The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [391]
‘If you really want to get the feel of the commoners,’ Peter Pride now cut in, ‘You ought to go to a pony sale. There’s one this Thursday.’
‘That sounds colourful. Perhaps we should film it.’ She glanced at Peter Pride. ‘Will you be there?’
‘Could be. Would that be helpful?’
‘Definitely,’ she said.
It was just after the meeting had broken up and she was about to leave that she paused to ask one last question.
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘people often associate the New Forest with witchcraft. Do you think there’s any witchcraft here?’
The friendly historian shrugged. Mrs Totton smiled and said she didn’t think so. Peter Pride shook his head and said it was a lot of nonsense.
‘I just wondered,’ said Dottie.
The camera crew were busy. A scene like this was a challenge to be enjoyed. The past two days had been busy; but she’d been looking forward to Thursday.
The pony sales at Lord Montagu’s old private station of Beaulieu Road were always lively affairs. Leaving Lyndhurst by the park pale, they had driven south-east across the open ground towards Beaulieu for about three miles before the hump of the bridge over the railway line announced that they had reached the place. And as they came over the bridge, immediately on their left, there it was: a wooden railed sale ring with pens beside it.
The lorries and horse boxes started arriving early. Apart from the usual refreshment stalls, there were stands selling riding tack and another selling boots. But these were strictly on the sidelines. The sale ring was the sole point of the exercise and the pens were soon full of ponies.
And people. Forest people. Peter Pride was already there when they arrived and he strolled over, smiling. ‘You’ll see the real Forest today,’ he remarked. ‘These pony sales, the pony drifts – that’s when they drive the ponies off each area of the Forest and check them – and the point-to-point on Boxing Day: these are the real Forest events.’
‘And how do they feel about us being here?’ Dottie asked.
‘Suspicious.’ He shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t you be?’
They were all arriving now: countrymen in cloth caps, shaggy hair and whiskers; women in all kinds of garb to keep out spring showers; children in brightly coloured gumboots. The stands round the ring were crowded. Children were standing on the rails inspecting the ponies. Suddenly the auctioneer was at his place beside the ring, tapping his microphone, and the sale had begun.
The ponies were let into the ring in ones or twos usually. The auctioneer’s descriptions were brief, the bidding fast. The ponies wheeled as the men tapped them, waved their hands and shouted to control them. Dottie noted with interest that within the sturdy wild ponies a strain of Arabian fineness could sometimes be seen. But not all the ponies were pure Forest either. Some quite handsome small mares came into the ring too.
The camera crew were happy. They didn’t need her. There would probably be plenty of footage to use. Peter Pride at her side was now giving her a quiet running commentary.
‘That’s Toby Pride over there. That’s Philip Furzey next to him. That’s James Furzey and that’s John Pride and his cousin Eddie Pride over there. That’s Ron Puckle. You saw him at the Verderers’ Court. And Reg Furzey, remember? That’s Wilfrid Seagull, who’s a bit devious. Then that’s my cousin Mark Pride. And …’
‘Stop,’ she begged. ‘I got the message.’ What was interesting, she noticed, was that as you looked round the ring, you could see perhaps half a dozen strong physical traits coming out in all these cousins. One Pride might not necessarily resemble another, but the Furzey standing next to him was obviously related.
‘We’re like the deer,’ said Peter. ‘We move around the Forest to breed. That’s probably why we haven’t all got three eyes.’
‘Do you ever let outsiders in? I mean, really into the Forest?’
He pointed across the ring to where a very pretty girl with a Slavic face and blond hair was standing. Her ponies were just coming into the ring.
‘They came from outside.’ He indicated