Authors: Jill Hucklesby
Samphire Song (13 page)
‘Whassup, Stick?’ asks Ed, his face two millimetres from mine. He smells of toast and honey and bacon. Mum must be attempting American pancakes. You really need maple syrup for those. At least she didn’t use marmalade.
‘Hey, Teddy,’ I say, sleepily. I was awake most of the night and only drifted off when it was getting light. My dreams are always the same – I’m riding Samphire, pursued by men in black cloaks with lassoes. I wince when I glimpse Ed’s operation scar through his pyjamas and suddenly imagine blood gushing through it, covering my bed in red gloop.
‘Are you sick, Stick?’ he persists, lifting my eyelids in turn. ‘Mum says, because you’re a teenager, you need to sleep because that’s when you do your GROWING
but it’s NINE O’CLOCK and Samphire needs his mush and I need some company and it’s time you GOT UP. Mum has sent you a pancake. Look. Mmmmm.’
Ed dangles the strange-shaped limp object under my nose with his fingers. It smells floury and sweet.
‘Can’t you go and glue something on to your plane,’ I respond, a bit crossly.
‘Moody dudey,’ he declares. ‘Mum says that’s because of your horse-mones.’
‘Look, shut up!’ I snap. ‘Get off my bed and out of my room. I should be at the stables.’
‘Don’t mean it,’ he teases, wrapping himself up in my duvet as I swing my feet on to the floor, treading on the sad pancake and in the runny honey on the plate.
‘I really DO!’ I yell, kicking the tray away and hopping out of my room towards the bathroom. Once inside, I slam the door and raise my sticky foot to the tap in the basin. Cold water gushes over it, sending the nerves into frenzy.
‘Aaargh!’ I exclaim. There is a soft knock. ‘What?’ I answer.
‘About you hating me,’ says a small voice.
‘I don’t hate you, Teddy,’ I answer, more gently.
‘I understand, s’OK.’
‘Why would I hate you?’ I ask, busy drying my toes with the towel.
There is a neigh from the hallway and fingers making galloping sounds up and down the door. I find myself sliding down, leaning against it. I can hear Ed breathing, very close.
‘I’m not stupid, Stick,’ says my brother. I’m hugging my knees under my chin. I feel so small. The loo, basin and the bath look enormous from this angle.
‘I didn’t want Mum to tell you,’ I say.
‘She didn’t. I asked Dr Devereux. He told me you were the best sister in the world. I couldn’t argue cos I had a thing down my throat. Kidding. You are the B-E-S-T-E-S-T.’ There is an awkward silence between us. I think we are back to back, because I can feel the
door vibrating when Ed breathes out.
‘I’ve got a hundred pounds in my tin,’ he says, after a while, certain that this will solve all our problems.
‘That’s two weeks’ livery,’ I tell him.
‘That horse eats too much,’ sighs Ed, his head flopping back with a thud. ‘Don’t sell Samphire, Stick,’ he almost whispers. ‘Pleeeeeeease.’
‘I have to, Ed. We need the money. But I’m going to work really hard and buy him back as soon as I can.’
‘In six months?’ Ed asks.
‘Definitely,’ I say, crossing all my fingers, the way Ed and I do when we tell white lies.
‘Are you crossing your fingers?’ he asks. I untangle them immediately.
‘Nope,’ I answer.
‘Stick?’
‘What?’
‘I’m really sorry. I’ve made you something. You don’t have to like it.’ There is a scuffling noise and under the door Ed pushes a piece of paper, neatly
folded into a star shape with four pointed corners. There is a word written in different coloured felt tip on each. They read
I love you sis
.
My body is shaking with sadness. No tears come, just a pain that holds my jaw rigid and my breath locked inside my chest.
‘You have to come out now,’ says Ed.
‘In a minute,’ I manage to reply.
‘No, now, Stick. There’s someone on the phone and Mum says it’s for you.’
‘Steady, Sam. I need you to stand still.’ I’m putting the last protective boot on my horse’s restless legs, making sure that he’s insulated from the hazards of being transported by trailer across the county.
It’s the morning I’ve been dreading. The sky is grey-metal heavy. There’s an icy north wind, carrying with it showers of sleet, which clatter on the corrugated roof of the tack room. Outside Sam’s stable, the yard is awash with brown water running off the fields. The red-brown sludge in the soak-away channel is causing a small stream to run down to the lane. The flood is like the life-blood flowing from my heart.
I will always remember the searing pain of this moment as I look at Samphire, almost regal in his clean coat and polished halter, his oiled hooves and
conditioned mane. His eyes are bright and watchful, his nostrils sniffing at the stormy January air. His ears flick back and forth, trying to pick up any sounds that will tell him what is happening next.
I snip a small clump of hair from under his forelock with my trimming scissors and put it in my pocket. I need to have something real left behind, something I can hold and smell. I’m already thinking I won’t wash my jacket, with its smears of horse spit where Sam has probed for pony nuts and tugged my collar. And these jodhpurs, with their dark marks on the knees rubbed from his belly on our last ride through the forest, will go into my drawer as a precious memento.
‘They’ve arrived,’ says Rachel, appearing by the door. ‘They’re backing up.’
The noise from the Land Rover reversing a horsebox up into the yard grinds in my brain. It sounds like a tank on manoeuvres. It has its sights fixed on us and is approaching. There’s nowhere for us to hide. Samphire whinnies and it must be a warning, as Rambo
and several other horses reply with anxious snorts and neighs.
‘Do you want me to load him?’ asks Rachel, really concerned at the sight of my face, which must look like that painting
The Scream
, only worse.
‘No,’ I reply, my voice an octave higher than usual, the sound strangled by the closing of my throat. ‘He’ll feel less scared if I do it.’
‘I’m sorry, Samphire,’ I whisper, for the thousandth time. The words don’t seem enough. ‘I promise you, I won’t ride another horse – no one but you.’ I’m looking into his eyes as I say this, so he can see it’s a solemn vow. There are voices outside and a sharp clang as the trailer door is lowered on to the ground. Footsteps, a deep cough that rasps behind ribs, a greeting from Rachel.
I pull the bolt on the stable door back angrily, my other trembling hand holding the halter rope. Sam senses that this isn’t a normal exit from his safe haven and throws his head back in a jolt, backing away from me.
‘He’s being silly, Daddy,’ says the fifteen-year-old girl called Leila who has persuaded her father that a part-Arab stallion will fill the gap in her list of birthday presents. ‘He didn’t do this the first time we came to see him,’ she adds, looking at me accusingly.
‘He likes routine,’ I try to tell her. ‘Trailers frighten him.’
‘He’ll have to get used to it,’ she replies. ‘I’m going to take him to lots of Pony Club events.’
Leila doesn’t seem like the same girl I met before. That girl was kind and full of smiles. That’s why I agreed to sell Samphire to her.
‘And if you decide to sell him on, you’ll call me, like you promised?’ I’m taking every chance to remind Leila of the agreement we made when her dad handed me a cheque two weeks ago.
‘Yes,’ she sighs, a bit irritated. Then her face softens. ‘I know this is really hard for you.’
I just nod. ‘If you stand away a bit, I’ll bring him out.’ There’s a knife in my guts, twisting . . .
I reach into my pocket and find some nuts, showing them to Sam, who is messing up the hay on the ground with his right hoof. ‘Look. Treats,’ I say, gently. He snorts and takes two steps forwards, suspiciously. ‘Good boy. Now we’re going into the yard. Come on. Quietly. Ssshhh. That’s it. You can have them as soon as we get you up the ramp. Four more steps, Sam, just four more.’
‘Up you go!’ says the father, sternly, his hand on Samphire’s flank. Sam lashes out with a rear foot, his eyes rolling. The father steps away in time, a finger pointing in accusation, then he clenches his fist as Sam backs himself down the metal plate and attempts to bolt. I’m holding his rope with all my strength. He’s circling, whinnying, lurching, his whole frame full of mistrust.
‘Lead him down the lane a little, Jodie. Quieten him,’ says Sue, arriving back in the yard on Kaloo. She dismounts, her face full of concern.
‘Can’t we just force him in?’ asks the man, looking at his watch.
‘You don’t want a terrified horse in your trailer,’ Sue responds. ‘He could damage himself and the vehicle.’
I’m walking Sam down through the yard, past the entrance gate and into the lane. It’s good to get him away from the commotion. He moves swiftly, his mouth teasing my loose bun, the way he does before I mount him and we set off on one of our adventures.
‘I’m not riding you today, Sam,’ I tell him. Normally, by now, he would be snatching at the patchy winter grass by the side of the lane. His instincts for fight or flight are on red alert. I want to leap on his back and gallop him to the ends of the earth. I feel helpless: I can’t protect him. I can’t explain why this is happening. I will just be one more useless human in his life’s journey.
There are footsteps behind me. If this is Leila, telling me to drag Samphire back to the yard, I’m going to lose it.
‘Jodie? Are you OK?’ It’s Mum. I’ve never been so
grateful to see her. I shake my head. My chest starts to convulse. ‘Hey,’ she says, soothingly, holding me close. Samphire whinnies – it’s a short burst of his song. I think he’s guessed what is coming. He rests his nose on my shoulder.
‘They’re loud and impatient and he got frightened. I thought Leila would be kind but she put on an act when she visited last time. She’s not right for him, Mum,’ I tell her, my voice a plea. But there’s nothing Mum can do. The miracle I’ve hoped for hasn’t arrived by helicopter, the way Ed’s did. And the trailer is being moved down to the lane. Sue and Rachel are either side of me now. Sue is putting a hood over Sam’s head. He is letting out the most ear-piercing cry I’ve ever heard from a horse.
Somehow, my feet are moving and I’m leading him up the dropped ramp into the narrow space, tethering him. I stand holding him, feeling the quiver of fear in his abdomen. I am solid, like a monument, like the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, massive and impregnable. They
will have to get a crane to lift me away, or dynamite to turn me to dust.
But seconds later I’m in the lane again and Mum has a hand around my waist and Rachel is beside me and the ramp is being secured. Leila is giving me a little wave and closing her passenger door in the dark Land Rover. I can see Sam’s rump and his hooded head and now they are receding, the sound of his back hooves lashing out against the metal sides and his frightened cry filling the icy air.
I feel hot and my vision is blurring, narrowing into a dark tunnel. I’m spinning inside it, thrown into the vortex, somersaulting at the speed of light. Nausea is rising from my belly. My whole body is sweating. I’m on my knees in the earth, the wetness of the soil soaking through my jodhpurs, its coldness burning.
And when the sound of Samphire in distress has become just an echo in my pounding brain, I am sick. Everything is black and distant and peaceful now. I never want to open my eyes again.