Grounded

by Wilkinson, Sheena;

  I don’t smile back.

  ‘Right, just the chip now. Sure she hasn’t already been done?’

  I nod. ‘She was abandoned. The police vet checked – just in case she was stolen.’

  ‘Well, I’ll scan her again just to be sure.’ He runs the wee machine up her neck.

  Panic pushes at my chest. Just say the police vet missed something? Just say she is stolen and I have to give her back? She’s caused me more worry than anything in my life ever but I can’t lose her now.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Nothing,’ and sticks the needle in. Folly starts when she feels it and a bubble of blood beads on her neck, startling against the white. ‘Ah, it won’t kill her.’ George dabs it away with a sterile wipe, leaving a pinkish smear. ‘Right.’ He straightens up. ‘Ten to two. Time I was away.’

  Ten to two. Seaneen’s scan’s in ten minutes. I don’t let that thought develop.

  You should be glad. You wanted out, didn’t you? Deep down?

  I don’t know.

  Piss off to Germany then.

  When George is gone I let the Welshies out – Mary, Mungo and Midge are their names but we always just call them the Welshies; I suppose that’ll change when we start working with them properly. They go for a scamper round their paddock, manes and tails flying, pretty heads tossing. They’re like cartoon ponies. I lean on the gate for a while. I should go and put Folly out now, and then get down to some poo-picking in the bottom field.

  But the restlessness hasn’t gone.

  Folly neighs from the yard. Various horses lift up their heads and answer. I should put her out. I should poo-pick. When I get back to her stable she bangs a hoof against the door. I hang over the door and talk to her, but she doesn’t want me; she wants her freedom. She’s paddled all the bedding into a mulch of shit and wet shavings. ‘Ah, horse, you’re restless too, aren’t you?’ I say. Her ears swivel at my voice.

  She’s probably just bored. She doesn’t get all that faffing about in the school with lunge reins and stuff. Going round in circles.

  That’s what I’ve been doing: going round in circles. And now Seaneen’s cut the rope.

  So why don’t I feel happy?

  I imagine me and Folly cantering up the long springy ride at the edge of the farm trail. I can almost feel her under me, part of me, obedient to the smallest shift of weight or adjustment of rein, like Flight used to be.

  I go into the tack room. Joy’s tack should fit. Fiona doesn’t need to know.

  When Folly sees the saddle over my arm she puts her ears back but then comes forward and stretches her head down for a sniff. I suppose she smells Joy, whose white hairs speckle the blue numnah. I tie Folly up outside the stable. She’s still sweating but it’s a hot day, more like June than nearly September. ‘Half an hour,’ I promise her. ‘Not even. Fifteen minutes. Just show me you can do it. Just a wee walk round the school. Just let me prove you can do it and then you can go and scratch your arse in the field for the rest of the day.

  ‘Please,’ I whisper in her ear. ‘Just be good. Just be a normal horse.’

  I’m all thumbs, like I never put on a bridle before. When Folly feels the cold metal of the bit against her teeth, she clamps them shut and steps back to evade me, treading on my foot. ‘Ow!’ I push her off. I rub the bit on my jeans so it’s not as cold. Maybe I should dip it in treacle? There’s some in the feed room. Really, just to let her mouth it would be enough for now. We can do more tomorrow.

  No. It has to be now. I slide my fingers in at the sides of her mouth and next minute it opens and the bit slips in. I have the bridle up over her ears and buckled before she realises what’s going on. She stands mouthing the bit. She looks suspicious but not traumatised. The soft black leather makes her face even whiter and finer. It’s the kind of bridle I’ll never be able to afford.

  Now the saddle. I let her sniff it again then place it very gently at the bottom of her neck. She trembles but that’s all. I slide it down as smoothly as I can until it’s sitting properly. It’s not a brilliant fit – she’s narrower than Joy – but I’m only going to walk for fifteen minutes; what harm can it do?

  I do up the girth loosely. And then she’s ready. She looks gorgeous. She looks like a normal horse. She looks like I could get on her and jump round a course of show jumps.

  I ram my hat on and lead Folly out into the quiet sunny yard, making sure she doesn’t catch her stirrups in the barn doorframe and spook herself.

  The sun strokes my shoulderblades under my T-shirt. I don’t let myself think about Mairéad and Seaneen driving home from the hospital up the hot fumy Falls Road. Knowing if the baby’s a boy or girl. I don’t let myself think that I shouldn’t be doing this. That I’m mad to try an untested horse without somebody here to give me a leg up, to hold the other stirrup while I get on, to lead her round a bit at first to make sure she’s going OK. I know all that. But I want to do it my way. On my own.

  I’m about to ride my horse – my own horse – for the first time in my life.

  And maybe I want to do something dangerous.

  I lead her over to the mounting block and she doesn’t react. I pull down on the stirrup nearest me, to let her feel the weight. She flicks her ears and shifts her feet but she doesn’t freak. I daren’t pull the girth too tight, but it’ll be OK, we’re only going to walk.

  My chest pounds. Wise up, I tell myself. This is not a big deal. You’ve built it up too much. It’s a horse. You’ve ridden dozens.

  I decide to mount as quickly as I can. If there’s going to be trouble I’ll deal with it better from the saddle than halfway on.

  ‘Good girl.’ I gather the reins and spring up. A moment, and then … I lower myself as softly as I can into the saddle. Her ears fly back and her back humps for a second like she’s going to buck, but I expected this and my legs are ready to push her on. ‘Go on.’ I squeeze her with my lower legs. Keep her moving; don’t let her think about it too much.

  She walks crabbily, not the easy swing of a happy, trained horse, but I keep my contact light and concentrate on being as relaxed as possible. Inside I’m fizzing but I try not to let Folly pick up on that. ‘Good girl,’ I say nearly every step. I’m just going to walk round the school a few times. I won’t push it.

  At the corner Folly stops. Looks round as if she just noticed where she was. She lifts up her head and lets out a shrill, panicky neigh. From their field the ponies answer. ‘Come on.’ I touch her sides with my heels. She runs backwards and stops, shaking her head. I apply more pressure. ‘Come on, never mind them. You’ll be back out with them in ten minutes if you’re good.’ I risk a tiny kick. She’s not scared; she’s just being grumpy.

  She hurtles backwards into the fence. Wood cracks.

  And she’s off.

  Head between her legs, back end in the air, body twisting, total rodeo. Instinct makes me try to sit deep, get her head up and get back in control but I haven’t a chance.

  I hang on for maybe five seconds, then I’m flung through the air and down, Folly looming above me, huge and mad. I’m tangled up in her legs, my foot caught in the stirrup, her hooves flashing above me, and all I can think is, it’s OK, she’s not shod, and I throw my hands over my face and then my foot’s free, Folly’s galloping away and my head whams against the fence so hard that everything spins.

  I pull myself up straight away. Test my limbs. I’m not hurt. Where’s Folly? The sun’s in my eyes and I can’t see her and for a terrible moment I think she’s jumped the gate, but no, there she is, in the far corner, trembling so hard I can see her sides shake from here, dark grey with sweat. Her saddle – Joy’s saddle – is twisted round to the side, and her reins are broken.

  ‘Shit,’ I say. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

  I stand up properly, my head swimming, and walk over to her. She eyes me with horror and when I get within grabbing distance she swings her arse round and kicks out at me before trotting away, the saddle slipping more with every stride.

  ‘Folly,
I’m sorry. Come on.’ I stretch out my hand to her. She skites away. ‘I won’t ride you again,’ I promise. ‘Not for a long time.’ The memory of that crashing fear, being out of control on a terrified, crazy animal, makes me shudder. I’ve been on a bucking horse before but nothing like that.

  But she doesn’t understand. And she doesn’t trust me. Why should she?

  She starts cantering, stirrups banging her sides, making her freak even more. Below in the paddocks the ponies pick up on the panic and start to gallop up the field.

  All I need now is for Cam and Lara to land back in the yard and see the mess I’ve made.

  Food. She’ll come for food.

  I leave the school and go into the lovely cold dark of the barn. Folly’s headcollar rope hangs from the ring where I tied her, mocking my stupid hopes.

  I get a scoop of mix out of the feed barrel and head back to the school. The heat’s intense after the cool of the barn, and I have to squint to see properly. Folly’s in the corner now, back to me. Diarrhoea trickles down her back legs. The middle rail of the fence is in two jagged halves meeting at an angle. Don’t know if it was Folly’s back end or my head did that. My head feels huge and heavy. I take my hat off which helps a bit. Folly grabs the top rail in her teeth, the way she did with the wooden pallets in the death barn.

  I rattle the bucket and when she hears it she turns and comes over, kind of half sideways, like she doesn’t really want to, but the pull of food is too strong. Like a druggie who’ll do anything for a fix. She thrusts her head into the bucket and then it’s no problem to take her reins, undo the girth and get the saddle off, and then take her back to the stable. The reins aren’t broken, just unbuckled, but I hardly dare look at Fiona’s saddle.

  I should wash her down, she’s so sweaty, but I have to sort out the school and the saddle before anybody comes, so I just give her a quick rub down with a wet brush as best I can. I check her all over and she’s not hurt as far as I can see, but she twists and fidgets away from me, and when I lead her through the paddock gate she hardly waits for me to undo her headcollar before she’s off galloping down to the ponies, swinging round so fast I have to dodge her flying hooves again. I lean over the gate for a few seconds, but she doesn’t look back, just grazes in the far corner with one ear flicked towards the yard, ready for a quick flight if I dare to come near her again. It’s like the ghost horse is saying, I’m still here. Under the healed-up scabs and the new flesh, there’s still something scary.

  And as I head back to face the broken fence posts and Fiona’s scraped saddle, I know they’re not the only things I’ve wrecked.

  3.

  I sit on an upturned bucket in the cool of the barn, Fiona’s saddle upside-down on my lap. I’ve rubbed the saddle soap in and rubbed it off about three times. I’ve tried oil and something called leather balsam I nicked out of Lara’s tack box, but now the saddle just feels sticky and you can still see the deep scrape down the seat, like a scar. You always will.

  I shoo the yard cat away from sniffing round the saddle soap and straighten up, noticing that the hot ache in my head is building up to a nagging throb. I set the saddle over my arm and take it to its rack in the tack room where it sits, clean and damaged and accusing. My phone’s lying in a corner of the tack room. No idea what it’s doing there. I put it in my pocket.

  At least Fiona doesn’t come up much these days. Maybe she’ll think somebody scraped against it by accident in the tack room.

  You could just tell her, Declan, a voice a bit like Colette’s or Cam’s goes, inside my head. You know, apologise, confess, be adult about it.

  Shut up, I order it, and head out to see what I can do about the school fence rail. The sun still beats down, turning the concrete of the yard a dazzling pale grey and making my eyeballs cringe. A wee breeze lifts and scuts dust and clumps of horse hair around. Nothing else moves. I don’t normally like the yard like this, with all the horses out, no curious, friendly faces looking over half-doors; no sounds of munching or sudden nickers of recognition; no ring of hooves on the yard, but today I’m glad there’s nobody to witness me, not even a horse. Especially not a horse.

  Witness. It’s not like I committed a crime. I only rode my own horse, or tried to.

  But the pounding inside my head and the memory of Folly’s desperate, broncoing fear keep telling me something else.

  OK, fence rail.

  At first I think the rail’s magically fixed itself because I can’t see anything, but then I realise I’m looking in the wrong corner of the school. The rail’s wrecked OK, its splintered edges jabbing forwards into the school. It looks awful, and it’s dangerous, and I don’t think I can fix it. But I can’t just leave it. Wishing my head would stop throbbing, I go to find a hammer or something, or another bit of wood. Cam has a load of tools in a box in the corner of the barn, though Jim usually does the maintenance.

  I hesitate in the doorway of the barn. What did I come in for? My tack cleaning stuff’s sitting out in the middle of the floor, Lara’s leather balsam lying on its side, seeping into the concrete floor. I bend down and grab it but the bottle’s empty. Stupid cat must have knocked it over. Easiest thing to do is just chuck the bottle in the bin and never let on. Lara can buy more.

  But what did I come in here for? I start to tidy up the tack cleaning stuff but when I bend down my head goes really weird, pain pulsing at my skull. I close my eyes against it. Jesus, what is this? I’m feel like I’m about to puke. I breathe in slowly. No, I’m not, not if I keep still. But the ground tilts under my feet. Don’t look down. Never mind the tack cleaning stuff for now. I sit back down on the upturned bucket and hold my head. Why do I feel like this? Maybe it’s a migraine, only I don’t get migraines. But if I sit here for a bit in the dark it might go away.

  Where is everybody though? The place is dead; it’d be a perfect opportunity to ride Folly, prove she’s as good as anybody’s horse. I don’t want to let some stupid headache stop me doing that. I concentrate on keeping still. It might be just the sun. In a minute I’ll go and get her headcollar and fetch her up from the field. She has to come in anyway because the vet’s coming. And the ponies. Better get the ponies in too.

  It’s cold now in the barn, my arms goosebumpy, my insides shivering. But if I stay like this, eyes closed, it’ll be OK.

  * * *

  ‘Declan?

  ‘Hello?

  ‘Where are you?’

  I’m about to call out, ‘In here!’ when Cam’s face appears round the door of the barn. She’s got her show clothes on – white breeches and good shirt.

  ‘I’ve been calling you for ages,’ she says. ‘Can you give me a hand getting the ramp down?’

  ‘What ramp?’

  ‘Duh – the lorry?’

  ‘Lorry?’

  ‘Gosh, Declan, are you going to sit there and repeat everything I say? Come on, I need you to give me a hand. Bloody Lara went straight home in the car with her mum, lazy cow. You can sort out Willow.’

  ‘Have you been somewhere with Willow?’

  ‘Declan?’ She comes closer. She’s frowning. ‘What’s up with you? You sound really strange. Have you been drinking?’

  I’m at work; how would I have been drinking? Cam’s acting really weird. ‘I’m fine.’ I pull myself to my feet. My head spins. I follow Cam out into the yard, but when my eyes hit the glare outside I have to shut them fast, and then open them just a slit, enough to see my way to the lorry, but everything’s blurry.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I ask Cam, reaching for the clip that holds the ramp up, but my hand keeps missing it and banging against the wood. ‘What horses are you taking?’

  ‘Declan?’ Cam reaches up and puts her hand on my arm, stopping me. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’ I’ve no idea what she’s on about. ‘You said to get the ramp down. Are we going to a show?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, what’s wrong with you?’ She stands back and scans my face. A hor
se stamps and neighs from inside the lorry. So why is she asking me to put the ramp down?

  ‘Look – you’re ready to go,’ I point out. ‘Is it a show? Am I coming?’

  Cam takes a deep breath and leads me away from the lorry. I’m so surprised I let her. She sits me down on the wall and says in a trying-to-be-calm voice, ‘Listen. Concentrate. You’re not making much sense. Have you had a fall? Have you hit your head? I hope you have because it’s either that or you’re losing it.

  ‘I think I already lost it.’ I look down at the whirling ground and the pain crashes at my skull and I have to hold my head still because it’s going to fall off. Then Cam’s moving horses round, fast, and won’t let me help. And then we’re going somewhere only she’s forgotten the horses; it’s just me and her in the Land Rover.

  ‘You forgot the horses,’ I keep saying.

  ‘Shh.’ She takes her hand from the steering wheel and puts it on my knee. ‘You’re concussed, I think. We’re going to the hospital. Oh God, maybe I should have waited for an ambulance. You’re not going to pass out, are you? Did you fall? Did one of the ponies kick you in the head? The horses are all in their fields OK; I checked.’

  ‘I don’t know!’ I mutter. It hurts to talk out loud. ‘My head’s sore. I don’t remember. You forgot the horses. What show are we going to?’

  ‘Oh God.’ Cam puts her foot down and the fields and hedges rush past in such a sickening blur that I have to close my eyes tight or I’ll puke all over Cam’s Land Rover.

  ‘Declan, what day is it? Do you remember the vet coming?’

  Her voice stabs at me through the sick waves of pain, but I daren’t open my mouth to speak and I don’t know any of the answers anyway.

  * * *

  Hospital. Been here before, I think, when I got on the wrong side of Emmet McCann’s da. Or maybe that was a different one. I remember waiting for hours. I don’t think they make us wait long this time, but I’m not holding on to things very well; it’s like being pissed only it hurts more.