A Rural Affair (32 page)

‘Not as fit as you used to be,’ my father observed with a grin, leaning on the gate.

‘Nothing like! Since when did sitting on a horse take it out of you?’

‘That’s what they all say. But you won’t need to be fit on Agnes. You really will just sit there. This one’s more of a ride.’

‘But he is heavenly, Dad.’ I leaned forward and stroked his neck.

‘Oh, he is,’ he agreed cheerfully.

Once again he’d done his bit: exercised the note of caution by proffering the Datsun, but secretly hoping I’d go for the Ferrari,
which, naturally, I did.

‘You don’t want to try her, then?’

‘Not sure I’ve got the energy.’

‘You’ll need a bit more puff for a few hours’ hunting.’

‘I know,’ I said breezily, ‘but the adrenalin will kick in.’

‘And I have to be honest, Poppy, I don’t know if he’s hunted. I bought him as an eventer. Thought he might do for the Wilkinson
girl. No idea if he hunts.’

‘Don’t worry; if he events, he’ll hunt. It’s all hedges and ditches, isn’t it? It’ll be meat and drink to him.’

I vaulted out of the saddle. Who was this woman? Assuring her reckless dad, a man who lived by the seat of his pants and on
the smell of an oily rag, that he was fussing unnecessarily? That life, in fact, was a breeze? Leaping on and off strange
thoroughbreds when she hadn’t ridden for ten years? Abandoning her children to her neighbour yet again, in order to do so?
A woman who’d had a sniff of another life, that’s who. An intoxicating whiff, from beyond the village green, of a life where
women wore grey cashmere a lot, hunted weekly, shopped in Fortnum’s and, more importantly, snared attractive men. Hope, Emma
… I gritted my teeth. A woman who, after that phone call with Sam the other day – me in my cold little cottage, if you recall,
him on his hunter in his wet shirt – had gone to bed every night since imagining galloping behind fawn and black hounds at
the front of the field, tucked in behind the pink coats. Sam and I leaping a hedge side by side, grinning delightedly at one
another as we landed, him admiring my seat, and then, perhaps at the next fence, Sam looking at me
so
admiringly he bogged it, misjudged the take-off, came off. Away I sped to catch his loose horse. Led it back to where he
was staggering, muddy and abashed, to his feet. Held it, prancing, while he clambered on, a gash to his head, a breathless
‘Thanks, Poppy!’ before we cantered off to join the field again: me, glancing over my shoulder to check he was OK;
him, slightly dazed – could have been my beauty, could have been the bump to his head – but desperate not to let me out of
his sight, not to let me get away.

I’d turned into a woman with a mission. But that, I told myself, was all I wanted. An admiring look, a sniff of another life,
then I’d drop it. Because, frankly, I could take it or leave it. Could go back to my other life, my cottage, my children,
their head lice, happy in the knowledge that I’d drawn admiring gasps from Sam and the rest of the village. Oh yes, naturally
they’d all be watching, standing at that particular hedge as if it were Beecher’s Brook. Happy they’d all seen me in a different
light, in a ‘Wow, who’s that girl?’ light. That was
all I needed
. Honest.

We’ll see.

My father and I shared a quick lunch, courtesy of our old friend Mr Heinz – Dad doling it out with a spoon that had more than
a sporting chance of having just doled out the cat food – and then, when I’d admired the new canary singing his little heart
out in the bathroom, I made a move. Together we loaded Thumper into the lorry – obviously he went in like a dream, no digging
in of heels in a Thelwell-like manner for him – then mentally ticked off a list of everything I needed.

‘Tack, rugs, hay nets – it’s all in the cab. OK, love?’

‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘And I’ve put a couple of feeds in, one for tonight and one for tomorrow.’

‘Brilliant.’

‘And you reckon your shed will be fine?’

‘No, I had a look and it’s tiny, and too full of rubbish, so I rang the farmer with the sheep at the back and he says I can
put him in the barn he’s got there, just for the night.’

‘Oh, ideal!’

‘Exactly,’ I agreed, declining to add that the farmer was in fact Odd Bob and that he’d practically taken it as a marriage
proposal when I’d popped round to Dog-Howling Farm to place my request. He’d beamed stupidly from ear to ear and agreed that
mum was in
deed
the word when I’d told him it was a secret, rather as if we’d just plotted to flee to Gretna Green together, winking and
tapping the side of his nose annoyingly. He’d even tried to kiss me on the cheek as I left. Bob was still behaving very strangely
indeed.

‘And you’ll be sure to come to the meet and give me a hand?’ I asked my father anxiously. Whilst I’d rejected all Bob’s offers
of help, I’d be very glad of his.

‘Of course I will. Although it occurs to me that if I’m coming to the meet I could take Thumper straight there for you …’
He furrowed his brow and we looked thoughtfully at the horse, all ready and waiting within. ‘But on the other hand you’ll
want to get to know him, won’t you? Maybe have another ride? Probably best he’s with you.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed tentatively. We regarded each other uncertainly.

‘Tell you what,’ he declared suddenly, ‘once my lot are fed and watered, which I’ll do early, I’ll come straight across to
your place to get you tacked up and loaded.’

‘Oh, would you, Dad?’

‘Course.’ He beamed. ‘I say, what fun. Good for you, Poppy. I do think you’re brave.’

Did he? I thought nervously, trundling home in the lorry ten minutes later with half a ton of horse flesh in the back. If
my Dad thought I was brave, that was worrying. As was driving this lorry. Of course I’d driven it loads of times in my youth,
but I’d forgotten how wide it was and how, obviously,
one couldn’t see out of the back and had to rely on wing mirrors. Surely one should have a special licence? Have passed some
sort of HGV test? Dad hadn’t mentioned it, but then, he wouldn’t.

With uncharacteristic foresight I’d radioed ahead for reinforcements, so that, as I rounded the bend into the village, it
was a happy sight that greeted me. Sitting on the grass in Jennie’s front garden were all the children, aka the welcoming
committee. Archie was on Jamie’s lap and Hannah and Clemmie were kneeling shoulder to shoulder, intent on squeezing rose petals
into water-filled jam jars to make scent, something which would have transported my daughter to big-girl heaven. At the sight
of the lorry, however, they abandoned the perfumery, jumped up and poured out of the white picket gate. Simultaneously the
front door flew open and Jennie hurried down the path in their wake, wiping her hands on her long white apron.

‘You’ve got him,’ she breathed, gazing up at me in disbelief through the open cab window. The children were jumping up and
down excitedly beside her.

‘Of course I have.’ I hopped smartly down from the cab. ‘Now all we’ve got to do is unload him and take him round the back
to the field.’ I gave her a huge grin as I marched to the back of the lorry, feeling like the pied piper with the children
on my heels.

‘Out of the way, everyone!’ I called. ‘Stand back, folks, this comes down pretty smartly!’

They shrank back as I reached for the rope to pull down the ramp. It did indeed come down with a mighty bang in the road,
all springs long gone. Jennie jumped and the children shrieked some more. I laughed indulgently at them, realizing I was getting
a bit of a thrill out of being in control here.
So much of my life was spent following bigger, bossier personalities. I must remember this. Something was definitely kicking
in.

Thumper turned his head and gave me an old-fashioned look as I went inside to get him. He was slightly sweaty, I noticed,
but it was warm in the box, probably nothing to worry about. As I untied his head-collar rope and made to lead him down the
ramp, however, he surged ahead of me, out into the road. I hung on tight to the end of the rope. What was that about control?

‘Oh my God, he’s huge!’ gasped Jennie, grabbing Archie, who was in danger of being trampled. ‘I thought you’d be on more of
a pony!’

‘No, no. Definitely didn’t want a pony.’

But she was right. He was huge. Even bigger, it seemed to me, prancing in the road outside my cottage, than at Dad’s. He was
snorting a lot and pawing the ground, his neck white with sweat.

‘You’ll need a ladder just to get
on
him, won’t you? Oh, Poppy, I do think you’re brave.’

Worrying again. Jennie generally thought I was a wimp.

‘Why is he stamping?’ asked Hannah.

‘Alarmed at being in a strange place, perhaps,’ I hazarded.

And without my father’s soothing hand of course, and – oh Lord, he was rearing up now, pulling back on the rope. A curtain
twitched opposite.

‘Open the gate, for heaven’s sake Jennie,’ I hissed. ‘Come on, let’s at least get him out of
centre ville
.’

One or two people had come into their front gardens to see what was going on, to see what on earth Poppy Shilling was up to
now, and it occurred to me that the surprise element of this plan was rapidly disappearing down the plug hole.
I’d hoped to unload him quietly and then sneak him round the back out of sight, but of course you couldn’t so much as fart
in this place. And Thumper was doing much more than that, lifting his tail and having a nervous evacuation, letting loose
a stream of green slime. The children squealed in a mixture of glee and disgust as it bounced off the tarmac and near their
shoes, their shrill voices frightening the horse even more.

‘Just open the bloody gate, Jennie!’ I yelled, as she finally flew to do just that, not the one into the garden, but the five-bar
affair that led down the side of her house to the field.

My own armpits were a match for Thumper’s now, and Mrs Harper from next door didn’t help, popping out on an urgent errand
– to tighten the string around her dahlias – just as Mr Fish from across the street was finding it terribly important to choose
that precise moment to realign the milk bottles on his step.

‘You ridin’ that thing tomorrow, Poppy?’ he called, curiosity eventually getting the better of any spurious activity.

‘That’s the plan,’ I told him nervously, hanging on to the end of the rope as Thumper, seeing the open gate and, further on,
a green field, sped through.

‘Blimey. Good luck.’

I’d gone. Hanging on to Thumper, who was belting down the stretch of no-man’s-land beside Jennie’s house: the patch of scrubby
ground where Dan kept his collection of clapped-out cars, some minus their wheels and on bricks, all in varying degrees of
decay, his wife’s chickens roosting on their back seats in true
Darling Buds of May
style. They fluttered about, squawking in alarm as our party hustled past. Another gate. This time Jennie needed no prompting
and flew round me in her pinny to open it. The sheep, who’d surged across the
field out of interest, now surged back, parting like the Red Sea as I came through. Jennie was busy fastening the gate behind
me but happily Frankie had appeared, hotfooting it from her bedroom where she would have had a bird’s-eye view. Sizing up
the situation, she was running across to open the door to the barn in the middle of the field. In a trice I’d popped Thumper
inside, slipped his head collar off and, before he knew what was happening, shut the door on him, my thoroughbred hunter thus
deposited within.

‘He doesn’t look very happy,’ Frankie observed as we peered through the window. Her hair, I noticed, was a rather nice honey
shade and not the usual aggressive peroxide.

‘He’s fine,’ I said confidently as Thumper twirled and snorted, pawing the sawdust I’d put down for him, nostrils flaring.
What had
happened
to him? Was he on drugs? Up to his forelock on barbiturates, or something? Or had it been my driving? I had, admittedly,
touched the odd kerb along the way. ‘Just settling in, that’s all. It’s all a bit new to him, you see.’

‘Still, he looks a handful,’ Frankie remarked. ‘I wouldn’t want to cling on to that tomorrow. I do think you’re –’

‘DON’T tell me I’m brave!’ I snapped.

I left her looking after me in open-mouthed astonishment as I strode back across the field, off to re-park the lorry somewhere
less conspicuous than in the middle of the village, a tiny bit of me wishing I’d never, ever, started this.

That night, however, when Clemmie and Archie were safely in bed – Thumper too, certainly to the extent that I couldn’t hear
him stamping and snorting from my bedroom, and last seen, when I’d snuck out to the barn in my dressing gown, quietly munching
hay, albeit with a slightly wary expression on his face – yes, that night, as I stood in front of
my dressing-table mirror, I felt reassured. I’d poured myself into my kit – pour being the operative word – and now felt something
like courage returning. All the riding I’d ever done in my youth had been in jeans and wellies, but Dad had cajoled a neighbouring
teenager into lending me some clothes. The skintight jodhpurs and an ancient jacket of mine, which didn’t so much nip in as
charge, ensured I looked the part. I could barely breathe, of course, but surely that was the point? All accessories – long
black boots, velvet cap, snowy white stock – were borrowed from Dad’s same friend and completed the glamorous, sexy look,
I decided, gazing delightedly at my reflection. My cheeks were flushed and my eyes very bright, which helped, but then I had
drunk nearly a whole bottle of wine. For Dutch courage. So that when I slapped my whip against my boot and snarled, ‘Knock’em
dead, Poppy. You show that snooty lot you were practically born in the saddle,’ even I was pretty sure it was the drink talking.
My reflection sniggered in agreement.

Later, when I’d polished off the remains of the bottle in front of the telly – madness not to – I went upstairs to bed. My
equine ensemble had by now come adrift, all restraining buttons and zips undone and agape. Whip in hand and still in my boots,
I swaggered across the bedroom to draw the curtains. I felt a bit like John Wayne. But before I reached the window I caught
sight of my reflection in the dressing-table mirror, and halted. This, I decided, swaying slightly, was what I’d look like
post-hunt, after a hard day in the saddle: windblown, unkempt, but exhilarated. All woman. Steadying myself on the back of
the dressing-table chair I straddled it backwards, swivelling to see what my bum looked like in the mirror. Not bad. I executed
a rising trot to see how it would fare going up and down, away from the meet, as it were. Very
passable. Then I hung on to the chair and leaned forward to mimic a gallop, bottom out of the saddle, bobbing slightly, whip
flourished. Suddenly I froze, mid-bob. Mr Fish, across the road, was drawing back from his bedroom window in alarm, no doubt
hastening to find Mrs Fish and tell her that the young widow opposite was not so much finding her feet as strapping them into
black leather, brandishing sex toys, and heading to Sodom, Gomorrah, and beyond.