the fun and freedom of chasing the wind. This horse was no sloth and shot off at speed, cantering across the last of the mown hayfields, frisky, disobedient to Selma’s commands. There was nothing to it but to relax and enjoy the bumpy ride, let the horse have her head for a while but what if she got injured and Dad had to get the veterinary out to repair the damage? ‘Stop! Who-ah!’ Selma dug hard and raised her voice. She pulled hard on the reins and mane to no avail. Then Jemima suddenly halted, jerked and threw Selma to the ground, leaving the horse bolting off out of reach towards the river bank.
Selma lay winded but laughing, smelling the clover, meadowsweet and honey of the scratchy stubble. Another horse was flying across in pursuit. The horseman jumped down and came to her aid.
‘Are you all right?’ It was Guy, like a knight in shining armour, lifting her up to let her hobble to the shelter of the stone wall. ‘She can be a monkey if you don’t check her.’
‘I’m fine, just my pride hurt. I thought she’d like a genteel little trot but she just decided to let rip. Sorry.’
‘Just stay put,’ Guy ordered, and he was back on horseback and cantering off in the direction of the far field where the chestnut hunter was casually grazing. He tethered her to his own horse and walked them back.
‘No bones broken this end,’ Guy laughed. ‘I gather your father hid her in the barn when the soldiers came but we have permission to keep her awhile longer. I was coming to collect her.’
‘We heard the grooms have enlisted,’ Selma said, not believing her luck in having Guy all to herself.
‘Lucky blighters! I wish I could go now. They say it’ll all be over by Christmas but I hope not. I’ll only just be seventeen then and I don’t want to miss the show.’
‘You make it sound like a firework display. Did you see they took twenty horses?’
Guy nodded. ‘Mother is furious. They took the trap ponies…One day this old lady will have to do her bit, won’t you?’ Guy nuzzled the horse. ‘I hope she’ll come with me when my turn comes.’
‘Has the colonel gone to France?’ Selma asked, hoping it wasn’t a secret.
‘He’s at HQ with Lord Kitchener, would you believe. Father says it will be a long show and no picnic getting Kaiser Bill’s army out of Belgium, though.’
‘Will you be joining up?’ Selma dared to voice the question that had been in her head for days.
‘As soon as I can, and Angus too. It should be splendid fun going to France. And your brothers? I know Father expects the village to fill its quota.’
‘I hope not…they’re needed at the forge. Mam’ll never let them sign up underage.’
‘My mother neither, but everyone has to answer the call as best they can. It’s sort of expected at school that the cadets set an example.’ His eyes glazed over with pride and determination.
‘Why do we have to fight for people we don’t know?’ Selma said, not convinced.
‘Because if the Hun comes here, he might do to our womenfolk what he’s done over there. No one is safe from bullyboys. You have to stand up to their threats and show them your fists, stand and be counted. The sooner we go, the sooner they’ll be kicked back to Germany where they belong.’
‘Everyone’s going mad about this war. I don’t want you all to go away…It’ll be a village full of old women and kiddies.’
‘I know this is a bally cheek, but if I do enlist would you write to me…about the horses and the village and all that stuff? I’d be awfully grateful, but if you think I’m being a bit fast…It’s not as if we’re…you know,well…’Guy stuttered, his cheeks flushing.
‘I’d like that but you’ll have to write first so I know where you are,’ she replied, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.
‘Try and stop me. I expect we’ll be months doing boring training and all that. If you’d like to exercise the horses while I’m away, I’m sure Mother wouldn’t mind. You have a way with them, all you Bartleys. Jemima can be a fussy old thing.’
‘So I see,’ Selma laughed, and then wished she hadn’t. ‘Ouch! That hurt.’ They were nearing the paddock and the final gate through into village view. Selma couldn’t stop looking up at her rescuer. ‘You won’t leave before you say goodbye, will you?’
‘It’ll be ages yet. We have to go into school until the end of term or Mother will have a blue fit. Once I’m seventeen she can’t stop me doing what I want, though. Perhaps we could go for a walk one afternoon soon? We could meet under the river bridge.’
‘As if by accident…’ Selma nodded eagerly. ‘That would be the best.’ It wouldn’t do to blaze their friendship in front of her neighbours. Both of them knew that without having to spell it out.
‘What about next Sunday before school starts up?’
Selma smiled and flushed, feeling strange to be agreeing to something both of them knew was breaking some unwritten rule of decorum. But so what, Selma thought. The whole world was breaking rules, storming into a neutral country, ransacking homes. Theirs was a very minor misdemeanour compared to that.
‘Is it true what they’re saying on the market, Lady Hester?’
Hester turned from her basket of materials in the church hall with impatience. ‘What is it now, Doris?’ If some of these young mothers spent more time sewing and less time gossiping, they might be able to finish their quota of saddle pads, limb bandages and ambulance cushions for the troops on time. There was a list of knitted comforts for soldiers for Christmas still to do.
‘We heard the Hun has poisoned all the black spice in the hedgerows,’ Doris replied, and her friends all nodded their heads.
‘What utter bunkum! The blackberries were all picked ages ago before the first frosts. It’s October now, and the crop was poor because of the hot summer, my cook tells me. You mustn’t believe such rumours.’
Doris was not to be put down. ‘Well, I heard that we mustn’t use eau-de-Cologne or eat Battenberg cake. It’s unpatriotic, it said in the paper.’
‘Then use lavender water and call it marzipan slice, if you must. I don’t see how that helps the war effort, but concentrating on your stitches does,’ Hester snapped back, tired of their tittle-tattle.
These meetings were a chore but Hester was not one to shirk her duty to the community, though her fingers were raw from the rough cloth. The poor souls at the barricades needed all the help they could get and she was going to make sure West Sharland delivered whatever was asked from the District Ladies Comforts Fund. The older women were no bother, sitting primly in their best hats, thimbles at the ready. It was the young fry—farmers’ wives, tradespeople—who were eager to volunteer but not so keen to work. The village was pulling together under her tutelage and the vicar’s call to arms. She took back all she had said about his wife, Violet. Mrs Hunt was proving to be indefatigable in chivvying up the congregation. Her son, Arnold, was now serving in France and the news wasn’t too good there, judging from his letters home.
Most of the women here had family going to the front. Betty Plimmer’s boy, Jack, was the first to enlist when the recruiting sergeant held a parade in Sowerthwaite, the nearest town. Everything was all very satisfactory, according to the local Gazette, but Charles hinted it would be a long war and the casualty lists were getting longer.
She was dreading the moment her boys turned seventeen. There was pressure for Sharland pupils to be commissioned, of course. Their training was seen as an advantage, shortening the time for official training. Officers of such stalwart character were needed urgently, but not her sons, not yet.
Angus was bursting with keenness. But what if he had another seizure? She had told Charles to use his influence and get him a home posting, something not too vigorous. He’d just laughed and told her to stop mollycoddling the