“Now, you will be sensible and tell Miss Tuke that you’ll be pleased to accept her offer,” insisted Jinny’s mother.
Jinny was waiting for the Hortons to arrive and collect her for their day’s pony trekking.
“You could look after her if you tried,” said Jinny reproachfully. “I’d show you what to do, and, if anything did go wrong, Mr. MacKenzie would come up and sort it out.”
“Oh, Jinny, be sensible. I could not look after Shantih. I know absolutely nothing about horses, and, although you never seem to notice it, there is a lot of work involved in keeping this house going. Miss Tuke is the ideal person to take her. There is no other solution.”
“There are always other ways. It’s just that we haven’t thought of them yet,” stated Jinny, straining her ears for the sound of the Hortons’ car.
Mrs. Manders sighed. “Do you always have to be so difficult?” she asked.
Jinny didn’t reply. She was thinking the same thing about her mother.
"Now, do tell Miss Tuke that you want her to take Shantih for the winter.”
"There's the Hortons," cried Jinny in relief, jumping up and running out of the kitchen.
Mrs. Manders stared after her. "If only the school at Inverburgh had been ready to open on time or I knew about horses," she thought. "And she's looking like a ghost, having these nightmares every night.”
"Oh, Jinny, Jinny, Jinny," Mrs. Manders said aloud to the empty kitchen.
"Hi," said Sue, opening the car door.
"Low," said Jinny, climbing in beside her.
"You do look pale," said Mrs. Horton, inspecting Jinny. "If you were Sue I'd say you were sickening for something."
"I'm just low," said Jinny. She hadn't slept much the night before. Not sleeping made it impossible to dream, and if she didn't dream, the Red Horse couldn't reach her. Jinny had spent the night sitting up in bed, reading. She had balanced two magazines on her head so that when she dozed off they fell down and woke her up again.
When they reached Miss Tuke's yard, six Highland ponies were standing tethered to a bar. There were three duns, one bay, one steel grey and one black pony.
"Bramble!" cried Jinny, and she was out of the car almost before it had stopped. She ran across the yard to the black pony. "Bramble," she called. "There's the good pony. There's the good Bramble.”
The black pony turned his head, pricked his ears through his heavy forelock, wiffled his nostrils, uncertainly and knitted his brows together. He still wasn't sure who it was.
"Bramble," called Jinny again, and the pony was certain. He whickered, flurries of sound to welcome Jinny.
"He knows you," boomed Miss Tuke, striding across the yard. "I've never seen him do that to anyone except myself. Pity you'll not need him again this winter. He must have enjoyed being with you."
Jinny threw her arms round Bramble's neck. After Shantih, he was broad and bulky. Even his lips, fumbling at her hand for titbits, seemed rubbery and huge after Shantih's delicate lipping. Jinny ran her hand down his neck and over his back, and suddenly she was back to last winter, riding Bramble home from school, feeding him and grooming him.
"Dear Bramble," said Jinny again. "You would have been coming back to Finmory if only they'd finished the bloomin' school in time."
Miss Tuke was welcoming the Hortons.
"Glad to see you haven't changed your minds," she said. "You don't need to worry about a thing. All my ponies are patent safety. Absolutely guaranteed to look after the rawest recruit."
"Not raw yet," said Mr. Horton, "but I dare say I shall be before the day is over."
"Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham," said Miss Tuke, introducing a young man and woman.
"Tim and Marigold," they said, introducing themselves. Two other ladies joined them. One was very fat, with iron grey hair and glasses. She introduced herself as Brenda, and her companion, who was round-shouldered with a vacant, worried expression, as Pam. All four were beginners who hadn't ridden before their trekking holiday.
"Normally," said Miss Tuke, "it is my unbreakable rule that every trekker has to groom and tack up their own pony."
"Then we will not be leaving this yard," declared Mrs. Horton. "I could never put that bit into a pony's mouth. Their teeth are so obviously built for biting."
"Oh, Mummy," muttered Sue.
"But," continued Miss Tuke, "since Mr. and Mrs. Horton are only with us for the day, I shall permit their daughter to help them."
"Now," she said, "let's see—Marigold, Brenda and Pam, your mounts are in their boxes. When you've got them tacked up I'll check them for you. Tim, Beech for you." Miss Tuke pointed to the bay pony that was tied to the rail.
"Mr. Horton, Fergus for you." She showed Mr. Horton the biggest of the dun ponies. "He is one hundred per cent shock-proof. Compared to Fergus, your favourite armchair is dynamite."
Mrs. Horton was to ride Meg, the smallest of the duns, and Sue was to have Shona, the third dun.
"She'll nip you if she gets the chance," Miss Tuke warned Sue. "Too much darling pepperminting has been going on with her ladyship all summer. But she's a good ride. You'll enjoy her."
Miss Tuke handed out dandy brushes, telling them to pay particular attention to where the saddle and girth would go.
"Have you seen my stables?" Miss Tuke asked Jinny.
"No.”
"Have a quick sortie round now, if you like.”
Jinny would rather have gone on grooming Bramble. She paused, trying to think of some way of saying 'no' politely, but Miss Tuke was already marching across the yard.
"She only wants me to look round her stables so that I'll think they would be all right for Shantih," Jinny thought rebelliously, as she trailed after Miss Tuke.
"This is my tack room," said Miss Tuke.
In spite of herself, Jinny was impressed. There were rows of saddle racks on the walls, each with a place for a bridle underneath it and the name of the pony to whom the tack belonged. There was a saddle horse, buckets, and a basket filled with tack-cleaning equipment. One wall was covered with the certificates Miss Tuke had won with her Highlands.
"And this is my feed house."
It was as spruce and polished as the tack room. There was a neat row of feed bins, buckets, with the ponies' names written on them, hanging from hooks, and a sleek tabby cat licking her paws as she watched for mice.
"I have three boxes and six stalls," said Miss Tuke, showing them to Jinny.
The boxes were occupied by a grey Highland, a skewbald, and a chestnut pony with a wall eye. Each pony had its attendant trekker working on it with a dandy.
"If you decide to let Shantih come here for the winter, she would have one of these boxes and probably a Highland next door to her for company.”
Jinny said nothing. She stood looking round the stabling. The floors of the boxes were well brushed, troughs scrubbed out, the woodwork freshly painted, but it wasn't the place for Shantih. The only place for Shantih was at Finmory, with Jinny there to look after her.
"It won't happen," said Jinny. "I'm not going to Duninver. I can't leave Shantih."
"Let me know if you change your mind," said Miss Tuke. "I've taken quite a shine to her. Stir up my middle-aged bones having her here.”
Jinny didn't want Miss Tuke to have taken a shine to her horse. She didn't want Shantih stirring up middle-aged bones.
"He will not stand still while I fasten his girth," shrilled Pam. "He is being a very naughty boy this morning."
Miss Tuke went to her aid and Jinny returned to Bramble.
Already, Bramble was beginning to cast his summer coat and grow his dense winter one. Jinny swept her dandy brush down his strong neck and powerful shoulders and over his broad back. The familiar movements comforted her. So many mornings before she had set out for school she had groomed Bramble. She left his tail to the end. The hairs were coarse and wiry compared to Shantih's silken tail. Jinny felt she could have gone on trying to brush it out for hours without making much difference to it. Eventually she gave it up as a bad job and went to find his tack.
The yard was loud with voices.
"Darling, I cannot put that lump of metal into any creature's mouth. I am sure they can't like it," pleaded Mrs. Horton.
"Whoa there, Tiger," cried Tim, as Beech whisked her tail. "Got to be firm with them," he informed Mr. Horton. "Let them know who's in charge." Tim jumped hastily backwards as Beech shook her head.
"It's the size of this fellow that's worrying me," confided Mr. Horton. "Do we ancients climb up steps, or is there a hoist to lower us into the saddle?"
"You spring, Daddy," said Sue, tacking up Fergus for her father.
"I have not sprung anywhere for years," said Mr. Horton.
"I wonder might it be a better idea if I follow you in the car?”
"How are we doing?" asked Miss Tuke, distributing packed lunches in waterproof bags to be tied to the saddles. "Getting on with it? Good, good. Jinny, would you saddle up the grey for me while I get the ladies on board. She's only four. Misty's her name. I'm riding her myself for a few treks this summer. She's still full of the joys, quite a handful. Only hope she's settled in by next year.”
When they were all mounted, Miss Tuke cast her experienced eye over her trekkers, untied Misty and heaved herself into the saddle. The young pony jumped back as Miss Tuke's weight banged down on her back.
"Stand still, you little varmint," Miss Tuke shouted as she jabbed the pony in the mouth to stop it going forward while she hit it behind the saddle.
"Rattle up their ribs," she announced. "Always have a stick handy when you're riding a youngster.”
Jinny watched in silent despair. Would Miss Tuke always have a stick handy when she was riding Shantih? If Miss Tuke tried to hit Shantih, the Arab would panic, but Miss Tuke would fight back. Jinny's heart sank as she watched Miss Tuke's heavy hands and her solid dead weight in the saddle. She would treat Shantih as if she were a trekking pony—shouting at her, hitting her, thumping down on her back and yanking at her mouth. No matter how smart the stables were or how spotless the feed house, Jinny knew that Shantih could never, never come here.
"Everybody fit?" Miss Tuke called. "Good. Mrs. Horton, come in front beside me. Mr. Horton and Tim behind us. Marigold and Pam next. Brenda and Sue behind them. Jinny, you and Bramble are our rear guard. Pick up the drop offs and keep them all moving."
"O.K.," said Jinny. "We'll do our best."
"We're going to the white sands," Miss Tuke told them. "Bit further than we usually go, so let's hope the weather will be kind. The view is superb but the sands are mostly mud-coloured."
Miss Tuke rode Misty out of the yard and Mrs. Horton's pony fell in beside her.
"Here we go," said Tim. "Wagons roll. Keep Fergus up with me. He's Tiger's buddy.”
The three ladies, rather bunched together, their ponies glowering, went through the gate next, then Sue and Jinny.
The track from the yard led through Forestry roads, then wound over hills that were grassy and more rolling than the moors around Finmory. Jinny smiled to herself. It was good to be riding Bramble again, to feel his steady stride and have his strong neck reaching in front of her.
"You are a good pony," Jinny assured him, burying her hands in the warmth of his shaggy mane.
In front of them, the other trekkers bumped happily along. Brenda had her skewbald well under control. In spite of her fat she seemed to know what she was doing. Pam's chestnut had her well under control. Every now and again he stopped to restock with mouthfuls of grass.
"Let's try a trot," called back Miss Tuke. "Reins in one hand and a good tight hold on the front of the saddle with the other. Right? Good. Trek, trot forward."
The ponies knew Miss Tuke's command. "I expect they trot here on every trek," thought Jinny, watching the riders bumping about. "Bet the ponies would know where to trot even if there was no one riding them.”
"Hold on there," encouraged Tim, as Mr. Horton swooped dangerously to one side.
"Don't worry, I'm well anchored," Mr. Horton assured him. "I'm holding the saddle with both hands.”
"Going to walk again," called back Miss Tuke. "Walk now." But the ponies, hearing the shout, were already walking.
Jinny knew that, normally, trekking would have bored her to death. She couldn't have bothered with so many beginners, would have wanted to canter and jump, but today she was glad they were all there. She wanted to be with a crowd of people, to be doing things together. The Red Horse could not reach her here. She was safe with the trekkers.
They had been riding for about two hours when the far glint of the sea came into sight and the track began to lead downhill.
"Lunch in half an hour," called back Miss Tuke.
When they reached the shore, they tethered their ponies to stobs in the ground.
"There's a sheltered spot over here," Miss Tuke told them, when she had checked that all the ponies were safely tied up. "We can get behind those rocks. 'Fraid there isn't going to be a view today, You're out of luck."
Black clouds were massing over the grey sky, and the waves rolling up the beach were white with foam.
Crouching in the shelter of the rocks, they ate their sandwiches and drank hot soup in paper cups from a thermos Miss Tuke had brought with her. The trekkers compared moments.
"Did you see Beech leap when that sheep got up suddenly?" asked Tim. "I thought he was going in to the attack.”
"We call it shying," said Miss Tuke. "She was having you on. She has met a sheep before.”
Pam asked what she should do to stop her pony grazing but no one heard her. Mr. Horton said never again, and Mrs Horton said she was enjoying it and would be having shots on Pippen when she got home.
"We won't waste too much time here," said Miss Tuke, brisking them up. "No point in hanging around when there's no view. Think we're in for a soaking and we've a fair bit to go."
"Mercy, woman," said Mr. Horton. "Let me have a few more moments of earth-bound bliss before I go into orbit again. I am an old man."
But Miss Tuke was worried about the weather, and chased them back to the ponies as soon as possible.
Quickly and efficiently she helped the trekkers to untie their ponies and tighten their girths, then she hoisted them into their saddles before they realised what was happening.
Despite Miss Tuke's haste, heavy raindrops were falling as they rode away from the shore.
"Into single file here," Miss Tuke told them in her foghorn voice. "Keep directly behind the pony in front of you. There are a lot of rabbit warrens here, so don't let them wander about. Pam, shorten your reins and sit back a bit. Don't let him graze."
Although the sky was black and louring, it still wasn't really raining—only heavy, single drops of rain. In front of Jinny, the trekkers were billowing into plastic macs and rainhoods, making a bright patch of colour on the bleak moor.
"Why can't we have a trot?" asked Sue, riding beside Jinny. "We'd be home much more quickly if she let us trot."
Jinny hunched her shoulders. "Expect it would be slower if one of them fell off," she said.
Really, she didn't care what happened to the trekkers. All the impossible things had come crowding back into her mind. It was not possible that in a fortnight Shantih would be at Miss Tuke's and she would be at Duninver School.
"What am I doing here?" thought Jinny furiously. "I should be riding Shantih. I should be finding someone in Glenbost who will look after her through the week. I should be making money. I shouldn't be wasting my time here."
Then Jinny glanced back over her shoulder, saw white mist wreathing between the moor and the clouds, mists sweeping over the heather towards them, white fingers reaching out to grasp them, ghosts rising. And Jinny knew why she was there—to be with other people, to be doing something safe and ordinary, to be where the Red Horse couldn't find her. She had been safe in the morning, had almost forgotten the Horse, but now, with the change in the weather, the Horse was close behind her, was all about her, seeking her out.
Suddenly the wind whipped a plastic rainhood off Marigold's head and sent it flapping down the line of ponies. Brenda grabbed at it and missed. Her sudden movement startled her pony, who leaped forward into the rear of Pam's pony. The rainhood blew into Meg's quarters. The terrified pony bucked and Mrs. Horton screamed and clutched.
"Hands down," shouted Miss Tuke, but her words were lost as the plastic rainhood came crackling and blustering straight at her pony's head. The young pony reared in fright.
Jinny urged Bramble forward, knowing that if Miss Tuke's young pony started playing up, all the ponies would become excited. At that moment a sheet of lightning flickered over the sky and, almost immediately, thunder crashed over their heads.
"Hold on to your saddles," instructed Miss Tuke, unable to do any more than call out instructions as she struggled to calm her own terrified pony.
Jinny saw Fergus charge forward with Mr. Horton clinging to the saddle, his plastic mac billowing out in the wind.
Tim and Beech were close behind him, and in a second it seemed that the whole trek was galloping over the moor. Jinny fought to hold Bramble back, to steady him, to stop him joining in the runaway.
The storm clouds burst open. Rain blew into Jinny's face, blinding her; the wind howled in her ears, deafening her, and Bramble fought to follow the others.
And then the plastic-coated trekkers had gone. Jinny shouted aloud, the sound she made came from the base of her throat, blood-curdling, haunting. Her heels drummed against her pony's sides as she urged him forward, forced him straight through the band of galloping riders. Again and again Jinny cried out, rallying those who followed her to ride faster. They crouched over their ponies' necks, the skins they wore were sodden with the rain, their long hair matted on their shoulders. Their wordless cry spread over the moors, flowed out behind them and Jinny was one of them. She rode with the Pony Folk.
"Jinny Manders. Come back here. Stop galloping. Stop it at once."
Miss Tuke's furious voice reached Jinny. Her hands gripped leather reins again, once more she was riding on a saddle. For moments she was lost, terrified, caught in the horror of not knowing where she was, who she was.
"Stop that galloping!”
Somehow, Jinny swung her pony back to the sound of the voice. The moor was dotted with loose ponies and trekkers lying on the ground.
"What do you think you're doing, forcing him on like that? You could easily have stopped Bramble."
Jinny rubbed her hand over her eyes.
"Where have they gone?" she demanded. "The Pony Folk?"
Jinny searched the moor for the dark galloping fury, the men crouching over the necks of their ponies, the beat and pound of their hooves.
"Where have they gone?" Jinny cried.