Read Samphire Song for Free Online Page B

thirty-eight now. There are only five more until the moment of truth, as two of the lots consist of several animals.
    My legs are numb from the wooden bench and I’m digging my heels into the planks beneath my trainers. We may well go home without a horse today, if the bidding doesn’t go my way, and for the rest of my life I will remember the moment Samphire was nearly mine.
    Mum takes my hand and grips it as lot number forty-nine, a miniature Shetland, is sold for two hundred and twenty guineas. Its small frame scurries through the exit door in a flurry of hooves and tail tossing.
    There is a sudden hush throughout the crowd. Lot number fifty has not yet appeared. There is the sound of shod feet lashing out against wood and men’s voices and then an angry whinny rises above all the others from the enclosures.
    Samphire. He is not going to come quietly.
    The wooden gate into the arena crashes back and the horse that canters in, halter lead dangling, causes voices to exclaim all around me in a wave of surprise and interest.
    Samphire enters alone. The man stays well back behind the gate, shaking his head, rubbing his leg, which has probably just suffered a well-placed kick.
    My heart is banging like a hammer on a dustbin lid. It seems even the crowd noise is drowned out now. I’m looking at Samphire, who is trotting, wheeling, rearing when he gets too near the faces in the front row. People are whispering, wondering who will dare take on this wild creature.
    Mum’s grip is hurting my hand. I shake it free. I need all my limbs for what is to come, all my concentration.
    ‘Ready?’ Mum asks. I nod, noticing that the colour has drained from her face. Maybe it’s just that my eyes are seeing everything in black and white. Oh please no! I know what comes next. I don’t want this to happen.Not the tunnels, not the sickness and the fainting. Not now, of all times! I have to see this through. I have to try.
    ‘Lot number fifty. A spirited, part-Arab three-year-old stallion from Mr Ingram, halter broken. Shall we begin at one hundred guineas?’
    The auctioneer is beginning his patter. I try to lengthen my breathing. My palms are wet with cold sweat. I raise one hand with as much strength as I can muster.
    ‘One hundred guineas, we have one hundred and twenty, one hundred and thirty . . .’
    My head is spinning.
Jodie, get a grip!
My hand is going up and down like a signal at a railway crossing. Mum is holding her breath, staring at her clasped hands.
    ‘Two hundred guineas, two fifty, three hundred . . .’
    The bidding is ferocious. We’re at five hundred, then six hundred, in a matter of seconds. When we top the thousand guineas marker, I am shaking from head to foot, holding my gaze on the auctioneer, doing my best not to see the agitated, ragged creature trying tofind an escape route just below me. If he could grow wings, like Pegasus in the myth, he would fly – I just know he would.
    ‘Twelve hundred, twelve hundred and fifty on my right, are we going on? Yes, we are.’
    I’m raising my hand for a bid of thirteen hundred and fifty, knowing that this is it, it’s as far as I can go. There are tears welling in the corners of my eyes now.
    ‘Thirteen hundred and fifty we have, are we done at thirteen hundred and fifty?’
    Please let it be done, please let it be done
.
    ‘Thirteen hundred and fifty once, twice and oh, fourteen hundred from a latecomer on my right.’
    I gasp as the pent-up emotion finally escapes and my body crumples against Mum’s, which is rigid as if made of stone. I have closed my eyes. I don’t want to see the person who has just ended my dreams. I don’t want their face to be etched in my memory for ever.
    ‘Fourteen hundred guineas now. Are we done, ladies and gentlemen? I see fourteen hundred . . .and fifty. Fourteen hundred and fifty we have. Are we concluded? Going once, at fourteen hundred and fifty. Going twice, all done for this stallion at fourteen hundred and fifty.’
    The