was so mild. Their clients were nearly all pottering sorts of riders. There were only one or two who rode seriously: a rather spectacular young woman with red hair called Polly Marlin, who had an eventer, and a spotty-faced but talented boy called Henry, her pupil, who wanted to be world champion at dressage. He was saving up to buy his dream horse, which he reckoned would cost about ten thousand pounds. In the meantime he was making do with a one-eyed mare from the Rescue who was already doing flying changes and a crabwise progression known as
passage
, which was quite impressive.

Sandy and Leo went into the tackroom to hang up the headcollars, and then up the ladder into their private domain, the old hayloft above the tack and feedroom. They had their own kettle up here and had furnished it with thrown-out chairs and an old feed-bin for a table. Everyone knew better than to join them, and the customers would stand at the bottom and shout if they wanted Sandy. They had their own kettle and coffee things below.

Leo (short for Leonie) wasn’t allowed to have animals at home, her parents being very clean and particular, so she spent most of her time at the farm, mucking out and messing about. Luckily
she
was very clever and could do her homework in a trice, so her parents couldn’t complain. She was a thin, earnest-looking girl with large spectacles and sparky brown eyes. Her hair was straight and fell down on either side of her face so that she was forever pushing it back, looking as if she was peering out of a thicket. She was brilliant at maths and science and hadn’t a hope of not going to university and becoming a professor in the years ahead, but she loved Drakesend and wanted to be a farmer. Sandy didn’t know what she wanted to be. Happy, really.

Sandy put the kettle on and Leo crossed over to the opening that looked out over the yard and down to the river. She leaned her head against the jamb.

‘Do you think he’ll come tonight?’

‘No. Not up here. Along the sea-wall, perhaps.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Nobody else has noticed him, only us.’

‘Julia has. She’s seen him. Not close though. If he sees you, she says, he gallops off.’

‘He rides at night, in the moonlight!’

‘I wish I’d seen him!’ Leo said.

‘On the sea-wall, in the moonlight, on that grey horse! It looked fantastic!’

Sandy’s bedroom faced the river and she had looked out, without putting the light on, and seen a rider on a grey horse galloping over the marshes, silhouetted against the wide, silver spread of the
river
at high water. Once the rider had come up the lane from the river and galloped past Flirtie Gertie’s in the dusk, but even then she never got a good look at him. It was a boy, they could see that, thin and dark, on a grey thoroughbred. He rode without a saddle and with only a rope halter as far as she could see.

‘The wild boy!’ Leo sighed. ‘Who is he?’

‘Dad says he must be a gypsy.’

‘There aren’t any gypsies around here, not that I know of.’

‘And where does he keep the horse?’

‘Perhaps he’ll bring it here!’

It was their dream to have a Magic Male, with a magnificent horse, to upgrade their yard. The only males so far were Henry and a bumbling old man they called Uncle Arthur with his ewe-necked chestnut mare, Empress of China. (‘Now that’s a splendid name!’ said Sandy’s mother. ‘That’s noble!’ ‘But you should just
see
her!’ the girls wailed. ‘
Empress!
’)

‘We’ve absolutely got to meet him,’ Leo said firmly.

‘Catch him!’

Sandy laughed. ‘George isn’t fast enough!’

‘Julia could, on Minnie.’

‘How sickening, if she gets to know him!’

They made coffee, dreaming their dreams. Their mothers thought ponies kept their minds off boys.

Before they had finished, they heard the sound of a lorry coming up the lane behind the yard. There were useful cracks in the timbering of the old loft which gave them a lookout across the lane, so they investigated.

‘Horsebox! No-one we know.’

‘It’s got a horse in, hark at it kicking!’

‘New customer.’

‘We’re not expecting anyone.’

‘It’s a man!’

‘Stopping.’

‘Getting out . . .’

‘Let’s go down!’

They scrambled down the ladder into the yard and out through an archway which gave on to the lane and the house. The horsebox driver turned round and greeted them.

‘I say, can I leave a horse here?’

He was young, about eighteen, and had a very educated voice, and a superior, bossy manner. He was rather handsome in a stuck-up way, with very blue eyes and close-curling but severely cut hair. Both girls stared at him, trying to work out if he could possibly be the Magic Man. There was a lot in his favour, but his approach was damning.

‘Who runs this place?’

Sandy straightened up to her full, impressive five foot three and said, ‘I do.’

‘Have you got a spare box then?’

There was a drill for new customers. If Sandy didn’t like the look of them, she said the place was full. If she did, she had to take them up to the house to be vetted and approved.

This time she hesitated.

Leo glanced at her, appalled. ‘There’s the corner box,’ she said.

Sandy gave her a betrayed look.

‘I don’t know—’

‘If it’s empty tonight, I’ll take it,’ the man said peremptorily. ‘I’ll probably find something better when I’ve had a chance to look round. I got this horse rather unexpectedly – my great-aunt died and left it me, and her head groom sent it down without any advance warning. Stupid thing to do. It’s been travelling all day.’

It was the nearest he could get to an appeal.

‘Oh, poor thing,’ said Leo. ‘Can we look at it?’

Before the man could say anything, she had opened the groom’s door and climbed up. Sandy followed her. They looked up and saw a head, very high up, looking over a partition, arrogant of expression and noble in profile. Definitely out of the George and Blackie league. Not the sort of horse they were used to at all. Seeing the faces in the doorway, the horse whinnied imperiously. It was a dark chestnut with a white stripe on its face, and must have been at least seventeen hands high. Its eyes were large and bold and agitated. The horsebox rocked as it stamped its feet.

They were very impressed.

Leo hissed, ‘You must take it!’

‘The man’s horrible!’ Sandy hissed back.

‘But look at the horse!’

Sandy knew that opportunities should be seized. How did she know that this young man hadn’t got a heart of gold underneath the arrogant manner? Very shy people sometimes gave a bad first impression, she remembered her mother telling her. You think they’re stuck-up, but really they’re shy.

‘My name’s Anthony Speerwell. I live at Brankhead.’

Leo gave Sandy a violent nudge. The Speerwells of Brankhead were well known, having made a lot of money out of development and speculation in nearby towns. Unlike most builders, Mr Speerwell had thrived even through hard times. He had bought the lovely old Brankhead House in order to turn it into flats, but it was listed and he couldn’t get planning permission. Sandy’s father said he must have thought he could ‘buy’ permission, but so far he hadn’t managed it, so had moved in with his family. Instead of being bowled over with joy, Mrs Speerwell kept complaining about being too far away from Marks and Spencer.

Leo’s nudge nearly knocked Sandy over.

‘Tonight,’ Sandy said. ‘There’s a spare box. But I can’t promise—’

‘I’ll unbox him then.’ (No grateful thanks, no charming smile.)

‘We’ve got to get the stable ready first.’

‘I’ll wait then.’ (No offer to help.)

‘What’s the horse called?’ Leo asked.

‘King of the Fireworks. He’s said to be one of the best hunters in Leicestershire.’

‘Cor!’ said Leo.

‘You are a
creep
!’ Sandy railed as they went to fetch the straw. ‘The Speerwells are horrible! Everyone knows that!’

‘He’s terribly handsome. And the horse looks fabulous. I thought we wanted some class around here? Blackie – and Empress of China – I ask you! Henry’s one-eyed Dodo—’ Her voice was deeply scornful. ‘How are you going to attract class horses if you turn away the only decent—’

‘Oh, shut up! The horse is all right – but
him
! Anthony Speerwell – Sneerwell, more like it!’

It was going dark. Sandy switched the yard lights on and they humped four bales of straw from the barn into the empty corner box between Blackie and Empress of China. Empress of China stuck her ewe neck over the door and watched with interest. They filled a large haynet and put it up, and Sandy staggered across the yard with two water buckets, then they went back to the lorry, where Anthony Sneerwell was sitting in the cab, smoking.

‘It’s ready.’

‘You’ve been a long time.’

‘This is a do-it-yourself yard,’ Sandy said crossly. ‘Didn’t you know? It’s not our job.’

‘I can pay you.’

He stubbed out his cigarette and got down. The girls stood back as he let down the rear ramp of the lorry. Sandy wanted to see if he knew anything about horses, as she rather suspected he didn’t. King of the Fireworks was crashing around inside, obviously thinking it was time he was released, and she saw Anthony hesitate as he went to reach up to undo the headcollar rope. She saw that the horse, untied, was going to leap out headlong, and ran up the ramp just in time to hang on.

‘Steady on!’

The horse all but lifted her off her feet, but she stopped him from plunging out in a heap, and made him look what he was doing. Anthony just held the end of the rope. The horse picked his way down the steep ramp and stood looking about him, head up. Leo’s eyes were gleaming with excitement. In the dusk, even under his rugs, the horse had an undoubted quality: both blood and substance, with a beautiful head and bold, enquiring eyes. He looked all round and whinnied.

‘Shall I take him?’ Sandy asked – but knew at once it was a mistake. Anthony was not going to submit to a girl.

He didn’t reply but marched ahead, and Sandy
could
see straightaway that he was not experienced with horses, although the horse was too well-mannered to play him up. It was nervous though, in a new yard, and it was only when Sandy took the head-rope that the horse consented to enter the prepared box.