Authors: Jill Hucklesby
Samphire Song (19 page)
‘Poor old chap,’ sighs Greg. ‘He’s gone through the wars. He’s a fighter, though, Jodie. No doubt about it.’
‘World champ,’ I answer, although my voice sounds a little hollow.
Greg gives me a warm smile and a squeeze on my shoulder and says he’ll be back in the morning, unless we need him urgently before that. I imagine him going home to his family, reading bedtime stories to Lulu and Sunny, his three-year-old twins. He says they don’t sleep and that’s why he looks so bug-eyed. I think the truth is he’s had a horrible time as the vet in charge of putting down the sick animals from the barn.
‘How’s it going?’ asks Rachel, appearing in the space above the stable door. She pops her head in every hour or so to see if we need anything. She also reports back to Sue and the others to save us being bothered by too many visitors.
‘Not so good,’ I reply. ‘He’s got a fever.’
‘I brought someone to see him,’ she says. ‘Come here, trouble.’
I hear the scraping of big hooves and, seconds later, the large, friendly head of Rambo looms into the stall, nose outstretched and sniffing the air intently. He seems pleased to see his old friend, but perplexed too. He murmurs and mutters, a deep, gravelly sound coming from his throat. All of this is followed by a whinny, which bounces around the wooden walls, as shrill as wind chimes in a strong wind.
‘Thank you, Rambo,’ I tell him. ‘Whatever it was you said, I’m sure it was very nice.’
‘OK, visiting time’s up,’ says Rachel, reaching in to take hold of his halter so she can lead him away. At
first he’s resistant, avoiding her grasp. ‘He hasn’t eaten his breakfast this morning,’ she tells me. ‘I think he’s having his own vigil.’
‘Maybe he can come back later and check on Sam’s progress.’
‘Yeah, if he’s good,’ agrees Rachel, while Rambo rubs his face up and down her arm, endearingly.
A nice policewoman, called Jane, comes to take a statement from Ed and me and the process lasts about half an hour. I have to describe exactly what I saw and the order things happened in. I get very upset at the point when I recall seeing Samphire through the open barn doors and realising the danger he was in.
How many times did the man hit him, she keeps asking. Two, three, four? I re-run the scene in my head, with my eyes closed. Mum puts her arm round me when she sees I’m trembling. I answer the questions as accurately as I can. Part of me can’t believe that this is real. Jane says it’s a normal reaction and that I’m probably in shock. Ed quite likes describing how he ran
into the pub’s bar and demanded the landlord call 999.
‘I told him there was no time to lose and that my sister needed immediate back-up,’ says Ed, very seriously. I see Mum and Jane exchanging a smile at this.
‘You did exactly the right thing, Ed,’ confirms Jane. Ed beams, as if he’s been given ten gold stars.
Afternoon morphs into evening. Mum and Ed return with a pillow and sleeping bag for me, plus some yummy pizza, salad, garlic bread and strawberries. Sue has said she’ll stay with me after eleven tonight so that they can get some proper sleep.
I’m busy sponging Sam’s body with cool water, trying to ease his fever, which seems to be getting worse, not better. I keep talking to him, telling him he’s the best horse in the world, sometimes just spouting gibberish about anything from not wanting to go back to school, to Snap, Crackle and Pop and what a pain they are when they decide to go bonkers, get their leads in a tangle round a tree and start a group yapping thing.
He doesn’t respond. Occasionally, a leg will twitch
as if he’s trying to unsettle a fly. One even kicked out earlier, but I think it was a muscle spasm and not a conscious action. His mouth is slightly ajar and I’m dripping mineral water from my bottle on to his tongue, which looks like a sick whale marooned on the ocean floor.
11.30 p.m. and I’m starting to panic. Samphire is really agitated, although still in a semi-unconscious state. All his limbs are moving and his head keeps jerking up and down in the straw. It’s as if he’s trying to run from something and, in his flight, he’s managed to dislodge the drip from his leg, which means he’s not getting any pain relief or hydration.
Every so often, a mournful cry seems to erupt from deep in his belly. Is he moaning in pain? I feel he’s trying to communicate, but I’m too stupid to understand. Touching him seems to offer no comfort. In fact, he’s thrashing around so much that it’s not safe to stay next to him. I move to the side of the stall,
where I sit with my back against the wall, watching helplessly while Samphire confronts the demons of his illness.
Sue is on the phone to Greg, asking for advice. She’s pacing in the yard, unsettling some of the stabled horses who are moving around in their stalls, disturbed by the break in routine.
After a couple of minutes, she leans on the stable door to give me an update. ‘Greg’s been called out to a mare in foal on the other side of the Forest,’ Sue explains. ‘He doesn’t know what time he can get here, so he’s told me what to do with this.’ She holds up a syringe full of clear liquid. ‘He left it here as a precaution. It’s a tranquilliser and it will keep Sam calm. I’ll need you to help me, Jodie. We have to try and keep him still while I put the needle in his neck.’
‘Okey dokey,’ I reply, nervously. I’m looking at my horse, who is working himself up into a frenzy, with lather at the sides of his mouth – I wonder if attempts to subdue him are too late. Sue approaches cautiously,
closing the stable door behind her. She motions for me to hold Sam’s head down on the straw. It takes my full weight to achieve this. He writhes and seems to bare his teeth at me.
‘Hurry, Sue,’ I say to her. She is feeling for the right place and her fingers are measuring a triangular point between his mane and shoulder blade.
‘If I go too close to his spinal column, there could be nerve damage,’ she says, almost to herself. ‘I have to find the space between that, the ligament and shoulder blade, which . . . is . . . here.’ She inserts the needle, checks there is no blood oozing, then attaches the syringe and presses its contents into Sam’s muscle. For a moment, his resistance starts to ebb away. The agitation doesn’t stop, though. He seems to want to stand and his legs are flailing, trying to get a grip. I daren’t let go of my hold on his head. Surely the drug will kick in and give him some peace?
‘Greg said the dose was enough to bring an elephant down,’ says Sue, shaking her head. ‘I think you
should come out of the stall.’ She beckons me towards the door. She must think he is in his death throes from the expression on her face.
There are always choices
. . .
‘I’m not leaving him,’ I tell her, something beyond panic in my throat. I’m flooded with an emotion that has overwhelmed me once before, one so powerful it allows you to keep functioning in the face of the worst kind of disaster, although all your senses are numb. It goes beyond sadness and anger to the core of every cell of your being, probably right to your DNA, which is altered forever. When we lost Dad, I remember Ed saying he thought it had turned him the wrong colour inside.
It’s called grief and at this moment, it is filling me with such resolution that I could stop the world turning on its axis. If I let go of Samphire now, he could injure himself so seriously no treatment would be able to save him. Maybe he’s had a bad reaction to the medication. Maybe his symptoms are already
beyond help. But if I have to stay in this position all night, I will. And if it is his time to die and by holding him, it makes it less terrible and frightening, I’ll do that too.
‘Huh? Ugh! Oi!’ I say, half in the confusion of sleep. Something is tickling my neck and ears. I’m expecting to hear Ed giggling as he has been known to commit the early morning feather torture routine on several occasions. I reach out to pull my duvet over my head and escape his cruel game. My hand feels only the harsh texture of dried vegetation. My nose tells me that it is up close and personal with something very musty and not the vanilla scented pillow that is my normal night-time comfort.
I’m not at home. I’m in Samphire’s stall. Memories from the night before flood back into my mind.
The last thing I remember seeing is dawn light through the open stable door. I must have crashed out next to Samphire, exhausted by hours of soothing
his poor, agitated body. There doesn’t seem to be any movement next to me. I’m dreading opening my eyes. Close to me, I can hear a deep inhalation and exhalation. Is it my breathing? I roll on to my back, rub my aching eyes and open them.
The vision that greets me is so unexpected, so amazing, so awe-inspiring I gasp and let both hands fly to my open mouth. Just a few centimetres away, there is a horse’s face, staring at my own, nostrils moving like antennae. The deep, dark eyes are fully focused, the ears forward in anticipation. I reach up and stroke the soft, scarred muzzle, a smile as wide as a new moon spreading over my face.
‘Hey, Sam,’ I whisper. I am at a loss for more words, gazing up at the creature standing above me, his neck arching down, his tail swishing the way it does before I saddle him up for a ride. I sit up and just put my arms round him, covering his face in a thousand kisses, relief and joy converging. He nuzzles me again, telling me he’s had enough smooching,
and then regales me with a long and melodic whinny, punctuated with several snorts and the pulling of funny faces. It’s his song, the special music that first opened my heart to him – that echoed and drew me to him when he was lost. And the unique means by which he seems to be saying ‘thank you’.
‘You’re welcome, Samphire,’ I tell him and bow my head to him in respect. Anyone watching would think I had lost my marbles. ‘Can I get up now, please?’
I lean on his front legs a little to make him back away. He takes a shaky step in reverse and tosses his ragged mane, telling me he needs attention.
‘Me, me, me,’ I say to him. But my eyes are focused on his sagging hindquarters and his trembling front legs. Despite his frailty, he is holding my gaze, his eyes bright with expectation.
‘Do you want some breakfast?’ I ask him. He nickers and swishes his tail. ‘I’m taking that as a yes.’
When I glance out of the stable, the yard is peaceful. It’s early morning; probably about seven.
Birds are pecking about on the ground, picking up oats and seeds. Horses heads hang lazily over stall doors. Mist trails low across the adjacent fields and sweeps over the concrete road leading to the lane. From that direction, I hear footsteps. Sue and Greg come into view, talking earnestly and walking with haste. Greg is carrying his black case and looks as if he expects the worst.
‘Guess what?’ I ask. I take in Greg’s larger-than-usual bug-eyes and realise he has been working all night.
I motion for Sam to come and stand next to me. As he stretches his head over the stable door, Greg unleashes a string of exclamations and nearly drops his bag. Sue, who is usually really grounded, gives Greg a huge hug and then does a little dance on the spot.
‘You absolute star,’ says Greg, stroking Sam’s face and tugging his forelock affectionately. ‘You too, Jodie,’ he adds, beaming at me. ‘You’re quite a team.’
‘We’re working on it, aren’t we, Sam?’ I reply. ‘Told you he was world champ.’
‘He may be up, but he’s not out of the woods yet,’ Greg warns me gently.
‘I know, but he’ll get there, won’t you, Sam?’ I reply.
While Greg gives Sam a complete examination, I press the keys on my mobile phone excitedly. There are two people who deserve to hear this latest news more than any others.
‘Teddy? It’s me. Are you in Mum’s bed? That’s great, cos I want you both to hear this.’ I’m holding the receiver to Samphire’s mouth. ‘Say hello, Sam,’ I tell him. He responds with a low, throaty neigh. ‘Did you hear that?’ I ask my brother. ‘SAM’S STANDING UP BY HIMSELF!’
‘Told you,’ replies Ed, calmly. Then I can hear Mum telling him not to bounce up and down, because something will break. Seconds later, I hear ecstatic screams coming from both of them, the kind you get
at the funfair when people are thrown upside down.
‘Mum? I know it’s a strange question, but are you bouncing on the bed as well?’ I say into the receiver.