The hall is quiet.
I make a coffee first, because I know that today I’m going to need maximum caffeine. I forgot to charge my phone after last night’s middle-of-the-night conversation with Anna, so I leave it charging while I sit at the table listening to the hum of the lights and I eat my toast. I even clear up the crumbs and put my plate in the sink.
My black jodhpurs are in the tumble dryer, and I pull them out in a tangle of school tights and Leah’s tennis stuff, extracting them with a crackle of static. I put them on, then put on my favourite black T-shirt and hoody. I loop my hair back in a ponytail and stick my beanie on top.
I pack my stuff and shove it down into my rucksack. I don’t feel hungry now but I stick a packet of Penguin biscuits in just in case I do later. My head is buzzing with plans already and I feel weirdly lightheaded with excitement. I want it to be the afternoon, but I’ve got lots to do first.
Going up to yard – back before lunch.
I scribble a note on the back of one of the envelopes that’s piled on the kitchen dresser and shove it on the table for Mum to see when she gets up.
I pull the front door closed behind me.
As I get on my bike, I realize the sky is the strangest, brightest red I’ve ever seen. It rises like a weird bank of crimson behind the houses opposite, tinting the world pink. It’s beautiful but strangely eerie. I’m glad when I hear the whirring and clinking of the milk float as it turns into our street. The milkman waves an arm at the sky as he jumps out from the cab.
‘Morning, love. Shepherd’s warning, eh?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Mabel takes a step backwards, the metal of her shoes scraping on the ancient cobbles of her stable floor. I pull the door towards me, and slip inside, bolting it behind me. I bury my hands underneath her mane and place my cheek against the solid warmth of her neck, soaking up the sweetness of her scent. She feels like home. And the house doesn’t feel like that any more, so coming here makes me feel like I belong to something.
I take the soft brush and slip my hand through the strap that holds it in place, and I start grooming her in the quietness of the empty morning. I want her to look her absolute best. I spray her mane and tail with detangler and comb them through until they are silkily perfect. I clean her hooves and apply shiny black hoof oil to each one so they glisten.
By the time I’m finished, she’s immaculate and I’m soaked with sweat, strands of my hair plastered to my forehead and my hoody thrown to one side of the stable. I slip a day rug over Mabel in case she decides to do her usual trick of lying down in something disgusting when she’s left to her own devices, and tie her up a net of hay to eat. She’s not impressed. She wants out, but that will have to wait.
Beth, Polly’s weekend cover, is mucking out the stables in the barn. I give her a wave as I fill a bucket of water for Mabel and haul it back over to her box.
The yard is coming to life now, the weekend riders arriving in their cars. During the week it’s quiet most of the time, but when the weekends come this place becomes a hubbub with the radio playing and the jumping ponies being taken off to local competitions. I don’t do any of that stuff because competing makes me feel sick with nerves, but I like watching. Sometimes I go along and help out. Freezing-cold fingers in huge, echoey indoor arenas, and the excitement of the jump-offs, and the bad burgers and the coffee in Styrofoam cups – it’s amazing to be part of it but only on the sidelines. I like my horse stuff here at home. That’s enough for me.
‘All right, Grace? You riding today?’ Beth pops a head through the door when she sees me sitting.
I’ve put the kettle on for coffee. I’m cleaning Mabel’s bridle because I want it to look perfect for later, rubbing saddle soap in and shining the buckles and the metal of her bit. I’ve got her saddle balanced across my knees, ready to be done next.
‘Later. I’m keeping her in this morning, though.’
Beth raises her eyebrows. ‘You sure?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, fastening the reins back together.
I know what Mabel’s like when the wind is blowing, but I like it. She’s like a kite on legs, darting and skipping unpredictably. But I can read her mind, and we fly together.
I go back to her stable, and she spins on her heels as she hears me approach and arches her head out of the stable door, nostrils flaring with excitement. Is it time? she asks me, her ears pricked forward, questing.
‘Not yet, beautiful,’ I tell her, placing a hand on her neck. ‘Soon.’
She harrumphs a snort of disgust and turns back to her haynet.
I get back on my bike to go home – via Gabe’s house.
I leave my bike balanced on the hedge outside and creep through the gate, holding my breath. There’s a second where the metal hinges seem as if they’re about to squeal in protest, but I manage to edge through, sideways, so they quiet down again and I tiptoe up the path. I don’t want to be caught in the act.
I bend down and a fluffy white cat appears out of nowhere and swirls its tail around my nose. I open the letter box and carefully, silently, post the envelope through the door.
Later, when Gabe gets up, he’ll find a retro Doctor Who DVD from me, and Marek will discover that I’ve found him a little blue TARDIS key ring of his own. I run on tiptoes down the path and back to the bike and cycle away, crossing my fingers that they haven’t spotted me.
It’s weird the way it feels when I’m excited about something. It’s like I’m whirring with energy that comes from nowhere. The lights are brighter and sparklier, the world seems sharper. I’m cycling, but it feels like no effort at all, and even the little hill that sometimes wears me out feels like nothing. My legs are full of power. Today I feel like I could do anything, be anyone. I’m flying like Mabel. We’re connected. Today is going to be a good day. The stars have aligned.
‘Hello, darling,’ says Mum, opening the door as I clatter on to the front steps, leaving my bike lying across them, the wheel still spinning. ‘You can’t leave that there.’
‘I’m just going back out once I’ve had a shower and something to eat,’ I explain, darting past her.
‘Not with that lying there,’ she says, catching my arm and pulling me back, half laughing as she does so, and pushing me from behind out on to the step. ‘At least put it round the side. If you break the postie’s ankles, I’ll be the one getting sued.’
‘Fair enough,’ I say, and wheel it round the side.
Inside, the house smells of freshly baked something. Leah’s in the kitchen with oven gloves on, doing crocodile impressions to an unamused Withnail, whose tail is twitching in irritation. There’s no sign of Eve. This pleases me. My mood is good and I don’t want the sight of her face ruining it.
‘I made pain au chocolat,’ says Leah, waving her still-gloved hands with a flourish at the kitchen worktop. ‘Well, I assembled them from a can, but you know what I mean.’
‘Ooh, yum.’ I reach forward to get one but she smacks my hand away.
‘Too hot. Hands off the merchandise.’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Don’t eat them all before I get out of the shower.’
‘What are you up to today?’ Leah says, and her voice is weirdly loud, as if she wants to be overheard.
I frown at her. ‘Nothing much.’ I don’t want to tell anyone my idea. If I do, it might break the spell.
‘Right,’ says Leah, still in the same foghorn voice. ‘I’m going out with Malia later.’
‘Not Megan?’
‘No, I’m having a sleepover at Malia’s house.’
‘Why are you yelling?’
‘I was just going to ask the same question,’ says Mum, coming into the room and picking up a pain au chocolat and biting into it before Leah can protest. ‘So you’re having a sleepover at Malia’s?’
‘Yep.’ Leah nods.
‘I’ll give you a lift over.’ Mum’s talking through a mouthful of burning hot pastry so her voice is all muffled. ‘I’m going out to the cinema wit
h Eve.’
Leah shoots me a one-second glance. ‘’S fine,’ she says, wiping the worktop with a cloth. ‘Malia’s mum said she’d collect me on the way back from the shops later. Save you the worry.’
Mum swallows and gives Leah a smile. ‘You are an angel.’
I run upstairs two at a time. Some days feel like they should have a soundtrack. I’m humming as I turn on the shower and head for the bedroom to get my stuff.
‘Grace, will you NOT leave the shower running when you’re not in it,’ I hear the voice of doom yelling from the hall.
‘Sorry,’ I shout back.
I’m not really sorry. I like the bathroom when it’s all full of steam and smoggy and thick so you go in and it’s like being in the jungle. I hate getting in when it’s cold and you freeze for ages before our not-working-properly boiler finally deigns to let you have some hot water.
I stand under the hot needles of the shower for ages, letting them burn into my scalp, washing and conditioning my hair and scrubbing my face until it feels squeaky smooth.
I emerge as Grace 2.0, the shiny, perfect edition.
I’m putting on make-up, but not too much because if I put on loads there will be ‘where are you going?’ comments, and I don’t want comments. Or questions. So I paint on some eyeliner, and when my wings are perfect first time, I give up a little prayer of thanks to the gods of make-up. When your eyeliner goes right, you just know you’re going to have a good day.
I smooth some defuzzing stuff through my hair (which is pointless because it’s going to be under a hat and also because, let’s face it, fuzz is what my hair does best, and even industrial-strength defuzzer is no match for it) and put on some red-tinted lip-balm stuff.
I’m not going to wear jodhpurs. I put on my black jeans and my Doctor Who T-shirt and my black fuzzy cardigan. When I go downstairs, I wait until there’s nobody in the kitchen and shove a box of matches and as much food as I can manage into my rucksack. I sneak into the garage and stuff the chocolate and marshmallows and biscuits into my bag too. It feels a bit like I’m on a Famous Five adventure.
I’m ready.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It’s like riding a coiled spring. We skitter sideways out of the yard and Beth, closing the gate to the outdoor school, raises her eyebrows again.
‘She’s going to be full of it in this weather,’ she warns. I grin and wave a hand in acknowledgement and we surge forward. Mabel is bursting to gallop and leap and soar and fly, but we clatter on to the tarmac in a barely contained walk. Her shoes tap out her irritation in staccato bursts.
‘Almost there,’ I tell her. We can ride down the shore road and along the beach path to town, and she can stretch her legs on the footpath there.
It’s harder than I thought it would be, riding in jeans. The stirrup leathers pinch at the insides of my legs where the jodhpurs have protective padding, and my cardigan’s flapping in the wind, which hasn’t eased up. The rucksack is banging on my back and heavy on my shoulders. I sort of wish I’d brought a coat or something to keep me warm, but I want to look nice. Not weird. And it’s going to be amazing. Nobody else there will have a horse. Holly Carmichael doesn’t have a horse.
We pass the Spar and wait at the traffic lights, Mabel pawing the ground impatiently as we stand with a little yellow Volkswagen Beetle waiting for the lights to change. She’s good in traffic, but in this mood she wants to go and go and go, and red lights aren’t part of her plans.
‘Look, Mummy, a unicorn,’ says a little girl in a pushchair, pointing as she crosses in front of us.
‘No, it’s just a horse, sweetie,’ says her mum, and I glare at her for breaking the spell. She’s not just a horse. She’s magic and fire and she could be a unicorn if she wanted to. I give the little girl a smile and hope that she can read my mind. The lights switch to green and Mabel soars forward into trot. We make our way past the squat little bungalows that line the shore road, and cross over on to the beach path. The grass is bleached grey-blue with sunlight and sea wind and the tide is far, far out, miles from the shore. In the distance where the sea touches the sky, dark towers of clouds are bunched together. The salt marsh that stretches out towards the sea looks empty, but, as we pass, a flock of birds wheels up into the sky, their wings beating as one, the air stirring in a whoosh around them.
I can’t let the reins loose and let Mabel go, because the path is dotted with dog walkers. I’d forgotten they’d be everywhere. It’s why we don’t ride down on the beach – that and the broken glass, which lurks, waiting to bite, in hummocks of grass. So I keep the reins tight and Mabel tosses her head up and down in irritation, the metal of her bit jangling, her nostrils fire red.
I’d check my phone, but I feel safer with both hands on the reins when she’s in this mood. My excitement of earlier is being engulfed by a gnawing sense that I’m making a mistake, but it’s too late to do anything about it. I keep going as Mabel’s frustration rises. We dance past dog walkers and joggers until the wooden climbing frame of the shore park can be seen on the left, behind the wall where the go-karts circle round and round all summer.
I almost want to get off and lead her across the road, but I don’t. I don’t want to chicken out. This is the moment I’ve planned. I try to take a deep breath, but I feel like my lungs are made of lead.
‘Mabel!’
And it’s worth it then, because when we clatter along the path and Anna sees us she looks so impressed and proud and delighted that I’m glad I’ve done it.
‘Whoa,’ says Archie, and he carefully places his scooter down on the ground so it doesn’t make a noise. I am grateful for this because Mabel is virtually vibrating with excitement, and emitting small, brisk snorts. ‘You’ve got an actual horse.’
And everyone crowds round, Jacob and Tom and Jamie and Archie, and then there’s Gabe, and his cousin Marek with wide eyes, and Gabe looks up at me with his sparkly brown eyes and I think he’s impressed. And even though I know I shouldn’t be pleased he’s impressed, I still feel pleased. And a lot like this must be how it feels to be Holly Carmichael and be the centre of attention when you walk into a room and everyone looks at you.
Plus I’m quite high up so everyone’s looking up at me and circling Mabel, and I sort of feel like one of those statues you see in the middle of London, except my horse isn’t standing still in a noble and obedient manner.
‘OW,’ says Archie. ‘She’s on my bloody foot. Grace?’
I ease Mabel sideways so she steps off and I slide out of the saddle, running up the stirrups automatically.
‘She’s amazing,’ says Jacob. ‘I can’t believe you’ve got an actual horse as a pet.’
‘She’s not exactly a pet,’ I begin, and I realize Gabe is laughing at Jacob and looking at me and I feel like I’ve discovered the secret to life. I knew when I figured out that the boys only took their scooters and stuff to the park so they had something to do with themselves that there had to be an equivalent. I’d just have to take Mabel everywhere I go. She might find it a bit of a squash fitting into seats at the cinema, but I could work something out. It was worth it to feel like this.
‘She’s really soft,’ says Marek, running a cautious hand down her neck. I’m glad I spent so long grooming her this morning. ‘And thank you for my gift.’
He smiles at me and I smile back. And Gabe does a thing where his eyebrows sort of crinkle up his forehead and he smiles too and says, ‘Yeah, that was a nice surprise. Thank you.’ And he looks pleased, and I feel like today is officially Going Very Well.
‘I can’t believe you’ve taken her here,’ says Anna, in a low voice. ‘Your mum would literally explode if she knew.’
‘She doesn’t need to know, does she?’ I reply. ‘Anyway, she’s too busy with her new best friend.’
‘Mabel jerks my arm up, nudging me impatiently. She drags me across the path to the grass that tufts up beside the swings.
‘Do you think you should have a horse in here, young lady?’
says an old man with a walking stick. He settles down on the bench nearby. ‘She looks like a bit of a wild one.’
Mabel pulls her head up at that, with a piece of grass hanging out of the side of her mouth like a farmer. She looks into the far distance as if she can see something we can’t, and lets out a shrill whinny. It sounds weirdly out of place in amongst all the tarmac and metal of the park.
‘Is she OK?’ says Anna, looking at me, anxiously. ‘She looks a bit—’
‘She’s fine,’ I say, closing her down. Although I’m not sure she is, and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now the initial excitement has passed. Archie’s picked up his scooter and is spinning one of the wheels with a finger. Gabe’s standing nearby. I notice that the collar on his plaid shirt is sticking up at one side and I wonder what it would feel like to reach across and fix it. And then I feel myself going weirdly fizzy inside when I realize that not very long ago I had my hand inside that same shirt and I could feel the muscles on his back underneath his T-shirt. It feels like something that happened to someone else. But he sent me a message and asked if I was going to be here, and I am here.
‘Anyone fancy going down the arcade to get a hot dog?’ Tom, who has been looking slightly edgy, shoves his phone back in his pocket. I don’t think he likes horses. In fact, I think he’s a bit nervous. Mabel stamps her foot, kicking at an irritation on her stomach. I don’t want things to change, but they are. It’s like someone’s blurred a picture with a filter.
‘What’s she doing?’ Tom steps back a bit further. I can see alarm on his face, his mouth set in a flat line. ‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s fine.’ I say. ‘Anna, did you bring the stuff?’
‘It’s here.’ She picks up a big Sainsbury’s bag.
‘You don’t need hot dogs,’ Anna explains to Tom. ‘We’ve got stuff for a beach barbecue.’
The State of Grace Page 15
