The next morning Poppy was so convinced that the pony was a figment of her imagination that she’d gone into Charlie’s bedroom, found his camera and checked that the photo he’d taken actually existed. After scrolling through various out-of-focus images of her and Caroline and a few of Chester, she came to the photograph she was looking for. Charlie had captured the pony half-rearing in the moonlight in the moment before he turned and fled. Although the image was fuzzy Poppy could make out his flared nostrils and brown eyes full of fear. The sight made her heart twist painfully.
“Where could he have come from?” she asked Scarlett later that morning, as the pair tacked up Flynn and Blaze before setting off on a gentle ride on the moor. Poppy loved hacking out. Flynn was such a gentleman that she overlooked his tendency to grab a mouthful of grass whenever he thought he could get away with it.
“I’ve no idea but I bet I can guess who does,” Scarlett replied.
“Tory!” Poppy answered. She’d spent the morning wondering if the old woman knew more than she was letting on. Her evasiveness and the wistful way she’d looked into the wood suggested she might know something about the mysterious grey pony. Poppy was desperate to quiz Tory about him.
As luck would have it she didn’t have to wait long. After weeks of sun the weather finally broke the next day and, faced with the unappealing prospect of a rainy Saturday afternoon at home entertaining an energetic Charlie, Caroline had suggested they go into Tavistock for a trip to the library followed by a cream tea.
“While you two are in the library, could I go and see Tory? I want to show her the photos Charlie took of Chester after I gave him that bath,” Poppy asked, holding her breath while Caroline considered the request.
In Twickenham her stepmother never let the children out of her sight but she’d become much more relaxed since they’d moved to Devon. Poppy was eleven and about to start secondary school after all. She needed some independence.
“Good idea. I’ll drop you off at Tory’s flat and then we can meet in the cafe opposite the town hall at three o’clock. I’ve got her address here somewhere.”
Caroline fished about in a drawer in the oak dresser until she found the scrap of paper she was looking for.
“Here it is. Right, shall we go? Charlie, have you got your library books?”
The windscreen wipers were going nineteen to the dozen as Caroline drew up outside the block of sheltered flats where Tory lived.
“Tory’s flat is number twelve. Give her our love and we’ll see you at three,” Caroline said. Poppy pulled on her hood and made a run for the flats. As she splashed through puddles to the disabled ramp at the front of the building, the strident tones of a woman’s voice made her start.
“Hello! Can I help you?” It sounded more like a threat than a question. The woman stuck her head out of the entrance door and looked at a rain-sodden Poppy with distaste, as if she was something the cat had dragged in. “I’m Mrs Parker and I’m the warden here. You’re not one of those dreadful hoodies are you?” she said, peering closely at Poppy. She was, Poppy guessed, in her late fifties and had a helmet of tightly permed grey hair that didn’t move when she looked Poppy up and down. She wore a heavy tweed skirt of a nondescript brown and a fawn-coloured twinset with an obligatory string of pearls. Unfortunately the lady-of-the-manor look was ruined by her pink, fluffy, rabbit-shaped slippers. Mrs Parker caught Poppy staring at her feet and the girl’s perplexed expression seemed to antagonise her further.
“Well, do you have a tongue in that head of yours?” she asked sharply.
“I’m Poppy. I’m a friend of Tory’s. Can you show me where her flat is, please?” Poppy attempted a winning smile.
“I might have known,” Mrs Parker muttered, opening the door wide enough for Poppy to step inside. The warden’s helmet of hair remained motionless as she turned and pointed along a dimly lit corridor.
“Down there, second door on the right. She’s in - I can hear her television from here. Well, what are you waiting for - Christmas?” Mrs Parker asked rudely, as Poppy stood rooted to the spot. “And I don’t want any trouble from either of you!” With that, she turned on the heel of her slippers and stalked off in the opposite direction.
Poppy pulled back her hood, sending raindrops scattering, and walked along the corridor, stopping when she saw a ceramic plaque painted with the number twelve and a pretty border of pink roses. She knocked softly and then with more force so Tory would hear her over the sound of the television. Her friend opened the door a crack and, seeing a bedraggled Poppy standing outside, opened it wide, a broad smile on her weather-beaten face.
“Poppy! What a lovely surprise. Come in, you look absolutely soaked. Sit down over here. You can tell me how Chester is while I make you a drink. I’m missing the old boy dreadfully. Did you meet Mrs Parker? See what I mean? She has me down as a trouble-maker, all because I’ve started organising a poker night in the residents’ lounge every Friday. It’s very popular but the old dragon doesn’t approve, says it’s lowering the tone. And it’s not like it’s strip poker! This place needs livening up a bit if you ask me.”
Poppy sank gratefully into one of the two armchairs in Tory’s front room and looked around her while Tory turned off the television and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Tory’s lounge had a window overlooking a small courtyard. Doors led off to a galley kitchen, a tiny bedroom and an even smaller bathroom. There was a faint smell of toast. Poppy got the impression that more furniture than there was room for had been shoehorned into the flat. The two armchairs were covered in a busy floral fabric and each was draped in lace antimacassars. Against one of the magnolia walls was a glass-fronted dark wood cabinet filled with porcelain figurines. An old oak gate-leg table with barley twist legs stood between the two armchairs, its surface covered in framed photographs.
As Tory chatted away in the kitchen, Poppy stole a look at the pictures. One, a sepia portrait of a young couple looking seriously into the lens, must have been Tory and Douglas on their wedding day. There was a photo of the couple and a small girl aged about five standing in front of Riverdale. She must be Jo, the daughter Tory had fallen out with. Other pictures showed Tory’s family through the passing of years and Poppy was beginning to lose interest when a photo half hidden at the back caught her eye. She reached out to have a closer look and what she saw made her stomach flip over. The photo showed a girl on a dappled grey pony being presented with a red rosette by a man in a hacking jacket. Peering closer, she could just make out the words Brambleton Horse Show around the edge of the rosette. As Tory shuffled slowly in with Poppy’s tea she guiltily tried to put the photo back in its place but in her haste toppled over the two frames in front of it.
“I wondered if you’d notice that,” said Tory, gently placing the mug on a small stool next to Poppy’s armchair.
“It’s the same pony I’ve seen in the wood, isn’t it Tory? You know where he came from, don’t you? Please tell me.”
Tory picked up the photo and sat down heavily in the other chair. She looked at the girl and pony and her face sagged in sadness.
“Yes, I do know where the pony came from, pet. But it’s a long story with no happy ending. Are you really sure you want to know?”