Kiss and Tell (74 page)

‘I can’t figure him out at all,’ Tash confided in Penny after a rather sticky evening when Lough had blanked a very influential horse-trials organiser.

‘He just doesn’t suffer fools,’ Penny defended Lough, who she’d come to admire over several evenings co-hosting suppers with Tash. ‘I think that’s admirable. The man has more talent than any of us mere mortals. He doesn’t need to kow-tow to anyone.’

‘I don’t know why I’m bothering trying to give him a social life then,’ Tash replied grumpily as she contemplated another mountain of clearing up.

‘It’s obvious why. If one has a tiger captive, one can’t resist showing it off,’ Penny winked. ‘Besides, Hugo was most insistent we all entertain the masses until he gets home.’

‘He was?’ Tash looked up as Gus came back in from waving away the departing guests.

‘Safety in numbers,’ he laughed, helping himself to the last of the open wine.

Tash felt far from reassured, particularly now she was investing so much trust in this anti-social interloper. Working in the school was one thing, but out with him in open country she felt more vulnerable, equally frightened of the horsepower beneath her as the manpower beside her. Lough had at least stopped unexpectedly appearing on her hacks, and they now rode out together each day. As she started working the horses harder and faster to get them fit, she needed company, however intimidating. And Lough seemed to have a sixth sense for when she was losing control or her adrenalin was peaking, setting a pace that never overwhelmed her yet pushing her a little more each day.

Haydown had a full cross-country course at its disposal, built up over many years with a plethora of obstacles of differing heights and combinations to tackle, from skinnies to arrowheads, corners, big galloping flyers and turn upon turn upon turn, yet Lough rode on past them each day as though they weren’t there, only to catch Tash unawares out on the downs with a suggestion of popping a stone wall for fun.

It was a clever tactic that worked. Had it been Hugo, Tash knew that they would have worked their way around the cross country course a jump at a time, tens of dogs (and possibly Alicia with a picnic) in attendance, with much briefing, tactical talk and
encouragement, and then great pressure each time she approached a fence. This way, there was no weight of expectation, just a great gush of self-confidence and an energising sense of achievement. She wanted the feeling to last for ever.

Entertaining night after night was giving her less of a buzz, however, as the novelty quickly wore off and fatigue set in. Within a fortnight she had cooked her way through most of the contents of the freezer. She loved seeing old mates, but she seemed to spend her life swapping between riding gloves, oven gloves and washing-up gloves. She wasn’t getting enough sleep.

It was the morning after a particularly raucous kitchen supper that she fell off for the first time. It was nothing dramatic: Vixen – who was notoriously spooky – suddenly twisted sharply away from a hedge when she spotted a sheep peering through it at her. Normally Tash would have sat the leap, but she was half asleep and had been distractedly wondering whether to invite some of the British-based New Zealanders over to supper the following week. The next thing she knew, she was sitting in a very wet, very muddy tractor rut.

Lough spun back, his horse half-rearing in surprise. ‘Are you okay, Tash?’

She found herself laughing with relief. ‘Absolutely! Thank God for that. I needed to fall off.’

Less than impressed, Lough caught the loose mare and brought her back.

‘You weren’t concentrating. Next time, you might not be so lucky,’ he told her as she remounted and they moved off again.

‘I’ll be fine. I’m through the worst case scenario now: I’ve fallen off.’

‘You reckon?’ Lough’s eyes glittered.

In an instant he urged Toto from a steady walk to flat-out gallop, mud splattering on to Tash and Vixen as horse and rider streaked away. Before Tash could take in what was happening, the little chestnut mare threw herself into hot pursuit, ears flat back, instinct telling her that this was a flight for life. Tash had no control whatsoever.

‘Stop, Lough. Stop!’ she screamed, but her words were whipped straight back from her mouth. The sheer speed at which they were travelling almost winded her.

Over the ridge of the downs they raced and on to the old public
gallops, faster and faster, clods of turf flying in their wake. Tash had been bolted with before, but this was different; this time the horse had a target to follow. She tried everything to check the mare, but she wanted to follow her stablemate at all costs.

Then, just as suddenly as he’d set off, Lough pulled up to a steady canter, gradually easing Toto down.

Tash had less smooth control. Plunging around like a lunatic beside him, she only just held on as Vixen fly-bucked and threw her head.

‘What the hell did you do that for?’ she demanded.

‘Just interval training.’ He turned to her, dark eyes dangerous.

He’d made his point.

They hacked home into a dropping sun, Tash’s heart taking minutes to stop lurching in panic. ‘Don’t ever do that again without warning me,’ she muttered.

He said nothing, but as they rode back into the yard, metal shoes ringing on the cobbles, he said in an undertone, ‘You need to concentrate more on your riding and less on your dinner parties.’

Tash bristled. ‘Last night’s meal was in your honour! It was for you.’

‘No – tonight’s for me.’ He rode away before she could ask him what he meant.

That evening, he was waiting in the kitchen again when she came down from putting the children to bed. This time he was standing at the Aga, stirring the contents of a casserole. Whatever was in it smelled delicious.

‘My turn to feed you,’ he told her, not looking up.

Tash yawned, too polite to mention that she’d scoffed all of Cora’s rejected fishfingers and half a packet of biscuits earlier, and had been really looking forward to vegging out in front of
Sylva’s Shadow
on television this evening.

Instead, she settled at the table and watched him warily. She was quite accustomed to people taking over in her kitchen – Veruschka did it daily – so it felt quite normal to see a relative stranger waving her peppermill around. Realising that he was probably doing this as a peace offering to apologise for their terror ride earlier, she tried to be friendly.

‘I didn’t know you cooked.’

‘My mum taught me. It relaxes me.’

‘Glad something does.’ She rubbed her brow tiredly.

The big, dark-chocolate eyes glanced across at her.

Feeling ungrateful, she propped her chin up on her palm. ‘Tell me about your mum.’

‘What do you want to know?’ He was typically unforthcoming.

‘Everything.’ She stretched the fingers of her free hand across the table, studying her battered wedding ring. ‘From start to finish. What makes Lough Strachan tick.’

He took a long time to respond, setting the lid back on the cooking pot, resting the spoon in the drip catcher and turning to lean against the Aga rail to look at her, his gaze guarded. ‘What’s the point in you knowing that?’

‘It would help me understand you better.’

His eyebrows shot up, but he made no further objection. Instead, for the first time since he’d arrived in England, he started talking in more than just single sentences. Over quite the most sensational lamb stew Tash had ever tasted, he told his story with minimal emotion or self pity.

‘Mum’s family was from Scotland originally, but I never knew them. They cut all contact when she moved in with my dad.’

‘He’s Maori, yes?’

‘Yeah – his family reckons they’re noble stock, but he’s a waste of space, always drinking and womanising. He used his fists on Mum and us kids.’

‘He beat you?’

He nodded, not looking at her. ‘Mum got it much worse, usually trying to defend us. I remember the day he almost blinded her in one eye just because she’d spent their last twenty dollars on new shoes for my sister. I came home from school and there was blood everywhere. She tried to pretend it was an accident, but I knew. I told her I’d kill him if he ever touched her again.’

‘How old were you?’

He shrugged. ‘Ten, maybe. But I meant every word. I started bunking off school to keep an eye on the house, so I could be there to defend her if he rolled in drunk at lunchtime. He picked on me more then and I wore my bruises like badges of honour. Pretty soon, the authorities started asking questions. It was around that time Mum threw him out for good.’

‘You were very brave.’ Tash stared at him, unable to imagine a life where Amery was forced to defend her against violence. ‘Your mother has an amazing son.’

But he shook his head. ‘I went off the rails for a long time – some might say I never got back on.’ He looked up with a rueful smile. ‘I wasn’t home much as a teenager.’

Lough had spent his teens in South Auckland dreaming of being a jockey, he explained, pursuing his single-minded ambition through long, lonely bus journeys out of town that had cost him as much as his meagre riding wage. But he was thrown off too many yards for aggressive behaviour, and then grew too tall and heavy, his only compensation being that his brain grew just as big and bold as his body. After years of bad behaviour and truancy he buckled down and went back to school where, against all odds, he won a scholarship that enabled him to train as a vet.

‘I was base metal, but a bloody amazing alchemist of a teacher called Simpson fought my corner, and more often fought me, to get me there,’ he told her, without sentiment. ‘I was a fish out of water at Massey University. I was chippy and destructive and introvert and money was always way too tight for comfort – Mum took on extra jobs and I did night shifts in a convenience store – but I worked like stink on the academic stuff, and I had to; it didn’t come easy. I won’t pretend I was a great vet after I graduated, but once I started working with horses again it started to make sense.’

His competitive riding dreams had been reignited through a trainee job at a practice in Wairarapa, working in the exclusive North Island eventing circles, which had quickly provided him with his first real opportunities to ride again. Thus the Devil on Horseback was born, a young local vet with no fear and an innate, almost supernatural ability to get a horse to fly across country.

Competing with ferocious success on chance rides, he rapidly earned himself a reputation as a king-maker of difficult horses. He’d taken work wherever the rides were, but almost dropped off the edge of the sport many times through injury and lack of funds. Despite his ambition, his bloody-mindedness won him few allies and he seldom hung on to sponsors and patrons for long. His talent kept rides coming, but he had endured bitter disappointments.

‘When I was twenty-four I spent every cent I had flying a horse across to compete at Melbourne,’ he told her carefully.

‘I rode there a couple of times. What year?’

‘You were there.’

‘Did we meet?’

‘My horse went lame in transit.’ He got up to help them both to seconds.

‘Bad luck.’

‘It was a bad year for me,’ he said quietly, ladling out stew.

A favourite horse had been sold from under him in the same season that he lost two to injury, one to poisoning and a lover to a rival. His was stony broke, homeless and jobless.

‘That’s when I lost my nerve. I was starting from scratch again. I began doubting myself and my riding suffered. I thought about quitting.’ His big, dark eyes regarded her with empathy. ‘It took a long time to beat, but I got over it. It does get better.’

‘I hope so.’ She looked down at her plate, not wanting to dwell on her own failings. ‘You must have had good owners to see you through.’

‘I had no owners. I still don’t.’

‘But how could you afford to keep going?’ She looked up.

His dark eyes didn’t leave her face. ‘By bending the rules.’

‘You cheated?’ She was appalled. ‘How?’

‘I knew I couldn’t stay in the sport without regular money coming in – and a vet’s salary was never going to cover my costs, especially with all the time off I needed. I’m a clever bugger, but I’m still a little cross-breed from the ghetto. My career meant nothing next to competing. Then I met Lem and realised the only way of staying in the sport was by offering a unique service.’

‘What service?’

‘I’ll tell you about it some time.’ He stood up and cleared away their empty plates, leaving her hanging.

There was a single coloured show jump set up in the arena when Tash rode in the following afternoon, mounted on her goofiest youngster, a coloured mare called Lauren Bacall – or Lor – who was as beautiful as she was neurotic and stubborn.

‘I’m not going near that,’ she told Lough when he rode in after her on his little intermediate horse, Hex.

‘Sure.’ He started trotting round, warming up and ignoring her.

Tash wobbled about, getting increasingly tense and disagreeable
with Lor, who set her neck left and crabbed furiously, almost falling over every time she caught sight of her reflection in the mirrors at the end of the school.

By now, Lough was sailing over the jump, which was set up at a good four feet, a ground pole placed well back from the approach which he was using to alter his stride pattern in – sometimes four, sometimes three, sometimes five strides from its stripy boundary.

Quite suddenly, Lor decided that she wanted to get out of the arena – if necessary backwards, on two legs.

Tash clung on, trying not to draw attention to herself.

‘I think we should swap.’ Lough suddenly appeared beside her. ‘You take this boy over that a couple more times and I’ll see if I can sort her out.’ He hopped off.

She was so grateful to get help with Lor that she didn’t really question what she was taking on. Which was why, two minutes later, she sailed over a jump that was way beyond her comfort zone and barely registered what she was doing apart from feeling a lovely rush. She was too busy looking over her shoulder to watch Lor trotting obediently down the long side like a dressage schoolmaster.

‘Whatever you’re on, I want some,’ she laughed.