Stables S.O.S. (5 page)

“It's not about us!” explained James. “It's about
history
!”

Bean and I both looked at him blankly. I was beginning to think everyone was bonkers today. Except me, of course.

“You said it would be a shame if these farm buildings were torn down,” James said to Bean.

“Yeah, it would. Tiffany lives in one of them,” Bean agreed. “Although I'd get her out first, obviously.”

“I thought you said they wouldn't be?” said Katy. “You said they'd be turned into houses and garages.”

“Are these buildings important, then?” I asked, looking at the stables. They didn't look especially important. They were wooden, old, and a bit ramshackle.

“Probably not,” James said. “Why is your hair wet, Bean?” he added abruptly.

Bean, Katy, and I exchanged glances. James wasn't making sense, and we didn't just mean about Bean's hair.

“But what about the house?” asked James, waving his arms around and jumping up and down.

“What, Mrs. Collins's house?” asked Bean, frowning uncertainly as she glanced at the rather boring-looking brick house built next to the tack room.

James looked as though he wanted to give Bean a shake. Usually, I know how he feels, but I didn't think it was Bean who was being annoying this time.

“No, the
big
house!” yelled James. “The big house that used to be next to Laurel Farm.”

The light went on in my brain. Honestly, sometimes it takes a while. I'd remembered James talking about the big house before, a huge house to which the farm belonged.

“But wasn't that near the icehouse?” I asked him. I had always assumed it had been. The icehouse, where ice was taken from the lake to be stored all winter to be used in the summer at the big house, was over the other side of the bridle path, on the other side of the lake. That was nowhere near the stables.

“Nah!” James said, all dismissive. “The icehouse had to be near the water, but the house was here, in the ponies' field.”

“I thought that was something you just made up,” said Bean. “Was there really a house here?”

“Yep!” said James, nodding smugly.

“But it's not here anymore,” I said. “You told me there was no trace of it.”

“But it's probably still a site of historical interest,” James told us. “Some archaeological types would go crazy for the chance to find out about it. And if that's so, the site is probably important, and planning permission would be refused.”

“That sounds a bit, er, well, easy,” said Katy.

“It's worth a try, isn't it?” yelled James.

“Yes,” I said, nodding my head, “it certainly is!”

“What is?” asked Dee, appearing as if by magic. In a jumble of words, we all told her.

Dee's face lit up. “That totally is the way to go!” she said. “Good one, James. Now what do we do?”

“Let's go and take a look around and see if we can see anything,” James suggested, and we all galloped into the field, our eyes on the grass.

“Where was it, exactly?” asked Dee. “Why is your hair damp, Bean? It hasn't been raining, has it?”

“Er, not really sure,” mumbled James, striding away from the gate. “Big houses were usually built to take advantage of a view.”

“So we have to decide where we would build a house, if we were going to,” said Katy.

“Brilliant, Katy!” said Bean, fluffing up her hair in the sun.

“The highest ground is over here,” I said, running to the hill and looking down at the villages below. You certainly could see for miles.

The ponies wandered over, curious as to what we were doing. They had ulterior motives, of course.

“Got any treats?” Drummer asked me, frisking my pockets. He seemed to have perked up a bit now that he was back with Bambi.

I shook my head. “No, but I've got something much more exciting—we think we've found a way to save the stables!”

All the ponies pricked up their ears. I explained that we were looking for the house that had been built so long ago.

“You're looking in the wrong place,” said Bambi, gazing over to the left of us and not even bothering to look up. “It was over there, where that patch of long grass is by the hedge.”

I blinked. “What did you just say?”

Bambi sighed impatiently. “It was over there!” she repeated, nodding her head in the direction.

“She's right,” Drummer said. “It was definitely over there. Come on, we'll show you.”

“Hold on!” I cried, holding up my hands. “How do you know?”

James, Katy, Dee, and Bean all looked over. “What's up?” asked James.

“The ponies know where the house was,” I told them. I guessed their faces mirrored mine. I mean, how on earth…?

“Not difficult,” explained Drummer, “if you're a pony. The ground gives off all sorts of vibes we can feel—which you can't. You'd be amazed at what the ground tells us that escapes you. To be honest, you're pretty useless. I don't know how you all get by.”

“No wonder I'm of slightly nervous disposition,” murmured Tiffany.

“
Slightly?
” I muttered.

“So where was it?” asked James, who had learned not to question what I told him from the ponies' mouths.

We trailed behind the ponies to the far side of the field.

Drummer stamped a front hoof and sniffed the ground. “Here, this is where the oldest one was built.”

“Are you sure?” asked Katy. “There's no view from here.” She turned accusingly to James. “I thought you said it would have been built where the owners would have had a view.”

Far from being able to see down the hill from this part of the field, all we could see were trees. There was no view at all.

“Excuse me,” said Bluey—he really was a polite pony, “but those trees probably weren't there when the house was built.”

Of course!

“When was the house built, James?” I asked.

“Originally? About four or five hundred years ago, according to Mrs. Collins,” James replied.

“Oh, that one,” said Drummer, walking a bit to the left, “that's here.”

“What do you mean,
that
one
?” I asked. “How many are there?”

“Oh, tons!” he replied.

“Tons? How many is tons?”

“You're looking for the four-hundred-year-old one—you did say that, didn't you?” asked Drum.

I nodded dumbly.

“Then that's here,” finished Drummer.

“Drummer seems to think there's more than one house,” I told the others.

“Yeah,” nodded James. “I think another house was built when that one fell down, or something.”

I was confused. I've never been very good with dates and things at school. “So which one
are
you talking about?” I asked Drummer.

“Well, the four-hundred-year-old one, give or take a few years, that's under here,” Drummer assured me.

“But that makes it…” began Dee, counting on her fingers. “Elizabethan!”

“That alone justifies those huge fees your parents pay for your fancy schooling, Dee—pretty amazing, huh?” said James.

I pictured ladies from the age of Queen Elizabeth wearing long dresses and stiff white ruffs around their necks, walking where we were now with men sporting more ruffs and pointed beards. A shiver ran up and down my spine. How strange to think of people all those years ago wandering over the same soil, looking at the same view.

“No wonder there's nothing left,” said Bean, interrupting my thoughts.

“What's going on?” said a voice. It was Cat. In our excitement we'd failed to notice her arrival. “Why are you all bouncing about in the field? Your hair looks nice, Bean.”

“James has the most amazing plan to save the stables!” Katy told her, and explained all about the way the old house was going to be the answer to everyone's prayers—everyone except Cat, that is.

“The only problem is that there's nothing left of it,” grumbled Bean, kicking a stone, her eyes cast downward as though an ancient house would suddenly appear from under her boots.

“So how does that work, then?” Cat asked, not unreasonably. As I told you before, she was still a bit annoyed with James and so she wasn't going to get too excited by any ideas he came up with.

“It could be a site of historical interest,” James explained, talking unnecessarily slowly as though Cat was being dim. You can imagine how well that went down with Cat.

“Historical interest to whom?” asked Cat.

“The. Nation. Of. Course,” James said, even more slowly, just to annoy Cat. It worked.

“How. Is. The. Nation. Going. To. Know. About. It?” Cat replied, pouting at James.

“The National Heritage Organization!” said Katy. “They'll love it. They save old buildings for the nation. My mom's always dragging me around to them during vacations. Some of them look as though they'd have been happier left to rot. Some are OK though, and quite interesting,” she added.

“We'll get Sophie to tell them,” added Bean. “She'll get them down here.”

“Do you think Mrs. Collins would mind?” I asked.

James dismissed my doubts. “Mind?” he said. “We're saving the stables, of course she won't mind.”

We all whizzed back to the yard and found Sophie, told her breathlessly of our plans and left it in her hands. She was all for it, once we'd assured her that the house really had existed, according to Mrs. Collins.

“Absolutely wonderful!” she gushed, pulling out her cell phone. “I'll see who at National Heritage I can track down right now. Leave it to me.”

So we did.

“That's fixed!” declared James smugly.

“Yup!” agreed Katy. “You've saved us all, James. National Heritage will fall over itself to slap some sort of preservation order on the place, the development plans will grind to a halt, and the ponies will all be able to stay here.”

I thought about my Brookdale sash sacrifice. Could it be that Epona was helping us after all? Could it be that my sacrifice hadn't been in vain, but had done the trick?

“Except for Bambi,” Cat reminded her.

My heart sank and my thoughts returned to Drummer and my beautiful Brookdale ribbons hanging on my bedroom wall. Would they have to join my sash in the flames before we could come up with a plan to save Bambi?

As if to rub it in how time for Bambi was running out, Cat's Aunt Pam brought her eldest daughter Emily to the stables over the weekend for a ride. And to emphasize how Bambi would soon no longer be Cat's responsibility, Aunt P took over as soon as Cat had tacked up her skewbald mare and led her out into the yard.

“Thanks,” said Aunt Pam, taking the reins from Cat and pulling them over Bambi's head. “I'll take it from here.”

“Don't you want me to help you?” asked Cat, her face like stone.

“I can remember how to handle my own pony, thank you, Catriona!” Aunt Pam said, testily, leading Bambi toward the outdoor school. Emily clutched her mother's free hand nervously, keeping a wary eye on her new pony, who neighed to Drummer as she left the yard. Pushing past me, Drum leaned on his stable door and neighed back, unhappy that his treasured Bambi was being repossessed, if only for an hour. In despair, Cat fled to the barn.

Bean gazed out from Tiffany's stable across the yard, and we looked at each other helplessly.

“Come on,” yelled Bean, closing Tiff's stable door behind her and making for the school, “let's see if we can get some inspiration from watching the enemy at work.”

“Hurry up and do something!” Drummer pleaded with me as I locked his door and threw his dandy brush down on the ground outside his stable before following Bean. We couldn't exactly stand and stare so we walked past the school as though we were going to the field, then doubled back and hid behind the jump store. Since it was old and rickety, and the walls had gaping holes between the planks, it was really easy to spy on Bambi. Emily was lifted bodily onto her broad back, and Aunt Pam adjusted her daughter's stirrups.

“Emily's too tiny to ride Bambi,” hissed Bean. “Bambi's way too wide for her. She's practically doing the splits.”

The child clutched the reins nervously, holding them too short and too tightly. Bambi, unused to such treatment, put her head down and stretched her neck to get comfortable again, pulling the reins out of Emily's hands.

Emily screamed.

Screaming is never a good thing to do around ponies—as you know.

“If she was on Tiffany,” Bean gasped, “she'd be in the next county by now.”

Luckily, Bambi was no Tiffany. She just lifted her head warily, her ears back.

Aunt Pam fussed at Emily, adjusted her daughter's hands, and started leading her around the school while Emily sat as stiff as a board, waggling the reins.

“Emily doesn't look like she's ready for a pony of her own,” I whispered.

“Mmmm,” agreed Bean. “She'd probably be better off going for lessons at a riding school for a while, to give her some confidence.”

“I suppose her mom can teach her,” I said.

Emily's mom, it seemed, wasn't up for teaching. Whenever I'd seen Cat with Emily, she had shown her young cousin what to do, and Emily had been a lot happier. Her mom, however, didn't look as though she could be bothered to help—she seemed to think Emily ought to know instinctively what to do in the saddle.

“Don't lean forward, Em,” she grumbled. “Don't hold the reins so tightly. Don't dig your heels in like that.”

Emily didn't take much notice. If anything, she held the reins tighter and dug her heels in to Bambi's sides even more.

“Wouldn't it be better if Aunt P told Emily what to do, instead of what not to?” I said. “She's not telling Emily what she should be doing, just what she shouldn't.”

Bean nodded miserably.

“Can you stop pulling on the reins, please?” I heard Bambi say. “And if you could get your heels out of my sides, I'd be grateful.”

“Bambi's not impressed,” I told Bean.

The trio continued around the school—and no one looked especially happy. Then Aunt P decided it was time to go for a trot.

“Hold the saddle with one hand, Em, until you get going,” she instructed as Bambi launched herself into her bouncy pace. Emily rattled around in the saddle, totally missing her bounce and getting only one rise to the trot in every six strides. It must have been very uncomfortable for her. She'd been OK with Cat helping her. I'd seen her trotting along, laughing with glee with Cat.

I had never appreciated before how patient Cat had been with her younger cousin, but now I could see that with Cat, Emily was far more confident and enjoyed riding Bambi. Now, that confidence had vanished. Aunt Pam seemed annoyed that her daughter didn't ride as well as she wanted her to. For everyone, including Bambi, it was a frustrating experience.

As Bambi was asked to walk again, Aunt Pam pushed Emily off Bambi's brown and white neck and back into the saddle.

“Phew,” whispered Bean, “if Bambi was anything like Tiffany, Emily wouldn't even want to ride her, let alone have her at home with her. She'd be all over the place.”

“I don't think I can watch anymore,” I said, and we both went back to the yard where James was in conversation with Sophie and Dee-Dee.

“Hey, you two,” James called, beckoning us over, “Sophie has some news.”

“A man from National Heritage is coming over tomorrow to look at where the house was,” Sophie told us triumphantly.

“Yippee!” shouted Bean, punching the air. “That was fast work!”

“Don't get too excited!” Sophie warned us. “It's just a preliminary visit to take a look and see what's around. There are no promises, but the fact that he's interested is pretty encouraging.”

“Will he have to meet Robert Collins?” asked James, frowning.

“Er, well, I sort of didn't tell him that I wasn't actually the owner of the land,” Sophie said ruefully. “He just seemed to assume that I had the authority, so I let him think that. When things progress I'll get Mrs. Collins involved.”

“She lied,” said Dee, making a face.

“No, Dee, it isn't technically lying. I just…well…neglected to tell him the full facts at the moment.”

“She lied,” Dee mouthed to us behind her mom's back, her eyes wide and her mouth open in mock horror.

“Desperate measures for desperate times,” said James, nodding.

“What happens when he finds out?” I asked.

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Sophie replied firmly. “First things first. We need to get some interest going, don't we? If the site is important, it won't matter who owns it. National Heritage will just refuse to let
anyone
build on it.”

The sound of hoofbeats heralded Bambi's return to the yard. Emily was once more walking beside her mother, and Bambi's stirrups were run up their leathers, her girth slack.

As Cat came out to take Bambi from her aunt, we heard Aunt Pam say, “I think I'd better bring Emily up for some more rides on Bam-Bam before she comes back home, Cat. We'll say the first week in August, instead.”

Cat just nodded, dumbly, not trusting herself to speak. I knew she hated the way her aunt called Bambi “Bam-Bam.” Just calling her that seemed to highlight how Bambi belonged to her, not Cat.

We all watched Aunt Pam drive off with mixed feelings. Things were moving on. Mr. National Heritage was booked to Save Our Stables on Tuesday evening and Bambi had a stay of execution, so to speak. We had another two weeks to come up with a plan for our Keep Bambi Campaign.

Would two weeks be enough?