THEY had just finished the mucking out next morning when the Goldmans’ station wagon drove up, and stopped outside the yard. Bobby sighed, put down her pitch-fork, and went to meet Isabel and her mother as they picked their way between the workmen, heaps of bricks and half-mixed cement, and the lorries in the yard. Isabel wore a heavy, high collared and expensive looking blue raincoat, which made her look foreign, and rather dashing, and Mrs. Goldman wore a peacock blue costume that could have come straight from a top Parisian house. Bobby, feeling a thorough mess in her old denim jeans and brightly checked shirt, met them at the gate.
“Good morning Miss Morton,” Mrs. Goldman was peering past her towards the loose boxes. “And how is Phoenix today?”
“Very well,” replied Bobby, rather surprised. Could it be possible that Mrs. Goldman did not know about yesterday? “I shall take him out for half an hour or so later on.”
“Good.” Mrs. Goldman beamed at her. “Now, the reason we have come to see you is this. Last night, partly on Inga Jacob’s advice, we definitely intended to sell Phoenix, after the way that he behaved at the show, in spite of Isabel’s fondness for him. But before we finally made up our minds Isabel did decide to telephone Colonel Crisp, who was one of the judges yesterday. He is a business acquaintance of my husband’s, and she thought that he might be able to give us some advice. Apparently he was extremely impressed by the horse, and he explained, very politely, that it was entirely Isabel’s fault that he behaved as he did. She told him where we were having Phoenix schooled, and he said some extremely complimentary things about you and the Bracken Hills Stables, and advised us to give it a further trial. And so we decided that we would put it entirely into your hands. We would like you to continue to school Phoenix until you feel that it is really the right time for Isabel to take over again, and if you think it necessary she would like lessons beforehand, either on Selina, or on one of your horses, or even both.”
It was all so totally unexpected that for a moment Bobby just stared at them. Then she found her voice. “I think it’s a perfect solution,” she declared. “And it would certainly be a good idea for Isabel to have lessons. Perhaps one of our horses would be best, as it would save you from having to bring Selina over each time.”
“But I would like to keep her with you,” said Isabel. “It seems so silly to have Selina at Abbington, and Phoenix here. It would be much better to have them both in the same place, and perhaps you could give Selina some schooling as well? I haven’t had much time to ride her lately, and she’s got very fat and lazy.”
“Well, I’d love to,” agreed Bobby, suppressing an urge to dance wildly round the yard. “When would you like to bring her over?”
“Tomorrow?” asked Isabel. “I can ride her here, across the common. It will be fun.”
“Yes, that will suit us,” agreed Bobby, trying to decide which horse it would be best to turn out in order to make room for Isabel’s other mount.
“You could use Selina for taking rides as well, when I can’t come,” Isabel told her. “It might do her good. She badly needs some work, she’s a disgusting shape at the moment.”
“I’d like to,” Bobby told her. “Thank you very much.”
The Goldmans had a look at Phoenix, Isabel said that she would come over with Selina some time the next day, and they left. Bobby stood in the middle of the causeway, looking dazed, while Heath stared at her curiously from the door of Snow Goose’s box.
“Do you feel all right?” she asked at length.
“All right? Didn’t you hear that?” cried Bobby. “We’re keeping Phoenix, and having another livery as well, one we can use for escorting rides. And Isabel wants lessons on her, all because of Colonel Crisp. He’s a wonderful man.”
“What’s so wonderful about him?” asked Heath, who had rather unhappy memories of Colonel Crisp’s last visit to Bracken. “What on earth are you talking about Bobby?”
Breathlessly Bobby explained, and Heath became almost as jubilant. “Now who says Bracken stables are finished?” she cried. “Won’t Guy be pleased? You must go to see him tonight, Bobby.”
“I will. I promised to go, anyway, to tell him all about yesterday,” replied Bobby. “Come on, let’s get the work finished, then we can start riding. Phoenix is at last showing signs of living up to his name.”
Heath laughed, and returned to bedding down Snow Goose’s box with suddenly increased energy. It certainly seemed as though Phoenix might be going to help them to rise from the ashes, after all.
But the day had only just begun. They were about to start the midday feeds when the telephone rang. Heath answered it, and Bobby, who was just making tea for the workmen, a job which either the girls or the men themselves seemed to be doing almost continuously, heard her name, and Shelta’s, and something about two ponies. Intrigued, she turned off the roaring primus stove, and listened. After a moment Heath turned to her.
“It’s the Vicar,” she said. “About the fête. He wants you to give a demonstration on Shelta, and someone else to give pony rides. It’s being held a week on Saturday.”
Bobby thought fast, remembered that the only show that day was rather distant and not very attractive, and said, “Say Yes to the pony rides, but what sort of demonstration am I supposed to give?”
“Jumping of course,” replied Heath. “He’d like us to supply the jumps as well.”
“It sounds ridiculous,” said Bobby. “I’d only fall off or something. Say I can’t.”
“Don’t be so disgustingly modest,” retorted Heath. “It’ll be wonderful publicity for us. I’ll tell him you’ll do it.”
Ignoring Bobby’s protests she raised the receiver to her ear once more, and told the Vicar that they would be glad to supply both pony rides and demonstration. There were long and heartfelt thanks from the Vicar, and Heath put the telephone down at last to find Bobby glaring at her.
“If you say you’re not doing that demonstration again I’ll throw something at you,” threatened Heath. “Just think of the wonderful advertisement it’ll be.”
“Oh sure. When I knock everything down, fall off, and let Shelta gallop out of the ring,” replied Bobby. “Oh well, I can’t get out of it now. I suppose you realise that we shall have to cancel all rides for that afternoon, if we both have to go?”
“The publicity will be worth it,” replied Heath cheerfully. “People come from miles round to the church fête and flower show.”
Still rather unconvinced, Bobby finished making the tea, and while the workmen stopped work cheerfully to drink it she and Heath started to feed the horses.
“Now we only need the Bracken House contract and Mrs. Costello and a few of the other owners with new horses, and things will really be looking up,” said Heath, as she opened the corn bin.
That evening Bobby went to visit Guy, thankful that she was for once delivering reasonably good news, though of course in spite of the fact that Phoenix was staying on at Bracken his behaviour at Kensington would hardly have done them much good. But she was smiling as she walked down the sunlit ward, and Guy watched her approach with pleasure. Her face was so bright and alive, her hair blown back by the warm wind outside, and she was obviously happy about something. Guy knew that he was never so glad to see any of his other visitors.
“What happened?” he asked her, as she sat down. “You look as though you’ve been left a fortune. Did Abbington win yesterday?”
Bobby’s smile faded a little, and she said, “No. As a matter of fact Phoenix jumped the park railings and bolted across Kensington Gardens with Isabel still in the saddle.” But she still did not look as solemn as the occasion seemed to warrant, and Guy looked suspicious.
“Come off it,” he ordered. “What else happened?”
“Thousands of things,” Bobby told him. She described the Goldmans’ visit, and told him about Selina and Phoenix, and then went on to tell him about the fête.
“It does seem silly, though, asking me to give a demonstration,” she ended. “I mean, if I was Keith Rhodes, or Joanne Armstrong, or someone, it would be different, but I’ve never jumped outside England, and only for one big season here.”
“Yes, but you are local, and a member of the parish,” Guy pointed out. “And you aren’t exactly unknown. Plenty of people would as soon watch Shelta as Rampant or Murphy, or Garland’s Painter’s Progress. Nearly everyone here recognised you, you know, without me mentioning your name.” He grinned. “It’s a shame I shan’t be there to watch you. I suppose they won’t postpone it for a week?”
For a moment the remark did not make sense to Bobby, then she suddenly realised what he meant. “Guy,” she cried. “Do you mean you’ll be out of here by then?”
“I should be, unless anything unexpected happens,” replied Guy, laughing at her delighted face. “Mind you, I shan’t be much help. I shan’t even arrive at the stables unless someone pushes or drives me there.”
“We’ll teach one of the ponies to come down with a cart to fetch you,” replied Bobby cheerfully. She wanted to ask how long it was likely to be before he could ride again, or if it would be ever, but she did not know how to put it. But Guy apparently read her thoughts.
“It won’t be for ever,” he assured her. “I may not be able to take up show jumping again, but there’s no reason why I shouldn’t some day teach old Cloisonné to be a decent hack.” From that remark Bobby drew her own conclusions, but even if it was years before he got that far at least Guy would be home, and in command of the stables again, and things would seem almost normal once more. And it would be so wonderful just to have him back.
Visiting hour over, Bobby started for home feeling extremely cheerful. It had been a wonderful day, everything suddenly seemed to be coming right. Even Cedarwood looked less ugly than usual, with the late, mellow sunlight glowing on the yellow walls, and the french windows standing open on to the smoothly mown lawn. The air smelt of cut grass, flowers, and pine, and inside the house was cool and quiet, scented with furniture polish and lavender. Everyone was delighted to hear that Guy would soon be home, and they ate a lively supper together in the dining-room, the Joyces and Lucy as usual eating with them. Afterwards Bobby and Heath helped with the washing up, and then retired to the office to do some accounts, a job which they usually hated, but which tonight seemed quite pleasant, especially as the profits had improved since the previous week, and showed promise of improving even further with the new livery and Isabel’s extra lessons, besides the new business which another horse for escort work would enable them to do. That was, so long as Phoenix’s behaviour at Kensington had not done them too much harm.
Before going to bed Bobby wrote to her guardians and to Silvia, and it was late when she at last switched off the light, and leaned out of her open window for a moment before getting into bed. The cool night air smelt wonderful, full of the scents of warm earth and growing things, flavoured with pine from the hills behind the village, and the sweetness of mown grass, and warm, damp bracken. The half moon threw a faint silver glow over the woods and fields, and stars, infinitely distant, were silver pin-pricks in the velvet sky. For the first time in weeks Bobby’s sleep was really peaceful that night.
Selina arrived the following day and was installed in Snow Goose’s box, the grey having been turned out in the hope that it might make him behave more sensibly. The brown mare looked as fat and lazy as Isabel had described her, after being turned out on the rich grass of the farm next door to the Goldmans’ house, and she proved to be a peaceful, contented creature. It was the day after her arrival that Mrs. Costello’s daughter, Olwin Blake, drove into the yard in her Morris Minor, and narrowly avoided colliding with one of the builder’s lorries. She was a small, slender, immensely energetic girl in her early twenties. Her light brown hair was cut short and brushed back from her narrow face, with its high cheek bones and slightly slanting grey eyes, and she wore tightly fitting drainpipe trousers in tartan material, with a yellow Aertex shirt. In the car with her was her eighteen-month-old daughter and two sleek, smiling black Labradors. She let the dogs out of the car, shut her indignant daughter in, and came rapidly across the yard to where Heath was sorting tack for the next ride, and handing saddles and bridles to a crowd of enthusiastic children.
“Good morning,” Olwin’s hand shake was as energetic as the rest of her. “Sit Jedda. Luke, come here, sir. It’s Miss Graham, isn’t it? Is Miss Morton about? I think she had more to do with my mother’s horse than anybody.”
“Yes, she did,” agreed Heath. “Bobby,” she shouted.
After a moment Bobby appeared from the direction of the field, and Olwin went to meet her, with the two Labradors bounding round her.
“It’s about my mother,” she explained, grabbing Jedda, who was about to vanish into the half-ruined boxes. “She’s been quite impossible since Nightingale was killed, won’t take an interest in anything, just sits about the house moping. Nial and I want to go away shortly for a month’s holiday, but Mother doesn’t want to come with us, and we don’t like to leave her alone, not as she is at present. I wondered if there was anything you could do about it, find her a horse to take Nightingale’s place, for instance. If you find the animal I’ll get Mother over here to see it, and do my best to get her interested. I’ve tried to get her fond of a dog, but it hasn’t worked. Luke, come here. Her room is plastered with photos of the horse, and about her only pleasure these days seems to be in looking through her album at his pictures. We’re really getting desperate about her. It’s just like she was after Father died, almost worse I think. Do you think you can help at all?”
“Well, I’ll certainly try,” agreed Bobby. “But it’s going to be a bit difficult. Nightingale was the only horse she was fond of, you know. She was never particularly interested in any of ours. I don’t know whether she’ll ever accept anything in his place.”
“Nor do I. But we must try to do something,” said Olwin. “Otherwise I’m afraid she may just fade away. She seems quite dead these days, never shows a spark of interest in anything except those old photographs. Jedda, will you come here. Sit, good girl. Look Miss Morton, what about some relation of Nightingale’s? One shouldn’t be difficult to find, surely. He was registered. The closer the better, a brother, or half-brother or something, and like him in looks. Mother might take to that.”
“I could get in touch with his breeder,” suggested Bobby. “He may be able to help.”
“I’d be so grateful if you would,” said Olwin. “Well, I must be getting along. I’ll telephone you in a few days, to see if you’ve found anything. Thank you so much. Heel, Jedda, Luke. Goodbye Miss Morton.”
She hurried away across the muddy yard, with the two laughing black dogs trotting at her heels. A few moments later they were all swallowed up inside the little grey car, which swept round the yard and out of the drive. Bobby’s last glimpse of the Blakes was two laughing black faces at the rear window, and two winking red tail lights. Then Olwin Blake was gone. The yard seemed suddenly empty.
“Well, what was all that about?” asked Heath, as Bobby rejoined her at the boxes.
Bobby explained, and Heath agreed with her that Mrs. Costello was not going to take readily to a new horse.
“Though Olwin’s idea of getting a close relation of Nightingale’s might work,” she added, going to the rescue of a small child whom Ballerina was towing briskly towards the yard and the feed barn.
Bobby telephoned Nightingale’s breeder, Dennis Arnold, that afternoon. He was a well-known breeder of part and pure bred Arabian horses, and his stallion, Eagle’s Shadow, who had sired Nightingale, was twice champion at Roehampton.
“Well, as it happens you’re in luck,” he told Bobby. “I’ve a full sister to Nightingale in my yard at the moment. Would that be any use to you, do you think?”
“It might,” agreed Bobby. “I suppose you haven’t a brother, or half-brother?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” replied Dennis Arnold. “The closest male relation I have at present is his cousin, and he’s only a yearling at present. That would be too young, I take it?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” agreed Bobby. She explained the situation more thoroughly, and Dennis Arnold said, “The filly is a very nice little thing. A grey again, fifteen hands, a four year old, and an exceptionally sweet natured, friendly little creature. She’s reasonably well schooled, and I’d trust her with any fairly competent novice. She hasn’t a spot of vice in her, though naturally she can be gay enough, at her age, and with her breeding. Would you like to bring the lady to see her?”
“I don’t think that would work,” replied Bobby. “You see, the idea is to have the horse here, and gently persuade her to take an interest in trying it. Her daughter will bring her round casually to see us, and we’d like to have the horse in the yard. Could we arrange that, do you think? It does seem almost a matter of life and death. Mrs. Costello is pining so hopelessly for Nightingale, and her family is desperate.”
“I’m sure something can be arranged,” agreed Dennis Arnold. “Supposing I send the filly over tomorrow? You could keep her for a few days, and let Mrs. Costello get used to her. I trust you with her happily enough.”
“Thank you very much,” said Bobby. “We’ll have a box ready for her. It will be wonderful if Mrs. Costello takes to her.”
And so it was arranged. Cloisonné was turned out again, and the next morning the box was prepared for the new filly. She arrived just before twelve in a beautiful new Bedford four-horse lorry, bedded down inside with clean, sweet wheat straw. The filly had travelled in bandages, knee pads, tail bandage and guard, hock boots, summer sheet, and leather head collar. The driver unloaded her carefully in the yard, to a chorus of admiration from the workmen, who had stopped work to watch. She was certainly a lovely little creature, a very light grey with slightly darker legs, mane, and tail, a beautiful Arabian head, with big dark eyes and sharply pricking ears, a flowing mane and tail, and the airy carriage of a ballet dancer. She was a far prettier horse than her brother Nightingale, who had been a darker grey with a less perfect head and an arrogant, aloof nature, and Bobby wondered whether she might be too different for Mrs. Costello. She was installed in her new home, where she started instantly to eat hay, unexcited by her change of scene. Bobby decided to ride her later that afternoon. The sooner Mrs. Costello was settled the better.
The filly, whose name was Desert Rose, proved to be a wonderful ride. She was as light as air, and she could turn on a sixpence. Her extended trot was one of the most perfect things that Bobby had ever experienced, and her action was beautiful, low and straight, her toe so pointed that she hardly seemed to touch the ground. And she could jump. She was slightly green still, but if Mrs. Costello was not enchanted with her they might as well give up, decided Bobby, as she stabled the filly. Desert Rose loved human company, and she stood dreaming with her nose turned to rest on Bobby’s back while her feet were picked out, and examined after the ride. Rose settled, Bobby went into the tack room to telephone Olwin Blake.
Olwin arranged to bring her mother over the following day at about eleven, and Bobby wandered back to get ponies ready for the next ride, hoping that it would work.
The Morris Minor drove into the yard just after eleven the next morning, Olwin and Mrs. Costello sitting in front, Mrs. Costello holding the little girl, Karen, on her knee, with the two Labradors sitting in the back. Bobby was horrified by the change in Olwin’s mother. She had been a small, plump, gentle-faced woman who looked young in spite of her fifty years, with her softly waved, gently greying hair, and her tweedy frocks or well-cut riding clothes. But today her face had gone thin, her hair seemed twice as grey, and for the first time it struck Bobby that she was getting old. She looked thinner altogether, and her grey, brown flecked tweed frock with the brown leather belt hung loosely round her. Bobby was sorry to see that she was not in riding clothes. But as she followed her mother across the yard with the two dogs at her heels Olwin jerked a thumb back at the car, and Bobby supposed her to mean that her mother’s jodhpurs were inside.
“Hello, Mrs. Costello. How nice to see you again.” Bobby took the woman’s hand in a warm grip. “I’m so glad you came in to see us.”
“It was Olwin’s idea,” replied Mrs. Costello heavily. She looked round the yard. “What a dreadful mess. I am sorry about it, Miss Morton. I was so upset about Nightingale that I don’t think I told you how sorry I was at the time. And for Mr. Mathews to be hurt as well. It’s terrible. How is he now?”
“He’s much better,” replied Bobby. “He should be coming home in a week or two.”
“I am glad,” Mrs. Costello told her sincerely.
There was a moment’s pause, during which Bobby wondered how to go on, and Heath watched them from the tack room doorway, and then Olwin said, “Do you mind if I let the dogs have a run round your field, Miss Morton? They’ve been cooped up in the car for ages while we were shopping. Perhaps you could show Mother the horses?”
“Yes, of course. Shall we take Karen to see them as well?” suggested Bobby, feeling sorry for the child, who was watching them wistfully from the car.
“Oh yes, do. She’d love it, I expect,” agreed Olwin, looking slightly surprised. She was inclined to think of her daughter as a nice but slightly troublesome dog, and leave her safely shut up out of the way when she herself was busy.
Mrs. Costello fetched the delighted Karen from the car, and the two of them followed Bobby slowly along the cinder causeway to the boxes. Olwin was throwing sticks for her dogs, but obviously keeping an eye on proceedings by the horses. Karen, a pretty, fair-haired child dressed in blue dungarees and a cream coloured blouse, became fascinated by Silver Fountain, and Bobby began to fear that they would get no further, but eventually they were nearing Desert Rose’s box. Mrs. Costello exclaimed over her beauty, and Bobby opened the box door. She had purposely left the filly without sheet, bandages, or head collar, so that her lithe youthful beauty was quite naked. Desert Rose turned to meet them, whickering an eager welcome through wide blown, delicate nostrils, and Bobby said, “This is Nightingale’s full sister Mrs. Costello. She’s called Desert Rose.”
“Nightingale’s sister?” echoed Mrs. Costello. “But she isn’t much like him, is she?”
“Not in a way I suppose,” admitted Bobby. “But look at the way she stands, and moves, and the way she holds her head. That’s just Nightingale.”
“I suppose it is,” agreed Mrs. Costello.
She did not offer to enter the box or touch the filly, and Bobby said, “She’s a simply lovely ride. One of the best we’ve ever had.”
“Is she?” Mrs. Costello was plainly losing interest, and Bobby tried desperately to think of a way to get her on to the filly’s back.
“I think she’s rather like Nightingale to ride, actually,” she said.
“Oh? I don’t think I’d like that,” said Mrs. Costello. “It would seem too strange. Like Nightingale and yet not him. No, I shouldn’t like that at all.”
She was turning away, taking Karen’s hand, and going on to look at Selina, who was next door. Olwin had come up behind them just in time to hear her mother’s last remark, and she made a helpless face at Bobby, who shook her head.
“It’s no use. She isn’t at all interested,” she told Olwin, in a low voice. “We’ve been on the wrong tack. A horse like Nightingale obviously isn’t the answer.”
They accompanied Mrs. Costello and Karen past the rest of the horses and turned back towards the car, the dogs bounding round them in circles, smiling up at them, and Mrs. Costello walking slowly, her shoulders stooping, the same dead, dull expression on her lined face. Olwin swung Karen up into her arms, and turned to thank Bobby, and say goodbye. Her mother, with a brief “Thank you, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am about all this,” walked on towards the car. Olwin shrugged her shoulders, and hurried after her, with her two grinning black dogs running ahead. As the little grey car turned out of the gate Bobby walked slowly back to the boxes, where Heath was grooming Selina, deep in thought.
“It’s no good worrying, you can’t force the woman to like a horse,” Heath told her at last, when Bobby had told her the whole sad story. “We’ll just have to send Rose back, and let her work her own way out. Surely she can’t grieve for Nightingale for ever.”
But Bobby, who was more sensitive than the practical Heath, was not so sure.
It was while she was getting Sand Piper ready for Isabel’s lesson that afternoon that Bobby suddenly had an idea. It was such an obvious answer to the problem of Mrs. Costello that she was astonished that it had not struck her before. Of course, what Olwin’s mother needed was not a beautiful, highly bred, expensive, much admired copy of Nightingale. The solution should be a horse that she could really feel needed her care and love, a neglected, miserable, unwanted pony that would really be hers, not a slender beauty at expensive livery, but a rough, ribby, ugly animal that she could champion and protect and enjoy building into a decent horse again. Bobby was so thrilled by her idea that she left Sand Piper standing in his box with only one girth buckle fastened, and dashed off to tell Heath, who listened in silence, and then slowly began to smile.
“Bobby, I think you’ve got it,” she exclaimed. “What she wants is something that really needs a bit of love. Now the problem is, where on earth are we going to find it?”
“It must be sound, and it must have a nice temperament,” said Bobby thoughtfully. “Otherwise we’ll have another tragedy on our hands. I know, what about that home of rest at Agton? They always have neglected horses on the place.”
“Yes, they do,” agreed Heath.
For the next half-hour Bobby was busy telephoning, and Isabel when she arrived, finished saddling Sand Piper and took him into the school on her own. She had suddenly developed a passion for combined training, and insisted on riding for at least twenty minutes without stirrups during each lesson to help her get down into the saddle, a habit which Bobby gladly encouraged.
The Agton Home of Rest said Yes, they had several horses whom they thought would be suitable, and Bobby arranged to go over that evening, as it was not far, if Olwin agreed. Olwin did, only too relieved to try any solution.
“I’m getting really desperate,” she told Bobby. “Mother seems to have absolutely no interest or purpose in life any more. She used to like helping me with Karen, but she hasn’t even been interested in that lately.” She did not add that her own and her mother’s ideas on bringing up children were totally different, and had been the cause of many snappish rebukes on her part, when she had decided that Karen was being “spoiled”. But she promised to bring her mother round on some pretext when the horse had arrived. Bobby put the receiver down feeling quite hopeful. It seemed to be the last chance, but it might work. She had arranged with Mr. Arnold to have Rose fetched back the following day, and he had been very sorry to hear that their plan had not worked.
Isabel was extremely interested when she heard where Bobby was going that evening, and offered to accompany her, as Heath had an evening ride, and was unable to go. Bobby agreed, and they arranged with Mr. Joyce to take the horse box, as they wanted to get Mrs. Costello settled as soon as possible. Agton was only half an hour’s drive away, and the Home of Rest was just outside the village, a big, well-kept farm, with well fenced meadows and comfortably tumbledown buildings, mostly built in mellowed red brick, with tiled roofs and white painted woodwork. Most of the stabling was loose boxes, and horses were tucked away in odd corners of the rambling farm buildings. The manageress, a middle-aged, dark-haired, highly efficient and practical woman, dressed in tweeds and strong brogues, came to meet them as they walked across the yard. Bobby introduced herself, Isabel, and Mr. Joyce, and the manageress, whose name was Mrs. Hudson, informed her that all the suitable horses were in for them to inspect.
A mousey haired, slight girl dressed in jeans opened the first box, and Bobby found herself looking at a dock-tailed, ragged bay pony with a big head and dull eye. Its ribs showed, and its hips were ragged and prominent. It was neglected, certainly, but it had not that touch of quality and pathos that she was looking for. But the next horse was quite different. A darkly dappled grey, with a slightly Arabian head, large eyes, and an anxious expression. She had a long, dark mane and tail, badly in need of pulling, and her neck, which should have been arched and proud, was weak and sunken. Her ribs stuck out beneath her rough, patchy coat, and her hind quarters had fallen away to nothing. Her legs were covered in half-healed scrapes and grazes, and there was a nasty, half-scabbed saddle sore on her withers. In the chin groove Bobby found old callouses and scars from a viciously tightened curb chain.
She was pathetically anxious to please, and very nervous. But in spite of all this she was gentleness itself, not even flattening her ears when Bobby examined the saddle sore, though she cowered away from a suddenly raised hand. Isabel was obviously on the point of saying that she would buy the little mare herself, as Bobby looked at the grey’s teeth. About nine. And she stood about fifteen hands high.
“Do you know her history?” she asked Mrs. Hudson, who was gentling the pony with a surprisingly understanding touch.
“She came from one of those little, third-rate travelling circuses,” replied the manageress. “They’d been trying to teach her high school, didn’t know a thing about it themselves, of course. They tried to make her rear with severe bits and passage by beating her until she was so het up that it was all she would do. She’s a dreadful ride at present, I’m afraid. She’s desperate to please, but in such a muddle that she doesn’t understand a single aid. She needs to be turned out for a few months, and given plenty of petting and attention, then taken out for quiet hacks in company. She’d come to it all right, and she’s a sweet little mare.”
Bobby agreed that she was. And she did seem just the thing for Mrs. Costello, who had plenty of horse sense, and was a quiet rider with sympathetic hands.
“Has she a name?” she asked Mrs. Hudson.
“We don’t usually name those we want homes for,” replied the manageress. “But we call her Dapple just to identify her.”
Bobby nodded, and Isabel said, “Oh, do have her Bobby. She’s so sweet. If Mrs. Costello doesn’t want her, I’ll take her. She does need a good home.”
The little mare had calmed down under Mrs. Hudson’s quiet hands, and was now standing with half-closed eyes, enjoying the feel of those hands on her ears and neck. She did not seem at all head shy with the manageress. This, and Isabel’s remark, made up Bobby’s mind for her. Dapple was just right.
“I’d like to take her,” she told Mrs. Hudson. “I’m afraid I can’t guarantee the home, but if anything will appeal to Mrs. Costello I think Dapple will. And Isabel here says she’ll take her if Mrs. Costello won’t.”
Mrs. Hudson was delighted, Isabel overjoyed, and Mr. Joyce approving. The girl groom smiled happily. Dapple was loaded then and there into the Bracken box. She went in nervously, rushing up the ramp, and shivering as it thudded up behind her, but a few quiet words from Mrs. Hudson calmed her, and as Mr. Joyce started the engine Bobby leaned out of the passenger compartment window to thank Mrs. Hudson. Then the box was moving away, and Bobby and Isabel, who were both travelling with Dapple, waved. The Home of Rest was hidden by a bend and Bobby went to speak to the trembling grey.
Dapple was put into one of the repaired boxes in the old yard for the night, as the men had finished work on that corner, and two of the boxes could be used if necessary, and the following morning Olwin’s car again entered the yard. This time they had decided to be quite open about the whole thing, and Mrs. Costello knew that she was being brought to see a horse for which Bobby wanted a home, an ill-treated, nervous little mare who was going for a mere twenty pounds. Bobby did not attempt to groom the mare, and she looked just the same as she had in the box at Agton when Mrs. Costello first saw her. Everyone kept well away from the box while Mrs. Costello and Dapple took their first look at one another, Olwin pretending to discuss her dogs intently with Bobby and Heath. Isabel, who was also at Bracken that morning, hovered impatiently in the background. They had had difficulty that morning in preventing her from grooming Dapple, dressing her half-healed scars, and petting her before Mrs. Costello came.
When Mrs. Costello had been in Dapple’s box for about five minutes, Olwin and Bobby strolled casually over, and looked inside. Olwin’s mother was rubbing the grey’s ears very gently, while the little mare stood dozing, resting her muzzle in the palm of the woman’s hand. They both looked up sharply as Olwin and Bobby arrived.
“Ugly little thing, isn’t she?” remarked Olwin callously. “I wouldn’t be seen dead on her.”
It worked. Mrs. Costello’s eyes blazed, and she put a protecting arm round the mare’s sunken neck. Dapple started, head high, ears tensed, then relaxed, suddenly peaceful, with the woman’s arm still over her neck. Mrs. Costello ignored her daughter. Instead she spoke to Bobby.
“I’d like to buy her,” she said. “It’s time someone took care of her.”
Bobby could have cheered, and she knew that Olwin was equally delighted. But neither of them allowed their joy to show.
“Well, I would be glad to find her a home,” Bobby told Mrs. Costello. “And I know Mrs. Hudson, at the Home of Rest, will be pleased. You’d really like her, would you? There’s nothing seriously wrong with her, just nerves and a few cuts and sores. She needs a few weeks out at grass, and plenty of attention, then some lungeing, and quiet riding. She’s been badly messed about by a nasty little circus who wanted to teach her Haute École, and didn’t know anything about it themselves.”
“I’ll get her right,” said Mrs. Costello, with quiet certainty. “We like each other.”
And from the grey mare’s sudden confidence, this certainly seemed true. Mrs. Costello’s problem appeared solved and from the new brightness and interest in her eyes and the suddenly almost youthful flush on her cheeks, she had at last regained a real purpose in life.
Mrs. Costello bought Dapple, and she was at once turned out to grass with her shoes off. She was re-named Francine, for no particular reason, except that her new owner thought it suited her. Every day Mrs. Costello would catch her, and bring her in to have her various sores treated, and to give her a feed and a light grooming, and above all, plenty of quiet love and attention. And Francine returned her owner’s devotion, quickly learning to whinny and come trotting to meet her in the field, to follow her about like a dog, to stand without trembling or starting when a hand was moved near her head, and to move over quietly in the box without becoming upset. It was wonderful to see Mrs. Costello happy again, and Bobby never tired of watching Francine and her owner, and enjoying the growing trust between them. Guy was delighted when Bobby told him about it, and of course Olwin was overjoyed.
Phoenix still claimed a great deal of Bobby’s time, and Isabel came almost every day for a lesson, her interest in combined training increasing in bounds, though Bobby was still not ready to be sure that she would ever be able to manage Phoenix in anything like that. Bobby took Shelta to another show, and won the open class on her. June Evening was there again, and won the novice easily with Jack Franks. She was looking very fit, but Bobby could not help wishing that she was still at Bracken with them. Keith Rhodes was there, and as usual he paid Bobby a lot of attention, and seemed rather hurt when she refused to have a drink with him after their class, as she had promised Heath that she would attempt to get home in time to take the late evening ride. But Bobby, whose mind was already back at Bracken, engaged with a hundred and one ideas and problems, hardly noticed.
Bobby was beginning to plan her course for her demonstration after being shown the field in which the Vicar proposed to hold the fête, and learning where she could put her jumps. She decided on a fairly big course, with some spread fences, which both she and Shelta liked, and not too many awkward turns, which might upset them both. For the pony rides she and Heath decided to use Goldcrest and Sailor, as they were both attractive ponies, and the right size, being thirteen hands and thirteen two respectively.
Selina was proving invaluable for taking rides, as she was completely reliable, even with ponies charging past her on all sides in the middle of an open field. Isabel was riding the stable’s horses more than her own mare if anything, and was beginning to get used to the different feel and styles of various mounts over jumps, and to grow more expert at controlling them.
The Saturday of the fête dawned clear and warm, with a thick mist low over the fields which promised heat later on. Bobby, Heath, Yoland, Mr. Joyce, and the Vicar, a fair, ruddy-faced, broad young man who looked more like a farmer, had spent the previous evening loading jumps into the horse box, and driving them down the road to the other end of the village, into the big meadow behind the vicarage where the marquees and side shows were already in position, and unloading and setting them up as a course in the roped off ring where the demonstration would be given, and later the sports would be held. The advertisements for the fête all promised pony rides by the Bracken Hills Riding School, and a demonstration by Roberta Morton on her famous show jumping mare, Shelta, and Bobby hoped that she and Shelta would be able to live up to the promises of skill and brilliance that the Vicar had been giving.
The fête was due to open at two o’clock, and Bobby’s demonstration was timed for three, when people had been given time to arrive and look round the flower tent and stalls. Pony rides would be given all afternoon, and both Yoland and Isabel had promised to help. Shelta was to stand in the old stable at the vicarage for the afternoon, to save Bobby from having to dash back to the stables to fetch her, and the lawn mower, bicycles, garden tools, and other oddments were moved out, and some straw brought in the horse box was shaken down.
They had rides as usual on Saturday morning, taking them in the school for both coolness and convenience, and many of the pupils announced that they would be at the fête that afternoon, mainly to see Shelta jump, and by lunch time Bobby was more nervous than she would have been before an international jumping competition. Then, it would not be up to her alone to make the event worth while, if anything went wrong, that was bad luck for her, but it did not affect other people. Today if she made a mess of everything it could spoil the fête, as well as Bracken’s reputation, which at present was none too hot anyway. Bobby did not eat much lunch that day.