‘He doesn’t kick,’ I heard myself splutter.

‘Well, he nearly got my horse back there. I saw him lash out.’

‘You barged into me,’ I retorted. ‘And how dare you even begin to lecture me about how to behave when you have behaved so abominably, so despicably, you – you hussy!’

All my rage, all my pent-up emotion flooded out as I regarded her up on her grey mare with her carefully painted face. So much I wanted to say seethed and jostled within, but which words to choose? Surely I could do better than hussy? Strumpet, perhaps? As I struggled to find a twenty-first century expletive I was capable of uttering, she watched disdainfully. Her red lip curled as she looked me up and down.

‘Just don’t bite off more than you can chew, hm?’

And with that she was off. From a standing start to a canter, as the field circumnavigated the hedge through a series of gates, then out into open country again. I was on her heels whether she liked it or not. For Thumper had got second wind and seemed determined to stick like glue to Miss Harding’s mare. And of course she rode right up at the front, so that’s where I ended up: with Hope and Chad, Simon, who had the grace to look abashed as I came thundering up, the terrifying Mary Granger of the stony face, who bonked blacksmiths, Angie, whose eyes were round as I yet again rocketed past her horribly out of control, and then Sam, who, with intrinsic style, was executing a stately collected canter at the head of the field. He raised an ironic, here-we-go-again eyebrow as I cannoned past, but no more than that. Pulling for all I was worth and travelling at a speed that made my eyes stream and the wind rush in my ears, I at least managed to turn a circle before I reached the hounds. I bounced inelegantly back, features jockeying for position, hat over my eyes, everyone staring in wonder, even the children having never seen the like. Suddenly I found my reins being firmly taken from me. It was Angie, and her eyes were sparkling.

‘Poppy, I’m going to have to take you home,’ she told me. ‘I have never been so embarrassed!’

I couldn’t breathe, such had been the exertion of trying to stop Thumper. Such was my terror and lack of fitness. I could only nod; try to get some air into my lungs. I felt terribly sick. At that moment a grim-faced whipper-in swept past silently in the opposite direction.

‘One of the hounds is missing,’ Mary Granger, a face like thunder, informed us, riding up. ‘We’re going to have to hang around here a moment while Martin goes back to look. It’s literally nowhere to be seen. Seems to have vanished into thin air.’

She rode off to tell the others; to inform the rest of the field. I gazed after her, stricken.




22

That should have been my moment. Of course that should have been my moment. All I remember, though, was turning back from staring at Mary’s retreating back, and looking into Angie’s glittering eyes as she held my reins. My own eyes cast wildly about: I saw Simon and Emma talking to Sam, grave and deadly serious. My throat clenched with fear, my heart with it. I wished so badly I was not with the thrusters, but with the Pollys and Grants of this world. I could see them at the tail end of the field, sharing a joke and a hip flask, laughing uproariously, Grant even lighting a cigarette. Please, God, I thought, let me go to them; I could tell them. Then they could pass it on, like Chinese whispers. But Angie still had hold of my reins and was telling me in low, measured tones, as 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 quad bike, we heard, had picked up the hound, Peddler, and was taking it back to the kennels. Meanwhile we carry on. The show must go on.

We set off at a lick, and since we’d pretty much exhausted this neck of the wood, were off to the next valley apparently, having ridden almost a full circle. Sure enough, from our vantage point on the hill I could see the trailers and lorries parked in a field below. One or two women with children on lead reins were peeling off, saying a cheery goodnight, and I peeled with them, earning a relieved smile from Angie and even a ‘Well done! Not easy, your first hunt.’

Oh, she was sweet now. Felt guilty, perhaps, for briefly not being a friend. For snapping. And of course I forgave her that; we all snapped in the heat of the moment. But what about my own, much bigger moment? Would anyone forgive me that? If only I’d owned up. They would have been shocked and horrified, naturally; but would eventually have forgiven me. Not now, though. Not half an hour later, I thought, feeling sick to my stomach as I rode back down the zigzag track to the Home Farm beside Sam’s house. The two chattering women I’d ridden silently back with headed for their trailer, tossing me a breezy farewell, and I managed at least to respond.

My breath was very shallow as I rode on alone. I thought I’d got to the age when I wouldn’t find out any more about myself. Interesting, then, that I had, and it wasn’t good.

Dad, Jennie and the kids were huddled by the lorry, sheltering from the wind which had picked up, together with a jolly band of foot followers. Dan was there, I noticed, on the other side of the field, talking to a couple of local farmers, Angus too, looking rather splendid in tweeds. Quite a few people had dogs on leads, including Leila in her huge plastic collar. They’d followed for quite a while, Dad and Jennie told me as I rode up. Great fun, but exhausting; wished they’d taken the car.