Halfway across the next, I stop and peel my skirt off my legs so I can move them. ‘It’s so good Scarlett gets special rates at Iron Maidens Cleaners.’ Then I stiffen. ‘There’s an empty hay net on that fence, this could be it.’
We leave the mud track, clamber through a hedge and out onto a lane. When I see the small dark brown pony standing by the gate I flop.
‘It’s not his fault he’s not Pumpkin.It soundedsohopeful, we had to follow the lead.’
As Miles blows out his cheeks he looks beaten. ‘Come on. Let’s go home, clean up and regroup.’
I give a shiver. ‘Not that I’m big on short cuts, but if we take that lane, we should be able to pick up the main road.’
It’s gently downhill and a whole lot faster when we’re not sliding through mud, and ten minutes later we’re going through the gate at Boathouse Cottage.
Miles hands me my phone then opens the kitchen door. ‘If you want to contact the lost pony groups I’ll grab some towels.’
‘It feels so unreal.’ I sink down onto the bench by the table and wrench off my Converse hi tops which are like mud balls. ‘How am I ever going to tell Scarlett?’
‘Betsy…’ Miles’s voice is urgent. ‘Come here, there’s something you need to see…’
I look down at Fudge who has flopped in his own little mud puddle on the pavers. ‘I can’t imagine anything in the kitchen worth rushing for. Wait here, I won’t be long.’
Even though I tiptoe past the mudroom, I’m still leaving footprints on the polished limestone. As I reach Miles he puts a finger to his lips. ‘We have a visitor in the living room…’
My mind races. ‘Tate? Scarlett? Zofia?Your mum?’
‘Much better than that.’
I peer past the sofa to a long ginger tail and a very orange pony rump, and I let out a whoop. ‘Pumpkin! You’re here! I thought you’d gone forever! What are you doing in the house?’
He turns to look at me and I throw my arms around his neck then bury my face in his mane. ‘I left the door off the latch and you pushed your way in. Nice job, Pumpkin. Remind me to always give you your carrots over the fence in future, not in the doorway.’ I smile at Miles. ‘He’s been obsessed with getting into the cottage since he stole your buns through the window that first afternoon.’
Miles laughs. ‘He’s had his nose pressed against that French window for weeks. It was bound to open one day.’
I can’t help scolding him. ‘Look at the state of Miles and I, Pumpkin, and you’ve been here all the time, swishing your tail.’ I shake my head at Miles. ‘He looks so comical next to the high-end coffee table, we have to take photos before we put him back in the field again.’
Miles frowns at his mud-caked legs. ‘If Tate or Scarlett saw this it would blow their minds.’
I grin at him. ‘Selfie by the sofa, for you, me, Fudge and Pumpkin only.’ I bury my face in Pumpkin’s mane one last time. ‘And after that, ponies stay strictly in their fields.’
49
Boathouse Cottage, St Aidan
Home truths and antique road shows
Saturday
Pumpkin is safely back in his field, with the addition of one of Tate’s bicycle locks on the gate. I climb the stile, turn to watch him standing and swallow hard.
‘He’s so very precious because he was Mum’s.’ I’ve stayed so detached and calm, but now my emotions flood over me and my voice wavers. ‘I always try to be bright, but sometimes I can’t.’ A tear rolls down my cheek and off my chin, and Miles jumps down next to me by the fence.
‘Losing Pumpkin then finding him again– days don’t come any bigger than this.’ His voice is soft as he slips his arms around me. ‘It’s okay to cry.’
The folds of his shirt are streaked with mud, but I bury my cheek in them all the same. Then as I close my eyes tight and listen to the repeating thud of his heart a reassuring sense of comfort spreads through me.
I shudder. ‘Often when Pumpkin and I are walking along the water's edge on the empty beach it’s like my mum’s there with us. You probably think I’m weird to say that.’
He sighs. ‘Not at all. My mum said the same when she lost my stepfather.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘If I died, I know I’ddo my damndest not to leave– to stay close to the people I cared for.’
My cheek is still pressed against his chest. ‘Sometimes, just for a moment, I forget that she’s gone. I wish you’d met her. She was exacting with her partners, but she was so warm and wonderful and caring and creative and alive.’
