The Horse Dancer (62 page)

The evening air was thick with the scent of newly mown grass, a faint hint of strawberries from the tea tent that had been set up behind the arena. There was a brief hush, then the orchestra began to play, the violin music to which they had spent weeks practising. She saw Boo’s ears prick as he recognised the sound, felt his weight shift beneath her as he readied himself for the task ahead.

Tonight they would probably share a takeaway in the little cottage on the other side of the village. Mac would tease her about boys, and Natasha would ask if she’d help to bathe Henry. She always said it as if Sarah would be doing her a huge favour, even though they both knew she loved it. In two months she would be in France.

She had a sudden sense of being . . . if not where she was meant to be then somewhere she belonged. It was as much as anyone could ask for.

She glanced at Mr Warburton, her riding instructor, who was muttering beats under his breath as he held Boo’s rein.

‘You ready?’ he said, looking up. ‘Remember what I told you. Calm, forward, straight and light.’

Sarah sat up a little straighter, closed her legs around her horse and rode out.

 

This book would not have been possible without the technical help and support of a number of people. I would like particularly to thank Nicola McCahill, and solicitor John Bolch. Any legal mistakes are completely my own, or tweaked to adjust the needs of the plot.

I am also grateful to Yolaine and Thierry Auger of Château de Verrières in Saumur, photographers Mark Molloy and Andrew Buurman, Sheila Crowley of Curtis Brown, Carolyn Mays, Auriol Bishop, Eleni Fostiropolous, Lucy Hale of Hachette UK, Linda Shaughnessy and Rob Kraitt of AP Watt.

Thanks also to Annabel Robinson of FMCM, Hazel Orme, and Francesca Best. Cathy Runciman for French translation, wine pouring and endless friendship, and Hannah Mays, Chris Luckley and Sonya Penney for a definite education during the first trip to Le Cadre Noir.

Further thanks to Drew Hazell, Cathy Scotland and Jeannie Brice, as well as Barbara Ralph and John Alexander.

To the various members of Writersblock; you know who you are.

Thanks also to Simon and Charlotte Kelvin, whose generous donation to charity means they will be popping up in some form in my next novel.

To my family, Lizzie and Brian Sanders and Jim Moyes, and most of all to Charles, Saskia, Harry and Lockie. Horse riding is research. Honest.

In 2007 I read a piece in
Philadelphia Weekly
magazine by journalist Steve Volk about a 14 year old girl called Mecca Harris. She spent all her time outside school hours at an urban stables in Philadelphia, taught a love of horses, and skill at riding, by the Philadelphia Black Cowboys, an institution that offers children in the city’s toughest neighbourhoods a chance, through horses, to seek a different way of life.

She had a natural ability, and determination, and was chosen to play polo against Yale, with the all-black Work to Ride team. In autumn 2003 she received application forms from a prestigious Polo school in California, but she never got as far as filling them out.

On October 15, 2003 Mecca Harris, her mother and her mother’s boyfriend were found murdered in their home, victims of an alleged drug killing.

This story stuck in my mind not because of the compelling pictures of Mecca, a skinny little jockey, her braids visible under her riding hat. But because, while my life was never underprivileged as hers was, I could have been that girl. My teenage years were spent at urban stables dotted around London backstreets; my arenas the local parks. Horses kept me out of trouble (although my parents may disagree) and gave me a passion that has lasted thirty years.

I now live on a farm. I get to keep a horse in green fields, instead of under a railway arch. Mecca Harris should have had her green fields. This book is dedicated to her, and children like her, for whom horses can be a way out.

About the Author