by Emma Carroll
“Don’t you get cold, and burnt?”
“Yep,” says Sid, “but I’m used to it.”
“Is it your thing?” I ask.
“My thing?”
“You know, everyone has a thing. Mine is my long hair and being an only child. My mum’s is her deep hatred of butterflies (it’s the powdery wings). My dad’s is the way cats can’t resist him. Everyone has a thing. Is this nakedness thing your thing?”
“I guess it is,” said Sid. “And Mum’s thing is horses and sons, Dad’s thing is tractors and biscuits. Ben’s thing is being a pest and taking a very long time on the toilet.”
“What about him?” I ask, nodding to a boy cousin (Barney?) who’s fitting a saddle on a large white horse.
“He’s pretty average,” says Sid. “But he’s the nice guy, and he loves cheese and banana sandwiches. Maybe that’s his thing.”
“What about Jack?” I ask, confident my largest cousin was correctly identified.
“Oh, he’s good at everything, sport, music, maths, English, everything.”
“And him?” I point up to a bedroom window where William is lolling out.
“That’s easy,” grins Sid. “He’s the family weirdo.”
“In what way?” I ask.
“Weird ones,” says Sid mysteriously, and skips off.
I feel something pull at the hem of my T-shirt.
Crispy is trying to eat me.
“He thinks you’re a hedge,” says big Jack, clopping past on a large brown and white horse.
I really, really hate this top. Maybe I’ll stuff it in a bin somewhere when no one is looking.
I go back to my brushing. I think I’m nearly done when little Ben struggles in with a bucket. It is full of brushes and hoof picks and horse stuff. He sets it down and draws out a pair of gleaming scissors.
“Why don’t we cut your hair?” he says. “It would be fun.”
I stop brushing. Look at the scissors. Feel my fat plait.
“Don’t be stupid,” I say.
“I like being stupid,” says Ben. “It’s fun. Join me.”
I feel the end of my plait. The hair wisps over my fingers.
Mum would go insane if I cut my hair. I’ve been growing it since I was four years old. And people don’t just cut their own hair, they go to the hairdresser and pay someone else to do it.
But I’ve got a crazy feeling inside me, and Mum is hundreds of miles away.
“Just a couple of snips and you would be free,” says Ben advancing, working the scissors.
“Hand me those right now,” I say.
I watch as my cousins thunder out of the yard and through the gate into the field. As I pull at Crispy’s head I see all the boys galloping around like mad cowboys. I feel wobbly up here on Crispy’s back. It seems a long way to the ground.
I remember Alice’s leg.
“Come on, love, give him a kick,” calls Aunty Mo, crashing past. She leans over and grabs the reins, tugging Crispy along. He speeds up for a few metres then slows down, wrenches his head free and snatches some grass from the hedge.
The boys wheel round and gallop back to me.
“Come and do The Race. It doesn’t matter if you’re not a real rider,” shouts nearly naked Sid, his cheeks blazing and his muscles taut. “You look like you’re about to fall off.”
“She won’t be able to keep up,” sneers Jack, dark and enormous on his frothing horse.
I feel a surge of annoyance.
“We don’t have to do The Race. It’s Fay’s first day,” says Barney kindly. He’s riding an extremely fat pony with a long black mane and wicked look about it.
“But it’s the first official day of the holidays,” shouts Jack. “We always do The Race on the first day and the last day. It’s tradition.”
“Go for it,” I say, heaving Crispy’s head up and away from the hedge. “I wouldn’t want to break the tradition.”
“You can just puddle around in the field if you like,” says Aunty Mo. “Or follow the trail of dust. It’s a race round the circumference of the farm. We end up back here.”
I tighten my fingers round the reins.
I think of the trails I’ve been following in the last few days. The trails of light from Mum and Dad’s car, the aeroplane trails in the sky…
“They’re all desperate to win,” says Aunty Mo.
“But I always win,” says Jack.
“Not last year,” says Sid.
“That’s because I had a broken leg and I still came second,” says Jack.
“You had a horse race with a broken leg?” I ask, thinking again of Alice.
Aunty Mo shrugs helplessly. “Jack’s like that.” She looks at me. “Did something happen to your hair?”
I point down. My discarded plait swings from my saddle like a war trophy. I’d cut it off just below the shoulder.
“Oh dear,” says Aunty Mo. “Ben! Did you do that?”
“No,” I say. “I did it.”
“Oh dear,” says Aunty Mo again.
“So who won the race last year?” I ask. I’m learning that if we talk about horses everyone is distracted.
“Me,” says William. “It was a hollow victory owing to Jack’s leg. This year I want to win for true.”
William, I realise, talks funny.
Barney trots back to me. “Can you gallop?” he asks.
“Of course,” I lie. I have no idea if it’s true because I’ve never done it. I used to be able to canter and trot. How hard could galloping be? The only reason I hadn't done it is because galloping wasn’t allowed in my London riding school. The manège was too small.
“Great! Let’s just go for it,” says Aunty Mo, who, I know, is as excited as any of them.
“Eat my dust,” grins Jack.
“Eat my feet,” retorts William
“Going DOWN.” Sidney circles the yard.
“No pushing, no trampling, no use of whip,” orders Aunty Mo. She has completely forgotten about my hair. “No elbows.”
I raise an eyebrow. What is this, rugby?
“ON YOUR MARKS,” screams my aunt, “GET SET…”
“GO GO GO,” howls little Ben, thundering out in front on his short-legged horse.
So I drag Crispy’s head up and urge him on, as my relations belt off round the field.
I know I can’t win, but I’m going to be part of this race.
Crispy seems to finally realise that I want him to move, and he ambles at a quick jog after his teammates. I’m bumping up and down and try to remember what I know about riding. Move with the horse, don’t let the reins flap and, if in doubt, grab the saddle.
Crispy, seeing his mates vanish into the next field, lets out a little neigh and picks up speed.
“Good BOY,” I say. This is fun. Maybe this fortnight with these mad cousins wouldn’t be so bad after all. I wonder for a split second what Marnie is doing. Probably nothing like this. I wonder what she’ll say when she finds out about my hair. She didn’t want me to cut it either. “We’re the exclusive hair gang,” she’d said. She said that a lot. She didn’t really like me having other friends. I suppose it doesn’t really matter any more, seeing as she isn’t coming back.
The next field is full of yellow stubble, and already the boys are thundering through the open gateway at the far end. I don’t know who’s in the lead, but as we fall into a canter and the breeze blows into my face, I feel a surge of joy.
I absolutely do not want to come last.
“Come on, horse,” I say, and nudge Crispy in the ribs with my oversized wellies.
The effect is not exactly electric, but Crispy does pick up his pace, snort and kick up a bit of dust of his own.
And the gap between me and the boy at the back – is it Barney? – is decreasing.
As we push through the next gateway, the path winds down a cow-walk into a wooded area, until we reach a stream. And here I find, red-faced and furious, Barney, his trousers all wet, watching helplessly as his horse rol
ls in the river.
“Is he OK?” I ask, trotting up. (I can remember how to do this.)
“He’s FINE,” shouts Barney. “He’s just rude. I felt him go down, and I had to jump off before I got crushed. He’s doing it for fun and to cool down his scabby back.”
I watch as the horse rolls and rolls, legs kicking, droplets of muddy water flying over the forest like silver flies.
“Can I go on Crispy?” asks Barney hopefully. “It’s not important to you. But it is to me.”
I’m about to say “OK” reluctantly, but instead different words come out of my mouth.
“No way,” I say and splash past, up the crumbling bank and after the others.
Crispy charges out of the wood and up into the bottom of a steep, steep field. I see the group up ahead, slower now as they climb.
“Come on then,” I say, and Crispy pulls after them. I’m gaining on them, and then they vanish over the horizon and as I crest the hill I find myself neck and neck with little Ben and his horse.
“His legs are too short,” he wails. “I’ll never win on this heap of junk.”
“That’s not very nice,” I say, overtaking.
“I always get the rubbish things because I’m the youngest,” moans Ben.
“Tough luck,” I say, surging ahead. “I thought I’d got the rubbish horse.”
“You have,” says Ben. “Crispy is the laziest horse we have.” He gets off his horse and tries to pull it up the hill.
“I WANT A MOTORBIKE,” he yells.
I lean forward and pat Crispy’s neck and he eyes a patch of nettles hopefully.
“No,” I say, and we chase the others, cantering along the top ridge of the field. The sky seems huge, and for a moment I feel like I’m in an aeroplane looking down on the fields and hedges as the wind blows over my face.
Crispy is getting into his stride, and I am gaining on the next rider, naked Sid.
We’re going faster now and my legs ache trying to cling on. I’m feeling a bit scared as we go faster than ever. This is not a smooth canter, but a fast, drumming move. It must be a gallop.
I’m galloping! ME!
HA HA! I think, and here is Sid, cantering along, looking neat and balanced, not arms flying, feet bumping, like me.
But I am faster.
I keep quiet as we approach, realising Sid has no idea we’re here.
I lightly kick Crispy’s sides as the ridge starts to slope down and I draw level with Sid and his horse. He looks over, amazed.
“Where are the others?” he shouts.
“Back there,” I crow.
Sid picks up speed and for a while we canter side by side, until Crispy’s long legs get the better of Sid and his horse and we surge ahead.
“What’s got into him?” calls Sid. “He never goes like that for me.”
“Maybe he needed a real rider,” I shout, and charge off. I seem to have found my voice.
Now I’m travelling fast through rows of Christmas trees. I see Jack, William and Aunty Mo ahead.
Can I do this? Can I?
Crispy snorts, as if reading my thoughts. If I keep going I will, at least, achieve my aim of not losing too badly. But where’s the fun in that?
“Come on, Crispy,” I say. “Let’s show these boys what we can do.”
But then Crispy abruptly stops, puts his head down and yanks at a patch of grass. I nearly go over his head, but manage to stay on.
“Traitor.” I glance behind as Sid narrows the gap.
“You’re really getting into this!” shouts Sid.
“It’s all over,” I say.
But then, from nowhere, a jet tears out of the sky. Crispy jerks up, spooked, and belts hell for leather after the others.
I hold on for dear life. This feels even faster than galloping, if that’s possible. I’m being shaken all over the place. This is bolting. Even though I pull hard at the reins I can’t make Crispy slow down. We fly out of the wood and into a flat field. I’m pulsing with fear and have to grab the saddle so I don’t fall off. I’m unable to do anything apart from cling on as Crispy runs and runs, terrified by the roar of the jet.
I pass William and Aunty Mo in a blur.
“Are you OK?” yells Aunty Mo.
I have no idea. I’m frightened, but still feel a jolt of delight as we pass Jack, pounding solidly over the flat field.
“NO WAY!” he shouts.
If I can keep hanging on, everything will be OK. I might even win.
Up ahead I see the farmhouse roof. We are near the end and I am going to win.
The drumming hooves fill my head.
Then I fall off.
It happens quickly. One second I’m in the saddle, the next I’m on the ground, breath knocked out of me, looking at the sky in surprise. I’m bootless – my wellies are still stuck in the stirrups.
Jack bolts past, not bothering to stop.
I cough and wheeze. My arm hurts a bit where I landed on it, but not much.
Aunty Mo pulls up.
“You’re so good at falling!” she says, clearly delighted.
“Am I?” I gasp, raising myself.
“Textbook roll,” says Aunty Mo. “Clean fall, no getting tangled in the reins. A born rider. Back in a tick.”
Then she too kicks her horse and accelerates off, leaving me in the grass. At first I think she’s going to catch Crispy, who’s now munching the only outcrop of greenery in the shorn field, but no, I should have known better – my mad aunt is chasing Jack.
“THOU ART DEFEATED!” shouts William as he too passes me by.
As I sit up I hear the growling putter of Uncle Lee’s tractor.
“They’re all deranged,” he says. “Want a ride?”
Back in the yard, I climb down from the tractor, as Crispy sheepishly clatters into the yard. The boys crowd round, congratulating, commiserating. Laughing.
“You don’t actually ride very well, Fay,” says Sid. “You looked like a sack of potatoes.”
“A fast sack of potatoes,” I reply. “I was thrashing you until I fell off.”
“True,” says Sid.
“I’m having Crispy next time,” says Ben.
This is a victory of sorts.
Jack struts round, patting his horse and blowing out his cheeks. “Good effort, all,” he says. “Especially you, Fay.” He gives me a look of amused surprise. “But I won. I am the true winner.”
“Congratulations,” I say. “And my name is FAITH.”
That last bit came out rather loudly.
Maybe I can come back at the end of the holidays and do the last race. Maybe I can beat him next time.
There’s always a next time.
“Actually, Jack, you didn’t win,” calls Aunty Mo. “I did.”
I ran out of the dark of the tube station and into the bright bank holiday sunshine of the street. I sped up the hill towards the heath and the funfair as fast as I could, dodging through the crowd, the duffel bag with the bottle of lemonade banging against my back. I was meeting the gang, and I should have been there half an hour ago.
Of course, it wasn’t my fault I was late. I had to wait until Mum had gone out so we didn’t have to have that conversation again. I had to get another part-time job, and soon – the paper round didn’t pay enough, and unless I could get something else I’d be washing up for the rest of my days in the back of the café that Bubela owned and that Mum worked in. No staying on for my school certificate and no chance of getting the job I wanted. Last time we’d talked about it she shouted at me. No one would want a hairdresser who looked as if they cut their own hair in the dark.
Then I saw my reflection in one of the tearooms by the station and slowed to a stop. I didn’t look that bad. The slacks looked great, even though Mum said I looked like a girl from the land army in them. I’d bought them secondhand and fixed them so they fitted. And they felt even better, wide and swingy.
Then I saw my face. I put my hand up to my hair where I’d cut it. Mum had been i
n tears when she saw me, and after that row I thought one upset was better than two. But honestly, it was my hair. And the front where the pin curls had stayed in place had come out the way I wanted. I turned my head round. Maybe not so good at the back.
Somewhere a church clock chimed three and I hurried on again.
I dodged through a group of men and boys, overdressed for the weather in dark shirts and jumpers and flannel trousers. I pushed through them without thinking.
“Oi! Carrots!” someone shouted. “Slow down, ginger!” “What happened to your hair? Fight with a lawnmower!” The men laughed.
I could feel the colour rushing up into my cheeks. When I got home I would cut the rest of it off and dye it black.
I must have scowled.
“Go on, ginger, what happened to your hair? Eh, coppertop! It might never happen! Give us a smile!”
I sped up a little. If I could just get out of their way… I stubbed my foot against an uneven stone and tripped over. I put my hands out to break my fall and the duffle bag on my back swung round and bashed into the pavement before I did. I landed right on top of it. I heard the smash of the bottle of lemonade and felt my front damp.
A gale of laughter exploded all round me. I wished, wished, wished the ground would open up and swallow me whole.
My top – the blue blouse with the swallow print, my favourite – was soaked. I was soaked. I shook the bag away from me. The picnic was ruined. Inside was a mess of broken glass.
I may as well go home right now. Paula and Godfrey would be fed up waiting for me. They might have even done the swing boats without me. You only needed two.
I waited till the men had passed and got up. The bag was a lost cause. I’d empty it out as soon as I found a bin. At least the sun would dry my clothes out quick enough.
I could hear Mum’s voice in my head – Life’s not fair, Claudette! Not bloody fair at all, I thought. I slowed down, kicking a stone into the road.
“You all right?” It was a boy, a tall streak of a kid with blond hair razored short at the sides but with a long floppy fringe. He was struggling up the hill with two placards, but still seemed to think I needed help. I must have looked a sight and a half.
He didn’t look too sensible himself, given it was summer and he was wearing a dark polo-neck jumper, thick like his mum had made it.
