Bandages and Bute

By

Sabrina

Set after “Uncle Joe”

Dora sat on the old pontoon that jutted into the pond, squinting a little in the sun. Summer’s heat had gone and winter – and all the dark bleakness it could bring – hovered only a few months away. She broke a splinter of rotting wood from the plank beside her and threw it like a dart into the water. A flash of movement told her a fish had inspected and discarded it.

Inspected and discarded; much like herself. Dora sighed. Why hadn’t Joe Rimmington mentioned his fiancée when they first met, instead of flirting with her and making her feel special? Maybe he was that sort of man, she told herself. The kind to whom flirting comes naturally.

Steve had been odd to her since then, too. Oh, it was fine for him to chat Tina up but not fine for Dora to fall for Joe. And it’s not, Dora thought fiercely, that Steve wants me for himself, he’s made that clear enough over the last couple of years. Men!

She threw another splinter into the water and a shadow fell across her. Startled, she turned to see the Colonel lowering himself creakily beside her.

“We’ll have to get Steve and Ron to fix this old pontoon up,” he said conversationally, pulling his cap over his eyes. He swung his legs over the edge and kicked them back and forth like a boy, watching the shadows they cast over the water.

“They don’t have time,” Dora said. “We’re full up. The horses keep them busy.” She didn’t look at her uncle but watched, with a pang of envy, two birds wheeling easily in the sky against the sun as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

“The horses are still out at grass during the day. There’s plenty of time to get routine maintenance done before winter sets in. I’ll ask them to get onto it.” He patted her shoulder; was he telling her this was something she should be doing herself now she owned Follyfoot, or was he teaching her what she needed to know to run the farm in its entirety? The pat felt apologetic, the Colonel’s way of saying sorry for interfering.

“Thanks, Uncle.”

“As for you, young lady, I’ve a job you might be interested in.”

“Is it a horse?” Dora felt a stab of interest. Follyfoot might be full, but her heart was always open to a horse in need.

“Several, in fact. I had a phone call this morning from Silvia Corcoran, who has an eventing yard about an hour away. Her husband Matthew is the son of a chap who was in my regiment, and I’ve always stayed in touch. Anyway, Silvia has to go into hospital for a week or so, and is looking for someone reliable to live in, help take care of her horses and keep them exercised. I thought of you.”

Dora turned and saw her Uncle’s face screwed up in a squint, his face to the sun. It was an inscrutable, unreadable expression that told her something was up. “Why me?”

“Dora, you need a break from here. Just for a few days.”

“No, I don’t. I’m fine. I live here. This is my home.” Her mouth set in a determined line and the Colonel sighed.

“Dora, you had a rough time with Joe Rimmington, and I don’t know what’s going on between you and Steve but you don’t look happy. I’m offering you a holiday.”

“Working in someone’s yard? That’s a holiday?”

“For you it is. “ He gave his crooked grin. “These are superb horses, Dora. I couldn’t think of anyone else to recommend who would look after them so well and ride them to their capabilities.”

Dora’s lips twitched at the compliment.

“Take a few days away from here, Dora. Clear your head. And your heart.” He put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed.

She sighed, seeing the sense in it. “Okay, uncle, I’ll do it. But what about Follyfoot?”

“I’m sure Steve and Slugger can run it for a week. I’ll keep an eye on them for you. Come on, it’s tea time. Slugger’s baked a cake.”

Dora pulled a face. “I’d rather stay here I think!” But she scrambled to her feet and walked beside the Colonel, deep in thought.

* * *

Steve came to her room three days later when she was packing a week’s worth of clothing.

Her monogrammed leather suitcase lay open, jumbled with sweaters folded awkwardly, at least two pairs of jodhpurs and countless loose socks already intertwined. Dora dumped her makeup bag on top of the pile. Beside it, on the bed, lay her tweed hacking jacket; her black top boots with their boot trees holding them upright stood to attention on the floor.

“Why are you going?” He leaned against the doorjamb, unwilling to venture inside. The open case, the jodhpurs she so rarely wore around Follyfoot, the bulging makeup bag, said Dora was already mentally in another place.

“Uncle Geoffrey asked me to.” She didn’t look at him, she was absorbed in trying to make the suitcase shut.

“Is that the only reason?”

Dora leaned on top of her suitcase. “It’s a chance to ride really good horses for a week.”

“What’s wrong with Copper?”

“Nothing! Nothing! He’s perfect. Steve, it’s – oh, I don’t want to talk about it!” Frustrated, she shoved the suitcase across her bed; it was still inches from shutting. She wiped a surreptitious hand across her face.

Steve sighed. “If you won’t talk, I can’t help.”

Dora stared out the window. “Can you shut my bag for me? Please?”

Another hand crept to her face.

Wordlessly Steve sat on her suitcase, ignoring crunchy sounds from her makeup bag, and snapped the locks shut. “Anything else, your ladyship?”

“Oh, don’t!” Dora’s voice broke.

Steve fought hard against the impulse to go to her. Instead, he said: “If you don’t really want to go, then don’t. They can get another girl groom for a week.” He knew it wasn’t the real reason, and waited to hear what she’d say.

She swung around, eyes too bright. “I need to get away, Steve. What happened with Joe, and there was you with that gypsy girl…”

“Tina. She has a name. Tina.” He moved back to the doorjamb.

“Tina.” Dora swallowed. “It still hurts.”

“Growing up hurts, Dora. All of it. Running from it doesn’t stop it.” He folded his arms.

Dora slung her hacking jacket over one arm and picked up her boots with one hand and the suitcase with another. “Can you look after Copper for me, Steve?” she said steadily. “I’ll only be gone a week.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

Reluctantly Steve moved away so she could get past. She was on the landing and down the stairs before he could offer to take the suitcase for her, and he followed slowly, shaking his head.

By the time he was in the kitchen Dora had slung her gear into the tiny boot of the Colonel’s sports car and in the three big strides it took him to get to the door Dora had jumped in the car and the Colonel, enjoying the sunshine on his face, had gunned the motor and sent the little car hurtling down the hill.

* * *

The yard was spotless. Dora was so used to Follyfoot she never noticed the straw that gently littered the ground no matter how often you swept it, or the mud that stuck to your shoes even in sunny weather. The Follyfoot muck heap had a life form of its own, and there was never enough time to think about painting the stable doors to protect the wood.

So when the Colonel jerked the handbrake on as the car growled to a halt, and Dora stepped out onto gravel raked to perfection, she was jolted for a moment, back to the days when she lived with her parents and the rare rides she had were at places that looked like this.

Big tubs of petunias flowered defiantly despite the approaching winter; red and white, they were prettily accented with a tumble of blue convolvulus which rioted down the sides of the tubs. Perfectly controlled Virginia creeper was turning the end wall of one stable block a defiant sunset red. Cypress trees grew in weedless half-barrels carefully painted white and green.

The stables themselves had dazzling whitewashed walls with glossy dark green doors, over which several elegant, well-bred heads popped over to see what was happening and who had arrived.

The Colonel grinned at Dora’s stunned face. “A far cry from Follyfoot, eh, Dora? Even my own place doesn’t look like this.”

“It’s – amazing.” There wasn’t a blade of straw to be seen anywhere on the concrete yard.

“Not what you expect in rural Yorkshire, but Silvia is looking for businesses to sponsor her riding. One has to impress company directors. Especially if they turn up unexpectedly after Sunday lunch, for instance.” The Colonel crunched from the gravel into the yard. “Matt? Matthew? Silvia?”

Dora’s first impression of Silvia Corcoran, when she appeared from the loose box right down the far end, was of an ethereal beauty who didn’t look as if she had the strength to lift a broom let alone ride in three day events. Closer up, Silvia’s waiflike slimness was wiry, and the hair that sprang in a soft pale gold cloud around her head and shoulders framed a face that was both pretty and determined. From a distance she looked Dora’s age; close up her eyes had wrinkles from squinting into the sun and Dora thought she was around thirty.

“Dora.” She held out a slim paw that hid a handshake as strong as Steve’s. “Geoff’s so kind to ask you to help out. We didn’t know where to turn to. Tibby Turner – you MUST know Tibby, she’s an absolute marvel with young horses – Tibby broke her leg last week when one of her youngsters kicked her. She was going to help me and I’ve been at my wit’s end since then. I can’t cancel the hospital as I’ve been waiting months and we’re SO glad you can help.”

“I –“

“Now, I’ll show you where to stow your stuff. You’ll be sharing the cottage with Janet and Pam.” She walked so quickly Dora had trouble keeping up, loaded with her suitcase and boots.

The cottage was whitewashed and would have been pretty in a chocolate box way if the garden had been allowed grow and roses planted around the door. But it was clear all the glamour was for the potential sponsors. Tucked out of sight of the stables, the cottage’s front garden was simply mown grass which grew in tufts around the wall and the fence where nobody had clipped it back. The front door was the same dark green as the stables, but the paint was old and starting to peel.

Silvia flung the front door open and marched upstairs, Dora following behind and thumping her suitcase on every second stair. “Bed’s here, bathroom is there. You and the girls can work out a roster for cleaning the bathroom and kitchen while you’re here. You girls cook for each other unless Matt makes a casserole, which he does sometimes.” She paused. “You brought jodhpurs with you?”

Dora, out of breath, nodded.

“Good.” Silvia’s smile was beatific.

Dora was relieved. So she’d be riding some of those glamorous horses!

“Because we don’t wear jeans to work here.” Silvia looked pointedly at Dora’s jeans, which were the cleanest pair she possessed. Dora wondered for a mad second what Silvia would make of Ron Stryker. “You never know when a sponsor is going to turn up. We have to keep up appearances. Why don’t you get changed, and meet us back in the yard? Janet and Pam are out exercising the horses at the moment, but they’ll be back anytime now and we can have a cuppa in the tack room and get to know each other before I show you the horses.” Another flash of smile and Silvia was off, tripping down the stairs, running a finger along the banister as she went to check for dust.

Dora sat on the single bed and gave a huge sigh. She had the uncomfortable feeling that her uncle’s view of this week as a holiday bore no connection with reality. Slowly she unlocked her suitcase – it sprang open forcefully because Steve had sat on it – and pulled out her jodhpurs. The scent of Follyfoot came from her bag, wafting from a sweater she hadn’t had time to wash. Dora buried her nose in it and felt tears sting her eyes. She was a fool! An idiot! She didn’t belong here, she belonged at Follyfoot with Steve and Slugger and Ron.

It was only when she heard the clatter of hooves on concrete that she hastily changed out of her jeans and pulled on her jodhpurs and boots. Wiping carefully under her eyes she wandered downstairs, noticing how neat it all was. Even the horsy magazines on the coffee table were stacked with military precision. Surely the sainted sponsors didn’t venture into the grooms’ quarters? Dora shook her head and headed for the yard.

She found her uncle in the tackroom sipping tea with a harried-looking man he introduced as Matt, Silvia’s husband. Matt had untidy longish brown hair and a lived-in face out of which kind blue eyes sparkled. “I can’t get Sil to stop for a moment, Colonel,” he said, watching his wife help untack a large bay tied to a ring outside one of the loose boxes. “God only knows how the hospital is going to keep her there for a week. Under sedation, I should think.”

Dora didn’t like to ask what Silvia was going in for; it seemed rude. But it appeared nobody was going to tell her, either, so she decided she’d probably rather not know. She helped herself to a cup of tea while the Colonel and Matt talked about Matt’s father, who had apparently had to go into a nursing home.

Their conversation was background noise; Dora looked at the stables and thought that this was what she’d dreamed about all her childhood. Having a place like this for herself, wonderful horses, gorgeous stables, saddles that gleamed in the sun, almost as glossy as the horses themselves. But she’d found Follyfoot first, and now wouldn’t swap it for the most glamorous stable yard in the world, nor change anything about it, not even a speck of dirt let alone any of the hairy, ancient horses.

Half an hour later Dora had learned that Matt was the business brains and Silvia the star rider; they both had the determination to see Silvia get to the top. They had seven horses: three established topline eventers and four young horses with potential. Silvia had her eye on a lovely colt she wanted to buy should Matt come up with the goods on another sponsor in the next month or so, or persuade their major sponsor to part with more money. Dora was told the names of the horses but as the tour was conducted at Silvia’s lightning pace she’d forgotten most of them except that one, who had the most enormous jump, was called Frog.

An hour later the Colonel had left with a kiss for Dora and a promise to pick her up in a week’s time.

Janet and Pam - plump, fair twins in their early twenties - showed Dora the feed shed, which like everywhere else was dustless, with the grains kept in labelled lidded bins into which even the most determined mouse couldn’t break. Hay was piled with mathematical precision, with a broom propped pointedly against the wall next to it. Janet swiftly swept up the few wisps of hay which had fallen onto the ground while Pam ran Dora through the feed list and explained the vitamin and mineral supplements each horse was given every night.

“Silvia likes us to start evening stables at four, with the horses fed at five.”

At Follyfoot, evening stables – such as it was – happened after afternoon tea. The horses were let into the yard while Dora, Steve and Ron skipped out any dirty straw. A rattle from the feed shed sent each horse back into his own stable expectantly. She had a hunch nothing as carefree would take place here.

She was right. The stables were skipped out with the horses tied up inside. Dora was assigned to a sinewy black mare who kept turning her quarters and threatening to kick. The name above her stall, exquisitely hand painted, said Dark Star of Heaven, but neither Star nor Heaven seemed an appropriate pet name, Dora reflected as she dodged first the mare’s hooves and then her teeth.

Dora “did” a huge grey after that, who was far more relaxed and dribbled happily all down her back as she picked his hind feet out.

The other girls decided it was Dora’s turn to sweep the yard while they made the feeds, and by the time all the horses were fed Dora was parched and dying for a cup of tea – even one of Slugger’s heavily brewed mugs of liquid tannin would have been a relief.

There were rosters for everything, she discovered. Janet and Pam had a cheerful, jolly-hockey-sticks approach that told Dora they’d been prefects at their boarding school. They drew up a special roster for Dora’s week, allocating her her share of cleaning and – heaven help them all – cooking duties, as well as bath times. Dora was slightly stunned by it all.

“We usually get up at six,” Janet explained over a supper she’d cooked of spaghetti with a rich tomato and garlic sauce. “As you can see we muck out before breakfast, feed the horses and then ourselves. We usually tidy the cottage and then the yard while the horses digest breakfast, and then we exercise them. It’s all here in the roster. Look, I’ve given you Blackie for an hours’ roadwork tomorrow before lunch. Pam will go with you on Frog and I’ll be schooling Jassy in the dressage arena. Now I’ve put you down to make sandwiches for lunch…” Dora’s eyes glazed.

Later Dora tossed and turned in her strange bed, unused to the window on the wrong side of the room, not liking the too-firm mattress and pillows. She thought of Follyfoot, and Slugger’s breakfasts, and most of all Steve. She’d been a fool to leave it all.

Especially, she thought bitterly, as she couldn’t even run a bath for herself until nine tomorrow night.

* * *

Pam and Janet bounded out of the cottage at 6.15 the next morning like joyful Labrador puppies, Dora rubbing her eyes and several strides behind them.

Once again she got the mare – Blackie – and the grey, who was called Dom. She’d never wanted a big plate of bacon and eggs more by the time she’d finished with them but breakfast was a bowl of muesli, which Dora had never much liked at her Swiss finishing school and didn’t much like now. She was hungry enough to eat it all but thought privately the molasses-laden mix the horses had would have been more tasty.

The day passed in a blur. Roadwork on Blackie was every bit as challenging as mucking the mare out. She saw ghosts in every hedge; oated up to the eyeballs, she pulled at the bit and tossed her head, needing every bit of Dora’s skill to keep her on the bit and under control. Dora didn’t mind that; in her own way the mare was a little like Copper.

After lunch the girls had a couple of hours off before exercising the other horses. Dora fell asleep in an armchair and Janet and Pam, with terrible giggles, tickled her awake when it was time to go riding again.

Dom was the opposite of Blackie. Steady and willing, the rangy grey strode along the lanes and bridle paths quietly, responding to Dora’s requests with a polite flick of one ear.

“He’s a star,” Janet said. “He’s so calm competition days are a real pleasure with him. You don’t realise how fast he goes until you see his times after the cross-country.”

They rode back into the yard to find Matt waiting impatiently.

After assuring them that Silvia was as well as could be expected, he said: “We’ve got a potential sponsor coming the day after tomorrow. He owns a brewery and has money to burn.”

Janet and Pam squealed with joy and planned who would show off which horse. Matt interrupted.

“The guy’s seen Sil ride Frog and Jassy. He especially likes Jassy, and would like to buy her for his daughter when Sil’s finished with her.” Matt’s face was impassive. Horses came and went all the time; those that weren’t good enough or didn’t have the necessary courage were sold on, replaced with those who had the potential to get to the top. “So tomorrow, get Jassy looking good. How’s she jumping?”

“She’s still a bit unsure over the uprights,” Janet told him. “She keeps kicking them out. But she’s young, remember. Sil’s only shown her once.”

“Rap her, then. We need her to clear those jumps by a mile when he comes.”

Dora shuddered. “Couldn’t you put the jumps down a bit instead? Rapping’s rather cruel,” she said tentatively, disguising the anger that was welling inside her.

“Any horse can clear pony jumps,” Matt said briskly. “Jassy may be a novice but we’re heading to the top with her. Dora, you’re here to help us with what we do. No offence intended girl, but this is my place and rapping Jassy is my decision. And Silvia’s.” And you’re going to do it, said the curt nod of his head before he turned away with a brief pat for Dom and Frog.

Dora fumed, untacking Dom with unnecessary force, pinching him with the girth buckles. “Sorry,” she whispered, rubbing him when he flinched.

Rapping – how barbaric! When a horse didn’t lift its legs high enough over a jump, rapping was a rather nasty way to fix the problem. You had someone either side of the jump, holding the top rail or a separate piece of wood. When the horse went over the jump, your helpers lifted up the rail so it rapped the horse on the shins. The horse, next time you jumped him, remembered and jumped higher to avoid the pain.

In Dora’s view it was a poor substitute for good, patient schooling. And it could make horses scared to jump and turn them fearful and potentially nasty. Silvia and Matt Corcoran dropped several points in Dora’s estimation at that moment.

* * *

Dora felt like a traitor the next day as she and Pam stood either side of a jump with a long piece of bamboo stretching between them.

Jassy was a pretty mare, a deep mahogany bay with a jaunty white star on her forehead and two long and flashy white socks on her forelegs.

“Aren’t you going to bandage her legs?” Dora asked. All the horses were bandaged for exercise to support their tendons and keep them warm and flexible.

“She’s not likely to get the benefit of a rap through bandages,” Janet said authoritatively.

“I’d hardly call rapping a benefit to any horse,” Dora snapped.

“Spare me the bleeding hearts.” Janet rolled her eyes, her jolly-hockey-sticks demeanour vanishing. “Look kiddo, you’re here to help us. From what I’ve heard of your Follyfoot there isn’t a horse in the place that could even go into the novice class. This is a competition yard. Silvia’s going to be famous. She might win the World Cup one day. You don’t get to the top by being soft. Everyone raps their horses. Everyone.” She glared at Dora, who glared back.

Dora was so angry at the insult to Follyfoot – and Copper by proxy – that she couldn’t say a word. Furious thoughts whirled through her head.

Did her uncle know what practices went on here? Obviously not or he wouldn’t have offered her the opportunity to come here for a week. Some opportunity!

“Are you going to help or not?”

Dora took a deep breath and walked away.

“Come back here, Dora!”

She kept walking.

Hooves sounded behind her and in an instant Janet had whirled Jassy round in front of her to block her way.

“I won’t help you hurt that horse,” Dora said steadily. “It’s wrong.”

“Just WHO do you think you are?” Janet hissed, making Jassy dance about perilously close to Dora’s toes.

“Oh, leave the stuck-up cow, Janny!” Pam called. “The bamboo is really light. I can rap her myself for you. We don’t need her help.”

With a final glare at Dora, Janet trotted the mare away and Dora ran for the gate, fumbling it open and slamming it behind her. From its glossy white five-barred safety she watched, compelled, as the sisters worked with Jassy. She couldn’t tear herself away, was too concerned for the pretty mare.

To her relief Janet rode Jassy in for ages, warming her up before turning her towards the jumps. The mare cleared most of them but hit the second leg of the double and a simple post and rails with her hind legs.

Pam went into action with the bamboo rod as Janet wheeled Jassy around to do the post and rails again. It was clear the mare hadn’t lifted her back legs high enough and was going to bring the top rail down again. So while the mare was in mid jump Pam lifted the rod sharply with exquisite timing, smacking it against the mare’s hind legs and making Jassy lift them with a grunt of pained surprise.

Dora winced.

When Janet turned her for another attempt at the jump Jassy cleared it by miles, fearful the jump would hurt her again if she didn’t. Janet and Pam made a fuss of the mare and then tried the same thing again at the double spread.

It was clear to Dora that it wasn’t so much a matter of Jassy not lifting her legs enough for the second leg, but that Janet had misjudged the length of stride needed between the two parts of the jump. Jassy was simply taking too long a stride and was having to collect herself in a hurry to make it over the second jump.

“Janet!” Dora tried to call her over, waving her arms.

Janet simply looked at her and then ignored her.

“Your stride is wrong!” Dora yelled. “Collect her more! Then she’ll clear it!”

Janet decided not to listen. What would a jumped-up Ambassador’s daughter working at a farm for old wrecks know about training an eventer? She turned the mare for another attempt at the double, checking that Pam was in place with the bamboo rod.

Thwack!

To Dora the sound was as awful as a gunshot. She watched the mare peck awkwardly on landing, her nose between her knees, Janet lurching forward onto her neck.

Swiftly Janet collected the mare, who by now was sweating and nervous, and cantered her around to the double again. Janet was a forceful rider and Jassy cleared the double, rather awkwardly.

Giving a thumbs up to her sister, she rode Jassy around the entire jumping course; the mare jumped with a swishing tail and ears back, not enjoying it, kicking her back legs high to avoid any more pain.

Dora couldn’t watch. She turned away, and began to trudge back to the stables when there was a rattle and thump, and a shout. Running back to the gate she saw Jassy, riderless and limping, trotting away from the double where Janet sat rubbing her ankle near the fallen rail of the second jump.

Pam ran towards the mare, who snorted and turned in the other direction.

Carefully Dora opened the gate and slipped through into the field. She held out her hand as if she had a treat on it, and walked slowly towards the stricken mare.

Jassy, clearly deciding that Dora had nothing to do with the pain in her leg or her unpleasant jumping experience, tentatively came towards her. Pam at least had the sense to stop and let Dora carefully take hold of Jassy’s reins.

“Poor girl.” Dora stroked the mare’s sweaty, shiny neck. “What have you done to yourself?”

The mare was reluctant to put her nearside foreleg to the ground, holding it with the toe of her hoof gently on the grass. Dora ran her hand down and felt the heat below the mare’s knee. Not a good sign.

Pam, walking up slowly, swore. Janet, limping slightly less than Jassy, groaned.

“We can’t tell Matt.”

“What’ll we do?”

“Bandages and Bute.”

The sisters ignored Dora, feeling the leg for themselves.

“We should have used bandages.”

“On the front legs at least.”

They glared at Dora as if it were all her fault, ignoring the fact that Dora had suggested using bandages in the first place.

“Shouldn’t you get the vet?” Dora said. “It feels like a tendon to me.”

The girls simply led the mare away without a reply. Dora had been sent to Coventry, a not unfamiliar position she remembered from her own boarding school days.

Pam shouted a reluctant parting shot over her shoulder. “Don’t you dare tell Matt, you posh cow, or you’ll regret it.”

Shaken, Dora ran in the opposite direction, across the jumping field, over the fence as if she were a horse herself. She pushed through heather turning a glorious russet without seeing it, skirted through a stand of beech and onto the bridle path that she’d ridden on the day before. She ran until her lungs ached and she couldn’t breathe, and finally leaned, sobbing for breath, against the cool trunk of an ancient oak.

Slowly she slid her back down the trunk until she was sitting on the tree’s roots. Above her the canopy of leaves were the colours of sunset; a slight breeze every so often tugged them from the branches and they swirled above the bridle path before sinking gracefully to the ground.

In the hour that she sat beneath the tree Dora decided that Matt had to be told. There was no possible way Jassy could be jumped tomorrow to show off for a man with a chequebook the size of Mars.

Bandages and Bute! She’d heard of Bute – phenylbutazone –an anti-inflammatory drug which provided pain relief for horses that had injuries such as Jassy’s. The danger in giving Bute was that it killed the pain and inflammation so effectively that a horse could damage itself even further if asked to perform to normal standards or, worse, competition standards while the drug kept pain at bay. Worse still was the concept that Pam and Janet were going to give the horse the drug without consulting a vet. They were irresponsible and dangerous.

Dora looked at her wristwatch and sighed. Almost time for evening stables. There was a good chance she could catch Matt and let him know what had happened. Dusting her jodhpurs, she set off for the yard.

Matt was apparently still at the hospital with Silvia. Janet and Pam pointedly ignored her and were clearly expecting her to look after Blackie and Dom.

Firstly though she popped her head into Jassy’s stable. The mare’s forelegs were swathed in stable bandages, which was usual. If she looked carefully she could see extra strapping around the nearside leg.

Pam pushed her away roughly and stood between Dora and Jassy’s stable.

“You’ll ruin that horse,” Dora said defiantly before she headed for the feed shed.

As she scooped out the evening feeds for her two she noticed the first aid cabinet was unlocked, the door slightly open. Checking over her shoulder, she examined the contents. Bute in powder form, lots of it. Other drugs she hadn’t heard of, and a more conventional selection of worming powders, antibiotics and antiseptic powders. She swung the door back to its original position and finished her feeds.

Pam and Janet made sure she didn’t get the opportunity to speak to Matt that evening. Wordlessly they escorted her back to the cottage after evening feeds. Dora noticed that the cottage didn’t have a telephone. The only way she’d talk to Matt was if she knocked on his door, but that didn’t seem possible.

Pam cooked fish fingers and chips and they sat to a silent supper washed down with orange juice.

Half an hour later Dora realised the sisters had put some kind of tranquilliser in her juice. She felt unbearably weary, and if she turned her head quickly her vision blurred.

They watched her impassively from the sofa as she dragged herself upstairs, clutching the banister rail to stop herself from toppling over. Dora staggered along the door to her bedroom and lay on her bed, the room spinning around her. She HAD to tell Matt… this was dangerous and wrong… horses – and people – could be severely injured… she had to tell the Colonel…

But instead, she slept.

When Dora woke the next morning, dry-mouthed and heavy-headed from the sleeping pills, the sun was half way up the sky. She groaned and looked at her watch. Nearly ten. The twins had deliberately not woken her. Well, it served them right if they had to muck out her horses too.

Sponge bag in hand, she turned the doorhandle but her bedroom door refused to open.

Janet and Pam had locked her in.

Dora angrily threw her sponge bag on the bed. She strode to the window and assessed the drop to the ground. The window was small but she could squeeze through it. However, there weren’t any convenient trees to climb down on. The ground fell away on her side of the cottage, too, meaning that if she simply climbed out of the window and let go there was a chance she’d injure herself. Dora craned her neck. There was a drainpipe which looked to be reachable over to the right.

Encouraged, she dressed in jeans and plimsolls. Silvia’s jodhpur rule didn’t apply any more as far as she was concerned. Other rules had been too thoroughly broken.

Dora pushed the window open as far as she could, hearing the hinges creak. Taking a deep breath she hung onto the top of the window frame and crouched on the ledge, her bottom sticking out but her head still inside the room. Carefully she twisted and turned and unfolded until she was standing on the outer ledge, clutching the window frame for all she was worth and thinking the drainpipe looked further away than it had five minutes before.

She took a deep breath and shuffled to the very edge of the window frame. Hanging on with her left hand, she stretched her right arm and was rewarded with the drainpipe. She could just get her hand around it and clutch it.

Dora stretched her right leg out, feeling with her foot. Her hands were sweating: one on the window frame, the other on the drainpipe. She hooked the top of her foot over the drainpipe and thought, “What now?”

Spreadeagled against the pebbly render, she could go back inside or release her hold on the window and try to grab the drainpipe with both hands.

The thought of Jassy being forced to jump with an injured leg decided her. Dora shuddered and let go of the window, gripping to the drainpipe grimly with, suddenly, both hands.

Her legs clamped the pipe and slowly she edged her way down to the ground, rubber-soled plimsolls giving her purchase, knocking her knuckles on the wall, aware of the protesting creaking noise coming from the brackets that held the pipe in place.

It seemed an age, but finally she was on the ground, shaky yet triumphant.

Dora looked at her hands – the grazed knuckles, the imprint of the pipe brackets making red lines on her palms – and then up at the window. It seemed a long way away. She sucked on her knuckles as she crept around the side of the cottage and peeked into the windows to make sure the sisters weren’t about.

Crouching, Dora crept along the path to the stables, keeping in the shadow of the shrubby hedge. Hidden from view, she peered through the leaves to see a silver Jaguar parked in the visitor’s area. So the sponsor was here already.

Jassy’s stable doors were both open; the mare must be in the jumping field.

Thankfully there were more hedges to give her cover. These were higher, so horses in the field couldn’t see their mates in the stables and be distracted. Down to the left was the five-barred gate, which was undoubtedly where Matt and his visitor would be watching, possibly with Pam or Janet. So Dora walked quietly and casually to the right. She didn’t know what the girls had told Matt about her not being at the stables this morning but her guess was that the twins had said she was unwell.

At the far corner of the field the hedge gave way to individual shrubs which provided a deep green background to the smartly painted white fence. Dora squeezed in between two of them.

Down near the gate Pam was holding Dom, obviously ready to show him off. Matt was in earnest conversation with a heavyset middle-aged man. Beside him was a chubby dark girl, presumably the daughter who one day wanted to own Jassy.

Janet was warming Jassy up, cantering the mare in slow circles. A smart move, Dora realised; if the mare was lame it would show up more at the trot. Dora couldn’t believe Janet would be so cruel and irresponsible, acting as if nothing was wrong and the mare was fit, deceiving the sponsor and worse still, deceiving Matt and Silvia.

Janet sat down firmly, pushed the horse into a faster canter and turned her towards the first jump.

It was too much. Dora fought her way out of the shrubbery and sprinted along the side of the hedge. Matt’s eyebrows raised in surprise as Dora flipped the latch on the gate.

“Hi, Dora. How are you? Pam said you weren’t well.”

“Matt. You must stop Janet!” Dora gasped. “Jassy’s lame. Janet can’t jump her, she’ll ruin her!”

Matt frowned and looked at the mare, who’d cleared the first jump and was thundering down to the second. “She doesn’t look lame.”

“She’s on Bute, that’s why. She pulled a tendon when those two were rapping her yesterday.”

Pam glared at her, and the sponsor’s eyes bulged. Dora didn’t know how much horsy terminology he understood but had the impression his daughter understood every word.

Matt pulled Dora aside roughly. “Keep your voice down, Dora. Mr Broadbent there is keen to sponsor Sil. Don’t let him think there’s anything wrong.”

“But there IS,” Dora hissed. “Pam and Janet locked me in my room so I wouldn’t tell you.”

Matt shook his head. “This is insane. I know Geoff said you have your head in the clouds but I think you must be on some other planet.” He turned away from her and flashed Mr Broadbent a confident smile. “That’s a champion in the making,” he said loudly.

Janet rode Jassy into a tight left hand turn to aim her at the oxer jump, but the sudden sharp twist was too much for the mare’s foreleg. The horse lurched at the jump, grunting with pain, and simply smashed through it, falling to the ground and sending Janet sprawling in a somersault.

Dora screamed and ran towards the mare, who was trying to stand without putting weight on her foreleg. The reins were broken but there was enough for Dora to take hold of.

Jassy’s eyes rolled in fear and pain, and sweat streaked her shiny bay neck. Under the tight bandages Dora knew the leg would be more swollen than the day before.

Matt took charge. “Call a vet,” he stormed at Pam. “Say it’s urgent.”

As Pam bolted, Janet joined Dora at Jassy’s head. “Matt, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened there. She took off wrongly. I set her up right and –“

“Is it true, Jan? Did this mare hurt herself yesterday? Is she on Bute?”

Janet’s face gave him the answer.

“You idiot girl. You’ve probably just cost us that sponsorship. Get out of my sight.”

“But Matt –“

“Go.”

Dora soothed the horse while Matt spoke to Mr Broadbent. She heard the odd word such as ‘misunderstanding’ and an explanation about Silvia being in hospital and Matt not on hand to keep an eye on the grooms.

Mr Broadbent’s daughter joined Dora and stroked Jazzy’s nose. “She’s so lovely. Do you think she’ll still be able to compete?”

“I’m not sure,” Dora replied. “The vet can tell us more.”

“I’d love to have her, even if she can never jump again.” The girl was in her mid teens, Dora thought, and as dreamy about horses as she herself had been at the same age. “I’d just hack her about and ride her and love her. Forever.” She walked beside Dora, chattering, as the mare limped back to her stable.

* * *

“Are you sure you won’t stay?” Matt poured Dora a cup of tea. “Not even till Silvia gets out of hospital? You can stay in the big house with me if you like.”

Dora shook her head. “I’m sorry to leave you in the lurch but I can’t work with Pam and Janet. Not after what happened. Injuring Jassy and then locking me up.”

“I’m sorry. They’ve always been thoroughly trustworthy. I can’t believe they did what they did.”

“They wanted to protect you. To make sure you got the sponsorship. It was still wrong, though. Are you going to keep them on, after this?”

Matt stared through the window; outside a willow shimmered greenly. “If Sil or I had been here this wouldn’t have happened. I think everyone deserves a second chance, don’t you?”

Dora thought of the swift and calm conspiracy between the sisters, the readiness to cover up with bandages and Bute. It seemed very practiced. Second chance or twentieth? she wondered. There were second chances and second chances. The Colonel had given Ron countless second chances but then Ron was different. Follyfoot was different. Dora said nothing. She was conscious that she herself wasn’t prepared to give Matt, who believed in rapping his horses to make them jump, a second chance.

They sipped their tea.

“Matt, will Mr Broadbent still sponsor you, after today?”

“I think so. It’ll cost us a horse. His daughter wants Jassy and I think we’ll have to make that part of the deal. The vet said Jassy won’t be able to compete for at least a year. That’s a long time for us to keep a horse doing nothing and she might never reach her full potential with a leg that’s been damaged anyway. You were right, Dora. We should never have rapped her. It was a stupid shortcut to make. Broadbent accepted my explanation of what happened today and we’ll finalise things when Sil gets home.” He drained his mug. “Come on, pack your things. I’ll drive you home.”

* * *

The farm had never looked so welcoming. A recent shower had left a trail of mud down the middle of the yard. Shaggy heads looked inquisitively over doors with peeling paint and someone – probably Ron – had lost control of a wheelbarrow and left a pile of dirty straw in the middle of the yard. Copper saw Dora and whinnied joyously, kicking at his door and bobbing his head up and down. Old Ladybird ambled swaybacked across the yard, her lower lip flapping against the ground as she sniffed about.

Matt shook his head at the sight of it all. “So this is what you prefer?”

Dora smiled. “Absolutely.”

“I’ve got some paint left over. Next time I’m passing by, I’ll drop it in.” He waved goodbye. There was no point in telling him that having the paint wasn’t the point, it was finding the time to put it on the doors that was.

Dora picked up her suitcase and boots, and kicked open the gate to the farmhouse. It was tea time; through the window she could see Steve and Slugger laughing at something and Ron leaning back in his chair. She pushed open the farmhouse door, dumped her bags and walked into the kitchen.

“Them posh places has short workin’ weeks,” Slugger said by way of greeting, grabbing a mug from the dresser and filling it with tea so brown it was almost black. He handed it to her. “It’s only Thursday.”

“Enjoy yer ‘oliday?” Ron said, bringing his chair down with a thump. “Must’ve been like Butlins after ‘ere.”

“Some holiday. If I told you you wouldn’t believe me.” Dora sipped her tea and took a doorstep slice of bread spread thickly with butter and jam.

“Try us,” Slugger said.

“Where shall I start?” Dora pondered aloud, putting her head on one side and batting her eyelids. “Being locked in and climbing down a drainpipe? Being sent to Coventry by the other grooms for wanting to tell the owner they’d damaged a valuable horse?”

“Blimey,” Slugger muttered. “Fink I’d better put a fresh pot on.”

* * *

“So how was it, really? The horses must have been pretty special.” Steve stood beside Dora against the stone wall, looking into the sloping, tussocky field they used for training. The light was fading, turning everything to the grey of dusk.

“The stables were gorgeous, but I couldn’t stand their awful rosters. There’s a roster for everything, even baths. And I don’t trust those two girls an inch. They thought nothing about rapping a horse. And covering up a severe injury.” Dora heard her own voice rising but couldn’t do anything about it.

“Hush, it’s okay. You’re back home now.” Steve put a companionable arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “Aren’t you?” He sounded worried. He had wondered whether she’d be happy at Follyfoot with its crumbling buildings and ancient horses after a taste of life in a world full of thoroughbreds.