Phantom Horse 2: Phantom Horse Comes Home Read online

  Five minutes later she was galloping away across the valley and I was saying to my brother, “How are we going to put them up? Who will they ride? They’re too big for Mermaid and Moonlight.” And the future seemed full of worries again.

  “We’ll fix them up somehow. We can sleep in the summerhouse and they can have our rooms. Stop worrying, Jean. I’m looking forward to them coming.”

  “But what about the horses?” I asked.

  “We needn’t ride,” Angus replied. “We can take them to London, to Oxford; it will be a lovely excuse for taking them places.”

  “But will our car be big enough? Supposing Dad buys an ordinary sort of English car?” I asked.

  Suddenly the storm broke. There were great flashes of forked lightning which lit up the whole sky and the rain fell in huge drops, soaking everything in seconds. We ran for the house, hoping that Wendy had reached home in time, and I remembered that I had never thanked her for the double bridle.

  We started to tell Mum about the Millers coming to stay and she said, “Don’t let’s start worrying about that yet. There’s many a slip twixt cup and lip. We’ll jump our fences when we come to them.” And I wished that I was more like her, instead of edgy and inclined to bite my nails; ‘temperamental’, Dad called it.

  Mum had already started packing. There were crates in the sitting room and the furniture Mum and Dad had bought was packed in cardboard ready for shipping. I spent the evening cleaning the double bridle. Mum and Dad continued packing. Angus lay in the hammock on the lawn doing nothing at all, for the storm had ended and the sky was clear.

  The next day Angus and I travelled with Wendy to school carrying with us a letter for the headmaster.

  “It isn’t fair;” Angus said. “We only had four days off for Easter and we won’t get four lovely months like you in the summer.”

  “That’s just your tough luck,” replied Wendy. “If you won’t stay. If you must go back like kids with your parents.”

  I found that I couldn’t attend at school any more; I kept imagining myself in England again. American history seemed irrelevant now and I had done the maths before at boarding school. I drew Sparrow Cottage in Art and the teacher said that it sure looked English and wasn’t it cute, and weren’t there roses round the door?

  None of the trees were in blossom any more; spring had gone and the whole landscape seemed to be awaiting the full fury of summer.

  “We’ll sure miss you,” Mrs Miller said, driving us home one day. “I don’t know what Wendy will do without you.”

  “We’re like bad pennies; we’ll probably turn up again,” replied my brother.

  “But when?” asked Mrs Miller. “We’ve only just got properly acquainted.”

  “Dad will ask to be posted back and then we’ll return with him.”

  “We’ll keep Mountain Farm for you then,” said Mrs Miller, stopping outside our American home with a crunch of tyres.

  The show was only four days away so I schooled Phantom all evening. He would lead off on either leg now, halt perfectly and rein back. I had never ridden in an American show before. Everyone will point at Phantom, I thought. They’ll say, “Ain’t that the horse which ran wild in the mountains all that time – Sam Smythe’s horse? Doesn’t he look great? Is that the little Britisher what caught him? Hasn’t she got him going real good?”

  Phantom would go round the ring like a parade horse; not a hunter, but the most beautiful horse on show. And I would have done the impossible: caught the wild horse and schooled him, the horse which no one else could catch. And besides being a compliment to me it would be one for England, where I had learned everything I know about horses.

  I groomed Phantom that evening until his tail was like cream silk and his coat gleamed like gold. I oiled his elegant two-coloured hoofs and imagined myself riding him down the lane to Sparrow Cottage, and suddenly I felt happier than I had ever felt before.

  The day of the show dawned fine. Angus was not taking Pelican but he didn’t seem to mind.

  “I’m not a competing person,” he said. “And what would Pelican win anyway with his walleye and inflexible neck?”

  Wendy was riding her father’s horse, a big grey called Seashore.

  The day was hot from the start and I knew that by lunch time every living thing would be stationary in the valley; cows standing under the trees, or in the stream; people in deckchairs or hammocks, or working inside barns and houses.

  No one but the competitors at the horse show would be riding by lunch time.

  I had cleaned my riding clothes the evening before. I had nearly outgrown my jodhpurs, my boots pinched my toes, my hacking jacket was too short, but at least I had a hunting whip and, thanks to Wendy, the right bridle.

  Phantom was still clean. I tacked him up and Mum said, “Are you sure you’ll be all right? Don’t do anything silly.”

  Dad had taken the car to Washington. Mum and Angus were to come later to the show with the Millers.

  I pulled up my girth and mounted. My tummy had started to flutter. “It’s straight all the way. I shall be all right. Don’t worry,” I replied, straightening my riding hat.

  “Touch wood!” shouted Angus.

  I picked up the double reins, sliding my little fingers between them. I felt like a million dollars now and I was still happy with the sort of happiness which seems indestructible, but which is really as fragile as glass.

  I waved as I rode out of the gate. Phantom walked with a long stride, his head high, his ears pricked. I leaned forward to pat his neck as I rode past rail fences and out on to a dirt road. Straightaway Phantom started to trot, his neck arched, his hoofs hardly seeming to touch the ground.

  We must have trotted for a mile or more when I had the feeling that Phantom had been the same way before, many, many times, perhaps by moonlight when he was wild, enticing mares from their fields to keep him company in the mountains. I made him walk as a huge car hurtled by, leaving a trail of dust behind it. I felt him quiver and suddenly I thought that perhaps he’d never been ridden on a road before. I turned him on to the verge and we trotted, and I watched the lather growing under his bridle and his ears grow dark with sweat. I hope Mum remembers the grooming things, I thought, otherwise he’ll look awful.

  The day was growing hotter and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I passed a wooden house. A man lay outside, swinging in a hammock hung from a mulberry tree. England will seem kind of foreign after this, I thought. There were high rail fences on each side of us and stables in the distance. Behind us the man had started to sing, and his deep, throaty voice seemed to belong to the countryside. I could hear a truck coming now, its engine drowning the man’s voice, and even then I had no sense of impending disaster. It came nearer and I felt Phantom brace himself. I shortened my reins. “It’s nothing, just a truck,” I told him.

  He started to jump in the air and the driver shouted, “Hi there! Get off the road. This ain’t no place for horses, no sirree.” He stopped the truck as Phantom went up on his hind legs. I leaned forward, grabbing his mane. I was afraid I would pull him over on top of me but he came down again on the grass verge. I could smell petrol fumes and the driver was still shouting. Then without warning we were on the bank at the side of the road and I knew with an awful certainty that Phantom was going to jump the rails.

  They looked enormous, higher than anything I had ever jumped before, and I had lost my stirrups. He took off and I hit my face on his neck and I could taste blood on my lips. Then he was over and I was hurtling towards the ground, all my hopes gone.

  I landed on my shoulder. As I scrambled to my feet I saw him galloping away in the distance. He cleared another fence, taking it in his stride. He’s going back to the Blue Ridge Mountains, I thought, I shall never have him now, and a great wave of desolation swept over me. The truck had disappeared. I suddenly remembered Angus shouting “Touch wood”, but I hadn’t touched it. I was filled with superstition and regret.

  I imagined Dad cancelling t
he booking for Phantom, the collecting ring steward at the show calling my name over and over again, men in white Panama hats turning to say to one another, “I knew she would never make it. A girl is no match for that horse.”

  My eyes were pricking with tears. The heat was unbearable, the fields seemed endless and the Blue Ridge Mountains never seemed to grow any nearer. My boots were pinching my toes so I took them off and walked barefoot, keeping my eyes open for snakes.

  The sun grew hotter and, as I climbed a wall, I wondered whether Mum had left for the show yet and what she would say when she found I had never arrived. Would she and Mrs Miller look for me along the dirt road? I turned back towards the road because I didn’t want to walk round and round in circles for ever, climbing fence after fence and never getting any nearer home. It was even hotter on the road; nothing seemed to move besides myself. Small black pebbles got between my toes, so that in the end I was forced to put my boots on once more. Now I was hating the very size of America. I was thinking that in England the truck driver would have stopped, he would have helped me pursue Phantom. And then a truck did slow down and a voice called, “Hi there, do you want a lift? Hop in,” and a young woman stopped beside me, holding open the cab door.

  I climbed up gratefully. “I’m not supposed to take lifts, actually,” I said.

  “Where do you come from? You don’t come from here, I know that,” she said, leaning across me to shut the door.

  “England,” I replied.

  “And you’ve lost your horse,” she said. “That’s kinda tough. Are you all right, no cuts or anything? Did you hit your head?”

  “No, I’m fine thanks,” I answered.

  She was young with fair hair and a white shirt and jeans and she drove her truck barefoot. We talked about England, and she told me she wanted to taste our fish and chips and I said, “You have to eat them in paper if you want to eat them properly.” All the time I could feel my spirits sinking lower and lower and it was as though someone else was talking, not me at all.

  “They sure sound fine anyway,” she said agreeably.

  We were nearly home now and I kept remembering how happily I had started out, without a trace of anxiety. I scanned the Blue Ridge Mountains for a galloping horse but there was nothing to be seen besides the trees reaching upwards towards the sky.

  “This is where I live,” I cried, pointing to Mountain Farm. “Thanks a million for the lift.”

  “That’s okay, any time,” she said. “I sure hope you find your horse.”

  “I won’t,” I answered, with a choke in my voice. “I don’t suppose I shall ever see him again.”

  She opened the cab door and I stepped out into the heat of midday. My shirt was sticking to my back. My toes felt raw in my boots. She waved and smiled and waved again and shouted, “I’ll be seeing you.” And as she drove away I thought: That was one lift which was all right anyway.

  I walked towards the house and as I walked I could feel the tears coming, first as a trickle and then as a flood and suddenly I was running, shouting, “Mum, are you home? I’ve lost Phantom. He’s gone back to the mountains. I’ve lost him for ever.” I wiped my face with the back of my hand, mixing dust with the tears, and I thought I never wanted to see the Millers again. I wished we were leaving tomorrow. Then I remembered the double bridle and I imagined Phantom hung up somewhere by the reins, struggling till his mouth bled, and everything had the quality of a nightmare, only I knew I wouldn’t wake up, it would be there for ever.

  I imagined the house empty before I reached it, the blinds pulled down in the sitting-room, the large grandfather clock noisily giving time away in the hall. Time! I thought. It must be two o’clock, time for the green hunter class. I shall never ride in an American show now, never. My tears fell unchecked like falling rain on the short paved path.

  I heard Mum calling from the yard at the back. “Jean, where are you? We’ve got him, we’ve got Phantom.”

  My brother came tearing round the corner of the house and stopped dead in his tracks. “So you’ve got here,” he cried. “I was just going to organise a search party.”

  I ran round to the stable. Phantom was standing in his box, still blowing, his sides dark with sweat.

  “We couldn’t believe it when we heard hoofs. He came over the gate. It must be five foot. Are you all right, Jean?” Mum asked.

  “He came home. He didn’t go back to the mountains. He didn’t want to!” I shouted, and for a moment nothing else mattered.

  Mum had loosened his girth. Gradually his sides stopped going in and out like bellows. He raised his head and looked at me and I said, “Thank you for coming back,” and then, “What’s the time? Can I still get there in time?” “It’s just gone one,” Angus replied, looking at his watch. “You might make it yet. I’ll tack up Pelican and come with you. I’ll ride on the outside, between you and the traffic.”

  “I’ll get him ready while you change,” I cried, running up the stirrups on Phantom’s saddle, for miraculously they were still there. I put the reins under them and ran for Pelican’s pelham and saddle.

  Mum stood by saying, “You’re horse mad, both of you. Do be careful. I can’t stand much more.”

  “I’ll keep between you and the traffic,” Angus repeated a moment later, mounting Pelican. “You must enter. It’s your last chance.”

  “I wish I could follow you in the car,” Mum said. “Are your girths tight? Put your hats on properly.”

  “We’ll be all right,” I yelled. “See you there.”

  We were riding away now. “Thanks a million,” I said, smiling at Angus. “I thought I was never going to see Phantom again.”

  Angus looked small on Pelican. He rode in one hand. We cantered along a wide grass verge and people leaned out of cars to look at us.

  “They think we’re mad, riding along a road,” Angus said. “I suppose horses always go by box or truck here.”

  “It’s like walking,” I replied. “Only nutcases walk.”

  “He must like us to come back,” Angus said, looking at Phantom.

  “I know. It was almost worth falling off to know that,” I replied.

  We clattered through a village which consisted only of a few houses and a drugstore. People ran to gates and windows to watch us.

  “Look,” shouted Angus. “There’s the show. Look over there.” He stood in his stirrups and pointed. I could see a ring fenced by a wooden rail fence. People were riding round it in groups. “It must be the family class,” he said. “Was it before the green hunters?”

  I couldn’t remember and I realised with dismay that I had left my schedule on my dressing-table at home.

  Phantom’s bridle was filthy, his sides coated with dust. There wasn’t a trace of hoof oil left on his hoofs.

  “We had better walk,” I said. “Phantom’s soaked in sweat. Can you lend me a handkerchief? My face feels filthy.”

  I could hear the faint sound of music and wondered whether Pete and Phil had arrived home yet from their military academy. There were hundreds of cars parked by the ringside and we could hear an announcer calling out numbers. There were flags round the outside course hanging limply on their poles, and children looking like ants scuttling about with numbers tied to their backs. I felt unbearably tense now. There was a strange flutter in my tummy and my legs felt like jelly. I spat on Angus’s handkerchief and rubbed my face. Phantom stopped to gaze at the scene below. He arched his neck and pranced.

  “He looks like a million dollars. He must win a prize. Come on, let’s hurry,” cried Angus.

  I could see the outside course properly now, high and solid. Phantom danced into the showground and I saw Mum waving and shouting. “I’ve got your number. Your class is next in Ring Two. They’re halfway through the previous one.”

  Pete was waving too. “They’ve been calling for you,” he shouted.

  “Holy cow! What happened to you?” asked Wendy, appearing on Seashore who looked marvellous, his mane braided, his hoofs oile
d.

  “I can’t go in like this,” I said, halting Phantom. “Look at his mane and hoofs. He’s filthy.”

  “I’ve brought some rubber bands,” cried Mum, delving in her pockets. “I’ll fix his mane.”

  “Where’s some hoof oil?” shouted Pete.

  “I’ll get a rubber,” yelled Angus.

  Someone was fixing a number to my back. The band was playing a march. Angus was rubbing saddle soap into Phantom’s bridle while he stood like a statue, sniffing the air.

  “They’re calling you again, you had better go,” said Mum.

  3

  I rode down a sloping field past a party taking bottles of Californian wine from an estate wagon. Phantom started to prance and I heard a man say, “Sure, that’s the wild horse. I would know him anywhere, and that’s the little English girl who found him dying in the mountains. She’s sure got some nerve, that girl.”

  Pete caught me up. He had changed out of his uniform into jeans and a denim shirt. “Gee, Phantom looks good,” he exclaimed. “Keep your nerve. You’re doing all right.”

  He had grown some more. He must have been five foot ten; but Phil was taller still, six foot plus and still growing. Pete had fair hair and brown eyes and his nose wasn’t quite straight. Phil was as handsome as a film star, with dark hair and a long, lean body. All the girls turned to look at him as he passed. But I preferred Pete, who was less spoilt and kinder.

  I could feel my heart beating against my side like a sledgehammer as I reached the ring.

  “So you’ve shown up at last,” said the collecting ring steward. “I sure hope the judge will have you now.”

  The band was still playing the same march. It made me think of musical poles at home, of cantering round and round the damp green English turf on Mermaid, while the riders and poles grew fewer and my friends yelled, “Gallop, Jean. Look, over there!” Suddenly I felt a long way from home and more alien than I had ever felt before. Phantom started to snort and the steward said, “Okay. You can go in now.”