Samphire Song (20 page)

I feel sick. I don’t have butterflies in my belly, but a small monster, gnawing with very sharp teeth. I raise my foot up into the shining stirrup and swing myself deftly into the gleaming jumping saddle.

‘Break a leg,’ says Mum. That’s what you say to actors before they go on stage, but it’s not quite so lucky for riders, I’m thinking.

‘Stick, just in case,’ says Ed, thrusting a piece of paper with a shape drawn in biro on it. ‘It’s the map of the course.’ I don’t have the heart to tell him it looks like a carrot and that anyway, I won’t have time to consult a map on the way round. I put it into the pocket of my navy jacket.

‘Smile!’ Mum requests, aiming her pink digital camera in my direction. I definitely have my eyes
closed when the flash goes off. ‘You both look lovely,’ she beams.

I hope so, after getting up at five this morning to groom Samphire to within an inch of his life. Then there was the stress with my bun (Ed has ten thumbs when it comes to sticking pins in the right places), not to mention the TLC lavished on Sam’s new tack and my boots.

It’s been a major operation, nurturing Sam back to health, building up his strength and confidence and preparing him for a cross-country event – hours and hours of work and massive help from Sue, Rachel and the girls at the stables, plus loads of support from Mum and Ed. Even Poppy has been lending a hand, dropping by to keep me supplied with chocolate bars for energy! All our efforts have been worthwhile because Sam looks completely and totally stunning.

With the help of a reward given by some of the owners reunited with their lost animals and the money I raised to buy Sam back, I’ve been able to kit us both
out in some cool gear and pay for a whole year’s livery. The extra time I’ve gained by not having to walk so many mutts and deliver papers has been spent on schooling Sam and getting him to event level.

It’s six months since he was clinging to life by a thread. Today, we’re both here in the grounds of Lynton Manor, looking immaculate, not a hair out of place, ready to take part in the Forest’s most prestigious cross-country race. Sam is turning heads wherever we go. He’s so white he is almost luminous.

‘Ith that Pegathuth?’ asks a little boy of about six, who is standing behind the ropes next to us.

‘His name’s Samphire,’ I reply.

‘Where are hith wings?’ The boy is searching Sam’s belly for signs of folded feathers.

The tannoy booms out: ‘Will competitors make their way to the waiting area please.’

There are thirty of us taking part today – and we’re all winners of qualifying events over the last month. Usually, races like today’s have staggered start
times and the horse and rider who finish fastest with fewest faults claim the prize. But Lord Lynton, the owner of the manor, is a racing man and makes his own rules. We all set off together and may the best horse win.

‘We’re on, boy,’ I say, shortening my polished reins, giving Mum and Ed a little wave as we start to move forwards. The twenty-two jumps, a mixture of gates and log stacks, are set at no more than three feet high, which Sam can manage easily. He’s not used to racing against other horses, though, and the noise of the cheering and clapping from the excited crowd is making him frisky and nervous.

Looking around, I’m the youngest rider by about three years. Samphire is the most inexperienced horse, too, so it will be a test of courage and ability for us both. I hope I don’t let him down.

Lord Lynton, a man of about sixty with a mass of unruly white hair, stands on a decorated podium ready to start the race. Samphire makes a nickering sound.
He’s eager to get going and I have to turn him in a circle to keep him calm.

I’m going through the course in my mind, having walked it with the other competitors yesterday, and I know where it might be possible to gain some seconds. My biggest worry is jump twenty, the pile of logs with the steep drop and wide stream the other side. The landing is awkward and it would be easy to stumble.

There’s no time to worry about that now. A race official is lining us up. Lord Lynton is holding a hunting horn to his lips.
BARARP!
We’re off!

There’s a huge cheer from Sam’s fan club from the stables as we set off at a fast canter across the wide meadows that border the manicured lawns. The grass is tall and dry after weeks of no rain and the ground feels firm. I don’t even have to urge Sam on. His ears are forward, his neck extended and he is keeping pace with the group of front-runners.

We’re heading towards our first challenge, a wooden
gate with four bars. Eight horses jump before we do and the rest of the field is on our tail.

Three, two, one,
fold
, my inner voice tells me and I bend forwards over Sam’s neck as he tucks his front hooves under and launches us into the air. We clear the top with room to spare and land well, ready to speed away. Sam is responding so intelligently; it’s as if he can read my mind. The slightest movement of my hand on the reins changes his direction and a gentle squeeze from my calf alters his speed.

So far, the course isn’t daunting him. We’re holding our position as we navigate through empty sheep pens, jump a log stack and canter down a slope with grass-covered obstacles at the bottom. The horse in front balks at the sight of a whirling scarecrow and veers to our left. Sam has no such worries and weaves nimbly between log poles before leaping the series of cattle troughs.

Ahead of us is a straight, stony track with tall maize growing either side of it. I sense Sam shift up a gear.
In moments, we are galloping neck-and-neck with a roan mare that seems to be labouring under the weight of a heavy male rider. He’s using his whip and kicking her belly, poor thing. We nudge past her as the next challenge comes into view – some hay bales on top of a wide cattle grid.

‘Steady, Sam,’ I say. He needs no encouragement. The Arabian stallion in him takes over and propels us forwards. He jumps too soon, but the leap is so huge, it feels as if we’re flying. Sam’s feet hardly touch the ground before we’re speeding at a gallop towards the woods, about twenty yards behind the leaders.

I shiver as we enter the cool shade of the trees. Sam senses this and his stride falters for a second. We’re both remembering another time, just months ago, when we were running for our lives on narrow paths between trees, and every step seemed like it could be Sam’s last.

But today, his courage is matched by his strength.
He must look like a bolt of white lightning streaking through the dappled shade. Maybe his mane is full of fairy dust, eh, Dad? The thought makes me smile.

One by one, we tackle the jumps laid out along the route through the Forest. Some have flags and wind chimes hanging nearby to add distraction and to test our mettle. One even has posters of bears on it (Ed would love it!). Lord Lynton promised us a few surprises on the way!

There’s another grey close at our heels, but we lose him after he refuses the three parallel stacks. I hear his rider arguing with the race official who has disqualified him. It won’t do any good. The rules of the day were very clear. One hesitation and you’re out.

I’m staying low over Samphire’s neck, trying to make us as aerodynamic as possible. Every so often, I glimpse a glint of horseshoes in the shafts of sunlight ahead. The thud of hooves is reverberating through the trees, pounding through my body. I’m sweating and my vision is starting to blur.

‘Come on, Jodie, you’re doing fine,’ encourages a voice in my head. I could swear it’s Dad’s . . .

I can see bright daylight now beyond the line of beeches – the front-runners are spreading out into the open ground. We’re not far behind them and, with just three jumps to go, I’m daring to think that we might make an attempt for third place. Ed and I have already discussed what we would do with the prize – two hundred and fifty pounds. We were having one of those, ‘In your dreams, if you were rich, what would you buy?’ conversations. We decided Mum should have a special present, like a spa break or a trip to see some beautiful gardens in France or Italy, and agreed we would save up for this in any case. Neither of us expected Sam and I to be in with a real chance of coming in the top three.

Imagining Mum’s happy face as we present her with the prize makes me urge Sam on even faster. He responds willingly. I notice his neck is damp with exertion. I relax the reins a little, not wanting to push
him beyond his limits, but he just thrusts his head out and gallops flat out.

I glance back. The next competitor is quite a long way behind us. I can afford to focus fully on the leaders – a black gelding and a chestnut hunter. The gelding looks like a tank on legs, almost unstoppable, but the hunter is on his tail. There’s a piebald and a bay behind them, side by side. Sam and I will need a huge helping of luck to get past them.

We tuck in just behind them and as we approach a bench jump, they diverge and create space and Sam claims it as his own. We take the jump just after the bay and the piebald is forced to hold back. Now Sam is neck and neck with the piebald, which is grunting with the effort of the fast pace.

The finish line is in sight, about a hundred yards away, and spectators are lining the route. There’s a lot of noise and applause, but I can hear someone shouting ‘Go on Sam, go on Jodie.’ It’s Rachel. She must have run all the way to the end of the course to cheer us on.
There are still two jumps before the final gallop to the finish. As we approach the huge grass mound with the steep drop to a stream, I try to steady Sam’s head, but he’s having none of it. We’re moving past the piebald and gaining ground on the hunter.

Flecks of foam flick on to us from the chestnut’s mouth. She’s giving it all she has. We are almost level with her shoulder. The jump is wide and we take it together, landing on the top of the bank, leaping down over the stream. The hunter stumbles as she lands, giving us a fraction of a second’s lead. Sam accelerates away, like a lightning bolt.

Incredibly, we’re in second place. Ahead of us, the black giant is lining up for the last jump, the gates laid out in a V shape. The angle for take-off is really tricky. I paced it out on my walk-round, but now I can’t remember. Was it better from the left or the right?

‘Come ON, Fosca,’ the gelding’s rider is shouting. Tension is so high now, I feel Sam shudder at the sound of her voice.

‘Just one more, boy,’ I say to him. The crowd is roaring on our left.

Fosca’s long stride is putting distance between us as we descend a gentle slope leading to the gates. It’s a good thing he is ahead on this stretch. I’ll be able to see which part of the jump he’s going to leap. We need to give him space, or the result could be catastrophic – a mid-air collision.

As Fosca heads towards the right-hand gate, I guide Sam to the left, giving the dangerous V-shape a wide berth. I expect to see the huge black frame airborne any second, but Fosca suddenly balks at the sight of the structure and veers across our path, taking off over the left-hand gate. Sam swerves and I’m flung out of the saddle. My right knee is still hooked over the pommel and I manage to haul myself back into a seated position just as Sam makes a decision and launches us into the air.

We soar over the sharp apex of the gates, stirrups flapping, and make a secure landing. Fosca must be
about five seconds ahead of us. His head is stretched out and he’s galloping as if his life depended on it.

‘GO ON!’ yells his rider, using her crop on his glistening flank.

‘GO, SAM, GO!’ I respond, willing my beautiful, brave horse to give our adversaries a run for their money. Sam needs no incentive. Ahead of him lies a flat stretch of ground. He knows what to do. It’s in his genes. I grip my knees tight into the saddle. My feet locate my stirrups, but I don’t kick back. I don’t need to.

Fosca is listing to the right, his gait unsettled by his near-refusal. It gives us a chance to ease forwards, to race shoulder to shoulder with the dark colossus, whose eyes are white-rimmed with exertion.

The line is a few yards away, we are behind Fosca by a nose. My eyes are fixed on the ribbon ahead, my body is low over Sam’s neck. The noise from the crowd is a wall of sound. As if in response to it, Sam almost leaps forwards. He’s running like he never has before, stretched and sleek, his tail flying like a bright
silver-white flag. Maybe he is Pegasus, after all.

Fosca’s great head is dropping behind us. A nanosecond later, we’re crossing the finish. Someone is screaming. I think it’s me!

‘You total STAR!’ I praise him, reining him in and turning him in a victory circle. Sam whinnies and stamps, tossing his mane, showing off, which makes the crowd laugh. He treats us all to a burst of his song, ending with a loud snort.

‘You should enter him for Eurovision,’ suggests a man behind the ropes. ‘We could do with the help.’

‘In first place, with Samphire, Miss Jodie Palmer,’ announces the tannoy. A race official directs me to approach Lord Lynton, who is holding a trophy and an envelope. Samphire frisks and sidesteps prettily. Somewhere nearby, a band has struck up, and I could swear Sam is moving in time to the music.

‘Very well done,’ says Lord Lynton. ‘That was a fine race. Congratulations to you and your splendid horse.’ He gives me the silver trophy and I shake his hand. The
crowd applauds and I lean forwards and give Sam the biggest hug ever.

‘And I’m delighted to award you a cheque for one thousand pounds,’ Lord Lynton announces. ‘That should keep Samphire in pony nuts for a little while!’ There is laughter and more applause. As I take the silver-edged envelope, my hand is shaking and there are tears of happiness stinging my eyes. It feels like a dream, except I’m aching and stiff and Sam is covered in sweat and dust.

‘Thank you so much,’ I answer. A photographer is taking pictures of us. He doesn’t need to ask me to smile. I’ve realised I’ll be able to treat Mum and Ed to a special celebration now. And it’s all thanks to Samphire.

We wait while Fosca and the hunter are awarded second and third place prizes. Sam nickers when Fosca walks past us. It sounds like a greeting of respect. The gelding looks like a war horse. He towers above Lord Lynton.