Secret Pony Society (7 page)

I spent most of Monday morning getting lost in the new house my dad shares with Skinny Lynny. It's much bigger than the one me and Mom live in 'cause my dad's got a good job and so has Lynn (that's how he met Skinny, she works with him). It's one of those so-called “executive homes” in a new subdivision, each one looking exactly the same as its next-door neighbor.

When I'd arrived on Sunday night, I'd dumped my suitcase in my bedroom with its private bathroom—which was quite exciting—while Skinny had insisted on telling me all about the new decor and furnishings she'd had put in. Lots of animal-print cushions, flower canvases on the wall, and glass tables. It looked like one of those made-over houses on TV.

Anyway, I'd made all the right noises as I'd traipsed behind Skinny whose tiny backside was poured into skintight jeans. Her long, straightened blonde hair reached almost to her waist, and she jangled as she walked, adorned with many bangles and necklaces, giving her a sound track like bad plumbing.

“I've just finished the guest bedroom,” Skinny had said with a flourish as she'd swung open the door, and I oohed and ahhed in all the right places. It turned out she hadn't finished it at all, she hadn't even started it—just chosen colors and fabrics and ordered the decorator about.

The kitchen had a huge stainless steel range cooker, so I expected great things in the eating department. Cue big disappointment: it turned out that Skinny doesn't cook—probably because she doesn't eat. My dad does what cooking there is, and the range was barely troubled all through my visit. We ate out most of the time, which at least made a change from the lettuce leaves and cherry tomato regime with Mom.

Of course, all I kept thinking about was Jazz, and the problem of getting supplies to her. As I'd ridden home from the icehouse on Sunday, I realized I'd have to recruit an accomplice. But who?

Not James. His Cat connection put him firmly out of the running, not to mention Moth's past.

Not Katy. She would have been my first choice, but she had been so against the travelers, I couldn't risk it.

Not Dee-Dee. Too occupied with her Horse of the Year Show preparations.

Not Bean.

Why not Bean?
I had thought. She at least had shown the tiniest sympathy toward Jazz's plight.

Bean. Mmmm. I hadn't had time to think about it for long as I had to go to Dad's right away. I'd asked Drummer's opinion.

“Yup, call in Bean,” he'd agreed. “She's ditzy, but her heart's in the right place.”

Getting Bean on her own hadn't been easy—everyone seemed to be at the yard. Eventually, though, I'd cornered her outside Drummer's stable and had whispered my problem to her.

It had actually been easier than I'd thought because once Bean knew Jazz had actually done what she had threatened to do and run away to help her pony, she totally changed her mind about her.

“She must love her pony to do that!” she'd said, her eyebrows disappearing into her bangs, obviously impressed. “I mean, I never thought she actually would do it!”

“But I told you she was going to,” I'd replied a bit testily.

“Yes, but I thought you were just being dramatic to get us on her side. What would happen if she hadn't run away?”

We'd fallen silent at this point as Catriona walked across the yard to Bambi's stable, forcing us to take advantage of a lull in tack room activity and retreat into there and whisper some more.

“Jazz's father will race Falling Snow again,” I'd said. “As she's so fast, Jazz is scared he'll sell her like he sold Snow's mother.”

“But Falling Snow belongs to Jazz, doesn't she?” Bean had asked, confused.

“Yes.” I'd sighed. “But Jazz says that doesn't matter. Her father will sell her anyway.”

“I suppose it's like our ponies,” Bean had mused. “I mean, my parents say Tiffany is my pony, but they bought her, and they pay for her keep. She's not legally mine. They could do the same—sell her at the drop of a hat. Actually,” she'd murmured, “they wouldn't need much persuading.”

I'd never seen Bean's parents at the stables. Everyone else gets dropped off by their mom or dad, but Bean cycles, like me.

“Aren't your parents interested in Tiffany?” I'd asked her.

“Nah. They're far more into my sisters' interests—Haley plays the violin, and Grace paints. But then, my mom sculpts, and my dad's a musician, so they're all into the arts. I'm the black sheep of the family. I think they bought me Tiff so they could get on with being all artistic without me hanging around, not getting it. It's like I'm from another planet. Hey! Maybe that's it! I've been sent down to Earth and planted with a human family!”

I couldn't help thinking how many times we'd all thought that very same thing—that Bean was from another planet. How strange that her whole family was so different from Bean. It was the first time she'd mentioned them. It certainly explained why I'd never seen them at the yard. Horses were obviously not a subject they could relate to, any more than Bean was into their interests.

I'd impressed upon her the need for total secrecy: “You have to swear you won't tell a soul where Jazz is hiding. No one. Not Katy or James or ANYONE!”

I knew she wouldn't because instead of just saying, “Of course I won't,” Bean had pursed her lips and weighed up the pros and cons before solemnly swearing that she'd rather die first. So I'd told her where Jazz was, and she'd gone all wide-eyed when I explained about the icehouse and had agreed to look in on Jazz later that afternoon and again on Tuesday, taking her more water and food. I'd given her Jazz's money.

“I'll take some dog biscuits, too,” she'd volunteered. “We've got some in our garage from when my grandmother came to stay. She's got a West Highland terrier,” she'd added, when I'd given her a look. I'd thought dog biscuits were a strange diet for an old lady, even one related to Bean.

And then at that moment, Catriona had waltzed in. “Dog biscuits?” she'd asked. “Who wants dog biscuits?”

“I've adopted a dog at the local dog rescue,” Bean had lied, calm as you like. “It's only five bucks a year, but I'm going to see if I can do more to help. Interested in donating something, Cat?” she'd added.

“Wow!” I'd said, after Cat had gone. “I'm impressed!”

“Sometimes a girl has to think on her feet,” Bean had replied, and I'd congratulated myself on my choice of accomplice.

It had been so easy to get Bean on Jazz's side once she knew Jazz was serious about her pony's welfare and had taken her into hiding, I'd wondered whether the others would feel the same way, but I didn't dare tell anyone else. The fewer people who knew where Jazz was, the better, and besides, Bean was looking after Drummer for me while I was away, so including her in the Jazz escapade made things neat. I could also get any news when I rang her to ask about Drum, avoiding suspicion on the yard if anyone overheard. The plan had seemed to slide into place quite well.

I hadn't wanted to think about how Jazz was going to react when Bean turned up at her so-called secret hiding place instead of me. I'd let Bean handle that one. It was a step too far for me; my courage seemed to have run its course. Also, I hoped Jazz wouldn't mention the feeling she had about someone having died there—that would freak Bean out big-time. I could just imagine it. She'd been worse than me at that séance. I could imagine Bean galloping home and never going back.

It soon became obvious that Dad and Skinny had planned my visit with military precision, which was fine by me. If I'd been asked to make a list of all the things I'd like to do with my dad and Skinny, sitting around making small talk would be at the very bottom of a very, very tiny piece of paper.

“We're going out this afternoon, Pumpkin,” Dad announced. When was I going to tackle him about my stupid pet name? “To Harrisburg House.”

“It's a fabulous old house with a walled garden. Built in the eighteenth century,” explained Skinny, sipping some warm water in which floated a thin slice of lemon, like a leaf floats on a puddle.

“Full of history!” exclaimed Dad, rubbing his hands together. “We thought we'd get a bit of culture today!”

“And there's the most divine café on site, with a wonderful shop,” added Skinny, running her hand through her hair so that it stood away from her face, showing off her cheekbones.

“OK,” I said, wishing I was at the yard with Drummer. I was destined instead for Harrisburg House and its shop.

We piled into the car—me in the back, of course. We hadn't got halfway out of the drive when my cell phone rang.

It was Bean.

“Hello?” I said, in hushed tones. I could see Skinny gawking at me in the rearview mirror. Nosy!

“I've been to see Jazz!” Bean said. “She wasn't very friendly, and that dog of hers is like a wolf. I thought he was going to rip me to pieces!”

“Ahhh. Mmmm,” I said. Well, I couldn't say much more with Dad and Skinny straining to hear.

“She kept saying no one else was supposed to know and that she didn't need my help, even though she had no food and hardly any water. Talk about ungrateful! Anyway, she wanted to know whether her family had upped and left, but I told her they were still rooted to the Sloping Field. I don't know how long she's intending to stay at the IH hotel.”

“I see,” I said.

“Tiff went, well, weird when we were there,” continued Bean. “I thought she'd be all
wahhhh
, like she usually is, but she went freakishly calm and kept dragging me over to Jazz like she was a bucket of feed. Really weird!”

Not really, I thought, remembering how Drummer and Moth had been with Jazz.

“Are you all right?”

“Er, well, it's a bit tricky right now,” I said, hoping Bean would somehow buck the trend of being on a different wavelength to everyone else and get my problem. Wonder of wonders, she did!

“Is someone listening to us?” she said dramatically.

“Absolutely!” I said.

“Oh, OK. Well, I thought you'd want to know that everything's going according to plan here, so don't worry. Drummer's fine, too. He's out in the field with Bluey because he's lost a shoe.”

“But he was only shod last week!” I exclaimed.

“No, not Drummer, Bluey,” Bean explained. “Bluey's lost a shoe. The farrier's coming this afternoon. Oh, by the way, do you know what a black mark on a white sock is called?”

“An ermine mark,” I volunteered. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing. Call me later when you're alone.”

“Will do,” I agreed, ending the call. Phew! Bean seemed to have everything under control, which made a change. I looked up to see Skinny Lynny smirking at me.

“What?” I asked.

“It's OK, Pia, if you want to talk to your boyfriend, we won't listen.”

For a moment, I wondered what on earth she was going on about, but then I remembered how, ages ago, a difficult moment with James had been explained by the assumption that he was my boyfriend.
Huh
, I thought,
if you only knew!

Obviously she had been listening—even if she had got it totally wrong. I slumped down in the seat and looked out of the car window as we sped past fields. I love seeing how many horses I can spot on a car journey. By the time we reached Harrisburg House. I'd spotted two grays, a chestnut, and a bay that looked a bit like Drummer, only with two white legs. Oh, and a llama, but that didn't count.

Harrisburg House was big and ugly and full of old furniture and paintings of dead people. (I don't mean they'd been painted after they'd died, I mean they'd died years ago, after the portraits had been finished.) There was one of a woman on a dappled gray. She was riding sidesaddle in a gorgeous blue habit, which reminded me of Epona. My little stone statue of the Roman and Celtic goddess sitting sideways on her horse was zipped into my bag. I didn't dare leave her anywhere, and besides, I never knew when I might happen across a horse and a conversation would be needed.

“Isn't this fireplace just so elegant, Paul?” enthused Skinny, running her hand along the huge marble surround. “Do you think we could have something similar in the living room?”

“It is lovely,” agreed my dad.

It wasn't. It was hideous. I thought of our little fireplace in our house and was glad my mom and I lived there instead of my dad's rather soulless home. Thank goodness I didn't live with him and Skinny. I'd rather live with my mom any day—even with her crazy boyfriends. At least my mom's love life meant she didn't drag me off to do stuff all the time, instead leaving me to spend my life with Drummer.

We trooped from room to room, from libraries, to bedrooms, to the kitchens, to the cellars.

“Are there any stables?” I asked. There must have been, but I wanted to know whether they were still there.

“Yes, there are!” Skinny Lynny exclaimed. “They've turned them into the most fabulous café. We're going there next.”

What a terrible thing to do to old stables
, I thought. There ought to be a law against it. But actually, when we got to the coffee shop called, unimaginatively, the Old Coach House, I discovered they'd kept some of the old stalls intact, so we got our tray of coffees, Coke, salad (Skinny), burger (Dad), and lasagna (me) and sat inside an alcove created out of one of them. I could see the brass rings, which the carriage horses would have been tied to, and they even had the old trough. I wondered whether the old house that used to be near Laurel Farm had had fabulous old stables like these. How I would have loved to have seen them! Squirreling away most of the fancy misshapen brown and white sugar lumps on the table, I folded them up in a paper napkin and zipped them up in my bag with Epona for company. Drum would go crazy for those!