Seahorse (28 page)

The morning I went riding with Philip I was greeted with a well-aimed jibe. “You're up,” he said, “well done.”

He had reason to provoke, I suppose.

The previous evening, after my visit to the stables, I fell asleep and almost missed dinner.

I was woken by a soft yet persistent knocking at the door.

It was Mrs Hammond.

“Sorry… but I'm afraid everyone's waiting.”

I rushed over, and found them seated at the dining table, their plates empty.

“I'm sorry… I was tired… and took a nap.”

Graciously, Myra said it was alright.

Philip remarked that he was glad I was having a truly relaxed holiday.

“I head out early with the horses… think you'll be able to hustle out of bed by seven?”

I flushed. Yes, of course.

Which was why I was standing outside the stables, shivering in my riding gear. Philip had brought the horses out, all saddled and bridled. Since I didn't have boots, I was attempting this in wellingtons.

“I'd be careful with those,” Philip pointed out. “If you fall off, there's a risk your foot could get caught… they don't have smooth soles…”

“
If
I fall off,” I muttered.

I found myself wishing I hadn't ever asked about the horses. Least of all, agreed to go riding in the dead of winter. After the alarm sounded that morning, I'd lain in bed wondering if I could escape this somehow, come up with an excuse—and I hadn't.

“General's tougher to control sometimes… so you can ride Lady,” said Philip.

I was relieved; she was smaller too, and less intimidating. Before I mounted, I wondered whether it was worth reiterating to my host that I hadn't ridden in a while. I stroked Lady's neck, trying to recall it in order—I could picture my instructor's face, all those years ago, his elfin features. His voice. I wished there was a mounting block. I stood on the left and faced the saddle.

“Adjust your reins,” said Philip. “Shorten the one inside.”

I lifted my left leg into the stirrup, reached for the pommel, and slowly pulled myself up, sinking gently onto Lady's back.

“You haven't ridden in a while, have you?” asked Philip.

“No.”

“Don't worry.” He sounded cheerful, if not reassuring. “We'll take the easy track today, show you a bit of this part of the country.”

Now, I slowly eased into the rise and fall, remembering why, for me, this had always been a source of delight. For the moment, the day was overcast yet dry, the clouds a light and smoky grey. My mood, like the morning, lifted. Perhaps this hadn't been such a terrible idea after all.

Off the main road, Philip led us along a desolate farm track. Apart from the clop of hooves, the air hung cold and quiet. Here, the smell of dung grew fainter. Instead, a mix of wet leaves and old mulch lifted up to us, sweet and decadent. Soon, we crossed a maple wood that edged, he told me, an abandoned limestone quarry. At the end of the farm, we came to a ford—normally easy to cross, but the recent rains had swelled it to a fast-flowing stream.

“This way,” shouted Philip, and we diverted, taking a longer route that led us over a stone bridge.

“You're alright riding uphill?”

I hesitated. I'd never done it before. The grounds in Delhi were routinely plain and flat.

Couldn't we, I suggested, stick to something similar?

“Stunning views from up Middle Hill…” said Philip, as though he hadn't heard me, “come along…”

It became apparent that he would outline exactly what I was required to do on our ascent. He seemed pleased about playing tutor; I wonder if he mistook me for one of his school boys. We made our way up slowly. Philip rode behind, calling out instructions—lean forward slightly over the saddle, stay centred, balance carefully, inch your feet back. Finally, when we made it to the top, we found most of the valley cloaked in low rumbling clouds. It gave me a strange pleasure to see our efforts thwarted, as though to prove this ridiculous idea was his alone. Nevertheless, I was treated to a description of what we might have viewed—on an especially clear day, it was possible to see as far as the River Parrett delta where it joined the Bristol Channel.

To be polite, I said I was certain it would've been beautiful. That this was atmospheric in its own way, despite the world being hidden away. Eventually, what made us leave was the wind, swift and icy, unfailing in its energy.

The skirmish happened on our way down.

We'd descended about halfway, carefully picking our path, when Lady stumbled on some loose rubble. It would have been alright if I hadn't lost my balance and swayed back, spurring her forward, fast, and then faster, at a canter. Despite the flash of blinding panic, I managed to stay centred, and somehow retain my balance until we reached level ground, and I drew her to a stop. I turned around, laughing in relief, ready to receive some sort of commendation. But Philip's face
was marked by a look I'd once seen on Myra's, long ago, at the riding club. Before he even caught up, I could sense his displeasure.

“What was all that about?” His tone betrayed little. Perhaps a stain of displeasure.

“She slipped, I think…”

By this time he'd dismounted. “She has a weak knee,” he said, inspecting her. She could've been hurt, badly. It wasn't the correct thing to do, go galloping down a hill.

“I'm sorry—” I stuttered, unsure why I was apologizing, but it was my first and instinctive reaction. To placate.

On the way back, we rode mostly in silence.

Often, he glanced at Lady. I could've told him she was alright, moving as normal, but he didn't ask, so I said nothing. When we reached the stables, I offered to help unsaddle the horses and rub them down. I allowed Philip to show me how to do this methodically—starting with the curry brush in gentle circles at the jaw, down the neck to the shoulders, the entire body, and finally to the inner and outer parts of the legs. And then a quick damp towel rub. Their hooves, he said, he'd clean himself; I could go freshen up.

“Good job,” he threw at me when I was at the door.

And since I didn't know how else to respond, I said thank you.

The next day, I couldn't move.

I'd had a warning of this when I went to bed inflicted by soreness, but I was unprepared for the onslaught of pain in the morning. It was an effort, to stand and dress, to walk down the loft stairs.

Somehow, I made it for breakfast. At half-past seven, I rang the doorbell at the main house. When no one answered, I let myself in, and headed to the dining room.

The table was laid but empty.

I peered into the drawing room, the Christmas tree, still flickering, looked comical in daylight, and then the kitchen, but not even Mrs Hammond seemed to be around. During the day, the rooms, softened with natural light, lost some of their formality.

I decided to head back to the loft for breakfast. Maybe even catch a nap. Either the family had already eaten, or they'd all headed out without me.

It was Myra, tousle-haired and sleep-heavy.

“Oh, it's you.” She wore a silk robe, silvery grey, with long kimono sleeves. “Tea?”

“Yes, although I'd prefer something stronger…”

“This early? Well, why not…”

It was, I explained, for the pain.

“Are you sore from riding?”

That might be a slight understatement.

“Come.” She gestured for me to follow her to the kitchen.

“Where's Mrs Hammond?”

“You forget I live in India.”

“Ah, yes, of course, I remember. Didn't Nicholas have a battalion of household help?”

She filled the electric kettle, and plucked two cups off a shelf.

“No milk, no sugar, please.”

She pulled a face. “Disgusting. Have you not developed a taste for English builder's tea? Strong, full-bodied, milky.”

“No.”

The kettle rumbled behind her.

“What happened to breakfast?” I gestured to the dining room.

“Dad drove to London early this morning.”

I'd forgotten.

“I love these Saturdays,” she continued. “They only happen once or twice a month, but they're such a luxury. I sleep in… Elliot sleeps in… you should've too.” She tapped me lightly on the shoulder.

“Except I thought I'd make the effort to show up on time… for breakfast.”

Myra laughed, pouring water into the cups. The tea leaves unfurled, turning rusty. “You did well. In vain, but I appreciate your good intentions.”

“When is he back? By lunch tomorrow? I'll be gone by then…”

“Don't think your father would agree… he'll be happy to see me leave…” The tea was sharp and strong, almost bitter. “Did you say he was a schoolteacher?”

“He was headmaster… at a string of public schools… here, Canada, Cape Town, Australia…”

“That explains why I feel like I should snap to attention whenever he's around.”

She smiled. “But today, he's not.”

I added more hot water into my cup, lightening the color. “Where's Elliot?”

“Upstairs,” she said. “My little monster's watching TV.”

Later that morning, the weather cleared just enough to inspire Myra to set out on a picnic.

“But Mummy, it's winter,” protested Elliot.

“I might have to agree with him on that,” I added.

“Hush now. We'll take our sandwiches to the river. Let's go… so we don't lose the light.”

According to her, the more I exercised, the less it would hurt. (I'm certain, I muttered, that's what they said in the army.)

We strolled down the main road, and then turned off into the dirt track flanked by blackthorn hedges. It was hard to believe the world could be so quiet, sunk to the sound of our voices, the grasp of stone, mud, and grass. On the way, we met an elderly couple walking their black Labrador. I marveled that even in this weather their clothing was so light—the gentleman in a dark green bomber jacket, and the lady in a violet fleece jumper. They looked the picture of resilience, their skin
reddened by the winter air, their strides even and purposeful. The man nodded curtly at us, while his wife was more vociferous—“Lovely to see you dear… how big your son has grown… and how is your father?”

Myra introduced me to them—Geoff and Elizabeth—as her friend from London.

“Where are you from?” asked Geoff.

“From—”

“London,” interrupted Myra. “Born and brought up in the city.”

I couldn't catch her eye, so I smiled on, pretending I wasn't surprised, or puzzled.

The lady did better than her husband at hiding her incredulity.

After a few minutes of small talk, during which time Elliot and I petted the dog, we parted.

“That's Geoff Ritchie,” whispered Myra, “Remember? My dad was telling us he's filing a court case for his land…” She cast a glance back at the couple. “If I was their neighbor, I'd ram a fence into
them
.”

“They might not feel it. Did you see how little winter clothing they were wearing?”

“I'm sorry I lied about your origins.”

“Yes, why did you?”

She pulled a face, mischievous, like a child's. “I don't know… to shake them up a little… baffle them… I have a feeling they subscribe to things like “England for the English”.”

“They probably think I'm Elliot's father.”

“He's much too good looking to be your child.”

When we reached the end of the lane, where the blackthorn ended at the stream, we took a left. A right would have led us to the weeping willows. Elliot wasn't permitted to splash at the edge of the water. It was cold, said his mother, and, also, since the stream was swift and swollen, unsafe.

Elliot looked massively disappointed.

“How about a story…” I offered.

“About the man who could speak to birds?”

I laughed, amazed at his recollection. “Alright…”