Gillian Baxter: The Team from Low Moor (eBook) pre-order out 18 September

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On her way home after college Charity went, as usual, to look at the ponies in their rough, exposed field above the town.

There were five of them in there, the bulk of the ponies that the Low Moor children used. Charity leaned on the gate for a moment to watch them before she called to them, hardly conscious of the spectacular view on her left, where the moors fell away into the industrial valley, fringed by the spidery constructions of the pit heads, and the bulky, sprawling colliery buildings. Down in the valley dusk had already thickened to darkness, though it was not yet five o’clock. Lights were coming on everywhere, the cold blue-white glare of street lamps, the warmer glow of the shops and neon signs, and the myriad smaller gleams from the streets and streets of soot-smothered, crowding terrace houses which climbed the hill towards the spot where Charity stood. Here, the last gleam of grey daylight made the ponies still visible, grazing on the rough mixture of moorland grass and heather that formed their main diet, while above them the land rose to the high bleakness of the open moors.

They were a mixed lot, thought Charity, as her gaze passed over them. There was Samuel, compact and stocky, foraging on his own by the battered grey stone wall with its topping of rusty barbed wire; Misty, grey and Welsh and pretty in spite of her seventeen years, standing out in this light with a pale glow of her own; Kerry and Jigger, grazing side by side, a brown and a piebald, Jigger with a back yards too long for his short legs, and Kerry with soft Irish eyes and a quick pair of heels; and lastly Charity’s own pony, Festival, roan and white, with a gay stride and all the wisdom gained in fifteen years of life as an excellent all-round performer. Charity had owned her for nine years, and together they had won countless gymkhana events, local jumping classes, hunter trials, and family pony classes, been hunting many times, and shared hundreds of hours hacking on the moors and in the surrounding countryside. Until two years ago the Whitfords had lived on the Shirnham side of the moor, and Festival had always lived alone in an orchard beside the house, but she seemed to thrive on this rougher grazing, and the mixed company, and Charity saw to it that she got plenty to eat to supplement the moor grass.

At her call all five heads went up, and the ponies turned to face her, Samuel and Festival starting towards her at once, Samuel soon breaking into his quick jog. Charity climbed the padlocked gate, and went to meet them.

She was sharing out slices of carrot to eager, pushing ponies when there was a shout from the direction of the gate, and a moment later Edie Gold and Joyce Reed arrived at a run.

‘Hello, Miss.’ Edie’s carrot-coloured hair stood out round her head like a bush, and her square, freckled face grinned at Charity in the twilight. ‘Have you got our rallies fixed yet?’

‘Just about,’ Charity told her. ‘I’ll be able to tell you the dates for sure tomorrow, and I think we’ll be having a visiting instructor.’

‘What, a real one?’ exclaimed Edie. ‘One who’ll really stop and teach us? Gosh, that’ll be smashing. Who is it, Miss?’

‘Laurence Croft, the show-jumping rider,’ replied Charity.

‘I’ve heard of him,’ Edie’s face glowed. ‘Gosh. How did you persuade him to come?’

‘It was his idea,’ replied Charity. ‘He can’t ride any more himself, actually, because he was in a car crash, but he’s still very interested in horses.’

‘He’s lame then, is he?’ Edie looked sympathetic. ‘Will he have to sit in a wheel chair while he teaches us?’

‘No, he isn’t lame,’ Charity decided to explain. ‘But he can’t see.’

‘Do you mean he’s blind?’ exclaimed Edie. ‘But how can he teach us if he can’t see?’

‘I can tell him what you’re doing, and he can give me advice on what you should do,’ explained Charity. ‘It should work very well.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ but Edie sounded disappointed, and Charity decided to change the subject. She began to tell Joyce how Samuel had behaved on Sunday, and for the moment Laurence was forgotten.

Charity telephoned him that evening, feeling suddenly shy as she listened to the ringing tone. Perhaps he’d changed his mind by now, he probably didn’t really want to come at all. After all, what fun could it possibly be for him, standing about in a cold field, listening to Charity’s depressing list of her members’ faults, while a string of half interested children circled round them. Then the ringing sound stopped abruptly, and Mrs. Redward’s mournful voice said, ‘Moor Ridge 224.’

‘Could I speak to Mr. Croft?’ asked Charity. ‘It’s Charity Whitford speaking.’

‘I’ll see if he’s available,’ replied Mrs. Redward dismally.

Charity waited nervously until Laurence’s voice said,

‘Hello. Charity?’ and she knew from his tone that he was pleased to hear from her. Suddenly, she was no longer shy.

Laurence agreed that he was quite free on the dates of both rallies, and proved willing to come to them.

‘Even if I just listen to the first one, and don’t join in much, I’d like to meet the children and get my bearings a bit,’ he told Charity. ‘I’ll get Reg to drive me over.’

‘Do you know where Top Pit is?’ asked Charity, and when Laurence said that he did not she gave him directions for finding it.

‘Good. I’ll be there, then. One week from today at two thirty,’ said Laurence. He sounded almost excited, and Charity hoped that nothing would go wrong. It really did seem as though the Low Moor pony club might be starting on a new, and more hopeful, phase.

Charity Whitford, Dr, Mrs and Gordon Whitford, Laurence Croft, Mrs Redward, Reg Carpenter, Mrs Cole, Mrs Swain.

The Pony Club: Joyce Reed, Edie Gold, Maureen Jones, Frank and Harry Crouch, Kathleen Parry, Sandra Swain

Horses
Samuel, Summer Breeze, March Wind, Misty, Kerry, Jigger, Festival, Easter, Canasta