Summer at Mount Hope by Rosalie Ham Read Free Book Online Page A

line,’ called Phoeba, but the stranger ignored her, tugging at Rocket’s bridle.
    Rocket charged on, the finish line in his sights, and they raced together, the wind on their faces, the harnesses creaking and tinkling and the horses panting.
    Phoeba’s grip on the reins was firm; she was in control although her arms were stretched. The rim of her straw hat was pushed back by the wind and the stranger noticed a confident, fearless glint in her eye and a firmly set jaw. Beside her, a fancily dressed lass held tightly to her hat and looked worried.
    Rocket stopped dead, his way blocked by the siding, and the rider let him go. He circled on his horse, which was unusually thickset and stocky. ‘Does he always race like that?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Lilith, looking vulnerable and helpless.
    The stranger was good-looking, Phoeba noticed, in an unusual way. Not so much handsome as strong. It went through her mind that she should have worn her blue dress, or perhaps thought to borrow Maude’s bar brooch before Lilith did.
    â€˜Our horse used to be a pacer,’ she said.
    â€˜A very fast one.’
    The man smiled and all Phoeba could do was smile back; she could think of nothing to say. His eyes were brown, his moustache shiny and the wax at its ends clean, not dulled like old string or clogged with bits of food. He got off his horse, took the reins from Phoeba and looped them through the wheel. Then he helped them down from the sulky.
    â€˜We’re getting a new horse,’ said Lilith, ‘from Overton.’
    â€˜Indeed?’ said the stranger.
    â€˜But thank you,’ Phoeba stammered, and the man tipped his hat and rode away.
    â€˜Do you think that’s the new manager, Phoeba?’ asked Lilith.
    â€˜Possibly. Hadley says the new manager’s name is Mr Steel,’ she replied, a little breathless.
    â€˜I wonder if he’s married,’ said Lilith.
    The two girls stood in Flynn’s shop, their full skirts filling the room and their hems skimming the worn, flour-dusted floor. The shop smelled of dead mice and rancid butter and Lilith stood uncomfortably in the middle with her elbows pressed to her side, staying small to stop any part of her clothing from touching anything. She tried to summon her pleasant expression but she just looked as if she had a headache.
    â€˜Is there a parcel for us?’ she asked, sweetly.
    â€˜Nup,’ said Mrs Flynn, and smiled. Mrs Flynn was Irish and cheerful, and she controlled the mail, dry goods and the newspapers with a vengeful hold.
    â€˜It’s a peach parer,’ said Lilith, ‘but Mother’s hoping it’ll do apples as well.’ She lifted her hem clear of the chalky floor.
    Mrs Flynn dumped Robert’s papers on the counter: COLONIES GRIPPED BY DEPRESSION AS LONDON BANKS COLLAPSE, CRISIS PLUNGES PASTORALISTS INTO RUIN.
    â€˜Was that the new manager at Overton?’ asked Lilith and Phoeba stepped closer to the counter to listen.
    â€˜That’s him,’ said Mrs Flynn, primping the curls at the back of her hair. ‘Handsome chap for a foreigner, if you arst me.’
    Mrs Flynn leaned on the counter so her breasts rested on her sun-dried forearms. She had two teeth – the front two – and they were straight and brilliant white. And although she pinned her hair up, fat, red springs always fell and rolled together over her bosom. Behind her the dusty shelves held very few items – a tin of Cadbury’s Chocolate, boxes of dried fruits and nuts, dusty tins of biscuits, a few packets of tobacco, some nails, boot polish, a roll of wire, a lampshade, wicks, candles and a good stock of Rawleighs’ Liniments. The walls were covered with paintings – Aunt Margaret always left a few when she visited, mainly vases of flowers, seascapes or faded landscapes. Mrs Flynn had hung For Sail tags from them that turned slowly in the musty