boy’s laugh, feeling the current of it in
his own veins, Hero moved freely into a long, clean gallop, learning the strength he had in him, power surging inside, one ear turned as Wolfie’s laughter rolled and tumbled and crested in a
froth of joy. The boy’s trust in the horse, the horse’s trust in the boy, was each beyond question.
With Dodo and Scout they’d picnic in valleys ribboned with silver streams, the coat of the young horse silver as a moon in the leaf shadow. They’d ride to Hoar Oak, remote and
fairy-tale, to watch the firing practice at Larkbarrow. They patrolled the ponies at Pennywater, or rode over the Common to watch the troops and tanks on manoeuvres, or gallop across the high moor,
through feathery tufts of cotton grass, sweet as summer snow.
If Hero had to stop and wait for Scout, he’d stamp and snort, and lift his head to survey the open grassland, proud as an eagle. Then Wolfie would blow his bugle, and they’d canter
on. Driven by gossamer whims, arms lifted to the sky, reins loose, laughing, Wolfie raced clouds, raced birds that swirled like scraps of paper, laughing, forgetting, the mother lost in babyhood,
the father under arrest.
In late summer they rode through fire-gold sedge, leaping the still black water that stood between the rush grass. They galloped and galloped and galloped, through sun and rain and shadow, as
though in and out of centuries, through time itself. The bracken blazed bronze-red, the beech leaves turned to golden coins that curled and darted and eddied down. Wolfie and Dodo would race,
laughing, reaching out to them, each captured leaf treasured, good luck for Pa.
On their horses they came to know and deeply love the moor, in mist and mizzle, in the sudden storms that snapped new growth like a knife, in the violent surge of spring, in heady summer, in
long, red autumn.
When the school year began again, they were forced once more into the uneasy company of their schoolmates, once more caught by the scrutiny and suspicion of a close village community. At
Lilycombe in the long autumn evenings, in the glow of the fire, they’d sit together, Dodo’s head bent over
The Lives of Artists
, but creeping, from time to time, to the window,
to look suspiciously into the night, a soft crease on her brow, Hettie’s ponies never far from her mind. Father Lamb, held in the golden halo of his oil lamp, would glance up and smile
gratefully at her. Wolfie toyed with Captain, or wrote long notes to Pa. He’d sent Dodo’s picture to Pa in the end, and Dodo hadn’t minded, said she was proud to think of it in
Pa’s lonely room. Pa had written back to say that he’d thought no horse could live up to Wolfie’s praise until he’d seen the painting. He’d advised, too, that Wolfie
use soap flakes as the best way to get the mud off a grey horse.
In November, Wolfie asked, ‘Haven’t they set a date for the trial?’
His voice quavered as he struggled to contain the flood of longing that could burst from time to time within him.
Father Lamb looked up from his sermon and shook his head. ‘It’s still not been set . . . it seems there is no man willing to sit in judgement on your father, but a long delay’s
helpful to him, and perhaps they know that – there’s more chance of a witness coming forward.’ He put his pen down and looked steadily at them both. ‘In any case, it
wouldn’t be right for you to think that you’ll see him straight after—’
‘Why?’ began Wolfie.
Hettie looked up from the Red Cross parcel she was tying and glanced at her father sharply. ‘His record, the medal, all that will surely stand in his favour, Father, even if there’s
no witness?’
He nodded and addressed the children. ‘Yes, all that will, I am sure, stand in his favour. But if it doesn’t, remember that he himself was prepared to pay the price of breaking the
law in the hope of saving his men.’
‘If it doesn’t go well . . .’ Wolfie said
his own veins, Hero moved freely into a long, clean gallop, learning the strength he had in him, power surging inside, one ear turned as Wolfie’s laughter rolled and tumbled and crested in a
froth of joy. The boy’s trust in the horse, the horse’s trust in the boy, was each beyond question.
With Dodo and Scout they’d picnic in valleys ribboned with silver streams, the coat of the young horse silver as a moon in the leaf shadow. They’d ride to Hoar Oak, remote and
fairy-tale, to watch the firing practice at Larkbarrow. They patrolled the ponies at Pennywater, or rode over the Common to watch the troops and tanks on manoeuvres, or gallop across the high moor,
through feathery tufts of cotton grass, sweet as summer snow.
If Hero had to stop and wait for Scout, he’d stamp and snort, and lift his head to survey the open grassland, proud as an eagle. Then Wolfie would blow his bugle, and they’d canter
on. Driven by gossamer whims, arms lifted to the sky, reins loose, laughing, Wolfie raced clouds, raced birds that swirled like scraps of paper, laughing, forgetting, the mother lost in babyhood,
the father under arrest.
In late summer they rode through fire-gold sedge, leaping the still black water that stood between the rush grass. They galloped and galloped and galloped, through sun and rain and shadow, as
though in and out of centuries, through time itself. The bracken blazed bronze-red, the beech leaves turned to golden coins that curled and darted and eddied down. Wolfie and Dodo would race,
laughing, reaching out to them, each captured leaf treasured, good luck for Pa.
On their horses they came to know and deeply love the moor, in mist and mizzle, in the sudden storms that snapped new growth like a knife, in the violent surge of spring, in heady summer, in
long, red autumn.
When the school year began again, they were forced once more into the uneasy company of their schoolmates, once more caught by the scrutiny and suspicion of a close village community. At
Lilycombe in the long autumn evenings, in the glow of the fire, they’d sit together, Dodo’s head bent over
The Lives of Artists
, but creeping, from time to time, to the window,
to look suspiciously into the night, a soft crease on her brow, Hettie’s ponies never far from her mind. Father Lamb, held in the golden halo of his oil lamp, would glance up and smile
gratefully at her. Wolfie toyed with Captain, or wrote long notes to Pa. He’d sent Dodo’s picture to Pa in the end, and Dodo hadn’t minded, said she was proud to think of it in
Pa’s lonely room. Pa had written back to say that he’d thought no horse could live up to Wolfie’s praise until he’d seen the painting. He’d advised, too, that Wolfie
use soap flakes as the best way to get the mud off a grey horse.
In November, Wolfie asked, ‘Haven’t they set a date for the trial?’
His voice quavered as he struggled to contain the flood of longing that could burst from time to time within him.
Father Lamb looked up from his sermon and shook his head. ‘It’s still not been set . . . it seems there is no man willing to sit in judgement on your father, but a long delay’s
helpful to him, and perhaps they know that – there’s more chance of a witness coming forward.’ He put his pen down and looked steadily at them both. ‘In any case, it
wouldn’t be right for you to think that you’ll see him straight after—’
‘Why?’ began Wolfie.
Hettie looked up from the Red Cross parcel she was tying and glanced at her father sharply. ‘His record, the medal, all that will surely stand in his favour, Father, even if there’s
no witness?’
He nodded and addressed the children. ‘Yes, all that will, I am sure, stand in his favour. But if it doesn’t, remember that he himself was prepared to pay the price of breaking the
law in the hope of saving his men.’
‘If it doesn’t go well . . .’ Wolfie said
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