Samphire Song Read Online Free PDF Page B

and tries to drag him down the ramp. A front hoof lashes out in response.
    ‘He’s a devil,’ says the older man, lifting his cap and wiping his brow. ‘I’ll be glad to be shot of him.’
    ‘What’s he called?’ I ask, holding the horse’s backward gaze. The man shoots an irritated look at me.
    ‘Samphire. Like the wild plant. On account of his raggedy mane.’ He’s holding the halter with two hands now, yanking it viciously.
    ‘Hey, Samphire,’ I say quietly, approaching him, ignoring the man’s attempt to block my way. ‘They need you to come out, boy. Will you walk with me?’ I hold my position. Samphire’s ears move backwards and forwards. He extends his nose towards me, sniffs, jerks his head back, stamps his feet. I’m getting the once-over, horse style. His eyes dart between me and the men. He seems to be weighing up his options.
    With a deep grumble and a flaring of nostrils, he takes a step forwards, then another. The man grudgingly lets me take the halter. I keep it loose and hold eye contact with Samphire. Once down the rampand on the grass, he raises his head and paws the earth with a hoof.
    ‘He must like you,’ says the man, taking the halter back from me, a half-smile on his lips. ‘Never seen him that amenable.’ He starts to lead Samphire towards the enclosures, but the stallion’s feet are sidestepping, resisting his will. ‘I’ll do for you!’ the man shouts, exasperated, as Samphire rears up a little. The stewards are helping now, opening an enclosure door, ushering the animal inside.
    Mum has caught up with me. She has a pained and concerned expression, like the one she used to greet me with after I’d run off in a department store and had to be collected from Customer Services.
    ‘Oh dear.’ She sighs.
    ‘What?’ I ask, half in a dream.
    ‘I know that look,’ she says. ‘It means you want that crazy horse.’
    ‘I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life,’ I answer.
    ‘Don’t you think you should look at Lady?’ Mum asks. ‘She’s lovely – gentle, quiet, perfect.’
    ‘What number is Samphire?’ I ask the man, who is leaning on the enclosure door, staring at the horse who is soon to be converted into a fistful of cash.
    He takes my auction catalogue from my hand, flicks through it and opens up the page where Samphire is listed, pointing to the entry with a black-nailed, mud-stained finger.
    ‘He’s there, large as life. Don’t you go bidding for him, now. He’s not fit for a young’un like you. Someone needs to break his spirit, teach him some manners. He’ll probably need a whip, not a whippersnapper, that’s my advice.’
    I read the entry.
Number 50. J Ingram Esq. Grey Arab cross stallion. 3 Y.O. Moves beautifully. Has been halter broken. Ready to bring on
.
    I want to tell him that I don’t want his advice and that he’s wrong about Samphire. I just know he is. Mum is holding my elbow, urging me to come away.With a final glance at the enclosure where Samphire is pacing, ears folded, I let Mum guide me through the crowd, along a walkway and into the labyrinth of the animal maze. We pass donkeys, miniature Shetlands, Forest ponies, Falabellas – the tiniest of all horses, so tiny you can pick them up and cuddle them. In the holding pens, there’s a mixture of singles, doubles, small groups. My head is starting to spin. The air is heavy with dung and straw and fretful snortings.
    Moments later, we are right by lot number twenty and I cast my eyes into the space beyond the wooden door, hoping that lightning doesn’t strike twice. Lady stands quietly in one corner, chewing hay. Her current owner, a woman in her twenties, is brushing her pony’s chestnut coat for a final time before she’s taken to the ring. She looks immaculate. Even her hooves are oiled. Her tail is smooth with no hairs twisted. Her mane is cropped and combed and she has recently been clipped too.
    ‘There,’ says Mum, encouragingly. ‘Isn’t she