A taster of my current project....

CHAPTER ONE

“We thought, for once, that we might be early,” Cassandra Hinton sighed, gazing sadly at the long line of stables, over whose doors around twenty contented little pony faces looked out in excitement. “But we only got to the end of the lane when I realised that I’d forgotten my bridle, and after last time, what with leaving my girth and all, well…” Her voice tailed off, as she absentmindedly began to chew upon an already-bleeding nail. Della Carter, having just removed the burgundy travelling boots from the legs of her big bay gelding, Sylvester, gave a chuckle.

“I shouldn’t worry,” she told Cassandra brightly, “You’ve still got the DC’s welcoming speech to look forward to! And you didn’t have to help catch one of the other girl’s ponies when it took off out of the trailer! And anyway, you’re not the last to arrive. Jody’s not here yet!”

Cassandra, who always refused to answer to any name other than Cassie, continued to stand mournfully by the side of her family’s ancient horsebox, in which her New Forest pony, Clover, waited patiently. Observing the ongoing action around her, as the excited little Pony Clubbers buzzed around their stables like honeybees, Cassie seemed frozen to the spot, so great was her remorse at being late yet again. Suddenly her mother, Minnie, burst around the corner, face flushed, hair flying.

“Cassie!” she erupted, startling the youngster so that she almost jumped out of her skin, “Get the pony out! I told you, there’s no time to dawdle around; you should be ready!”

Della smiled wryly, tugging a reluctant Sylvester off to his stable. Some things, she thought to herself, will never change. Like the Hintons, always trying their best to arrive on time, and yet always being delayed by either some unforeseen misfortune, or else by the recurrence of Cassie’s habitual forgetfulness. And like the Bustle family, who actually made it their business to never be on time for anything.

Cassie, having finally snapped into action, helped her mother to lower the ramp, and then heaved herself in through the side door, almost tripping over her five-year-old brother, JJ, who was busily zooming his toy cars around the floor of the horsebox. In the back of the lorry, Clover stood squarely, munching contentedly on her half-full haynet, her kind, dark eyes almost concealed beneath a thick black forelock. She gave a sigh – Pony Club again - and gently clopped down the ramp. Dark bay Clover was one of the more elderly ponies attending camp. In her nineteen years, she had witnessed many Pony Club sights, and carried numerous youngsters up through the early ranks. She was one of the quieter, kinder mounts, but still could not have been described as ‘a push button pony,’ as seven years spent in a riding school had ensured that she had grown wise to the habits and traits of many a leg-flapping child rider. Now, with eager eyes and gentle clopping hooves, she followed Cassie to the barn, where everybody seemed to be assembling.

“Cassandra! How wonderful to see you!” the booming voice of Winifred Howles, the new District Commissioner, echoed off every barn wall, “For a little while we wondered what had happened to you!”

Cassie cringed; she did not need reminding of her lack of punctuality, nor did she appreciate the DC’s use of her full name. Blushing with embarrassment, she caught sight of the senior members clustered together on three straw bales. Dauntingly, they seemed almost adult, with their immaculate hair and mascara-lined eyes. Now, having already put their horses to bed, carried all their belongings to their tent and had time for a drink, they were tutting and shaking their heads at the inability of the younger riders to arrive on time. I’m never going to be as grown up or as sophisticated as that, thought Cassie to herself, blushing even further as the DC, with wisps of yellow straw firmly entwined in her curly grey hair, pointed energetically to a laminated stable chart.

“Here you go, Cassandra,” Cassie winced again, “darling little Clover is to live in Stable 21, next to…Twizzle. If you wait here for a minute or two, I shall get someone to – ah! Susie! Just the person I wanted to see.” Beckoning over the slight, short dark-haired girl who had just tried to slink unnoticed around the corner, Winifred discarded the stable chart. “Susie,” she smiled, “Would you be so kind as to show Cassie to her stable?”

“Sure,” Susie replied, grinning as she caught sight of a crimson Cassie. Setting off down the yard, trailing the softly plodding Clover, the two girls managed to escape as Winifred pounced on a sulky looking Malcolm Pratt, another latecomer, who dragged along an equally-sulky looking chestnut mare in his wake.

Susie Hill, with her short, sleek bob and round face, could almost have been mistaken for a boy. At ten years old, she was among the older juniors, although she had not ridden for as long as many of the younger members. This was her first year as a Pony Club member, and the two pre-camp rallies, which all members had had to attend, had been her first. Although she had known no-one, Susie had quickly bonded with Cassie, especially when the two girls discovered that they actually attended the same school, albeit in different year groups. But beyond their love of horses and relatively close proximity to one another, the similarities between Cassie and Susie were few and far between. As an only child, Susie had witnessed the breakdown of her parents’ marriage when she was very young, and now lived alone with her father John and a new stepmother, Anne. Unfortunately, neither of them shared Susie’s passion for horses, and as an only child, she had been forced to further her hobby alone.

Since she and her father had moved in with her new stepmother, Susie had chosen to walk to school each day. She quickly made friends with a Twizzle, a little grey pony who lived in a paddock not far from the school, and after a few weeks Susie had summoned the courage to speak to the elderly gentleman who owned her. After a little gentle persuasion, she had managed to get him to let her have the pony on loan, in return for her running a few errands for him and weeding his garden each week. Twizzle was by no means an ideal ‘first pony’; she had only really been broken to harness and as a result, was very naughty when ridden, but Susie was determined to make the best of what she had. Now, as the two girls neared Stables 21 and 22, the tiny dappled grey mare caught sight of her recent new acquaintance, and gave a shrill neigh.

“Jeez, Twiz,” Susie moaned, putting her hands over her ears, “Do you want to deafen everyone? Keep it quiet!” She held the door of Clover’s stable open, “You’re a lucky one, Cassie,” she said, as Clover clopped in through the door, “You get a stable with nice clean shavings. Twizzle’s stuff looks like it’s been in there for six weeks and never seen a pitchfork, let alone a wheelbarrow!”

Cassie smiled, removing Clover’s headcollar. Twizzle, having been denied the chance to greet her new friend, gave a disgruntled whinny.

“Do you reckon,” Cassie said, bolting the stable door, “that Mrs Howles is going to call me ‘Cassandra’ all week? I don’t think I can take it!”

Susie laughed. “She probably will,” she replied, “I mean, she called me ‘Toby’ at one of the rallies a couple of weeks ago. I know I’ve got short hair, but come on!” Susie’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “And anyway,” she went on, “with a name like ‘Winifred Howles’, think of all the come-backs we can use!”

“I suppose so,” replied Cassie, pausing to offer Clover a Polo mint, then nearly having her hand bitten off by Twizzle, who gave a squeal of jealous rage, before kicking her door with her front hooves. Suddenly, Cassie caught sight of her mother, approaching the nearby tackroom, weighed down by a saddle, two bridles, a hat and a body protector. “Whoops!” she whispered, “I better go help Mummy, or else! I’ll catch you later!” And with that, she scampered off back to the trailer.

*

At a quarter past four, over two hours after the designated time for arrival for the Pony Club campers, the Bustle family had not even made it through their farm gates. Firstly, there had been the problem of the errant pony; Jody’s little coloured gelding, Cadbury, had somehow managed to untie his lead-rope and escape from the yard – where the gate had, as always, been left open – and, by the time they had managed to track him down in the vegetable garden, where he stood, knee deep in cabbages and courgettes, his newly-scrubbed white patches had turned a very definite shade of green. There had been no time to rewash him, and so Cadbury, with a disgruntled expression on his face and a carrot dangling from his lips, had been ushered into the partition-less trailer, to be shortly followed by little Ella’s pony, Puddle. Next, Jody had been unable to find her left stirrup, and, after much searching, had been forced to steal one from her father’s event saddle. Finally, with their old silver Mercedes piled high with suitcases, tack and camp beds, Molly had ushered both girls in, only to have to frantically drag four-year-old Ella back into the house when, in her excitement, she proudly announced she had had ‘a little accident’.

When at last, they seemed ready to be on their way, Jody suddenly gave a screech, whose sound was rivalled only by that of the wheels of the Mercedes, as a terrified Molly jammed her foot on the brake.

“What on earth is it now, Jody?” she cried, as Jody leaped out of the car and sprinted off towards the barn.

“I’ve forgotten my grooming kit,” Jody called back, returning a few minutes later with her father’s old black toolbox, its lid firmly taped down. She carefully placed it on her lap, having uncharacteristically decided to let her little sister travel in the front seat. Molly began to pull away again.

“How long have you been using Daddy’s toolbox for your brushes?” she asked, a little suspiciously, as the tyres scrunched away along the gravel drive.

Jody shrugged, and tossed back her long auburn hair. “Oh, a few weeks,” she replied, “I’m just using it for…um, extras, you know. Hoof oil, shampoo…and stuff.” This answer seemed to satisfy Molly, who, having at last made it out of the gates, now pulled over again to say goodbye to Big Al, their elderly, whiskered, outspoken housekeeper, whose overbearing stature would be enough to scare even the bravest of burglars. Jody, knowing how her mother had a tendency to spend hours talking even when on a strict time schedule, lay back on the seat and pretended to snore loudly. A sudden squeak, just as Molly had been about to tell her to not be so rude, made Jody sit up, and she gave a long cough. Molly merely raised her eyebrows, as Big Al peered in through the window, eying the black box with suspicion.

“What you got in the box, Dodo?” Big Al asked, squinting her wrinkled eyes.

Jody went red. She was wary of Big Al, with her constant need to gossip and her beady, watchful eyes. Fortunately, she was saved from any kind of reply by Molly who, having glanced at her watch, gave a sharp squeak herself.

“My goodness!” she cried in dismay, “Is that the time! We must go! Goodbye, Big Al! Goodbye, farm! We must go at once!”

And with that, the rattling old Mercedes was finally on its way.

Three quarters of an hour later, Molly turned into the farmyard, giving a cry of excitement as she spied the waiting tents in the field.

“Look, darlings!” she cried, “Look at the tents! This is going to be wonderful, absolutely wonderful! Look, Ella! Look at where we’re going to be living for the next week! And look, Jody, look at the ponies in the field! Puddle and Cadbury will be so happy!”

Jody hung out of the window, waving delightedly to Cassie, Della and Susie, who were about to go and sit in the barn, where the impatient DC was trying desperately to gather everyone together. The Bustles were the last but one family to arrive, and their lateness meant that the Welcoming Speech would be delayed even further. Having succeeded in summoning around thirty members – a combination of minis, juniors and seniors – Winifred gave a despairing sigh as three of them sprinted over to the Bustles’ car, and five of the senior members, bored after having been sat on the straw bales for almost an hour, sneaked off around the back of the barn. It was now a quarter past five, and so far, short of welcoming each member on their arrival, Winifred had not yet had the chance to speak to the group as a whole. How, she thought in anguish, am I ever going to be able to gain control, let alone keep it, for a whole week? She turned to the beautifully laid-out notice-board, which she and her daughter Harriet, the Chief Instructor, had painstakingly created, having stayed up into the early hours of the past three mornings. Everything will be fine, Winifred told herself firmly, determined not to let anxiety and apprehension override her reputed organisation skills and meticulousness. Everything will be just fine.