Taking Flight

by Sheena Wilkinson

  ‘I won’t have time later. If I can’t get in to do it in the next five minutes you can do it yourself.’ Grumpy old git.

  ‘That’s not what my father pays full livery for,’ I said. Jim looked at me with his mouth open and my cheeks burned. Where had that come from? That’s the sort of thing I thought from time to time, but never actually said. And I’d never have said it to Cam.

  It was probably lucky that I looked up to see Mum’s car pulling into the yard.

  She had her usual panic about getting the box hitched up. ‘I can never remember what goes where,’ she admitted when Cam, thank goodness, took pity on us. The back of the car was packed with Flight’s stuff – gleaming tack, sweat rug, boots – and my show jacket, white jodhpurs and stuff like that. I was paranoid about forgetting something. Declan would just have to fit in round it as best he could.

  I’d only had Flight in the box a few times, and he’d loaded OK, but of course today was the day he decided to make a fuss. And Cam was late for a private lesson so she had to leave us to it. We tried everything – a bucket of feed, a lunge whip – but he just kept pulling back and digging his feet in.

  Mum stood around looking nervous.

  ‘Mum, could you help?’ I begged. ‘I’m going to try a rope round his backside.’

  She drew back. ‘Vicky, you know I’m not very –’

  Declan stepped forward. ‘I will.’

  Well, I didn’t have much choice. I showed Declan what to do and whether our teamwork defeated Flight or whether he just got bored fighting, he gave in and sauntered up the ramp.

  ‘Brilliant!’ I said. Declan grinned at me. It was the first time I’d seen him smile.

  It was already half twelve and then we lost another five minutes before we even got to the end of the road, as Cam’s neighbour Stanley’s cows had got out and were mooing and crapping all over the road. Even from the front seat I could hear poor Flight neighing in alarm.

  Mossbrook was an hour away, cross-country round all the wee twisty roads. If I’d been with Dad or Fiona as usual we’d have chatted the whole way about who might be there and how Flight might jump and what the course might be like, but obviously I couldn’t do that with Mum.

  Apart from that it was only about the third time she’d pulled the box. Her fingers looked tight on the wheel and her mouth was tight too, with concentration I supposed. She is doing this for you, I reminded myself. There must be a million things she would rather do on a Saturday. I wanted to turn and tell her how much I appreciated it, but I couldn’t, not with him there behind me.

  Mum was driving the car like a hearse. The wipers swished like they had all day – but we hadn’t!

  ‘Mum, we need to get there today,’ I pointed out. ‘You’re only doing forty five.’ So much for being grateful. I knew I sounded like a brat. But the team would be waiting for me. And I was so scared about letting them down, letting Flight down. I imagined having to phone Dad in Paris and tell him we’d had three refusals or forgotten the course or demolished everything. I could imagine him reminding me that Flight had cost four thousand pounds. I shivered. Was I really ready for this?

  Chapter 9

  DECLAN

  The car park is packed with lorries and trailers. Horses in bright, fleecy rugs are backed down ramps, snobby girls – and a few boys – with loud voices and shiny boots run round with saddles and stuff and over it all there’s the noise of hooves and shouts and shrill neighs. It’s like the Grand National or something. Colette backs away when two huge horses nearly go over the top of us, but I’m not scared. There’s too much to see. Colette dashes off to find Vicky’s teacher. Vicky hauls Flight out of the trailer and ties him up.

  He looks round with goggling eyes and screeches at the other horses.

  ‘Quit it!’ yells Vicky. ‘Look, can you hold him while I tack up?’

  She thrusts a rope into my hand. She says it like I’m her slave, but I take the rope. Flight pulls a bit; I have to hold on really tight. Not one of the horses milling round is a patch on him. I stroke his neck while Vicky tries to fasten these boot-like things round his legs. His skin is warm, darkening in the rain. He paws the tarmac and Vicky hits him a slap that makes him poke his nose into the air and lay his ears flat against his head. I wonder if he likes Vicky. Do horses like people?

  She doesn’t say a word to me, not even thank you. She just grabs the reins and springs up. Flight prances off before she has her other foot in the stirrup and she swears and then kicks him into what I think is a trot.

  I don’t want to follow her but I don’t know what else to do so I lock the car and mooch along behind her. She’s riding round a big sandy field like the one at Cam’s. I lean on the fence. There are about six horses in it already and they’re all flying round really fast and jumping two big fences. Flight pounds up to the first fence and stops dead. Vicky goes up his neck, hauls him round and gives him three ringing whacks on the arse. I don’t want Vicky to think I’m interested enough to watch her but what else do you do at a horse show? A big black horse with hairy legs trots past, nostrils flaring red. A boy’s riding him. They leap the fences like they could clear a house and the boy hardly moves in the saddle.

  ‘Hey.’ I turn to see Colette. ‘I’ve got her number. Mrs Wainwright says she can jump last. She’s too late to walk the course but she can watch the others.’

  None of this means anything to me so I just go, ‘Oh, right.’ Flight’s jumping now but he and Vicky still don’t look the way they did at Cam’s on Wednesday. Vicky pulls up beside us. Flight is sweaty and I can feel his hot breath on my cheek.

  Next minute we’re surrounded by three girls on gorgeous horses. Like Vicky, they’re all dolled up in black jackets. A posh, wrinkly teacher joins them. ‘Vicky, we’re the next team to go,’ she says. ‘Mansfield have just started. Come in and watch them; you need to learn the course. And hurry up.’ I try to imagine Payne or Sykes spending their Saturdays with their pupils and I can’t. Dermott, though – he would. Not that our school would have a showjumping team. Maybe a joyriding one. They all ignore me and as they ride off together I hear the tallest girl, whose horse is pure white, say to Vicky, ‘That your boyfriend?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  Colette and I follow them into this huge barn thing. Half of it is taken up by a ring full of coloured jumps like something off the Olympics. There’s sandy, sawdusty stuff on the floor, a smell of horse shit and the pounding thump of hooves as a brown horse flies round the jumps. Someone opens the gate and the horse storms out past us, making Colette shrink back. Its nostrils are red and it’s huffing like a dragon.

  ‘And that was a lovely clear round for Jamie Spence on Bumblebee,’ says the commentator. It’s like I’ve stumbled into a different world. It’s weird but I like it: the noises and the smells and the amazing speed and power of what’s happening in the ring.

  Vicky leans on the ringside fence, her legs massive in tight white trouser things, muttering, ‘Upright, rustic, down the middle for the double, number 4, number 5, that’s a tight turn.’ She doesn’t even notice us. Her teacher holds Flight, rubbing his pink nose.

  ‘You want a cup of tea, Declan?’ says Colette. ‘Vicky’ll be on soon.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ I don’t want to leave the horses, but I’m freezing. ‘Will I keep our places here?’

  ‘Good idea.’ She smiles at me. ‘Plenty of milk, no sugar?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  A week ago she wouldn’t have known that’s how I like my tea. Probably in another week I’ll be back home and she’ll have forgotten.

  ‘And last to jump for Mansfield Grammar is Patrick Scott on Dan.’

  It’s the black horse. He trots past me, quiet, ears pricked. Next to Flight he’s my favourite. I like his shaggy legs. He looks like a carthorse until he gets going and then he looks magic. Patrick Scott hardly moves in the saddle even though Dan is flying round at a gallop and clearing every jump with masses to spare. He pulls up at the gate, puffing but obed
ient, and I wish I was Patrick Scott.

  ‘So it’s clear all the way for Mansfield. And that looks like the team to beat. The next team to jump is Elizabeth Brent School. First to go is Katie Maguire on Lucky Clover.’

  ‘There you go.’ Colette pushes a polystyrene cup into my hand. It’s lovely and warm and the tea, even though it’s minging, heats me up.

  Katie Maguire looks pretty good. There’s one moment when her horse skids but she gets it back on track and jumps everything clear. The next girl goes so fast I can hardly see what’s going on but the commentator says, ‘Clear round.’

  ‘Only one more before Vicky.’ Colette blows on her tea.

  ‘D’you hate watching her?’

  ‘I think about all the things that can go wrong. I know I shouldn’t but it always looks so dangerous.’

  Just then the horse in the ring – a black and white one – collides into a jump, knocking it flying. The girl scoots up its neck, swings in mid air, then lands in the middle of the poles with a crack.

  ‘Ugh. See what I mean?’ Colette looks away.

  ‘It’s OK. She’s getting back on.’

  ‘Blast!’ It’s Vicky’s teacher. She and Vicky are just behind us now. ‘OK, Vicky, we’ll have to discard Aoife’s round. So you must go clear if we’re going to have a chance.’

  ‘Just put the pressure on!’ But she’s smiling, stroking Flight’s sweating neck.

  ‘And that’s a very unfortunate elimination for Aoife Martin. Next to go is Victoria Moore on Flight of Fancy.’

  Colette gives a wee shiver beside me. Flight is shiny and prancy in the ring. They have to trot round for ages while people fix up the scattered jump, but finally a bell rings and they’re pounding down the far side of the ring to the first jump. Easy. Next one. Flight hesitates, Vicky kicks and they’re over. Now she turns down the middle and the next jump is towards us. Over. And the next. Every time they land safely Colette sighs a little breath of relief. Gran used to watch me playing football years ago. I wonder if she used to breathe like that. But I suppose football’s not dangerous like showjumping. A rattle, a gasp and ‘That’s four faults,’ and Vicky rides out past us, looking back over her shoulder at the jump. I don’t know if she’s glad to have only four faults – why four? This seems a very complicated sport – or annoyed not to be clear.

  ‘Sorry,’ she pants. ‘Got the stride wrong coming into the second part of the double.’

  ‘You’ll need to work on doubles before next time,’ says the teacher, but she looks pleased enough. ‘OK, so we finish on four. We need to finish on nought next round, or we’ve no chance. If we finish on nought and Down College get at least eight faults, we could be second.’

  They do it all again, and this time the girl who fell goes clear and so does the speed merchant, but Katie’s horse stops at one jump which, for some reason I can’t understand, is three faults. Then it’s Vicky again. I can see by the way her mouth is set that she’s determined to go clear. And she does. Trotting out of the ring, out of breath, her face is grinning. If you didn’t know her you would think she was nice.

  ‘Well done, love,’ says Colette. ‘Well done, boy.’ She reaches out her hand to pet Flight’s neck, a bit gingerly. Flight blows down his nostrils at us. I wish Vicky would let me ride him. Oh well, this time next week I’ll be home in Tirconnell Parade and forget all about horses. It’s been OK, today, but it’s not real. It’s not my life.

  ‘Well done,’ I say anyway, and Vicky looks at me like she’s surprised.

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Thanks.’ And she actually smiles.

  Then there’s a lot of hanging about talking about scores and willing the other teams to knock fences down and in the end Vicky’s lot do come second. Vicky tries to explain it to Colette on the way back. ‘You see, we’re second in the league but that’s only the first show. There’s two more. We could win the league, with a bit of luck.’

  The yard’s dark and deserted when we get back. We have to do loads of stuff to get Flight ready for bed. He’s sweated up again on the journey. There’s shit all over the horsebox and Colette says Vicky had better clean that out tonight too.

  ‘I haven’t time. I need to do his feed.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I hear myself saying. I don’t know anything about horses but even I can hose shit out of a horsebox.

  ‘No,’ Vicky says. ‘Mum will. You walk Flight round until he’s dry.’

  I take the rope and lead Flight round and round the yard. When I’m walking away from them it’s like there’s just me and Flight in the world. Our breath is like smoke in the dim light from the open shed. Flight walks quietly with his head down. I suppose he’s knackered after all that jumping. I could walk him round all night but after ten minutes Vicky says, ‘He’ll do now.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Thanks.’

  Turning into their street half an hour later I realise that I haven’t thought about Mum for hours, without having to try not to.

  As soon as we get home, Vicky dashes up for a shower.

  ‘Come and help me make a salad,’ Colette says. ‘We’re just having pasta.’

  She gets me to chop these weird pepper things. They have a sweet, wet smell and for the first time in ages I’m starving.

  Then she says, ‘Declan, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’ She sounds dead serious. ‘It’s your mum.’

  The knife freezes in my hand. My heart slams my ribs.

  ‘I had a word with her doctor yesterday. Declan – I’m sure you must know your mum has a problem –’

  ‘She’s a drunk.’

  ‘Well, um, the doctors feel she’s not quite ready to go home yet.’

  ‘So does she have to stay in the hospital?’ I push the peppers into a neat pile on the chopping board.

  ‘Not exactly. They’re going to transfer her to a special unit.’

  ‘The mental?’

  ‘It’s a psychiatric unit, yes. They specialise in addiction.’

  ‘How long for?’ My voice comes out croaky.

  ‘The programme is a month.’

  A month! ‘Do I have to stay here?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ She smiles. ‘I mean, your mum would like you to, and so would I, of course.’

  I don’t know if she means it. But I know one thing. ‘Vicky…?’

  ‘I haven’t told her. Not before I’d told you.’

  ‘She won’t like it.’ Might as well say what we’re both thinking.

  Colette looks at the lettuce she’s chopping. ‘She might be a wee bit jealous. She’s used to having me all to herself. But it isn’t for long.’

  How can she say a month isn’t long? Vicky isn’t just a wee bit jealous. She hates my guts. And I hate hers. I hand Colette the peppers. I’m trapped. A month of Vicky treating me like shit. A month of trying to be invisible. While Mum –

  ‘Did Mum really say she wanted me to stay with you?’

  ‘Yes. I phoned her this morning. She says you told her you liked it OK here.’

  I shrug.

  ‘Declan, I know this is hard for you. You don’t know us very well. I’m not as close to your mum as I used to be. Maybe this will bring us closer again.’

  ‘You used to come to our house a lot. Gran used to mind Vicky.’

  ‘Yes, when I was doing my library training. And before that. We grew up together, really.’

  ‘I know.’ I can hear Vicky scrabbling about upstairs, doors opening and shutting. I have to ask before she comes down. ‘Will she get better?’ I sound like a child.

  ‘I don’t know, love.’ She’s never called me this before. ‘But she’ll get specialist help. Counselling and therapy. She wants to go, Declan. She’s admitted there’s a problem.’

  I hear the thumps of Vicky running down the stairs.

  ‘Don’t tell her in front of me!’

  Colette smiles. ‘OK. Hi, love.’ She keeps the smile on as Vicky flings into the room. ‘I thought we’d have some bubbly to celebrate your success.’

&n
bsp; ‘Champagne?’ Vicky looks impressed.

  ‘Well, sparkling wine with cranberry juice. It’s in the fridge.’

  ‘Cool.’

  It’s cold and fizzy and gushes out the tops of the glasses. They both laugh. I wonder if Vicky’ll be laughing so much when Colette tells her I’m going to be around for another month.

  Chapter 10

  VICKY

  ‘A month!’ I stared in despair at the wet, Sunday-quiet road outside the car. ‘No way!’

  ‘I’m not asking you; I’m telling you.’ Mum indicated right into Fliss’s road.

  ‘But you don’t even want him.’

  She didn’t deny it. ‘He’s family.’

  ‘Family! God, Mum, you sound like someone from EastEnders.’

  ‘And you, miss, are going to have to start being nicer to him.’ The ‘miss’ meant she was seriously pissed off.

  ‘It just spoils everything.’ I thought she was being nice, giving me a lift to Fliss’s in the rain, but it was only a chance to capture me and talk about him.

  ‘It’s much harder for him, you know.’

  ‘How?’ I knew how, really. It was like there was Nice Me – normal me, that is – and then there was Nasty Me. And I knew it was Nasty Me saying ‘how?’ like that. I just didn’t know how to shut her up.

  ‘Oh, come on, Vic. His mum’s in hospital; he doesn’t really know us; you’re treating him like a leper. Do you not feel even a bit sorry for him?’

  ‘Nope.’ I yanked off my seatbelt. We were nearly at Fliss’s and I wasn’t going to hang around and listen to this for a second longer than I had to. ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I don’t think he cares about his mum. He’s too –’ I tried to think of a word. ‘Hard. Like the other day, you were talking about his mum and he just kept on watching TV. He was just like, whatever.’

  ‘People can feel things without showing it. I remember when my dad died.’

  Oh no, I thought, please don’t!

  ‘It was so sudden. Just like Gran. I cried for days. I cried till my face was raw.’ She stopped the car and gave a sort of artificial little laugh.

  ‘And?’ Images of Mum or Dad dying crowded into my mind. Horrific. I tried to push them away. Mum was only thirteen when her dad died.