Taking Flight (13 page)

‘But you liked it, didn't you?'

‘It was OK.'

‘So why not do it for a career?'

‘Because …' I don't know how to explain it in any way that he'll understand. He's going to frigging Cambridge, for God's sake. To be a doctor. How can he understand that shovelling horse shit is out of my league? Then I get annoyed at myself, because one thing I've learned this week is that there's a hell of a lot more to it than shovelling shit.

But he's talking again. ‘Surely there must be a course you can do at the tech?'

‘For horses?'

‘My friend's sister went off to do something like that. Racehorses, I think she works with. She went to college. Where was it? Enniskillen, I think.'

‘I couldn't go to Enniskillen.' I'm not even sure where it is.

‘Why not?'

I'm about to say I couldn't leave my mum, but I catch myself on. I remember last Friday night.
Just piss off, Declan
. So what if I did? What if I pissed off to Enniskillen? Or anywhere? It's such a big thought that I nearly choke on my chips.

Rory wraps his empty chip packet up tidily. ‘You should at least find out about it. Seriously. Though the way you handled that horse today, maybe you should go into the circus.'

‘Yeah, maybe.' I can see myself telling Mr Dermott that.

But I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to look it up.

Chapter 22

VICKY

I leaned over Dad's chair as he squinted at the label on the bottle. He was too vain to wear his glasses except for work.

‘I don't know if we should have champagne,' I said. ‘I feel a bit mean.'

‘You won fair and square, darling.'

‘Yes, you were brilliant, Vicky.' Fiona set three glasses on the table. ‘Two fantastic rounds. Those lessons are obviously paying off, Peter.'

‘I should hope so, at twenty-five quid a go,' said Dad, but he smiled as he twisted the bottle to uncork it.

‘Flight was
amazing
.' I couldn't keep my mouth from stretching into a grin at the memory of Flight, confident and clever underneath me, launching at every jump without hesitation. ‘It's just that we probably wouldn't have won if Patrick had been jumping.'

‘You don't
know
that,' Dad put in. ‘Anyway, it's put you at the top of the league.'

‘For now.' I crossed my fingers.

‘Well, there's only the Ulster final to go now, isn't there?' asked Fiona.

‘Yeah, but it's not for three weeks – the Saturday before Christmas.'

‘Here – don't let it overflow.' Dad sloshed the champagne into the glasses. We always seemed to be drinking champagne these days. Not that I was complaining. ‘I hear your chap was the hero of the hour.'

‘
Chap
? Wise up, Dad!' I took a glug of champagne and the fizz went up my nose. ‘But yes, he knew exactly what to do,' I went on, mainly for the pleasure of talking about Rory. I'd been
so
gutted when he hadn't turned up to see my two perfect rounds, but when I realised he'd been at the centre of the drama outside, that made it all OK. And he
had
been in time to see our lap of honour, galloping round the arena with our red rosettes flying, the four of us. Magic. And Rory clapping and smiling from the side, fresh from his heroics. I was so proud of him.

‘
And
Declan,' Fiona reminded me, as if she could read my thoughts.

I had to be generous. ‘Yeah, they were both pretty good.'

Rory had told me all about it afterwards. I'd been putting Flight back onto the trailer and he'd come to talk to me. ‘You should have seen that horse, Vicky,' he said, looking sick at the memory. ‘I thought he was going to flatten Declan. I ducked! But he just grabbed and held on. Honestly, if he hadn't been so brave, God knows what that horse would have done!'

‘Probably just stood around the car park eating grass,' I said. ‘Can you pass me that tail bandage?'

‘Um, this?'

‘No, that's a travelling boot. That blue thing.'

‘Oh.' He handed it to me. ‘You're the one who knows about horses. But to me that horse looked pretty het up. He might have run onto the road or anything.'

‘Well, he didn't.'

As if he'd just noticed, Rory glanced up and down at me. Under my warm, quilted coat I was still wearing my black jacket, white breeches and black leather boots. Despite the cold, damp air I felt my cheeks burn. ‘You look very …' He paused. ‘I was going to say very sexy but you might think that's a bit forward.'

I'd never been called sexy before in my life! ‘Thanks,' I said, and bent down to fix Flight's boots so he couldn't see how much I was blushing.

‘So you're heading back to your dad's?'

‘Soon as we drop this champion showjumper home.' I scratched Flight's damp neck.

‘For the whole weekend?'

‘Yeah. But it's only at Drumbo.'

‘I'm away next week,' he said. ‘Got my Cambridge interview. I'll be back on Thursday. Maybe we could go out on Friday for a pizza or something? I could take you to your dad's afterwards.'

‘Oh, that's OK. He could pick me up on Saturday morning.' My heart thumped.

‘Would you wear those jodhpur things?' He grinned.

‘Ha ha!' I threw a dandy brush at him, he grabbed at my coat and next minute he was kissing me. I touched his face. It was damp but his cheeks were warm. Like mine. I never thought my first kiss would be on the ramp of a horsebox in the rain.

Remembering it now made me fizzy inside – it wasn't just the champagne.

* * *

‘Homework all done?'

‘Mum, you ask me that every Sunday night.' I shrugged my rucksack off my shoulders.

‘Well, it's not long until your mocks.'

‘I did Geography coursework all afternoon.'

‘What about the yard? Declan said he didn't see you.'

‘Well, it was too wet to ride. Not much point.'

‘You used to hang around there for hours in all weathers.'

‘Well, yes, when I was a
kid
. But you grow out of that stage.' I remembered myself with fat, short plaits and pink little-girl jodhpurs, buzzing round Cam begging to be allowed to help. That's the stage Declan's at, I thought patronisingly. Then I remembered what Cam was always saying. ‘It doesn't matter how much you ride a horse, you need to build up the relationship on the ground as well.' I supposed I could have gone up and just groomed him or something. But there was always next week, I thought, rummaging round in my rucksack for my memory stick. ‘Just going to print this out,' I told Mum. ‘Dad's printer's out of ink.' I bounded upstairs, threw my bag into my room and went next door to the tiny box room where the computer lived.

‘Oh.' I stopped. No one was
ever
on the computer. Officially mum and I shared it but it was basically mine. And there was Declan, so intent on what he was doing that he obviously hadn't heard me come in.

‘Hi.'

‘Oh, hiya.' He swung round. But not before I'd seen him hit ‘minimise'. ‘Um, do you want on?'

I waved my memory stick. ‘I need to print something.'

‘I'll just –' He nodded at the screen and I realised he was waiting for me to leave. This was
my
house and
my
computer!

I walked on into the room. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Something for school.' He looked even more furtive than usual.

Yeah right. I had never seen him do
anything
for school.

‘So why've you minimised it?' A thought struck me. ‘Are you looking up
porn
?'

He didn't miss a beat. ‘Yeah,' he said. ‘Rory showed me some really good sites. Want to see?'

‘Very funny.'

He hit a few keys too quickly for me to see what he was doing and stood up. ‘All yours.'

I had to step aside to let him out. And as he squeezed past me the sudden sweet whiff of haylage and horse sweat reminded me he'd been at the yard all day. It was true that I hadn't gone up because of the weather but I knew it was partly because he was there. Another two weeks at the most, I thought, plugging in my memory stick. Then he'll be gone. Out of this house and out of the yard.

I clicked on my Geography coursework and checked through it before printing. I'll just check my emails, I thought, going online. The ‘history' icon seemed to flash at me. Of course! I clicked it. Sites visited today.

That's when I found out what he'd been up to.

It wasn't porn.

I wish it had been.

* * *

Becca pulled her History textbook further up to hide her face. A group at the front were doing a presentation about the Nazis and the wet dweeb of a student teacher could only focus on one thing at a time so we were pretty safe as long as we whispered. ‘I can't see what the problem is,' she mouthed. ‘So he was looking up courses at agricultural college. Big deal. It's a free country.'

‘Yes but –'

‘Vic, what odds is it to you if he goes and trains to be a … a groom or whatever it's called?'

‘Well, it's …' I shrugged. I knew it sounded stupid.
My
thing.
My
mum.
My
house.
My
yard.
My
horse. ‘Anyway,' I went on, partly to convince myself. ‘He hasn't got a mission. He knows nothing. He needn't think a few days shovelling shit in a small yard is proper experience.'

‘Do they not train you on the course, though?'

‘They don't just take anyone!' The teacher raised anxious eyes in our direction and frowned. I sighed and scribbled in the corner of my exercise book:
You have to be a competent rider
. I remembered finding him riding round the school on Flight like he had a right to.

Becca scrawled back:
Tell me at break
!

At break we sat on our wall. ‘Vicky, I can't believe you're being so unfair,' Fliss said, unwrapping a Mars bar. ‘You just said this place was miles away. How is it going to have
any
impact on you?'

‘It's just – it's a bit cheeky, isn't it? Anyway, I told you. He won't get in. They'll laugh at him if he even gets as far as applying. I mean, he hasn't exactly become a competent rider in a
week
, has he? And,' I went on before she could answer, ‘you have to have four GCSEs.'

‘
Four
? Surely anyone could get four GCSEs?' said Becca.

‘Yeah, Becs, anyone normal, at a normal school. But he goes to a thick school. Half of them don't get any exams at all. They're just hoods. Anyway, can we please talk about something else?'

Becca's round face looked hurt. ‘You're the one who's obsessing about this!'

‘Indeed you are, Miss Moore,' agreed Fliss. ‘
And
we're getting fed up with it.'

‘
What
?' I felt like something had stung me. ‘What d'you mean?'

‘What I said,' said Fliss. ‘No, I mean it, Becs,' as Becca opened her mouth, ‘we agreed we should say something.'

‘You
agreed
?'

‘It's just…' Becca chewed her lip. ‘Every time you talk about Declan you're so … like, so
poisonous
. Honestly, Vic – you should listen to yourself.'

‘But I've hardly even mentioned him!'

‘But when you
do
,' Becca persisted. It was so unlike her to criticise anyone.

I looked at Fliss. ‘So you guys have been
talking
about me?'

‘We just don't like to hear you being so bitchy,' said Fliss. ‘You've really changed since he came to your house.'

‘Look, you don't know what you're talking about. You're just annoyed because I wouldn't let you meet him. You're not missing much, take my word for it.' It was like they'd punched me. I wondered when they'd had this little tête-à-tête about me. When I was at the show? The show they
said
they'd come to? Something struck me. ‘This has nothing to do with Declan. You're just jealous, aren't you?' I jumped off the wall and faced them both.

‘Jealous?' Becca wrinkled her forehead.

‘Of Rory.'

Fliss sucked in her breath. ‘No, Vic. If you think about it, we're the ones who
helped
you get Rory. Getting him to go to your show and everything.
You're
the jealous one – not us!'

And they stalked off and left me.

Chapter 23

DECLAN

Mr Dermott sounds fed up already. He must have had a nice week without us lot. ‘Five minutes left. And remember to do the last question
properly
. At least fifty words.'

There's a groan. A shuffling and scuffling of papers.

‘Sir, fifty
different
words?'

‘Sir, what about Cathal? He doesn't know fifty words.'

‘He can't count to fifty anyway!'

‘Sir, this is
gay
.'

‘
Four
minutes,' says Mr Dermott. ‘Anyone who can't manage to finish it now is very welcome to come back at breaktime.'

Louder sighing and groaning and ‘Sir, that's not fair!'

I look again at the green form. No one said we'd have to do all this.
What was the most valuable thing you learned on your work experience? Which of the following best describes the skills you have learned? Tick as many as apply
. I sigh. It's not that I can't do it. But it spoils it to have to put it all into words and ticks.

In front of me Seaneen Brogan's curly pony-tail bobs
up and down as she covers her green form in her huge, loopy, girly writing.

‘OK, time up. Who's coming back at break?' Mr Dermott glances at the green forms as he does the rounds. ‘Natalie – well, maybe we'll leave it.' Natalie Doyle is five months pregnant so I suppose Dermott thinks her career is sorted for a while. Natalie smirks and clutches her schoolbag to her swollen middle. Dermott flicks through more forms. ‘Cathal Gurney – see you at break.' Cathal sniffs. ‘And who's this without a name? Declan Kelly?' He sounds surprised.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Right. Breaktime in here, then, lads. Off you go.'

Seaneen grabs my arm on the way out of the classroom. I wonder if it feels muscly after all that mucking out. ‘Well, how was it?'

I shrug. ‘OK.'

She glares at me. ‘Is that all you can say?'

‘What is there to say?'

Plenty, as far as Seaneen's concerned. ‘And I just can't wait to go to the tech and do childcare,' she's still jabbering when we get to Psycho's classroom. ‘And Sandra – she's the boss – said she was going to give me a dead good report.'

‘Miss Brogan, Mr Kelly, you are
late
.' Psycho blocks the doorway, vicious as ever. She was grumpy about us going on work experience but she's even grumpier to have us back.

* * *

Mr Dermott looks at my green form. Then at me. Like something doesn't add up

‘What's wrong, sir? I filled it in right.' Not like Cathal
Gurney. Mr Dermott had to let him take his form home, though I don't think anyone in Cathal's house could do much better.

Mr Dermott runs a hand through his thin ginger hair. ‘Well, yes, technically; I mean, you've ticked all the boxes. But it's not really what I expected.'

‘What d'you mean?'

He takes out a blue form, covered in neat black writing, from a folder on his desk. ‘This came this morning. From Ms Brooke.'

Cam.

‘Ms Brooke has a great deal more to say than you.' His face breaks into a big dopy smile. ‘Declan, this is one of the best reports I've ever seen.'

‘What?'

He shakes out the blue form and makes a big deal out of putting on his glasses. ‘
Outstanding. Natural affinity with horses. Valuable member of the team. Eminently suited to this type of work. Trustworthy. Fast learner
…' Close your mouth, Declan. She wouldn't call you a fast learner if she saw you looking like that.'

I snap it shut, feeling my lips stretch into a grin wider than Mr Dermott's as I do.

‘So? What do you have to say?'

‘Well, I knew I did OK,' I begin.

He snorts. ‘OK! This is more than OK. So why,' he picks up my green form again, ‘do you have so little to say for yourself?'

‘Don't know sir. Didn't know what to put.'

‘“Don't know sir. Didn't know what to put!”' He shakes his head, takes off his glasses, and looks at me. ‘What do you intend to do with your life, lad?'

Suddenly I can say it. ‘I want to work with horses.'

‘Great!' He sounds like he means it. ‘And what will that involve? I'm afraid I don't know anything about it. We've never had anyone –'

‘There's this thing you can do.' Suddenly the words are rushing out. ‘A course. At a college in Enniskillen. The whole place is to do with animals and stuff.'

‘Agricultural college.'

‘Yeah, I looked it up on the internet.'

‘Well well. Good for you.'

‘But –' Then reality kicks in. ‘I don't know if someone like me – I mean, I probably wouldn't get in.'

‘I don't see why not.' The bell clangs for the end of break but Mr Dermott ignores it. ‘Ms Brooke would obviously give you an excellent reference.'

‘Yeah but – it's miles away.
And
you have to have four GCSEs.'

‘So?' He raises his shoulders as if anyone could get four GCSEs.

‘Sir! I haven't a hope.'

‘Not with that attitude,' he agrees. ‘And maybe not on previous form. But if you started applying yourself – well, you're not stupid. There's six months before the exams. Who knows what you could do if you tried?'

‘
Applying
myself?' It doesn't sound much like me. I think of something else. Maybe the biggest thing. ‘It says you have to be a competent rider.'

‘But Ms Brooke says, eh, let me see…' He scans the blue form again. ‘Oh yes.
Considering he has never ridden before he has made unusually swift progress
. That sounds good. Now it's only December. Surely you'd have time to get more competent before you applied for the course. Especially as she says she's happy to offer you weekend employment. So what's your problem?'

This is all going too fast. Mr Dermott's acting like all I have to do is want it and I can get it.

‘I don't know.'

‘Come on, lad! This could be your big chance.' His voice changes. ‘When I think of this time last year …'

‘Sir, don't.' People like Payne cast it up all the time, but not old Dermie.

‘Yes.' Mr Dermott scratches his cheek. ‘I don't mind telling you, I've had my worries about you. But you've kept out of trouble, more or less, haven't you? Parted company with Emmet?' He doesn't wait for an answer. Gets suddenly businesslike. ‘Right. Here's what we'll do.
You
need to start knuckling down if you're going to get those GCSEs.
I
will get all the information about the course and applying for grants – all that sort of thing. And,' he adds, ‘I'll be keeping an eye on you, make sure you're working. Is that a deal?'

I nod. Speechless. Cam's words are singing in my ears.
Outstanding. Valuable
. Walking to Technology my head's full of plans. Should I start working hard in every subject and hope for the best? Or should I target the ones I might have a chance in and give up on the hard ones? The sludge-coloured school walls melt away into a green path in the farm trail and I'm trotting up it on a chestnut horse. Its ears are pricked and it feels powerful and confident beneath me.

‘Oi, Kelly. Watch where you're going.' Emmet McCann shoves me into the wall. For once he's on his own.

‘Piss off, McCann.' I shove him back. ‘Oh dear. Is that the best they could do for your nose?'

He sniffs. ‘I can still smell
you
, anyway. How's your ma? Still up in the loony bin? Or is it the drying out clinic?'

‘I think it was casualty
you
ended up in the last time you insulted my ma, McCann?'

I'm only going through the motions. The swelling
hatred I felt the day I broke his nose, the red rage that made me thump Vicky – there's nothing like that now. I just elbow past him, laughing. Emmet McCann can't spoil this.

* * *

‘So I'll be home by the weekend,' Mum says. She pulls her cardigan tighter round her and smiles at me. ‘Don't look so worried! I thought you'd be pleased.'

‘I am. It's just, I thought you'd be in here for another few weeks.' I look around the day room. Some of the women are familiar to me now – the fat one that sings, the really skinny one with the huge eyes who only looks about my age.

‘No need,' she says. She's in a totally different mood from last week. Her eyes are clear and bright and she's lost that yellowy look she had when she first went in.

‘So you're … you're better?'

‘Haven't touched a drop.' She sounds dead proud.

‘But sure, in here, you wouldn't be able to …' I can't keep the doubt out of my voice.

She laughs. ‘Och, son, I haven't even felt the need for it. Honestly. I'm fine. I just want to get home and get things back to normal.'

‘And the doctors and all – they don't mind?'

‘Declan, anybody'd think you didn't
want
me home!' Her voice falters a bit and I rush in.

‘Course I do! It's brilliant! It's just a surprise.'

I wonder if Colette'll be as surprised as me, I wonder, walking out to the car. This is the first time I've gone in on my own since that Friday. And now – well, I suppose this is the last time I'll be in here. I turn round and look at Croob before heading over to the car.

‘I thought things were heading that way,' Colette says, starting up the engine. ‘She's been phoning me a lot, saying how well she's doing, how she wants home for Christmas.'

‘You don't think she's ready.' I can tell by her voice.

She sighs. ‘Declan, love, I hope she is. I'd just feel happier if she'd completed the programme.'

Panic surges up in me. It's too quick. I don't want to go home yet. But how can you say that? ‘She'll be fine,' I hear myself say instead. ‘I'll look after her.'

‘I know you will.' She pats my knee. ‘And you know where I am if you need me.'

We get home around eight and Colette says she's got to be out again by half past. ‘So I'll leave you to tell Vicky the good news,' she says. ‘I'm off for a shower.'

I plonk myself down at the kitchen table and pick up the English books I left there before Colette and I went up to the hospital. Vicky's making a cup of tea but she's been revising. Her books are spread out all over the table.

‘What good news?' She swings round from where she's waiting for the kettle to boil.

‘Mum's getting home. I'll be going at the weekend.'

She's probably delighted but she doesn't let it show. She pours hot water into the teapot.

What'll Mum think about me going to the yard all day Saturday and Sunday? It'll be harder to keep an eye on her. My stomach squeezes with nerves the way it always does when I let myself think about The Plan. All week Mr Dermott's been hounding me about getting the work done and he keeps giving me stuff he's downloaded about grants and career prospects. You'd think he was the one wanting to apply for the course.

Seaneen's noticed something's going on. ‘You're acting
weird,' she complained this afternoon. ‘I mean, more than usual. That's the second time this week you've done your Maths homework. And why are you redrafting that
Macbeth
essay? Sykes said you only had to do it if you wanted to try and get a better mark for your coursework. You don't have to.'

I'd just shrugged. Now, looking at the essay, I think she had a point. Maybe I won't bother after all. Then the picture from the prospectus Mr Dermott downloaded for me pops into my head – a boy and girl holding a bright chestnut racehorse – and I grit my teeth and get down to it.

Opposite me, Vicky sighs and cups her hands round her mug. ‘What are you doing?'

Macbeth
coursework. Still.'

‘I'm doing History – the Nazis.'

‘We do them.'

‘Would you ask me this when I've learned it? Mum usually does but she's going to see a film.'

‘OK. Then,' I hate asking her for anything and she was a bit weird when she caught me on the computer the other night, ‘could I use your computer to type it up on?'

‘OK.' She smiles. She's been far nicer since she started hanging round with Rory.

I look at the scribbled rubbish I handed in a couple of weeks ago. ‘Discuss the theme of guilt in
Macbeth
.' I can think of far more to write now. Like your man Macduff – he feels crap about leaving his family to get murdered. I never thought of him before. I never usually bother to do a second draft. It'll give the old cow a heart attack to see this tomorrow.

‘Can you ask me these two pages?'

‘OK.' I take her file. Her writing is dead neat and she
uses loads of highlighters. Yellow and pink and green. Very girly. I don't mind asking her the questions because it's the same stuff we do. Maybe History's one of the things I could get a C in. Vicky knows most of the answers and she pronounces the German words in a dead showy-off way.

‘Oh lovely! You're helping each other.' Colette dashes in, all perfume and smiles, and grabs her keys from the top of the fridge. ‘Vicky, love, I may be a bit late. Don't wait up.'

‘Mum! It's Thursday!'

Colette laughs. She's wearing a skirt and her eyes are all sparkly. ‘You sound like
my
mother,' she says, planting a kiss on the top of Vicky's hair. ‘Bye – be good.'

‘Declan! You haven't asked me about
Lebensraum
,' Vicky says.

‘Sorry.' I look down the page but just then her mobile starts singing and vibrating.

She grabs it and takes a deep breath. ‘Hi! How did it go?'

I lift the book with my essay in it and head up to the computer room. I'm a crap typist. I keep getting those wiggly green and red lines under everything even when I can't see what's wrong. But it looks great when I've printed it off.