Samphire Song (5 page)

‘Thanks,’ I reply, really chuffed. Now’s the moment. I take a deep breath. ‘Actually, there’s something I’d like to ask your advice about, both of you.’

‘Of course, anything,’ says Rachel.

‘I’m getting my own horse,’ I tell her, quietly, so no one else in the yard hears. My voice has gone quite squeaky because it’s so full of excitement.

‘Jodie, that’s FANTASTIC!’ she responds, giving me a huge hug. ‘I’m so happy for you.’

‘I’ve only just started looking and I wondered if you and Sue could let me know if you hear about any good ones for fifteen hundred pounds?’ I ask.

‘Of course,’ agrees Rachel. ‘Will you want to keep it here?’

‘Yes. I need to ask Sue about livery and whether I can do more hours to help with the costs.’

‘I’m sure that won’t be a problem,’ confirms Rachel. ‘I can speak to her first if you like, sound her out.’

‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That would be great, thanks. There’s just one thing . . .’

‘You’d like to keep it quiet from the gang,’ says Rachel, smiling. She reads me like a book. I nod, relieved.

‘Just for now, until I get it all together in my head,’ I tell her.

‘That’s fine. So let’s get those cakes shared out. There are enough for everyone. But the others won’t know it’s a secret celebration,’ says Rachel, conspiratorially, an arm around my shoulder.

Chapter Nine

It’s the first of August and a very special day. That’s not just because the weather forecast said it would be the hottest day of the year, or because Ed has gone to his mate Alex’s for a sleepover party (his illness usually means he wants to stay at home). Today, Mum and I are going to the New Forest pony sale. More than five hundred horses, ponies and donkeys are being auctioned. We picked up the advance brochure last week because Sue tipped me off about a lovely pony she’d heard about through the grapevine.

I’ve waited months to find the right horse. Once the summer term started, I agreed with Mum that it would be sensible to buy at the start of the hols, so that my new horse and I could get to know each other really well.

The pony we’ve come to see is called Lady. She’s an eight-year-old chestnut with a good track record in local shows. At fourteen hands, she’s going to cope with my ever-lengthening frame. She has a gentle temperament. Her dam was a prize-winning mare called Tiger Lily. In less than five minutes, I will be looking at her in her sale enclosure, and in twelve hours, she might be starting a new life at the stables, with Rambo as her new best mate.

My breathing is short and almost panicky, but from excitement, not fear. I never want Mum to see the attacks that come out of nowhere, narrowing my surroundings into tunnel vision, and causing sweat to pour from my body and nausea to rise from my stomach towards my throat like lava. So far, that doesn’t seem to be happening.

Mum is parking and we’re getting out into the warm, early morning. The air is full of whinnying – the animals are scared of this clearing in the Forest, with its holding stalls, narrow walkways and the wooden
auction ring. Some must have travelled quite a distance to be here – journeys that began in the dark. They will have been tethered for several hours in a moving vehicle, with standing room only. Poor creatures.

We’re making our way to the registration vehicle to pick up an auction brochure. This will tell us where Lady is on the order of sale, and once we have her number we can find her in the enclosures. Mum gives our details and pays the fee. We’re given a number – four-two-five – on a white card that we can hold up if we’re lucky enough to offer the winning bid.

Lady is twentieth on the list and we’re pointed in the right direction to go and see her. My palms have gone quite cold, which is spooky. Weird things, which feel like frogs, are leaping about in my abdomen. I want to love her on sight. But what if we lose her in the bidding? Mum gives me a squeeze. She feels as much on edge as I do.

Suddenly, there’s frenzied neighing and whinnying coming from the unloading area – a real commotion
with voices raised and the stamping of equine feet on a ramp. The tone coming from this horse is angry, not fearful. I’m intrigued and turn my head to see what’s going on.

I’m looking at a grey stallion, ragged and untrimmed, with the most beautiful, arched Arab neck I have ever seen. Two men are trying to lead him with ropes out of the trailer. They’re yanking and pulling at the tethers but he is standing firm and proud. He does not want to come out into the crowd that has formed.

I push my way to the front of it, leaving Mum a bit behind. The men are trying to clear a space, waving their arms and tugging at the horse in turn. No wonder he’s apprehensive. I feel myself moving forwards.

‘Stand back!’ they warn. Instead, I offer out a hand, indicating that I will take a rope. The men exchange glances, almost smirking. They try to wave me away. The younger man grabs the horse by his forelock and tries to drag him down the ramp. A front hoof lashes out in response.

‘He’s a devil,’ says the older man, lifting his cap and wiping his brow. ‘I’ll be glad to be shot of him.’

‘What’s he called?’ I ask, holding the horse’s backward gaze. The man shoots an irritated look at me.

‘Samphire. Like the wild plant. On account of his raggedy mane.’ He’s holding the halter with two hands now, yanking it viciously.

‘Hey, Samphire,’ I say quietly, approaching him, ignoring the man’s attempt to block my way. ‘They need you to come out, boy. Will you walk with me?’ I hold my position. Samphire’s ears move backwards and forwards. He extends his nose towards me, sniffs, jerks his head back, stamps his feet. I’m getting the once-over, horse style. His eyes dart between me and the men. He seems to be weighing up his options.

With a deep grumble and a flaring of nostrils, he takes a step forwards, then another. The man grudgingly lets me take the halter. I keep it loose and hold eye contact with Samphire. Once down the ramp
and on the grass, he raises his head and paws the earth with a hoof.

‘He must like you,’ says the man, taking the halter back from me, a half-smile on his lips. ‘Never seen him that amenable.’ He starts to lead Samphire towards the enclosures, but the stallion’s feet are sidestepping, resisting his will. ‘I’ll do for you!’ the man shouts, exasperated, as Samphire rears up a little. The stewards are helping now, opening an enclosure door, ushering the animal inside.

Mum has caught up with me. She has a pained and concerned expression, like the one she used to greet me with after I’d run off in a department store and had to be collected from Customer Services.

‘Oh dear.’ She sighs.

‘What?’ I ask, half in a dream.

‘I know that look,’ she says. ‘It means you want that crazy horse.’

‘I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life,’ I answer.

‘Don’t you think you should look at Lady?’ Mum asks. ‘She’s lovely – gentle, quiet, perfect.’

‘What number is Samphire?’ I ask the man, who is leaning on the enclosure door, staring at the horse who is soon to be converted into a fistful of cash.

He takes my auction catalogue from my hand, flicks through it and opens up the page where Samphire is listed, pointing to the entry with a black-nailed, mud-stained finger.

‘He’s there, large as life. Don’t you go bidding for him, now. He’s not fit for a young’un like you. Someone needs to break his spirit, teach him some manners. He’ll probably need a whip, not a whippersnapper, that’s my advice.’

I read the entry.
Number 50. J Ingram Esq. Grey Arab cross stallion. 3 Y.O. Moves beautifully. Has been halter broken. Ready to bring on
.

I want to tell him that I don’t want his advice and that he’s wrong about Samphire. I just know he is. Mum is holding my elbow, urging me to come away.
With a final glance at the enclosure where Samphire is pacing, ears folded, I let Mum guide me through the crowd, along a walkway and into the labyrinth of the animal maze. We pass donkeys, miniature Shetlands, Forest ponies, Falabellas – the tiniest of all horses, so tiny you can pick them up and cuddle them. In the holding pens, there’s a mixture of singles, doubles, small groups. My head is starting to spin. The air is heavy with dung and straw and fretful snortings.

Moments later, we are right by lot number twenty and I cast my eyes into the space beyond the wooden door, hoping that lightning doesn’t strike twice. Lady stands quietly in one corner, chewing hay. Her current owner, a woman in her twenties, is brushing her pony’s chestnut coat for a final time before she’s taken to the ring. She looks immaculate. Even her hooves are oiled. Her tail is smooth with no hairs twisted. Her mane is cropped and combed and she has recently been clipped too.

‘There,’ says Mum, encouragingly. ‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’

‘She’s a bit like a horse the Glossies would ride, all pretty and perfect.’ This comes out of my mouth like a big criticism and her owner, who happens to be wearing pink lipstick, gives me a withering look. I know that if I hadn’t seen Samphire, I would probably have fallen for Lady. But even now, I can hear his whinny above all the others. It’s as if he’s speaking to me, as if we’ve connected somehow.

I’m starting to feel quite sick. I hate it when Mum disapproves of things I’m thinking or doing. And I’m about to do something so reckless it might cause real trouble between us, which would be unbearable.

But something is telling me Samphire and I should be together. It’s not logical to want a crazy horse. But this isn’t about logic. It’s a feeling coming from somewhere so deep inside, a place I thought was buried away, never to be prised open. I don’t have control over it, now it’s escaped. It seems to be controlling me.

‘We should go and find a seat in the arena,’ says
Mum, her voice a little hushed to mask her frustration.

We leave Lady and work our way to the circular, wooden structure. Inside, the seats are raked and there’s a small, round space at the centre. A raised, enclosed box with glassless windows gives the auctioneer a roof over his head. He’s sitting waiting, tapping his microphone every so often to make sure the sound system is working.

We find two spaces on the wooden trestle benches and sit down. Mum studies the catalogue, trying to avoid confrontation with me. I think she hopes she’ll find a last-minute alternative to the horse of my dreams, which is the horse of her nightmares.

‘He’s not even properly broken in, Jodie,’ Mum says at last. ‘He’s not used to being ridden.’

‘Maybe he’s just been with the wrong people,’ I reply. I know Mum’s right. By the age of three, he should be rideable.

‘What if he’s too wild to tame?’ she asks. ‘He’s a stallion, after all.’

‘I’ll send for that guy who whispers in horses’ ears,’ I reply with a shrug.

‘I think Dad would be saying no,’ counters Mum. That was a bit below the belt.

‘I bet Granny and Granddad didn’t want him to fly jets, but he made up his mind and he knew the risks,’ I respond. My eyes are pricking. I’m
so
not going to cry.

Mum sighs. And then she smiles, pushing some hair off her face. ‘That’s just the kind of thing he would have said,’ she comments. ‘I could never win an argument against him. But you know the budget, Jode. Thirteen-fifty top whack because of the tax on top. If it goes above that, you have to let him go.’

‘Okey dokey,’ I confirm, swallowing hard.

There are now no seats anywhere. Looking around, it’s a sea of T-shirts; mutts on leads; families; individuals; owners; dealers. There’s noise from the many excited conversations, heads bowed over the catalogues, pens ringing chosen animals.

Moments later, the wooden gate leading to the
enclosures swings open and a frightened foal of about six months is ushered into the arena. It runs round the perimeter, trying to avoid the female usher who is tasked with keeping it on the move so that buyers can assess its condition.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentleman,’ says the auctioneer from his raised booth. ‘Welcome to the New Forest sale for August. Can I remind you that the currency for sale of the lots is in guineas today, a guinea being worth one pound and five pence in current values. Bidders must be registered and have a card. Please do not bid unless you have this card, otherwise your bid will be void. Thank you all. Let’s get down to business. First up today, we have this bay filly foal, bred in the Forest. Sire is Mr Brumby. Dam is Magic Flute. A nice example. Can we say ten guineas? Twelve guineas, fourteen guineas . . .’

Bidding gets off to a flying start. The auctioneer’s voice becomes a chant of figures, rhythmic, compelling. I’m trying to follow the action in the crowd and see
who’s raising their hand or nodding to raise the stakes. It all happens so fast, yet the auctioneer’s eyes miss nothing.

‘Thirty-one guineas, are we all done at thirty-one guineas? Going once, going twice, all done now, sold to the lady on my left. Raise your number, please. Thank you.’

The woman, who seems to be alone, looks very pleased. Her foal is being herded out of the arena through a different door into a narrow corridor, which leads back to the enclosures. A new pony is entering now. The process seems very smooth and well organised. In less than three minutes, the foal has changed ownership and is starting a new life. I hope she will be happy.