Fortune and the Golden Trophy (4 page)

Mr Tucker had been expecting applause at this point and was clearly disappointed when he was met with stunned silence. Unabashed, he continued. “As your new president I have many great plans for this pony club, which you will hear in good time. Tonight, however, I thought this would be the perfect occasion to announce some very big news for the senior riders in the room.

“Many of you have enjoyed the pleasure of Natasha’s company here at the pony club over the years.” Mr Tucker gestured to his daughter, who had found a seat across the aisle from Issie and was watching her dad speak with a smug expression on her face.

“It seemed only fitting that the Tucker family should donate a special trophy in Natasha’s honour to commemorate her great achievements at the Chevalier Point Pony Club.”

Stella, who couldn’t believe what she was hearing, suddenly doubled over and began to have a coughing fit.

Mr Tucker frowned at the interruption and continued. “The Tucker family believe in rewarding success. Most of you will never achieve as much as my daughter has with the calibre of horses I’ve bought her, but it never hurts to dream, eh?”

There were astonished mumbles from the audience at
the rudeness of this remark, but Mr Tucker never noticed when he was being rude and ploughed on. “Underneath this curtain is my contribution to the Chevalier Point Pony Club—a grand prize that will be awarded each year to the senior rider who accumulates the most points in the Open Gymkhana, which will be held at the end of next month, here at the club.”

He stretched out a hand, gripped the corner of the velvet cloth and gave it a firm yank. The velvet fell away dramatically as the trophy was revealed.

“Ohmygod!” Stella gasped. The trophy looked like it had come from a popstar millionaire’s mansion. It was a rearing horse over a metre high, coated from hoof to head in brilliant gold. The horse’s eyes were made of turquoise, its mane sparkled with diamanté crystals and its hooves were studded with fake rubies. The giant gold statue was set on an ornate walnut veneer base, upon which, in grandiose, curlicued gilt letters, were the words: Natasha Tucker Memorial Trophy.

“Memorial? I thought you had to be dead to have a memorial named after you?” Kate hissed.

“That’s a trophy? It looks like an explosion in a jewellery shop,” Stella giggled. Issie, however, wasn’t laughing quite so hard. She was in a state of shock.
Where did Stuck-up Tucker get the nerve?

“I can’t believe she named a trophy after
herself
!” Issie whispered. “Don’t you have to, like, win Badminton or the Olympics or something before you can do that?”

As Mr Tucker stood there expectantly Mrs Tarrant tried to lead a round of rather reluctant applause. This soon petered out and nobody seemed to know what to do next. Finally, Natasha stood up and whispered something to her father.

Mr Tucker nodded and then cleared his throat. “My daughter just wants to make it clear that, of course, as a senior rider herself at Chevalier Point this year, she is also eligible to compete alongside the other riders for the Tucker Trophy.”

“You are kidding me!” Stella squeaked. “She’s competing to win her own trophy?”

Issie was stunned. Only Natasha Tucker could possibly have come up with something so outrageous!

Standing next to her father at the podium, Natasha looked over at Issie, Stella and Kate, who were sitting with their jaws hanging open, and gave them a self-satisfied smirk.

As she walked back out of the clubroom behind her father she paused for a moment and looked Issie straight
in the eyes. “You should go up and get a close look at the trophy while you can. Daddy’s leaving it here in the clubroom on display for the next two months, until the gymkhana, so you’ll get the chance to see it.” Then she added with a sneer, “After that, it’ll be going home with me—Daddy’s already built a display case for it in the living room.”

“Don’t you think you should actually wait until you win it first before you build a case for it, Natasha?” Issie replied. “There are a lot of good senior riders at Chevalier Point you know…”

“And you think you’re the best, don’t you?” sneered Natasha. “You always have done. You act like you’re better than me. Well, OK then, here’s your chance to prove it!”

“I wasn’t saying…” Issie began, but Natasha cut her off.

“You’re not the best rider at this pony club, Isadora. In fact, you’re not even in my league any more. I’ve got a better horse and a better instructor than you and I plan to show everyone when I take home that trophy at the end of the gymkhana!”

And with that, the bratty blonde turned on her heels and swept out of the clubroom, leaving Issie sitting there, gobsmacked.

Issie had known that there was no love lost between her and Natasha, but she hadn’t been prepared for this latest outburst. She had no idea how much Natasha seemed to genuinely loathe her!

Natasha had Issie in her sights and their rivalry was about to come to a head in the battle for this trophy. The new season at Chevalier Point had begun and they were off to a cracking start.

Stella was so excited about the arrival of Misty that she convinced Mrs Tarrant to get her off school early on Wednesday so that she could meet the pony when he arrived. By the time Issie and Kate had changed out of their school uniforms and cycled down to the River Paddock, Stella was unloading the fleabitten grey from the horse float, beaming with pride over her new pony. Her happiness was shattered just a few moments later when Avery turned up, took one look at Misty and announced that the trial was over.

“I’m sorry, but Misty is going straight home again,” he told Stella bluntly.

“But why?” Stella said. “He’s only just got here. You haven’t even seen me ride him!”

“I don’t need to, Stella.” Avery said. “Look at this pony’s conformation! He has a ewe neck, cow hocks and a parrot mouth!”

Stella boggled at this. “You mean he’s part-sheep, part-cow and part-parrot?
I
thought he was a pony!”

Avery shook his head. “Don’t be daft. They’re common horse terms for conformation problems. You see how this pony’s neck has no muscle on the top? That’s a ewe neck. And look how his hocks point inwards and his back legs splay apart at the ground. That’s cow hocks—and it can cause permanent lameness. You can see the parrot mouth too—the way his top lip sticks out over the bottom one like a parrot’s beak. It means he’ll have real problems with his teeth.”

“He looks OK to me,” Stella protested. She wasn’t about to let Misty go without a fight.

Avery sighed. “Maybe if he just had one fault, or even a couple of conformation problems, I would still let you trial him. But this horse is like a handbook on what not to buy.”

He looked at Stella. “These are serious faults, Stella. As your instructor I can’t possibly recommend that you trial him. I’m sorry, he has to go back.”

Stella was devastated, but Mrs Tarrant was firmly on
Avery’s side. She told Misty’s owners in no uncertain terms that the trial was over and they could load him up and take him home because her daughter would not be buying him after all. And so Stella watched in disbelief as her new pony was led straight back on to the float and taken away again.

“I knew it was too good to be true finding a perfect pony that quickly,” Stella groaned as she watched Misty being driven off. “Now the rally is just three days away and I don’t have a horse to ride.”

“Of course you do,” was Issie’s automatic response. “You can have one of mine.”

“What?” Stella’s eyes went wide with shock. “You mean it?”

“Totally! I should have suggested it sooner. It’s crazy for me to have three horses when there’s no way that I can exercise them all at once.” She smiled at Stella. “You’d be doing me a favour if you could work one of them. At least until a decent pony turns up for you to buy.”

“So which one do you want me to have?” asked Stella.

“Comet,” Issie said decisively. “Blaze is too fresh; she’s only just coming back into work and she’s really sensitive. And I’d love to offload the piebald on you, but
I did promise Aunty Hess that I would ride that big black and white lump myself.”

“Are you sure?” Stella said, looking slightly awestruck. “Comet is worth a total bomb—he’s a superstar showjumper. What if something happens to him?”

Issie shook her head. “You’ll be great on him. Besides, Comet may be valuable, but it’s not like you have to wrap him in cotton wool—he’s pretty tough. He’s a Blackthorn Pony, remember?”

“You know,” Kate pointed out to Issie, “the piebald is a Blackthorn Pony as well. He’s got the same bloodlines as Comet, but it seems like you’re convinced he’s useless.”

Stella agreed. “You are kinda harsh on him, Issie. Maybe you should give him a chance?”

Issie sighed. “I know, I know, but really…” She gestured to the piebald who was, as usual, lying down and snoring in the middle of the paddock, “…look at him! He’s a total fruit loop!”

“Well, I think he’s adorable,” Stella said sniffily. “I’ve always loved piebalds. I think he looks like one of those horses that pull the painted wagons at carnivals, you know, like a fortune-teller’s pony.”

Issie looked stunned. “Stella, you’re a genius!”

“I am?” Stella had been called a lot of things, but
genius was not one of them. “Umm, OK…why exactly am I a genius?”

“Because,” Issie said, “we’ve all been racking our brains for days now trying to think of a name for this pony and you just said it. He does look like a fortuneteller’s pony.
Fortune Teller
. That can be his name! It’s perfect for him.”

Kate nodded. “Fortune Teller. Yeah, it does suit him. That can be his show name for when he’s competing, and then at home you can just shorten it to Fortune.”

“Fortune Teller.” Stella looked pleased with herself. “It is good, isn’t it? I’ve never come up with a name for a horse before!”

“Well,” Kate said, “he’s not ‘The Piebald’ any more. Maybe having a name will help him.”

Issie looked at the horse lying on the ground. She wasn’t sure it would be enough to make a difference. The piebald was such a kook! She could hear his snoring from the other side of the paddock. “Wake up, Fortune,” she said. “You just got yourself a name.”

Fortune had been at the River Paddock for almost a week now and Issie hadn’t even ridden him. When Stella and
Kate pointed this out she kept coming up with excuses. Blaze was just coming back into work and there was Comet to take care of. But then Issie remembered Aunty Hess’s request that she make a prize-winner out of the piebald and she realised she couldn’t keep avoiding her responsibilities forever. So on Thursday she headed down to the River Paddock, ready to take her first ride on the new pony.

“We’re just going to take it slow,” she told Fortune as she slipped the halter on and led him back to the hitching rail by the tack shed. “We’ll go on a bit of a hack and get to know each other.”

Fortune, for his part, seemed just as unenthusiastic about getting to know Issie. It wasn’t like he ran away when she came to catch him, but he didn’t rush up to greet her either. He just ignored her. It was the same when she tied him to the hitching rail and began grooming him. Fortune just stared vacantly ahead as she worked over him with a body brush. He barely paid any attention to her at all.

At least he seemed to have no vices. He stood perfectly still, never trying to bite or kick as Issie combed his thick black and white mane and brushed out his long, bushy tail. He picked up his hooves politely, allowing Issie to
pick them out with no fuss or bother. “Aunty Hess and Aidan have taught you good manners,” Issie told the piebald. Still, she thought when she stepped back from her grooming to assess the pony, he was such a funny-looking thing with his tubby pot belly and gormless expression.

Oh, well
, she told herself,
it doesn’t matter how he looks, it’s how Fortune feels when you ride him that matters
.

It turned out, however, that Fortune felt like a slug. A giant black and white slug. He was completely lethargic and it took all of Issie’s efforts just to get the pony moving.

“Come on, Fortune!” Issie was exasperated as she tried to kick the horse into a trot. OK, so Fortune had looked dozy in the paddock, but she had been hoping that once she got on his back that might change. Normally, a horse that had been left unridden for a long time would be full of beans and too peppy. But not Fortune. The piebald was the complete opposite. He was positively nappy and reluctant to budge. Issie found herself resorting to banging her legs repeatedly against the pony’s sides like a metronome just to keep him moving forward.

Once he was in motion, Fortune didn’t look any more graceful or elegant than when he was standing still. He
stuck his head out in front like a donkey and made grunting noises, his bloated, tubby tummy gurgling away as he trotted. And what a trot! Issie found herself being thrown up in the air out of the saddle like a rag doll. His trot was
so
bouncy, and his belly was so fat her legs stuck out to the sides!

“Maybe we’ll just walk again for a bit until we reach the back paddock,” she muttered, slowing the pony down. She turned Fortune towards the fenceline and let him proceed at his own treacle-paced walk to the gate that led through to the next paddock.

Despite Fortune’s dozy attitude, Issie had still decided it would be safest to stay in the paddock for their first hack today. That way, if Fortune did decide to bolt, at least they would be fenced in. But in truth, Fortune was hardly likely to bolt—it was tough enough getting him to move at all!

Issie didn’t mind staying within the grazing grounds. The paddocks by the river were a brilliant place to ride. If you were a pony-club grazing member, you could choose to graze your horse either at the River Paddock or at the main pony-club grounds, but Issie, Stella and Kate liked the River Paddock the best. There wasn’t much here in the way of fancy equipment, just a basic outdoor arena
with a few cavaletti set up in it. If you wanted to do any serious jumping, you needed to go to the pony club where the jumps equipment was kept. But the girls preferred it. You could hack out to Winterflood Farm along the riverbank or stay in the paddocks like Issie was today and ride through The Pines, a glade of tall conifers at the far end of the back river paddock.

In winter, if it had been raining a lot, the ground in The Pines could be boggy, but otherwise the small woods were perfect for riding. The trees were dense, but there was a well-defined track that ran between them, just wide enough for a horse and rider. The path was carpeted with a blanket of crunchy brown pine needles that gave off a wonderful aroma as you rode through the trees.

When Mystic had been alive Issie loved to ride him here. The Pines had been their special place. Now, as she rode through the gate to the next paddock and turned to head towards the trees on Fortune, she felt a twinge of sorrow as her mind flashed back to thoughts of her beloved pony.

Mystic had been Issie’s first ever horse and she had adored him from the moment they met. The swaybacked dapple-grey was hardly the best-looking horse in the paddock at Chevalier Point, but that had never mattered
to Issie. To her, Mystic was the most beautiful horse ever. He would always be the horse that she had loved first, the one who had changed everything.

The accident happened at the pony club over two years ago. Issie still had flashbacks to that fateful day. She had turned up at the horse floats just in time to see Natasha Tucker throw a temper tantrum and hit her horse, Goldrush. The palomino had panicked and reared back into Toby and Coco. All three horses had got loose and before Issie could stop to think she was riding after them on Mystic. She managed to herd the escaped horses back from the main road to safety. Then suddenly, it was just Issie and Mystic alone on the road. Issie could hear the low rumble of the truck, smell the diesel and hear the squeal of tyres as the massive vehicle tried to brake. Mystic had turned to face the truck, squaring up to his opponent like a stallion ready to fight. As he reared up the grey pony threw Issie back and out of the saddle. There had been a sickening crack as her riding helmet hit the tarmac, then the taste of blood in her mouth before everything turned to black.

When Issie woke up in the hospital bed her mother was sitting beside her. Issie’s first question had been about her horse. “Where is Mystic? Mum? Is Mystic OK?”

Issie still remembered, with awful clarity, that terrible moment, her mother’s stilted, painful words. “Isadora, there was nothing anyone could have done…Mystic…Mystic is dead.”

Issie truly believed that she would never recover from that moment. Losing her horse was the worst thing that had ever happened to her. She was so devastated she swore that she would never ride again. But then Avery found Blaze. Her instructor worked for the International League for the Protection of Horses and he asked Issie to take on the care of the mistreated mare. Blaze was in a bad way, but together the broken-hearted girl and the broken-spirited horse healed each other.

As for Mystic, it turned out that Issie’s bond with her grey pony was so strong that even death could not break it. In fact, Mystic wasn’t really gone at all. Whenever Issie was in real trouble and truly needed him, Mystic would be there by her side. He was her guardian angel—not like a ghost, but a real horse, flesh and blood, her protector. The grey gelding had saved her life—and the lives of her horses—so many times. He watched over Issie, Blaze and Storm too. When Storm had needed help in Spain Mystic had been there, and when Issie had to leave the colt behind it helped knowing that somehow Mystic
would always be able to keep an eye on him.

The last time Issie had seen Mystic was in the stables of El Caballo Danza Magnifico. That had only been last week, but it seemed so long ago. Now, here she was back at Chevalier Point, riding once again towards the pine trees that Mystic had loved so much. Issie was thinking about the grey gelding, and how much she missed him, so when she saw a grey shadow ahead of her in the trees, she thought she was imagining it. She longed for Mystic to be here with her right now, so perhaps she was seeing things.

It must have been a trick of the light, she decided. But then she saw something that changed her mind. It was the face of a pony. There was no mistaking it this time. There he was, beneath the boughs of a pine tree, staring back at her from the gloom, a snow-white face with a pair of liquid black eyes, peering out from underneath a silvery forelock. The deep, dark eyes looked intently at Issie, meeting her own. Then the horse moved, turning around so that Issie could see his body moving through the branches, a snow-white coat, covered on the rump with a smattering of dark grey dapples. There was no doubt. It was Mystic.