A HORSE CALLED SEPTEMBER Read online

  'You bet,' said Mary. She went across to the shelf by the door. 'Where's his hoof oil?'

  'Not there?' Anna thought for a moment. 'I left it in the stable on Wednesday I think. Yes – I did. When we were getting ready for the gymkhana.'

  Mary went to the stable, gave September a good feed, oiled his hooves and saddled him up.

  'We're going out,' she told him. 'As if you didn't know! '

  They set off sedately with the picnic in a knapsack, Anna mounted on September and Mary walking alongside. They skirted round the big field, where Mr Dewar was out sowing, conscious of his eyes upon them, and then up the track that led into the woods.

  'Jump up!' giggled Anna, once they were amongst the trees, safely out of sight of the farm. 'Daddy can't see us now.'

  It was some time since Mr Dewar had forbidden Anna to ride double saddle with her friend, complaining that it was unladylike and not particularly good for the horse. But September seemed positively to enjoy cantering with both girls on his long, strong back, and the friends liked getting around that way.

  They rode through the woods over a bed of spring flowers, past sheep grazing amongst the trees, crested the hill and then rode down the other side, out of the sun-dappled woodland and on to the sandy shore.

  The hours sped by in a blur of happy activity. They took it in turn to gallop September along the broad expanse of sand while the tide was out, jumping him over low piles of driftwood and small rocks. When the tide started to come in they tethered the horse by a grassy bank and then ran down to the water's edge and plunged in, letting the waves wash over them. They ate a huge lunch, basked in the sunshine sleepily, and then went off looking for shells.

  All this time they avoided speaking about Anna's going.

  As the afternoon wore on, it was Mary who finally spoke. She and Anna were seated on a slab of rock, sorting through their shells. Mary had found the prize, a huge white shell tinged with pink at the edges. She put it to her ear and could hear the sound of waves breaking.

  'It's beautiful,' said Anna enviously. 'I wish I'd found it.'

  'I found it for you,' said Mary simply, and handed it to her friend. She could not help the tears coming into her eyes. 'Have it. It's a present from me. I want you to take it away to school with you. If you put it to your ear sometimes, you'll hear the sea, and perhaps it'll remind you of all the good times we've had ... down on this beach.'

  As Mary's voice faltered Anna suddenly put an arm round her.

  'Don't cry, Mary – please don't – you'll make me cry, too.'

  'I can't help it. I've suddenly got this feeling again, I had it last night, that everything's going to change, that nothing will ever be the same again.'

  'Of course everything's not going to change! ' protested Anna. She looked straight into Mary's eyes. 'I won't be any different, just because I'm going away to school. I promise. You'll always be my best friend, Mary, nothing will ever change that.'

  'You mean it?' asked Mary.

  'Of course I mean it! Here—' Anna unfastened the clasp on the silver chain that hung round her neck. 'I want you to have this.'

  'But it's your St Christopher, you always wear it!'

  'I want you to have it, to keep. That's how much I think of you. Come on, let's put it on.'

  Before Mary could stop her, Anna had fastened the chain round Mary's neck. Then she stood up and took Mary's hand to pull her to her feet. She pointed to September, grazing peacefully at the top of the sandy beach.

  'And you'll have him, too, while I'm away,' she said softly. 'Will you look after him for me during term?'

  'Of course I will!' said Mary joyfully. 'I'll feed him and groom him every day, and muck out the stable. And I'll see he gets plenty of exercise. Can I ride him, have you asked your father?'

  'I'm sure you can. Daddy wants him kept in tip-top condition. He'll probably let you jump him sometimes as well.'

  Suddenly Mary's heart was overflowing with something like happiness. She fingered the chain round her neck, as though for reassurance. Anna was going, but she would come back. She had sworn her friendship. She had entrusted her horse to Mary.

  Nothing seemed as bad after that, even saying goodbye to Anna on Sunday, watching her climb into her father's car, a stranger in a mauve striped dress and mauve blazer trimmed with gold braid.

  'I shan't be alone, after all,' she whispered to September when she picked out his hooves next morning. 'We've got each other. And, while we wait for Anna to come back, we're going to get you into really fine fettle. You've got a very important championship coming up in the summer holidays.'

  The more Mary thought about it, the more of a privilege it seemed to have been made responsible for September's well-being for the next three months. It gave her a new purpose in life.

  But when she went across to the farmhouse to collect his hoof oil from the kitchen, she found the back door was locked. She had never known it to be locked before. She pulled at the bell for some time until the door was opened by Mr Dewar in person.

  He stared at her for a moment without recognition.

  Then he spoke irritably.

  'Oh, it's you. What the dickens d'you want at this hour of the morning?'

  THREE

  SEPTEMBER MISBEHAVES

  'I – I only wanted to oil September's hooves, sir,' stammered Mary.

  'Where is it?' asked Mr Dewar tersely.

  'On – on the shelf there,' said Mary pointing. It was clear that she was not expected to come in the kitchen and collect the hoof oil.

  He fetched it and gave it to her.

  'What's it in the kitchen for?'

  'Well, Anna and I have always kept it in the warm, sir. Then it runs freely. We just always have, sir. I suppose it's silly.'

  'Silly? It's ridiculous. Keep it in the stable with all the other stuff. Are you grooming him now?'

  'Yes,' Mary nodded. 'That's why I'm up so early. You see, I go back to school today, so I thought I'd get it all done before breakfast.'

  'I'll find my boots and come over,' said the farmer. 'I've been meaning to have a talk to you about the horse. I'd like to check everything's in order. Get back to work. I'll be over in a minute or two.'

  Cheeks a little flushed, Mary obeyed.

  'The kitchen door was shut, September,' she said to the horse. 'Locked. What d'you think of that? And Anna's father has just told me to "get back to work". It's not really work, exactly, is it? Looking after you for Anna.'

  The horse nuzzled her shoulder, sensing immediately that she was upset. Then he stood still and infinitely well-mannered, as always, as she polished his coat with a rubber to give it a sheen.

  'Just finishing him off?' asked Mr Dewar as he came into the stable. He surveyed the grooming tools neatly set out on the shelf by September's loose box. 'Go easy with the body brush for a while. He needs to keep some grease on him while the days are still chilly – I'm planning to keep him out in the fields during the day while you're at school. Just use the dandy.'

  He examined the horse's hooves, freshly picked out.

  'I've done them, sir, I was just going to oil them.'

  'They'll need picking out at least twice a day, so remember to do it when you get back from school. I'm also expecting you to look after his tack, Mary. I want the saddle and girths washed after they've been used, the leather kept soft – you've got some oil. We can't risk him getting sore or tender anywhere.'

  'I've often done it for Anna,' Mary said promptly. 'And now I'll be riding him, I'll make sure the tack's kept in perfect condition.'

  'I wanted to speak to you about that, Mary,' said Mr Dewar.

  There was something in his tone of voice that made Mary uneasy.

  'September is going to be out of competition work for three months now, until Anna comes home for the holidays. Of course you will ride him some days, for exercise, but his jumping's got to be kept up to scratch – improved upon, in fact.'

  He broke off for a moment, a strange look in his eyes, an
d Mary knew that he was thinking about the Western Counties' Championship. Now she understood what Anna meant about it being so important to him, for his body seemed to go tense as he thought about it.

  'I realize that, sir. I was hoping that maybe I—'

  'No.' He shook his head. 'No offence, Mary, but I can't take any chances with September. He's all we've got. I shall be jumping him myself, here on the farm, probably three or four times a week. You can help build the jumps, of course, and look after the horse and tack afterwards – but you must leave the jumping to me. Is that understood?'

  Dumbly, Mary nodded. The last few minutes had begun to seem like a bad dream. But the final touch had yet to be added.

  'I'm going to get my breakfast now, and you'd better get yours.'

  He turned, ready to leave, his hand groping in his jacket pocket. Mary heard a rustling sound and then he was handing her something.

  'Here's a pound to be going on with. You're going to have to work quite hard, so I've arranged with your father for you to be paid a small wage, two pounds a week. You'll get the other pound at the weekend, if you've proved you can do the job satisfactorily.'

  'I – I – don't want—' Mary began, her face hot with indignation, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  Mr Dewar was not even listening to her, for a strange thing happened then. He reached out his hand to touch September's muzzle and the horse went quite tense, drew back his head, and bared his teeth.

  'What's the matter with you, fellow?'

  The farmer shrugged, went out through the stable door, and strode across the cobbled yard to the house, whistling loudly.

  'I've – never known you be unfriendly to Mr Dewar before,' said Mary, gazing at September in surprise. She looked at the pound note in her hand, and her voice broke a little. 'It's almost as though you know how I'm feeling right now.'

  He made a low whinnying sound in reply.

  Mary hurried home to the cottage to cook her father's breakfast, barely able to contain her indignation. As soon as he came in through the door, she burst out at him:

  'I was locked out of the farm this morning – I had to ring the bell. And Mr Dewar treated me like, well, a servant! It was horrible. He's going to pay me for looking after September. And I'm not to be allowed to jump him. Anna wanted me to jump him, I know she did—'

  'Well, Anna's not the boss of Chestnut Farm, is she?' said John Wilkins shortly, washing his hands at the sink. He came and sat down, eating his porridge hungrily. As well as milking the herd this morning, he had had a sick calf to contend with and was not in the best of tempers. 'As for traipsing in and out of the farmhouse kitchen, well they're entitled to some privacy aren't they?'

  'But they come in here.'

  'That's different.'

  'I've always been allowed to go in the kitchen.'

  'That's because you were a child, you and Anna being playmates. But you're growing up now. Anna's been sent away to school, to make a young lady of her.'

  'I don't want to be paid for looking after September!' Mary burst out. 'I promised Anna I would. I like doing it.'

  'Look, Mary, I'm just an employee here,' said John Wilkins, feeling the need to spell it out. 'And you're my daughter. They need a groom for the horse – and the job's yours, you should be pleased. He only wanted to pay you a pound.'

  Mary's father turned to his bacon and eggs and stabbed at it, looking quite pleased with himself.

  'But I wasn't having that. It's hard work looking after a horse, the way he wants that one looked after. I said you were worth two. Nice bit of bacon, this. You ought to be thanking your dad. Tidy sum to put away in your Post Office each week, eh? It'll mount up.'

  Mary nodded, trying to look pleased, but still feeling humiliated.

  'That horse has made them a fair bit already, and if it pulls off the Western Counties', well that'll be three thousand pounds for a start. Let alone all the money they can make getting Anna and September doing adverts and that. That's if they don't decide to sell the horse for a small fortune at the end of the season—'

  'Surely they wouldn't do that?' asked Mary.

  'No, I suppose not,' said her father. Then he muttered: 'But Mr Dewar isn't rolling in money these days, I know that for a fact. He's pinning a lot on to Anna's show-jumping. And if you're going to do half the work, I don't see why you should be made use of.'

  'It's not like that at all,' Mary protested. 'Not with Anna.'

  'No.' John Wilkins put his big weatherbeaten hand on his daughter's shoulder, speaking kindly now. 'I'm sure it's not. Not with the girl. Now you go and get yourself ready, you mustn't be missing the school bus. You'll be wanting to make yourself some new friends this term.'

  Mary felt no desire to make friends. She sat alone on the seat that she had always shared with Anna, as the bus bumped along the country lanes that morning on its way to Silverstock. She sat and fingered the St Christopher on its chain that had always hung round Anna's neck, and it filled her with reassurance. 'You'll always be my best friend, Mary. Nothing will ever change that.' The words echoed through her mind and filled her with happiness.

  It was as a friend that Anna had asked her to care for September in her absence. The idea of her being a hired groom had been sorted out between their two fathers. If Mr Dewar wanted to pay her two pounds a week, let him. She wouldn't let it make any difference. She would ignore it.

  She would show all her affection for Anna by pouring out affection upon the horse, looking after his every need, making sure he did not pine for his mistress. She would write to Kilmingdean School as often as she possibly could, giving all the news of September in minute detail, for she knew that Anna must be missing him. Anna would write letters back. The time would soon pass.

  Yet in the very first letter that Mary wrote to her friend, the news was not good, however much she wanted it to be.

  'I'm afraid September is being a bit difficult with your father,' she wrote. 'We put jumps up in the water meadow, some quite straightforward ones, but he refused the brushwood fence twice and he even refused that old door we painted white before Easter. It's not a bit like him, is it? He's being perfectly all right with me, his old friendly self, though I know he's missing you. But I think the thing is he's not used to a man jumping him, and really your father's not had much to do with him up to now. I expect he'll be all right soon. I hope so ...'

  It was only to September that Mary confided her innermost thoughts after that unhappy jumping session. She had taken his tack off in the stable and was rubbing him down before setting to work with the sweat scraper.

  'You're in quite a lather. What got into you out there? You're being quite unfriendly with Mr Dewar. It's almost as though you disapprove of him or something. Do you think he's pushing you and Anna too hard? Is that it?'

  Anna wrote back to Mary by return. The letter, on official school notepaper, with the Kilmingdean crest embossed on the back of the thick cream envelope, was the most impressive-looking thing that the postman had ever brought Mary Wilkins.

  With trembling fingers she placed it unopened in her school satchel. It was too precious to read hurriedly over breakfast. She would save it for the long journey on the school bus.

  FOUR

  A RIVAL

  'Postman brought you a letter then?' said John Wilkins over breakfast.

  Mary bit her lower lip and said nothing. The envelope lying in her satchel was somehow so sacred to her she hadn't wanted her father to know about it. He must have met Tom, the postman, when he was taking the cows back up the lane after milking.

  'From Anna is it then?'

  Her father was in a good humour this morning; the little brown and white calf had completely recovered and not only the vet but Mr Dewar himself had warmly congratulated him on the way he had nursed her.

  'Yes,' said Mary, trying to sound as casual as possible. 'Only I haven't even read it yet. I'll read it on the way to school.'

  'Well, she hasn't forgotten you then,' said her father,
munching his fried bread. 'Fancy writing already.'

  'Why shouldn't she?' replied Mary with surprising force. 'Anna isn't going to change, I know she isn't.'

  Her father said nothing, but gave her a knowing look which made her feel both angry and afraid. They finished the meal in silence and Mary was glad when he went out of the cottage to load up the milk churns.

  She washed up the breakfast things and then hurried up the lane to catch the school bus. Settled comfortably in her seat by the window, oblivious of the babble of voices all around her and the jolting of the vehicle on the country road, she took the thick envelope out of her satchel and held it in her hand for several moments, just liking the feel of it. Then, taking the steel ruler from her geometry set, she carefully slit it open.

  'Darling Mary, Your letter was like manna from heaven, I can tell you, I was feeling so homesick when it arrived. I still am. I'm missing September so much. How awful that he isn't getting on with Daddy, but I'm glad you told me – you must tell me everything – don't keep things back will you?

  'I don't think it's just that he isn't used to Daddy taking him over jumps. I think Daddy's tense about September and me being good enough to win the Western Counties' and S. hates it when anyone's tense. He's such a sensitive old thing, do you remember when we first had him, and how funny he was until he got to know us?

  'I know just how September feels because I'm feeling a bit tense myself about it all. I've thought about it a lot since I got here. I mean, Daddy sending me here in the middle of the school year like this – it was such a funny thing to do. (Oh, please don't show this letter to a soul, will you?) Of course, I know he did it for the riding, and that's fantastic. Miss Kilroy, my instructress here, is a genius – and an absolute slave-driver – she's spotted all sorts of tiny little faults that I'd never noticed, and I can feel my jumping improving already.

  'What I mean is, I know coming here this term will help me a lot for the Western Counties', but why all the hurry? I could have started in the Autumn Term, when there'll be lots of other new girls, and entered for it next year. You've no idea how awful it is being the only new girl; everyone's settled with their own little group of friends and I feel completely left out in the cold. Of course, nearly all the girls come from rich families and though I hate to say it, some of them seem awfully snobbish, talk about Hunt Balls all the time, and how they've met the Royal Family and all the rest of it.