Read Online Springtime at Cherry Tree Cottage by Cathy Woodman - Free Book Online Page A

baby’s. Silence prevails. ‘Jack wanted to be here to meet you, but he’s been called out to a car fire – nothing major.’
    â€˜He’s a busy man,’ I say, noticing that Tessa appears to have another baby on the way.
    â€˜He’s a part-time firefighter. He’s always on the go.’ She pauses. ‘I’ll take you to see the pony. The vet’s on his way to look at him too. Oh, here he is now. That’s his car.’
    The vet parks his silver four-by-four alongside Mel’s truck. He jumps out and greets us with a brief smile. About thirty-five years old and five foot ten, he has a rugged appearance with short brown hair, hazel eyes and a square jaw. He wears a check shirt and grey moleskin trousers and carries a stethoscope tucked into his breast pocket.
    â€˜Hello Tessa, and …’
    â€˜Flick.’ I hold out my hand. ‘I’m the farrier.’
    â€˜Ah yes – Mel told me you were covering for him. How’s it going?’
    â€˜Okay so far, thank you.’ I hesitate, wondering if he’s going to introduce himself. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’
    â€˜I’m Matt Warren from Westleigh Equine. Where’s this pony?’ he goes on. ‘I’m sorry to rush you both, but I have to get back for one of the horses at the clinic.’
    â€˜He’s this way,’ Tessa says, and we follow her past a kennel block and cattery to the far end of a barn, where there’s a small lean-to stable. She stands back with the baby while the vet and I peer over the door. ‘Jack says, please can you give us some idea of his age and breed, and check for a microchip. There’s a head-collar on the hook. We had to take the one he was wearing off – it’s left a wound across his nose.’
    I take the head-collar and walk into the stable, where a chestnut pony with wary brown eyes, a white blaze down his face, patches of white where the saddle would sit if he had one on, and one white foot at the back is pulling strands of hay like spaghetti from the net hanging from the ring in the wall.
    â€˜Hello, boy,’ I say quietly, my chest tightening when I notice the band of raw flesh around his nose. I buckle the head-collar around his neck and lead him over to the door.
    â€˜Bring him outside where the light’s better,’ Matt says.
    I rub behind the pony’s ears as I encourage him into the sunlight. He must be about 13.2 hands high – I can reach comfortably around his shoulders. His hooves are so overgrown that they remind me of Aladdin’s slippers. I stand him just a few steps away from the stable door for Matt to have a look at him first. His ribs are visible and his coat is thick for the time of year and like a bear’s.
    The pony is happy for the vet to scan him for a microchip: there isn’t one. He’s reasonably cheerful about having his wounds examined and treated, and his girth measured so Matt can make a rough calculation of his weight, and fairly chilled about having his heart listened to, but before I can tie him up to look at his feet, he decides he’s had enough. He tosses his head, kicks up his heels and canters off towards the paddock, with me in tow. As we reach the fence, he drops his head and tears at the grass, as if he hasn’t eaten for a month.
    â€˜I couldn’t stop him,’ I say, trying to catch my breath as I check my hands for rope burn and drag him back.
    â€˜It’s always the quiet ones,’ Matt says. ‘Has he some ID I can use when I’m writing my report? What shall I put? Chestnut pony?’
    â€˜He needs a name,’ Tessa says.
    â€˜What about Blaze?’ Matt suggests.
    â€˜I was thinking Paddington because he reminds me of a bear,’ I contribute.
    â€˜That’s a great idea,’ Tessa agrees.
    â€˜Paddington it is then,’ Matt says. ‘What are Jack’s plans for him?’
    â€˜If he can trace