For the love of Jimmy
By
Sabrina
Set in “Follyfoot Time”, ie around about
the time of Series 2
Part One
She hid in the shadows on the landing, her face resting against the carved wooden banisters. Below, in the living room, her parents’ voices grew louder.
“We can’t keep the bloody creature out of charity, we’ve got a business to run.”
“John, please, he’s Sandra’s favourite. It won’t cost much to keep him out at grass for her.”
“And in winter? You know Sandra, she’ll want him in a stable where he’s warm. A stable we could use for a horse that can actually work. Jimmy’s OLD, Margaret. He’s nearly twenty. He’s got ringbone. He can’t work all day in the riding school any more. He’s getting lamer and lamer. We can’t take him out on the roads else he limps. Vet said he could go on painkillers if he’s going to stay in work but I’m not spending that kind of money on an old pony.”
“The vet said he’ll be fine for soft riding around the fields or in the school. Think of our daughter, John. You’ll break her heart.”
The sound of a whisky decanter clinking a glass. Up on the landing, Sandra strained to hear, because her mother’s soothing voice had quietened her father, as it always did. Please God, she said silently, please make Dad keep Jimmy.
“Sandra’s seen horses come and go ever since she could walk. That’s life when you run a riding school. We’ll get her a horse of her own, a nice cob, so she can start showing it; it’ll be good for business too. She’s grown out of that old pony. A couple of months’ time, she won’t remember Jimmy. No, Margaret, Jimmy’s had a good life. I’ve spoken to Rollo and he’ll take him. Probably won’t be until after the weekend, though.” He sounded disappointed at the thought of having to feed and house Jimmy for those extra two days.
Sandra bit back a scream. Rollo! The Master of the local hunt! She’d had nightmares for years ever since her father, who believed in plain speaking, told her when she was eight that when he sent horses to the hunt they were chopped up for meat for the hounds. Better than the knackers, he said, where they’d become dog meat anyway and put into a can. This way the hounds got all the goodness of the horse, nice and fresh, as nature intended. Hounds were healthier that way and the horse was very much appreciated by both the hounds and the Master. Sandra had thrown up. Now, four years later, she felt like throwing up again.
Shaking, she gripped the banisters so tightly her knuckles ached. She HAD to save Jimmy! Out of all the horses she’d known in her life – and living at a riding school there had been dozens and dozes – he was her favourite. She’d been riding him since she was about eight, when her legs had barely been long enough to reach below the flaps of his saddle. She’d sprouted up since then and it was true that Jimmy’s 13 hands were on the small side for her; now her legs were below his girth. She could make him do anything, and he’d do anything for her. More and more Jimmy had become ‘her’ pony rather than just another riding school mount. The jaunty little liver chestnut with the flaxen mane and tail was the thing she loved most in her life…maybe even more than Mum and Dad. Certainly, at this point, more than Dad.
Downstairs, the voices had fallen to a murmur. Mum at work, trying to talk Dad around. Sandra knew from experience he wouldn’t budge, though. Other ponies had gone to Rollo when they were too old – Dad had tried to make her see that it was an honourable end to a pony’s life, but for Sandra it was a vision of hell. She wanted Jimmy to die in his sleep in a green, lush field; unless of course his leg was so bad the vet said he had to be put to sleep. And the vet, on his last visit, hadn’t said that. He’d suggested Jimmy enjoy retirement with a couple of hours’ gentle riding on grass a week to keep his leg mobile and the joint relatively supple. Other than the stiffening fetlock, Jimmy was still healthy.
Sandra crept back to her bedroom. Her parents would be going to bed soon; Dad only ever had two whiskies at the most, and she guessed he’d be close to draining his second glass at any moment.
She lay on her bed, unable to sleep. Outside night had finally fallen after a long, golden summer’s evening. The moon was on the rise, sending shafts of light across Sandra’s bedroom walls.
There HAD to be a way to save him! Niggling at the back of her mind was something she’d seen on telly about a local place that took in old horses, over the other side of Tockwith. Think, San, she said to herself. Think! The reporter had interviewed a posh old bloke called Colonel someone. There’d been a girl with a sweet face who looked like she really loved horses, and a dishy boy with dark hair that Sandra, in her first teenage stirrings, found very attractive. She willed herself to see the name of the place….it had been on the gate… the one the Colonel had been hanging over with a pipe in his mouth. Follyfoot! She almost shouted it in joy.
She’d take Jimmy to Follyfoot.
She’d leave him there in the dead of night, so they’d find him in the morning, and – Sandra planned and plotted – she’d put a note on his headcollar.
It was the only way. If she had to talk to the Colonel or the sweet girl or dishy boy, she’d have to say who she was and why she was leaving him there. They’d ring her Dad…and it was likely he’d make the awful Rollo come and take Jimmy after all, because he’d been promised to the hunt.
So tomorrow night, when she was supposed to be in bed, she’d sneak out, saddle Jimmy and ride to Follyfoot. It was going to be a full moon, so there’d be lots of light. And when her parents saw that she and Jimmy weren’t there in the morning, they’d just think she’d done what she often did in the glorious early part of the day and gone for a ride before breakfast.
“I’ll save you, Jimmy,” she promised, and, comforted by her plan, drifted to sleep.
The next day was the usual Saturday rush at the riding school. Sandra helped saddle ponies for the beginners, or teach them how to do it themselves. She mucked out, fed and groomed horses and ponies, led children on leading reins and kept an eye on Jimmy in his field when she could, to make sure Rollo hadn’t changed his mind and got there early.
Her dad was busy giving lessons in the school, and her mum took some of the more capable riders for a hack. Sandra packed herself some food for the journey; she had no idea how long it would take to ride to Follyfoot. She looked up the address in the phone book, and pinched the Touring Atlas of Britain, that stalwart, well-thumbed map of every conceivable road, from the horsebox.
Now all she had to do was wait until her parents went to bed.
* * *
While Saturday night for most people meant a night at the cinema or pub, a carefree few hours at the end of the working week, Sandra’s parents usually crashed by 9pm. They’d been up since 5 – as Sandra had – working in the stables, riding and teaching.
At 10pm Sandra dressed silently in jodhs, shirt and jersey. Carrying her boots, hard hat and rucksack, she crept downstairs and out into the yard, tenderly pulling the kitchen door shut behind her with a tiny click.
Holding Jimmy’s tack so it didn’t jingle, she hurried to the field.
Jimmy’s wide, bright blaze and two white front socks gleamed in the moonlight.
Don’t whinny, Sandra begged under her breath. Just shut up and don’t whinny.
The pony gave a little friendly throaty whicker, which made Sandra catch her breath and look back at the house in case the bedroom light came on, and walked, slightly dot-and-carry, to his mistress.
Sandra wasted no time in bridling and then saddling Jimmy. Hurriedly she led him out the gate and along the grass by the side of the driveway, his hooves silent and soft.
Only when she’d mounted him outside the riding school gates did she allow herself the luxury of a deep breath.
Jimmy snorted cheerfully - moonlit rides obviously didn’t faze him. Keeping him to the spongy verge, she pushed him into a trot.
Beneath her he was a bit stiff on his off fore. He’d been stiff more and more often lately, as the vet said he’d be as his ringbone progressed. Comfortable retirement, suggested the vet, and Sandra was determined that’s what he’d get.
The grass verge petered out as they changed course and headed east at the crossroads. Sandra was reduced to trotting on the road, and apologised to her pony as his gait became proppier.
After an hour or so, she could see the lights of Tockwith in the distance. More and more cars swept past them, some drivers hitting the horn or shouting “get off the road” or “use a light”. It was time to find a back way around the town.
Sandra turned into a laneway and halted a sweating Jimmy. She dismounted and consulted the touring atlas by torchlight as Jimmy tore happily at the soft grass at his feet. Up ahead, there should be a road to the right which would take her towards Follyfoot. She should be there, with luck, by 1am at the latest.
She turned her torch to Jimmy’s off fore, and felt the leg with gentle fingers. His pastern joint was hotter than the other foreleg. Was he in pain? She couldn’t tell; his eyes were calm, his breathing normal, and he didn’t wince when she probed the area around his fetlock, pastern and coronet.
“Come on, Jimmy,” Sandra said brightly. “Not far now.”
The secondary road was deserted. Only one car passed them as
they jogged away from Tockwith into the rolling
Sandra was getting tired. She’d had a big, busy day, her mind whirling with plots of rescuing her pony, her body active with the daily chores of the riding school. She longed for her comfy bed, and a cosy blanket, for even with a jersey on the summer night was cool and slightly damp. “Not far now,” she repeated sleepily, glancing at her watch. It was nearly midnight.
Jimmy was getting lamer by the minute and Sandra had let him walk the last few miles when she saw the roadsign with the little sign below it: Follyfoot Farm. At last! The road seemed to go on for an eternity, up hill and down dale, before she found the long, winding driveway that would take them to the farm.
She dismounted and led Jimmy as quietly as she could around past the gate to the field beyond. Was there a gate? Something white loomed in the moonlight along the rugged stretch of dry stone wall. With relief, Sandra opened it, creaking slightly, and pulled Jimmy through after her.
She hugged her pony. “You’ll be safe here, I promise. They’re nice people, and maybe they’ll love you as much as I do.”
From her rucksack she pulled a headcollar and some carrots. Jimmy gratefully gobbled the carrots while Sandra untacked him, wishing she’d thought to bring a towel or something to wipe him down. The pony was soaked in sweat despite the cooling walk at the end.
One last thing…she slipped the headcollar on with its note, tied in a tight little scroll to one buckle: Please look after Jimmy. PS he has ringbone but he’s very healthy otherwise.
Tears pricked at her eyes. She couldn’t bear to leave him, but it was the only way. And much better than giving him to Rollo and his gun and his hounds.
“Goodbye, Jimmy,” she whispered, kissing his nose and inhaling that lovely pony smell for the last time. “Don’t forget me…I won’t ever forget you.”
The pony, having finished his carrots and given her hands a cursory sniff to see if there were any more, prosaically ambled off and, with a huge grunt, began to roll in the dewy grass.
Sandra wiped her eyes with one dirty hand and picked up her tack and rucksack. Time to find a way back home. Maybe there was a bus from Tockwith she could catch in the morning. Her plans hadn’t extended that far ahead.
Exhausted, she stumbled back down the hill and onto the road, her saddle feeling heavier by the minute.
Each footstep was a drag. Even through her riding boots her feet became wet with dew from the overlong grass. More and more often she stopped for a moment or two to rest the saddle on the ground and ease her aching arms.
When she was seriously considering finding somewhere relatively dry underfoot and sleeping for the rest of the night, she heard the sound of a car roaring up the road behind her. Headlights wavered as the car swerved.
Sandra didn’t know whether to be grateful or hide. Her parents had lectured her about the dangers of hitchhiking. But her legs were so leaden she couldn’t run, but simply stayed in one place, like a dazzled rabbit.
The car – an old pickup, with an engine that sounded like the motor equivalent of Jimmy’s stiff trot – pulled up beside her with a rattle.
Beery fumes hit her from out of the passenger window as she squinted to see who was in the car. “It’s just a lass!” slurred a drunken female voice. “Want a lift, kid?”
Sandra’s eyes adjusted to see a middle aged couple, dressed up to the nines as only farm folk can for a night on the town. “Er, not sure,” she said tentatively.
“Why, you’re only a kid! Same age as our Bess, I’d warrant. What you doin’ out this time o’night?”
“My pony went lame so I left him with friends and I’m walking home,” Sandra replied warily, wishing her legs felt like running.
“Give ye a lift, lassie. Climb in. We won’t bite. Been to a
dinner, we have, a posh dinner in
God, she was tired! Sandra made a snap decision and threw her saddle and rucksack in the back of the pickup before squeezing in beside the woman, who reeked of Devon Violets as well as booze. “Are you going anywhere near Tockwith?”
“Aye,” said the man, whose tie hung unknotted at his open collar “Past Tockwith, we live. Out on t’Corby road.”
Sandra finally smiled. “That’s not far from me!”
“Aye, well, give ye a lift all t’way then!” With a crunch of gears and a kangaroo hop, they were off. The farmer peered carefully ahead through the windscreen (a maze of cracks and chips), and drove at a drunkenly careful pace.
“T’were a grand night, eh Dad?” said the woman. “That band, raht champion they were.” And she was away, singing in a loud, tuneless voice, “Night and day, you are the one, only you beneath the moon and under the sun.”
With equal enthusiasm her husband joined in, with the novel approach of only singing in one note. The pickup wavered back and forth across the road as the farmer waved time with one hand.
Sandra sat back and laughed in hysterical relief. Her pony was safe, she was getting a lift home from drunken strangers, but it was going to be alright, it really was. When they started on “I get a kick out of you,” she added to the peculiar harmony, singing the odd phrases she knew.
By the time the couple – Mr and Mrs Barraclough – dropped her at the end of her road before continuing on to their own home, they were the firmest of friends. Slurred goodbyes echoed from the windows of the pickup as it lurched away, leaving Sandra and her gear in the moonlight.
* * *
Sandra woke late – for her. Some internal clock told her to wake at seven despite getting to bed at two in the morning. Her body felt like a lead weight, but her heart was light – Jimmy was safe!
Yawning, she washed her face and dressed in clean jodhs and shirt, then did her best to run downstairs to breakfast like she always did.
In the kitchen, her mother was sipping a cup of tea, and her face crinkled in concern when Sandra walked in.
“Darling…” her mother hesitated. “We’ve got bad news. Jimmy’s missing. Dad’s gone looking for him.”
Sandra did her best to look shocked. “He can’t be! He was in the field last night when we went to bed.” Which was true. It wasn’t hard for her to force a couple of tears out. She was still exhausted, and thinking of the fate Jimmy would have had at the hands of Rollo made her want to cry anyway. Her mum pushed back her chair with an ugly scrape, and held her tight.
Inside she exulted: it had worked, it had worked!
Part Two
Steve stretched as luxuriantly as the old iron single bed would allow. He grabbed the iron bars behind his head, clenched and unclenched his arm muscles, pushed his toes through the bars at the bottom of the bed.
Sunday! The one day when they’d all tacitly agreed there was no real need to get up at the crack of dawn. Seven am was luxury.
He smiled and watched the dust motes dance in the bright shafts of sunlight flooding through his window, and completed his waking up routine by running his hands through his thick, dark hair and scratching his scalp.
Any minute now Slugger would stick his head around the bottom of the stairs and tell him there was a cuppa waiting for him.
The door down below opened. He smiled.
But it wasn’t Slugger – there was no mistaking Dora’s rapid flight up the stairs and her call: “Steve! Steve, are you awake?”
He grinned. “Shouldn’t that be, Steve, Steve, are you decent?”
Dora stopped at the top of the stairwell, confronted by the delectable vision of Steve lying in bed, bare chested, the sheets pushed down around his midriff. She wondered if he slept naked in summer, allowed herself the briefest fantasy, then said, “Oh, sorry, Steve!” and blushed.
At which his grin widened, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“Steve,” she went on urgently, “There’s a strange pony in the field. Someone’s left him there in the night!”
“Well, I didn’t hear anything. I slept like the dead.” He yawned, and enjoyed another slow stretch.
Dora watched the muscles in his arms contract and flex and wondered if he were tantalising her. He must know by now she found him attractive.
“Well, go on, girl, get downstairs so I can get dressed and have a look at the mystery horse. By the way, you did bring a cup of tea with you, didn’t you?”
Dora snorted and turned on her plimsolls and chuntered downstairs. He WAS teasing her. “Your tea’s in the kitchen!”
Steve pushed the bedclothes back and let the cool morning air touch the rest of his body. He knew damned well what had gone through Dora’s mind; would she have been sorry to discover he was wearing underpants?
“Oh, Dora,” he said softly. To get involved with Dora was courting danger. They were too different to make it work, and he didn’t want to lose his job and the first real home he’d ever had when their boy/girl relationship came to its inevitable sticky end. But it was so tempting -!
Sighing, he pulled on jeans and a shirt and the boots he wore all year round, and went in search of his tea.
Dora had finished her own cuppa by the time Steve pushed open the kitchen door and wished Slugger a cheery good morning.
“The pony, Steve. Come and have a look with me. There’s something wrong with him.” She was at the door in a flash, impatience on her face.
“Okay, girl, I’m coming. Just let me have a sip or two – I won’t be awake enough otherwise.” He met Slugger’s eye and the older man gave him a wink.
“Pays to be a norse round this place,” grumbled Slugger. “You don’t get no attention otherwise. Breakfast in ten minutes, you two. Else it’ll be spoilt.”
“I can’t imagine Slugger ever giving us a spoilt breakfast, can you, Dora?” Steve took a long, leisurely gulp at his tea. “Hard eggs, black bacon… we NEVER get that!”
“Gorn an’ look at that ‘orse, Steve, if you’re gonna insult my cookin’!” Slugger feinted a punch at Steve’s shoulder.
“I know when I’m beaten.” Steve sighed dramatically and put his mug of tea on the table.
Dora almost ran down to the field. Steve admired her back view in the tight strawberry trousers, then his eyes were drawn to the chestnut pony hobbling towards the fence, whickering hopefully.
“He’s so lame,” Dora moaned. She caught the pony’s headcollar. “I’ve felt his legs and it’s not a tendon, and he doesn’t have anything lodged in his hoof.”
Steve rubbed the pony’s bright wide blaze. “Hang on, Dora. There’s something tied to his headcollar on this side.” He struggled to undo the tight little knot and finally left it to Dora’s long fingernails to unpick.
They read the note. “The hide of it!” cried Dora. “We don’t even know where he comes from or who his owner is, and he’s going to need a vet!”
Steve studied the crumpled paper. “That’s a kid’s handwriting. Not an adult’s. There’s probably more to this pony than meets the eye. He looks pretty fit, and well cared for.”
“Apart from ringbone.”
“Apart from ringbone,” Steve agreed. “Ringbone’s not fatal, girl. It’s a bit like arthritis. It just means he can’t be ridden much any more.”
“A lame pony, who’s been well looked after, and child’s handwriting. Do you think the child’s parents wanted to get rid of the pony, and the child brought him here?”
“In the middle of the night? Game kid if that’s the case.” Steve felt down the horse’s leg until he encountered the unmistakable bumps down low on the pastern. The area was hot to the touch. This pony had recently had a lot more heavy riding than he should have had. So he was ridden here…not dumped from a trailer or lorry. “Let’s get him up to the yard and put the hose on his leg. We need to get the heat down.”
“And we should call the vet, just to have him checked out,” Dora said.
Jimmy walked peaceably enough beside them up to the yard, and stood patiently while Dora hosed his leg. Time slipped away… she played the cool water on it, lost in thought, wondering about the pony’s background, and what his destiny had been before someone dumped him here last night.
She was woken from her reverie by Slugger’s tap on her shoulder. She jumped and almost squealed.
“I bin callin’ you for ages, girl. Your breakfast is stone flippin’ cold now.”
“Oh. Breakfast. Sorry, Slugs, I forgot. Maybe I’ll just have a slice of toast. I’ve nearly finished here. Honestly.”
“Slice o’toast. Hmmph. Eggs is a proper breakfast, not just toast.” Slugger shuffled away. “Five minutes, girl. Else it’ll burn,” he called over his shoulder.
Dora left Jimmy tethered near the hose with a haynet to occupy himself, and to Slugger’s disgust read a book on equine diseases over her toast.
“Ringbone,” she
read, “develops in older horses as a bony
growth surrounding the pastern of one or both forelimbs. There are various forms
and severity of ringbone. Where the bony
reaction does not involve the joint, it is termed 'periarticular'
ringbone, and if a joint is involved, it becomes a form of degenerative
arthritis ('articular' ringbone).
“Long term concussion, hard work, nutritional imbalances, and inherited poor conformation (upright pasterns or weak collateral ligaments of the pastern joints), encourage the development of ringbone in older horses.”
Dora sighed as she read that there was no real cure, only treatment to ease the symptoms such as cold packs and hosing, or anti-inflammatory painkilling drugs such as ‘bute’ which made the horse sound for work. Jimmy had probably got progressively lamer for some time until he was only able to be ridden gently if at all.
“And then what?” she said to herself. “The knacker’s? Sorry, dear, he’s very old and now he’s sick we can’t afford to keep having the vet around.” Suddenly Jimmy’s fate was all too clear. No wonder his child owner had brought him here. She forgave the child for the brief Paddington Bear note, and the lack of money with it to care for the pony; it was likely the child didn’t have any, or simply hadn’t thought of it. “Poor Jimmy!”
Dora sipped at her tea, wondering what to do next. Call the vet, or the Colonel? Uncle Geoffrey’s reaction would be to trace the owner and make them accountable for the pony – which might mean the parents would take Jimmy back and send him to the knacker’s. She had to think up a plausible story. It was Sunday… the Colonel was going to meet some of his cronies at the golf club for lunch, so it was possible she had a day up her sleeve before having some explaining to do. Meanwhile, she’d call the vet and get Jimmy’s leg checked out properly.
* * *
“Why, it’s old Jimmy!” The vet clapped the pony’s neck.
“You know this pony?” Dora said eagerly.
“Yeah, he’s from John Bailey’s riding school, the other side of Tockwith. Poor old lad. He’s had ringbone for a while but it’s got progressively worse this year. Young Sandra was devastated when she heard, he’s her favourite of all the horses there, she treats him like her very own pony. So John’s sent him here instead of the local hunt, eh? Sandra must have got into his ear.”
“The hunt?” Dora’s eyes widened.
“Dora,” Steve said warningly. He cleared his throat. “It might be best if you don’t mention anything to Mr Bailey. He might feel guilty about leaving us with vet fees for the old boy. We’ll get in touch with him and update him on how Jimmy’s going.”
The vet was bending down, examining Jimmy’s leg. “I’m not sure for how much longer he’ll need vet fees. This has got much worse in the last two days. Looks like Sandra gave him one last long ride too many. He’s in a fair bit of pain –“
Dora bit her lip; she felt tears prickling at the back of her eyes. No, she thought, don’t say he’s come all this way and escaped the hunt only to die anyway!
“-But we’ll give him some drugs, and you keep ice packs and cold water on the leg, and it might go down a bit. He’ll never be sound, however. Let’s see how he’s doing by the autumn. Winter’s the worst time for diseases like ringbone. If he’s in chronic pain then, you might have to consider putting him down.”
Steve put a gentle hand on Dora’s shoulder. “Live for now, girl. Let’s get him comfortable, eh?”
She wiped her wet cheeks and nodded silently. Jimmy nuzzled her hands while the vet prepared and administered a painkilling injection, his worn old teeth nibbling gently at Dora’s fingers.
“See how that goes,” said the vet cheerfully. “Keep him in the field for now so he can move around and keep the joint supple, but remember, ice packs and cold water twice a day.”
Cheerily – for he could bill more for driving out on a Sunday – the vet packed his equipment back into his battered old estate car and chugged down the hill.
* * *
The Colonel sat on the verandah of the Golf Club, wishing there were more beautiful summer’s days like this one, with only a gentle breeze and lots of sunshine. It was a known fact the verandah was probably only usable ten days out of every fifty! Smiling, he lit his pipe and sipped at his after-lunch whisky.
A familiar figure sat with a thankful sigh in the seat next to him.
“John!” exclaimed the Colonel. “I thought it was you in the bar earlier. We don’t often see you at the Club.”
“Geoffrey.” They shook hands. “No, I don’t usually have the time. I was meeting a chap up here about getting a nice cob for Sandra but it turns out he’s sold the horse already. Poor San, she’s in a dreadful state. Her old favourite Jimmy escaped last night and we spent the entire morning looking for him without any luck. Old Jim must have known there was something up – we were sending him to the Hunt on Monday.”
The Colonel puffed thoughtfully. “Horses have a wonderful sense of the empathic. But it’s unlikely he cottoned onto the idea he was going to be hounds’ meat. They’re not THAT empathic. You know ponies, John; they can sneak out of the most secure places if they really want to.”
“Hope it wasn’t those Night Riders you had round your way a while back,” said John Bailey glumly.
They regarded this over their whiskies. Finally the Colonel shook his head. “I don’t think so. We haven’t had any trouble from them for a long time. Hope you find the old chap though.”
“Aye. Sandra won’t be best pleased when I tell her about the hunt, though.”
“Tell you what, John. Why give him to the hunt if it’s going to break her heart? Send him to Follyfoot. That way she can still come and visit him.”
John stared at him and then grinned. “Geoffrey, that’s a champion idea! What about board?” he asked suspiciously.
“We could do a deal. I’ve a nice pony called Ruby who came in last month and she’s really far too good and young to spend her life at Follyfoot. Perfect for your riding school. Or Sandra, in fact. You give me Jimmy and fifty pounds and you can have her. Or we can talk about a straight buy,” said the Colonel complacently, wondering whether to have a second whisky.
“Another?” said John.
The Colonel reflected, as he watched John head towards the bar, that it wasn’t just ponies who were empathic.
* * *
Dora picked up the phone in the Colonel’s study and dialled Bailey’s
“Hello? May I speak to Sandra please?”
“That’s me!”
“Sandra, you don’t know me, but my name’s Dora Maddox and I’m calling from Follyfoot Farm. We seem to have your pony Jimmy here. What’s going on?”
Sandra’s voice dropped to a whisper. “They were going to send him to the Hunt so the hounds could eat him. I’m not supposed to know about it. I couldn’t let him die. He’s still got heaps of life left in him. He’s my favourite pony in the whole world. Please don’t tell anyone you know where Jimmy came from. Dad’ll only take him and have him killed.” The girl was near to tears.
“Ssh, it’s okay,” Dora soothed. “Where does your Dad think Jimmy is right now?”
“He thinks Jim escaped last night from the field. We’ve spent all day looking for him. We’ll never find him, and Dad will forget about it eventually and Jimmy won’t go to the Hunt.”
How simple it was when you were so young, Dora thought wistfully. “Sandra, we’ll keep him here for you, but if he’s going to need the vet a lot for his ringbone, we’ll have to tell someone. Vets can get expensive.”
“I’ll give you all my pocket money,” offered Sandra eagerly. “Anything! I just want him to be safe. I’ll ring when I can to find out how he’s going. Or try and get there to see him somehow. But can it be our secret? Please?”
Dangerous ground, secrets with children hiding important things from their parents. Dora herself was young enough to believe in miracles, and had lost count of the things she kept secret from her own parents when she was a child. “Okay,” she said finally.
If Slugger had lifted his eyes from the donkeys and looked towards the window, he would have seen her gazing out with an unreadable expression on her face – one that he knew would lead to trouble down the track.
* * *
“We’ll have to give him a new name,” Dora said, scratching Jimmy’s wide blaze. The pony closed his eyes in pleasure and gave a deep sigh. “He can’t be Jimmy. Someone somewhere might put two and two together.”
“Where did he come from, then? Who
left him here?” Steve, arms folded, ever the devil’s advocate wherever Dora’s
ideas were concerned, leaned back against the blissfully cool old
“Let’s see.” Dora’s voice was bright and playful. A gentle smile twisted her mouth – oh, those pink lips! thought Steve. They could persuade a guy to do anything! – and she stroked the pony’s nose thoughtfully. “An old man. Yes, an old man brought him here. He’d been using him to – oh! – pull a cart. Yes! A rag and bone man who’s retiring because his pony is lame and he can’t afford a new one. And this...this is Fred, not Jimmy. Fred, there’s a good old fashioned rag and bone pony’s name. What do you think, Fred?”
Fred didn’t say anything. Steve thought the story a little too pat for comfort. It was as transparent as a tart’s nightie. How many rag and bone men still existed? Oh well, maybe this was the last, the very last in captivity. He sighed.
“Well, well, well.” Ron, grinning ear to ear, slapped the door of the loosebox, making Jimmy snort and throw his head high.
Dora started guiltily, a blush creeping up her neck. Steve jumped. Neither of them had heard Ron’s bike. He must have ridden up quietly and left it outside the yard.
“What do you want, Ron?” he said bluntly. “It’s Sunday. Your day off.”
“Just heard a story, didn’t I? From Lewis,
down the pub. Seems a pony’s gone missing from Bailey’s
“Ron, you don’t understand!” snapped Dora. “This pony was going to be killed for hounds’ meat. Look at him, just LOOK at him! Could YOU let that happen?”
“If the Master slipped me a few quid.”
“Oh…you!” Dora stamped her foot and Jimmy threw his head up with a snort.
“You didn’t hear any of this, Ron,” Steve said in a low, menacing voice. He’d agreed to help Dora and he’d help her all the way. “This pony is Fred. He’s a rag and bone bloke’s pony. Understand? There’s a young kid crying her heart out at the thought of him going to the Hunt-“
“Dear, dear.”
“- and Dora’s agreed to help her. The kid’s giving her pocket money. So shut up and butt out. Or at the least, shut up.”
“What’s it worth?” Ron had clearly had a jar or two, he was on the hunt for trouble or a laugh, preferably both together.
“It’s worth you keeping your job, mate. You’re in late every day, you smoke in the barn, and you’re lazy. I’ve had to brush your horses over twice in the last week. You skive off whenever you can. You’re the only guy I know who can make a tea break last an hour. The Colonel could get someone in here who actually helps us.”
“Oooh, get you! Mr Perfect. Nah, Steve me ole mate, the Colonel won’t sack me. He and me ole man are like that.” He held up two entwined fingers.
“I think you’d better keep them crossed behind your back,” put in Dora.
“But…but…since you’re good mates o’mine, I’ll keep me trap shut. Me poor heart is bleedin’ for that kid.” And he knew the Colonel’s feelings about smoking around the stables and barn. He’d been sacked before for setting fire to the barn inadvertently. “Fred, you say? Good ole Fred. Nice Fred. How are you today, Fred? Don’t say much, do he?” Ron cackled. “I’ll leave you two to knit togevver the freds of your story then. Freds, geddit?” He spun on one Cuban heel, grinned cheekily and sauntered away, whistling.
“I could trust him as far as I could throw him,” Dora muttered.
“I know, girl. Let’s just hope he keeps his trap shut.” Steve patted Jimmy’s neck and automatically felt down his bad leg. “Come on, let’s get this old crock out in the field like the vet said.”
His gentle smile made Dora’s heart do flipflops. She hid the softness in her kohl-rimmed eyes by looking at the horse instead, and fought the instinct that made her long to hug Steve, to thank him for his complicity, and to enjoy, just once, his arms tight around her in return. Instead she led Jimmy to the field, and hung over the gate for ages, watching him graze and feeling the sunlight on her face, and counting her blessings that she was working in a place that allowed good old ponies to live out their life in peace.
* * *
It had been a pleasant drink with John Bailey. The Colonel, mellow and slightly tipsy, stopped the sports car with a spurt of gravel near the Follyfoot gate.
“Dora!” His habitual limp was always worse after a couple of Scotches. He stretched his stiff leg and sniffed the soft country air.
“Hello, Uncle.” She opened the gate for him. “It must have been a good lunch, it’s nearly four o’clock.”
“Oh, lunch was the usual. But I had an interesting chat with
John Bailey – you know, Bailey’s
Dora was glad she was standing behind her uncle, closing the gate. She felt the blood drain from her face and her fingers turn to pins and needles. “Oh, yes?” she managed.
“They’ve lost a pony. Damned thing’s escaped. The daughter’s rather shattered, seems she looked on the pony as her own. Anyway, I’ve offered them a price on Ruby, as she’s really far too good to be here. John’s coming next Sunday to have a look at her. Can you give her some schooling during the week? Make sure she’s fine for average riders? Or even John’s young daughter?”
“O-of course,” said Dora.
“And if you see a stray chestnut pony, it might be Bailey’s. Keep an eye out, will you?”
“Of course,” Dora said again.
Mellow with whisky and sunshine, the Colonel was content to wander around the yard, talking to each of the horses. Dora prayed he wouldn’t head out to the field, where Jimmy, after a couple of squeals and kicks, had established himself in the middle of the pecking order.
But of course he did. Three large Scotches hadn’t addled his memory. “Who’s the new horse?”
Dora gabbled. “Oh, that’s Fred. He came here this morning. A poor old man, a rag and bone man, dropped him off. Fred’s lame, you see, and can’t work any more, and the old man can’t afford another horse. Poor Fred…but apart from his leg, he’s fine, he really is.”
“Hmph. I suppose the poor old man was so poor he couldn’t afford anything towards Fred’s keep?”
Dora thought of her own allowance. Oh, well. It was only money, and she spent it on horses anyway. What would a poor old man have to offer? She calculated. “He gave us five pounds.”
“Might pay for a few weeks out at grass. Really, Dora, if you’re going to take on horses like this, you should ensure the owners at least give us enough for a thorough vet inspection. Lameness could be anything.”
“He’s not too bad, Uncle. You wouldn’t have turned him away.”
The Colonel chewed on his pipe. The pony looked healthy enough; a nice covering on his ribs, well-brushed; obviously the old boy had taken good care of him. More than many of the nags they’d taken in. “You’re right, he does look okay. But keep an eye on him. And Dora, do let me know before you take on any more horses. We’re more than full and we’ll have to sort out what we’re doing when the weather gets colder.”
“Yes, Uncle.” Dora let her relieved sigh drift out quietly.
“I could do with a strong cup of tea. Do you suppose Slugger’s put the kettle on?”
Examination over! Dora smiled, and took her uncle’s arm. “I’m sure he has. In fact, I think he’s even baked a cake.”
The Colonel said something that might have been, “God help us then,” but Dora couldn’t quite tell because of the pipe.
Part Three
Ruby, fourteen two hands of strawberry roan, was brushed to within an inch of her life. Her tack had been polished to the best of Steve’s ability. Given that it was as ancient as some of the Follyfoot horses, it gleamed quite impressively.
The pony chewed at her bit and eyed the people walking towards her.
“Nice shape,” said John Bailey, admiring the pony’s well-bred legs and muscly rump. “How did you come to have her here? She doesn’t look like a crock.”
“Good pony, bad owners,” said the Colonel economically. “They overfaced her with some jumps and she started napping at everything. They weren’t very experienced and found her too much for them. Dora’s been schooling her and now she’s trotting over cavaletti without turning a hair. It’s only a matter of time before she starts jumping again. She needs a gentle touch. Might be just the thing for your Sandra. She’s only about nine; a lovely pony.”
‘Your Sandra’ saw Ruby’s kind eyes and pricked ears and liked her on sight. She wasn’t Jimmy…but then Jimmy, to all intents and purposes, was lost forever. She wondered just where on the farm Jimmy was hiding. Dora had assured her in a phone call during the week that Jimmy would be out of sight.
Sandra caressed Ruby’s neck and the mare nuzzled her gently. She was sweet; Sandra saw that. Despite her previous owners her nature was pleasant. “Can I try her, Dad?”
The Colonel led Ruby to the empty field where Dora had set up cavaletti. “My niece Dora will be here soon. She’s out exercising one of the other horses. You can talk to her about Ruby…but try her for yourself first.”
Sandra found the mare as different from Jimmy as she could imagine. Ruby’s gait was sleek and slippery, her mouth soft after the riding school toughness of Jimmy’s. She didn’t have to kick to increase the pace; merely squeeze and the mare changed gear with the quiet power of an Aston Martin. Sandra felt a pang of guilt; Jimmy, even on his best days, had never moved like this.
“Try the cavaletti,” shouted her father, and Sandra faced the mare towards them. The cavaletti, horizontal poles mounted on x-shaped side supports, were positioned at their highest, so they were almost small jumps. When they were at their lowest, they were only a few inches off the ground and served the purpose of making horses pick up their legs when trotting over them.
Ruby pricked her delicate ears, snorted, and popped over them. Dora’s daily schooling had given her her confidence back. Sandra pushed the mare up into third gear.
After a spirited canter around the field, Sandra trotted to the fence with a huge grin on her face – the type of grin her Dad hadn’t seen since Jimmy vanished. “Alright then?” he said.
“Alright, Dad, she’s champion!” Sandra halted the mare. “She’s too good to waste on the riding school, though. She’ll be ruined by the beginners.”
“That’s why I’m getting her for you, lass. So’s you can go to shows and suchlike. Your own pony. No sharing with t’students like you did with Jimmy. What d’ye think?”
Sandra pushed her bobbed fair hair behind her ears. Her own pony! If only Jimmy had been...! But Jimmy was safe now, safe forever. And her own secret. It seemed like fate, that such a good mare was coming from the same place where Jimmy now lived. “Oh, Dad! That’s fantastic!”
As she dismounted she was aware of the pretty girl from the TV show walking towards the field.
“Hello, you must be Sandra.” Dora smiled, and managed a careful wink when she was sure nobody else was looking.
Sandra grinned. “And you must be Dora. Ruby’s ever so nice.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Dora took Ruby’s bridle while Sandra dismounted. “All our horses are nice. Would you like to meet them?”
“I’d love to.” Sandra met Dora’s eyes and the secret passed between them.
“Come on, let’s take Ruby to the stables while your Dad and my Uncle talk about her,” Dora said conversationally, as she shut the gate.
“Where is he?” hissed Sandra eagerly when they were out of earshot.
“In the back stalls, well out of sight,” responded Dora. “We must put Ruby away properly first, or else it’ll look suspicious. Are you sure you like her?”
“She’s gorgeous. She’s not Jimmy – no horse is! – but she’s a darling, and I’m sure I’ll love her.”
“Good. I think she’s just right for you. You’ve got kind hands. Now, this is her stable here. Can you untack her while I find some brushes?”
Together they gave Ruby a quick brush down, then Sandra was eager to say hello to Jimmy.
“Through here.” Dora took her to the oldest part of the stables, where the loose boxes were all indoors and the lighting left a lot to be desired. If you wanted to hide a horse, here was the place.
“Jimmy!” exclaimed Sandra, and the result was tremendous.
Jimmy squealed in excitement, and kicked his good foreleg against the door of the box again and again. His whickers of greeting were so emotional and happy Dora had to turn away, and as for Sandra…she simply ran towards him, flung her arms around his sweet chestnut head and cried buckets as the horse whickered and snorted and stamped delightedly.
Dora wandered into Kalinka’s stable and pretended to pull straw out of the mare’s mane. She spent more time carefully wiping under her eyes so her tears didn’t mess up her eyeliner.
“What’s all that racket?” The Colonel’s large frame blotted out most of the light. Dora gasped, and frantically scrubbed at her face.
Once his eyes had become accustomed to the dimness, he registered that Sandra was hugging the new pony Fred as if he were her long lost brother. The pony was nuzzling the girl’s back and whickering happily.
“Good grief!” exclaimed John Bailey, peering around the Colonel. “It’s Jimmy!”
“Jimmy? Can’t be. It’s a rag and bone pony called Fred.” The Colonel did some fast thinking. With Dora involved, two and two made eleven. “Isn’t it, Dora? Dora?”
Hiding her face in the shadows, Dora said: “Yes, it’s Fred. An old man left him here. Fred’s lame and the old man is broke.”
“There you go, John, it’s Fred. Must look a lot like your old Jimmy, eh?”
“Bloody identical, Geoffrey. That’s Jimmy. Isn’t it, Sandra? Sandra?”
Sandra said slowly, “Well, it looks like Jimmy, but it must be his twin brother. I was confused in the darkness in here. And I wanted it to BE Jimmy. But how could Jimmy have got here? It’s miles from home, and anyway, Dora says this pony is Fred.”
“Hmmph.” Her father pushed past the Colonel and Dora and grabbed Jimmy’s headcollar. “It IS Jimmy. The old man must have found him and brought him here.”
“It can’t be,” wailed Sandra, images of the Hunt and its hounds looming in front of her eyes. Jimmy had been safe….safe!! If only he’d been quiet and not welcomed her so loudly! “Jimmy ran away! He’s lost…lost!” She started to sob and it was a race between her father and Dora as to who would comfort her quickest. Size and strength beat sweetness; John’s arms encompassed his shaking daughter.
“Well, John, if it IS Jimmy, he’s in the right place, eh?” said the Colonel. “I’d offered you Ruby for fifty pounds plus Jimmy. What do you say?”
John Bailey had been a horse dealer most of his adult life. He had a sixth sense for dodgy deals, and until this moment would never had put the words Colonel Maddox and dodgy deal in the same sentence. There was something strange going on here…but he’d swear the Colonel didn’t know about it… “Done,” he said, and felt his daughter relax in his arms.
He couldn’t understand why Dora burst into noisy and somehow grateful tears.
* * *
“You should have been honest with me. Both of you.” The Colonel stood up, with an effort, from his office chair and glared at Dora and Steve.
“But Uncle, he would have sent Jimmy to the Hunt!” Dora twisted her handkerchief between her fingers before wiping her face and smearing eyeliner over her cheeks.
“That’s no excuse for dishonesty. Did you really think I’d let that pony go for hounds’ meat if you’d told me the full story?”
“I don’t know.” It was a whisper. Dora stared at the old, worn carpet as if memorising its pattern.
“Dora! You’ve been irresponsible. And Steve too. I thought the one thing both of you had learned over the last God knows how many months was a bit of responsibility. If you’d have come to me when you found the pony, instead of inventing some cock and bull story about an old man, I could have phoned John Bailey, come to an agreement and saved us all from an embarrassing situation.” He sighed with heartfelt exasperation. “The only good thing that’s come out of this is that John and Sandra have had a long chat and John’s agreed that any other old horses they have come here instead of to the hunt.”
“Only?” queried Dora, the old spark coming back into her eyes. “That’s a huge step for a man who’d happily condemn a horse to death at the first sign of weakness. And what about Jimmy? He’s got a home for life now. Life…not the hounds’ feed bowl.”
“Dora…Dora. There’s a lot you still don’t understand about country people in this part of the world. There’s a natural cycle and for them sending an old horse to the hunt perpetuates that. We might not like it, might not agree with it, but it still happens. The actual end is still the same for the horse – quick and painless – it’s just what happens afterwards.”
“But Jimmy still has years left in him! Years! He can still be ridden, not everyday, but good enough for Slugger’s beginners’ lessons on soft ground,” cried Dora passionately. “How could ANYONE consider putting him down?”
“For people like John it’s a financial decision. I’ve told you… any future old horses he has will come here.”
Dora edged towards the window and rested her cheek against the dusty, faded curtain. Outside the sun blazed cheerfully. “How many more John Baileys are there up here?” she whispered, almost to herself. “How many more old horses won’t live their lives out in peace?”
But only Steve heard her.
The Colonel said, “I’ll ask Slugger for some tea. Let’s put this behind us, treat it as a lesson learned, and for God’s sake next time talk to me!” Pipe in hand, he stomped to the kitchen. High dudgeon swirled in the air behind him.
“You can’t save them all, girl,” Steve said gently.
She felt his hand on her shoulder; warm, comforting. Her eyes were fixed on the bucolic scene of horses and ponies in the field on the hill, her thoughts morbidly on all the Jimmys she hadn’t yet met. Had she seen the tender look on Steve’s face as he studied the soft curve of her cheek, her spirits would have flown with joyous abandon.
“But I can try, Steve. I can try.”
“You can try, girl” he agreed. He squeezed her shoulder. “You can try.”
The end
© 2007 Sabrina Davis