The Sweetest Thing (29 page)

‘How is she today?’ I ask.

‘Good,’ Georgia says, picking up a brush from the grooming kit, which has a decidedly pink theme.

‘I thought your favourite colour was blue,’ I say, taking the brush as she hands it to me.

‘Blue doesn’t suit her,’ Georgia says. ‘She’s going to have pink everything.’

‘She doesn’t need anything else, surely?’ I’m really regretting what happened to Penny’s wedding cake now, because that would have gone a long way towards paying for the pony.

‘She needs a fly mask and lightweight raincoat.’

‘Ponies don’t need coats.’ I touch the brush to Bracken’s neck and sweep it down her shoulder, following the lie of the hair. ‘They have their own.’

‘It’s so that when it rains and I want to ride her, she’ll be dry.’

‘Can’t you put her in the stable?’

‘S’pose, but I noticed this pink rug when we were going round Tack ’n’ Hack … and a pink wheel-barrow.’ Georgia squirts some conditioning detangler on to Bracken’s tail before she takes a brush to it. When she’s finished that, she sprays the pony all over with fly repellent.

‘I should be a bit more sparing with that in future,’ I say gently. I can taste it on the back of my tongue.

Georgia fetches her hat and Bracken’s tack, at which point the pony takes exception to the saddle. She snorts at it and rolls her beady little eyes as if to say, I’ve never seen one of those before. When Georgia lifts it up to put it on her back, she sidles away then back again, pushing Georgia out of her way. Remembering how Delphi dealt with it before, I take hold of Bracken’s head collar.

‘That’s enough,’ I growl at her. ‘Stand still.’ Bracken doesn’t move. ‘Go on, Georgia. Put the saddle on.’ Bracken doesn’t even put her ears back as Georgia slides it on to her back and fastens the girth. ‘You see, I’ll make a horse-whisperer yet.’

‘A horse-shouter, more like,’ Georgia says, smiling, as she puts the bridle on.

I hang on to Bracken while Georgia mounts from an upturned bucket, then I walk with them to the paddock, through the pony trap and out the far side, my plan being to take a circular route, going up past the apple trees, along the hedge at the top, then dropping back past the pond and through the copse. Bracken has other ideas though. We reach the end of the hedge safely, but then she stops and stands there.

‘Come on, Bracken,’ I say.

Georgia gives her a squeeze with her legs and Bracken puts her ears back. Now, I might not know anything about ponies, but I’m surprised how easy it is to understand what they’re saying. Bracken is saying ‘no’, and to me that seems totally out of order. Georgia loves her to bits, but Bracken doesn’t seem to have any respect for her owner at all.

With growing impatience, I move around behind her – out of range of her hind legs – and click my tongue, like Guy did. Bracken doesn’t budge. Her ears
remain pinned back to her head and the skin around her muzzle wrinkles up. She looks decidedly cross. In fact, I’m not sure which of us is more annoyed.

‘I’ll get her going, Mum.’ Georgia takes a stronger hold on the reins and kicks with her legs, at which Bracken leaps forwards, spins round and gallops off the way we came, leaving Georgia in a heap at my feet, my heart in my mouth and all kinds of worst-case scenarios running through my head.

Groaning, Georgia tries to sit up.

‘Georgia! Keep still.’ I’m down beside her in the mud, holding her. ‘Where does it hurt?’

‘My arm,’ she says, pointing to just above her wrist.

‘I think you’ve broken it,’ I say gently. ‘Does it hurt anywhere else? Your back? Your neck?’

‘No …’ she says, uncertain.

‘Do you think you can stand up?’

‘I think so.’ I help her up. She’s trying to be brave, but every so often a small sob escapes her. ‘Try to hold your arm close to your chest. We’re going to have to get you to hospital.’

‘What about Bracken? We can’t leave her in the field with her tack on.’

I don’t say anything. I’ll only upset her further, because as far as I’m concerned I don’t care what happens to Bracken when she clearly doesn’t care what happens to my precious daughter. She’s a liability, and I wish I’d never set eyes on her. I bite back tears of regret and exhaustion. I’ve been up all night and had a stressful day. The last thing I needed was this.

On the way down through the paddock, I check the time on my mobile. It’s two-thirty. With a bit of luck Guy won’t have started the milking yet. I call him, my fingers trembling as I dial his number.

‘Guy, I’m really sorry to bother you again, especially on such a difficult day, but I have another favour to ask you …’

By the time I’ve explained, he’s walking down the drive towards the yard gate.

‘There’s a minor injuries unit in Talyton,’ he says, looking anxious. ‘It’s open all day, including weekends. I’ll get Adam to help me see to the pony. You get going.’

I glance at Georgia – she looks as if she’s about to faint, so I get her straight into the car, then call for Sophie to bring a book to read and come with us. We spend three hours at the minor injuries unit, having Georgia’s arm X-rayed and put in a cast and being given an appointment to see a consultant at the hospital in a week’s time.

‘You won’t be riding for a while,’ the nurse says, smiling, and I have to admit to myself that I’m relieved to hear it. I don’t think I could bear to see her on that pony – on any pony – again. Georgia apparently feels otherwise.

‘When can I ride again?’ she asks.

‘It’ll be another six to eight weeks, I’m afraid.’

‘I’ve only just got a pony, and now I can’t ride her,’ Georgia says, her voice quavering. ‘It’s such a shame,’ she goes on, sobbing into a tissue.

I hold her in my arms, unable to console her. I don’t tell her my decision – it’d be too traumatic. However, I have made up my mind. Bracken goes.

Back at home, I let Georgia call David. Now that her arm isn’t hurting so much, she’s quite cheerful. I overhear her speaking. How proud she is when she says, ‘I fell off my pony, Bracken.’ The conversation is brief, then she tries to hand the phone over to me.

‘Dad wants a word,’ she says as I back away, miming that I don’t want to talk to him, but Georgia doesn’t get what I mean and thrusts the phone into my hand.

‘What did you think were you doing, Jennie?’ He starts talking
at
me.

‘I couldn’t have been any more careful, David.’

‘You’re unbelievably stupid sometimes … so irresponsible.’

‘I was walking with her,’ I say, hurt by his accusation. ‘The pony ran away.’

‘You could have stopped it.’

‘I don’t know how.’

‘Pulled on its reins, jumped in front of it, anything.’

‘David, you know nothing about horses.’

‘Neither do you.’

I hold the phone at arm’s length. Then, when he runs out of steam, put it back to my ear.

‘You don’t have to go on at me – I feel guilty enough about it already,’ I mutter. ‘David, I’ve had a really crappy twenty-four hours and I haven’t got the energy for this.’ Feeling completely drained, I cut him off.

‘Dad wasn’t very pleased, was he?’ Georgia says beside me. ‘Can you help me find a jumper that will fit over my plaster?’

‘When’s tea?’ Adam interrupts.

‘Guy’s coming for dinner,’ I say as I check through the pile of clean laundry that’s made its way as far as the chair in the snug. ‘In fact, he’s bringing dinner.’

‘Why?’ Adam looks at me. Am I imagining that his eyes are narrowed and his mouth pursed with suspicion?

‘Because I asked him.’

‘I don’t mean that,’ Adam says quickly – so quickly
that I know he’s lying. ‘I mean, why call it dinner when it’s tea?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps it’s an attempt to raise the tone of this establishment.’

‘Now you’re talking posh.’

‘I’m joking,’ I say.

‘It isn’t funny.’ Adam stuffs the rest of a cupcake into his mouth. ‘What time’s tea? I mean, dinner.’ He says it in a mocking way. Sometimes I wonder if I’m too soft on him.

It’s seven when Guy arrives with fish and chips from Mr Rock’s in Talyton. He lets himself in and joins us in the kitchen where I have Sophie laying the table, and Georgia finding clean glasses for five. Adam is standing at the sink, supposedly washing up but more occupied with surreptitiously flicking the soapsuds at his sisters.

‘Wine or bitter?’ I ask the new arrival.

‘A glass of wine, thanks.’

‘Red or white?’

‘Whatever you’re having.’

I open the red, glancing at Guy as I remove the cork. I fancy something complex and full-bodied.

We sit down to eat and, as far as I can tell, dinner is a success. Adam is polite when we’re eating, but when we retire to the drawing room for carrot cake and coffee – decaff because Guy has to get up for milking – he disappears off upstairs. Georgia and Sophie hand round, and eat, chocolate before I send them off to change into their pyjamas. Once they’ve gone, there’s a long silence. Guy gazes at me from the rocking chair, while I sit with my legs curled up on the wicker sofa.

‘I’m surprised you haven’t made up the fire yet,’ he begins.

‘Are you cold?’ I say quickly.

‘I’m warm enough.’

‘I’m a bit nervous about the thatch,’ I confess.

‘Don’t worry about that – it doesn’t catch fire easily because it’s so compacted.’

We go on to chat about my plans for the vegetable patch, nothing deep and meaningful, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

Half an hour or so after the girls have gone to bed, Adam’s music comes shuddering down from above.

‘Ads, turn that down,’ I yell.

‘Mummy.’ Sophie appears on the landing, wrapped in a duvet like the hungry caterpillar. ‘Adam woke me up.’

I shout again.

‘It’s no use,’ says Guy, a smile playing on his lips. ‘He won’t hear you.’

I run upstairs and shove his door open. He looks up, hot and angry.

‘Adam, what is your problem?’ I don’t know why I ask. He doesn’t like to see me with Guy, and I feel as if I have to justify myself, like when I was a teenager in front of my parents. ‘We weren’t doing anything. We are only talking.’ When he doesn’t respond, I go on, ‘Turn that music down.’

‘Why should I? You said that when we moved to the country, I could play my music as loud as I like.’

‘Within reason though. This is not within reason. You’ve woken your sister and you’re giving me a headache.’

‘Really, Mum?’ he says icily. ‘Are you sure I’m not just embarrassing you in front of your new boyfriend?’ There’s challenge and a coolness in his voice. Just like David. He’s his father’s son.

‘A,’ I say, ‘he is not my boyfriend.’ On occasion I wish he was, but for the purpose of this argument, he isn’t. ‘He’s just a friend.’ Inside, I’m crying, Don’t you want me to be happy?

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Adam sighs. ‘So what’s B?’

‘B?’

‘You’ve given me excuse A, so what’s B?’ His lip curls into a sneer. ‘B for could do better?’

‘Turn that down,’ I repeat. ‘I can’t hear myself think.’

When Adam refuses to move, I turn down the volume on the docking station myself.

‘You know, you look really silly, making out like you’re perfect to impress Guy. It’s so embarrassing.’ Adam jumps up and turns the volume higher again.

‘Parents are supposed to be embarrassing,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood. ‘That’s their job.’

‘Do you know how ridiculous you look in those country clothes, your gilet and pink wellies and that dreadful hat? You wouldn’t have been seen dead in them in London.’

‘There you go then. If I was really out to impress Guy, I would have taken more care with my appearance.’ I’m not being completely honest here – am I that transparent, like the wrapper on one of my cakes?

Adam is mid-strop. I can see I’m not getting through to him. My throat tightens with a yearning for years gone by when I’d put my adorable and adoring little boy to bed and read him a story. It’s as if he’s been transformed into some alien life-form with an attitude that’s out of my earthly experience and who speaks a language I can’t understand. I give up trying to reason with him.

‘Just turn that music down.’

‘No way,’ he says, so I pull out the plug from the mains. There’s a spark at the socket. The old house doesn’t like that – she appears to be on Adam’s side because there’s a click and all the lights go out. So much for lightening the mood. The house is in complete darkness.

‘Jennie, are you all right up there?’ I hear Guy call from downstairs.

‘I’ve fused the lights,’ I call back, unable to disguise my amusement.

‘Mother, you’ve fused
everything
,’ Adam says.

‘I’ll get it sorted.’ I turn, feeling my way along the wall to the door.

‘You’ll get Guy to sort it, you mean.’

I’m grateful that he does. Downstairs, I find Georgia clinging to Sophie in the snug. Although it’s grubby, Georgia’s cast shows up pale in the darkness.

‘Sophie is afraid of ghosts,’ Georgia explains.