one might a child who’s run in the road and scared one enough to yell initially, that of course it wasn’t my fault, because I hadn’t been out before, but if only I’d gone to her first, she could have lent me something more suitable.
‘If only you’d asked, you could have had Clarissa’s pony. It’s hunted seven seasons, knows exactly how to behave. You are a goon, Poppy.’
I listened to this almost in a dream. It was said, certainly, in something more like her usual friendly voice as she relaxed her grip on my rein. And she was my friend; my good friend, who I could tell, surely? I opened my mouth to speak, but my mouth was so dry my teeth stuck to my upper lip. By the time I’d licked them free, Sam had ridden up beside her, mobile clamped to ear, and was talking to her, relaying what he was hearing to Angie. Angie, who, I suddenly noticed, had a mustard collar to her blue coat. Did that make her a hunt official? Like part of the secret police? My befuddled mind swam as she bestowed a dazzling smile on Sam, then, realizing the smile was inappropriate, adopted a grave expression as she listened to what he had to say, as indeed, I did too.
They’d found the hound, stone dead in a copse, apparently. A nasty gash to his head. Kicked, by the looks of things. Someone had even had the gall to hide him with some bracken.
Angie’s expression was no longer manufactured; there was genuine horror in her eyes as she gave a sharp intake of breath. Mary Granger, beside us, who was as tough as old rhino hide, put a hand over her mouth. Sam rode off, white-faced. And then it spread, in a rolling tide, around the field. The hound was called Peddler, it was Mark, the huntsman’s, favourite. He’d bred him and walked him as puppy. Yes, definitely kicked, and then hidden with a blanket of bracken – no, actually, a shallow grave had been dug, to secrete it. Never had I felt such fear. Never had my heart beat so loudly or had I felt so surrounded by a mob. The horses stood steaming, withers heaving, glad of the respite from galloping, and as they tossed their heads and their bits jangled, it seemed to me redolent of the jangle and click of the tricoteuse.
In a matter of moments, anger had replaced shock around me. How could someone? One of the children perhaps, but no, they’d all been through the Pony Club, knew how to behave. And most children were escorted. And to dig a grave … No, no, unthinkable, it must have been an adult, they stormed. But what a craven one. Word spread to the back of the field and I saw Polly and Grant and crew stop their laughter as their jaws dropped in horror. In that moment I also saw Emma Harding’s hard little grey eyes come round to seek mine. I met them, but only briefly. I turned away, trembling. Then, as I slowly raised my head, it was to see her ride across to talk to the master. To Sam.
The minutes ticked by. Angie was being sweet now, offering me her hip flask, perhaps feeling guilty for her earlier outburst, but I couldn’t tell her now, could I? Because why hadn’t I owned up immediately? Suddenly all the prisons in all the world sprang to mind, the convicts within staring out at me, gripping the bars, plaintive eyes saying: you see? That’s why we’re here. Because something happened and we didn’t own up. But accidents do happen, terrible ones – hit and runs, lashing out at the wife in an argument. Of course we didn’t mean it, but this is where we end up, this is how it happens. I nearly fell off my horse.
The whipper-in, the telephonic messenger who’d found the hound, arrived back. He ignored us and swept on, his mouth set in a grim line; he headed towards the hounds, who were at a distance to the rest of the field on the brow of the hill. We saw him canter steadily up to Mark the huntsman, all alone, still working his hounds, still drawing the covert. The last to know. As the message was conveyed, I saw Mark put his hand over his eyes, and with that gesture I knew I’d hurt someone very badly. One of the terrier men, on a