The Fight for Follyfoot
By
Sabrina

Dora sighed and added up the column of figures for the third time. Once again, it came out differently.

It was one thing being Mistress of Follyfoot, as Steve called her snidely with audible capital letters when he was annoyed with one of her decisions, and another being Bookkeeper of Follyfoot. The Colonel had usually done the accounts, the ledger full of his meticulous handwriting. Since Dora had been doing it the ledger was full of rubbed out and scratched out figures - a tax man's delight! For all her expensive schooling, mathematics wasn't her strong suit.

Follyfoot was barely in the black, but that was normal. The farm ran on generosity from the Colonel and other philanthropic people.

"Oh hell," Dora muttered. "I forgot the wages." More scribbling out, more frantic rubbing, and another five attempts at adding up finalised the figures for the month. Dora was scandalised at how little Slugger, Ron and Steve earned, but realistically she couldn't pay them more unless the farm received a large, regular injection of cash.

It was a beautiful day outside – spring was in full flight, and wildflowers (or weeds, depending on your outlook) dotted the fields of Follyfoot. Fluffy white clouds scudded across the cerulean blue Yorkshire sky, and the old horses were enthused with energy after the cold winter, trotting or cantering from time to time on stiff, ancient legs, even daring occasionally to indulge in a mock battle, rearing at each other and swishing their tails.

Dora shut the ledger with a firm thump. Enough!

Even Slugger was enjoying the warm weather, sitting on a hay bale with a mug of tea, his knitted hat pushed back on his head, his woollen vest discarded beside him and his shirt opened wide at the neck. Like the old horses he stretched his legs happily and let the sun play on his face.

"That's another winter done with," he said to nobody as Dora walked up and sat beside him.

"Thankfully," she said. "I always worry about the horses in winter."

"Worry about the horses, she says. What about the people? Young Steve, living in that loft, no real heating." Slugger shook his head.

"He won't move into the cottage, Slugs. I've asked him and asked him." Dora watched Steve covertly as he pushed his thick black hair out of his eyes and expertly turned his pitchfork in the dung heap.

Slugger lay back on the hay and closed his eyes. "When I were a young man an' courtin', I asked my lass to come away with me for a weekend to t'sea. We had a grand time an' after that we moved into my caravan and got married. We were very happy, right up till when she died." He opened one blue eye and squinted at Dora. "Young Steve's probably never had a weekend by t'sea."

Dora considered it. Would Steve go away with her on a holiday? "Thanks, Slugs. That's a good idea. I don't know whether he'll do it, though."

"Leave it to me. I'll bring it up with the lad." Slugger closed his eyes again and rested his mug on his chest. As Dora sat contemplating a weekend walking along Scarborough beach with Steve, she heard the rhythmic snort of Slugger snoring, his mouth open.

"Passion killer," she said to herself, and left him to his dreams.

The Lightning Tree had surprised everyone by sprouting a handful of leaves after decades of standing bare and apparently dead, and Dora believed it was due to her daily libation of a bucket of water, and kind words to its gnarled old branches. There were two thin green little twigs on the tree now, and she gave it its drink. "Dear old tree. I knew you could do it."

Ron, who was as ever trying to get out of doing anything useful, was smoking by the tap. "Barmy you are, talking to that tree. You'd have to be barmy to work here, anyway. Why don't you give it a real drink?"

He turned the hosepipe on full and pointed it at the tree, then lazily aimed it at Dora, who squealed as the cold water hit her in the face. "Ron!" She ran across the yard, and Ron, laughing, followed her with the hose. "Stop it!"

Dora ran behind the muck heap, but Ron didn't give up, and kept the hosepipe pointed in her direction. The water pressure at Follyfoot was always dodgy – ask anyone who tried to use the shower over the bath in the cottage – and it suddenly dropped, with the result that instead of hitting Dora in the face, it was hitting the muckheap and spraying the contents over Steve and Dora.

"Ron! You idiot!" Steve backed away, his shirt covered in green and brown spatters.

Dora shrieked as the muck sprayed her from top to bottom.

Ron couldn't hold the hosepipe steady, he was laughing so hard. The cigarette had dropped from his lips and died in the mud, and he doubled up, the hosepipe wavering over the muckheap and the yard.

Steve and Dora exchanged a look. "Your face!" gasped Dora, starting to giggle in spite of herself. "It's black!"

"So's yours!" Steve grinned. "Let's get him!"

Ron was clutching his stomach and stamping his feet, and didn't hear or see Steve and Dora until they'd grabbed an arm each.

"Oi!" Ron opened tear-filled eyes, still howling with laughter.

They dragged him across the yard, his cowboy boots dragging in the mud and dirt. "Oh no you don't!" Ron yelped, realizing what they were going to do.

"Oh yes we do!" Steve grinned. "Ready? One, two….THREE!"

Dora and Steve threw Ron onto the muck heap. "Oh Gawd!" They heard him yell. "It STINKS!"

Ron picked himself up; he was khaki from his head to his boots, with straw sticking to his clothes. Even his bright red hair had turned green. "I've got a bird I'm seeing tonight – what am I gonna do?"

"You could try having a bath and changing your clothes. Might be a new idea for you," Steve retorted with a grin. "Mind you, the current smell's an improvement!"

"This is me fave shirt," Ron protested, brushing straw off his purple paisley sleeves.

"Maybe you'll think twice about spraying us next time," Dora giggled. "I'm soaked."

Steve eyed her saturated blouse, which clung delectably in all the right places. Dora thought she mightn't need Slugger's help in persuading Steve to go on a holiday after all.

There was a loud snuffling noise from the hay bales. Slugger was still fast asleep, the empty tea mug rising and falling on his chest.

"Give us the hosepipe," Ron said. "I'll sort him."

"Leave him, Ron," Dora chided. "We don't want him to die of a heart attack."

"Might get a decent cook in then," Ron grinned. "Someone who can do more than bacon and eggs or burnt sausages."

Dora tried to brush some of the muck off her blouse but only succeeded in rubbing it in. "I stink. I'm going to change."

But before she could move they heard the sound of a car grumbling up the driveway.

"Expecting visitors?" Steve raised his eyebrows at her.

"No – and we can't see anyone like this!" Dora protested.

The car was new and shiny, its occupant a man in a dark suit which looked like it was made never to crumple. He carried a clipboard and wore a trilby hat very straight on his head. On his feet were Wellingtons so clean they must have been washed after each use.

As he closed the car door quietly his eyes roamed around, taking in the grazing horses and ponies, and the donkeys standing head to tail peacefully in a sunsoaked corner of the yard.

"Who on earth is that?" wondered Dora.

Steve had the skincrawling sensation he felt whenever he came into contact with a government official. Whatever this was, it wasn't good.

The man swung the gate open, and it howled on creaky hinges, waking Slugger with a start when screams and shrieks didn't affect him. "Eh?" Slugger's mug fell to the ground and the old man sat up, looking bemused.

The visitor wrinkled his nose, which was long and beaklike and featured a neat steel grey moustache underneath its nostrils. "Follyfoot Farm," he stated. "I'm looking for the manager."

His eyes roamed over Dora, Steve and Ron and their wet, dirty clothing, and Slugger, who was peering around him dazedly as if he'd left half his brains in the boxing ring.

"I'm the manager," Dora said, wiping one hand on her behind and not really surprised when the man didn't offer to shake it. "Dora Maddox."

"I'm Nigel Benton, Cruelty to Animals," the man replied, wrinkling his nose as he came closer. "We've had a report about your aged horses."

Already he was scribbling notes on his clipboard with a silver pen.

"Sorry about our clothing," Dora said. "Just turning the muckheap. You know, for…er…hygiene reasons."

"Quite." Benton kept scribbling.

"It needs aerating," Dora said desperately.

"Quite." Benton walked to the nearest loosebox. Firefly, the lean thoroughbred mare who couldn't go out in the field today as the March flies drove her mad, swung around, her ears back out of habit. She'd had a hard winter and looked thin in the gloomy light. She'd never been able to keep weight on and you could count her ribs – but that was just Firefly. "This horse is too thin."

"That's the way she is," Steve put in. "She's a nervy old girl, and gets lots of good food. She worries it off, though."

"And you are?"

"Steve. Steve Ross."

Benton consulted his clipboard and made another note. Steve, peering carefully over his shoulder, made out the words "criminal record" beside his name, and groaned inwardly. He also saw 'Sidney Hammond, Pinecrest Hotel' at the top of the page and knew who'd made the complaint. Hammond had obviously tried to do a good job blackening Follyfoot's name.

The inspector was so busy scribbling away he didn't notice Firefly come closer and closer until the mare opened her mouth and bit him on the arm with the few long yellow teeth she had left. "Ouch! Dashed horse! She's vicious – has she been beaten?"

"Not by us." Dora tried hard not to laugh at Benton's discomfort. "She was rescued from a man who had her tied up to his clothesline, in a yard where she'd eaten everything in sight and was reduced to eating dirt. HE used to beat her. She's had nothing but love here." She caressed Firefly's neck and the mare lipped at her hands gently.

Benton was now on the warpath. He found fault with almost every horse he encountered, including Cobbler's Dream, whose cloudy eyes regarded him with suspicion. "The animal's clearly blind. Why don't you have him put down? He can't be comfortable."

"He can see out of one eye," Steve said hotly. "He's adapted very well."

The only other horse in the yard who escaped a scribbled note was Copper, who was so obviously fit and well Benton just grunted.

Dora and Steve followed Benton, telling him the story behind every horse, even when he was rude and simply snorted or grunted at them. Benton insisted on trudging up into the field too, where the motley crew of horses and ponies either eyed him wildly, aimed a playful kick in his direction, or nudged him for treats. They were all shedding their winter coats and looked scruffy, with clumps of hair clinging to their coats.

The colt Folly, who was now two and turning from almost black to an exquisite dappled rocking horse grey, trotted up to Dora and Steve, licking their hands.

"And this one?"

"We've had him from a foal. He's mine," said Dora defiantly.

"His feet are too long," Benton said finally. "They need trimming. He can't be comfortable."

Dora groaned inwardly. The farrier that visited the farm was laid up with a sore back at the moment, and hadn't been able to come the week before.

Folly flattened his ears at Benton and sidled away to join his mother, Specs, whose sagging belly and sway back made her look even more ancient than she was.

"Right." Benton closed his clipboard and slipped his pen into a pocket that featured a plastic liner. "I'll be filing my report shortly."

"What will it say?" said Dora, holding her breath.

"I'm not at liberty to divulge that." Benton strode back down the hill, beaky nose in the air.

Dora and Steve watched in delight as Benton slipped on a pile of horse dung, and his legs went from under him, leaving him sitting in the dung. His clipboard flew in the air and landed near Steve, who quickly scanned the notes inside while Benton pulled himself up. Dora looked the other way, choking back laughter.

"My clipboard." Benton snatched it from Steve's hand, and wrote one final note which he stated out loud as he scrawled. "Field not cleared regularly of manure."

* * *

"Not a good word to be said," Steve reported later, when he and Dora had both bathed and changed their clothes. "From what I could see he'd written something bad about almost every horse. It was Hammond who made the complaint, by the way."

Dora sighed. It would be. "They can't close us down. We'd pass any inspection, and he knows it. Our horses may be old, but they're not sick or in pain. And what would happen to them if we closed?" She felt sick at the thought. Follyfoot was her life – she couldn't bear to lose it, the horses or the people. She put her head in her hands and leaned on the kitchen table, feeling about a hundred years old.

Steve caressed her shoulders. "We'll get through it, girl. It's only Hammond making trouble again. He's never forgiven us for getting his stables shut down, that's what this is all about."

Dora brightened. "I've had a thought. Let's ring up the RSPCA and ask for another inspection, say we think this one was done because someone had it in for us, and it wasn't a fair inspection."

Steve was dubious. "I suppose that might work. It could make us sound desperate, though."

"We ARE desperate. What if they do shut us down? Can you imagine? All our old horses – they'll probably put them all down, because there's nowhere else around here like Follyfoot." Dora's eyes brimmed with tears. She fumbled through the phone book until she found the number.

"Hello? This is Dora Maddox from Follyfoot Farm. We had an inspection today by one of your people, Nigel Benton…..sorry?..... Yes, Nigel Benton…..you don't have a Nigel Benton working there? Could he have come from Head Office then? Can you check? This is very important. Okay, thank you." Dora put the phone down.

"They don't have a Nigel Benton working for them. They're going to check with Head Office and call us back. Benton DID say Cruelty to Animals, didn't he, Steve?"

"He did. Cruelty to Animals. Not RSPCA specifically," Steve mused.

Dora opened the phone book again. "There's no such organisation. I'll ring Directory Enquiries."

Directory Enquiries couldn't help her, either, apart from giving her three leads to organisations that had the words Cruelty and Animals in their name, and cost Follyfoot a small fortune in long-distance calls to discover Nigel Benton didn't work for them, either.

"It's Hammond, putting us on our guard," Steve said finally. "He's winding us up, sending 'Nigel Benton' in as an imposter just to scare us."

"That must be it," Dora agreed, relieved.

"Hammond's trying to get his stable licence back," Slugger informed them from the other side of the kitchen. "Heard it in the village." He made ominous scraping noises in the saucepan. "Somethin' different tonight, spaghetti bolly-naze."

He dished out dry, overcooked mince that had a hint of tomato sauce clinging to it, and piled pasta that looked strangely stiff on the side of each plate.

"Slugs," said Dora, "I think you're supposed to cook the spaghetti first."

* * *

They found out the following week that Nigel Benton certainly didn't work for any animal welfare organisation. He worked for a newspaper.

"Filthyfoot Farm", the headline read, and Dora and Steve read the story beneath it with growing horror.

"When people think of a home of rest for old horses, we picture fields of plump, happy animals grazing or standing in spotless stables, a kind reward for their years of hard work," Dora read out loud over breakfast, ignoring her blackened bacon and eggs.

"A visit to Follyfoot Farm – or should that be Filthyfoot Farm – reveals ancient, skinny animals who should have been put out of their misery years before, and fields full of manure that haven't been cleaned.

"The establishment is managed by a girl who looks like she should still be wearing a school uniform –"

Here Dora exclaimed, "How dare he?" and Steve grinned, "Now there's a vision!" Ron said, "Oooh, schoolgirls! I wish!"

" – and her staff consist of a young man with a criminal history of violence, a biker and a failed boxer who spends his days sleeping in the sun."

Steve growled, "Bloody Hammond!", and Slugger said, "'Ere, I resent that! I was never failed, I retired!"

"When this newspaper visited Follyfoot Farm the three younger staff were wearing filthy clothing and had apparently been engaged in a childlike fight over the muckheap.

"My visit to the farm included being bitten by one savage animal, being assured a blind horse lead a life full of fun and hearing horrifying tales about each of the inhabitants' history. These animals must have damaged psyches from the wounds they have suffered in their past; is it a fair thing to eke out their miserable lives for the sake of a few pennies in the collection box that sits under a dead tree in Follyfoot Farm's stableyard?

"We asked notable local horseman Mr Sidney Hammond of Pinecrest Hotel that very question. Mr Hammond commented, 'The horses at Follyfoot are far past their prime. They are kept alive to raise money from the pity of the public. It's time the horses of Follyfoot were rescued from their so-called kind last home and put peacefully to sleep.'

"There is a saying that you have to be cruel to be kind. In this case, kindness is cruelty. Would you want your old faithful friend living here?"

And at the bottom of the article were two photographs, obviously snapped by Nigel Benton, Senior Reporter, using a camera with a long lens before he drove to Follyfoot's gate. One showed a dirty Steve and Dora howling with laughter as Ron dived head first into the muckheap (and Slugger could be made out sleeping in the background). The other showed some of the horses in the field, dozing in the sun. Unfortunately Benton had chosen his moment well. Most of them were resting a hind leg, which made their hips look bony, Specs' sway back, because she was standing on a slope, looked ten times worse than usual, Ladybird, looking very ewe-necked, was snapping at Hero and Willy the mule sleeping flat on his side, appeared dead, his mouth open like Slugger's and rib cage quite ribby. As a photo, it showed disharmony beautifully.

"What can we do?" Dora wondered aloud. "Are they allowed say those things? Isn't it libel?"

Steve's history with the legal profession centred around having a solicitor represent him when he'd beaten up a man who was mistreating a horse. Out of the four of them, he probably knew the most about the law. "Not really. It's one reporter's opinion. He's being very careful. Okay, we had been larking about. Yes, Benton got bitten – but not hard enough if you ask me. Yes, we told him the history of each horse. The only thing we could say is really wrong is about the field being dirty. We clean it out every month. It's just that we haven't done it this month yet. As for Hammond…" Steve shook his head. "Again, it's his opinion. The horses ARE past their prime. That's why they're here with us, so we can look after them. But as for putting them out of their misery – that's what I'd like to do to him!" Steve's face was black as thunder, a look Dora knew well.

"What's he up to, Ron?" Steve stood over Ron, who put down his fork and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "You hang around with his son. What's his game?"

"Wants to open the stables again, doesn't he?" said Ron. "The whole village knows that."

"He got shut down last time because of the conditions there," Steve mused, moving away from Ron's chair and making Ron heave a sigh of relief. "And he's got nowhere to turn the horses out. Do you think he wants Follyfoot? We've got stables – and land."

"Uncle Geoffrey would NEVER sell this place to Hammond," Dora said hotly.

"What if we do get shut down, though? If people like that reporter or his boss are in Hammond's pocket and have friends in high places?" Steve said glumly.

"Oh, you! You – pessimist!" Dora spat. "That won't happen. I won't let it!" She stormed out to the yard, and Slugger philosophically snatched untouched bacon from her plate and ate it.

"Hammond's tried before," Slugger said between chews. "And he'll try again. He won't stop till he gets his way."

"You'd get a job with him, Stevo, no problems," laughed Ron, knowing Hammond hated Steve for leaving his son Lewis with a bloody nose one night.

"I'm with Dora," Steve said firmly. "I won't let it happen either."

He found her in Copper's stable, brushing the horse furiously, tears on her cheeks.

Gently Steve took the brush from her hands and wrapped his arms around her. "We won't let them win, girl." He kissed her hair, feeling her cheekbones buried hard into his collarbone.

"I don't want to lose all this," came Dora's muffled voice.

"Nor do I." It was the only real home Steve knew, the safe harbour where he could feel at peace.

The phone didn't stop all day. Reporters from other newspapers rang for Dora, as did irate members of the public, delighted to have their say on cruelty to animals. By the afternoon people had started to turn up at the gate, inquisitive about a place that let old horses live in squalor. They seemed disappointed to find a clean yard and stables, and friendly, well-kept horses that nudged at their pockets. Most of them went away with a different view and left money in the collection box. One or two animal liberationists ranted and raved about the old Liberty horse rescued from the circus, but as Steve pointed out, wasn't he better here grazing in the field than still with the circus, hobbling around the ring with spangled dancers on his back until he died?

The next day a TV crew arrived at the gate, and Dora had to stop Slugger chasing them off with a pitchfork. "Let them in," she said, "We'll show them how good we really are."

The female reporter with the TV crew wore thick pancake makeup, and only smiled when the cameras were turned on her. Her name was Janey Simkins, and she looked totally out of place in a hot pink mini dress and white shoes.

"You'll get muddy if you go into the field," Dora warned her as the crew set up.

Janey's nose wrinkled. "You mean you like this work? Cleaning up after old horses? What kind of life is that for an attractive girl like you?"

Dora was wary of her; even off camera, she could be gathering information to file a bad report on Follyfoot. "I love it," Dora said firmly. "Each of these horses has an incredible history, and I feel good knowing I'm giving them a good home, where they can be well fed and looked after, and die peacefully when it's their time. Most of them have had a very hard life – pit ponies, carthorses, unwanted horses whose owners have lost interest and left them to starve. We take them in, all of them. It's a wonderful feeling the first time you let them go in the field, and you watch them sniff the air, trot away, and get a new lease on life."

Janey suddenly grinned, her makeup cracking. "That's great. Can you say that on camera?"

And Dora knew she'd won Janey over. She and Steve kept a close eye on the camera crew and what they were filming. Janey decided to interview Dora in front of the Lightning Tree, and made much of the fact that the tree had a new lease of life as well as the horses. Steve had moved Cobby and Copper to the stables behind the tree, as they looked better on camera than the Weaver, who was usually there and windsucking loudly on his loosebox door.

The camera crew moved to the field after that and shot a few minutes of the horses grazing or standing contentedly nose to tail flicking flies from each other's faces.

"'Ere, this is really impressive," said the cameraman, stuffing a fiver into the collection box. "I fort I was gonna cry when you was talking about some of them horses," he told Dora, "But now I see what you done wiv 'em, and 'ow 'appy they are, I reckon you deserve a medal."

The young sound man flung a pocketful of coins into the bucket. "I used to go riding when I was a kid. Wish you could have rescued some of those poor old ponies."

"We probably have," said Steve.

Janey by now had totally unbent and was giggling about her white shoes, which were covered in grass stains and mud. "I knew it was a mistake wearing them. But I'm sure they'll clean up okay." She looked around the yard one last time. "I could buy a new pair, but I'd rather give you the money for the horses." And she put a fistful of notes in the bucket. As Dora said later, she had expensive taste in shoes.

They huddled around the television that night waiting for the piece on Follyfoot, which was shown at the end of the local news. To everyone's relief, the editor was obviously swayed by Janey's enthusiasm and Dora's sincerity, and the one minute of airtime on Follyfoot and its horses showed the farm in such a good light the nasty newspaper article looked merely spiteful in comparison.

* * *

After the television show donations poured in. Small children sent their pocket money, grannies money they'd saved for a day at the coast. Schools had clubbed together and sent cheques and drawings of horses.

And the RSPCA sent an inspector at the same time someone sent a horse.

The trailer arrived first, the old horse backing down nervously. "Her name's Pickle," the middle-aged man in a flat cap said. "Was me old Dad's horse but he's gone into a home and can't look after her. We saw you on the telly, and knew you could take her."

Pickle turned a sad face to Dora. Discharge from the horse's eyes and nostrils made her look as if she'd been crying. Her stark, rough coat, prominent ribs and potbelly told Dora she probably hadn't been wormed for ages, if ever.

"Where was your Dad keeping her?" Dora asked the man.

"In his garden. Gone loopy, me old Dad. Forgot to feed her, and we found her when we went to take him to the home yesterday."

"You didn't visit him often, then," Dora stated.

"Nah, wife never got on wi'him, even though we only live ten minutes away. She's right glad to see him in a home," the man said a little sadly. "Anyway look after old Pickle for him, won't you?" He slammed the back of the trailer shut and began to climb back into his car.

"Wait," cried Dora. "She'll need a vet, she's not well. Do you have any money you can put towards her keep?"

"Sorry." The man started his car, which was shiny and new. "I'm sure you get lots of donations though." And he drove off as quickly as he could, the rented trailer bouncing behind the car down the rutted drive. Dora shook her head in disbelief.

He almost ran another car into the ditch on his way out. This car was a little older, a lot less shiny, and had the word RSPCA painted on the side.

"Busy times, then?" The RSPCA man wore a crumpled shirt and Wellingtons as muddy as Dora's. He didn't carry a clipboard.

"That man just dumped this poor old girl," Dora said, stroking Pickle's nose. "She seems to have a cold and I'm sure she's got worms."

With the practiced touch of a vet, the RSPCA man opened the mare's mouth and peered inside. "Whew….she's an old lass, that's for sure. Her teeth aren't in good shape, though. Even if you get them filed, she hasn't got many left and won't be able to chew her food properly."

Dora knew a death knell when she heard it, but refused to listen. "She can live on bran mashes and soaked barley, and other soft stuff."

"I can see why that reporter mixed up cruelty and kindness at this place. That mare won't last another year, and you know it." He looked kindly at Dora.

She knew he wasn't deliberately nasty, but it still rankled. "Well, she deserves to live the last year of her life in a nice place with good food," she replied determinedly.

The RSPCA man shook his head with a grin. "Okay, let's see what other old crocks you've got eking their lives out here. We've had a report."

"From Mr Sidney Hammond of Pinecrest Hotel?"

"I can't say." But Dora knew by the flicker of surprise in his eyes she was right. "You're Dora Maddox, right?"

"Yes, and I'm the manager."

"Barry Johnson." He shook Dora's hand and together they walked old Pickle into Follyfoot's yard.

"Oh Gawd, she's got another bleedin' 'eart 'orse," sighed Slugger. "Every stable full and she brings in another one."

"The man dumped her, Slugs. I can't turn her away, look at her."

Slugger sighed and took hold of Pickle's headcollar. "C'mon, horse. Let's go, I'll find you somewhere for now."

Unlike Nigel Benton, Barry seemed interested in the story behind each horse and asked lots of questions about the care each animal received.

Steve came out from the tackroom when Dora was showing Barry Firefly. "A bit skinny, but then a lot of old thoroughbreds have trouble keeping the weight on. What do you feed her?"

"Grass, hay, hard feed including boiled barley," Steve replied. "Molasses."

Barry turned and assessed him. "The criminal or the biker?" He smiled, showing he meant no harm.

"Ouch," said Steve. "The criminal. I'm Steve."

"Heard around the traps you stood up to Lewis Hammond. That's a brave thing to do when you're outnumbered."

"They have ways of seeking revenge," Steve said ruefully, meeting Barry's eyes.

Barry sighed. "I'll be honest with you two. I was sent out here to find a reason to have you shut down, but I can't find one. The place is clean and tidy, the stables are full of clean bedding. Your horses are old, but none of them are in pain, or suffering. None of the animals I've seen so far should be put down, although I've got my doubts about that old mare that just got brought in, but judging by this lot she'll be healthy here for a while yet."

Dora relaxed; she had no idea she'd been so tense. It was as if a vice had been clamping around her chest, and someone had just unscrewed it. "So we pass the inspection?" she breathed.

"You pass the inspection. I'll check your feed shed, and have a look at the horses in your field, but by and large I'm very happy with what I've found here." Barry clapped Firefly's neck and moved towards the feed shed.

Barry did a cursory check of the horses in the field, lifting up hooves, patting necks and rumps and peering into mouths, then drove off with a cheery wave and a promise of a good report.

Dora leaned against Steve, afraid for a moment her knees wouldn't support her. Steve hugged her. "We did it!"

"We beat Hammond!" Dora hugged him back and they danced a jig around the yard.

Slugger said to the Weaver, "Looks like we got a clean bill o'health then. Which is more than I can say for that new mare." The Weaver, in reply, opened his mouth wide and clamped it shut on the stable door, sucking in an enormous breath with a moaning "ahhhhhhh."

"Slugger!" shouted Steve. "We're still in business! The RSPCA likes us!"

Slugger shuffled over. "Likes us, he says. Time for a celebration. I've got some home made elderberry wine I've been saving for a special occasion."

Dora and Steve exchanged glances. "We were rather thinking of the pub," Dora said.

* * *

Loutish Lewis Hammond was propping up the bar and onto his tenth pint when Steve and Dora sat down in the cosy village pub.

Pint in hand, he wandered drunkenly to their table and sneered at them. "Time's nearly up for your old nags," he slurred. "Your dirty place'll be shut down."

"I don't think so," Dora replied crisply, sipping on a gin and tonic. Steve shot her a warning glance that told her not to say too much to Lewis.

"I do," hiccupped Lewis. "You won't pass inspection."

It was on the tip of Dora's tongue to say they already had, but she said nothing. Obviously the village grapevine was a little slow today. A drunken angry Lewis was ten times worse than a drunken cheerful Lewis, and this was about as cheerful as Lewis ever got.

Lewis, feeling he'd made his point, burped loudly and staggered back to the bar, where he said something to his mates that made them snigger and glance at Dora.

"Ignore them," Steve said mildly, although he longed for five minutes alone with Lewis in a deserted alley. Over the last two years Slugger had taught him some boxing pointers he felt he could put to good use. "I wonder where Ron is? He said he was coming."

"Speak of the devil." Dora nodded towards the door where Ron, resplendent in tight black leather pants, orange shirt and purple vest, swaggered in.

Nursing a pint, he sat next to Steve. "I'm a bit late. Ran into Slimy Sidney on the way and told him he wouldn't be getting his hands on Follyfoot in a hurry." Ron looked extremely pleased with himself, rubbing his hands together before taking a huge pull at his pint.

Steve's heart fell. "There'll be trouble now he knows," he warned.

Dora suddenly didn't feel like celebrating any more. She poked her straw at the slice of lemon in her drink until it disintegrated. And hoped Follyfoot didn't do the same. Hammond, she felt, would stop at nothing until he got his way.

* * *

Perhaps, she thought over the next week, Hammond had in fact given up on his idea. Life was peaceful, unthreatening, with no visits from reporters, articles in newspapers, or Hammond knocking at the door.

It was a week of spring sunshine, and when she wasn't working in the yard or exercising Copper, Dora was busy with the enjoyable task of breaking Folly in.

The colt was so used to being handled he made no complaint about the bit in his mouth, and merely twitched his skin and muscles at the first time Dora put the saddle on his back, doing up the girth very loosely.

Ron watched her. "Aren't you going to hop on?"

Dora laughed. "You don't know much about breaking horses in, do you, Ron? It'll be ages yet. He has to get used to the saddle first, then I'll lie across the top of it for a bit, and so on." She caressed the colt's silky nose. "If I do it properly, he'll be perfect. He'll be a show horse."

"What, you mean a Follyfoot horse will actually be worth some money?" Ron laughed.

"I'm sure of it. He's got the confirmation, he'll make a lovely hack. He'll bring us fame and fortune. Who knows, he might even end up a show jumper."

"Unlike most of this lot, destined for dog meat."

"Oh, shut up!" Dora turned away and led Folly into the field, the colt striding happily beside her. For the next half hour she lunged him with his tack on, so he could feel the saddle sitting on his back. At this rate, she thought, she'd be on his back herself in a fortnight, he was going so well.

The long spring days stretched into twilight, and Steve and Dora often went for a ride or walk after dinner on the moors, returning as the moon was rising and the sounds of the night starting to rustle.

Steve thought every night about trading his bed in the loft over the stables for one in the cottage, and he could see in Dora's eyes as he kissed her that she wanted the same thing.

He held her in his arms, her body pressed against him, wondering if she knew exactly what primitive emotions she aroused in him. If she did, how could she just walk away at the end of the evening, having drunk in his kisses, his very soul? From her passion – and Dora had lots of passion hidden away under that boarding school stiff-upper-lip veneer – he knew she was feeling the same fire inside, the need and love for him electric and real. What was stopping them taking their relationship to the obvious next step?

She'd learned not to bring it up, not to make him defensive. Steve, like a wild animal, had to come to her on his own terms. In short, he was the problem.

It was so tempting, he thought one evening when darkness had fallen quickly – there would be no moon tonight – and he watched her walk in the gloomy light across the yard to the cottage. Why couldn't he find the courage to do it?

He watched the lights in the cottage – the stair, the bathroom, Dora's bedroom – in a sequence he knew well, and sighed. He had the courage to fight for what he believed in, to stand up to people who did wrong, but he didn't have the courage to follow his heart into a stronger, deeper relationship with the person who meant more to him than anyone else.

"Fool!" He thumped his fist on the fence. "Idiot!"

Dora's light had gone out.

"Tomorrow," Steve promised himself. "Tomorrow night. I'll tell her then I'm moving in." And feeling more positive, he trudged up the stairs to his lonely loft.

Steve spent a restless night. The sounds of sleeping horses - the odd snort and shuffle – and the warm smell of their bodies and hay usually lulled him to sleep, but this night he lay awake until almost midnight, wondering how he could suggest to Dora he move into the cottage without both of them making too big a deal out of it, before falling into a fitful doze.

It seemed no time at all before the rattling of a bolt jerked Steve awake. Was it morning already? It seemed very dark. Steve opened one weary eye and picked up his alarm clock, which told him it was 2am.

Then what was the noise? Steve held his breath and listened.

Again, the rattling bolt and this time followed by a groan from a stable door being opened.

Steve's heart pounded and he was wide awake instantly. As carefully as he could, he stood up, hoping his bed wouldn't squeak. Steve slept in his underwear and a t shirt in warmer weather, and pulled his jeans and a sweater on over the top of them. Grabbing a torch, he hurriedly he dragged his boots on and crept down the stairs, managing to avoid the squeak from the stair third from the top.

He could hear it all – the thud of hooves, muffled somehow, in the yard, the urgent low voices, and, worst of all, the unmistakable sound of horses cantering away.

Steve ran into the yard and saw the worst. Every door was open. Every horse was missing. Most of them he saw as dark shadows grazing contentedly just outside the gate, their creaky old bones not in the mood for a nighttime gallop. Steve shone the torch over them and they looked at him enquiringly. He noticed Cobby, who walked over with a happy whicker at Steve's call, which made half a dozen others walk with him.

Inspired, Steve grabbed a bucket and rattled it, which encouraged the old horses back into the yard. A bit late for feeding, they seemed to say, but if you're offering, we'll have it.

The cottage door opened and a drowsy Dora, dressed in her nightie with her clumpy wellies on her feet, said, "What's happening?"

"Someone let the horses out," Steve said shortly. He inspected the padlock on the gate. It had been cut through.

Dora hurriedly led each horse back to its stable as Steve caught those near the gate. The friskier ones decided they'd rather have freedom and new grass, and trotted just out of his reach, old Firefly aiming a nervous kick at him.

Steve did a mental headcount of the horses they'd caught or seen, and his heart sank.

Copper and Folly were gone. Nowhere to be seen.

Down the hill, on the road, a motorcycle roared into life.

Steve swore, and felt in his jeans for the Land Rover keys. "Dora! They've got Copper and Folly!" He ran to the car and fumbled the keys into the ignition.

"I'm coming with you!"

"No! Stay here – and call the police!" The Land Rover roared into life and Steve drove carefully out of the yard, only daring to put his foot down when he could see the driveway was clear of horses.

He swung the vehicle out into the road, wondering if the horses had been put into a lorry. He had a hunch he'd find them at the Pinecrest Hotel. Jerking the gears, Steve thundered on.

Not far down the road he noticed a fresh pile of horse manure in the middle of the road. The horses were loose or being ridden – and possible victims for any speeding drivers who chose to roar along the roads in the middle of the night, coming back late and drunk from a party.

Steve slowed down then; he didn't want to run into one of the Follyfoot horses.

Up ahead loomed a crossroads, and the superstitious side of Steve noticed the old tree on one corner, its thick lower branches used for hangings centuries before. With its gnarled trunk and twisting branches it seemed forbidding, and foretelling doom.

"Don't be stupid," Steve told himself, stopping the car and turning off the ignition. Which way had the horses gone? He closed his eyes, letting his ears do the work. Was that a faint roar to the left? A motorcycle perhaps? Nowhere could he hear the sound of hooves.

Sighing, Steve started up the Land Rover and swung it to the left, driving slowly, his eyes searching left and right for any sign of Folly or Copper. Here was farmland, with grass verges and wooden fences, and fields full of young crops that the horses would enjoy if they could get to them.

Movement caught his eye to the left. He pulled the Land Rover over and shone the torch into the verges. Limpid dark eyes stared back at him in surprise. It was Folly, a dark horse hidden in the dark bushes, munching on grass for all he was worth.

"Thank God!" Steve sighed with relief and turned the Land Rover off. The colt still wore his halter, so Steve could lead him back home. "Come on, Folly old lad."

But Folly didn't want to be caught; he was having far too much fun, ripping the spring grass with his strong young teeth and enjoying the lush flavour. Head in the air, he trotted away down the verge.

Steve walked slowly after him. "Come on, Folly. There's a lad. Good boy. Come on…"

The colt trotted faster, swishing his tail, turning it into a game.

Steve jogged out into the middle of the road and started to run faster, hoping to get in front of the colt and make him stop.

The chopper motorcycle came from behind the bushes on the other side of the road. Suddenly there was a howl of engine flooding into life, and a blinding array of lights in Steve's eyes. The tyres screamed as the bike was ridden hard towards him, gathering speed with fearsome power.

Steve's first instinct was to protect Folly, who was whinnying loudly in fright and rearing by the side of the road.

He ran towards the colt, but he wasn't fast enough.

The front wheel and handlebars caught him, flung him in the air like a ragdoll, and he landed in a tumble at Folly's feet. Without stopping, just swerving for a moment, the motorcycle sped on, a high-pitched, hysterical laugh just audible over the scream of the motor.

Terrified, the colt reared again, and swung in the opposite direction, lurching from a walk into full gallop with the power of a cheetah, bolting for all he was worth with the fight-or-flight instinct propelling him at lunatic speed.

Steve, semi-conscious, was vaguely aware of Folly's unshod feet pounding away down the tarmac…or was it the blood rushing to his head?

For a moment, the world spun. Steve lay unmoving, concentrating on breathing. Experimentally he moved his legs, and sucked in a breath. His right ankle – he must have twisted it as he landed. If that was the worst of his injuries, he'd got off lightly. He HAD to catch the colt!

Steve rolled onto his back, and yelled with the pain. His shoulder was on fire, it felt as if it had been ripped into a thousand small pieces. He'd never felt anything like it. He tried to roll back onto his side but the pain was so immense…he slid gratefully into oblivion.

For a moment he thought he was dreaming, that his body and mind were playing tricks on him and conjuring up a heavenly vision to take away the pain. But it was real…Dora was kneeling beside him, stroking his hair back from his face and saying his name.

"Steve, Steve. Please wake up! Oh Slugs, he's really hurt! You'll have to go back and call an ambulance. Steve… darling…"

The endearment on her lips woke him as quickly as the salty tears that dripped from her cheeks onto his. The relief on Dora's face as he opened his eyes and looked into hers made him catch his breath; such raw feeling was almost overwhelming.

"I thought – I thought you were –" she gasped, noticing how pale and strained his face was against the black cloud of his hair. His eyes, huge with pain, held hers.

"Just – hurt my shoulder," Steve managed, as the searing pain kicked in again. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, wishing Dora didn't have to see him like this.

Dora sat on the wet road, holding one of his hands in hers, letting him grip her so tightly she thought her fingers would break. Finally the awful spasm passed and Steve sighed. Dora noticed his left shoulder seemed to have grown a hump.

"D-do you want to sit up?" Dora said gently.

"NO!" Steve almost yelled, and instantly felt ashamed at the hurt look on Dora's face. "I don't want to move," he said more quietly. Then he remembered. "Folly! Folly's loose," he gasped.

"The police caught him," Dora said, squeezing his hand and feeling him relax. "And Copper came home by himself. You're the one I'm worried about." She let go of his hand and softly traced down his rough cheek with her fingers. "You're cold. There must be a blanket or something in the Land Rover."

Before Steve could protest she was rummaging in the back of the vehicle, unearthing an old woollen horse blanket that had seen many moths and better days. One of her old sweaters lay crumpled in a corner; it would make a good pillow.

Shivering in the shirt and jeans she'd pulled on over her nightie, Dora lay the blanket carefully over Steve, worried that he was lying on a cold, damp road. "Follyfoot's finest blanket with an extra layer of horse hair for warmth," she joked, trying not to seem as if she was fussing too much as she knew Steve hated that. "I've a pillow as well."

Steve lifted his head so she could slide the sweater under it, and that simple action provoked a new agony in his shoulder which almost brought tears to his eyes. "Don't do anything else," he whispered, when the worst had subsided. "Just stay with me."

The ambulance seemed to be taking forever. Dora sat close beside Steve, stroking his thick hair and hearing his breathing become more regular as he slipped into a doze; his face relaxed and looked younger without the fierce frown of pain.

As the sirens finally sounded, he murmured, "Tomorrow. Have to tell Dora. Tomorrow…"

She wondered what it was he had to tell her, but then the ambulancemen were rushing over with a stretcher, and Steve was awake and trying not to yell as they moved him as gingerly as they could.

* * *

Dislocated shoulder and trapped nerve, the doctor briskly told Dora as she sat on the hard chairs in the hospital waiting room. They'd freed the nerve and put the shoulder back, Mr Ross was as comfortable as could be expected, and she could visit him tomorrow when he was expected to be released. Oh, and a twisted ankle, but that was only minor. Would she please go home and get some sleep, and stop annoying the nurses every fifteen minutes?

Exhausted, Dora drove the Land Rover back to Follyfoot. She'd had lots of time in the awful waiting room to consider how Folly and Copper were the two horses singled out to be chased down the road, and came to a conclusion that made her heart sink: Ron Stryker.

Ron knew Folly was valuable, and that Copper was currently the best horse they owned. They were also Dora's own two animals. Would Ron have been silly enough to mention that to Lewis Hammond? He might, if he wanted to keep on Lewis' good side. Lewis seemed to have a mysterious hold on Ron from time to time.

Worst of all, had Ron been the rider of one of the motorbikes they'd heard last night? Could he have actually run Steve down? Dora shuddered at the thought. Ron was many things, a lot of them dodgy, but his heart was, deep down, in the right place. He couldn't have ridden Steve down – he COULDN'T.

The sun was well up in the sky when she arrived home to find Ron for once hard at work, mucking out stables. Had her laziest worker had a change of heart or was he driven by guilt?

Ron's transistor radio was blaring loudly and Ron sang tunelessly along to Deep Purple - "Smoooooke on the waaaaater…." – as he pitched soiled hay into the wheelbarrow. He didn't hear Dora approach until she stood in front of the barrow, an expression on her face he hadn't seen before. Ron almost dropped his pitchfork in surprise.

"Dora! You gave me a shock, girl. How's Steve? Slugger told me there were problems last night with someone lettin' the horses out and Steve getting run over." The concern and innocence on Ron's face looked genuine. He turned down the transistor to a soft squawk.

"Oh, we had problems all right," Dora said tightly. "And your good friend Lewis Hammond was a big part of them, I'd say. Spill the beans, Ron. What's going on? We've got the police investigating it so whatever part you played will come out sooner or later."

Ron's usually pale skin turned even paler. "I got nothin' to do with Lewis lettin' the horses out," he protested. "We was just talking at the pub the other night."

"About what?" hissed Dora. "You KNOW Hammond's got his eye on this place."

"Yeah, well, I'm proud of Follyfoot, aren't I? I don't wanna see Hammond get his dirty paws on it either. I told Lewis to tell his dad to lay off, that with horses like Folly who'd be champions one day, we were more than a match for Pinecrest Hotel and its clapped out old nags. That's all I did. Straight up. Had a drink with Lewis and told him to back off."

Dora groaned. "You know what happened, don't you? Copper and Folly, the two best horses we have, were chased out onto the road by Lewis and his mates. They were less than a mile from the main road and cars and lorries. Copper got away and came home himself, but Folly almost ended up in Lancashire before the police caught him. They both could have been killed. And Lewis, or one of his mates, ran Steve down with a motorcycle and now…now he's in hospital with a dislocated shoulder and he was in so much pain last night…" Dora fought tears. All she wanted to do was sleep, but her mind was racing so hard that sleep would be impossible, and the vision of Steve, pale and hurt on the dark road, would swim in front of her eyes, banishing all thought of sleep. Angrily she wiped her cheeks. "Can't you THINK before you say things to people like Lewis, Ron?"

Ron's face took on its familiar injured expression. "I was tryin' to put 'em off. Can't do anything right, can I?" Abruptly he pitched a load of straw so fiercely onto the barrow Dora stepped back.

"Just tell me you knew nothing about last night, Ron. Tell me you weren't involved."

Ron glared at her. "Do you think I'd do anything to put Steve and the horses in danger? Get real, girl. Maybe I SHOULD get a job with Hammond. He wouldn't doubt me integrity."

"Sorry, Ron. I don't doubt you either…but I HAD to be sure. The police will be questioning all of us today. And all of Hammond's people too."

"I'm on your side, right?" Ron turned the radio back on. Jimi Hendrix's guitar wailed in a progression through the scales, hitting notes that didn't even exist. "Now let me get back to me work. Gotta do double today with Steve away." He jabbed the pitchfork angrily into the straw.

Dora said in apology, "I'll bring you a cup of tea."

Ron looked up and met her eyes with his narrowed ones. Then he smiled. The argument was over, the peace offering accepted. "Thanks," he said.

* * *

Lewis Hammond denied everything until the police found a fragment of Steve's shirt stuck to his motorbike. Lewis, of course, then claimed his bike had been stolen, and slimy Sidney had insisted his son had spent the night with him watching Upstairs, Downstairs on the telly. The local constable had to hide his face at this assertion – the image of Lewis watching a genteel telly show with his Dad and drinking nothing more dangerous than a cup of tea was beyond any copper's belief. Lewis would get a free ride in a police car to the station as a special treat, the constable told him sarcastically. Slimy Sidney would also be helping police with their inquiries, as the mud found on his size tens looked suspiciously like that of Follyfoot farm, and the boltcutters in the back of his car weren't an item most people carried around with them unless they intended to cut padlocks in the middle of the night.

Pinecrest Hotel's plans for pony trekking stables seemed destined to remain on the shelf as the sergeant decided how many offences the Hammonds would be charged with.

All this news cheered Steve immensely as he sat in the sports car on the way home, his left arm in a sling. Dora brought him up to date on the Hammonds' arrest as she sped the little red car along the lanes.

"What a shame Lewis'll be going into prison," said Steve, and Dora eyed him.

"Why?"

"Because it means I'll have to wait even longer before getting back at him for all this," Steve said grimly, waving his sling.

"Oh, you men!" Exasperated, Dora thumped the steering wheel, hit the horn by accident and sent a flock of birds wheeling into the sky with startled cries. "He's getting punished, okay? They won't get their hands on the farm and we can live a normal life without worrying about them for a while. And if he's smart he won't try anything to harm us ever again. The fight's over. Isn't that enough?"

For a time the throaty roar of the sporty engine was the only thing that spoke, then Dora and Steve both started to say something at the same time.

Dora said, "What did you mean by you'd tell me something 'tomorrow'", and Steve said, "I think we should have a holiday."

They both laughed. "You go first," Steve said, and Dora repeated her question.

Steve thought for a bit. With the Hammonds out of the way, a major reason for him choosing to live in the loft protecting the horses at night had been taken away. Yet still a part of him couldn't agree to moving into the cottage just now. But there was a way to start… "That's best answered by what I just said….I think we should have a holiday. Would you like to go to the sea for a week?"

If she hadn't have been driving Dora would have hugged him.

* * *

Two weeks later Dora leaned against the rails along the promenade at Scarborough beach, feeling the fresh spring breeze off the North Sea threaten to blow her floppy hat far away.

"I'm having a wonderful time," she said to Steve, who chewed noisily on a stick of rock. "This was a super idea, coming here."

He moved closer, and put his arm around her waist. They'd had a fight about the hotel, because Steve had booked them into a nice place he couldn't really afford, but was determined to pay for without her help. If he was taking his girl on holiday, he'd do it properly. But the fight was minor; long walks along the promenade, paddling in the chilly water and the sheer cheerfulness of the seaside town had restored them both to good humour very quickly.

They had spent the first night almost awkward in each other's company, in the hotel room with the small twin beds. Their luggage was squashed into what the hotel fondly imagined was a wardrobe. Dora felt selfconscious, sitting on one bed watching Steve kick his shoes off; her life, so strictly guarded until now, hadn't included sharing a room with a man. Kissing and holding each other in the feed shed, or Steve's loft, was one thing. Here was another; no familiar surroundings, nobody to pry on them or judge them. Just the two beds… which Steve, with an enquiring look at Dora, nudged together to form one in the middle of the room.

Hesitantly she sat on one side of it. This didn't feel entirely right – where was the sound of Follyfoot, the owls, the horses, the foxes? Here, with the sea a dim white noise in the background beyond the traffic and shouts of people below, the orange curtains and green carpet a monument to sixties decoration, was an alien land, and Dora a novice traveller.

"We don't have to untuck the sheets in the middle unless you want to," said Steve, reading her thoughts. He sat beside her, and tucked her dark hair gently behind her ear so he could see her face.

His kind dark eyes shone in the dim light of the bedside table, and Dora's fears fell away. They didn't need the owls or horses, they needed each other. It was Dora who untucked the sheets in the middle of the bed, Dora who explored Steve's lean body with tenderness and delight, and Dora who finally turned off the light, late, late in the evening.

Suddenly they were at home in the alien land, waking up every morning nestled in each other's arms as if they'd been sleeping in the same bed for years. For now, Follyfoot was forgotten, and Steve and Dora two young people on holiday having fun and learning more about each other, the which-end-do-you-squeeze-the-toothpaste-from more.

It was a blissful time and they intended to make the most of it, going on gravity-defying rides at the funfair and eating ridiculous amounts of sweets and ice cream, walking along the sands or, like now, strolling the promenade after lunch, arm in arm, a younger version of the retired couples who strolled too with almost palpable affection. That will be us one day, Dora thought, with a thrill. Steve and I, years from now, still arm in arm.

Steve's shoulder was back to normal. The dislocation was unlikely to happen again, the doctors said, unless he was in a similar situation. Steve assured them he had no intention of being run down by a madman on a motorbike in the future.

"I still can't believe we're here," Steve said. "I thought you'd never let Slugger and Ron run the place for a week."

"No horse talk this week, remember?" Dora teased. "We're on holiday."

Without Follyfoot and its four- and two-legged inhabitants as a topic of conversation, they'd had plenty of other things to talk about. Steve learned more about Dora's lonely, isolated childhood, shunted between boarding schools where she never really fitted in and ancient relations who didn't want a child staying with them, while her parents lived in exotic places. There was no one house she could call home, no mother waiting for her to return from school with tea on the table and a welcoming pet at the door; her parents chose schools and friends for her that they thought appropriate, and never sensed the sadness behind Dora's dutiful weekly letters. He'd known a fair bit about it before, but Dora let her guard down and Steve felt privileged that she unbent to him, as she told him of her deepest, darkest childhood fears, her belief that her parents regarded her as a burden and not a blessing, and wished to have as little to do with her as possible, and the feeling of never belonging anywhere until she'd landed on Uncle Geoffrey's doorstep. No wonder, he thought, she was a dreamer, building a fantasy of a world full of kindness.

His own youth had been along the same lines of loneliness and uncertainty, with the main difference being that his was a childhood of poverty and childrens' homes, foster parents both good and bad, beatings for no particular reason, nothing and nobody he could really call his own. Finding his mother two years ago had been a disappointment, but it had closed that chapter in his life and reaffirmed Follyfoot as his home.

Dora understood now Steve's reluctance to move from the loft – places like the loft were what he was used to, and if he got used to more (like the cottage), it would be doubly wrenching to have to go back to somewhere like the loft. But she could sense it wouldn't be long before the loft was behind him, both physically and emotionally. It also struck Dora that Steve was fine with talking about the past – it seemed it was the future he had trouble with! It was as if he was afraid the bubble of happiness may burst if they made plans for their lives after this holiday. Dora chose not to push her luck and run the risk of Steve retreating – the holiday was so perfect! So she didn't mention the loft or the cottage, but simply hoped that he would choose to move to the cottage when they returned. Given what they'd experienced with each other this week, could he really go back to that cold, lonely place?

They walked hand in hand along the beach, feeling the sand squish between their bare toes. Gulls cried overhead and the sea ran in lazy waves to the shore, sparkling cold. Children darted in and out of the water, shrieking, and built sandcastles or tunnels. There was a promise of summer in the warmth of the sun.

The donkeys were out, too, carrying children by the sea, their grey faces resigned and absurdly long ears bobbing as they walked. Already, with the season just beginning, the donkeys looked bored with their lot in life.

"Poor things," Dora sighed. "I feel so sorry for them, with those ungrateful brats bouncing up and down on their backs year after year."

A small boy was on the leading donkey, kicking it frantically and shouting, "Go, go faster!" to the man leading the animal. The child's legs and arms were windmilling wildly but the donkey – and the man – paid no attention, and the donkey plodded dutifully along the sand as it had done for the last twenty years.

Dora and Steve watched the slow procession of four donkeys; neither of them had ever ridden a donkey by the sea as a child. As adults their concern was more for the animals than the children's enjoyment.

With a loud groan the lead donkey suddenly sank to the sand, its legs apparently unable to hold it up, and its rider fell off and immediately burst into tears.

The man leading the donkey went straight to the child's aid, and ensured the little boy had no more wrong with him than sand in his eyes. The donkey, meanwhile, now lay flat out on the sand, its sides heaving.

"Steve –" Dora's eyes flicked from the donkey to Steve's face. "The donkey. We should do something."

"We're on holiday," Steve said gently. "No horses – remember? The only thing we could do is call a vet for the man if the donkey's sick."

But then the sickening sound of a hard stick hitting donkey flesh made them both gasp.

The man hit the donkey hard on the rump, but the animal only raised its head briefly before lying down and kicking at its stomach with one hind leg. "Gerrup you lazy bugger!" The man followed the stick with a kick. "Gerrup!"

"Steve – we HAVE to help!"

Steve agreed, feeling his stomach lurch with each whack of the stick. But even as he said, "Yes", Dora was away, running over the sand towards the donkey, her flimsy, frivolous sundress billowing around her legs, her hat finally flying free and spiralling to the beach. He could hear her shouting to the man to stop it, to leave the donkey alone, he was sick, he could have colic.

An abused horse and Dora to the rescue. Her heart, as always, in the right place; but how much room was there for anything else except horses, despite the last few days? Steve sighed, and started to jog after her. Some holiday, eh? he mused. Some things can never change.

The end
© 2004 Sabrina Davis.

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