The Sweetest Thing (35 page)

‘We appreciate it can be difficult for some pupils to adjust to a new school in a different area of the country, but the law requires that your son receives an education. And, of course, we’re concerned for his welfare.’

‘I’ll let you know as soon as he turns up.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better if you went out and looked for him? Just a thought.’ She hangs up. I dial Adam’s mobile. It’s switched off. Beginning to panic, I try Guy’s.

‘Hi, Jennie,’ he says quietly. ‘What’s cooking?’

Under normal circumstances I would have found that funny, but I’m worried about my son. ‘Have you seen Adam today?’

‘I haven’t. I thought he was supposed to be at school.’

‘I dropped him off, but he didn’t make it into class.’ I try to control the wobble in my voice, but it’s too late. Guy picks up on it.

‘I shouldn’t worry, Jennie. Who hasn’t bunked off school now and again? Why don’t you phone around some of his friends?’

‘Because, as far as I’m aware, he hasn’t got any. What
if he’s gone off drinking on his own again? What if he’s fallen over somewhere? What if he’s lying unconscious in a ditch?’

‘Do you want me to come over and help you find him? He’s probably down by the river or up in the woods on East Hill. That’s where I used to hang out when I was Adam’s age.’

‘I’ll go down there myself,’ I say. ‘I’ll take Lucky with me.’

‘Let me know if I can be of assistance.’

‘Thanks, Guy.’ I appreciate his offer – I know he’s busy on the farm. However, Adam is my son, my responsibility. And David’s. I call him at work to ask him if he’s heard from Adam.

‘I haven’t. Why?’ he says, as I talk and check out the stables and the barn at the same time.

‘He’s skipped school again,’ I say, trying to catch my breath.

‘This can’t go on. The sooner he joins me and Alice, the better.’

‘So you say, but I’ve got to find him first.’

‘Let me know as soon as he shows up.’

Half an hour later, by which time I’m distraught and running with sweat, I find him walking casually along the lane back towards Uphill House, hands in his pockets, listening to his iPod.

‘Adam, where have you been?’ I scream at him.

‘Out,’ he says, ducking down briefly to give Lucky a pat.

‘Well, I kind of guessed that,’ I snap.

‘Why ask then, Mother?’

I don’t like his tone, but my fury at his thoughtless behaviour is tempered with relief and I don’t comment. I think it’s far more difficult for a boy than a
girl, living with a single mum and not being sure where he’s going to end up in the future. I move up close to him, trying to work out if he’s been drinking, but I can’t smell alcohol on his breath and he seems perfectly co-ordinated. I contemplate asking him to walk in a straight line, but decide against winding him up any further. I take a deep breath and count to ten, telling myself to keep calm.

‘Who were you with?’ I say.

‘Just some people.’ He shrugs.

‘Friends?’ I ask hopefully, because he hasn’t mentioned any before.

‘Random people,’ he confirms. He likes the word ‘random’.

‘And?’

‘And?’

‘What were you doing?’

‘Hanging and stuff.’

Hanging, I can cope with, it’s the ‘stuff’ I’m worried about.

‘Adam, you can’t keep missing school,’ I say, my anger returning in response to his reticence. ‘And I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.’

‘You can’t help anyway,’ he flashes back. ‘You can’t rewind my life so I can start where I left off, back with my real friends.’

‘You still keep in touch with Josh and you see him every other weekend …’

‘It isn’t the same.’ Adam stamps his foot. ‘Even if we get to go and live with Dad, nothing will be the same any more.’ He turns and storms off back the way he came, Lucky running along at his heels.

‘Adam, stop,’ I shout after him. ‘Come back home! Now!’

He hesitates and looks scornfully over his shoulder. ‘That isn’t my home! It never will be.’

‘Adam! Please …’ I beg, but he won’t listen.

‘Leave me alone!’

I watch him striding away and my heart aches for him. He’s so mixed up and out of control. I don’t know what to do.

‘I’ll talk to him again,’ David says when I call him a third time, the second to say I’ve found Adam and lost him again, the third to say that he’s slipped back indoors, taking Lucky upstairs to his room, then returned to the kitchen ready for tea. ‘Shall I have a word now?’

‘I should leave it until he’s in a more receptive frame of mind,’ I suggest. ‘Let him have something to eat first.’

I overhear Adam talking on the phone to his father later. He sounds calm and reasonable, and I’m envious. To Adam, David’s the good guy, the perfect parent, the opportunity to escape from living here in Devon. I wish he’d talk to me like that.

‘Why did you have to go and tell Dad?’ Adam says to me once he’s put the phone down. ‘You didn’t have to bother him.’

‘We’re worried about you …’

Adam swears. ‘Mother, I’m fourteen! You don’t have to worry about me any more.’

‘All right,’ I say, but he’s my son, so I do.

It’s five in the morning the next day when I hear Adam trip and swear softly on the landing. I refrain from calling out to him to mind his language – there’s no way the girls will be awake yet. The swearing is followed by a crash from downstairs, more cursing,
then the opening and closing of the fridge door followed by a slam.

I can’t believe he is still managing to get up to milk the cows. I encourage it, because I think it’s the only thing that stops him collapsing into a heap of misery.

Lucky whines at my feet. He must have sneaked into my room when Adam got up.

‘Shhh,’ I mutter, and pull the duvet up around my ears to muffle the first crow of the cockerel, heralding dawn. If it wasn’t for the fact we’re hoping for chicks one day, I’d wring his neck. Actually, I wouldn’t be able to do it myself. I’d have to ask Guy, but I don’t see him as often as before. He isn’t always walking up and down the drive with the cows because they’re all off the fields and indoors now. I can understand how Guy feels. We’re in limbo. Our future is uncertain, and he’s right, I can’t concentrate on anything much, apart from the children and the fact I might lose them …

And now I can’t get back to sleep, my mind filled with recipes and timetables for fulfilling orders and the next Farmers’ Market.

I stretch, yawn and close my eyes, and must have gone back to sleep because Georgia is suddenly in my room, running across to the window to pull the curtains open, letting in a bright shaft of sunlight which hurts the back of my eyes.

‘Mum, Mum,’ she says, urgently tugging at my duvet. ‘There’s something wrong with Bracken. Quickly! You’ve got to come down.’

I get up – it’s chilly – and throw a baggy sweater over my pyjamas, run my fingers through my hair and head downstairs where I slip into my wellies and dog-walking coat and follow Georgia to the paddock.

Outside, there are cobwebs in the trees and hedges,
glistening like necklaces of beads. There are spiders all around us, but my fear of them is soon overtaken by fears for the pony. Bracken is beside the gate, and I know there’s something wrong because she hasn’t got her head down eating. She’s dark with sweat and standing with her front feet stretched out in front of her, as if she’s praying.

I feel sick. There have been many times when I’ve wished her dead, after what she did to Georgia, but she doesn’t deserve this.

‘I’ll go and speak to Guy,’ I say, happy to have an excuse to speak to him, at least. ‘He knows a bit about horses.’

‘Mum, forget Guy, we need to ring the vet.’ Georgia’s expression is a mixture of anguish and exasperation. ‘I think it’s an emergency, don’t you?’

‘Yes, darling. You’re right.’ I go inside and call Otter House Vets in town who say they don’t do horses and give me the number for Talyton Manor instead. A woman answers there. She sounds very well-spoken, and stern.

‘Where’s the pony kept?’ she asks.

‘At home, Jennie’s Folly,’ I say, having grown used to the new name.

‘I know it, but I’m afraid it will always be Uphill House to me,’ she says. ‘What is wrong with the pony?’

‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m ringing. I need a vet to tell me.’ I hand the phone to Georgia who seems to have a better grip of the situation than I have.

‘She’s in pain,’ she says. ‘I’ve looked in my
Manual of Horsemanship
and I think it’s laminitis.’ Georgia hands the phone back to me. ‘The vet’s coming out as soon as he can.’

‘Georgia, what’s laminitis?’ I ask her anxiously.

‘It’s inflammation of the feet,’ she says, ‘and it’s really, really serious.’

‘Do you think we should move her into the stable?’ I feel as if we should do something.

‘Oh, no, we mustn’t move her at all.’ Georgia fetches Bracken’s head collar and puts it on without a struggle. I make a cup of tea for myself and hot chocolate for the girls when Sophie joins us, but Georgia doesn’t want anything. Her face pale and pinched with worry, she decides that Bracken’s ears are cold and that she needs a blanket, and fetches the duvet off her own bed. I don’t say anything. Why do I have a horrible feeling this is my fault?

Half an hour is a long time to watch an animal in pain. The pony groans and rolls her eyes whenever she tries to shift her weight. For a while she stands trembling, with sweat dripping from her belly. Poor Bracken. I could cry for her, but I’m trying to be strong for the girls.

‘Is it tummy-ache?’ asks Sophie.

‘I’m not sure,’ says Georgia, frowning. ‘It could be colic …’

‘It’s no use asking me,’ I say gently. ‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘Is that the vet?’ Georgia says suddenly. ‘I can hear a car.’

‘I’ll go and open the yard gate,’ I say, but Sophie’s ahead of me.

The vet is lovely, a handsome man in his late thirties, I’d guess, charming and confident and with a great pony-side manner. I feel that I could bear bad news better if someone like him was delivering it.

‘Hi, I’m Alex,’ he says, draping a stethoscope around his neck with one hand and carrying a black case in the other. ‘Who does this pony belong to then?’

‘Me,’ says Georgia.

‘And what can you tell me about –’ he takes a quick look at Bracken from a distance ‘– her?’ He listens to Georgia while he examines Bracken and takes her temperature.

Sophie looks at me when he puts the thermometer under her tail.

‘Shhh!’ I mouth at her. Don’t say a word.

‘Is it what I think it is?’ Georgia asks him.

‘It is, I’m afraid,’ Alex says quietly, and I can tell from the tone of his voice that this isn’t good news. ‘Your pony’s in a bad way. She has very sore feet. Georgia, will you hold on to her for a minute while I fetch some drugs from my car?’ He looks at me and I read into his gaze that I should go with him so he can talk out of earshot of the girls. I feel as if I’m pushing through mud that’s up to my neck.

‘Is she going to make it?’ I ask him when we’re around the side of the house.

He turns to me. ‘I have to be honest with you. I’d say her chances are about fifty–fifty.’

‘Oh, no …’

There’s a lump forming in my throat as he continues, ‘We have three options. One: I refer her straight to the nearest equine hospital where she’ll have access to the best care available.’ He pauses, letting the facts sink into my head.

‘Is that going to be terribly expensive?’ I say, feeling terrible that I’m putting money before Bracken’s health.

‘I take it she isn’t insured for vet’s fees?’

I nod miserably. Another thing I didn’t get round to.

‘Okay, options two and three then,’ he goes on. ‘Option two is to get her into a stable here on a really
deep bed of shavings. I’ll bring the X-ray machine up and get some pictures of those feet. In some cases of laminitis, the hoof starts to separate from the rest of the foot, allowing the bone to sink. Worst-case scenario, the bone actually penetrates the sole of the foot and the outlook is very poor. If things look reasonable for this pony, then we get her on to painkillers, other drugs and corrective farriery here. You can nurse her. If things look grim, then we go ahead and put her to sleep, to save her any further suffering.’

And Georgia will be utterly devastated, I think. I wrap my arms around myself to stop my hands from shaking. She loves that pony, and even if I could afford another one, which I can’t, it would never be the same.

‘It’ll be a long haul,’ Alex says, ‘and she may or may not come sound at the end of it, so I’ll understand if you want to go straight for option three, euthanasia.’

‘You mean, shoot her?’

‘We do it by injection now.’

‘I really don’t know what to do,’ I admit, then, playing for time, I ask how he thinks Bracken got it.

‘These little fat ponies are prone to laminitis. Looking at her, I’d guess she had free access to good grazing all summer which made her borderline, and now the autumn flush of grass has tipped her over the edge.’