What if all you trusted was to crumble about you?
When a new pony arrives at Valley Riding School, volunteer Abby has no idea of the integral role that he has to play in the unfolding of her life. She goes from riding once per week to preparing for...
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The bus is stuffy with warmth and the heat of many school children who alighted at previous stops. I sit with Hana near the front, waiting for it to pull around the corner and down the hill into the village.
"I am literally drowning in homework." She complains, slinging a few strands of her cornrows behind her shoulder. "I think they actually want to kill me."
I laugh, "School will do that to you- not sure what you expected in exam year." We pass the old café- boarded up with posters tacked to the front, advertising it's new purpose as a micro bar- before I press the stop button at the green. Hana rolls her eyes at me before grabbing her rucksack from the seat in front and standing up, making her way- swinging side to side with the motion of the bus- to the door. I follow, relishing the blast of cool air as the doors open and we step outside into October.
The green lies to our right as we walk away from the bus stop, stretching out for what seems like miles before ending in a low stone wall and a row of chocolate box cottages. Hana waves goodbye as she turns left, towards her house in a close behind the high street.
I cross the road and turn right onto the green as a gust of wind blows orange leaves across the grass. Normally I wouldn't come this way, as it is slightly further, but today I don't want to go home. My bag weighs heavy on my shoulder, and the thought of tackling any homework makes me shudder. I want to ride, then curl up with a book and a hot chocolate under my duvet. A proper one, made with milk and cream and a chocolate dipper.
Leaves scatter with each of my steps, but as I take my route beneath the trees I am sheltered from the wind, and the weak autumn sunlight dapples its way through the boughs, illuminating the grass and golden leaves below. It warms me slightly, whilst the remnants of the breeze play with the ends of my scarf.
Benches line the edge, each engraved with a memorial plaque. I let my fingers brush the edges of each one, Rachel West, Bob Tyne, unknown people whose lives were as vivid and complex as my own. A figure appears in the distance, frail and trembling. He leans upon a stick, and seems almost weighed down by the long black overcoat which swamps his elderly figure.
Mr. Smith.
I head towards him, and his smile grows wider as he sees me. "Hello Abby," he says, "Cold today isn't it?"
I nod, "I hope you have something warm waiting for you at home."
Mr. Smith chuckles, "Don't you worry about me, I expect my daughter does enough of that!" He pauses for a second then asks, tentatively, how my riding is going.
"Good, thank you," I'm relieved to be able to say that it is, not to have to tell him that no, I'm not having lessons, or that despite having emailed every shop and pub in the village I cannot find a new job. I'm relived to be able to tell him about Red, how I'm schooling him for Kerys.
Then I remember the mysterious brand on Red's shoulder. "Mr. Smith?"
"Yes?"
"What do you know about brands, on horses?"
There is a pause, where the elderly man considers the question. He stops trembling for a second, before replying, "That depends, can you be more specific?"
"A white one, it's like a ring below Red's left wither. It doesn't have any letters or anything and I wondered what it meant."
Nothing. The green seems to go silent, and even the trees stop whispering in the breeze. Fallen leaves fall still. Mr. Smith takes a deep breath.
"Sorry Abby but I can't help you." He turns and begins to hobble away, before stopping and turning back to face me. "My daughter, she has a showjumping yard down the road."
He hands me a little card from the pocket of his overcoat. I study it, noticing the address, detailing, it's clean cut and professional design.
"She's looking for a stable hand on Sundays," he says, "Maybe you should call and ask."
Another figure enters the green, slight and watchful. The old man waves me goodbye, before hobbling away in her direction.
"Bye!" I read the white writing on the card- Seasons Stable, then my eyes catch on the address- written in cursive.
It is only up the road from home.
---
When I get back, having looked wistfully up the road I have never bothered to venture down, I call Sara. We arrange for me to come and see the stables on Sunday, and she tells me a bit about them. How they buy and train showjumpers for competition. How a stable hand and show groom is required to care for these horses- anything ranging from those approaching grand Prix to those competing locally.
I cannot wait.
Saturday comes, passing in a blur of clients and ponies and a flatwork session with Red. Then, Sunday dawns- bright to the sound of birdsong.
I leap from bed, heart pounding- nerves, excitement, hope. Hope that Seasons Stable will be all that I want, within walking distance, nice people, horses that make me stop in awe. Then guilt.
Valley has given me all that I wanted for years. The thought that anywhere else could be better- no. I won't think of that.
The yard sounds smart. As though nobody would venture there in a hoodie and jeans, so I dig my old jodhpurs from the bottom of my drawer- slightly too tight but nicer than my tattered jeans- and a baselayer I usually only wear in winter.
The combination is strange to me, but I think it will fit better in the new surroundings. I grab a cereal bar on the way out of the house, before shouting goodbye to my parents and pulling on my freshly polished jodphur boots.
Here, it begins.
My road stretches in two directions. Left, to more houses culminating in a footpath that leads to the orchard at the back. In the same direction is the road leading to the green and the rest of the village. Right, however, is an unexplored avenue.
I have never had reason to venture beneath the leafy tunnel- besides in the family car on the way to town. It seems to me to only hold footpaths and bridleways, dotted with a few houses which are surrounded by the brown foliage.
I shrug, the address on the card leads me to this road, so this road is where I will come. After two minutes of walking, I reach a dirt lane which stretches into the woods. This place was described to me when I talked to Sara on the phone, I think. I search for a sign to validate it, and am met with a little wooden plaque hidden within the hedge.
Seasons Stable.
I take a deep breath, pull the too short sleeves of my baselayer back down to my wrists and take a shaky step down the lane.
-
So I thought this was a natural place to end the chapter, but there is still alot to go, so I've split this into two parts, thanks for reading!
Do you prefer longer chapters split to fit the rest of the story, or just long?
Did this make sense or are there places where I need to be clearer?
What do you think of Mr. Smith?
As always, it would be soooo helpful for you to answer these questions for me, and I'm happy to return on any of your stories :) if you enjoyed it please vote and if you didn't, tell me why!
