‘Not as fit as you used to be,’ my father observed with a grin, leaning on the gate.
‘Nothing like! Since when did sitting on a horse take it out of you?’
‘That’s what they all say. But you won’t need to be fit on Agnes. You really will just sit there. This one’s more of a ride.’
‘But he is heavenly, Dad.’ I leaned forward and stroked his neck.
‘Oh, he is,’ he agreed cheerfully.
Once again he’d done his bit: exercised the note of caution by proffering the Datsun, but secretly hoping I’d go for the Ferrari, which, naturally, I did.
‘You don’t want to try her, then?’
‘Not sure I’ve got the energy.’
‘You’ll need a bit more puff for a few hours’ hunting.’
‘I know,’ I said breezily, ‘but the adrenalin will kick in.’
‘And I have to be honest, Poppy, I don’t know if he’s hunted. I bought him as an eventer. Thought he might do for the Wilkinson girl. No idea if he hunts.’
‘Don’t worry; if he events, he’ll hunt. It’s all hedges and ditches, isn’t it? It’ll be meat and drink to him.’
I vaulted out of the saddle. Who was this woman? Assuring her reckless dad, a man who lived by the seat of his pants and on the smell of an oily rag, that he was fussing unnecessarily? That life, in fact, was a breeze? Leaping on and off strange thoroughbreds when she hadn’t ridden for ten years? Abandoning her children to her neighbour yet again, in order to do so? A woman who’d had a sniff of another life, that’s who. An intoxicating whiff, from beyond the village green, of a life where women wore grey cashmere a lot, hunted weekly, shopped in Fortnum’s and, more importantly, snared attractive men. Hope, Emma … I gritted my teeth. A woman who, after that phone call with Sam the other day – me in my cold little cottage, if you recall, him on his hunter in his wet shirt – had gone to bed every night since imagining galloping behind fawn and black hounds at the front of the field, tucked in behind the pink coats. Sam and I leaping a hedge side by side, grinning delightedly at one another as we landed, him admiring my seat, and then, perhaps at the next fence, Sam looking at me so admiringly he bogged it, misjudged the take-off, came off. Away I sped to catch his loose horse. Led it back to where he was staggering, muddy and abashed, to his feet. Held it, prancing, while he clambered on, a gash to his head, a breathless ‘Thanks, Poppy!’ before we cantered off to join the field again: me, glancing over my shoulder to check he was OK; him, slightly dazed – could have been my beauty, could have been the bump to his head – but desperate not to let me out of his sight, not to let me get away.
I’d turned into a woman with a mission. But that, I told myself, was all I wanted. An admiring look, a sniff of another life, then I’d drop it. Because, frankly, I could take it or leave it. Could go back to my other life, my cottage, my children, their head lice, happy in the knowledge that I’d drawn admiring gasps from Sam and the rest of the village. Oh yes, naturally they’d all be watching, standing at that particular hedge as if it were Beecher’s Brook. Happy they’d all seen me in a different light, in a ‘Wow, who’s that girl?’ light. That was all I needed. Honest.
We’ll see.
My father and I shared a quick lunch, courtesy of our old friend Mr Heinz – Dad doling it out with a spoon that had more than a sporting chance of having just doled out the cat food – and then, when I’d admired the new canary singing his little heart out in the bathroom, I made a move. Together we loaded Thumper into the lorry – obviously he went in like a dream, no digging in of heels in a Thelwell-like manner for him – then mentally ticked off a list of everything I needed.
‘Tack, rugs, hay nets – it’s all in the cab. OK, love?’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘And I’ve put a couple of feeds in, one for tonight and one for tomorrow.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘And you reckon your shed will be fine?’
‘No, I had a look and it’s tiny, and too full of rubbish, so I rang the farmer with the sheep at the back