The Horse Dancer

by Jojo Moyes

  Twice Sarah yelled at the observers to go home, to give them some quiet, until the driver and his helper told her they didn't have time to let this go on any longer and, with a mixture of brute force and a long webbed rope, forced the horse inside, from where they could hear him neighing, his hooves crashing against the sides, even as the lorry moved forward slowly and headed for the high street.

  Sarah was not allowed to travel with them ('Insurance, mate. Sorry'). When Mac persuaded her, white-faced, into his car, he observed that her palms were bleeding.

  She refused to speak to him the whole way down.

  All this Mac told Natasha on his mobile phone, during a brief stop on the motorway. She had gone down ahead in her car to prepare the cottage. At least, that was what she had told them she wanted to do. In truth it was to eradicate any signs of Conor and, more importantly, to prepare herself for what felt like an invasion into the one remaining space in her life that was still just hers.

  The cottage had only two bedrooms. Sarah would have the spare room and Mac would sleep on the sofa. Even the thought of having them there made her feel hemmed in, trapped. She was afraid that, once Mac left, this house, too, would be polluted by her failed marriage; a space that had been free of him, of memories, would now carry an unwanted echo. How on earth had she ended up here? How had she so comprehensively sacrificed her independence, her peace of mind and possibly her relationship? Conor ignored her pointedly at work, saying he was busy if he made the mistake of picking up his phone to her. She had texted him that morning, infuriated by his cold-shouldering her:

  Just because your wife did you over does not mean I am cut from the same cloth.

  She had sent it before good sense could persuade her not to.

  I do not deserve this, Conor.

  She had flipped her phone shut and sat in the silent kitchen, half waiting for a response. But none had come, and she had felt even worse.

  Natasha walked out into the garden, feeling the approach of winter in the hairs that stood up on her arms. She had last mown the lawn two weeks ago, but the increasing chill had slowed its growth and it still looked even and green. She had raked up the leaves, pruned the shrubs she could identify, and planted long rows of bulbs where once there had been scrub. Above the beds stood rows of glowing Chinese lanterns, their dried orange heads glowing in the grey autumnal air. The last of the roses bloomed gamely from spindly bushes. Where once this had been a place of neglect and wilderness, there was now beauty of sorts.

  She took a deep breath and hugged herself, telling herself she had really had no choice but to do what she had done. With luck, Mac would never need to come here again. She would ferry Sarah down at weekends - although, from the sound of it, the girl would want to spend all her time with her horse - and Conor need never know that Mac had been here. Perhaps one day Conor and Sarah might get on. He understood kids, after all. He knew how to talk to them. Unlike her.

  Natasha walked slowly round the borders, watching her shoes darken with moisture, wishing she didn't feel quite so unbalanced by Sarah's presence in her life. Every conversation they had seemed skewed, as if she could never strike the right tone. Mac, meanwhile, treated the girl with the casual ease of an older brother. When they shared some in-joke at the kitchen table, or when they discussed her grandfather, Natasha felt excluded.

  Sarah, she thought, did not like her. She treated every casual enquiry as if it was an inquisition, and seemed to regard Natasha with barely veiled suspicion. When Mac had told her on the phone that Sarah was refusing to talk to him in the car, she had felt almost joyous. It's not just me! she wanted to shout. She can be cranky with you too!

  If Natasha forced herself to be honest, she knew Sarah was aware that she didn't trust her. Yes, the money had probably gone towards the horse. Yes, there were no signs of drug or alcohol use. But the girl seemed somehow too contained, as if there were still things they had not been told.

  She couldn't say any of this to Mac. How could she when she had kept the existence of the Kent house from him for weeks? And his answer to everything was simply that Sarah had been through so much that she was bound to be guarded. His tone implied that Natasha was at fault for her failure to understand.

  Fantastic, Natasha wanted to say. I've ended up housing my ex-husband, a teenage girl who doesn't like me and paying for a bloody horse. How much more understanding do you want me to be?

  He called her again at a quarter to one. 'Can you come down to the stables and meet us?' he asked. 'You know this woman, right?'

  'I've just put lunch on the table,' she said, eyeing the fresh rolls, the pan of soup on the stove.

  'You want to tell the horse that? He's just shot out of the lorry and nearly killed someone,' Mac said. 'Oh, Christ! Sarah's shouting at the woman. Better go.'

  Natasha grabbed her coat and ran down the lane. When she arrived, Mac was trying to mollify Mrs Carter whose mouth had set in a grim line of disapproval.

  'She's been a bit worked up,' Mac was saying. 'She was worried about him. She didn't mean what she said.'

  'Anyone who keeps a horse here,' Mrs Carter said, 'has to abide by my rules.'

  'I don't want to keep him here,' Sarah interjected, from behind the stable door. Every now and then a horse's head appeared beside her, then disappeared restlessly into the gloom.

  From inside the stable, Natasha could hear the sounds of splintering boards.

  'If he goes through that wall,' Mrs Carter said to her, 'I'm afraid you'll have to pay for it.'

  'It's because you frightened him.'

  'Sarah, please,' Mac said. 'Of course we'll pay for any damage.'

  We? thought Natasha.

  Two men were waiting by the horsebox. 'Is someone going to settle up?' one asked. 'We need to get going.'

  Natasha walked over to them, fishing in her jacket for her wallet. 'Bit of a handful,' one observed.

  'I'm afraid I don't know much about horses,' she said.

  'I wasn't talking about the horse,' he replied.

  She turned as Sarah let herself out of the stable. The argument between the girl and Mrs Carter seemed to be escalating.

  'I've had horses for forty years' young lady, and I'm not having that kind of behaviour in my yard. I'll not stand for someone like you being so rude.'

  'You didn't give him a chance,' Sarah was shouting. 'He's never been out of his yard before. He was frightened.'

  'That horse needed to come out of the box before he hurt himself.'

  'You should have left it to me.'

  'Sarah,' Mac shushed her again, 'come on. Let's all calm down. We'll pay for any damage,' he said again.

  'I don't want that woman having anything to do with him,' she appealed to Mac.

  Mrs Carter turned to Natasha. 'You said he was well behaved. You said the girl was well behaved.'

  Sarah opened her mouth, but it was Mac who spoke up. 'He was very quiet in his other stable,' he said. 'I saw him. He was cool.'

  'Cool?' Mrs Carter repeated.

  'He's fine around people who know how to treat horses.' Sarah kicked at the ground.

  'Young lady, I'll have you know I--'

  'One week,' Natasha interrupted. 'Please just look after him for a week. If you really think he's unmanageable I'll arrange to have him taken back.' She looked at Sarah. 'And then we'll all have to think again.'

  The lorry was pulling away down the drive. Natasha thought of the soup, congealing in its pan in her kitchen. 'Please, Mrs Carter, Sarah's obviously overwrought, as is the horse. And we can't take him away today. Logistically it would be impossible.'

  Mrs Carter sighed. She glared at Sarah, who was stretching over the stable door, still trying to pacify her horse. 'I can't guarantee daily turnout.'

  'That's fine,' said Natasha. She had no idea what the woman was talking about.

  'And she'll have to keep him in the block round the corner, away from the others.' She turned on her heel and stomped towards her office.

  'Great. That'
s settled,' Mac said. He grinned, as if this had been a foregone conclusion. 'I'm starving. Come on, Sarah. Let's leave him to calm down and get some lunch. You can come straight back to see him afterwards.'

  Sarah ate her soup in record time and spent the afternoon at the stables. Mac suggested they should leave her to it. She was a nice kid, his reasoning went. Mrs Carter would probably see as much if they were left to their own devices. They both loved horses. Surely they'd find common ground pretty quickly.

  Natasha wished she felt as confident as he did.

  After she'd left, they sat in the kitchen with Mac pushed back his chair. She could see him studying the picture of her parents that had previously hung in the office of their London house, the bits of crockery she had brought down with her.

  'This isn't Conor's place, is it?' he said, as she cleared the plates.

  She saw it through his eyes: a feminine space. Not that she chose things that were frilly or flowery but there was care in the way the objects were placed, a gentleness of tone and arrangement that betrayed the sex of its inhabitant. 'I haven't bought it, if that's what you're asking. I just rent it.'

  'I'm not asking anything. Just . . .' he swivelled in his chair, taking in the living room through the doorway '. . . a bit surprised.'

  She didn't know what to say so she said nothing.

  'And this is where you come every weekend.'

  'Most weekends.' She was suddenly self-conscious, as if she might drop the dishes.

  'I never saw you as the country type.'

  'And I never saw myself as the divorced type. But, hey, stuff happens.'

  'Between you and Sarah, you're full of surprises.'

  'Well, you turning up on my doorstep wasn't exactly signposted.' She ran the water into the sink, grateful for something to do. It felt so strange, having him here, as if he'd turned into someone she didn't know. It was hard to believe sometimes that they had ever been together. He seemed so altered, so removed, and she was conscious that little in her own life had moved on.

  'Thanks,' he said, into the silence.

  She was primed for the sarcastic payoff.

  'For what?'

  'Letting us come down here. I can see it's not easy for you.'

  There was no hint of sarcasm in his voice. His brown eyes were sincere. It scared the hell out of her. 'It's nothing.'

  'In that case, is this the right time to tell you I've had a pad in Notting Hill all along?' He was laughing even before she spun round. 'Joking!' he said. 'Tash, I'm joking!'

  'Hilarious,' she said dismissively, then wondered why she was smiling.

  'She'll calm down eventually, you know,' he said, after a pause.

  She stilled. So he had seen it too.

  He came to stand beside her at the sink. She kept her eyes on the washing-up. 'I think . . . nothing much else matters to her apart from her Papa and that horse. Given everything that's happened, she's probably terrified she'll lose him too. And it's making her overreact. She's not hard to read.' He handed her a stray spoon.

  To you, maybe, she thought. But she couldn't admit it aloud.

  'I blew up some prints,' he said, as he sat down again. 'They're in my car. If I make the tea, will you take a look at them?'

  There was nothing else for her to do. She tried not to flinch at the sight of him rummaging around for mugs and teaspoons. With him making tea in Conor's place, she felt as if she was being unfaithful. She was grimly conscious of the irony.

  They sat down in the living room, Mac on the chair Conor usually favoured, herself on the sofa opposite. Mac was sorting through a clear folder of photographs. 'This place, where she keeps him, it's like something out of the Victorian age - except for the car and stuff. This old guy,' he pointed at an ageing black man in a battered cowboy hat, 'told me there's a few of these little yards still dotted around the East End. There used to be more, but developers have bulldozed them.'

  Natasha looked at the cramped yard, the glowing brazier and loose chickens, trying to reconcile it with its location. It was like a cross between Steptoe and Son and something hidden, magical, a remnant of a long-gone way of life. There were hens, goats, oversized horses and skinny kids. Against a towering heap of pallets, a gleaming, streamlined train passed overhead, its occupants oblivious to the tableau beneath them. This was Sarah's provenance. This was her world. Where did a place like this fit into the modern day? How did a girl like Sarah fit in at all?

  'What do you think?'

  When she looked up from the prints, Mac's gaze was on her. He really did want to know.

  'I've not seen anything like them, that's for sure.' Her eye was caught by another image, a horse rearing, a slight but familiar figure clinging to its back. A break in the clouds had illuminated the horse's head in sunlight, an ethereal juxtaposition against the grimy street behind. She realised, with a jolt, that she had seen it before. Once, from a moving train.

  'But do you like them?' Mac's voice had lifted. 'Because I was thinking of doing a photographic project. I was going to show the curator at that gallery near Waterloo - you remember? The one where I held that show three, four years ago? I told him about them and he's asked me to show him.' He leant forwards, adjusting his broad hands around the one she was holding. 'I thought I might crop this one, just here. What do you think?'

  He had shot this set on film, not digital, he continued. He had used his old Leica, and these were about a tenth of the images on the contact sheets. It had been impossible to take a bad photograph in that place. Everywhere he looked there had been a framed shot for the taking. It would be a lost world, this yard, before long. The cowboy had told him. John knew of maybe five left of an original thirty. Mac might even go and check out the others Perhaps he could make it a series. He was voluble, enthusiastic. She had not heard him talk like this about his work for years.

  Eventually he tailed off. 'I'm boring you,' he said, smiled apologetically and collected up the work.

  'No,' she said, handing him the prints from her lap. 'Really. They're wonderful. I think they . . . they're the best thing I've seen you do.'

  His head shot up.

  'Really,' she said. 'They're beautiful. Not that I know anything about photography.'

  He grinned. 'You are the woman, after all . . .'

  '. . . who once shot a whole roll with the lens cap on. I know.' They laughed awkwardly. In the ensuing silence, she tapped out a tattoo on her knee.

  'Anyway,' he said, standing up, 'we've given her an hour and a half. We'd better go and see what trouble National Velvet's causing down the road.'

  She straightened the magazines on the table, feeling, peculiarly, as if she'd lost something. She couldn't look at him. 'Yes. Yes, I suppose we'd better.'

  They walked back down the lane towards Howe Farm, muffled against the cold air, Natasha self-conscious and out of place in her blue wool coat. As they walked their elbows bumped and she moved away.

  She had heard couples describe their exes as their best friends. How could that be? How could you segue so easily from passion - whether love or hatred - to the kind of easy familiarity where you might link arms? She could remember moments when she had hated Mac so much she had wanted to kill him, times she had wanted him so much she had thought she would die from it. How could all that energy be converted into something as neutral, as beige, as friendship? How could he have divorced himself from that without a visible scar? She knew the end of their marriage still lay too close to her surface, revealed itself in her gestures, her unnatural responses to him, her ever-present flashes of anger. Yet he sailed on, oblivious, a ship on perennially calm waters. Natasha thrust her chin down behind her scarf and walked a little faster, as if she was impatient to get there, hoping her confusion didn't show on her face.

  It was a long way from the cramped urban yard of Mac's photographs. Around a picturesque red-brick courtyard, middle-aged women and teenage girls, slim thighs clad in rainbow-hued jodhpurs, chatted over a tinny transistor radio as they groomed horse
s and swept stables, brief snatches of their conversation carrying towards her.

  'He never tracks up properly on sand. It's like he locks up behind.'

  'I was doing a three-loop serpentine with a change of legs in the middle . . .'

  'Jennifer had him on barley straw until he started coughing. It's costing her a fortune in shavings . . .'

  Horses stood patiently beside mounting blocks, or thrust noses curiously over their doors, engaged in silent communion with each other. It was a closed world, its language and customs alien, its inhabitants bonded by a passion she couldn't begin to understand. Mac was observing it all with interest, his hands restless against his sides, as if they were lost without a camera to hold.

  Sarah's horse was not in his stable. The door was wide open. Mrs Carter came out of her office. 'I said she could use the school for half an hour, against my better judgement. I thought she should let the animal rest, but she said he'd settle quicker if he was working.' Her opinion was clear in the set of her jaw. 'Can't tell her much, can you?'

  'Her grandfather's pretty knowledgeable. He teaches her most things.'

  'Didn't teach her much in the way of manners.' She sniffed. 'I'd better go up and take a look. Make sure she's not messing up the arena.'

  Natasha caught Mac's eye, and realised, dangerously, that she wanted to giggle.

  They followed Mrs Carter's slightly arthritic limp, trying not to step on her Jack Russell, and turned to where Sarah was standing in the middle of a sand school. The horse was on two long reins, trotting around her, changing direction and back again to some unseen instruction, now slowing until it appeared to be trotting on the spot. She stood close by his quarters, almost pressed against him. Surely the one place you were not meant to stand was directly behind a horse.