Nightstorm and the Grand Slam (17 page)

“Good girl!” Issie praised her. “We're going to get the foal out, you and me. We can do this, Mirabelle!”

Issie wasn't sure who she was trying to reassure, the mare or herself. Taking a deep breath and rolling her sleeves up, she moved around to the rear of the mare and stroked her rump.

“I'm right here, Mirabelle,” she reassured the mare. “Don't kick me, OK?”

If Mirabelle kicked out in fright Issie wouldn't be able to get out of the way of her flying hooves. Luckily, even though the mare was anxious, she seemed to realise that Issie was trying to help her. Issie stuck out both hands and grasped the membrane sac. It was rubbery and warm, and extremely gooey. Her hands slipped across it, trying to get a grip as she felt along the length of the foal's leg until she reached what felt like a hock. She couldn't see what she was touching and was relying completely on feel. Mirabelle kept turning her head to sniff at her flank, but she didn't strike out as Issie managed to get both her hands clasped around what she hoped were hocks, and braced herself against the floor to pull.

Her first attempt was a little tentative. She didn't want to hurt the mare, but when nothing whatsoever happened, she prepared herself for a proper tug. This time, as she braced against the floor and heaved with all her strength the legs began to come out, slowly at first and then more easily as the rest of the membrane sac followed. Then, with one last forceful tug, everything came in a rush and the next thing Issie knew she was lying flat out on the straw, completely covered in fluid, with a squirming body on top of her! Issie had to work
fast to tear open the suffocating membrane sac so that the newborn could breathe. It was surprisingly resilient but Issie ripped into it with life-or-death determination and as the membrane came apart she saw the foal properly for the very first time.

It was a colt. A beautiful baby boy. Even in his wet and bedraggled newborn state he was totally and utterly gorgeous. He had the biggest eyes Issie had ever seen, and a cute dish to his nose. As Issie tugged away the last remnants to expose the colt to the dry straw, Mirabelle began to clean her son, licking him all over with her tongue, and Issie sat back to watch as the colt tried to control his long, gangly legs and struggle to his feet.

Issie never ceased to be amazed at the way newborn horses were capable of this incredible feat – standing up on all fours within the very first hour that they were born.

She desperately wanted to lift the colt up so that he could suckle from his mother's teat, but she knew that this was something that the foal must do on his own. And so she sat and witnessed the miracle of nature as this new life staggered up on to his feet and searched out the soft belly of the mare so that he could take his first drink.

Issie's own legs seemed almost as wobbly as the foal's when she finally pushed herself up from the straw and walked over to the stable door. Mystic was still standing there, watching intently.

“They're OK,” Issie said to the grey gelding. “It's all going to be OK now.” The mare and the foal were going to be just fine. Mystic didn't usually linger, but this time the grey gelding seemed strangely reluctant to leave.

Issie unbolted the door and stepped out of the stall so that she was standing right next to him. She threaded her fingers through his mane, felt the warmth of his dapple-grey coat and smelt the sweet horseyness of him. Inhaling that wonderful smell, she shut her eyes tight and wrapped both arms around the neck of her beloved grey pony.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Mystic. For everything.”

It wasn't until she let go, until she felt him slip away from her fingers, that she realised she was saying goodbye. She couldn't explain it but she knew in her heart that this was the last time that she would ever see him.

“No!” Issie said, her eyes welling with tears. “I still need you.”

But even as she said the words, she knew they weren't true. Mystic knew it too. So many times the grey pony had saved her, had been there to protect her. But she wasn't a little kid at Chevalier Point Pony Club any more. It was time she stepped up and started taking care of things on her own. Mystic had shown her tonight that she could do it. She had always trusted him and now, she needed to make one last leap of faith.

The tears were running down her cheeks as she looked for one last time at her grey pony, who had taken her from gymkhana to Grand Slam.

“It's OK,” she nodded. “I understand. I really do.”

Her love had always held him close and now at last she was ready to let him go.

The grey pony gave the girl one last look and then he turned and cantered into the darkness. Issie listened to his hoof beats as they faded away.

A moment later the lights came on in the yard and Francoise appeared at the end of the stable block. “Issie? What's going on?” Francoise saw the girl's tear-stained face and her eyes grew wide with fear. “Is Mirabelle OK?”

“She's fine,” Issie said. “She's had the foal. I'll stay
with her. Can you go and wake Tom? He'll want to see this.”

Francoise ran back to the house and returned minutes later with Avery at her side.

“What did she have?” Avery wanted to know. “A colt or a filly?”

“It's a colt,” Issie said. “There's something about him though, Tom. I think you need to see…”

As Avery and Francoise entered the loose box and saw the colt standing on wobbly legs beside Mirabelle, they couldn't believe it.

“A grey!” Avery was surprised. “I was expecting him to be a chestnut like his mother.”

Francoise shook her head in amazement. “Look! He is dark now but you can tell that his coat will be dapple one day!”

She ran her trained eyes over the colt. “I think we are looking at a future champion here,” she said. “Look at that magnificent head! And those legs. He has the legs of a showjumper already!”

“Let's just hope he doesn't try to get over the jumps the way he came out of his mother!” Issie smiled. Then she told Avery and Francoise about the back-
to-front birth, and how she had struggled to deliver the foal.

“These births are very dangerous,” Francoise told her. “If you had not been here then the colt would not have survived. He owes you his life. I think it is only fair that you should be the one to name him.”

Avery agreed. “He's your future superstar, Issie. Have you got a name for him?”

“I do,” Issie said, looking at the grey foal, her eyes shining.

“His name is Mystic.”

Spring weather in New Zealand is unpredictable. When Issie Brown woke up she had been expecting to see rain clouds. Instead, the skies were blue and the air was still. It was perfect hacking weather.

She came downstairs to find her mother waiting for her with scrambled eggs already on the table.

“You think I don't know what you're like?” Mrs Brown said. “I knew you'd try to dash out the door and get to that horse without eating a proper breakfast.”

It had been ten years since Issie won the Grand Slam, but every time she came home her mum still treated her like a kid. Not that she was complaining. She kind of liked being fussed over – although her mum had actually
ironed her jodhpurs yesterday which was a bit much.

Since her stellar win at Burghley Issie had gone on to live the glamorous life of a pro-rider, travelling the world with her horses. But not everyone had travelled with her. She had been shocked by Avery's announcement, shortly after Burghley, that he and Francoise were leaving The Laurels for good.

“We're going home to live in New Zealand,” Avery told Issie. “It turns out the reason Francoise's been feeling so off-colour lately isn't the flu after all.”

Francoise was expecting a baby.

“That doesn't mean you have to leave!” Issie had pointed out.

“I know that,” Francoise said, “but the timing is right to go. We want to raise horses as well as a family. More future eventers like Mystic. Tom has already spoken to Cassandra Steele. She's letting us lease the stables at Dulmoth Park for our new breeding programme. We're moving back to Winterflood Farm and will keep a few of our own horses there too.”

And so the Dulmoth Park horse breeding programme was established, dedicated to raising young eventers as stars of the future.

Within a few years, many of Tom and Francoise's best young horses were being sent on to The Laurels as green three-year olds to continue their schooling.

The farm in Wiltshire continued to be Issie's base in England while she competed throughout Europe. Stella Tarrant had taken over the reins as manager at The Laurels while Issie was on the road competing the advanced mounts.

It soon became more than a coincidence that at every international competition Issie seemed to find herself in the company of Marcus Pearce. They'd become best friends on the circuit, training together and helping each other whenever there was a problem with one of their horses. Issie couldn't recall the precise moment when their relationship somehow became a romance, but she would never forget that night after the final showjumping phase at Stars of Pau in France, when Marcus took her out to dinner.

Marcus had beaten Issie to first place so the dinner, at a cute little French restaurant, was his treat. At the end of the meal, Issie was digging her spoon into her crème brulee and found something shiny and rock-hard in the middle. There was a diamond ring hidden in her dessert.

“Issie,” Marcus said, “I've been in love with you since the day we met. I know this is a bit of a shock, but…”

Issie stopped his speech by taking the ring, still covered in sticky custard, slipping it on her finger and kissing him.

“Yes,” she said. “I'm saying yes.”

They were married three years later in a ceremony at The Laurels. The bride wore an incredible white gown designed by the internationally renowned designer, Natasha Tucker.

Natasha, also a guest at the wedding, was now living the fashion life in Paris, having given up on riding to focus on clothing. Her Natty T jodhpur range was a massive success and her fortune was substantial, which suited Natasha rather nicely. Oliver Tucker's failed property deals had finally caught up with him and the last anyone heard of him he was working as a used-car salesman in Norwich.

Stella and Kate were the bridesmaids. Kate was now a fully qualified vet and had been thrilled to be offered a position working in the surgical clinic at the Glasgow Institute.

Old friends also present on the bride's side included Roberto Nunez and his son Alfonso, who had flown
over from Spain for the event – and Aidan, who made the trip from New Zealand with his new girlfriend, a stunt rider called Matilda who he'd met on the set of the latest
Palomino Princess
movie.

There was no time for a honeymoon as the newlyweds were both riding at Badminton the following weekend. It was Issie's first four-star on Mystic. The grey gelding was fully grown and he stood a massive sixteen-three hands high, a true dapple-grey with coal-black eyes and a steel-grey mane.

That year the Badminton Horse Trials also marked the final competition for one of the great campaigners in Issie's stables as Comet finally bowed out of three-day eventing. Issie's other Grand Slam horse, Victory, had recovered from his leg surgery but had never been sound enough to compete again and he now lived with Kate at the Glasgow Institute.

As for Issie's most famous horse of all, Nightstorm, the years had been good to him. After he won Burghley, Nightstorm dominated the famous horse trials twice in the next five years and Badminton a record three times in total. Nightstorm's swansong had been six months ago at the Olympics in Rome.

When he was selected for the Olympic squad the critics were harsh. They said that Nightstorm was too old and too battle-weary to make it round the incredibly challenging Olympic cross-country course.

But Issie knew better. Storm was in the best form of his career – and she proved it. In Rome, the partnership went double clear to secure the individual gold medal.

Even though Storm still had a lot of gas left in his tank – and was still prone to the occasional bucking fit if you tried to make him do dressage for too long – Issie decided it was a good time for him to be retired.

Straight after they took the gold medal she put the stallion on a flight back to New Zealand. Avery had met the horse at the airport and after quarantine Storm had settled into a peaceful retirement at Winterflood Farm.

Knowing that he would be bored to tears if he was stuck in the paddock all day, Issie asked Francoise to ride him for her.

“He remains your horse, of course,” Francoise would tell Issie whenever she phoned up from The Laurels to check on him. “I am keeping the saddle warm for you, but Storm is very loyal. He never forgets who his true
owner is; I can tell that in his heart he misses you as much as he did when he was a homesick colt in Spain.”

Issie felt the same way about Storm. She had ridden so many brilliant, talented horses over the years – and she had great hopes for the future with Mystic. But through it all, she had always felt that Storm was
the one
.

And so, six months after she retired him, she had made the trip back to Chevalier Point. It was a flying visit – just a few days to spare between international events. As she sat down and ate her scrambled eggs, she found herself itching to get to the farm, wanting, as always, to be with her horse.

It had been a long time since Issie had been to the farm, but these days the front gate was hard to miss. A sign had been hung at the entrance with the words
Winterflood Farm
crafted in wrought iron.

As Issie eased her mother's hatchback up the driveway, she couldn't believe how grand this place had become. The little saplings that had once stood on either side of the road had become tall, spreading plane trees and the cottage at the end of the drive had been remodelled to accommodate the family – two children, Xavier, aged ten, and six-year-old Marie-Claude.

Francoise was in the kitchen making crêpes when Issie arrived, and Xavier and Marie-Claude both rushed out as soon as they saw her.

“Issie!” Marie-Claude flung her arms around Issie's waist. “We've got a performance! Mum said we can show you!”

Francoise shrugged apologetically. “I'm sorry, Issie. They have been waiting all morning for you. They're desperate to show you their trick. I hope you don't mind?”

Issie smiled at Marie-Claude. “Come on then – let's go!”

In the paddock directly behind the house, Xavier, the spitting image of his father, busied himself preparing the series of obstacles around the paddock while Marie-Claude went to the stables to get her pony.

A moment later there was the clip-clop of hooves across the concrete of the yard and Marie-Claude returned leading a liver chestnut mare, a pretty Anglo-Arab with a white blaze, a flaxen mane and four white socks.

Issie's heart raced. “Hello, Blaze!” She stroked the mare's velvet-soft muzzle. “What on earth have these two roped you into?”

Blaze was now in her twenties, but the mare was still a beauty. At Winterflood Farm she led the sweet life of the spoilt family pony – her belly was well-rounded and her coat shone like burnished copper.

Both of the children had learnt to ride on her, but now the mare belonged only to Marie-Claude. “They adore each other,” Francoise told Issie. “They spend hours together out here. I have no idea what they are up to – one day I came out and found them both lying down underneath that tree over there. Blaze was on her side on the grass and Marie-Claude was snuggled up between her front legs with her head on Blaze's shoulder!”

Marie-Claude clambered on to Blaze with no saddle or bridle. She sat up and wrapped her hands in Blaze's mane and gave her brother the signal. Xavier stood in the centre of the paddock on top of an old wooden crate, acting the ringmaster and calling out instructions as Marie-Claude rode Blaze through the obstacle course. They wound their way through traffic cones and stepped
over tarpaulins and logs, then squeezed between oil drums. The finale of the act was the grand moment when Xavier held his hands over his head and Blaze rose up on her hind legs in a perfect rear, with Marie-Claude giggling as she clung on in mid-air.

As Francoise and Issie applauded, Blaze dropped down on to one knee and did a graceful bow.

“You know, that was one of the first tricks I ever taught her,” Francoise said wistfully. “She was the best mare in El Caballo Danza Magnifico.”

“I know,” Issie said. “I remember.”

Issie left the children and Francoise in the paddock with Blaze and headed into the stables. There was a time when she thought this place was so vast, but now it felt so tiny.

She found Avery in the old tack shed where the photos of his great horses, including The Soothsayer, still decorated the walls.

“I've got Storm all tacked up for you,” her old trainer told her. “He's in the last loose box.”

Issie followed him back out into the yard and down to the last box. The top of the Dutch door was left open, and as she got closer Storm heard her footsteps
outside and stuck his head out. When he caught sight of Issie he gave a vigorous whinny. Issie laughed.

“Hey, boy! Yes, it's me.”

Issie stepped inside the stable and Storm sniffed, checking her out with his nostrils wide and then nickering warmly as if to say, “You're back! Where have you been!”

Issie hugged her horse. “I know. I missed you too.”

She led Storm out into the yard and Avery gave her a leg up.

“Francoise and I will have lunch ready when you come back.” Avery smiled up at Issie.

“It's nice to see you back up on him,” he said. “You always looked so right on that horse.”

It was the perfect day for a hack. The weather was clear and sunny, and Storm's deep bay coat shone in the sunlight. Even though he was no longer competing, the stallion looked as fit as he'd ever been. Issie harboured a secret suspicion that if she wanted to, she could have set off at a gallop and aimed him for the River Paddock fence to clear it with ease.

She resisted the urge; Storm had earnt his retirement. The most they would do today was a gentle canter along the grass verges.

At the gates of the River Paddock they halted and Issie looked out over the fields. She didn't recognise any of the ponies in these pastures now.

This had been the place where Issie grazed her horses when she was a pony-club kid. Blaze had lived here. Fortune too, for a little while. And Mystic of course. Dear Mystic. She had never seen him again after that night when the grey colt had been born at The Laurels. She had never expected to, she supposed, but as she looked out over the paddocks and focused her gaze on The Pines, at the far end of the field, she felt her heart beat a little faster. Perhaps the shadows beneath the trees might be hiding a swaybacked grey pony? Would she catch a glimpse once more of his dapples shimmering in the morning sunlight?