Part One How the Girls Acquired their Horses 1 Brittany Pottington-Groves - Lord Fotheringham It''s not every day your mother is arrested for transporting a horse on the roof of her car. Then again, buying your first horse is not exactly an everyday occurrence, so there were bound to be a couple of teething problems - what to feed him, where to keep him, how to get him home without a horse trailer. Those kinds of things. The police officer overtook us on his motorcycle, his face transfixed with all things equine on our car''s roof, and gestured for Mother to pull over. He climbed off his motorcycle and approached our car with a strange expression etched across his face - an are-these-people-actually-transporting-a-horse-on-the-roof-of-their-car sort of expression. It''s kind of hard to explain exactly just what his face looked like because I seriously doubt that anyone has ever pulled that particular face before, or since, so there really isn''t a reference point. ''Don''t you say anything,'' I hissed at Zac who currently holds the world record for being the most annoying little brother on the planet. Like most little brothers, he''s obsessed with guns, and stuff getting blown up, and trucks with ridiculously large tyres rolling over the tops of other slightly smaller trucks with ridiculously large tyres.
I think all little brothers secretly hope for the Zombie Apocalypse so they can shoot zombies or chainsaw their heads off and blow stuff up, and then run over the zombies and stuff they''ve blown up with their trucks with ridiculously large tyres. I don''t get boys at all. Probs because there''s nothing to actually get. As soon as he saw the police officer, Zac''s face lit up like a Christmas tree. ''He''s got a gun.'' I drilled Zac with my big sister death glare. ''I don''t care if he''s got fifty million guns. Don''t you say a word.
You hear me?'' Fifty million?'' yelped Zac like an excited poodle. ''That''d be sick.'' The police officer tapped on Mother''s window but never took his eyes off Lord Fotheringham, perched on our car''s roof. Mother rolled down her window and smiled. ''What seems to be the problem, officer?'' The police officer looked at Mother and scratched his head. Or rather, he scratched his motorcycle helmet at the point that his head appeared to be itching. ''Do you happen to know that you have a horse on the roof of your car?'' said no one ever up until then. The police officer pointed to the roof of the car in case we were in any doubt as to just where the roof of the car might actually be and the general horsiness that was allegedly happening up there.
''Er, no,'' replied Mother. ''I hadn''t realised. A horse, you say. How do you suppose it got up there?'' The police officer''s eyes widened to the size of frying pans. And these were not the cheap supermarket-bought smallish single egg-frying frying pans either, but rather the sort that you can only buy online from Japan that could easily fit a couple of salmon. ''Really,'' said the police officer. ''You genuinely had no idea that you have a horse on your roof?'' ''Just kidding,'' replied Mother. ''Do I really look like the sort of person who goes driving around oblivious to the fact that I have a horse on my roof?'' I wondered, for a moment, just what such a person would look like, and whether or not the police officer would recognise such a look even if he encountered it.
His name is Lord Fotheringham,'' I said in the hope that his regal sounding name might soften the hammer blow of the law. It was right at this point, despite my big sister death glare, that Zac rolled down his window and entered the fray. ''Are you going to shoot it, Mister Policeman?'' Zac pointed upwards towards the roof. The police officer looked at Zac''s excited/crazy face. ''Er, no. No, I''m not.'' ''But you''ve got a gun,'' argued Zac. ''Seems a bit of a waste if you ask me.
Having a gun and not shooting things.'' Zac shook his head in bewilderment at the complete lack of bullets that were currently not whizzing towards our car''s roof. The police officer smiled at Zac. ''Well, contrary to what you might have seen on TV and at the movies, son, police officers don''t just go around randomly shooting things. In over twenty years on the force, I''ve never once had cause to draw my weapon.'' ''Draw your weapon?'' said Zac. ''Why would you want to draw it?'' I could practically hear the mouse running around the wheel inside Zac''s brain as he pictured a bunch of police officers in front of their easels, drawing the gun that had been placed on a stool in front of them by their art teacher. I decided to put Zac and his brain mouse out of their misery.
''He doesn''t mean draw with a pencil or paints, you goose. He means draw. As in withdraw; to take out.'' ''Oh,'' said Zac. He turned back to the police officer who was examining Mother''s driver''s licence, perhaps looking to see if she had special clearance for transporting horses on the roofs of cars. ''Excuse me, Mister Policeman,'' said Zac. ''Police officer,'' corrected the police officer. ''We prefer the gender-neutral term.
'' Zac wasn''t much of a reader (unless the book happened to be about guns and stuff getting blown up and trucks with ridiculously large tyres rolling over the tops of other slightly smaller trucks with ridiculously large tyres). In fact, from what I could remember, the last book that Zac actually read was a waterproof one that you could chew in the bath and it only had ten words, two of which were the author''s name. I could see that the term ''gender neutral'' was severely damaging Zac''s brain mouse. ''What if the horse started shooting at you?'' asked Zac. ''Excuse me?'' said the police officer. ''I mean,'' continued the world''s most annoying little brother by far. He was on a roll, so my big sister death glare was next to useless now. ''If the horse took a shot at you, would you shoot back?'' The police officer''s eyes rolled so far back in his head that I think they went all the way round.
''Well, I suppose under those unlikely circumstances, I might find it necessary to return fire.'' Zac exploded into fits of laughter. ''Seriously,'' he said. ''You actually think a horse could shoot you .'' ''Er, well, no. I was just .'' ''How would it pull the trigger?'' continued Zac. ''They have hooves not fingers, you know.
Bit hard to pull a trigger with a hoof, I reckon. Bit like trying to fire a cannon with your nose, or your .'' ''Zac!'' snapped Mother. ''I am aware that horses only have .'' said the police officer before Zac cut him off. ''And where do you think it would keep its gun? Aside from not having any fingers, horses also don''t have holsters or pockets.'' Zac paused for a moment while his brain mouse did some more spinning in its wheel. ''I suppose it could keep it up its .
'' ''Zac!'' hissed Mother. ''Stop it. We''ve wasted enough of this policeman''s . sorry, officer''s time.'' Mother turned back to the police officer. ''I guess we''ll just be off then.'' ''Not so fast .'' He looked back at Mother''s licence.
''. Mrs Pottington-Groves.'' ''Ms Pottington-Groves,'' corrected Mother. ''Not Miss, but MzzzzzZZZZZZZ,'' she added for emphasis. She sounded like a rusty chainsaw. ''I need to issue your fine first,'' said the police officer. ''For what?'' asked Mother. The police officer nodded towards Lord Fotheringham, in case we had forgotten about the whole transporting-a-horse-on-the-roof-of-our-car business.
The police officer clicked on his radio speaker thingy. ''This is Unit 534. Currently attending a code .'' He trailed off. Maybe there wasn''t a code for transporting horses on the roofs of cars, or else he''d forgotten what it was. ''. well, er, attending a horse being transported on the roof of a car.'' I''m certain I heard the radio-operator person snort.
''What are you going to fine me for exactly?'' asked Mother who was a lawyer and so knew about law stuff. ''You can''t fine me for transporting a horse on the roof of my car because there isn''t a law against it.'' ''Er, yes. I know,'' said the police officer. ''Well, how about animal cruelty?'' It was like he was asking Mother what he could fine her for. ''Take a closer look at him,'' said Mother. ''Does he look in distress to you?'' The police officer did as Mother instructed and looked at Lord Fotheringham. ''Er, well, no,'' conceded the police officer.
''Is he still smiling?'' continued Mother. ''Well, yes,'' said the police.