Book 1 – Jill Rides Cross-Country

Chapter One – Moving to Scotland

“Jill darling, guess what?” asked Mummy, sounding rather nervous.

“We’ve inherited a Highland castle,” I replied flippantly. This was a standing joke between us.

“Well, actually, that’s pretty close,” said Mummy. I noticed that she was blushing, which was rather unusual. My mother was the sensible one, curbing my excesses with gentle reproof and spouting common sense whenever I got melodramatic.

“Close?” I queried. “Do you mean we’re going on holiday to Scotland?”

“Well, I mean that we’re moving to Scotland.”

But how on earth would that happen? We have our little cottage here, complete with a small field with an orchard, two stables, and all our friends, and everybody knows us. I know Scotland is a romantic idea, but it seems a bit bizarre just to up sticks and go, I thought. 

“Mummy, tell me, I can’t stand this. Something is up!”

“Jill, this is a big thing for both of us, and I want you to stay calm, but I’m thinking of getting married.”

I sat there with my mouth wide open like a goldfish, gulping down air. My father, Mummy’s husband, had died when I was young. Mummy and I had always been just us. We lived in a village, just the right size, big enough to have shops and a show every year, but not too big, so it became soulless and rendered one anonymous.

“But who on earth would you marry?” I asked incredulously. “Are you sure this isn’t a whimsical plot for one of your stories, and the line between reality and fiction has become a little wobbly?”

“I met someone a few months ago when I went up to see my publisher in London, and you were away working.”

Mummy has been writing children’s books for years now and is very good at it. They’re not my sort of book at all as they’re about extremely unrealistic and annoyingly angelic children who rush around doing good deeds and experiencing all sorts of improbable things.

“You met someone,” I said slowly, “you mean a man.”

“Well, yes, I met a very dear man, and we took rather a liking to one another, and occasionally we’ve been meeting up when he comes down to London 

and – he’s invited us up to Scotland to his place and if you like him, and all goes to plan, he wants to marry me.”

I had brain freeze. I had never even considered Mummy marrying again. She was a mother and a jolly good one. I never thought of her as someone else’s wife.

“You see, darling, I know this will be a shock for you, but you’ve finished school and are about to do that secretarial course, and you’re growing up. No doubt you’ll find someone you might like to marry yourself,” said Mummy. Her words were all tumbling out in a rush as if she’d been rehearsing them for a long time.

I snorted in a most unladylike manner, and my mother pressed her lips in a straight line. But now was not the time for one of those gentle reproofs.

“I don’t even think about getting married,” I said loftily. As if she had suggested I go and live with the man on the moon.

“No, of course not. That’s another can of worms entirely. You’re only seventeen. But the thing is that I do rather want to marry again because, you see, Richard is a dear man, and we are very fond of each other.”

I looked at her suspiciously. Romance and sweet sugary sentiments were not part of our lives together. I swallowed and tried to think of the appropriate response. The shock of Mummy with someone else – not me – was considerable: but I knew that I had to be noble. If she wanted to marry again, then I should support her, and I was nearly grown-up. I’d finished school. I’d even been away working in a few rather odd pony jobs. Now it had been determined that I had to grow up and get a job, even follow a career path and give up my carefree youthful pony-loving existence.

The worst part of this decision had been prompted by the sale of my two beloved ponies, Black Boy and Rapide. I had never thought I would sell them, but Black Boy had been a little too small for me for some years, and I had been too heavy to ride him in the under-16s show jumping, so he specialised in riding classes. My second pony, Rapide, was just 14.2 hh. He had been my showjumper, and we had done rather well at local events. Then against all expectations, I had suddenly shot up like a bean pole and grown about four inches, and I had had to lengthen my stirrups, and my feet were almost positioned behind the ponies’ knees. At the same time, Mrs Darcy, who ran the local riding school where I had learnt to ride, had been looking for two ponies for a pair of twelve-year-old twins, one girl and one boy, and it meant that Black Boy and Rapide could stay together and much as they loved me, they probably loved each other better.  

In the end, I had come to the very hard decision and sold them for a rather substantial amount of money, along with their tack. The plan had been that when I was settled into a ‘proper job’, I would use that money to buy myself a gorgeous hunter and two new saddles, one for showing, the other for jumping, and I would have a chance to compete in open events.

“I’m about to go off to do that secretarial course,” I blurted out.

My mother then relaxed and laughed merrily.

“Oh, Jill! Contrary Mary! Never did I think I would hear you say those words and with such conviction!”

I grinned ruefully. It was rather bizarre, but we were in new territory. I suppose I was clinging to whatever old notions I had. Trying to keep a grip on my life as I knew it.

“If you marry this – Richard,” I pronounced his name carefully without a single trace of spite. I am not at all a beastly person. If Mummy liked him, I shied away from the word love, then he must be rather a good egg.

“Yes, Richard, and he is a dear sweet man,” said Mummy in that strange tone of voice that meant she would find any excuse to talk about him. And she must have been dying to talk about him ever since she’d met him. I knew this because one of my horsey friends, Edwina, had had the misfortune to fall in love. She had mooned around and talked about her Rupert at every opportunity. She showed us his photo, and we couldn’t see anything at all attractive about him; a rather nondescript, tallish boy with brown hair flopping down onto his forehead in the manner of a sort of Brideshead poseur. Edwina had lost interest in her pony, who had stood forlornly in the orchard until her younger sister decided she wanted to ride. Ann and I had sworn a solemn oath that this would never happen to us, and if ever we showed signs of forming an unnatural affection for a young man, then we were to pull each other up short until sanity returned.

I was sitting there lost in thought, trying to sort out the concept of romantic entanglement in my mind, and I heard Mummy calling my name.

“Look, Jill,” she said, producing a photograph like a rabbit out of a hat. I groaned, remembering Edwina and her precious photograph, and politely looked. It wasn’t Richard at all, who no doubt was pretty ancient, at least as old as Mummy but a rather stupendous looking grey-stone castle with four square turrets and an enormous wooden entrance gate studded with metal spikes.

“It’s a castle,” I said stupidly as if imitating a stunned mullet.

“Yes, that is rather the point. Richard lives in a Scottish castle,” said Mummy, smiling at me like the cat who had got the cream.

“Does he own the castle, or is he the gardener?” I asked waspishly and then hated myself for sounding like the worst kind of snob, which I’m definitely not.

“He owns the castle,” said Mummy mildly.

I took the photograph and screwed up my eyes, scrutinising it carefully. There were no people in the photo, so it was rather hard to judge its actual size. It looked like a picture that an artistic child might have drawn, four-square with turrets and a parapet around the roofline.

“Does he live there alone?” I asked.

“Well, I know this is going to sound like a horrible cliché, but he lives there with a mob of retainers,” said Mummy.

“But family, he must have family,” I asked, thinking that perhaps he had a secret mad wife locked away in a dungeon or an attic.

“His wife died some years ago, and they were childless. He does have a nephew who lives nearby and spends a lot of time on the estate.”

“You’re not thinking of having a baby, are you?” I asked, suddenly imagining a squawking screwed-up red baby in a pram, squinting at me with ugly little black eyes. Then I could have kicked myself for sounding so selfish.

“No darling, I think I’m a bit old for that, and one is enough for me,” said Mummy, making it sound like after the experience of parenting me, she never wanted to try it again.

Mummy was grinning at me and looking rather excited, and I got this feeling that she had another bombshell to drop. A new husband, well rather an old-husband, a second-hand model, a castle in Scotland, whatever was she going to tell me next!

“You see, darling, it’s not just a castle. There are lands, grouse moors, and the whole Scottish thing.”

“Is there a loch?” I asked.

“Yes, there is a rather large loch and acres and acres of perfect riding land. But, you see, Richard has stables and horses.”

My head went up like a pointer who has spotted prey.

“Horses!” I echoed.

“Well, you see this nephew Mark,” she took a deep breath.

“Mark,” I repeated.

“Yes, Mark is rather keen on horses too, and he is a three-day eventer, and he keeps his horses in the stables. It is rather a big thing in the family.”

I should have been thrilled, transported to the realms of utter fantasy. A Scottish castle, stables, three-day eventers, acres of riding country but churlishly, I felt doomed. I tried to reason with myself. Good things, especially surprisingly good things, have often happened to me, as you will know if you have read some of my books. I was always having adventures, and horsey ones at that. But it was rather like this one was happening to me as a minor character. Usually, I was the master of my own inventions.

“Now that you don’t have to worry about the ponies,” said Mummy in a rush, obviously keen to get the plan nailed down. “I thought we might dash up to Scotland, take the train on Wednesday. You’ve got at least three weeks before you start your secretarial studies, and if you like it, then you can cancel the course, and we can rent out the cottage and go and live in Scotland, and you can ride all day every day.”

“Oh wow, live happily ever after,” I said, and somehow it came out sarcastically. I was desperate to dash around to my best friend, Ann Derry’s house so that I could ‘tell all’ and we could discuss it properly. However, she had been sent off to Switzerland, ‘to be finished’ as she put it, to some ghastly place where they were going to teach her to peel oranges with a knife and fork and fold napkins in a dozen different ways.

“Look, it is wonderful, Mummy. Obviously, it is wonderful. It’s just such a shock. I have to get used to the idea. I think I might go out for a walk, and then when I come back, we can sit down, and you can tell me more, and of course, we’ll have to pack.”

“Oh, Jill, my dear. I knew you would be thrilled,” said Mummy, entirely misjudging my mood.

I grabbed a coat and dashed outside. I wanted to go for a ride on one of my dear sweet ponies and talk to them about it. A good brisk canter on the common would have cleared my mind, but I had to make do with a walk on my own two legs. Never had I missed my ponies more!

I walked briskly, trying to arrange it all in my head and found that I had arrived at the riding school. Wendy, the Assistant Riding Instructor, was in the tack room cleaning the saddles. I sat down and began to help her. There is something therapeutic about tack-cleaning, which is a very necessary chore.

“You’ll never guess,” I said casually.

“What?” said Wendy, looking up. She had known me for years and thought nothing would surprise her about my adventurous life.

“We’re going to live in Scotland, in a castle, and they’ve got acres and acres of riding land and stables full of three-day eventing horses.”

“Ha, ha!” she replied. “Come on, tell me! What is really happening?”

“Well, that’s it,” I said, watching her carefully.

“Jill, what on earth are you raving about?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. This made me feel relieved. It wasn’t just me that was having trouble taking it all in. I took a deep breath and tried again.

“Mummy has dropped a bombshell on me, and I don’t know what to think. It seems she wants to get married to this man called Richard, and he owns a castle in Scotland in the middle of good riding country, and his nephew has a stable full of three-day eventing horses, and we can go up there and live, and I can forget all about secretarial college.”

“Goodness, that is something!” exclaimed Wendy.

We continued to rub in saddle soap.  

“So, let’s get this straight. You get to have a step-father of sorts, although you’re a bit old for a step-father, and he has a castle in Scotland, and you can go up there and live, and they’ve got horses.”

“Yes, that’s about it,” I said grimly.

“But you must be over the moon. It sounds absolutely whizzo!” said Wendy enthusiastically. “Perhaps I could come too?”

“I would love you to. I know this sounds ridiculously drippy, but I’m going to miss my friends here.”

“Yes, but your best friend is away anyway, in Switzerland, and life moves on, and if you don’t like it, presumably you could come back and live in the cottage and go to secretarial college. Not that I could ever see you doing anything so sordid and dull as being a secretary. It seems like a most marvellous last-minute reprieve to me,” said Wendy.

“You’re absolutely right. I think I’m just in shock. I must look on the Bright Side,” I said with a grimace. Mummy’s stories often included rather sickening children who looked on the Bright Side of Life. “Yes, you know I’ve got to go home and find out more about all this. I just dashed off. It sent me a little mad for a while.”

“Good luck Jill,” said Wendy. I noticed then that she was looking a little envious. I walked briskly home and gave myself a bit of a talking-to. Obviously, Mummy was ‘in love’ much as I hated that expression, and she was all set for this momentous change in our lives. I reasoned that I had just gone into shock, and the flutters of fear and doom that were troubling me 

would have to be squashed, and I would be cheerful, practical and full of enthusiasm for this new plan.

“Mummy!” I called as I burst in through the back door.

“Up here!” she called. I bounded up the stairs to find her sitting on the bed, staring into space. “Look,” she said, “I have bought a few new outfits, but I think we both definitely need to go clothes shopping.”

“Why do women always want to get dressed up for men?” I asked in a worldly-wise way as if I was some sort of expert on this area of life that I was utterly determined never to embark upon.

“I’m not sure that they do. I think women are more likely to get dressed up for each other,” mused Mummy. Then she turned to me. “So, how are you feeling now that it’s sunk in?” trying to cover up her anxious tone.

“I’m fine. You see, it was just a shock. Not just you wanting to get married but moving away. But of course, now I see that it is the most marvellous thing for both of us!” I said with as much conviction as I could muster.

“Well, just to show you that Richard’s family are thoroughly horsey, I have a copy of Horse and Hound, which features an article on Mark Lansdowne, Richard’s nephew. It says that he is an up-and-coming star. Look at this photo of him!”

I took the magazine she was holding out. It was a double-page spread with a large photo of Mark Lansdowne riding a very impressive black gelding over a huge solid tabletop built of logs that looked as thick as telegraph poles. His position was absolutely correct, and he was dressed in a rather flashy red and blue striped top. There was another head and shoulders photo of him in the corner, and there was no denying he was a most handsome young man, like a Hollywood actor with thick wavy dark hair and slanting dark eyes with laugh lines crinkling attractively, a full mouth stretched in a happy smile and perfect white teeth. I read every word in the article, and it seemed that he had been competing for years up in Scotland and had recently burst upon the national scene. It was rumoured that he might be on the long list for the next Olympics. When I had finished reading, I looked up at Mummy’s face, which was alight with happy expectations. She thought I would be thrilled.  

In fact, I was filled with doom. Although I was very well-known in our village as a serious rider who had won many prizes in pony classes, I was exceedingly small fry compared to this glamorous hero. He would hardly notice me. I would be squashed flat like a bug. I had been a big fish in a small pond, and perhaps this had made me complacent. Now I would be not only a minor character in Mummy’s mid-life drama but a tiddler in the large 

pond of international equestrian competition. I pasted my brightest and happiest expression on my face, used up every ounce of insincere enthusiasm, and told Mummy that it was amazing, I could hardly wait, and it was all going to be wonderful.

The next few days whizzed by. Mummy treated me to the weekly cross-country ride at the riding school, and Wendy put me up on a beautiful 16 hh chestnut gelding called Red Moontrader. He had just arrived and was due to receive several months’ schooling for a businessman who wanted to cut a dash with the local hunt. I felt very privileged to be entrusted with him. I mounted, and it was a long way from the ground. Wendy rode up beside me and smiled encouragingly.

“You look good,” she said. I smiled weakly.

“I do feel rather insecure,” I admitted.

We walked in a sedate line down the road, then turned off through the bridle path that led through the woods to Neshbury Common. We trotted in single file, and I tried to adjust to the gelding’s very long, raking stride. We came to the common and broke into a canter. At first, he bounced up and down and sideways, wanting to race with the others. I sat down in the saddle and used my legs to straighten him and drive him forward into the bridle.

I had always sneered at children, particularly Susan Pyke, who had ridden horses too big for them. This was a large horse, and even though I now had long legs, I was finding it hard to control him. 

“It’s just a matter of adjusting,” said Wendy encouragingly. “He’s not exactly well-schooled. That is why he came to us. Perhaps he needs more flatwork. I’ll call out and get everyone to walk again.”

“W – a – l – k!” shouted Wendy, and I was relieved but at the same time hugely humiliated that I couldn’t handle this big horse. I had ruined everybody’s good long canter.

“I’m going to walk him quietly back. I’ll do some flatwork with him if you think I’m capable,” I said apologetically.

I rode back feeling extremely dejected. I knew that I would get to Scotland, and we would be the outsiders, and even if Mark, the Sainted Nephew, offered me a ride on one of his big, strong, class horses, I would make an absolute fool of myself. Mummy was always so proud of me. She was sure to have told her Richard what a wonderful horsewoman I was. All I could see in the future before me was utter humiliation.

I walked all the way back down the road to the riding school. Moontrader seemed to have settled now. There was no one around in the yard when I got back. I rode into the outdoor manège, leaned down to shut the gate, and 

then rode around in a circle. I did everything I had always done to achieve a good position. Back straight, arms bent at the elbow, wrists flat so there was a straight line from my elbow to the bit, heels down. Then I pushed him into a trot. He wasn’t quite as bouncy in this more confined space, but I felt as if I was thrown up out of the saddle when I rose, and it seemed to take a long time to come back down. It took ages before I began to get the rhythm of his stride and could post smoothly and in time with his footfalls. We finished with a neat four-square halt, and I decided to stop while the going was good. I slid down and led him back towards his stable.

After I had untacked him, rubbed him down, and seen that his water bucket was full and hay in his net, I decided to go home before the riders returned from their cross-country ride, I felt utterly feeble, not capable of managing a big horse. Before I walked inside the cottage, I pinned a smile on my face. All this pretending to be cheerful was getting jolly tiring. By the time I got to Scotland, I would be a mere shadow of my former self, as they say in books.

We seemed to spend a lot of time packing. It was ostensibly only three weeks, and then if it worked out, we would come home and empty the entire cottage and rent it out. First, I dragged all my good outfits out of the wardrobe and lined them up along the bed. Since I had grown, none of them was even going to fit. My skirts would be inches above my knees, and I would look like a Mary Quant model in a mini-skirt, which was not at all my style, nor did I think it would be suitable for a traditional Scottish castle. I imagined that they would all be wearing kilts.

Mummy saw my dilemma and suggested we go shopping, dragging me off into Rychester, the nearby town. We had to catch the bus as we didn’t have a car, and by the time we got there, my mood was degenerating to the point where I was distinctly snappish. I hated clothes shopping unless, of course, it was for new riding outfits.

“We’ll buy you two decent dresses as I believe they dress for dinner,” said Mummy.

“Dress for dinner?” I asked, wondering if somehow we had slipped into some ghastly historical novel.

“Well, you know when you’re at your cousin, Cecilia’s, you not only wash your hands, brush your hair, but put on something respectable like a skirt and blouse,” said Mummy, adopting an ultra-reasonable tone. I knew I was being mean-spirited, and this was probably the hugest drama Mummy had had in her life for years. We went into the frock shop.

Mummy looked beseechingly at the shop assistant and asked her to help us choose something suitable. The girl was not stupid and produced two 

dresses that looked quite dashing. One was full-length, and I suddenly imagined myself wearing it at a hunt ball; dark green velvet with long, close-fitting sleeves and a shaped bodice that flared elegantly at the waist. I tried it on and was astonished to see myself in the full-length mirror.

“Gosh!” I exclaimed, momentarily forgetting my dark, miserable mood.

“Oh Jill!” said Mummy clasping her hands together, “you look so grown-up, I can’t believe it.”

“Yes, you look extremely elegant, and with your hair pinned up, and a little discreet makeup, you will be the belle of the ball,” said the shop assistant. “Now, for something not quite so dressy, I think mid-calf length and an interesting floral pattern.”

This sounded suspiciously feminine and girlish to me, but like pulling a rabbit out of a hat, she whisked a dress off the rail. It was a midnight blue colour with sprinkles of tiny white flowers, rather plain but so well-cut that it looked expensive.

“Oh, Jill, this is such fun!” said Mummy. I realised then that I had been denying my poor mother all these mother-and-daughter experiences for years with my dedication to dressing in jodhpurs and crew-neck pullovers. “And I think a skirt, perhaps plain dark grey so it can be worn with a variety of more brightly coloured pullovers.”

The shop assistant, who was grinning like a Cheshire Cat, as she was probably on commission, pulled out a straight, pencil-thin skirt with a few pleats that began just above the knee. Then she held out a bright red cashmere jumper that looked rather stylish and another emerald green with a bit of a bobbly pattern.

“Yes, yes, yes!” said Mummy, and I thought I detected tears glistening in her eyes.

“Anything else?” asked the girl, hopefully.

“No, that is fine, and we’ve got to get to the shoe shop,” said Mummy. “We’ll need a pair of high heels for the dresses and a sensible pair of plain leather brogues to wear with the skirt. But perhaps before we go, I think a pair of slacks, something rather plain.”

The girl who now knew my dimensions off by heart threw in a pair of trousers with a very subtle pinstripe pattern, and she totted up the cost, which I couldn’t bear to think about and wrapped each item in tissue paper as if they were precious and fragile.

“Could you just snip off the tags,” said Mummy, “then they can go straight into the suitcase before we leave?”

“Are you going on holiday?” asked the girl brightly.

“Yes, off to Scotland for a few weeks,” said my mother.

“You lucky things, I would love to go to Scotland,” replied the girl. Everyone seemed so envious of my good fortune. But somehow, I was just not in step with the joy of it all.

We zoomed into the shoe shop, and Mummy whizzed around, found the shoes she liked, and asked for my size. I tried them on. They looked very smart. I had to admit that I did look grown-up. I thought of all the times when my friends and I had used makeup to try and make ourselves look older in certain situations where being a mere child was disadvantageous. Now I wished I could go back in time and be the carefree, enterprising teenager I had been. I gave myself a mental shake and resolved to embrace the future and live in the moment.

“But what about you?” I asked, suddenly aware that this whole new wardrobe was great, but what about Mummy? It was her adventure. I was just tagging along.

“As I said, I’ve been treating myself to the odd new outfit in the last few weeks,” she said, a little shame-faced.

“You’ve had your hair cut. It looks very stylish,” I said, suddenly noticing.

“Yes, I thought I should spruce myself up. It’s a big thing for me going up to Richard’s home, and I hope to make a good impression.”

“As long as he errhhh,” I stumbled over the obvious word. It sounded like such a cliché, “loves you,” I said in a rush. “It doesn’t matter what his family thinks.”

“Yes, that is very wise,” said Mummy, “but in reality, it’s never that simple.” Nothing seemed simple to me these days.

We packed our clothes, and Mummy promised I should also have a new riding outfit.

“There’s not much point at the moment,” I said, “as I don’t have a horse, but of course, I will have in the future.”

“I know you were looking at that lovely sort of custard-yellow jodhpurs,” said Mummy, “and instead of your rather dull black jacket, you might consider a blue one with a matching cap.”

I smiled at her. She certainly knew the way to my heart!

I went to bed for the last night in my dear sweet bedroom, and just as I was slipping away into the world of dreams, I remembered the hens. Who was going to do the hens? That was my last thought as I fell asleep.