sniff, pulling a red and white spotty hanky from his pocket and blowing his nose hard. ‘Important to get it all out, though, every now and again,’ he observed gruffly.
Important to have a good sob, was what he meant. About Mum. Which I knew we’d both been doing, the weepy movie giving us an excuse. At least I’d never have to do that to get over my more recent bereavement, I thought. In fact if I did get out a movie, it might well be
‘Where are the kids?’ Dad asked, stuffing the hanky back in his pocket and helping himself to a tumbler of Famous Grouse to steady the nerves. Not the first of the day, I’d hazard, and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock.
‘With Jennie.’ I leaned my head back on the sofa and looked up at him. ‘I couldn’t take them back in the lorry, Dad. No belts.’
‘Oh.’ His face fell like a child’s, as I knew it would. He was disappointed. Couldn’t understand why, since I’d rattled around in that lorry unfettered, my children couldn’t. No matter how often I told him about laws and fines, not to mention terrible injuries, he still didn’t get it.
‘But you were perfectly OK,’ he’d say. ‘And I drive safely …’
‘I know, Dad,’ I’d say sheepishly, scratching my neck, and never pointing out how irresponsible or uncaring he’d been, for Dad was neither. Although in the eyes of others he might be.
‘But I thought you could take them to the meet?’ I said to him now. ‘Maybe follow for a bit? They’d love that.’
‘And I’d love it too. Good idea. I’ll do that.’ He rubbed his hands together, pleased. ‘Now. Come on, let’s go and see what I’ve got for you.’ Cheered immeasurably by a bloody good cry, the whisky and the prospect of a day out with his grandchildren, he made for the back door and his boots.
I got to my feet hurriedly. ‘You mean, you’ve definitely got me one?’
‘Of course I’ve got you one. I’ve got two. You’re spoiled for choice. Come on, they’re in the yard.’
I felt a flutter of excitement as I followed him outside. Dolls, ponies, boys – these apparently mark the three stages of girlhood: the definitive rites of passage. And although I would never regress to Tiny Tears (having said that, on occasion I have found myself on Clemmie’s bedroom floor, brushing Barbie’s hair with a gormless, faraway expression on my face), in moments of crisis, or general barrenness on the man front, I can quite easily resort to horse flesh to make my heart beat faster. Like my father before me, I find the equine world not only more reliable and dependable, but infinitely more sensitive. It was with a quickening pulse, therefore, that I swapped my shoes for one of the many pairs of boots by the back door and scurried after Dad to the yard.
At this time of year most of his horses were rugged up and grazing in the fields, having been in all night, but sure enough, in the otherwise empty row of loose boxes, occupying the nearest one was a good-looking bay, his head over the door. He watched as we approached. He had a kind, intelligent face and his ears were pricked. My ribcage hosted another little dance.
‘Ooh … handsome brute.’
‘Isn’t he just?’ Dad said softly. ‘Dutch Warmblood. Bags of breeding.’
We stopped at his stall and I stroked his velvety nose as he blew into my hand. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Well, his full title is Thundering Pennyford, but he answers to Thumper.’
‘Thumper,’ I echoed. God, he was gorgeous. Sleek, dark and delicious. Quite big too, I thought nervously as I looked down his arched neck to his shapely quarters. Another head appeared next door.
‘And this one?’ I moved on to the adjoining stable where a smaller, scruffier piebald, with a wall eye and a back so broad you could lay it with knives and forks, had come to see what all the fuss was about.
‘Agnes. The safer bet.’
‘Ah.’ I gave her nose a stroke too. ‘Thumper isn’t safe?’
‘Oh, he’s safe, but he’s fast. He’s a thoroughbred, Poppy. Got more temperament.’
Temperament. On my first hunt. Did I need that? Or did I need Agnes? Safe and solid? Thumper was rather splendid, though. And I’d look so much better up there in skintight jodhpurs and shiny leather boots. Which was surely the point. Agnes was sweet, but nevertheless had a touch of ‘Where’s the cart?’ about her.
Dad was already putting a bridle on Thumper. ‘Want to try him?’ he asked casually, leading him out.
‘Sure. Why not.’ Equally casually.
Dad swiftly added a saddle.
‘Just take him for a spin in the paddock over there, then, and see how you get on.’ In one deft movement he’d done up the girth and was holding the stirrup leather to steady the saddle.
