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the action in the crowd and seewho’s raising their hand or nodding to raise the stakes. It all happens so fast, yet the auctioneer’s eyes miss nothing.
    ‘Thirty-one guineas, are we all done at thirty-one guineas? Going once, going twice, all done now, sold to the lady on my left. Raise your number, please. Thank you.’
    The woman, who seems to be alone, looks very pleased. Her foal is being herded out of the arena through a different door into a narrow corridor, which leads back to the enclosures. A new pony is entering now. The process seems very smooth and well organised. In less than three minutes, the foal has changed ownership and is starting a new life. I hope she will be happy.
    Bidding for the pony gets underway and once again is brisk and determined. This time, an elderly man raises his pipe to increase his offers. The pony is his for thirty-five guineas. It seems such a small amount of money. You can’t buy a dog for that.
    Looking down into the arena, it reminds me ofthat film where the Roman gladiators fight with lions as entertainment for the crowds. At least here the animals are unhurt and their ordeal in the ring only lasts a few minutes.
    Very soon, it is Lady who is brought in. Her owner, the woman with the pink lipstick, runs athletically by her side as she trots round the perimeter, head high, feet lifted and sure.
    ‘And here we have a fine example of a filly from the Mansbridge family stable. Jenny Mansbridge showing her today. Both, if I might say, very well turned out.’
    There is laughter from the crowd and a nod in thanks from Jenny. It seems that many of the owners are known to the buyers. The world of horses is quite close-knit. The friendship is always competitive, though, even at my stables.
    Mum is clasping her hands together. ‘I think you could be making a big mistake,’ she warns. ‘That horse is perfection on legs. She wouldn’t hurt you.’
    ‘Samphire won’t hurt me,’ I tell her, holding her gaze. ‘I know he won’t.’
    ‘Do we have one hundred guineas? One hundred and fifty, two hundred, two hundred and twenty, two hundred and fifty . . .’ The auctioneer’s voice buzzes in my head, a monotone drone, which becomes like a drill hammering into the recesses of my brain.
    For an awful moment, I think Mum is going to bid for Lady. She raises her hand and the auctioneer’s steely gaze alights on her, his eyebrows raised.
    ‘Mum!’
    ‘Sorry,’ she mouths and his attention moves away swiftly, scanning the crowd. ‘I was just trying to ease my shoulder,’ she explains. Mum’s had a slightly frozen shoulder since Dad died. It’s as if part of her locked up that day.
    ‘Three hundred, three hundred and twenty, three hundred and fifty . . .’
    The bidding is animated. Lady is standing centrestage, snorting prettily. She knows her worth, right down to her dainty fetlocks.
    ‘Four hundred guineas, four-fifty, five. Five hundred guineas, five-fifty from my right, six hundred. Six hundred and fifty. Seven hundred, thank you, sir. Seven hundred and fifty on my left. Eight hundred guineas. Eight-fifty. Nine hundred. Are we all done at nine hundred for this lovely filly? Nine hundred once, twice, and all done, thank you, the lady in the central aisle.’
    The wooden gavel hits the block and Lady’s fate is sealed. I lean forwards to get a good look at the woman who has bought her. A girl a little younger than me is jumping up and down next to her, waving her arms in the air. Her smile is as wide as a crescent moon. I can appreciate the surge of joy she must be feeling. I hope that, soon, I will be in the same position.
    As Lady leaves the ring, Jenny kisses her on the head. It’s strange how some animals have charmed lives, full of affection, and others have years of misery and cruelty. It’s often just down to how they look andwhere they’re born. It’s the same for people too, I suppose. The luck of the draw, as Dad would have said.
    We’re on lot number