was convinced she was going to the vet.
‘Bong, bong, bong, tong, tong, ongong, ongong, this is the flight call of the female Rannaldini.’ Shrieking with helpless laughter, Kitty raced across the lawn, past the glowering maze and turned left to the stables. As the garage was next to Rannaldini’s helicopter pad she couldn’t steal off unobserved by car. The only answer was the kindest horse in the yard.
‘Bong, bong, bong, tong, tong. Nuffink venture nuffink win.’ She was already shaking with nerves worse than Lassie, she must try and keep her courage up.
But as she ran into the yard she gasped with horror. She’d forgotten that all the horses had been turned out except The Prince of Darkness who glowered out of his box as sinister as his name, evil eyes rolling as he scraped and gnawed at his half-door.
He’ll go for me if I try and put a bridle on him, thought Kitty, almost fainting with terror, then froze as the door of the groom’s cottage opened. But instead of Clive, Janice the head groom emerged.
Janice was very fond of Kitty; she might not shop at Valentino like Cecilia, but she always saw that the grooms were paid on the nail.
‘You do look poorly. You shouldn’t be up,’ she said, noticing Kitty’s violent shakes and her face grey and glistening with sweat.
‘Could you please tack up The Prince?’ stammered Kitty, kicking Lassie’s cat basket behind the mounting block. ‘Rannaldini wants to ride him.’
‘At this hour?’ Janice looked at her watch.
‘He’s got friends over.’
‘And he wants to show off,’ Janice sniffed. ‘And I was just off to get the other horses in. What was that?’ She paused at a piteous whine from Lassie.
‘Nuffink, ’spect it’s a bird. We was at Slimbridge today,’ said Kitty desperately.
‘More like one of the Rottweilers got stuck in somewhere.’ Janice glanced round the yard.
‘Please tack up The Prince.’ Kitty tried to disguise her panic.
The wait seemed interminable, particularly as she had to keep up a tuneless singing to drown Lassie’s increasingly aggrieved whining, but at last Janice put her head over the half-door.
‘God, he’s a dangerous bugger. Where d’you want him taken?’
‘Leave him for a sec. Rannaldini fort he left his silver-topped whip in the tack room,’ said Kitty.
She would rot in hell for such awful lies.
‘I’ll look,’ said Janice.
Kitty was nearly frantic with terror.
‘Please God take care of us,’ she prayed.
Taking a huge breath she unbolted The Prince’s door and just grabbed his reins as he shot out like an Exocet. Not giving herself time to have doubts, she gathered up Lassie’s basket, clambered on to the mounting block and somehow scrambled astride the vast black back which was pitching like a top deck in a force ten gale. With a manic clatter The Prince tore out of the yard, down the rough track in search of his friends. At least he couldn’t savage her if she was on his back. Alarmed by Janice’s screams to come back, however, he broke into a gallop.
‘
Oh, heavens, she suddenly remembered she was hurtling towards the West Gate which was chained and bolted. If she had to get off The Prince to undo it she’d never get on again. Thundering towards a clearing on her left she loosened her grip on the mane to tug the near-side rein. Miraculously the big horse cornered at Rutminster Cup speed into a woodland ride.
‘Oh, good boy, Prince, please keep straight,’ begged Kitty. If he carted her under the branches, she’d had it.
The wind was lifting her hair, tugging at her grey cardigan and her old grey check skirt. To right and left on the woodland floor, bluebells battled to push through the dog mercury, little primroses were stifled by brambles and pale-faced anemones were being drowned like bathers in a rising sea of garlic, which gave off pungent wafts of aioli as it was pounded by The Prince’s flying feet.
They had reached open fields now. Again Kitty knew she was finished if The Prince’s stable-mates came pounding down to join him. But ahead like the Berlin Wall lay the River Fleet and freedom.
‘Go on, Prince,’ yelled Kitty as they slithered down the bank.
Only baulking for a second, the brave black horse plunged into the swirling brown water. A terrified whine reminded Kitty that if she slid off or let go of the cat basket Lassie was as good as drowned.
‘Our farver which art in ’eaven,’ cried Kitty, ‘’allowed by thy name.’
For a nightmarish few seconds The Prince was out of his depth, swimming boldly, battling with the cross- currents, then he was lurching up the other side.
‘Oh, fank you, good old boy,’ cried Kitty.
It was as though Magpie Cottage was pulling them towards it. Staying on going up hill was much easier. The south side of Paradise was far less advanced. The trees brushing the clouds were still bare. They were tearing past great banks of blackthorn that looked as though they’d been dipped in flour, and there was poor Rachel’s cottage.
An’ flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, thought Kitty.
But the present was more important. Glancing back, fearful of seeing Rannaldini’s helicopter rising like a malignant hornet, Kitty wondered how much longer she could cling on. Then, like the heavenly city, she saw the Paradise Road which passed Magpie Cottage. Again untwining her aching fingers from The Prince’s mane she tugged the offside rein and the horse swung to the right.
‘I can ride,’ called out Kitty in ecstasy.
But nothing prepared her for galloping along tarmac at a breakneck speed. What happened if they met a car? She ducked to avoid a low-hanging sycamore branch. Having lost both her shoes, she felt she was about to lose her teeth.
As she tried to swing left up Lysander’s track, she and The Prince parted company. The lures of Paradise were too strong for him and he kept on going. Kitty landed gently amid the white violets on the verge. All her life she would associate their sweet smell with relief that she wasn’t hurt and even greater relief when she opened the cat basket, and Lassie jumped out, pirouetting in glee, raking her mistress’s legs with her striped paws.
‘Quick, quick, my lamb.’ Urging them both on, Kitty panted up the lane, oblivious of the sharp stones ripping her soaked tights.
Then she gave a cry of despair. The curtains were drawn. Three days’ milk hadn’t been taken in. The FOR SALE sign shivered despondently in the chilly wind. Heart crashing, gasping frantically for breath, she raced up the path and pounded on the door. No answer. She pounded again. Nothing. Perhaps Lysander was in bed cheering up some sad beautiful girl whose husband was about to become jealous.
‘Oh, Lassie, what will become of us?’ wept Kitty.
In answer came a shrill outraged yap. Pushing open the door Kitty tripped over a mountain of post, LYSANDER HAWKLEY, OWNER OF ARTHUR, ENGLAND, was written on one of the top envelopes. Jack, who from his caked brown nose had been rabbiting, greeted her in noisy ecstasy. He then discovered Lassie timidly hovering on the threshold, strutted round her on poker legs, sniffing and assessing. Realizing she was female he started to twitch his stumpy tail, then ran into the sitting room barking importantly.
Lysander sat slumped on the old blue corduroy sofa staring hopelessly into space, oblivious of a wildly exciting photo-finish on the television. There was a quarter of an inch of stubble on his haggard cheeks and black, black half-circles beneath his eyes. His Donald Duck jersey was inside out and he was wearing odd socks.
‘Lysander.’ Kitty could hardly get the word out.
He looked round dully, then started incredulously.
‘Lysander, it’s me,’ she whispered, shakily holding her hands out. ‘Over the ’ills and far away, she danced with Piglin’ Bland.’
As though struggling from the bottom of the sea Lysander staggered to his feet.
‘Are you a mirage or a miracle?’ he mumbled.
