The Pony With No Name

  For Alana, with much love . . . T.C.

  Blueberry Muffin was cross. Bryony could always tell. He was perched, rather stiffly, on the end of her bed, staring ahead at thin air.

  ‘Sorry, Berry,’ Bryony said. ‘When it stops raining you’ll feel better. Then we’ll go and explore together. We’ll love Brook Dale, you’ll see!’

  She stroked her cat’s silvery fur but he flatly refused to purr, so she strolled across the bare floorboards to her window instead.

  Bryony rubbed the misted-up glass and peered down the garden to what looked like plum trees. This must have been how Plum Cottage had got its name, she thought. Last night they’d arrived too late to see anything much, but now she saw the garden looked rambling and wild.

  ‘Ahhh . . .’ Bryony suddenly heard herself sigh. Wandering back to her bed, she sat down close to Berry. He wasn’t the only one feeling out of place . . .

  She gazed around her new bedroom crammed with unpacked boxes. It was small and the walls were thick and lopsided. It had someone else’s smell, someone else’s wallpaper. It looked nothing like her old bedroom she’d left behind.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ said her grown-up voice inside, ‘. . . you only arrived last night. Things are bound to feel different. Give it time.’

  With a faint meow, Berry rolled onto his back and presented his tummy to be tickled. Maybe he was coming round a bit.

  ‘Grandpa’s visiting later,’ Bryony said, stroking the cat’s warm, round tummy. ‘He might even bring you some fish if you’re lucky, eh?’

  Bryony surprised herself now with a smile, which must have come from thinking of her grandfather. Albert Wallace had a warm smile too, and he was really kind. Grandpa, like Bryony, loved to be busy, with new projects always on the go. Now Bryony would be able to see him much more than ever she could before. In fact, one of the reasons they’d moved to Brook Dale was to be closer to him. That, and to make a ‘fresh start’ in this run-down old cottage by the sea.

  Bryony pulled across a packing box and started to rummage inside. An assortment of objects steadily littered her quilt as she delved deeper into its depths. A book on gemstones, a handful of pens, some hair ties and several odd socks. Then, finally, she fished out just the thing.

  ‘There!’ said Bryony, clutching the picture frame. She licked her finger and rubbed a smudge off the glass. ‘Welcome to rainy Brook Dale, everyone!’

  Bryony thought of her two best friends standing beside her in the photo. She wondered what they’d both be up to now. Becky – small, blonde and freckly, and tall, skinny Fran with black hair. And there in the middle was Bryony, her wild auburn hair forced into plaits and her sea-green eyes smiling. Bryony was at her happiest when surrounded by friends.

  She poked around in the box again and pulled out a big red rosette. The same one she was wearing in the photo. Park Lodge Stables – First Prize, it said. She’d won it at her riding school’s gymkhana last year. As she smoothed the crumpled ribbons flat, she recalled that special day . . .

  Right at the start of the morning, everyone had drawn straws to decide which pony they’d ride. Poor Fran had ended up with Boris-the-Bold who wasn’t very bold at all (unless you counted nibbling the judge’s jumper!). Becky had had more luck on jet-black Midnight, coming second in the Barrel Race. But Peppermint, the pony that Bryony had drawn, had been the real star that day. A cool calm grey with flecks of silver, Peppermint reminded Bryony of a unicorn. And that day she had jumped so smoothly it had felt to Bryony like they were actually flying!

  The next photo out of the box was one of the family, taken on holiday in France a few years ago. She and her twin brother, Josh, were in the centre. Josh, who was younger than Bryony by seven minutes, was slightly taller than her, and his scruffy hair was brown and much straighter. Beside Josh was Mum, and beside Bryony (with the same curly hair and green eyes as she had) was . . .

  ‘Dad.’ Bryony whispered the word, which ended in a hushed deep sigh.

  It had only been six months since he’d died and she missed him so much. And now moving house somehow made it feel even longer since they were all together as a family.

  A tear escaped from Bryony’s eye before she could dab it away. She quickly hugged the photo close to her chest, like if Dad saw her crying it would make him sad too. Silly, she knew. But it was just how she felt. Dad had always said how proud he was of the way she smiled and got on with things. She mopped up the tear with the cuff of her sleeve. She wouldn’t let Dad down, whatever . . .

  ‘Right then!’ said her grown-up voice inside. ‘Just think of moving as an adventure. You really like adventures, you know you do!’

  Bryony nodded. That was true. She’d never been scared of adventures. In fact, she’d always loved the feeling of butterflies in her tummy. That wonderful, tingly feeling she’d got the first time she ever sat on a pony. Or when she’d first trotted, or cantered, or galloped, or attempted her very first jump!

  She put both photos on her bedside table. These memories would always be with her, like Dad would – wherever she was. And now she was here, it was the summer holidays and time for her to get out and make even more memories . . .

  *

  A spring in her mattress gave a small twang as Bryony got off her bed. Berry opened one eye to show his annoyance.

  ‘Time for breakfast,’ Bryony said with a yawn. The cat’s eye shut again. ‘Okay,’ she shrugged. ‘See you later then.’

  She opened the door and headed out, the floorboards creaking noisily. Those would need sorting. This cottage was falling to bits!

  A long queue of packing boxes lined the landing wall. They looked almost bored, like they were waiting for a very late bus.

  ‘I’ll be back!’ Bryony told them, as if they could understand. Straight after breakfast, she promised herself, she’d start on the unpacking. This was home now and the sooner she made it feel like that the better.

  At the bottom of the steep, dark staircase, the warm smell of toast filled the air. ‘Just what I need,’ Bryony said. Mum always had a knack of knowing.

  She closed her eyes to breathe in the smell when suddenly a torrent of eager footsteps sounded on the stairs behind.

  ‘Out the way!’ yelled Josh impatiently, jumping the last four steps. ‘Smells like things are looking up! Toast time.’

  She saw the back of her twin brother’s head disappear through the kitchen doorway. ‘Hey – save some for me!’ called Bryony, hurrying after him.

  The kitchen was already Bryony’s favourite room. She’d decided that last night. It felt familiar, comfy – worn in, like her favourite pair of old Converse! Its walls were rough and bumpy but its floor was shiny stone. Not shiny from polish or because it was new, but rather because it was ancient. Countless feet must have felt its cool touch as they’d left their stories. And now it was Bryony’s turn to add hers.

  She smiled as she spotted the old rocking chair nestled in a deep alcove. It fitted so well, just like it belonged. Like it had been there for ever . . .

  Suddenly, her thoughts returned to home. To the place where the chair had rocked before. To the busy city – full of noise and cars – where people bustled and lights in shop windows burned all day and night. To their thin white house, with its smooth slate roof and strawberry-red front door. Dad had changed it from black to surprise Mum one day when she’d gone shopping. And it really did as she’d almost walked right past it!

  The kitchen in Plum Cottage, although still bare, was very snug and welcoming. When Bryony walked in, Mum was at the Aga in a stripy top and dungarees. Her light brown hair was in a loose wispy bun and round her wrist jangled several silver bangles. She looked arty and very pretty, Bryony thought.

  ‘Hmm . . .’ said
Mum, peering into the Aga. ‘Just figuring out how to light the thing!’

  ‘It looks ancient,’ frowned Josh.

  ‘The colour’s nice, though!’ smiled Bryony. It was a deep, mysterious navy.

  ‘Yes!’ Mum nodded. ‘I was just thinking that too.’

  It would be easier here, Bryony told herself, than back in the city without Dad. In fact, this funny old place was already starting to weave its magic. She saw her dad’s grin in the knots on the doors, in the curls of peeling wallpaper, in the plum trees waving, calling her to play. New adventures were out there waiting too, in the wood and the caves by the sea! Secrets were waiting for her to discover. New friends to make. She was ready . . .

  ‘If only it would stop raining!’ Bryony said to her mum. ‘I want to go and explore! But what if this place hasn’t got any girls? Just tons of toast-thieving boys like my brother?!’

  With that, she staged a spectacular faint onto the kitchen table. Great practice, thought Bryony, for when she was an actress!

  ‘Right,’ said Mum, bringing over some toast. ‘Thank goodness for the toaster! No butter, though – sorry. I’ll go shopping later. But we do have jam and—’ Suddenly Mum stopped as there was a knock on the door and the twins jumped up and raced each other over shouting . . .

  ‘Grandpa!’

  The next few hours passed happily. It was great to see Grandpa again. He lived down a lane near the sea, just a ten-minute walk through the beech wood at the end of the twins’ garden.

  For the rest of the morning Grandpa helped them unpack. Though Josh mostly just pretended to be unpacking whilst sneakily polishing off the chocolate biscuits that Grandpa had brought for their tea break.

  ‘Now,’ said Grandpa just before lunch, ‘who’s up for a little walk? We could even take a picnic to the caves?’

  ‘But it’s pouring!’ cried Mum.

  ‘Ah,’ smiled Grandpa. ‘We country folk don’t fuss about the weather!’

  ‘Right, then,’ Josh nodded, ‘I’m definitely in!’ He could remember the caves from when they used to visit Grandpa before. But they’d never gone for a picnic in them.

  ‘What about you, Bryony?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Are you coming too?’ said Bryony. Since Dad had died Bryony had tried to be around more for Mum in case she was lonely.

  Mum winked. ‘Don’t you worry about me, I’ll be fine staying here to do a bit more unpacking.’

  She turned to Grandpa. ‘And I’ve got just the thing for that picnic!’

  Delving around in yet another box, Mum fished out an unopened packet of jam tarts, a big bag of raisins and some crisps.

  ‘I know what moving’s like,’ she smiled. ‘Too busy unpacking to go to the shops, so this time I came prepared. Except, of course, for the butter and milk!’

  Mum’s house move before this one had been to the city, when the twins had been almost five. She hadn’t thought to take any provisions then, not even toilet paper! But it hadn’t mattered that much as there’d been lots of shops open all hours. Not here, though. As they’d driven in last night the place had been quiet and almost in complete darkness.

  Mum rifled through another of the boxes. ‘But where did I put the picnic basket? Huh!’ she tutted. ‘Just when I was doing so well!’

  Quickly Bryony came to the rescue. Hurrying upstairs, she came back down clutching her old riding school rucksack.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, stuffing the picnic into that. ‘All sorted!’

  The three of them left, splashing off through the rain into the beech wood at the bottom of the garden. Grandpa explained that, as well as a shortcut to his old fisherman’s cottage, the beech wood was also a shortcut to the sea.

  How funny, thought Bryony, getting to places through a wood. The city where they’d lived before had had great big parks with formal gardens and fountains, but no woods. And back there everyone stuck firmly to the pavements (when they weren’t in their high-rise office blocks)!

  In this wood, though, the trees were the tallest things around, like a vast green tent sheltering them from the rain. And the breeze sent a pixie-like whisper through the leaves, light and playful and mischievous!

  ‘Hey, Gramps,’ cried Josh suddenly. ‘Witches’ butter – over there!’ He pointed and hurried Grandpa over to investigate. Josh had been very into fungi in the city, not that the parks there had had much. The odd toadstool, Bryony recalled, and that was about it, really.

  Josh and Grandpa were likely to be ages examining this feast of fungi. A wicked yellow colour, it was smothering the fallen tree stump just beyond.

  While they did that, Bryony wandered on collecting bits from the woodland floor: feathers, pretty leaves, interesting bits of bark and the odd unripe beech nut. She squirrelled these away into the pocket of her rucksack. Later on she’d make them into some kind of dangly toy thing for Blueberry!

  As she walked, Bryony became aware of the wind. It was steadily growing louder and more blustery all the time. Maybe, she thought, being close to the sea meant that the weather here changed more rapidly?

  She looked up. The treetops were now blowing about, letting raindrops through in patchy splatters. And the ferns on the woodland floor were suddenly swishing and swaying about like an angry sea. Even so, it was really beautiful. Becky and Fran would be so jealous when they visited!

  But then, above the rain and the rustle of the leaves, Bryony heard another sound. She stopped. Dead still. Scarcely breathing.

  Was that a pony whinnying?

  Or was it just the wind?

  She listened harder. All was quiet. A wood pigeon flapped away. Nothing. It was nothing after all.

  But then she heard it again. And this time the sound was unmistakable. It was! It really was the sound of a pony.

  As if in a trance, she followed it, wading through the wet ferns. A little further, and further still, she went, the whinnying getting louder all the time.

  Finally she peeped through a gap in the trees into a small clearing beyond. And there he was! Bryony’s heart skipped a beat; the most adorable little bay pony she’d ever seen!

  But the pony looked spooked. He was rearing up, his ears flat back and his long black tail thrashing about.

  Bryony saw a girl run after him into the clearing. She was breathless and looked very scared. She halted well back and, trembling, she slipped behind a tree to watch him. Bryony guessed that her pony must have thrown her, then bolted. And now the girl was too shaken to get any closer and catch him.

  ‘Hello!’ called Bryony, but the girl didn’t hear. Bryony waited until the pony stopped rearing then glanced back at his owner again. The girl still looked terrified. Bryony knew that feeling. She had been thrown before too. But someone needed to calm the pony down . . .

  Slowly Bryony edged forward through the ferns, hoping to catch the pony’s eye. It would be far less scary for him if he saw her coming.

  He suddenly spotted her and clattered back, though he didn’t rear up like before. Bryony stood still again. She heard the wind moan. She knew lots of ponies were scared by the wind, and this storm had come on so quickly it wasn’t any wonder he was spooked. His snorts were loud and very high-pitched and his ears were twitching and flying about in panic.

  ‘It’s all right . . .’ Bryony called to him, her voice soft and calm. He didn’t hear. She called again, and this time both his ears shot to face the direction of her voice.

  ‘Yes, that’s the way,’ Bryony said. The pony was listening and watching her now.

  ‘I’m just going to come across and help, okay?’

  Nice and steadily, she started moving towards him again. She saw out of the corner of her eye that his owner was still paralysed with fear. If anyone was to calm the pony now it must be Bryony . . .

  As soon as she was close enough, Bryony looked for a lead rein, but he didn’t appear to be wearing one. So slowly reaching out, she took his reins instead, making sure to keep them nice and relaxed so the bit inside his mouth didn’t hurt
him. The pony snorted nervously but didn’t try to tug away. ‘Well done,’ said Bryony gently. ‘Good boy.’

  Being so close, Bryony was now struck by his gorgeous big brown eyes. Yet behind those eyes – Bryony glimpsed it at once – there was something else. The same something she glimpsed behind her own eyes sometimes when she caught her reflection in a mirror or shop window. She hadn’t, until now, realised what that something was. It was sadness.

  Keeping very still, Bryony spoke to the pony calmly and reassuringly. ‘Hello there. That’s right, no need to be scared. I’m Bryony, and that sound – it’s only the wind, it won’t hurt you.’

  The pony looked back at Bryony, like he was weighing her up. Keeping hold of his reins in one hand, Bryony reached out the other for the pony to sniff. He stayed still for a moment. Then his head leaned in closer and as he started to sniff Bryony’s fingers she could feel his warm breath.

  ‘Good to meet you,’ she murmured. ‘I’m Bryony.’

  The pony gave a deep gentle blow but he still looked unsure. Bryony slowly moved her hand to the side of his neck and started to stroke it, keeping a steady rhythm and talking to him all the time in soft, low whispers.

  Eventually she felt his body relax and his breathing become more even. ‘I’m a friend,’ she whispered, and to her delight the pony edged a little closer. ‘There, that’s right. What a brave boy,’ she said.

  Bryony noticed a small starry-shaped patch in between the pony’s eyes.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped – suddenly remembering that her dad used to call her his little star. It was almost as if she and this pony had been destined to meet.

  The pony’s owner appeared at Bryony’s side. Her face was ghostly-white and she was still trembling.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked Bryony, and the girl managed a nod.

  ‘A-and thanks so much,’ she replied. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you. I’m Emma, by the way.’

  ‘I’m . . .’

  ‘. . . Bryony!’ The girl finished Bryony’s sentence. ‘I just heard you tell the pony. By the way, I think you’re amazing with him.’