Taking Flight (11 page)

‘Oh right. Yes, that should be fine.' She sounds a bit cold. Normally she talks to Vicky like she really loves her. Thinking about Vicky coming back home tomorrow night is enough to make my last couple of chips turn to cold rubber in my mouth.

Tomorrow I have to apologise.

Dear Vicky. I am sorry that I hit you. Declan Kelly
.

Only this time, that won't be enough.

Chapter 18

VICKY

The horses arched their necks and pranced at the entrance to the farm trail. Even Joy, normally quiet and sweet, was all bizz, ears pricked and nostrils flared. It was that kind of afternoon that made you feel you could run up a mountain or gallop for miles – all gold and blue and sharp. The cold air scratched my eyes – I'd hardly slept last night. One minute I was over the moon about Rory; the next I'd remember what I'd said to Declan.

‘God, I've missed this,' Fiona said, stroking Joy's grey freckled neck. ‘I hadn't realised how much.'

‘I'm never having babies,' I stated. ‘Not if it means not being able to ride for months.'

Fiona laughed. ‘I used to say that. But things change – mind you, I hope you won't even think about it for at least another ten years. Fifteen would be better.'

‘Mum was only nineteen when she had me.'

‘Well, yes.' You could tell she didn't want to say anything nasty about Mum. She changed the subject. ‘Mossbrook again next Saturday?'

‘Yes. Can't wait. We
so
want to qualify for Dublin.'

A bird flew out of the hedge and Flight skittered sideways, bumping into Joy who laid back her ears and made a face at him. Fiona laughed. ‘Lucky for me Sally's been riding her. She'd have been too fresh for me today otherwise.'

‘Flight's a bit full of himself,' I admitted, as he nearly pulled my arms out of their sockets. ‘He could do with more exercise during the week.'Specially if I'm going to keep him fit enough for showjumping.' I had a horrible image of myself next week at Mossbrook, storming round the arena, out of control, letting the team down. In front of Rory. ‘D'you think Dad would pay for a few extra lessons? Like, one a week?'

I'd meant to ask him last night but as soon as we'd got home he and Fiona had given me this gorgeous French perfume so it didn't seem the moment to ask for more.

Fiona considered. ‘What does Cam charge for private lessons?'

‘Twenty-five.'

‘Hmm. That's a fair bit on top of what he pays for your livery.'

‘Oh Fiona!' I couldn't believe she was being so negative. ‘It's only for a few weeks, till the league's over. He can afford it.'

‘It's not that. But he might think you should pay half or something.'

‘But that'd be half my pocket money!' I bet if Molly needed an extra twenty-five pounds' worth of nappies every week he wouldn't think twice, I gloomed, biting at my glove. ‘What's the point in buying me a showjumper and not letting me have proper lessons?'

Fiona laughed. ‘Vicky, he hasn't said no yet! Look,
sweetheart, it's nothing to do with me.' She could always cop out of things by saying they weren't her business. ‘I tell you what,' she said, ‘I'll put in a word for you.'

‘OK.' I smiled at her. She looked easy and relaxed on Joy, even if it was a year since she'd been in the saddle. But then Fiona had been riding since she was four. We turned on to a grassy path and Flight gave a high-spirited buck and snatched at the bit.

‘Soon,' I told him, looking round for logs to jump.

‘Oh yes, Cam said your cousin was coming up to help next week,' said Fiona, as if she had just remembered. ‘Work experience or something?'

‘Hmm.' I felt my good mood evaporate. I twisted a bit of Flight's red mane. I licked the inside of my mouth, feeling again the raw, sore flesh. Imagining it red and open. You cow. You nasty, vindictive cow. ‘Are you up for a canter? Race you to the top of that hill.'

* * *

Dad lounged in his favourite armchair, rugby on the TV, Molly at his feet on her activity mat. She kept rolling onto her side and grabbing Dad's feet and gurgling.

‘Aww,' said Fiona. ‘Are you playing rugby with your daddy's foot? Are you? Are you?'

Puke
, I thought. Talking of which, there was a distinct whiff of shit in the air. Had everyone else lost their sense of smell?

‘I don't know why you say she's so exhausting to look after all day, Fi,' said Dad with a smug air. ‘We've had a great time together. She's been as happy as Larry all afternoon. Who
was
Larry, anyway?'

‘No idea. But I bet whoever he was he wouldn't have
been so happy if
he'd
had a dirty nappy,' said Fiona, swooping down and bearing Molly off to change her.

I plonked myself down on the sofa, shifting Tigger from down the side of the cushion. Molly was obsessed with him. I hardly ever let her touch him but that morning I'd let her have him for a while. I wriggled my toes. We'd ended up riding round the farm trail for two hours and my legs were aching.

On screen the rugby looked muddy and primeval. There was a clique of girls at school whose boyfriends played on various teams. They were always getting up early on Saturdays and watching them in the rain. If if
if
anything happened with Rory would I be one of them? I imagined him coming off the pitch, sweaty and muddy, hugging me. I found the idea strangely exciting. And he was coming to watch me jump! This time next week! I imagined myself trotting out of the arena, bending down and kissing him on the way past. What would he think of my legs in white jodhpurs? I stretched them out on the sofa. There was no getting away from it – they were pretty sturdy.

‘Here, darling, go to your big sister.' I started out of my Rory-dream as Fiona plopped Molly – now thankfully smelling of baby powder – in my lap. ‘Keep her occupied while I make dinner?'

‘OK,' I mumbled. I joggled her about a bit.

‘Dah!' she said, grabbing at my pony-tail. I prised her hands away. Delighted at this game, she shrieked, ‘Dah!' again and yanked harder.

‘Ouch! That hurt!' I released my hair. ‘Bad girl, Molly.'

She roared with laughter. Her cheeks were big red balloons.

Dad turned round. ‘Vicky! Can you not keep her a bit quieter? This is the last ten minutes. Honestly, you girls. You just get her all excited. She was as good as gold for me.'

I laid her down on her activity mat but she grizzled and arched her back.

‘I know.' I pulled out Tigger. She crowed and made a grab for him. Seconds later all was peaceful. Dad beamed at the screen – Ireland was winning; Molly beamed at Tigger and stuck his ear in her mouth. She did look quite cute. I sighed and picked up
Macbeth
. We had a test on Monday. I tried not to mind Molly slobbering all over Tigger's ears and wondered if he would survive going into the washing machine.

* * *

‘Hey, Mum, where are you?' I could hear cutlery and talking in the background.

Mum laughed. ‘In a chip shop in Newcastle.' She said it as if this was a perfectly normal place for her to be on a Saturday evening in November.

‘Why?'

‘You're always telling me to get out more.'

‘Yes, but…'

So he was getting a reward for hitting me! Suddenly I felt really confused. Mum's voice was low and furtive. ‘Look, Vic, when you get back tomorrow night Declan will apologise to you. Naturally.'

‘Hmm.' I picked at a loose thread on my jodhpurs.

‘And you,
naturally
, will apologise to him.'

I sighed. ‘I know.' I pulled the thread out.

‘OK, just wanted to make that clear.'

I ended the call and pushed open the living-room door. Fiona was leaning over Dad's chair.

‘So you see, Peter darling, she really does need those lessons. I mean, this could be her big chance.' She sounded very earnest. They both turned and smiled when they heard me.

Dad stretched out his hand to me. ‘What's all this, princess? Letting your wicked stepmother get round me? You'll have me ruined between the pair of you.'

I shot Fiona a grateful glance. ‘So I can have the lessons?'

‘You can have the lessons. On one condition.'

‘What?'

‘You make sure you qualify for Dublin!'

I hugged them both. ‘I'll do my best!'

* * *

A low drone of conversation came from behind the kitchen door. When I pushed it open the talking died. There was Declan at the table just as he'd been that first night – was it only two weeks ago? Mum was ironing. The air was steamy and linen-scented. My school uniform hung over the back of a chair.

‘Hello, love.' She folded the T-shirt she was ironing and added it to a pile of clothes. I saw at once that it was
his
T-shirt;
his
clothes. My chest contracted.

‘OK.' Mum switched off the iron at the wall. ‘Just going to take these upstairs.' She closed the door on her way out. Nought out of ten for subtlety, Mum.

I picked some grapes out of the fruit bowl.

Declan picked at a rough bit on the table.

He stared at me, his eyes like burnt matches. I stared
back. He was looking at my mouth. There was nothing to see now, from the outside. He slid his eyes away first. ‘Vicky.' He'd hardly ever said my name before. ‘I'm sorry I hit you.'

I seemed to see everything with hyper-clarity. A muscle twitched in his jaw. There was a tiny mole I'd never noticed before on his left cheek. He bit the side of his finger and I saw for the first time a strange round scar on the back of his hand.

Something tight and hard uncurled inside me. ‘I'm sorry,' I said. It was easier than I thought. ‘I mean,
really
sorry.'

His dark eyes widened. ‘Oh,' he said. ‘Thanks. And,' in a rush, ‘your book –'

I'd almost forgotten. ‘Oh yeah. Well, you can just get it next week. Whatever.'

He nodded. The room was heavy with that awful mixture of embarrassment and goodwill that follows an apology. Fliss and Becca and I used to fall out all the time when we were younger. But we'd cry and hug each other. It's easier when you're girls. It's easier when you actually
like
each other.

Chapter 19

DECLAN

Cam looks in the wheelbarrow. ‘Hmm.' She grins at me. ‘Don't worry, it gets easier.'

It'd need to. Seaneen was right about the shit. I'm up to my eyes in it. I've been here for two hours and already I've seen, shovelled and smelled more horse shit than I knew existed.

Mucking out is backbreaking. It's also dead tricky. You have to sort of persuade the stuff onto a fork and make sure you aren't lifting up half the bed with it. Then you have to make the bed all neat again. I'm sweating like a boxer and my shoulders are killing me. What have I got myself into? This is only shit-shovelling and I can't even get it right. I straighten up and wipe the sweat out of my eyes. My hands stink of piss and shit. This is only my second bed.

Jim's about a hundred but he has six beds finished before I get to my third. He doesn't say much, but every so often he looks at what I've done and gives his verdict. Usually a sniff. The best I get is ‘not bad'.

It takes most of the morning to get the beds finished. Then Cam gets me stuffing hay nets again. At least I know how to do that. It's cold in the big, open-sided hayshed and the sweat running down my back chills and dries. Cam takes horses out one at a time and works them in the school. She stands in the middle and they run round her on a rope. I recognise Flight. He dances, lifting his legs high. He looks amazing but a bit mad. When she cracks her whip he shoots his back legs out behind him before going dead fast. His hooves pound the hard sand and his neck arches like a charger. I have to make myself look away and concentrate on my hay nets.

‘This one needs more than the odd lunge,' Cam calls to Jim when she brings Flight in, sweating. ‘If Vicky expects to jump him properly she should be exercising him every day. A lesson a week and a quick lunge when I've time – which, let's face it, isn't very often at the minute – isn't enough.'

‘More money than sense,' growls Jim. ‘I could have bought ten horses for what they paid for that.'

I get on with stuffing the nets. It's like they've forgotten Vicky's anything to do with me, which suits me.

‘Here,' says Cam. ‘You want to know how to put a rug on?'

‘OK.' I might as well. Even though I am going to walk out of this yard at the end of the week and never see another horse. Vicky probably thinks I can't do it. Mum doesn't care. Seaneen thinks it's just shovelling shit. So I learn how to put a rug on Flight. It's like putting on a coat with loads of straps. Flight looks bored and stamps his feet a bit, but even when I do up one of the straps wrong Cam's dead patient. ‘It's OK,' she says. ‘Just try again.'

I don't have many minutes to stop all day. This place is all go. Horses out to the field. Horses in from the field. Nudge's owner comes and leads her to the edge of the school to eat grass. She spends ages with Nudge, grooming her and talking to her and hosing her bad leg with cold water. If I had a horse I would do all that.

Me and Jim eat our lunch in the tack room. That's where they keep the saddles and that. Colette gave me sandwiches this morning and by the time I get to eat them I'm starving. Normally at this time on a Monday I'd be in Psycho's class getting the bollocks bored off me.

‘You'll be tired the night,' says Jim. ‘Weekends are enough for me these days. It's as much as I can do to see to my own horses. But I wouldn't see Cam stuck.'

‘How long have you worked for her?' Jim's easier to talk to than most people.

He chews a bit of bread. ‘It'd be a right few years now. I worked for her da and then when he was killed and she opened up the yard I just stayed on.'

‘Her dad was killed?'

‘Oh aye, and her ma. In a car crash. She was only nineteen. She inherited the farm and started up the horses all by herself. There's not many could do that.'

‘No.' It's weird to think Cam's family died the same way my dad did.

Jim is skinny with tattoos and gaps in his teeth. He wears one of those old-man caps and a waxed jacket that's so faded you could only guess what colour it started off as. He doesn't look like a man who would have his own horses. I thought only snobs could afford horses.

Talking of snobs, after lunch I have to lead this wee kid round on Hero, a tiny pony, while Cam gives him a lesson. He's so small his legs don't even reach to the
bottom of the saddle, but he has all the gear. Hat and boots and those jodhpur things Vicky has. And a wicked-looking whip. All matching. His mum hangs over the fence watching every move. ‘Oh, well
done
, Casper, darling!' Casper! No wonder he's a prat. When it's time to get down he doesn't even pat Hero or anything. Just runs to his mum on his fat legs shrieking, ‘I want a
fast
pony next time, Mummy. That stupid pony's too
slow
.'

By the time I take Hero to his stable and take off his tack – Cam shows me what to do – it's getting dark. I stand in the yard with Hero's saddle over my arm and sense the dim, quiet fields all round. The clean, cold air burns my nostrils. It's weird to be somewhere without streets and lights and cars. I can't believe how fast the day's gone. I've mucked out six stables, put on three rugs, filled twelve hay nets, pushed a million wheelbarrows to the muck heap and brought five horses in from the field. That was the best bit, handling the horses. I know some of the names. Flight is my favourite. I sort of wish he wasn't. Then there's Nudge, of course, and a hairy black one called Kizzy.

The last thing I do is make up feeds. Or rather, watch Jim do it. You'd think it'd be easy but it isn't. The horses all get different stuff: food to make them put on weight, food to make them lose weight, food to make them calm, food to make them lively. Garlic. Herbs. Vitamins. There's a chart on the wall with it all written down. Jim sends me round the stables with the food. The horses don't even look at me. They tear straight in and then there's just the sound of munching. I'm starving too. Lunch feels like ages ago.

‘You'd better hurry if you're going to get that bus,' Cam says as I'm coming out of Nudge's stable. It feels like
years since I got the bus this morning yet today's gone a million times faster than a normal day. School gives you too much time to think. As I pick up my bag from the tack room I realise I'm looking forward to tomorrow.

‘I'll take him to the bus stop,' says Jim. ‘Sure it's only a minute out of my way and it's raining again. Come on, son.'

Jim's car is this ancient old Land Rover you have to really climb into. It smells of damp and dogs and smoke. He lights a cigarette and turns the key in the ignition. Country and western jangles out. Jim parks the car in a gateway and waits until we see the lights of the bus coming round the corner.

‘See you tomorrow,' he says as I climb down. ‘You done well the day, son,' he adds. ‘Fair play to you.'

* * *

A blonde woman swings her leg over Joy's saddle and dismounts right beside where I'm filling the hay nets.

‘Hello there,' she says. ‘You're Declan?'

I nod. She must be Fiona, Vicky's da's wife. I wonder what Vicky's told her about me. Nothing, or she wouldn't be so nice. She smiles and says, ‘Getting on OK?'

‘I think so.'

‘Would you like a ride on Joy? She's very quiet, and I've just had her out for an hour so she's pretty tired. Why don't you ride her round the school for ten minutes? You can cool her down for me.' She has a posh voice but she's smiley.

‘I can't ride.' It's stupid how much I hate admitting this.

‘Time you learned.' She shoves her hat at me.

I scramble up. Joy's smaller than Flight and not as bouncy. As we walk across the yard to the school I try to remember the stuff Vicky taught me.

‘Hey,' Fiona says, ‘thought you couldn't ride?'

‘I can't. This is my second time. Vicky let me have a go on Flight last week.'

Her blue eyes widen at this. ‘Gosh, you're privileged! Now, heels down.'

She stands in the middle of the school and I walk round her. Joy is sort of lollopy. It doesn't feel as amazing as it did on Flight but I can feel myself relaxing more.

Cam pauses at the gate of the school, a tangle of head-collars in her arms. ‘Hi Fiona! You pinching my new worker?'

Fiona laughs. ‘You don't mind?'

‘Course not. He deserves it. He's learned more in three days than most people do in a month.'

She can't mean this – I have to ask Jim about a thousand questions an hour – but it's a nice thing to say.

‘Remember you're staying here until Vicky comes up later,' Cam reminds me, when the three of us are walking back to the yard with Joy.

I haven't forgotten. Hanging round here will be loads better than getting the bus back to Belfast. When I sit down to eat my lunch I see that Colette's packed twice as much as usual so I can have some later, but I'm so hungry I eat most of the extra sandwiches as well. I go out to put the papers in the bin and Cam says, ‘If you clean all the tack this afternoon – I'll show you what to do – I'll give you a lesson at teatime. You can ride Kizzy. Fiona reckons you're a natural, so let's see if she's right.'

* * *

I don't know about being a natural. It doesn't feel like it when I bounce and bump all over Kizzy's broad back as Cam stands in the middle of the school hollering, ‘Up down, up down, up down, oh you nearly had it there. OK, bring her back to walk and get your breath back.'

My legs scream with pain and Kizzy sighs – she's probably pissed off with me by now. Cam's trying to teach me that rising trot thing. It looks easy when you see other people do it but getting your own legs to respond to the up and down beat of the horse is a different story. And every time your arse hits the hard leather of the saddle with a bump it
wrecks
you.

Thank God Jim's gone home and there's no one around. I must look even stupider than I feel. Please don't let Vicky arrive yet. Every time I hit the saddle I think, that's it, my legs are going to give up now, they can't lift me up this time, but every time I grit my teeth and they do.

‘Don't
try
so hard! Relax and it'll come!'

Relax! If I had enough breath I would tell Cam where to go. Then suddenly – I can do it! Not every time, but for about ten strides I get it right. Then bump, bump, bump and yes, I get it again. Up – down – up – down. I laugh. ‘I can do it!'

Cam laughs too. ‘Well done. OK, walk for a bit and get a rest.'

‘No way. I don't want to forget how to do it.'

She's suddenly severe. ‘Declan. When I say walk you walk. And you need to think of your horse. D'you think Kizzy enjoys trotting round in circles non-stop?'

I slow to a walk. ‘Sorry.'

‘Most important thing – always put your horse first. If you want a machine, get a bike.' But she's smiling. For
half an hour she keeps me working, sometimes walking, sometimes trotting, and every time it gets easier.

‘When can I canter?'

‘Typical boy. I suppose you think you'll be jumping round these jumps by the end of the week!'

When she says ‘the end of the week' my legs betray me and for a few strides I'm bumping and sliding again like an eejit. Only two more days. Next week it'll be back to school and this will seem like a dream. A busy, exciting, unreal step sideways from my real life. I know I won't be jumping by the end of the week. Or any time.

‘Well done,' says Cam. ‘OK, you can put her to bed and get Flight out for Vicky.'

As I'm tacking up Flight – I can do it properly as long as I concentrate – Cam comes into the stable. ‘Just got a text from Vicky. They're running a bit late. Can you take him out and warm him up? Just walk him round the school, get him loosened up a bit. I've another lesson at eight and if he isn't loosened up there won't be time for her to jump him.'

‘Me? Take
Flight
?'

‘It's only to walk him round the school for fifteen minutes. He won't do anything. Just keep him on a loose rein and be gentle but firm.'

‘But –'

‘Go on, Declan. I need to go and grab a sandwich. I'll be right back. I promise you'll be fine. I wouldn't let you do it if I didn't think you were perfectly competent.'

Riding round the floodlit school on Flight, all my own, is – magic. At first I think he'll play me up but Cam's right – he just walks round the school. Beyond the fence everything is dark, but in here is our own lit-up world. Just me and Flight. Our breath snakes into the
night like the aftermath of a firework. I reach down and clap his warm neck.

A brisk thud of riding boot on concrete replaces the muffled skim of Flight's hoof beats in the sand. I look up to see Vicky pulling up at the gate. ‘Oh!' she says. ‘I didn't know that was
you
.'

At her words the spell holding me and Flight splinters.

‘Yeah. Cam said if he wasn't warmed up there wouldn't be enough time for you to jump.' I try not to sound apologetic – after all Cam did
tell
me. I bring him to the gate, kick my feet out of the stirrups like she taught me, and try to jump off. I brace my legs for landing, willing them not to buckle like they've done the other two times. Not a chance, though: all that trotting has wrecked them and my knees give way before I can stop them. Please let her not have seen. It's like a test and for some reason I have to pass. She's been a lot nicer since I gave her that thump on the mouth but as she grabs the reins from me her eyes are cold as pebbles.