I kissed one of his now-floppy ears, running my nose up the fine, soft hair, brushing my eyelashes with the tip of his ear. Everything about working on this remote farm was helping me heal, but if there was one thing, one person, responsible for bringing me back to life, it was Stumpy. (He was definitely a person. Far more a person than many humans I could think of.)
I’d discovered quickly that Stumpy was like a mirror to my often-turbulent mental state. If I was upset, Stumpy knew. He would stand quietly while I leaned, exhausted, on his shoulder the morning after one of my still-frequent nightmares, or he’d blow on my neck when I got upset about lying to my family all the time. If I flinched when my phone went off, or stared fearfully at cars coming down the driveway, he would stiffen or turn away, signalling clearly that he found my anxiety unpleasant. Whatever was going on with me, the horse knew and, however bad it was, got me back on track.
He was a miracle. I still had a long journey ahead of me but with Stumpy at my side I felt certain that I’d be my best self again one day.
‘Look what you’ve done to me!’ I said, and kissed his nose again. ‘Look! It’s pathetic! I’m the lovelorn moron over here!’
‘He has the same effect on me,’ said a man’s voice. Mark gave Stumpy a Polo and patted his neck, then caved in and kissed his nose too, even though I was watching. He blushed as he did it, but couldn’t stop himself. ‘You’ve really fallen for him, haven’t you?’ he said, not quite looking me in the eye.
‘How could I not? He’s the most adorable horse in the world.’
Stumpy reached up and rested his muzzle on Mark’s head, even though it was six feet off the ground and made the horse visibly uncomfortable. ‘Get off, idiot.’ Mark grinned.
He turned and looked straight at me, with the lopsided expression I was coming to recognize as a smile. ‘You come out here every morning,’ he said. ‘Stumpy’s always waiting for you. Sometimes you go for a walk first but you always come and see him. Every day, before the rest of us are up. You always seem so happy.’
How had he seen me? (And why was he watching?)
‘My room looks over the yard,’ he explained, almost kindly, as if to spare me discomfort.
‘Oh, I see.’ I concentrated on getting fine pieces of bedding out of Stumpy’s mane. ‘He makes for a good start to the day, don’t you think, boss?’
Everything I felt about Mark was confused. In many ways, he was exactly as Becca had said – cold, monosyllabic, completely disengaged from the lives of his team. And yet I’d catch him, sometimes – he caught me too: we seemed to have an odd habit of coming across each other during a soppy moment with Stumpy – betraying a softness that I found incredibly touching.
‘So,’ Mark said, ‘how do you think it’s all going? Your month’s trial is up today.’
‘Oh.’ Shit, I’d forgotten. What if he thought I wasn’t up to scratch? What would I do then?
‘I’ve had the best four weeks of my life,’ I said simply. I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving; trying to sound detached and professional would be a waste of time. ‘I love the work, I love the craic, I love the horses and I love watching you ride. Watching how you are with the horses – I didn’t know competition riders were so sweet with them, I …’
I trailed off and chanced a look at him. To my amazement, just as my eyes met his, he smiled properly. A big, beautiful smile that creased the skin around his eyes like tracing paper. ‘Er, thanks. Although I thought we’d agreed. No blowing smoke up my arse.’
I tried to ignore the strange lightness in my stomach. ‘Sorry. No flattery. I think you’re a terrible rider.’
Mark actually chuckled. ‘You’re doing a great job,’ he said. ‘I’d be delighted to keep you. In fact, even though it’d be peanuts, I’d like to offer you a tiny salary. You’re not keeping a horse here, after all.’
He rubbed Stumpy’s velvet muzzle. ‘Unless you want to bring your horse,’ he said casually. ‘We could do that instead, if you wanted?’
‘No, no!’ I said quickly. ‘And there’s no need to pay me either. I’m happy. Your mum feeds us beautifully and I enjoy the work.’
‘Well, that’s nice to hear, Kate, but I still want to pay you.’
‘No!’ It came out far too loudly. ‘Sorry, I mean, no, thanks, you’re all right. Keep your money for the eventing season, boss. You’re bound to need it.’
‘Are you turning down money?’
‘I am. Money’s not an issue for me. I had a great job in Dublin.’
‘Could we pay you in another way? Do you want some lessons, maybe? I never see you exercising the horses …’
‘No, really! I’m fine! I enjoy my shit-shovelling more than you’d know!’
Mark was looking more and more suspicious. ‘Some time off? I could get you a ticket back to Dublin to see your family.’
‘Ah, no, I can speak to them on Skype.’
‘Kate,’ Mark said carefully, ‘you’re being quite weird. I want to pay you. Please tell me how.’
I racked my brains. What could I ask for to keep him quiet? How could I explain to him that just by having me here he was saving my skin?
‘A competition!’ I cried. ‘Let me come to a competition some time. I’d love that! Badminton, maybe – that’d be a dream come true!’ Badminton was not far off, and I knew there was no way on earth I’d be allowed to go under normal circumstances. On the rare occasions that Mark needed anyone other than Tiggy he took Becca. ‘I don’t want to put you on the spot,’ I added hastily. ‘I know you need your best people at Badminton. So Belton Park would be fine if that’s better.’
‘Badminton it is,’ Mark said, without turning a hair. ‘You’ve got to learn somewhere. And it’s a cracking place to start. Absolutely bonkers, about as old-school as it gets. Bowler hats, shooting sticks, mad old women in pearls. I’m only taking two horses so it’s not like Tigs’ll be overwhelmed.’
‘Are you sure?’
He shrugged. ‘Why not?’
‘But what about Becca?’
‘Like I said, I’m taking two horses,’ he repeated patiently, ‘And Becca comes to events when I’m running four or more.’ He scowled. ‘Although if Maria has her way I’ll be competing all five of her dad’s bloody horses.’
I shifted from one foot to the other, unsure whether to join in. ‘You don’t want to compete them all?’
‘No! Apart from the fact that it’s against the rules, it’d be impossible. I’d die.’ He did a hand gesture that meant ‘enough of that’. ‘So, do you want to come?’
‘Um, yes!’ I said, delighted. ‘Thank you so much, Mark. How exciting!’ I turned to Stumpy, who was nibbling a piece of hay stuck to my shoulder. ‘I’m going to come and see you at Badminton!’ I told him. ‘I’m going to see you jump the biggest and scariest jumps in the whole world, little Stumpman!’
I heard Mark chuckle again, and before I knew it I’d joined in. ‘Your man thinks we’re total eejits.’ I gestured at Stumpy.
‘Rubbish. He thinks we’re great.’
We. My head was getting noisy. I needed to end this conversation. ‘Well, thanks again,’ I said. ‘I’d better let you get on with your day.’
‘Okay,’ Mark said. He, too, began to withdraw, to dismantle the flimsy bond that had sprung up between us. ‘So that’s sorted. You’re staying on. Excellent news. I’ll get Mum to put you up on the website as a permanent member of staff.’
‘NO!’ Stumpy jumped, his ears swinging back. ‘Please don’t do that! I’m like you. Not in it for the fame …’
‘Oh,’ Mark said, after a bemused pause. ‘You really are odd,’ he added, with another of those big smiles. ‘Refusing to let us pay you, telling me my horse’s show name sounds like a big fart, roaming around my fields at six in the morning. Are you on drugs?’
Mark had never made a joke with me before. It was so nice to see him smile.
‘All of the drugs.’
‘Great.’ He chuckled. ‘We’ll have some drinks later t
o welcome you formally to the team, and you can share your drugs then.’
‘That’d be lovely.’ I beamed. ‘They’re great.’
‘I’m glad you like them all. Joe’s not been too much, has he?’
Last night Joe had burst into my room at eleven o’clock, shouting, ‘GALWAY! ME LOINS ARE ON FIRE! I CAN’T TAKE ANY MORE! WILL YOU PLEASE SHOW THIS MAN SOME MERCY AND GIVE HIM A RIDE?’
Becca had thrown a satsuma at him from her doorway and roared that she’d kill him. He’d roared back that she was a jealous old lesbian and I’d sat in bed, crying with laughter, amazed at how well I was fitting in.
‘No, Joe’s okay,’ I said, smiling fondly.
Mark was watching my face. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘Oh, Jesus, no, I’m not after Joe!’
There was a long pause, during which we both self-consciously reached out to stroke Stumpy, who was getting bored of us talking outside his door. Then Mark turned on the heel of his riding boot and marched off. ‘You should probably get them fed,’ he called.
I watched him go, and thought, I don’t want you to think I fancy Joe.
And then: This is worrying.
I didn’t get a chance to tell Becca I’d passed my trial until much later on, when we were washing down Jolene and tacking up Harold respectively. Harold was in a very bad mood and kept trying to bite Becca’s bottom.
‘Bugger off,’ she told him, swiping at his snapping teeth. Harold responded with redoubled attempts, and Becca had to move away. ‘What’s wrong with you, pet?’ she asked him, hands on hips. ‘Have you been possessed?’
‘Mark said he’s going to get the chiropractor out,’ I told her. ‘He’s worried Harold’s got something wrong with his back.’
Becca stroked the horse until he stopped biting.
‘I have news!’ I whispered.
‘What’s that, pet?’
‘I passed my trial! I’m staying!’
Becca swung away from Harold. ‘Kate!’ she cried, jumping over and hugging me. Becca didn’t do much physical contact. I was touched. ‘That’s fantastic news, pet!’ I smiled happily, thanking myself once again for running away to Somerset. ‘So you’ll be staying? Indefinitely?’
‘Yes!’ I scraped the water off Jolene’s quarters, keen to have her rugged up before she got cold. ‘Your man said he thought I was doing a grand job and even offered to pay me! He’s going to take me to Badminton and we’re to have some drinks tonight to celebrate.’
‘Really?’ Becca paused.
‘Yeah!’
‘He’s taking you to Badminton? And throwing you a drinks party?’
‘I know! Madness!’
Becca went back to Harold’s saddle. ‘I see,’ she said. Something about her tone made me turn. There was a lovely ease and fluidity in Becca’s movement normally, but suddenly she was hunched and pinchy. Harold turned to bite her again, and this time she slapped him hard on the shoulder. ‘STOP IT.’
Harold turned away sulkily and Becca called over to Joe, who was approaching. ‘I’ve put Harold’s road studs in,’ she said to him. ‘He’s all yours.’ And before Joe had a chance to thank her, or I had a chance to get a proper look at her face, she’d gone.
One of the many things I’d had to look up recently was the World Class squad that kept being mentioned. I’d learned it was a programme to support the horse/rider combinations that made up Team GBR – ‘Lots of coaching and horse medicine and support,’ Becca had explained, ‘that’d cost them a fuckin’ packet otherwise.’ Mark had been in the programme for five years with a succession of fantastic horses (all owned by Maria’s father) and was now in it with Stumpy: he was planning to take him to the World Equestrian Games later this year.
From time to time the coach, a man called Pierre, would visit the yard to train Mark, and Caroline Lexington-Morley would come over to join in.
Today they were show-jumping in the outdoor school.
It had turned into a warm spring day and the sheep in the field next door were standing in the sun, comically stupefied, as Mark and Caroline cantered around. Clouds scudded lightly overhead and pigeons called lazily to each other from the beech copse. It should have been a perfect afternoon, really, except Becca had sunk into a dark mood and had barely spoken at lunchtime.
Caroline was flirting openly with Mark. I found myself taking more notice of this than I’d have liked.
‘It’s none of my business,’ I said to Joe, who was leaning on the post-and-rail fence, watching the session with great interest, ‘but isn’t Caroline married?’
Joe smiled. ‘Of course, darlin’,’ he said. ‘But that seldom stops anyone in this business.’ He turned back to watch Mark, who was sailing down a hefty line of jumps with perfect timing and balance. I knew now that the rows were called combinations and that it was bloody tricky to do them well. Mark and Stumpy, though, calm as clouds, made it look easy.
‘Beautiful,’ Joe said. ‘Absolutely beautiful.’
Caroline – noisily confident with her pink lipstick and expensive leather-palmed gloves – shouted, ‘God, Waverley! Can’t you be shit for even a minute, sweetheart?’
Mark set off and did the combination again. ‘Gorgeous,’ Caroline yelled.
Leave him alone, I heard myself think.
That sort of thought has to be banned immediately, I told myself, staring determinedly at Stumpy and ignoring Mark. Twists of alarm were beginning to spiral up my abdomen.
Stumpy was making a strange noise as he trotted, a sort of deep, hollow squeaking. ‘What’s that sound?’ I asked Joe, just as Mark pulled up next to the fence we were leaning on.
But Joe had already gone.
‘What sound?’ Mark asked.
‘Oh. Um … The noise your man makes when he’s trotting.’
‘Air in his sheath,’ Mark said, turning to watch Caroline take her turn.
‘Sheath?’
Mark turned back to me, a definite smile in his eyes. ‘The thing that hangs down between his back legs, protecting his penis.’
I stared at Stumpy’s neck. I daren’t look at his sheath. Or Mark’s sheath. Crotch. Face. Anything.
Help.
‘Oh,’ I said flatly. ‘Air. Right.’
‘Yup.’
I tried not to laugh, I really did, but it was futile. Stumpy had a shouty crotch! You couldn’t make it up! A loud peal of laughter rolled out of me, in spite of my best efforts to stop it, followed immediately by a similar one from Mark. Stumpy gazed at me like I was really strange, which just made me laugh even harder. We laughed until I was actually crying, and didn’t stop until Ana Luisa marched up and shoved a posy of weeds through the fence towards her dad, who stopped laughing long enough to thank her profusely and instruct me to put them in a special vase.
‘Why are you laughing?’ she asked impatiently, and I had to leave because I couldn’t answer.
I took the posy and put it into an old jam jar on top of one of the many rickety chests of drawers that lined the walls of the tack room. And even when Maria stormed in, looking for Mark, and snapped that I wasn’t there to sit around doing nothing, the smile didn’t leave my face.
The woman watches her daughter press one of the daisy chains up to her nose. Her face is scrunched with comic puzzlement.
‘Why are daisies so stinky, Mum,’ she asks eventually, ‘when they look so pretty?’
‘That’s just how Nature made them.’ Her mother smiles. ‘The daisies probably think we smell weird, too.’
Her daughter giggles. She’s so beautiful, the mother thinks. So milky pale and pretty, with those huge blue eyes and little pixie ears, the softness in her features that is born entirely of her rare trust in all people. She makes friends wherever she goes, this girl, marches up to strangers on those slim little legs and tells them her name without any of the haughty self-consciousness that cripples her elder sister. Sometimes she’ll shake their hands or even say, ‘You can kiss my cheek, if you like.’ She is a delight. A f
ree spirit, just like her mother, they say in the village.
‘Here,’ the woman says. ‘Put some more sun cream on. The sun’s baking us like potatoes.’
The girl continues with her daisy chains. ‘You do it,’ she demands. ‘It’s my birthday.’ She flashes a quick smile at her mother to check it’s been received in the spirit it was meant, and is pleased to see that her mum is chuckling.
‘Cheeky,’ Mum says. She starts with the child’s slender little arms, moving the straps of her white cotton dress so she can cover her shoulders.
Without warning her daughter twists round and kisses her mother’s nose. ‘I love you, Mummy,’ she says, and the woman thinks, If I died today, I would die so perfectly happy.
She decides she’ll talk to Bert later about this Africa trip. Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe she should just let their beautiful little family breathe for a while. Does she not have everything she could possibly want, right here? Does she not know happiness that transcends every mountain daybreak, every remote beach, every huge sky she saw travelling the world? She knows Bert will do anything she asks, but she knows, too, that his heart isn’t fully in the plan. She feels an almost indecent swell of love for the quiet, generous man she married, with his open face and his hopeless love for her, his long, spidery fingers and his gentle voice. He’s starting his novel today. She was so proud this morning that she had to leave his little study so that he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes.
‘Right,’ her daughter says, hanging the final daisy chain carefully around her neck. ‘Let’s play hide and seek.’
Her mother assents, rubbing the last splodge of sun cream into the back of her little girl’s neck.
It’s the last thing she will ever do for her.
‘You hide first,’ she says, and her child goes sprinting off across the field, shouting, ‘CLOSE YOUR EYES AND COUNT TO TEN! NO, TWENTY! NO, THIRTY! COUNT TO ONE ZILLION BILLION THOUSAND MILLION!’
For the rest of her life she will wish that she had turned round to shout those things directly at her mother, rather than into the rippling shelves of hot air that hover over the field. She will wish that she had seen what she knew to be behind her: her mother sitting in that carpet of daisies at Woodford Farm, her hands over her eyes and laughter spilling out of her.
The Day We Disappeared Page 9
