to do with your birthday morning, sweetheart?’
her mother had said. She’d given her daughter the day off
school. No child should have to spend their seventh
birthday in a hot classroom with whistles and rules and shouty books.
She’s still not convinced she won’t take both of her girls out of
school and set up the home-education group she’s been talking about with
two other mothers in the village. It just doesn’t sit right with her. They
should be outdoors more at this age. Playing. They live in the middle of a
National Park! Surely that’s the best classroom a child could ask
for.
For today, though, it’s all about her seven-year-old girl with her fat
plait and her white cotton dress. She’ll do anything her daughter wants.
She loves her today with the same ferocity that she loved her when she came out
seven years ago, a squashed, messy bundle, so perfect she could barely breathe
as she held her in her arms.
‘I want to be outside all day,’ her daughter had announced.
‘Let’s start with some daisy chains and maybe then we can pick me
some special birthday flowers. And apples, let’s look for
apples.’
The woman had smiled. My little hippie, she thought proudly. ‘We’ll
go up behind Woodford Farm,’ was what she said. ‘It’s still
covered with daisies there.’
Chapter
Three
Kate
On my first morning working at Mark
Waverley’s yard I stumbled down the thirty-three steps to the kitchen feeling
like I’d been hit round the head with a fence pole. It was six thirty a.m.,
still pitch black and bitingly cold, and it felt like only five minutes had elapsed
since Becca had finished tutoring me late last night.
I was sick with nerves and
sleeplessness. In spite of the deep exhaustion that had pinned me to my bed,
I’d lain awake for hours, missing my family and wondering if there was any way
I could reasonably contact them. My subsequent acceptance that I couldn’t had
been terrible. There was a grief that went beyond tears, I often thought, and at
that moment it had settled over me, like a pillow pressed to my face.
I needed toast. I could start a day
without a shower, without a newspaper and certainly without human contact. I could
not start the day without toast.
Joe, the groom, was sitting by a
radiator eating a piece of cheese. In spite of the freezing cold he was wearing only
a stripy T-shirt and jodhpurs, and in spite of the devastating hour, he was wearing
a gigantic grin. He moved his hair out of those naughty eyes and winked at me.
‘Galway!’ He beamed, patting
a chair near to him.
‘Come here to
me and tell me stories of the Twelve Bens mountains. And feed me cheese.’
I dithered. Joe’s eyes had lit up
as soon as I’d opened my mouth when I’d arrived in the kitchen last
night. ‘Well, if it isn’t a flame-haired little lady of Eire for me to
fall in love with!’ he’d shouted joyfully. ‘Happy St
Patrick’s Day, my dear
compadre
!’
‘Happy St Patrick’s
Day,’ I’d whispered uncomfortably.
‘That’s a strange accent you
have there, my green-eyed princess. Mayo, perchance?’
‘Galway,’ I’d
croaked.
‘The wild west.’ He grinned.
‘Wonderful!’ Joe was a little taller than me, as lithe and muscled as a
whippet. Like everyone else there, he was quite young but his face had a sandblown
quality, presumably from spending all his time on the exposed hills of Exmoor.
‘Tell me now, Galway.’
He’d poured me a glass of wine. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Left my job in Dublin for a
career change,’ I’d trotted out. The wine was disgusting but as
necessary as oxygen. ‘Couldn’t cope not being around horses. I’ve
horses in my blood.’
Becca, arranging socks on the rack above
the Aga, had smiled approvingly.
Joe had got me mildly drunk, told me I
was gorgeous and asked me to marry him twice.
Now, at six thirty-five, he was taking
calm
her mother had said. She’d given her daughter the day off
school. No child should have to spend their seventh
birthday in a hot classroom with whistles and rules and shouty books.
She’s still not convinced she won’t take both of her girls out of
school and set up the home-education group she’s been talking about with
two other mothers in the village. It just doesn’t sit right with her. They
should be outdoors more at this age. Playing. They live in the middle of a
National Park! Surely that’s the best classroom a child could ask
for.
For today, though, it’s all about her seven-year-old girl with her fat
plait and her white cotton dress. She’ll do anything her daughter wants.
She loves her today with the same ferocity that she loved her when she came out
seven years ago, a squashed, messy bundle, so perfect she could barely breathe
as she held her in her arms.
‘I want to be outside all day,’ her daughter had announced.
‘Let’s start with some daisy chains and maybe then we can pick me
some special birthday flowers. And apples, let’s look for
apples.’
The woman had smiled. My little hippie, she thought proudly. ‘We’ll
go up behind Woodford Farm,’ was what she said. ‘It’s still
covered with daisies there.’
Chapter
Three
Kate
On my first morning working at Mark
Waverley’s yard I stumbled down the thirty-three steps to the kitchen feeling
like I’d been hit round the head with a fence pole. It was six thirty a.m.,
still pitch black and bitingly cold, and it felt like only five minutes had elapsed
since Becca had finished tutoring me late last night.
I was sick with nerves and
sleeplessness. In spite of the deep exhaustion that had pinned me to my bed,
I’d lain awake for hours, missing my family and wondering if there was any way
I could reasonably contact them. My subsequent acceptance that I couldn’t had
been terrible. There was a grief that went beyond tears, I often thought, and at
that moment it had settled over me, like a pillow pressed to my face.
I needed toast. I could start a day
without a shower, without a newspaper and certainly without human contact. I could
not start the day without toast.
Joe, the groom, was sitting by a
radiator eating a piece of cheese. In spite of the freezing cold he was wearing only
a stripy T-shirt and jodhpurs, and in spite of the devastating hour, he was wearing
a gigantic grin. He moved his hair out of those naughty eyes and winked at me.
‘Galway!’ He beamed, patting
a chair near to him.
‘Come here to
me and tell me stories of the Twelve Bens mountains. And feed me cheese.’
I dithered. Joe’s eyes had lit up
as soon as I’d opened my mouth when I’d arrived in the kitchen last
night. ‘Well, if it isn’t a flame-haired little lady of Eire for me to
fall in love with!’ he’d shouted joyfully. ‘Happy St
Patrick’s Day, my dear
compadre
!’
‘Happy St Patrick’s
Day,’ I’d whispered uncomfortably.
‘That’s a strange accent you
have there, my green-eyed princess. Mayo, perchance?’
‘Galway,’ I’d
croaked.
‘The wild west.’ He grinned.
‘Wonderful!’ Joe was a little taller than me, as lithe and muscled as a
whippet. Like everyone else there, he was quite young but his face had a sandblown
quality, presumably from spending all his time on the exposed hills of Exmoor.
‘Tell me now, Galway.’
He’d poured me a glass of wine. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Left my job in Dublin for a
career change,’ I’d trotted out. The wine was disgusting but as
necessary as oxygen. ‘Couldn’t cope not being around horses. I’ve
horses in my blood.’
Becca, arranging socks on the rack above
the Aga, had smiled approvingly.
Joe had got me mildly drunk, told me I
was gorgeous and asked me to marry him twice.
Now, at six thirty-five, he was taking
calm
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