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gorgeous?’
    ‘She’s a bit like a horse the Glossies would ride, all pretty and perfect.’ This comes out of my mouth like a big criticism and her owner, who happens to be wearing pink lipstick, gives me a withering look. I know that if I hadn’t seen Samphire, I would probably have fallen for Lady. But even now, I can hear his whinny above all the others. It’s as if he’s speaking to me, as if we’ve connected somehow.
    I’m starting to feel quite sick. I hate it when Mum disapproves of things I’m thinking or doing. And I’m about to do something so reckless it might cause real trouble between us, which would be unbearable.
    But something is telling me Samphire and I should be together. It’s not logical to want a crazy horse. But this isn’t about logic. It’s a feeling coming from somewhere so deep inside, a place I thought was buried away, never to be prised open. I don’t have control over it, now it’s escaped. It seems to be controlling me.
    ‘We should go and find a seat in the arena,’ saysMum, her voice a little hushed to mask her frustration.
    We leave Lady and work our way to the circular, wooden structure. Inside, the seats are raked and there’s a small, round space at the centre. A raised, enclosed box with glassless windows gives the auctioneer a roof over his head. He’s sitting waiting, tapping his microphone every so often to make sure the sound system is working.
    We find two spaces on the wooden trestle benches and sit down. Mum studies the catalogue, trying to avoid confrontation with me. I think she hopes she’ll find a last-minute alternative to the horse of my dreams, which is the horse of her nightmares.
    ‘He’s not even properly broken in, Jodie,’ Mum says at last. ‘He’s not used to being ridden.’
    ‘Maybe he’s just been with the wrong people,’ I reply. I know Mum’s right. By the age of three, he should be rideable.
    ‘What if he’s too wild to tame?’ she asks. ‘He’s a stallion, after all.’
    ‘I’ll send for that guy who whispers in horses’ ears,’ I reply with a shrug.
    ‘I think Dad would be saying no,’ counters Mum. That was a bit below the belt.
    ‘I bet Granny and Granddad didn’t want him to fly jets, but he made up his mind and he knew the risks,’ I respond. My eyes are pricking. I’m
so
not going to cry.
    Mum sighs. And then she smiles, pushing some hair off her face. ‘That’s just the kind of thing he would have said,’ she comments. ‘I could never win an argument against him. But you know the budget, Jode. Thirteen-fifty top whack because of the tax on top. If it goes above that, you have to let him go.’
    ‘Okey dokey,’ I confirm, swallowing hard.
    There are now no seats anywhere. Looking around, it’s a sea of T-shirts; mutts on leads; families; individuals; owners; dealers. There’s noise from the many excited conversations, heads bowed over the catalogues, pens ringing chosen animals.
    Moments later, the wooden gate leading to theenclosures swings open and a frightened foal of about six months is ushered into the arena. It runs round the perimeter, trying to avoid the female usher who is tasked with keeping it on the move so that buyers can assess its condition.
    ‘Good morning, ladies and gentleman,’ says the auctioneer from his raised booth. ‘Welcome to the New Forest sale for August. Can I remind you that the currency for sale of the lots is in guineas today, a guinea being worth one pound and five pence in current values. Bidders must be registered and have a card. Please do not bid unless you have this card, otherwise your bid will be void. Thank you all. Let’s get down to business. First up today, we have this bay filly foal, bred in the Forest. Sire is Mr Brumby. Dam is Magic Flute. A nice example. Can we say ten guineas? Twelve guineas, fourteen guineas . . .’
    Bidding gets off to a flying start. The auctioneer’s voice becomes a chant of figures, rhythmic, compelling. I’m trying to follow