A Horse Called Hero (12 page)

Fifty or so ponies stampeded, wild, wide-eyed and terrified, up the single, purposeful street, between stolid houses and boarded shop fronts. Rounded up yesterday, and branded, brood mares and
stallions were returned to the moor, only the foals being brought to Bampton for selling.

All year Dodo had watched the silent heartbreak of her friend and teacher – each month, two, three, four more gone from the herd. Yet no one had seen anyone or anything, no one knew how or
when they went. ‘It’d be someone that knows them,’ Father Lamb had said. ‘They’re wild as snakes. Whoever it is knows these animals, really knows them.’
It’d been Samuel’s suggestion that they go to Bampton and see if they were being sold there. The price of ponies and horses had gone up and up with the war, he’d said.

There was a wild tramp and thud of hoof on cobble as the ponies were corralled into sale pens, a separate pen for each herd, each pen labelled with the hill to which the herd was hefted. Caught
up in the tightening crowd, Hettie and the children pushed and were pushed towards a pen.

Hettie examined each stamping, snorting herd, each time shaking her head and moving on. Bidding had started, brisk and raucous. Farmers and dealers shouted advice. Somewhere a pen was broken,
the crowd shrieking. A pony whinnied and broke free from the ring attendant, wheeled away from the crowd and burst into a tailor’s shop. Over the noise, the bidding continued.

‘Ten-Four . . . ten-four, ten-five?’

‘Ten-five.’

‘Ten-six.’

‘Thank you, ten six – going – going . . .’ The hammer came down. ‘Gone.’

It began to drizzle. They moved on, past ponies, more ponies, parsons, farmers, gentry.

‘Are they all stolen?’ whispered Wolfie, distracted by a pair of bare-fist boxers outside a pub.

‘Shh,’ said Dodo.

‘It’s surely a great day for thieves and for rustlers,’ said Hettie, ‘but I don’t see anything of mine here.’

The drizzle thickened and they returned, none the wiser, by train to Dulverton, in a carriage loud with singing and livestock.

‘Who could be taking them?’ whispered Dodo.

‘I don’t know, Dodo, I just don’t know.’

At Dulverton they climbed into Hettie’s trap. They wound up and out of the deep wooded valley straight into the rays of the sinking sun, the sedge glowing fierce gold, flaming copper
leaves above, a drift of gold on the lane. Hettie halted Scout. Against the skyline a herd of red deer, twenty perhaps, moved in silhouette, black against the orange sky.

‘Look.’ She took Wolfie’s hand. ‘As wild today as they’ve ever been. Like the ponies – here since William the Conqueror.’

With tears in her eyes, she urged Scout on.

As they took the lane to Lilycombe they saw, on the corner, a tall figure, an unlit lamp in one hand, a brace of rabbit in the other. Wolfie waved. As Ned waved back, Hettie said, ‘Two
thousand rabbits a day, did you know that – three tons of them are loaded just at Dulverton. 2d a rabbit they pay . . . It’ll be a struggle for Ned to keep hold of that farm . . . he
never wanted to take it on . . .’

Last week the mail had brought a letter from Pa. Vickers was alive but in a prisoner of war camp. Only if there were an exchange of prisoners and Vickers amongst them, would he
be free to speak and testify in Pa’s favour. Though there could not yet be an appeal, at least they knew, for certain now, that there was at least one other man living who knew the truth. Pa
had not yet been moved from Wormwood Scrubs.

Wolfie kept Hero in a perpetual state of gleaming readiness in case Pa should suddenly be released. Father Lamb, sitting by his window, watched the boy run out to check the mail basket, then
wander out into the garden, disconsolate. He saw the grey horse canter up and Wolfie sink his head against the dappled neck, twisting his hands into the long mane.

Dodo noticed that Father Lamb now sat at that window for his coffee, where once he’d always stood. Dreadnought’s watchful head was now level with his master’s shoulder. She
turned, too, to watch Wolfie.

‘That little boy’s big heart will break if we don’t have some good news soon,’ said Hettie.

‘Why don’t they at least send Pa to the mines?’ asked Dodo. ‘He’d be happier there.’

‘It’s probably only because of the difficulty of getting anything done in wartime conditions.’

Father Lamb turned to his daughter. ‘Hettie, Hettie! Is it not race day today? Is it not today that Drew comes to do the judging? I should like to see my old friend. We could ride over
there. Besides, Drew’s a keen appreciator of horse flesh and he could look over that beast of young Wolfgang’s.’

Hettie watched him anxiously. ‘You should rest, Father.’

Father Lamb took no notice. ‘You know, Hettie, the boy’s got something special there – you can see the build of the horse now, the make of him . . . besides, the races would
cheer us all up.’

On the road to Comer’s Gate, the sky opened and the sun broke through. Horses and ponies of all shapes and sizes converged in cheerful droves at the gate to a field that
skirted the far side of the common. There they left the cart, tethered the horses and wound their way between carts, farmers, dogs and children towards striped sunlit tents, flags and coconut
shies.

Hettie and her father went first to the ale tent in search of Drew, then to the judging box. Dodo and Wolfie wriggled through the crowd to the edge of a makeshift grass track, where farmers,
wives and children sat on straw bales, watching and cheering. Among them were Mary Jervis and her husband.

Dodo stiffened. ‘Everybody’s here today,’ she whispered.

The two drew closer together, wary and guarded.

A dark clot of horses was approaching, the crowd tensing and quieting. The field, all bone and muscle, flashed past, flanks steaming, turf flying, mud splattering onlookers.

‘Hero would like to race one day,’ announced Wolfie.

‘Wolfie, Hero has never run a race.’ Dodo bent her head and read from her programme: ‘
Hunters. Fifteen hands and over
.’

A hurdle race was to be next. Father Lamb, his hands behind his back, spied Dodo and Wolfie by the rope. Accompanied by a shorter, stouter man – his friend Drew – he made his way
towards them. Dodo, seeing Father Lamb from a distance in a crowd, noticed for the first time his frailty, the pallor of his skin.

‘Dodo.’ Wolfie put his hand on her arm. ‘Behind you!’ he hissed urgently.

She turned. The three Causey girls, garishly dressed, stood together. Dodo backed away. The Causey girls stared and whispered behind their hands.

‘’Ee ran away,’ Chrissie said loudly. ‘Their father ran away an’ now ’ee’s in jail for it. That’s why she’s the teacher’s
favourite.’

Dodo’s cheeks burned.

‘An’ ’ee’s lucky just to be in jail, my mum says. She says shootin’ in’t good enough . . .’

Wolfie stepped forward and shouted, fists clenched, eyes blazing. ‘He isn’t – he’s not—’

‘Wolfgang.’ Father Lamb put a hand on his shoulder and turned him around. ‘Dodo, meet my old friend Drew.’

‘I knew your father,’ said Drew.

Wolfie’s eyes glittered, still on his guard. Dodo hung her head.

‘Pa’s got a witness, one day there’s going to be—’ began Wolfie.

‘I saw him. I was there, I saw him ride at Moreuil Wood.’

Wolfie leaped forward.

‘I saw him lead that squadron into the firing line,’ Drew continued, taking Wolfie’s hands. ‘He had a fine grey that day. Fine
and
brave. Together they rode into
the fire of five artillery companies,
five
of them. Never seen anything like it. Never will again.’

‘I’ve got a grey . . .’

‘So I’ve heard. Would you mind if I took a look at him?’

They made their way to the edge of the field, where the horses grazed. Hero’s head rose at Wolfie’s whistle. Drew halted at a distance and surveyed Hero in silence. Wolfie waited,
breath held.

‘There’s nothing on earth like a good horse, Wolfgang,’ Drew said eventually, placing an arm round Wolfie’s shoulders. ‘Now, you’d make my day if I could see
that horse run.’ He picked up his list, and turned to Dodo. ‘Will you give permission for your brother to race? What do you think he should do? The Maiden – the Novice
Stakes?’

‘He’d like to race but he doesn’t know what racing is,’ said Wolfie. ‘He doesn’t go in circles, he goes in straight lines, because he’s a
charger.’

‘Well, let’s show him about circles too. Let’s try him in the Maiden Stakes.’

Dodo began to remonstrate, but Drew was adding Wolfie to his list, leading him to the entry stand to collect a number.

‘I’m putting a pound on you. I’m in London next week so I could get the winnings to your father . . . What do you say? It’s just three laps, all on the flat.’ Drew
checked his watch. ‘You’ve got ten minutes.’

Drew took Father Lamb’s arm and together they walked towards the judging stand.

Dodo, fingers trembling, tightened the girth for Wolfie, shortened his stirrups two stops.

Wolfie stood beside her saying urgently, ‘He knows Pa, Dodo, he knows Pa and he saw him.’ Joy shone on Wolfie’s face but as they walked away, leading Hero towards the roped
enclosure, he grew hesitant. Ten or eleven horses had gathered for the Maiden Stakes, all sorts and sizes, shapes and colours. None wore silks or rugs. Like Hero they’d been brought here
straight from the field, their manes and tails unkempt and loose. The riders were gentlemen farmers, or hunt staff or farm hands, some just boys, though none so young as Wolfie.

‘I’m a bit scared,’ said Wolfie. Seeing a ripple of heads turn towards him, he added, ‘People are pointing at me.’

‘That’s because you look rather small, Wolfie. Even your number placard’s bigger than you are.’

‘I am
quite
small,’ said Wolfie.

‘Keep him under control and stay on.’

‘He’s going to see Pa – he’ll tell him about Hero . . .’ began Wolfie.

‘Just stay on, Wolfie, please JUST STAY ON.’

Father Lamb followed Wolfie and Hero to the enclosure. Dodo unhooked the entrance rope and Wolfie stepped forward. Hero stopped dead, his tail lifted and he snorted. His flanks began to quiver
and his nostrils to flare.

‘He’s too excited,’ Wolfie whispered.

Father Lamb slapped Hero’s rump and pushed him in, then gave Wolfie a leg up. Two riders were already leaving the paddock, still more were coming in. Hero stood out, silvery white against
so many bays and chestnuts.

‘I’ve got a shilling on you too,’ said Father Lamb.

‘My heart is a bit wobbly,’ whispered Wolfie.

‘Those that have no fear have no courage. Courage is the mastery of fear, not the absence of it, Wolfie,’ answered Father Lamb.

‘. . . And I have butterflies.’

There was no one left in the paddock now but Wolfie and Hero. Father Lamb rubbed Hero’s nose.

‘Get your butterflies in formation, Wolfie, get them into line . . . Don’t let that horse go, don’t let him
really
go, till you’re ready. Then just keep
going.’

Drew’s voice came over the loudspeaker.

‘
You have only thirty seconds to go, gentlemen . . . That’s Drake Causey leaving the paddock now on Tinker, a smart sort of horse, bred up-country. That’s Number Twelve.
Behind Tinker, the youngest entrant, Wolfie Revel on the dapple grey at Number Five. A good-looking two-year-old, nice clean limbs, but both horse and jockey are untested on the flat. Behind
him’s Number Seven, the Master of the Devon and Somerset Staghounds. A fine rider there on Legacy. Legacy can hunt but can he race? . . . Twelve horses all in all for the Maiden
Stakes
.’

Wolfie, with a parting glance at Dodo, followed the horses out to the starting line. Amidst so many older riders, he looked as incidental on the tall grey horse as though someone had left him
there by accident. The riders were taking their place at the tape. Hero was wary. Wolfie urged him on, coaxing him up to the tape. Hero pulled away, his ears flat back.

‘I can’t watch. Under no circumstances can I watch,’ whispered Dodo to Hettie.

Suddenly Hero spun round, almost unseating Wolfie, and was now facing the wrong way. He spun round again.

‘
They’re under starters orders . . .
’

The gun went.

‘
And they’re off!
’

The horses streamed away in a packed mass. Wolfie and Hero were left at the start line.

‘
Number One is ahead of the pack, behind him Seven and Twelve, neck and neck . . . It’s a slow start for Number Five who hasn’t decided if he’s going or not
going
.’

Eagle-eyed, Hero watched and assessed. He began to paw the ground. Wolfie waited, watching Hero’s ears, reading them like a book. Then Hero’s muscles tensed. He raised his head. He
raised his head higher, tall and majestic. His ears went forward, understanding, beginning to shiver with interest and excitement.

Wolfie bent and whispered, ‘Shall we go?’

Hero’s ears flickered back, then pricked forward. Wolfie pressed his knees, loosed his rein and whistled the first notes of the cavalry charge. Hero reared for joy, for joy and for good
health and for the soft mown turf, then shot like a bullet from a gun down the track.

‘Stay on, Wolfie, please just stay on,’ breathed Dodo. Wolfie didn’t ride forward as the others did, but sat atop carelessly, as though he might at any minute fall. He felt
Hero beneath him, smooth and steely and expert, smiled and loosed the rein a little more.

The main body of horses was streaming up the hill, now turning, now racing in silhouette along the skyline. Wolfie turned his head a little and saw them. Smiling, he whistled again, pressed with
his knees. Hero moved effortlessly into a faster gallop. Wolfie pressed harder. Thrilled at his own gathering speed, Hero surged forward, ears leveled with the wind, finding unexplored power in
himself, running faster now than he’d ever run. Wolfie’s nerves melted. He closed his eyes and laughed – it was like riding a cloud or a shooting star.

They were approaching the judging stand, but still a long way behind the field. He saw the grey mane rising and falling and he breathed in and out, in with Hero, out with Hero, hearing in his
own ears the roaring of the wind, the thunder of blood and hoof.