A Rural Affair

21



As I clambered into the lorry the following morning the drink was still talking, but telling me something very different. Dad had come over early, as promised, and found me locked in the bathroom feeling neither sexy nor brave, courtesy of a paralysing hangover and a very scary horse. Thumper, when I’d flapped out in dressing gown and wellies to politely suggest he might like to get up and have some brecker, had rounded on me with such indignant wild eyes and flaring nostrils that I’d turned and fled. Typical man, I thought, running back inside. He spends the night at my place then, the next morning, acts like he’s never seen me before in his life.

‘I’m not coming out, Dad!’ I bleated through the bathroom door. ‘He’s morphed into one of the seven horses of the Apocalypse. Thinks he’s in a Schwarzenegger movie!’

‘Nonsense, he’s just feeling a bit displaced. I’ll go and have a word, love.’

Sure enough, when I peeked through the bathroom window sometime later, under my father’s professional guidance Thumper had indeed meekly succumbed. He was now washed and dressed and tied up outside the barn, his tail still a bit wet, but sleek and gleaming, mane plaited, shiny tack in place. It was inevitable, then, of course, that the white-faced daughter would be subjected to the same kind but firm hand, and soon I was being herded into my bedroom to change into clothes that didn’t feel nearly so glamorous as they had the night before, and thence into the lorry, at which point I informed my father I was going to be sick.

‘Drink,’ he ordered, handing me his hip flask as he climbed into the driver’s seat of the cab from the opposite side.

‘Don’t be silly, Dad, it’s ten-thirty and I haven’t had any breakfast.’ I couldn’t eat the toast he’d proffered earlier, nor drink the tea. Couldn’t even swallow my own saliva.

‘All the more reason to drink,’ he told me sternly. ‘No one does this sober, love. Your mate Angie tells me she’s drunk before she gets to the first fence sometimes, and everyone has a nip at the meet. You’re just having yours now. Anyway, you’ve got a hangover. Need the hair of the dog.’

He talked me into it. And let’s face it, it wasn’t hard. If the smart crowd were already quaffing merrily outside Mulverton Hall, I’d definitely need a head start. I nervously snatched the hip flask and took a gigantic swig.

‘See?’

I nodded, unable to speak on account of the heat radiating at the back of my throat. But, boy, it was good. I took another swig just to make sure and we rumbled off: Dad at the wheel, Thumper in the back, Clemmie and Archie following on behind with Jennie. My party, in fact. All there for me. As the whisky hit my empty tummy I began to feel a bit like Scott of the Antarctic, or the female equivalent, Amy Johnson, perhaps; at any rate, some super-cool heroine spearheading some major expedition of some sort.

After a while, having navigated a maze of lanes, we rattled over a cattle grid between some crumbling stone gateposts. A muddy field awaited us and Jennie, behind, gestured that she’d drive on up the lane to park somewhere less sticky. As we rumbled towards the neatly parked rows of lorries and trailers, I looked around expectantly. Horses were being unloaded, all, to a fetlock, immaculate, but their riders, I noted, were in varying degrees of dress. A few, already mounted, were in full rig, but one or two were less formal. A stunning redhead, for instance, trying to do up her girth and yelling at her huge excited grey to ‘Keep still!’ was in a Barbour and tracky bottoms. At least I had the right kit, I thought smugly, as Dad expertly tucked the lorry alongside hers. I jumped out with new-found confidence, straight into a cow pat. It squelched up my lovely, shiny, leather-clad ankles.

‘I didn’t see any cows!’ I cried in dismay, looking around accusingly and coming face to face with a hefty Friesian, who gazed back opaquely.

‘The cattle grid was a clue,’ Dad remarked mildly as he went round to unload Thumper and as I tried to scrape it off on the grass. ‘You’re better off in wellies, love, until you get on.’

Beside me the stunning redhead peeled off the tracky bums and Barbour to reveal a pristine equestrian ensemble. She added immaculate boots and hopped smartly on board.

As Dad walked Thumper down the ramp he looked around speculatively at the surrounding country. ‘Oh, OK.’

‘What?’ I said, squeezing myself into my very tiny jacket. ‘I honestly can’t breathe in this, Dad.’ I was standing completely rigid, arms out like a scarecrow, as he brought Thumper round.

‘Never mind, you won’t be breathing much anyway,’ he muttered.

‘What?’

‘Come on, up you get.’ He gave me a leg up, at which point all my jacket buttons popped off.

‘I’ve just realized where we are,’ he said, glancing about. ‘You kick off with about six or seven jumps round these fields followed by quite a hefty ditch. Hold on to the mane and don’t worry if you pull the plaits out. No one notices once you’ve set off.’

‘What? Jumps? So soon? Do I have to? Oh, God – look at my jacket!’ I wailed, but Dad had already smoothly produced a spare stock pin from his pocket and was busy pinning me back together again.

‘Well, no, you don’t have to jump if you don’t want to, you can go with the non-jumpers. There’re always a few. But that’s not really why we’re here, is it, Poppy?’ He gave me a flinty look, which he was capable of occasionally. Fastened the pin with a sharp snap. ‘We’re here to show some metal, aren’t we?’

‘Right,’ I agreed faintly.

I felt a bit better, actually, now I was on board. And although most people looked sleek, effortless and born to hunt – a beautiful blonde, slim as a reed, rode past, nonchalantly rolling a cigarette on her taut thigh – I had seen one or two harassed riders struggling with recalcitrant mounts. Well, one. And she was about eight, on her own, with a shaggy Palomino. Dad popped across to hold the circling pony while she got on and I grinned chummily at the child. Perhaps we could ride together? She trotted off smartly, alone, waving to friends up ahead. Happily, though, with Dad by his side, Thumper seemed to have morphed into My Little Pony again and was once more displaying those pixie-perfect manners. Could Dad run alongside me perhaps? Hold on to the reins?

‘Wish I’d brought a horse myself,’ he remarked as we made our way across the field and through a gate towards the main body of the hunt in the distance: a swarm of sleek horses with riders in black and pink coats, the hounds circling at their feet, expertly controlled by a mustard-coated whipper-in. It was like a scene from a Cecil Aldin print. ‘I could have come out with you,’ he said wistfully.

I gazed down at him, stricken. ‘Why didn’t you?’ I wailed, casting wildly about for a stray horse as we approached. ‘Oh God, that would have been perfect! Why didn’t we think of that? Why didn’t we – No, Dad, don’t let go!’

It perhaps wasn’t the entrance I’d envisaged in the safety of my own bedroom: safety-pinned, muddy-booted, clinging pathetically to my father and humming ‘Raindrops on Roses’ manically to myself, as I do in moments of stress. But if my own appearance was disappointing, the setting was everything I’d imagined.

This was a lawn meet and although we weren’t actually invited to trash the ancestral grass, we were bidden to gather on the drive right at the front of the house. Mulverton Hall was Georgian, treacle-coloured, mellow and all one would hope for, I thought, as I gazed up admiringly. Tall sash windows winked back at me in the sunshine from a benign, aristocratic facade, like some old boy in his dotage who knows he’s still got it in him, twinkling away merrily. On closer inspection it was crumbling at the edges, but then old boys often are, and the window ledges were peeling too. It also appeared to have some alarming damp patches, but that didn’t detract from the charm. At the bottom of the flight of stone steps, which culminated in an extravagant sweep on the gravel, the hunt had gathered: chatting and laughing atop their steeds, knocking back the port, horses gleaming, bits jangling, voices carrying fruitily in the crisp morning air. It was a perfect day: bright and blue with just a hint of a breeze to ruffle tails and catch lipgloss.

I spotted Chad and Hope immediately on a pair of placid-looking bays. Naturally they were immaculately turned out, although the crash hats with industrial-sized chin straps slightly detracted from the look, I decided. The old and bold, I noticed, had just rammed velvet caps on their heads and to hell with health and safety.

‘I know them,’ I told Dad excitedly, standing up in my stirrups and waving enthusiastically.

Chad caught my eye, looked surprised then smiled delightedly. He seemed about to ride across but when he alerted Hope, she turned, gazed flatly, then gave me a thin little smile before turning back to the glamorous girl on the grey she’d been talking to. Chad looked undecided a moment, waved over-heartily and stuck by his wife.

‘They’re busy,’ I told Dad, sinking back into my saddle.

‘Ah.’

Luckily I’d spotted Angie, looking drop-dead gorgeous in skintight jodhpurs and a dark blue hunting coat, blonde chignon netted and tied with a velvet ribbon. Ah yes, hairnet, I thought, aware of my own locks tumbling rather luxuriantly down my back. If she had the sartorial upper hand, however, she nearly fell off her horse when she saw me.

‘Poppy! Good God. Whatever are you doing here?’ She muscled her classy chestnut through the throng towards me, open-mouthed.

‘Surprise!’ I grinned. I was feeling slightly pissed now, courtesy of that hip flask. ‘Dad lent me a horse. I thought I’d see how the other half live.’

‘Well, you might have told me! I could have lent you some clothes,’ she said gazing at my jacket, somewhat aghast.

‘D’you know, I wish I had,’ I said, leaning forward confidentially, meaning it. ‘It’s all been a bit of a nightmare. What with keeping Thumper in the back garden and –’

‘You didn’t!’

‘No, but almost. And I could have popped him in with yours, couldn’t I?’

‘Of course you bloody could! Oh, honestly, you are an idiot, Poppy.’ Her eyes were still bulging, though, which was quite satisfactory. ‘Can you ride him?’ She jerked her whip at Thumper.

‘Of course I can,’ I said confidently, remembering now why I’d wanted the element of surprise. I’d quite forgotten. I straightened up in the saddle. ‘Don’t forget I grew up with horses, Angie. You remember my dad, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’ She smiled down, seeing him for the first time. Dad raised his flat cap. ‘Hello, Mr Mortimer. I imagine you were in on this, then?’

‘Peter,’ he told her with a grin. ‘Yes, all the way. And Poppy’s quite right, she did grow up with them, but very much in the proximate sense. They were in the paddock and she was in the house doing her mascara. She took a great deal of interest from the window.’

‘Dad,’ I protested as they both roared with laughter. But worryingly, he had a point. Although I’d ridden as a child, as a teenager I’d been a bit more interested in Cosmo than Horse and Hound. Had I bitten off more than I could chew? Hands fluttering, I gratefully accepted a glass of port from a girl proffering a tray.

‘Have you had one?’ I asked Angie.

‘Oh God, yes, three. Always do. Makes it less painful if I come off.’

‘We’re coming off?’ I said alarmed.

‘Well, not necessarily, but who knows? Depends where we go. But you stick with me, Poppy. There are a lot of idiots out today, always are at the opening meet, and those are the ones who do the damage. Cut you up at fences, refuse slap bang in front of you. And hold on tight. I don’t want to be playing nursemaid when I’ve got other fish to fry.’ Her eyes darted around. ‘Have you spotted him yet?’

‘Who?’

‘The new master.’

‘Why would I? I don’t know what he looks like.’ She wasn’t to know I had my own fish to fry.

‘Well, he’s obviously going to be in pink, isn’t he? There – on the chestnut.’

I’d been busily scanning the broad-shouldered black coats for Sam, and was unprepared, therefore, for the man in pink, the one she indicated, to lift his hat as he greeted a friend, present his chiselled profile, and for it to be one and the same.

I stared for a long moment. ‘Sam Hetherington’s the new master?’

‘Yes.’ Angie turned, surprised. ‘You know him?’

‘He’s my solicitor.’

‘Is he?’ She looked astonished. ‘Oh yes, someone said he was a lawyer. Good God – you never said!’ She rounded on me accusingly.

‘Well, I didn’t know you knew him, did I?’

She gazed at me; blinked. ‘I suppose I don’t, yet,’ she admitted. ‘I will, though. He’s gorgeous, don’t you think? All mine, by the way,’ she added quickly and not for the first time. ‘I’m landing this one. He’s divorced, apparently, and this is his manor house, and very soon I’ll be installed within, doing up the drawing room. If you’re very lucky I’ll ask you to dinner.’

God, she had had a few drinks, but so had I, and I opened my mouth to remind her that, actually, she hadn’t seen him first, I had; perhaps adding haughtily that I wouldn’t dream of getting into a fight over a man, but anything I might or might not have said was forestalled by Sam himself.

‘Can I have your attention please, ladies and gentlemen!’

A deferential hush fell instantly. He was standing up in his stirrups, smiling around in a convivial manner. I gulped. Golly. Quite commanding. As he swept his hat gallantly from his head – no strap – to reveal his springy curls, he looked sensational. I’d forgotten about that heart-stopping smile, the crinkly eyes. Angie and I gazed rapturously as he went on to welcome everybody, thanking the local landowners and farmers for letting us ride across their fields – his, mostly, which with perfect manners he declined to mention – reminding us about gates and crops, cattle, oh, and the forthcoming hunt ball. He ended by adding that he hoped we all had a jolly good day. He looked like a young King Henry on St Crispin’s Day, rallying his troops, wind in his hair, hat under his arm. As he smiled, I swear a ray of sunlight glinted on a pearly tooth.

No time to bask in it, though, because suddenly I was jolted from my reverie by a loud blast on a hunting horn and Thumper and I were shoved unceremoniously out of the way by the huntsman and whipper-in, hounds at their heels, as they set off down the drive towards open country. The rest of the field bustled about importantly, waiting to be led by Sam. With fire in my heart and port in my belly, I couldn’t help but leg Thumper through to the front.

‘Hi, Sam!’ I called, aware of shining eyes and a very broad grin. Not his.

If he was surprised, he mastered it beautifully. He touched his hat and smiled.

‘Good morning, Poppy.’

But rather than stopping for some golly, fancy-seeing-you-here chat, he was off in moments, at a very fast trot down the drive, after the hounds. Angie was beside me in a flash.

‘Always, always call him master,’ she hissed. ‘Even if you privately know him as fluffy-bumkins. Even if you’ve shared a pillow the night before!’

Many heads nodded in severe agreement at this, faces grave. I’d obviously breached a sacred code.

‘Oh, OK. It’s just we did share a pillow and he said Sam would be fine,’ I told her airily, clearly disastrously pissed.

Some people thought this was quite funny and tittered, for which I was grateful, but not Angie. She shot me a withering look and trotted off to join the thrusters at the front. Hard not to join them, actually, as Thumper surged excitedly beneath me, doing an extended trot down the drive. I managed to hold him back a bit, though, and keep some distance. As we went through a gate into pasture we all broke into a canter and I scanned the airborne bottoms of Angie’s smart crowd ahead. I recognized a local actress with pale blue eyes on an iron grey; Hugo, Angus’s grandson, on an overwrought roan, one or two mates of his from Harrow ragging alongside him. Then there were the gays who ran the garden centre and quarrelled incessantly – one was prodding the other spitefully with his whip even now; a judge Dad knew, whose horse was called Circuit so that, if anyone rang, his clerk could truthfully say, ‘He’s out on circuit’; then a very attractive couple I couldn’t quite place until … good God. Simon and Emma Harding. I nearly fell off my horse. Why weren’t they on their honeymoon, for Christ’s sake? Was she going to be everywhere I went?

I yanked hard on my left rein and sped towards Angie.

‘Angie – Emma Harding’s here!’ I gasped as I galloped up beside her. It wasn’t hard, Thumper was pulling like a train.

‘I know, bloody cheek, isn’t it?’ she yelled back, instantly on my side despite my earlier jibe, bless her. We cantered along together, the wind whipping our words away. ‘They’re having their honeymoon later, apparently,’ she told me. ‘She clearly means to stick around like a turd on a shoe – bloody nerve!’

‘I’m going to out her,’ I seethed into the wind. ‘Just wait and see what everyone thinks when they know it was my husband she was … Holy shit. We’re not jumping that, are we?’

Up ahead was a sizeable post and rails with quite a few foot followers gathered around it. I spotted Jennie, Dad and my children clustered excitedly. Clearly we were. Sam flew over it, followed by the gays, then Hugo et al., then Simon and Emma. Right. So this was my Becher’s Brook. But, boy, was it huge. Thumper pulled excitedly at the sight of it, and as Angie sailed confidently over ahead of me, I was right on her heels. Too close, actually, but too late to do anything about it because I was already airborne. I clung on to the plaits for grim death, losing the reins as we landed, so that Thumper, given his head, let out the throttle and sped away. As we galloped towards another jump, a small hedge which he took in his stride, I realized something alarming was happening here: I was having trouble staying on board and pulling the reins at the same time. I could do one at a time, but not both together, and certainly not with jumps thrown into the equation. I plumped for staying on board and clung to his mane, which meant that Thumper – who, if he hadn’t been hunting before, was loving every minute of it – had a free rein to take me wherever he wanted, at whatever speed, which was top, and straight to the front.

Spectacularly out of control I rocketed past Angie, Simon and Emma, the actress on the grey, Hugo and his muckers. Then I cannoned past Sam in pink, who shot me a startled look, then the huntsman and the whipper-in, in mustard. Finally – trust me, it didn’t take long – I shot past the hounds, who scattered like beads of mercury as I galloped through them, ensuring that in five short minutes, I’d broken every single rule in the book.

When I finally turned an enormous circle way out in the next field – the next county, probably – and headed back, Thumper galloping joyously to rejoin his new friends, Angie’s face was white and horrified. ‘What are you doing!’ she shrieked, appalled.

‘Couldn’t stop,’ I gasped, skidding up beside her and jolting to an ungainly halt, hat over my eyes. ‘Bolted.’

I wanted to die, actually. Knew I probably would soon, too. I felt green with fear, sick as a dog and way out of my depth.

‘But you’re making a complete tit of yourself!’ she hissed as, fortuitously, the whole field pulled up, pausing as they drew a copse.

‘I know!’ I wailed. ‘What shall I do, Angie? Shall I go home?’ I couldn’t look at Sam. I mean, the master.

‘No, don’t give up yet. Just keep at the back with the no-hopers. Come on, I’ll come with you.’ She turned her horse’s head.

‘No, Angie,’ I said quickly, knowing this was indeed the true hand of friendship. ‘You stay at the front, I’ll go.’

‘Well, look, see those stragglers?’ She pointed behind us with her whip. ‘The alkies and the point-to-pointers, the children – you go with them. And for Christ’s sake, don’t come up the front again.’

‘Righto,’ I said meekly, hauling on the reins, trying to make Thumper see reason; at least for long enough to let me join the hoi polloi.

As I rode towards them scarlet-faced, I realized they were laughing at me. But not altogether unkindly, and when they’d all introduced themselves, it became abundantly clear that they were not only hugely friendly, but much more accepting than the smart crowd. They didn’t mind a bit that it was my first time out and I’d broken every rule under the sun; in fact, once they’d dried their eyes and stopped holding their sides, they told me they’d all done it once, and that Angie was a complete pain in the tubes out hunting. She thought she ran the show and was only trying to get into the new master’s breeches. I laughed along rather disloyally, vowing never to be that obvious.

Off we set again, this time, happily, at a more sedate pace. Thumper, his initial gallop under his belt, seemed to settle; perhaps, like me, recognizing he’d lost the Darwinian struggle and acknowledging his true place with the novices at the back. And I had a rather jolly time of it with my new friends, one of whom was the ravishing redhead who’d stripped off at the meet, a nurse called Polly. Then there was an electrician called Sparks, on an equally sparky ex-racehorse; an old rogue called Gerald with come-to-bed cataracts; Ted the local butcher, his face like one of his cheaper cuts of beef; and my very own painter and decorator, Grant, on a huge coloured cob.

‘Grant! I didn’t recognize you in your hat! Didn’t know you did this sort of thing?’

‘Yeah, every week. I’d rather spend my money on this than send it down the red lane in the boozer. A farmer lends me his horse. Likes it exercised.’

I felt rather shamed as we cantered on. I’d always assumed hunting was the province of the hideously wealthy, but these people were not remotely privileged. It was clearly a sport like any other, and although you obviously needed the four legs beneath you to do it, they weren’t all pampered, expensive steeds like Angie’s, but shaggy, workmanlike beasts pulled in from the field, begged and borrowed.

‘My brother hunts in Ireland,’ Polly told me breathlessly when we finally drew up on the outskirts of a wood. ‘And over there the kids follow on bikes, donkeys, whatever. You don’t have to have a horse. It isn’t quite like that here, but we’re certainly not the Beaufort. You don’t have to join a queue to get in and you won’t get ticked off for not looking the part. Although I might just lend you a hairnet next time.’ She grinned.

‘Thanks!’ I grinned back thinking that this was more like it, and next time I really would look the part: no safety pins, no mud, but perhaps on Agnes, who’d be less scary. Yes, I could do this; but I’d take the slow route, not be in such a rush. The field was moving on again and I gathered my reins to go with them, but at that moment a solitary fawn-coloured hound bustled past me. Thumper, startled, lashed out with his left hind leg.

‘Oh God, I hope he hasn’t hit him,’ I said, turning distractedly, but my new friends had moved on, out of earshot, not at a gallop but a fast trot, in single file across a ploughed field. I was last. Thumper, aware of this, registered his displeasure by lifting his front hooves off the ground when I held him back, but still I held him, because I’d spotted something fawn and inert in the bushes.

‘Shit!’

I was off in a trice, pulling the reins over Thumper’s head, dragging him into the undergrowth. There in the bracken lay the hound: stretched out stiffly, a terrible gash to its head. I gazed in horror. Blood was pouring down its cheek. Oh God, was it dead? I lurched forward, touched it. Shook it. It most certainly was. Either that or unconscious. I felt for a heartbeat. Nothing. I shrank back, aghast. Oh God, I’d killed a hound. Or Thumper had, which was surely one and the same thing. My hand flew to my mouth.

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry!’ I wailed, crouching over it again, stroking its poor fawn coat, the reins looped over my arm as Thumper danced impatiently on the end. ‘You poor thing!’ I whispered. There he’d been, happily running along with his mates one minute, and then, courtesy of yours truly, stone dead the next. Tears sprang to my eyes and I gulped hopelessly, wringing my hands. Thumper cavorted, but I ignored him. In fact right now I downright hated him and spun round to tell him so in no uncertain terms.

‘You stupid stupid horse!’

I cast about desperately for help. One by one the hunt was disappearing across the ploughed field over the brow of the hill and, horrified as I was, I couldn’t help feeling relief. For something else was building in my breast. Some other, weighty emotion. Terror. I was fairly sure that up there in the litany of hunting sins, this was the most heinous. Forget not having the right kit. Forget not addressing the master correctly, overtaking him, the whipper-in, the pack; this was the black cap. Not just for the hound, but for me too.

Dry-mouthed, I stared at the empty horizon. All gone. No one even in the distance. But if I was tempted momentarily to get back on and just turn and belt for home, for the safety of my cottage and a nice cup of tea, I resisted manfully. No. What I’d do, what I’d jolly well do, was get back on and catch up with them. Yes. Tell them exactly what had happened. Fess up.

Heart pounding and feeling very fluttery and sweaty-palmed, I somehow, with the help of a log, got back on a prancing and distressed Thumper – but not as distressed as I was, oh God no – and around we spun. We galloped off across the middle of the sticky plough, then through a gate and sharp left across a meadow. The riders in the distance were going at speed now, and I realized I’d have to leap a ditch or two along the way to catch up. But ditches were nothing to me now. Risking my own neck was a mere trifle. In fact breaking it was hugely preferable to what was about to befall it.

In a trice I was steaming up a grassy hill beside Polly, the nurse. A good person. A nice person. Think of the hours she worked, the minimum wage, the bedpans. She’d understand. And maybe it wasn’t dead, after all? Maybe she’d administer mouth to mouth?

‘Polly –’

‘Oh, hi, you’re back! We were worried about you. Gosh, you must have jumped those ditches – well done!’

‘Polly, I –’

‘Holes on the right!’ she shouted in warning as we careered past a badger set.

Thumper swerved violently to avoid the craters in the ground, and of course I was doing my level best to stay on, let alone speak. And with every furlong we galloped, we were getting further away from the poor dead hound. One of many, of course. So many. Look at them all streaming out ahead. Heaps of them, so of course he wasn’t missed. But I must impart my intelligence. Must divulge the grave news. We were jumping now, a series of little blackthorn hedges, not very big, but as I landed beside Polly’s huge grey, I screamed, ‘I’ve done something – I must tell you!’

She swung around. Only, to my horror, it wasn’t Polly at all; it was Emma Harding.

She looked annoyed at being yelled at, mid-jump. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ She glared. ‘I hope it wasn’t you on the crops back there.’

‘What?’ We’d straggled to a halt before a massive hedge that not even the thrusters could jump.

‘Someone went on the crops, and you were specifically told to keep to the edge.’

I gazed in wonder. She’d slept with my husband for four years, wanted my children’s inheritance, and now she was telling me not to trample a few Weetabix seedlings?

‘And you should have a red ribbon on that horse’s tail if it kicks.’

I went pale. Did she know? Had she seen?

‘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.