“He’s named after the man who owns our farm,” giggles Maddy, leaning into the stall to scratch Malcolm’s prickly back. “Don’t tell him. He’ll probably kick us out!”
“I thought your mum owned the farm?”
She shakes her head. “We rent it. That’s why Harry works so hard. If we can’t pay the rent we’ll lose it even though our family’s lived here forever. Mum doesn’t think I know but I’ve heard them talking. They had a massive row when Harry left college and Mum cried lots.”
Mums who cry lots is something I do know about. And so is having to give up things you care about to help them. No wonder Harry’s got such a giant chip on his shoulder.
“Harry’s a really good artist,” Maddy adds proudly. “Maybe he’ll sketch you?”
I think this is very unlikely. The way her brother was glowering at me he looked more likely to stab me with a pencil and when operation get sent back really kicks off I don’t think he’ll feel any differently. Still, Maddy’s just a little kid so I humour her.
“Maybe,” I nod.
“I really wish my dad hadn’t died,” says Maddy. “Is your dad dead too?”
I’m taken aback. “What?”
“Your dad? Is he dead?” Maddy asks, quite cheerfully considering the subject matter. “Mine is. A tractor squashed him. What happened to yours?”
That’s the million dollar question. Nothing as exciting as getting squashed by a tractor, that’s for certain. It was more a case of not being able to handle mum any more and taking off, not that I’m going to try and explain all this to an eleven year old.
After all, he didn’t.
“My dad left,” is all I say.
“Like went away? Proper away? Not to Heaven?”
I snort. “There’s no way my dad will go to Heaven!”
“So will he come back again and you’ll live happily ever after?”
I think of Mum all alone in the hospital, the days when we can’t afford to buy much food and the knocks on the front door that send us scuttling to hide behind the sofa. Then I think about being dumped here, miles away from everyone and everything I know and my throat feels all tight and funny.
I think we can safely say I won’t be living happily ever after any time soon.
After Malcolm the pig I’m introduced to Minty the sheep and then Maddy drags me to a paddock overlooking the sea where a Shetland pony regards us beadily from beneath a thick ginger forelock.
“This is Treacle, he’s the grumpiest pony in the world,” she informs me proudly, waving a tuft of grass in his direction. When Treacle finally bothers to potter over I scratch his neck and talk to him like I used to do to the ponies at the riding school and blow into his nose.
“He likes you too!” Maddy shrieks. “Normally he bites everyone! Mum’s right, Amber! You’re like Dr. Doolittle!”
“Hardly!” I laugh. It’s true though; animals always seem to like me. It’s just as well somebody does.
When we return to the farmhouse I’m horrified to discover Dogood’s done a runner. It’s not that I’m upset she’s left without saying goodbye, believe me I really don’t care about that, but part of me was still hoping there’d be a reprieve at the eleventh hour and she’d drive me home. Now it looks as though I’m stuck in pasty land for however many days it takes Kate to realize she can’t handle me. I’m really annoyed with myself for being distracted by the animals. That was definitely an own goal.
“We’ll have supper in a bit,” Kate tells me. She’s stirring something on the Aga and it smells absolutely delicious. The dogs and cats gathered at her feet stare up hopefully.
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
What a fib! I’m famished. There was nothing at home to eat at breakfast, Dogood was so keen to get rid of me that we didn’t stop on the journey and then of course there was the cake I refused just to make a point. I think my stomach’s forgotten what food is.
“What a shame. I thought you’d be ravenous after your journey and all the fresh air here.” Kate gives the pan one last stir and bangs the lid on. “I’ve made Irish Stew with dumplings. Well, never mind. How about you go and settle into you room and I’ll put some aside for you? You may want it later.”
“I won’t. I hate stew.” I screw up my nose for good effect.
Kate looks worried. “You’re not a vegetarian are you, Amber? Nobody has mentioned any special diets. Shall I make you something else?”
I shrug. “Don’t care. Whatever.”
“Do you like omelets? The hens have laid brilliantly today. Or what about some pasta?”
Is she for real?
“Stop it, Mum, she’s just being a pain in the butt,” says Harry who’s leaning against the Aga, all long legs, strong tanned arms and blonde curls falling across his face. When he brushes them back I can see the expression in his eyes and I look away quickly. Wow. It didn’t take long to make him hate me. I think that’s a record even for Amber Evans.
“Don’t Harry,” Kate says gently. “Amber’s had a tough day.”
“Haven’t we all?” says Harry icily. Tell you what, Amber, I’ll carry your bag up and you can unpack. You never know that might help you work up an appetite.”
He scoops up my bag and stomps out of the kitchen, ducking his head to miss the low door frame. Annoyed, I follow him up a twisty staircase and along a corridor leading to a narrow flight of attic stairs. Once at the top he flings the door open to reveal a sunny room with a big bed smothered in a faded patchwork quilt, gingham curtains blowing in the breeze and a huge squashy armchair. There’s even a desk with an angle poise lamp should I have a violent personality change and wish to do some homework.
It’s a million miles away from the corner of the lounge I have at home.
“You’ve got the best view up here,” Harry remarks as he places my bag on the bed and strides to the window. “You can see for miles.”
I follow him and we lean on the wide sill to gaze outside. He’s right; the view is like something from one of Mum’s favourite property shows, you know - the kind where people with loads of money escape to the country. Wow. Mum would love this view! If I look to the left I can see over Treacle’s orchard and right out to sea across endless miles of deep blue water. In the other direction is St. Perran and through the trees I spot the big house I passed earlier and, to my delight, the fields of beautiful horses.
I can see horses from my bedroom!
“Who lives there? Who owns those horses?”
“So she can speak without being insulting?” Harry says. “Amazing.”
I give him a look that ought to lay him out at my feet. “Just answer the question.”
“I’ll answer your questions if you lay off my mum for five minutes, stick a smile on that sulky face of yours and come down and eat some dinner,” he says, folding his arms and staring down at me. “It’s a fair bargain, Amber. Don’t they say that knowledge is power?”
For a split second I consider telling him to get lost but then I watch a big bay thoroughbred canter across a paddock. Such a stunning horse! Maybe whoever owns it would let me have a look? I know I won’t be here for long but even so... you don’t see many horses on the Shakespeare Estate, except in the window of the bookies, which isn’t quite the same.
“All right,” I say grudgingly. “I’ll eat a bowl of stew if it makes you happy.”
“I couldn’t care less what you eat,” Harry says cheerfully. “Stay up here and starve yourself if you want; it doesn’t bother me. But it will upset Mum and I’m not having that. She works really hard to keep this family together and whatever issues you have, none of them are her fault. She’s offering you a home so you could be a bit more grateful.”
“I have a home, thanks,” I snap. “And grow up, your mum’s not a saint. She’s getting paid for having me.”
He whistles. “Nice attitude! Look, I’m sorry they’ve taken you into care. It must suck, but that’s not Mum’s fault. And she’s certainly not on a mission to make money o
ut of fostering. Mum could get five times more renting this room out as a bed and breakfast or holiday let. She fosters because she wants to help, and believe me there are loads of kids out there she’s really made a difference to. You’re nearly sixteen and apparently bright enough to be a vet, so tell me - have you met many millionaire foster parents?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” I am so not sticking around for a lecture. “Look, I said I’d eat the dinner, didn’t I? So stop going on.”
Harry sighs. “Look, Amber, I know this can’t be easy but I guess what I’m trying to say is just give us a chance. You never know, you might even like it here.”
I think there’s more chance of me getting ten starred GCSEs but I decide to keep my mouth shut. Anyway, it’s not Harry I need to annoy. This placement’s nothing to do with him and if he’s constantly on my case things will be twice as complicated.
“So who owns those horses?” I repeat.
“Malcolm Lacey, our landlord. He owns that big house too and pretty much everything else in St. Perran. He’s loaded.”
“Pig man?”
Harry laughs and I like the way his eyes crinkle. “Keep that to yourself for God’s sake! But yes, pig man! Malcolm’s a big landowner and those horses are his daughter’s eventers. Since she moved here her dad certainly spares no expense.”
“Is she blonde? I think I saw her riding earlier.”
“That’s Emily,” nods Harry. “She’s a nightmare. Totally twists Mal round her little finger and when he’s away on business she runs riot. Her parties are legendary in St. Perran. Just about anything goes.”
I understand. Our neighbours in Bristol throw similar parties. The only difference is they live in a council flat not a mansion and the police often raid it. Maybe I won’t share this detail with Harry, especially since he’s so close to Kate. She must have read my case file. Not a happy thought.
“She was with a guy.” I recall the gorgeous boy, all smoldering good looks and raven black hair. “Dark hair? Quite tall?”
Harry’s face clouds over. “That’ll be Drake Owen. He’s Emily’s trainer.”
Drake Owen. That sounds familiar. For a moment I struggle to place him then the name falls right into place. All those sneaky hours in W H Smith spent reading Your Horse magazines I can’t afford to buy haven’t been wasted; I know exactly who Drake Owen is and excitement zips through me.
Drake Owen is only Britain’s hottest and youngest three day event star. He’s taken grand slam titles, won Badminton on his eighteenth birthday and is eventing’s brightest hope for gold at the next Olympics. Oh, and he’s utterly, utterly gorgeous with the brownest eyes, lean fit body and cheekbones steeper than the Hickstead Bank. Add breeches, scarlet cross- country colours and a grin that could melt polar ice caps and there he is: complete perfection.
I may once have stuck a picture of him in my school planner but that’s staying top secret.
I’m living next door to Drake Owen? Seriously?
I know I’m not staying here for long but suddenly things are starting to look up.
Chapter Three
“That was lovely, mum.” Harry slaps yellow butter onto a doorstop of bread, mops up his gravy and munches contentedly. How he’s not the size of a house I’ll never know because I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone eat so much. He must have had about three helpings and half a loaf. This farm work he does must be seriously physical.
“Any more for you, Amber?” Kate asks, with the kind of nervous caution you might use creeping up on wildebeest in the Serengeti. The poor woman can hardly believe I’ve actually eaten my dinner. She daren’t spook me now.
“I’m full,” I say and then, catching Harry’s eye, “thanks.”
“You’re very welcome, love.” Kate scoops up my plate, which to my annoyance I find I’ve totally cleared. Maybe hunger striking isn’t going to work for me? The stew was absolutely delicious and I simply couldn’t stop myself from gobbling it up. When I go home I’m going to try and make it for Mum. No more microwave meals for us.
While Kate stacks the dishwasher and chats away and Harry helps himself to a giant slice of apple pie, I look around the kitchen figuring now’s as good a time as any to check out my latest prison. There’s an ancient Welsh dresser in the corner crammed with junk, rosettes and what look suspiciously like red bills (I’m an expert on those) a massive cream Aga which is like something out of one of Mum’s cherished property shows and a tatty sofa leaking stuffing all over the flagstones which seems to be home to all the dogs and cats. There aren’t any fitted units, unlike at my last foster placement where Auntie Sue (I kid you not, she made me call her that) spent hours bleaching and polishing every surface and had a fit if I so much as dropped a crumb. Here all the action seems to take place on the battered kitchen table, from eating dinner to Maddy doing her homework to cleaning boots.
Hygienic it is not. Auntie Sue would freak, especially if she saw the cats busily licking piles of plates in the sink. I kind of like it though, or least I like the animals. Everything else still sucks.
“Cup of tea?” Kate asks as she places the kettle on the hot plate. “Or are you a coffee person?”
For a split second I toy with the idea of ignoring her but Harry’s beady eyes are still watching my every move and a deal’s a deal, isn’t it?
“I drink both,” I say, “but I’m too full right now. I think I’ll go for a walk.”
“I’ll come! I’ll come!” squeaks Maddy, jumping up and down like Tigger. “Let’s go to the beach!”
What is it with everyone here and their obsession with beaches? The sea’s cold and wet and the sand is scratchy, or at least it was the one time Mum and me went to Weston Super Mare for the day. Besides, I’ve got better things to do than splash in rock pools with an ankle biter. I want to go and have a look at those horses.
“You’ve got homework to do,” Kate reminds Maddy. To me she says, “Don’t go too far, Amber, will you? You don’t know your way around yet and the cliffs can be really dangerous if you don’t know the tracks.”
“Don’t panic, I’m not suicidal yet,” I say airily.
Kate blanches. So she has read my case notes then.
“Chill out, Mum,” says Harry from over the top of Farmers Weekly. “Amber’s spotted Mal’s horses and she wants to have a look, that’s all. She’s not going anywhere near the cliffs.”
Kate looks relieved. “There’s a footpath through the orchard that goes to Malcolm’s place. You can’t miss it. I use it when I go cleaning and it’s pretty well trodden.”
“That’s because you do far too much cleaning,” laughs Harry but I can tell from the look on his face that he isn’t really joking.
“Borrow some wellies if you like, there are loads in the porch and it’ll be muddy in the woods,” Kate says, looking dubiously at my fake Uggs.
“And watch out for Drake Owen,” adds Maddy, glancing up from her school bag. “He might kill you.”
My mouth swings open on its hinges. “What?”
“Maddy! That’s enough!” says Kate sharply.
“But he might!” protests Maddy. “Harry said –”
“Harry says far too much, and all of it nonsense.” Kate’s eyes are bright with anger as she rounds on her son. “I’ve told you before to drop all this. I won’t be having it. Do you hear me? Just let it go!”
Now I’m intrigued and not just because they’re talking about sex -on -a -stick Drake either. I’ve been trying to get a reaction out of Kate ever since I arrived and so far nothing from my trusty box of tricks has worked but one mention of Drake Owen and she flies off the handle?
This could be very useful.
Like his mother, Harry is also crimson with anger. “It’s not nonsense. For God’s sake, Mum! You heard what they said at the inquest. The Owens were to blame! They as good as killed him. They’re murderers!”
“I said enough!” Kate’s raised voice is enough to silence her son. I must admit I jump too and since I’m a gi
rl who makes teachers holler on an hourly basis this is quite an achievement. “Let it go, Harry, for God’s sake. What’s done is done.”
But the look on Harry’s face says quite the opposite and even though I don’t give a monkey’s about these people – I’ve learned the hard way there’s no point getting attached to foster families – I’m intrigued. Maybe I’ll barter a bit more good behaviour with Harry for a few more answers? Anything I find out about Drake Owen has to be interesting, especially if it makes Kate freak out.
Leaving the Crewe family in full squabble I tug on some muddy Hunter wellies that I find in the porch and set off in the direction of Malcolm Lacey’s house. Kate’s worn path is easy to follow and as I stomp through the orchard Saffy joins me, barking excitedly and zig -zagging across the track as she investigates all the exciting doggy smells. It’s a lovely evening and even though it’s autumn the sun is warm and trickles across the path like honey. Scally would love it here. She’d be wagging her stumpy little tail and bringing me sticks to throw. She loves playing fetch.
Oh no. There’s a football-sized lump in my throat now. I really hope Scally’s all right. I’ve never been away from her for this long before.
I’m just about to pull my earring out to distract myself from these miserable thoughts when I reach the end of the orchard and a rickety style requires both my hands and quite a lot of balance to clamber over. By the time I’ve managed to reach the other side without getting my skirt tangled I’m feeling calmer. Calling Saffy to heel I follow Kate’s path through a wood until at last I reach the smart post and rail fencing that marks the start of Malcolm Lacey’s paddocks. Sure enough here are the horses I saw from the bedroom window, grazing peacefully in the evening sunshine and swishing away the flies with their long silky tails.
When I was younger, before Dad did a runner, I used to spend every spare minute at the stables. If I wasn’t on horseback I was cleaning tack or mucking out in the hope of earning an extra ride. As I watch these beautiful horses, very different creatures from the fat hairy ponies I used to ride, it feels like I’ve hitched a lift in the Tardis and am being whizzed back in time. I’d forgotten how just being with horses is enough to make everything else fade away. I’d lived for my lessons and especially the times when we were allowed to jump. Nothing beat that amazing adrenalin rush as you gathered up your horse before a fence, judging the stride and feeling the cold wind against your face when you flew into the air. I’d loved every minute but riding costs money and once Dad pushed off Mum and I didn’t have a lot of that to spare.
Chances Page 2
