The Horse Dancer (20 page)

Conor hadn’t seen it in quite the same light. ‘Am I missing something here, Hotshot?’ he had said, running his fingers along his leather case. ‘First he moves back in with you. Now you’re fostering a kid together. And you can’t come away with me to the cottage because you’re playing happy families.’

She had stayed very calm. ‘It’s her first weekend. The social worker is visiting on Friday evening to make sure she’s settled in okay, and I can’t just disappear as soon as she’s moved in.’

‘So you’re playing happy families.’

‘Conor, it was impossible as things were. I think Mac found it just as hard. Having a third person in the house means we don’t have to deal with each other in the same way.’

‘It’s all very neat, but I’m having trouble seeing it like that. When you have children you—’

‘It’s not
having
children. This is a girl with her own life, her own interests. She’s hardly even there half the time.’

‘So what’s the point if she’s hardly there? You said her being there meant you didn’t have to deal with each other.’

God, she hated arguing with a lawyer. ‘Don’t twist my words. She asked to stay, and both Mac and I saw it as a way of making a difficult domestic situation a little less difficult. And a way of helping a young person who’s in a mess.’

‘How altruistic of you.’

She walked round her desk to where he was sitting, and perched beside him. She lowered her voice. ‘If you met a perfectly nice kid who needed a home for a few weeks – someone whose life you could maybe change for the better – wouldn’t you say yes?’

She had him there.

‘You’re a father. Imagine if it was one of your children. Wouldn’t you hope some decent people would take him in?’ She tried to get him to meet her eye. ‘By the time we’ve sold the house, she’ll be back home and all three of us can go our separate ways. It works for everyone.’

She reached out to take his hand, but he withdrew it, cocked his head to one side. ‘Sure. I can see all that. But just explain one thing to me.’ He leant forward. ‘How did you describe your set-up to the authorities? Surely it must seem strange to them . . . two people who’ve barely seen each other in a year, who don’t even like each other by all accounts, suddenly offering to take on a troubled soul . . .’

She took a deep breath.

‘Oh. Oh, I knew it . . .’

‘No, Conor, it’s—’

‘You didn’t tell them, did you? They think you’re still together. To all intents and purposes, you’re just another married couple.’ His voice was scathing.

‘There was no point in raising it . . . And you know very well that, professionally, I’ve never changed my name.’

‘How convenient.’

‘I just never got round to telling everybody,’ she protested. ‘There’s absolutely nothing more to it than that. People know me as Macauley professionally. I couldn’t work out what to do.’

‘And now Mr and Mrs Macauley are adopting a little girl. Well, that tidies things up nicely for you, doesn’t it? A family once again.’

‘We’re not adopting her. She’s a teenager who needs somewhere to stay for a few weeks. Come on, Conor. Please don’t start looking for things that don’t exist.’

But he seemed to see a whole plethora of motives, subterfuge, deception. For days now he had been off with her, had pleaded prior engagements when she asked him out or had avoided her altogether. He’ll come round, Natasha told herself. She stared at her mobile phone, which showed, for the fourteenth time that day, that no one except her office had rung. Work, she told herself. Just focus on your work.

The house was silent. For another couple of hours it would be hers again. She dropped her head into her hands and closed her eyes. Then she lifted it and, taking a breath like someone emerging from water, rang her office and spoke into the answerphone.

‘Ben,’ she said, ‘when you get this can you pull together all the expert witness statements in the Nottingham case? I’ll need them on my desk when I get in. And let me know immediately if you hear back about Court Three. I think the Local Authority in the Thompson case is going to appeal.’

It had happened again. Three fresh bales of hay sat against the wall of her lock-up, giving off a faint sweet scent, an echo of summer meadows. Against them rested an unopened bag of feed. Sarah had paid for none of it. She held the cold padlock, staring at the sight that had greeted her twice in the last couple of weeks, and felt an uneasy mixture of gratitude that Boo would have food, and concern over where it had come from.

Autumn had crept over the stables, bringing with it chilly nights and a seemingly insatiable hunger to the horses. Sarah peered out of the lock-up at the brazier, into which Cowboy John was feeding several manila envelopes, talking to his dog. He had been clearing out the brick shed he called his office, burning several years’ worth of unopened official correspondence. She had asked him for hay, but he had told her, apologetically, that he had sold all but what he needed for his own horses to Sal.

She filled a haynet, then trudged up the yard to Boo’s stable. She topped up his water buckets and cleared his bedding, breaking off occasionally to stick her chilled fingers inside her horse’s blankets, where his coat was soft and warm, pausing to listen to his rhythmic chomping.

She had thought staying with the Macauleys would make things easier, and to some extent they were. The house was nice. It was closer to school, and to the stables. But money was a problem. Without Papa to pay the stable rental she was struggling. Natasha insisted on making her sandwiches, instead of giving her lunch money, and they had replaced her bus pass so she couldn’t ask for fares. They gave her pocket money every weekend, which none of the other foster-families had, but it still didn’t cover what Boo cost.

She didn’t like to think how much she owed now. Even without the hay.

She thought of the jar she had seen in Natasha’s room. The woman couldn’t have the faintest idea how many pound coins it contained. Passing the doorway, Sarah had been transfixed by it, calculating that there were probably hundreds, all mixed in with silver coins. Natasha Macauley signed cheques without looking at the amounts. She had left a credit-card statement on the kitchen table that showed she had spent almost two thousand pounds the previous month, although Sarah hadn’t had the courage to check what she had spent it on. The lawyer seemed to have so much money that she didn’t even care about the coins she threw into the jar. She probably just didn’t want them weighing down the pockets of her business suits.

Sarah knew what Papa would say about girls who took money that didn’t belong to them. But increasingly she found herself answering him back:
So what? You’re not here. How else am I supposed to keep our horse until you come home?

‘Sarah.’

She jumped. Cowboy John had disappeared somewhere, and Sheba hadn’t barked, as she normally would if someone came in. ‘You gave me a fright.’ She stepped back against the door to her lock-up, the padlock still in her hand.

Maltese Sal stood behind her, his face indistinct in the evening gloom. ‘I was passing and saw the gates open,’ he said. ‘Just wanted to make sure everything was okay.’

‘Everything’s fine,’ she said, turning and wrestling with the key. ‘I was about to go home.’

‘You locking up for John?’

‘I’ve always had a set of keys,’ she said. ‘I help him out if he needs to go early. I . . . I don’t mind carrying on when you take over.’

‘When I take over?’ The gold tooth glinted. ‘Sweetheart, I own this place. Have done for over a week now.’ He leant against the doorframe. ‘But, sure, you can keep your keys. It might be useful.’

Sarah scrabbled on the floor for her schoolbag, grateful that the flickering sodium light on the pavement outside meant Sal couldn’t see her blushing.

‘Where you going?’

‘Home,’ she said.

‘Your granddaddy’s back?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m – I’m staying with someone.’

‘It’s dark,’ he said. ‘Not good for a young girl to be out alone at night.’

‘I’m okay,’ she said, hauling her bag on to her shoulder. ‘Really.’

‘You want a lift? I got plenty of time.’

Still she couldn’t make out his face. He smelt of tobacco, not cigarettes but something rich and sweet. ‘I’d better not.’ She made to move past him, but he stood there. She suspected it was a game for him, making people uncomfortable. She wondered if his men were in another part of the yard, laughing at her.

‘You got the hay, okay?’

‘Thank you. Sorry. I meant to say.’ She reached into her pocket, and pulled out the money she had counted that morning. ‘This is for the last two lots.’ She handed it to him, flinching slightly as her fingers met his hand.

He held it up, scrutinising it under the light. Then he laughed. ‘Sweetheart, what’s this for?’

‘The hay. And the feed. For two weeks.’

‘This wouldn’t cover two of those bales. That’s good stuff in there.’

‘Two pounds a bale. That’s what I pay John.’

‘This is way better than his. Five pounds each, those bales. I told you I’d only feed your horse the best. You owe me three times that amount.’

She stared at him. He did not appear to be joking. ‘I haven’t got that much,’ she whispered. Sheba was whining at her legs.

‘That’s a problem.’ He nodded, as if to himself. ‘That is a problem. Because there’s the back rental as well.’

‘Back rental?’

‘According to Cowboy John’s books you haven’t paid for six weeks.’

‘But John said he was letting us off the back rent. Because of my granddad.’

Maltese Sal lit a cigarette. ‘His promise, sweetheart. Not mine. Far as I’m concerned, I’ve taken on a going concern and the books say there’s a big black deficit against your name. I’m not a charity. I need the rental.’

‘I’ll talk to him. I—’

‘It’s not his place any more, Sarah. It’s me you owe the money to.’

Sarah began to calculate six weeks’ rent, adding it to the money he said she owed for the food. The figure made her head swim. ‘I . . . can’t find that sort of money, not straight away.’

‘Well . . .’ Maltese Sal stepped back so that she could pass. He began to walk towards the gates. ‘That’s okay for now. I’m not going anywhere, Sarah. You sort it out and see me later.’

She was just coming out of court when Linda came hurrying up the stone steps. Natasha turned from the solicitor she had been chatting to, and Linda thrust a piece of paper into her hand, still puffing. ‘You need to ring this woman. She says some girl called Sarah didn’t turn up at school again.’

‘What?’ Her head was still full of court proceedings.

‘They rang shortly after ten. I didn’t like to interrupt you.’ Linda nodded towards the courtroom. Then, when Natasha didn’t seem to be getting the message: ‘
Sarah didn’t turn up at school this morning.
They assumed you’d know what this meant. Is she a client? I was trying to think who they were talking about.’

Natasha glanced at her watch. It was a quarter to twelve. ‘Did you ring Mac?’

‘Mac?’ said Linda. ‘Your ex Mac? Why would I ring him?’

Natasha began to search for her mobile phone. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll explain some other time.’ Finding it, she strode down the corridor, past the lawyers and clients standing in huddles, until she reached a quiet corner.

‘Natasha?’ He sounded surprised to hear from her. In the background she could hear laughter and music, as if he was at a party.

‘The school rang. She’s not there again.’

‘Who? Sarah?’ He broke off, instructed someone to shush. ‘But I dropped her off at a quarter to nine.’

‘Did you see her go through the school gates?’

A pause. ‘Now you mention it, no. She waved me off. Christ, I didn’t think we were going to have to hold her hand.’

‘They’ve rung me twice. Legally we’re meant to report her as missing after two hours. You’ll have to sort this, Mac. I’ve got less than an hour, then I’m stuck in court all afternoon. I won’t be out until four, given the way this morning went.’

‘Damn. I’m in the middle of a shoot and then I’ve got a job in South London.’ She could hear him thinking. He always hummed when he was trying to work something out. ‘Okay. You ring the school, check she hasn’t arrived, and I’ll go home, make sure she’s not there, and ring you back.’

Sarah wasn’t at home or at school, and she wasn’t at the hospital either. Mac called as Natasha paced her office, bolting a sandwich, and told her not to ring the social worker until the evening. ‘Let’s talk to her first,’ he said.

‘What if something’s happened to her? Last time it was just one lesson. This is the best part of a day. Mac – we need to ring her social worker.’

‘She’s fourteen. She’s just kicking up her heels, probably out of her head on cider in some doorway with her mates.’

‘Oh, that’s reassuring.’

‘She’ll be back. She won’t go far from her grandfather, will she?’

Natasha couldn’t share his certainty. That afternoon she struggled to keep her mind on the hearing. When she glanced at Lindsay, her twelve-year-old client, sitting sullenly, flanked by her guardian and social worker, who were overseeing the final hearing for a secure-accommodation application, she saw Sarah’s blank little face as she tried to leave the house. Something was going on that they didn’t know about, and it made Natasha nervous. She swung between concern that the child was genuinely struggling with something, and a growing, nagging anxiety that she had invited a whole heap of trouble into what had been her safe, orderly existence.

‘Your notes,’ Ben whispered, as he slid into the seat beside her. ‘You left them outside on the chair.’

‘Christ. Thanks.’

I should have considered this more carefully, she told herself, as she listened to the lawyer for the local authority. I got so worked up about the prospect of sharing a house with Mac that I didn’t think about the possibility that things could get even more complicated.