The Sweetest Thing (25 page)

‘There’s change in the pot.’ The pot being a small ceramic piggy bank that I had when I was Sophie’s age, a present from a prudent and frugal great-aunt.

‘I was thinking more notes than coins,’ Adam says.

‘Try my purse.’

‘Already have.’

‘Adam, you must ask me before you go through my things.’ I’m not too fierce with him – he’s seemed happier for a while and hasn’t mentioned leaving home again recently. I don’t want to upset him.

‘Sorry,’ he says, and I decide to give him and the girls a quick lesson in economics.

‘There isn’t any money because I’ve spent our budget for this month. If I give you some money now, Adam, we’ll have to cut back next month to make up for it.’

‘I thought Dad paid for our keep,’ he says.

‘He does.’ David pays me a monthly allowance to look after them and buys lots of extras I can’t afford. ‘However, it’s for paying the bills like the electricity, water and council tax, as well as your food.’

‘I’ll ask him for an allowance for Lucky,’ Adam says.

‘I don’t think that’s fair. Anyway, what about all the money you’ve earned so far from working on the farm? Can’t you use some of that?’

‘I told you,’ he says. ‘I’m saving it.’

‘I can let you have some of my money, Mum,’ says Georgia, ‘but not very much because I’m saving up to buy a grooming kit.’

‘Yeah, your hair’s a bit of a mess,’ Adam teases.

‘Not for me.’

‘For the pony,’ he finishes for her.

‘Why don’t you go and get some money out of the bank, Mummy?’ says Sophie. ‘There’s a bank next to the Co-op.’

‘I can’t get money out of the bank if there isn’t any in there,’ I point out, and Sophie stares at me, appalled and surprised.

‘But there’s always money in the bank. That’s what banks are for.’

‘Sophie, you have to put money in the bank before you can take it out.’

‘But … Do you?’

‘Daddy works to earn money which gets paid into the bank each month. It doesn’t miraculously appear. If it did, we’d all be billionaires.’

‘So, Lucky won’t be able to have any chews this week,’ Adam says, but the next day when the children are back at school, I relent and head into town where I withdraw cash from my savings account so that neither Lucky nor Adam need go without.

Passing by the newsagent, I happen to glance in the window at the ads. Mine is still there,
Jennie’s Cakes
. There’s another ad, more recent, beneath it which catches my eye.
Pony for Sale
. There’s a photo, a rather fuzzy computer printout, of a brown pony.
Mare 13.2hh, 8 years old, snaffle-mouthed, sold through no fault of her own. Not a plod. POA. Contact Delphi at Leatherington Equestrian
.

I don’t know if it will do, but there’s only one way of finding out. I call the number from my mobile.

‘How old is your daughter?’ the woman asks me.

‘Almost ten. She hasn’t had much experience of ponies, but she’s very keen.’

‘Has she ridden before?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I say, but before I can enlighten the woman at the end of the phone that Georgia’s ridden twice, once on holiday and once at a friend of a friend’s, she goes on.

‘What does your daughter want the pony for?’ She speaks clearly and correctly.

‘To ride, really,’ I mumble. I’m not sure what else you can do with a pony.

‘I mean, what discipline is she interested in? Dressage? Showjumping? Hunting?’

‘Showjumping, I think.’ I’ve seen Georgia and Sophie making jumps in the paddock.

‘Well, you name it, this pony can do it. She’s ready to go on in any sphere.’

‘Great,’ I say, ‘thanks.’ And when I’ve arranged a time for Georgia to go and try her and put the phone down, I realise, too late, that I’ve forgotten to ask how much she wants for the pony. I call her back. She wants a thousand pounds, which is about what I budgeted for – before we moved here and Dad did the work on the kitchen, and then there was the party and all the paint that I bought, that we didn’t use in the end … I suppress any niggling doubts about whether or not I can afford it. Once we’ve bought a pony, there won’t be too many overheads. I mean, they eat grass, don’t they? And we have plenty of that.

I hurry home. I can’t wait to tell Georgia when I fetch her from school.

Arriving at the house, I find the postman waiting on the doorstep. Lucky’s barking on the other side of the front door.

‘Is there a problem?’ I say. ‘Is it the dog?’

‘The dog’s your problem, not mine,’ he says,
handing me an envelope. ‘It’s for you, but the address is incorrect.’

My brow tightens. It’s from Summer, a thank you note for the party probably, but she’s written ‘J. Copeland, Jennie’s Folly’ on the envelope. I can’t help smiling.

‘You do know you have to apply to change the name of your house, otherwise there’ll be all kinds of confusion?’

‘It’s from a friend. It’s a bit of a joke,’ I say, but the postman is serious-faced.

‘You’ll be all right while it’s me, my lover, but when you get a new postman, they won’t know, will ’em? We can’t have that.’

‘I’ll sort it out,’ I say. I haven’t had the heart to take down the sign, and I’ve noticed how the children have begun to refer to the house as Jennie’s Folly. Perhaps I should change its name. I’m not sure how Guy will feel about it though … To him, it will always be Uphill House.

As soon as I tell Georgia about the pony, I wish I hadn’t. She’s so excited that she can’t sleep and, the next morning, says she doesn’t want to go to school, which is so unlike her.

‘I won’t be able to concentrate,’ she says.

‘It will be better than hanging around here – the time will go faster.’

‘Of course it won’t, Mother,’ Adam says, picking a flake of cereal off his pyjama top. ‘It just seems to go faster.’

‘There’s no need to tell me that, Adam,’ Georgia says. ‘I’m not stupid.’

‘You’re being pretty stupid about this pony. You
haven’t stopped going on about it since Mum told you.’

‘You’re the same with Lucky.’ Georgia drops her spoon back in her bowl. She hasn’t eaten a thing, I notice.

‘I’m not,’ Adam says.

‘Adam, will you go and get dressed?’ I say, checking the time. ‘You have five minutes.’

‘Or?’ he says, stretching lazily.

‘I’ll have to leave without you.’

‘I’m cool with that.’

I look at him through narrowed eyes. There was a time when I would have taken him by the arm and dragged him out to the car, but he’s bigger than me now. There’s no point even trying.

‘Adam, get dressed,’ I snap, half cross, half laughing. ‘Go on.’ I flap a tea-towel at him, just as I do with the chickens. Grudgingly, he gets up and does as he’s told, and I breathe a sigh of relief at avoiding a confrontation. ‘Georgia, if you don’t go to school, there’s no pony.’

After school, I take the children home to change, then drive Georgia and Sophie to the equestrian centre where Delphi, a woman of about my age with blond hair tied back, wearing a navy jacket with Team GB on it, and tight beige jodhpurs, leads a brown pony out of one of the stables in the yard and ties it up to a rail outside.

‘This is Bracken. Would you like to give her a brush and tack her up?’ Delphi fetches a box of brushes and hands it over to Georgia. ‘That way you’ll get to see if you like her.’

I suspect that, given Georgia’s obsession with horses, any pony would do.

‘If there’s anything you want to know, do ask,’ Delphi says, looking at me.

‘Is she healthy?’ I ask.

‘She’s fit as a fiddle. She hasn’t had any health problems as far as I know.’

When I am unable to think of anything else, she goes on, ‘Bracken will live out all year round. She spends the daytime in the stable over the summer because she’s prone to putting on weight. She’s a good doer, which is great because she doesn’t take much extra feeding over winter.’

‘We’ve got a stable,’ says Georgia.

‘Your mother said you were interested in jumping her,’ Delphi says. ‘We have popped her over a few poles, but to be honest with you, we haven’t had her all that long. We tend to buy ponies in for the riding school and keep them for a while to see if they’re suitable.’

Does that mean Bracken’s no good? I wonder.

‘Bracken’s turned out to be too good to be a riding school pony,’ Delphi goes on, putting my mind at ease. ‘I feel she deserves to have a home where she gets some one-to-one love and attention.’

‘When you say she’s too good, what do you mean? I thought riding school ponies would have to be well-behaved.’

‘She has too much potential. She’d be wasted being used for lessons, day in, day out. She’s very forward-going, and I can see her making the perfect jumping pony with a little work.’ Delphi turns back to Georgia. ‘Would you like to tack her up now?’

When Georgia puts the saddle on, Bracken puts her ears back and tosses her head.

‘You must tell her off whenever she does that,’
Delphi says, helping Georgia slip the bridle over Bracken’s head. ‘Now, have you got your hat?’

‘I haven’t got one yet,’ Georgia says.

‘There’ll be one you can borrow in the tack room.’ Delphi fetches it and Georgia rams it on to her head. ‘Let’s take her into the school. I thought we’d ask one of our working pupils to show her off, then you can have a go.’ Emily, a girl in her late teens, rides the pony first. Georgia seems impressed. The pony walks and trots and gallops about, the rider’s feet dangling level with her knees. The rider keeps the reins really tight, I notice, and the pony dances about beneath her.

When it’s Georgia’s turn, my heart is in my mouth. I didn’t expect this, that I’d be scared for her.

‘You aren’t going to let Georgia gallop about, are you?’ I say to Delphi.

‘Of course not,’ she says, clipping a lead rope to the pony’s bridle. ‘We’re always very careful with novices.’ She walks the pony up and down with Georgia hanging on to the front of the saddle. ‘I think Bracken will suit you very well.’

Georgia is instantly smitten by the pony. I’ll never forget the look on her face when I agree that we’ll have her. So you can’t buy love? I can’t stop smiling, because I just have.

‘We can deliver if you haven’t got transport,’ Delphi says. She reminds me of a horse herself, the way she utters a small whinny instead of a laugh.

I decide not to embarrass Georgia by opening a discussion about transporting ponies. A pony is for getting from A to B. Why on earth do you need a transporter for it when it’s supposed to transport itself?

‘So, when can you bring her over?’ I ask.

‘I can do tomorrow afternoon.’

‘After school?’

‘That’ll give you time to get some tack fitted,’ Delphi says.

‘We’ll need a saddle and bridle,’ says Georgia.

‘And a head collar and a rug,’ says Sophie knowledgeably. I think her big sister’s been indoctrinating her.

‘And a grooming kit, and hoof oil.’ Georgia is allowed to untack Bracken and lead her back into the stable, and then I spend another thousand pounds, or very near it, on all the gear that she and her pony will need.

Twenty-four hours later, I’ve covered the tiers of cake for Penny’s wedding with fondant icing. It’s gone on smoothly, its surface completely flat, like the water in the pond at the far end of the copse, not undulating like the paddock. I’ve also received the personalised cake toppers of the bride and groom and a golden retriever in a harness, by courier. All I have left to do is the beading, but that can wait. The wedding is on Saturday. There’s still plenty of time, but as the big day approaches, I’m becoming more and more nervous, as if I’m the bride.

I occupy myself until the school run, having another go at finding my special signature cake. Marbled chocolate and raspberry cake didn’t hit the spot. I have a go at chocolate and beetroot instead. I know beetroot isn’t everyone’s favourite vegetable, but it’s rustic and healthy, and I think that people won’t easily forget the unusual combination.

I purée some cooked beetroot – not in vinegar, of
course – then I put the purée through a sieve, put the deep purple juice aside, and put the pulp into my food processor. I add oil, eggs and vanilla essence, then mix it together before pouring it into a well in the centre of the dry ingredients, the flour, sugar, cocoa and a pinch of bicarb. I fold it all together, pour into a tin, then bake for almost an hour.

In the meantime, I call Camilla’s mum. She sent a business card via Georgia in return for the invitation to Georgia’s birthday tea.
Maria Winters
.
Mobile Hairdresser
. I have a quick chat with her and arrange for her to do my hair when she comes to pick Georgia up. It’s for a cut only. I’m economising.

I take the cake out of the Aga. It looks good, quite light and plain, but I can’t ice it until it’s cooled on the rack, and I can’t wait that long because it’s time to collect the children. I shut Lucky out of the kitchen and go …

At four o’clock, the pony is delivered, arriving in a luxury horsebox. Georgia is beside herself with excitement and Sophie is rushing around, scattering the chickens as she goes, making sure the trough is filled with fresh water and cleared of leaves.