by Unknown
She tugged hard on the right toggle and turned a half-circle until she was facing up the hill again, still hurtling inexorably down towards Oddlode. Leaning right back into her harness and clamping her eyes shut, she tucked her knees into her chest and felt the first bumps of terra firma against her backside before she released the ’chute from its harness and tucked in tightly for the roll.
Her roll was swiftly interrupted by a large hillock, which she hadn’t seen from the air. It broke her fall with a perfect, soft grass-mattress buttress.
As emergency landings went, they didn’t get any better.
Ellen hugged the banks of the hillock and kissed the dry grass gratefully, before jumping up and leaping around in the air.
‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’
Far above her, she could just make out two small figures jumping too – Spurs and Snorkel, both barking their heads off. She couldn’t hear a word but she waved both arms joyfully and blew a hundred kisses – then ran to the crest of the hillock, doing handstands and cartwheels.
She’d got her spirit back. It felt like falling in love.
Getting her spirit back was one thing, but getting her breath back was another. By the time she had collected her ’chute and clambered back up the hill to rejoin Spurs, she was so puffed out she couldn’t speak.
‘You beauty!’ Spurs hugged her.
She panted into his bare chest and fought an urge to ram her hot cheeks to the freckled skin. She broke away before she could let herself and grinned up at him, shaking her head, still unable to speak.
He cupped her face between his soil-stained hands. ‘You are amazing!’ The silver eyes danced around her face, a straightforward, come-to-bed message playing between them.
She knew he wanted to kiss her, and suddenly she felt so turned on that her burning lungs almost imploded. For a split second, as his face moved towards hers, her knees gave way and the burning, buzzing heat between her legs threatened to set light to her harness. But then she twisted her face away so that the kiss landed on her cheek.
‘It felt amazing!’ she gasped, and turned towards the car as though the near-miss kiss hadn’t happened. ‘It felt fucking amazing. What a crack.’
The tomboy was back. Ellen, the trouper. Ellen, one of the lads. Ellen, who couldn’t allow herself to be attracted to Spurs because that made her vulnerable, and she had no time to be vulnerable. She was going to head off round the world in search of sport and adventure. She had her spirit back.
‘We’d better go back – I think Snorkel’s had a decent enough run,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘I have a hell of a lot to do next week, so—’
Two firm hands grabbed her shoulders and spun her round. ‘Whoa, whoa. Sssh.’
‘What are you doing?’ She tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he held on tight, silver eyes searing into hers.
‘Calm down, Ellen – sssh. Let it go.’
‘What are you talking about? I feel fine. I feel fantastic. That was fucking fantastic!’
‘Let it go. Believe me, I know. You have to.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I get like this, and I’m sure as hell not getting into a car with you when you’re like it.’
‘Then walk home.’ She jerked back, almost dislocating her shoulders as he held on tight. ‘What d’you think I’m going to do? Drive off a precipice?’
‘Probably. You’ve got to let it go, Ellen.’
‘Let what go?’
He just stared at her, his face twisted with the effort of hanging on.
As the adrenaline and endorphins and lactic acid drained away, Ellen stopped wrestling and took a lot of deep breaths, deliberately calming herself, hating him for robbing her of the high.
Then it hit her like a wall. The pain. It hit her so hard that she almost fell over.
Sliding down to her knees, she put her head into her hands and sobbed.
He sat down beside her while she wept, pulling at the long grasses and looking out at the valley, saying nothing, not touching her or offering sympathy. She was grateful. It was embarrassing enough having Snorkel trying to dry every tear with a sloppy pink tongue, a kind paw on her knee and a little whine constantly playing a violin sonata in her throat.
Eventually Ellen dared to look across at him through the streaming tears, watching his curls dance in the wind and studying the creases beside his eyes where he was squinting into the sun. ‘How did you know?’
‘I just did.’ He didn’t look round. ‘You’ve been like an unexploded bomb all weekend.’
‘Is this what they call a controlled explosion, then?’ she bawled, covering her mouth because the sound of her sobs embarrassed her.
He half smiled and looked down as he pulled another grass stem.
‘I hate you for this.’ She wiped her nose on the back of her wrist, fighting against the rattling hiccups that were bubbling up through her chest.
‘Oh, you’ll forgive me soon enough – just as you’ll forgive him eventually.’
‘Him?’
‘Richard.’
She pressed her wet face to the inside of her arms and took a deep breath. ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’
‘In thirteen years?’
‘I’m not bitter – I’m just mourning. It’s a relief.’
They watched crows rising from a nearby crop like ambush helicopters from a desert haze.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Our love died in infancy. It’s been like living with a corpse.’ Ellen let one eye follow the crows until they blurred into specks.
Beside her, Spurs didn’t move. ‘They say the first day you cry is the first day you can begin to forget.’
‘Who says?’
‘Some shitty book I read in prison.’
A snotty, impatient snort flew from her nostrils before she could really take this in. ‘Did you cry a lot in prison?’
‘Only because the books were so shitty.’
They stared out at the valley, watching stormclouds gather on the hills like grey armies preparing for battle.
‘I cried a few times,’ he conceded eventually.
‘Ever cried over a woman?’
‘No.’
‘So you don’t know at all how I feel.’ Ellen lifted her face from her sleeve and studied his profile, hating its perfection.
‘I’ve mourned a boy.’
She smiled sadly, dipping her head back into the damp nooks of her elbows. She might have guessed. It was always the ones you least suspected and found most attractive.
‘Did you love him very much?’
‘Yes.’ He turned his face to her. ‘I’m not queer. We weren’t lovers. We were friends. But I did love him. My first big love, if you like.’
‘Like Richard.’
‘Well, we didn’t screw on a regular basis for thirteen years.’
She snorted, half laughing and half sobbing. ‘Neither did Richard and I.’
He scratched his nose with a blade of grass, eyes jumping from point to point on the horizon.
Ellen lifted her head and propped it on her wrists. ‘We grew up together and we shared a passion – but it was never really for each other. We evolved this odd life that only we understood – working through winter, playing through summer. And we like each other – we can talk all night.’
‘Just not screw?’
She tilted her head. ‘Oh, we had our fair share. I’m only thinking of the last couple of years when it was birthdays and Christmas, and we both had to be pissed to do it.’
She didn’t see his eyes press carriage return on her face.
‘Why did you stay together so long?’
‘We relied on each other. We had the same job and loved the same sports. My parents hated him, which gave me a reason to prove it could work. Besides, we wanted to make it work. We’re best friends. We’re – we were like a little self-contained unit, a camper-van couple who only needed a small backpack and each other. And we did need each other.’ She thought a
bout it afresh, her analysis clumsy with the post-mortem of renewal. ‘I was the brave one who made things happen, he was the sensible one who always made sure we had cash, a home and decent jobs.’
‘I could use his number right now.’
‘Me too.’ Ellen laughed tearfully. ‘He’s in Australia.’
He pressed his chin to his shoulder as he turned to look at her. ‘Long way to go to get away from you.’
‘He wanted me to go too. It was an ultimatum.’
‘But you’re still here.’
‘I’m still here.’ She nodded, eyes sliding towards his. ‘Turned out he was braver than me all along.’
‘I doubt that.’
Ouch, ouch, ouch! Ellen fought to pull away from the silver A and E gaze that was mugging her eyes, ripping Richard from her head and replacing him with big electric defibrillator jolts to her heart.
She shook her head repeatedly. ‘Our loopy little life suited me. It had no ties.’
‘Except to each other?’ He kept her eyes trapped. ‘You never tied the knot.’
‘I was always hopeless at knots. It’s why I never took up sailing or mountaineering.’
‘They’re easy to tie when you’re frightened you’ll lose something.’
‘Like horses?’
‘Like horses. I always tie them up very carefully.’
They were pattering again, and Ellen was grateful. Her chest and eyes hurt, and she was ashamed and angry with herself. Her magnificent, spiralling flight down the valley seemed petty and attention-seeking now. The emergency landing had been a crashing fall after all.
She looked down at her scratched, grass-stained legs and tattered clothes. If yesterday in the garden had turned her into a swamp monster, this morning’s escapades had dragged her from the primordial soup and pulled her through a hedge backwards.
‘You’re not seeing me at my best,’ she apologised.
‘Does that matter?’
‘I guess not. Most bomb-disposal experts don’t admire the casing before they defuse the detonator.’
‘You have fantastic casing.’
She rubbed the sticky sweat from her eyebrows.
‘Come and meet my cousin.’ He stood up. ‘I want him to admire your casing.’
They drove into the village of Upper Springlode, one of the tiny limpets that clung to the flank of the dinosaur crest, a scattering of old, honey-coloured houses divided by sheep-filled paddocks and windswept woods. They turned into a bumpy, potholed drive and stopped by a cluster of ramshackle farm buildings. Several droopy-lipped horses peered out at them suspiciously from mismatched stables as they jumped out of the jeep. A transistor radio was blaring the latest manufactured-band hit from an open doorway.
‘Bloody hell – he’s teaching.’ Spurs was looking across at a sand square behind a rusting horsebox. In its centre a grumpy, good-looking youth was watching a fat middle-aged woman bouncing around with no stirrups on an equally fat cob. ‘That must be a first. Rory!’ he called.
The youth looked up, then called to his pupil, ‘Carry on trotting, Ann. Won’t be a tick.
‘What d’you want?’ he asked suspiciously, when he joined them.
‘Jumps.’ Spurs patted him on the back. ‘Rory – this is Ellen.’
‘’Lo.’ Rory reached straight into Spurs’ rear pocket, pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. He gave Ellen little more than a passing nod, although she was staring at him in amazement.
He was a Spurs in miniature. The resemblance was uncanny – the same eyes, mouth, nose and high cheekbones. Rory was finer and lighter than his cousin – the hair blond and straight, the freckles like gold dust and his frame narrower. Yet the similarity was eerie. ‘How many d’you want and how long for?’ he was asking Spurs. His voice also held the unmistakable Belling drawl. Or was that Constantine?
‘A couple – just today.’
‘Sundays are my busiest teaching day.’
‘Aw, c’mon. Ann there hardly looks ready to try her luck over the sticks.’
They all watched red-faced Ann as she bounced past, big bottom crashing unevenly on the saddle.
‘I have other pupils.’ Rory shrugged, then called to Ann, ‘Terrific! He’s really tracking up.’
‘Bollocks! She can’t even sit to the trot properly.’
‘It’s what they like to hear. That’s what they pay me for – that and the good looks.’ He managed a short, sweet smile. ‘If she thinks that she and her carthorse are capable of getting to the Olympics then let her.’
‘Rory hates teaching ordinary people to ride,’ Spurs explained to Ellen, in an undertone.
Ellen thought it hardly surprising that the yard was doing so badly.
‘You can have the old rustics,’ he said to Spurs. ‘Do you have a trailer with you?’
‘No. They can go on the roof of the Jeep.’
Rory raised an eyebrow and looked at Ellen. ‘You ride, then?’
‘I think they’re for Dilly,’ she explained.
‘Dilly?’ He cracked a huge, stale yawn.
‘You know her.’ Spurs watched him. ‘Has a nice roan.’
Rory’s arrogant face lit up. ‘From Oddlode? Pheely’s girl?’
‘She says she fancies you too.’ Spurs laughed.
‘Really?’ Suddenly he appeared quite goofy.
‘Think she could use your help with her horse – when she’s back for the summer holidays.’
‘Sure – absolutely. She can bring him up here any time.’ He grinned.
‘Come down this afternoon if you like,’ Spurs offered.
‘Can’t.’ He pulled a regretful face. ‘I’m on my own today. Sharrie’s taken a couple of the youngsters to a show.’ He glanced towards Ann, who was now struggling to breathe. ‘I guess I’d better get back. The jumps are in the flat field behind the barn, okay?’
‘Thanks.’ Spurs slapped his back again and set off to fetch them.
As they heaved a heavy wooden upright on to the jeep roof, Ellen tried not to feel jealous that he was going to such an effort for Dilly, or resentful that he was using her diesel, strength and time to do so.
With the jumps secured to the roof, they left Rory being circled by poor, red-faced Ann and set off again, driving out of Springlode and into the valley once more.
‘Fuck – he’s pissed already.’ Spurs rubbed his eye sockets with the balls of his hands.
‘He was drunk?’ Ellen turned to him in surprise. She hadn’t spotted it.
‘Probably from last night.’ He lit a cigarette, and cranked down the window. ‘Although you can bet he’s already topped up his coffee. Fuck.’
Rory hardly seemed old enough to drink, let alone to have a problem.
‘We start young round here,’ Spurs laughed bitterly, ‘and having me around didn’t help the poor little sod.’
Ellen negotiated the hairpins as the jeep groaned down the hill, its roof creaking beneath the load.
‘He must have been pissed not to fancy you.’ Spurs flicked his ash out of the window.
‘I look like sin.’
‘Exactly – you’re irresistible. My beautiful sinner.’
Ellen narrowly missed cannoning into the bridge over the Odd. ‘What about Dilly? They seem pretty well suited.’
‘He’ll have to sober up before I let that happen.’
‘What are you? Her father?’
‘In this village,’ he threw his cigarette butt out of the window, ‘anything is possible. Let’s go and pick some strawberries.’
‘I thought we were going to buy bedding plants?’ Ellen asked distractedly as she pondered Dilly’s paternity.
‘I never bed anything on an empty stomach. The nursery has a market garden. We can pick strawberries for lunch.’
On cue, Ellen’s stomach let out a hungry growl and she remembered that she hadn’t eaten all day.
‘Hear hear.’ Spurs patted his bare, brown belly cheerfully. ‘I hope they don’t mind topless fruit pickers. When I was a kid, the pla
ce was run by a band of Christian brothers, but the new owners are a bohemian lot, I gather. Mother disapproves so much that she sends Gladys to the farmers’ market in Morrell. They’re both convinced the couple there run it as a cover for a cannabis farm.’
‘Pixie and Sexton,’ Ellen recalled.
‘You know them?’
She shook her head. ‘Pheely’s good friends with Pixie.’ The name had cropped up more than once. And, according to Pheely, Pixie’s husband Sexton indeed grew so much illegal produce in the hothouses that he was known to his select clients as the British Hempire.
When they drove into the little organic market garden and nursery, which was offering Pick Your Own on large, lopsided signs at the gate, they were greeted by a rabble of dogs and children. The pack circled the jeep as it bounced across a rutted field to park by a vast greenhouse.
‘You tourists?’ the children demanded.
‘Woof, woooooof, WOOF!’ The pack jumped up at Snorkel, claws skittering against the paintwork.
‘No.’
‘Not from London, then?’
‘No.’
‘Wooooof!’
‘Can your dog play with ours?’
‘Okay.’
‘Jesus.’ Spurs stood back as Snorkel joined the rabble and they all tore off behind the greenhouse. ‘Are you sure that was wise?’
‘She can look after herself,’ Ellen said, but wondered exactly the same thing.
They took their empty strawberry punnets from a distracted, blue-haired woman who was reading an Open University prospectus by a long potting bench, a wilting courgette plant in one hand.
‘The best fruit is up by the sheep, to your right,’ she said dreamily, waggling the courgette towards the door. ‘Enjoy!’
That, Ellen guessed as they headed outside again, had to be Pheely’s chum, Pixie. In the flesh, she was far less ephemeral and menacing than she had imagined. Ellen only wished the same could be said of Spurs, who got more bewitching by the second.
Ten minutes later, he laughed at her. ‘You have to eat them!’
‘I can’t.’ She dropped another strawberry into her punnet.
‘You can.’ He held out a plump red heart, tracing it tantalisingly across her lips before burying it in his own mouth, drawing it in with those white teeth.
And she did steal strawberries, unable to resist his lures or the moreish taste of the red fruit.
