‘And the Major and the vet will have finished their coffee in a minute,’ I added, ‘and they’ll be back wanting to shoot him.’

  ‘Shoot ’im! Whatever would the boss say?’ moaned Chieftain’s herdsman. ‘Oh dear, look at that carpet, all them bloodstains. Whatever’s the boss going to say if he isn’t insured?’

  We turned Chieftain and his lamenting herdsman and propelled them both towards the shop door. Chieftain looked as docile as an old sheep and he moved stiffly: evidently his cuts and bruises had stiffened up as he stood in the shop. The cattle truck had been backed up to the door, the ramp lay over the pavement and policemen held the slatted side gates firmly in position. The precautions looked very unnecessary as the weary Chieftain dragged himself up the ramp; but few people trusted him; there were a hundred hands eager to close the side gates and slam the ramp shut on the mad bull.

  I sighed with relief and was just becoming aware that my legs ached and that I was madly hungry, when I saw Cathy running towards us.

  ‘Oh Rory, you are a beast,’ she said, ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I thought you’d probably been trampled to death or something. You are mean going off like this when you know I promised Mummy I wouldn’t let go of you all day.’

  ‘Well, I stayed with Andrew and Douglas,’ Rory defended himself. ‘You knew I’d gone with ... ‘

  ‘But Cathy, what about Carmen?’ I interrupted, realising with sudden horror that in all the excitement I’d forgotten the poor old cow.

  ‘Penny’s there,’ answered Cathy, still indignant. ‘When I found that Rory had gone I gave her the money; she said that she didn’t mind bidding.’

  ‘Oh Lord! Well, come on, we’d better see what’s happened. Does anyone know the way? I’m lost.’

  ‘Yes, I know the way,’ answered Cathy. ‘I’ve been walking round and round this beastly city looking for Rory.’

  It seemed miles to the market. We were all feeling worried about Carmen and cross with ourselves or each other and terribly weary. Cathy and I practically dragged Rory along, for now the excitement was over he was tired and tearful. Andrew didn’t help matters either for every few moments he said, ‘Oh, I do hope Penny got her,’ or, ‘Do you think Penny’s got her?’ or,’ Supposing Penny didn’t know how to bid?’ making me feel more and more guilty at having forsaken Carmen for the excitement of the chase.

  When we reached the main gate of the market we saw Penny waiting for us. ‘What on earth have you all been doing?’ she asked. ‘It’s absolutely ages since I bought Carmen; she’s in the cattle truck waiting to go and the driver’s getting jolly impatient.’

  ‘You got her?’ asked Andrew dancing round. ‘Oh, well done, Penny. Good old Penny,’ he exclaimed, patting her on the back.

  ‘How much did she cost?’ asked Rory.

  ‘Only eleven guineas,’ answered Penny. ‘There weren’t many people there; everyone had rushed off like you, to chase that bull, and she was limping terribly. But,’ she looked at me defiantly, ‘I spent the rest of the money; I’ve bought a horse.’

  Andrew and Rory gave shrieks of joy. Cathy and I stood gaping at her in open-mouthed surprise.

  ‘You haven’t?’ I said. ‘You haven’t done anything so absolutely idiotic?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ Penny answered calmly.

  ‘What sort of horse?’ asked Andrew.

  ‘A thoroughbred,’ Penny answered proudly. ‘A bay mare bred in Ireland; she’s fifteen one, just the right size for Douglas, but she’s very thin.’

  ‘Well, you go and unbuy her then,’ I stormed angrily. ‘You’re mad. How can we just take home a horse? You know what a muddle everything is in.’

  ‘She was a terrific bargain,’ said Penny. ‘I got her for ten pounds. Luckily Nick turned up and lent me eleven shillings and the money for the cattle truck home. Now do come on, they’re both loaded and the driver’ll be getting livid.’

  ‘Penny, you can’t … ’ I began. But she wasn’t listening, she’d hurried off towards the cattle truck and was answering Andrew’s and Rory’s excited questions as calmly as if we bought a horse every day of our lives.

  ‘She’s crazy,’ I told Cathy. ‘She’s absolutely crackers. What does she think Dad will say when we roll up with a horse? And if we tell him about the horse, he’ll find out about Carmen. The girl’s mad.’

  ‘Well, if you’d stayed instead of going off after Chieftain,’ replied Cathy disagreeably, ’everything would have been all right.’

  It was true, of course. I’d been mad to leave Penny alone in a market with a wallet of money. But then, I hadn’t known that Cathy wasn’t there exercising her restraining influence. Though actually, as I had to admit to myself, I hadn’t thought about it at all; in the excitement of the chase I’d clean forgotten Carmen. I am irresponsible, I thought bitterly, and depression closed over me in great dark waves.

  There were excited cries coming from the cattle truck when we reached it. A fat driver appeared and asked rather wearily if we were the lot and when we said we were he pushed us in through a small trap-door, slammed it shut and a moment later we were off. I found myself with all the others in a small compartment. Separated from us by a partition stood a gaunt bay mare with dull eyes and a neck so thin it seemed unable to hold up her head. Beyond her was Carmen.

  Cathy was looking at the mare with rather a horrified expression. ‘How old is she?’ she asked.

  ‘The man swore she was seven.’ Nick’s voice spoke up from a dark corner.

  ‘Oh, hullo,’ I said without enthusiasm. And, ‘They always say that; seven’s their favourite age.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s terribly old; I looked at her teeth and they didn’t seem all that long.’ Penny spoke with more diffidence now. ‘You look, Douglas.’

  I wouldn’t look. I was much too angry about the whole business. I didn’t like the idea of telling Dad we’d bought a horse and I didn’t like the idea of not telling him. It was going to be bad enough keeping Carmen secret; this was the last straw.

  ‘If she isn’t about thirty, she’s got something pretty deadly wrong with her,’ I said. ‘Redworm to begin with and I should think they’ve perforated her intestine. And if you didn’t get a warranty or a vet’s certificate she’s probably lame as well.’

  Penny began to sniff. ‘I only bought her because she seemed so sad and thin and I thought we’d fatten her up and you could ride her next holidays, because I know you’ll say you’re too big to ride Merlin any more,’ her voice trailed away miserably.

  Cathy turned on me then. ‘You’re beastly, Douglas,’ she said. ‘Anyone nice who had ten pounds would have bought her when they saw her looking so half-starved and miserable even if she is lame and sick and no use for riding.’

  I thought Cathy was being unfair; I felt that she ought to have some fellow feeling for me as she has to be the eldest in the term. Generally she is a very reasonable person, but by her mouth, tight shut in an obstinate line, and her blazing eyes I knew that reasoning was no use now. ‘All I can say is that I think Penny’s mad to buy a horse of any sort while the parents are worried to death lest Dad loses his job,’ I told her. ‘I think we’re mad to buy Carmen, but to saddle ourselves with a half-starved horse as well … ’

  ‘If the worst comes to the worst, we can find them both good homes,’ argued Cathy.

  ‘But if Dad loses his job we’ll have to leave Nutsford,’ said Andrew in a panic-stricken voice.

  ‘He’s not going to lose his job.’ Cathy spoke firmly. ‘Douglas is just being difficult.’

  After that I gave up. I sat down in a corner on some not frightfully clean straw and brooded drearily.

  Cathy and Penny stared straight ahead of them with stormy expressions. Rory asked Andrew how high he thought the mare could jump. Silently Nick handed round chocolate – a whole bar each. As I ate I realised how hungry I was; it seemed centuries since we’d eaten the doughnuts. I looked at my watch and found that it was half past three. ‘Oh Lord,’ I said. ‘What on earth are we going to tell Mummy? Not only have we missed the one-thirty bus, but we’re going to arrive before the four-thirty is due.’

  ‘Say you hitch-hiked,’ suggested Nick.

  ‘It’s not popular; she thinks the girls will get murdered.’

  ‘We could say we saw a cattle truck driver we knew and he said he was going through Charnworth and offered us a lift. At least the cattle truck part would be true,’ said Cathy.

  ‘All right,’ I agreed wearily. ‘And why did we miss the bus?’

  ‘Because we were helping to catch the bull, of course,’ said Penny. ‘We needn’t mention the market, but you’d better tell us exactly what happened, because Cathy and I must have been somewhere near too, only we got parted from you in the crowd.’

  Andrew and Rory, both talking at once, related our adventures and I was still correcting their version of what the vet and the Major and the glamorous shop assistant had said, when the cattle truck stopped and the driver’s voice called, ‘Is this the place? There’s no name on the gate, but we’re nearly in Charnworth and there’s any amount of firs.’ We peered out through the ventilation slits and announced that it was.

  We unloaded rapidly. The driver was in a hurry and we had no desire to linger in the road with our secret animals. Cathy took Carmen and I led the mare; Penny and Nick had to pay the driver. The mare was quiet enough. She followed me without a flicker of interest in her dull eyes; she obviously had no strength left to care whether her new home was good or bad. Jess and Merlin came trotting up, their ears pricked and their heads high, to investigate the visitors. Merlin spoke to the mare politely, nose to nose, but Jess squealed and stamped and humped pretend kicks in her direction in the most unwelcoming way.

  I turned the mare loose, but Cathy led Carmen on to the shed. ‘Bags first milk,’ she called over her shoulder.

  Rory, Andrew and I fetched hay, a whole bale instead of the usual half. Jess was still behaving badly; she chased the mare from pile to pile with villainous faces and angry squeals. We had to arrange dozens of small heaps, but even then the mare barely had time for a mouthful, before Jess was after her again.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I said, looking at the thin, shambling figure through the damp dusk, ‘we’ll bring her up an enormous bucket of feed,’ and then we went into the shed to see how Cathy’s milking was going.

  6

  ‘SHE’S ABSOLUTELY AWFUL’

  THE QUESTIONS we answered that evening when we reached home, and the lies we told, were like something out of a nightmare.

  To begin with, Mummy was in a panic. She seemed to have spent her day imagining us falling under buses and losing Rory and when three o’clock came and we had failed to appear she had feared the worst. Dad had arrived home at half past four with the news of a bull amok in Charlbury and frantic telephone calls to the police station and hospital were only just averted by our appearance. We admitted to having been in the thick of it. I told the whole story truthfully, except for being vague about the point where we had joined the chase and allowing them to think that the girls were somewhere in the crowd and that I’d kept a tight hold on Rory. Dad thought it funny, especially the Major and the vet, and became more cheerful than he had been for ages. Mummy was less amused; she thought we might easily have been tossed, gored or trampled to death. She said that she was never going to let us go to Charlbury on our own again. Our method of getting home needed an absolute spate of lies and then we were nearly sunk over the wretched present. In the excitement we’d forgotten all about it and when Mummy asked if we’d got what we went in for we looked at her with vacant expressions. Then, suddenly realising, we all laughed loudly and said, ‘Yes, rather,’ in unnaturally hearty tones, but that at least was true.

  Later in the evening, after we’d eaten an enormous tea, Dad had a telephone call from Chieftain’s new owner, apparently put on to him by Mr. Smithson; he, the new owner, wanted to know whether Chieftain was dangerous and if he’d ever gone amok before. Dad calmed him down and then came through to the Old Kitchen to tell us about it. We were all busy, Cathy and I addressing envelopes for belated cards for our uncles and aunts, the others packing their presents in last year’s Christmas paper and giving constant cries of ‘Secret’, and ‘Don’t look.’ It was hard to think of answers for Dad’s, ‘I can’t think why you didn’t recognise him.’ Avoiding his mystified glance as much as possible, I answered vaguely. ‘He did have a familiar sort of look,’ I said, and, ‘I’ve never seen him roused before,’ and, ‘Of course Jersey bulls all look a bit alike.’

  We heaved a joint sigh of relief when Dad, still looking mystified, took himself off.

  On Tuesday morning Penny wakened me to the usual sound of pouring rain and with the information that it was our turn to fetch the ponies and that she had bagged milk. ‘I bags stay in bed,’ I groaned unco-operatively. ‘And it’s too early; it’s still pitch dark,’ I objected, retiring under the bed-clothes.

  ‘Carmen’ll be mooing the place down; she’s used to being milked at six,’ said Penny, jolting me into wakefulness. I groaned miserably as I remembered the happenings of the day before and all the hideous complications we’d had to face. ‘All right,’ I told her, climbing out of bed, ‘I won’t be long.’

  I washed and dressed, looked enviously in on Andrew and Rory who were still senseless humps under their bed­clothes, attired myself in boots and Dad’s army surplus garment and joined Penny in the stable. She had collected two buckets and she stood looking at the corn bin with a perplexed expression. ‘How much of everything do cows eat?’

  I scratched my sleepy head. ‘They don’t eat whole oats,’ I said. ‘Oh yes, you feed them according to their milk yields. Oh Lord, don’t give her too many oats, we don’t want gallons and gallons of milk; Cathy chucked away a whole bucketful last night; it’s an awful waste.’

  ‘Yes, but how much?’ asked Penny.

  ‘Two scoops of oats and one of bran,’ I hazarded a guess. ‘And then we’ll reduce the oats gradually until we find that good home. The mare can have a bucketful,’ I added, taking the bucket and filling it to the brim. Storm appeared wagging and grinning and we invited her to come with us; she declined politely, looking over her shoulder at the house and trying to explain that she was just waiting for Dad. We took the hint and sneaked past the kitchen window concealing our buckets as best we could. Then we walked in sleepy silence, through the driving rain.. As we crossed the river the blackness of the sky lightened to a dismal grey and as we climbed Sutton’s Hill we heard Carmen’s voice demanding indignantly that she should be milked.

  ‘Thank goodness the Gordon-Kellys are in South Africa,’ I observed. ‘If they were here they’d be on the telephone to Dad by now.’

  ‘Yes. “Mr. Conway, I’m afraid I must ask you to be so kind as to remove this new cow; my wife simply cannot stand the noise,”’ said Penny, imitating Mr. Gordon-Kelly’s pompous tones.

  Carmen was waiting at the gate with Jess and Merlin, and Penny and I both looked round anxiously for the mare; she was huddled miserably in the lee of the spinney. We fetched halters, caught our new acquisitions and led them to the shed. The mare was shaking with cold and Carmen was limping badly; they were a depressing sight and Penny and I avoided each other’s eyes. We managed to fit them both into the shed; it was rather a squash, and as Penny began milking I took an armful of hay to Jess and Merlin who had assumed hurt expressions at the sight of the new­comers breakfasting when they weren’t. ‘You’re going to have your feeds when you get home,’ I told them. And then I went back to the shelter of the shed.

  ‘Her udder’s absolutely bursting,’ Penny told me. ‘I’m sure Cathy can’t have milked her right out last night.’

  ‘She may have been upset after her travels and not given it all,’ I answered looking at the mare. ‘I’ve never seen a horse so cold,’ I observed. ‘I’m going to rub her down.’ I rubbed and wisped with handfuls of hay in an attempt to get the mare’s circulation going and Penny milked and milked. Presently Carmen finished her feed and then she began to fidget. She swished her wet tail, catching Penny across the face, then she cow-kicked; her leg landed in the bucket and milk poured all over the shed floor. ‘Oh, you are a disagreeable old cow,’ said Penny crossly.

  ‘It’s practically breakfast-time,’ I told her, as I looked at my watch.

  ‘Well, I’m being as quick as I can,’ answered Penny crosser still, ‘but she will fidget and there’s masses more to come.’ She milked and milked and the sound of the milk drumming on the sides of the bucket came in regular and constrained spurts. The mare had stopped shaking so I offered to have a go with Carmen. Penny handed over the bucket and the oil-drum milking stool gladly and I put my head against Carmen’s warm flank and went to work on the two quarters which still bulged with milk. I milked and milked and I began to realise that there was a vast difference between stripping cows that had already been milked by electricity, which was what we did when we helped Bill Martin, and milking a cow from scratch. My hands started to ache and Carmen swished and got me in the eye with the mucky end of her tail. Then she kicked over the bucket twice in quick succession and finally she kicked me and the oil-drum milking stool and the bucket all in an undignified heap.

  ‘Oh hell and damnation!’ I swore finding myself soaked in about a gallon of best grade Channel Island milk.

  ‘I’ll have another go,’ said Penny collecting up the bucket and stool. I mopped milk and mud from my clothes and muck from my face. Then I looked at my watch.

  ‘Lord! It’s after nine, Penny. We must go; she’ll have to do,’ I exclaimed. ‘Anyway with any luck she’ll start to dry off if we don’t strip her properly.’

  ‘She’ll moo the place down, you mean,’ said Penny pessimistically. We hastily turned Carmen and the mare loose and caught up Jess and Merlin. We vaulted on their wet muddy backs and cantered across the field to the gate. ‘What on earth reason are we going to give for being so late?’ I asked as we trotted along the road.