The Horse Dancer (22 page)

‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve got caught up in something. I’m not going to make it.’

‘Is job?’

‘Not exactly.’ He leant back in his seat, ran his hand over his head.

‘Is your ex-wife again. You two are making mad, passionate love all night and you no longer have the energy for me.’ She started to laugh.

‘It’s nothing to do with Natasha.’

‘In Poland, Natasha is most popular name for prostitute. You know this?’

‘I’ll tell her. I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear it.’

Maria shouted at someone, then returned to the phone. ‘Is very sad for you. You won’t see me for two weeks.’

‘No?’ Was that Sarah at the other end of the narrow road? He peered out, but when the girl turned she was pushing a pram.

‘Have got major-major job in Caribbean. I told you.’

‘You did.’

‘For Spanish
Elle
. Guess who is shooting.’

‘Maria, you know I don’t know one fashion photographer from another.’

‘Sevi. Everyone knows Sevi.’

He’d have to ring Tash and tell her he’d lost her. They’d decide whether to call the social worker.

‘He did cover shoot for
Marie Claire
this month.’

Perhaps he could ring the school and say she had an appointment. Then he’d force her to tell him where she’d gone.

‘
Marie Claire
,’ she repeated, for emphasis.

‘They must have mislaid my copy at the newsagent this month.’

‘You are very sad man. Very many bad jokes.’

‘Maria, sweetheart,’ he said, ‘I have to go. I need to make a call.’

‘Are you becoming homosexual?’

‘Not today, no, but I’ll give it some thought.’

‘My sister has married homosexual. Did I tell you this?’

He had stopped listening. A large brown horse was emerging through a pair of wire mesh gates further up the road. It jumped slightly at a dustbin, then skittered sideways as it came down the cobbled road towards him, its hooves clattering on the hard surface. He squinted as it got closer; the inside of his car was steaming up. But there was no doubt about the identity of the rider. He was electrified with shock.

‘Maria – got to go. Ring me from wherever and we’ll sort something out.’ He shoved the phone into his pocket, and then, as the horse was a good twenty feet away, opened his door quietly and climbed out. Sarah’s hair was tied back, her slender frame perched lightly on the huge animal, her school sweatshirt clearly visible. It jumped sideways again, but she didn’t seem to move. He saw her reach down and stroke its neck, as if reassuring it.

Mac shut his door and moved swiftly to the boot from which he pulled out his Leica, his eyes barely leaving the girl on the horse. He locked the car, and began to walk down the road behind her, watching as she sat quietly, apparently oblivious to the noise and chaos of the city around her. As they turned the corner, he saw she was headed for the park.

He thought for a moment, then reached for his phone and dialled the number, stepping into a doorway so that his voice did not carry on the wind. ‘Is that the school office? Hi . . . yes. It’s the guardian of Sarah Lachapelle here. I’m ringing to say she’s got a doctor’s appointment this morning and won’t be in. Yes, I’m very sorry . . . I know I should have called earlier . . .’

Until Papa had become ill, almost half of Boo’s training had been done from the ground. Papa had long-reined him, standing behind him, encouraging him to understand the various pressures of his hand and rein as instruction; to adjust his balance, to bring his hindquarters further under him, to bend to the left or right. Sarah would be positioned at his head or shoulder, reinforcing whatever her grandfather instructed with gentle pressure or voice, sometimes a faint shiver of a schooling whip. This way, Papa had explained, Boo could learn without having to cope with her loss of balance as well. Papa always made it sound as if she was a liability, that her presence made life harder for Boo. She had long since stopped taking it personally.

He had once owned a horse called Gerontius, who had been long-reined for three years before anyone was allowed to sit on him. It is not a substitute for training, he would tell her. It was the foundation of training. All the ‘airs above the ground,’ the
sauts d’école
, stemmed from such building blocks. They could not be bypassed.

That was all very well, Sarah thought now, but she needed to ride. She sat, allowing him to stretch out a bit, chiding him with her voice as he startled at street-lamps, traffic cones and drain covers, obstacles he wouldn’t have blinked at six weeks ago. She had been forced to stay away for two days: two days in which he might have been fed and watered but would not have stepped outside his stable. For an intelligent, fit horse like Boo, it was tantamount to torture, and she knew she was likely to pay for it.

It had started to rain harder, and Sarah held up an arm, asking the traffic to stop as she crossed the road. Boo had caught sight of the grass now, and she felt his energy build beneath her. The rain would empty the park, allowing her room to work without interruption. But the horse was excited, possibly too much so. After his confinement, his hooves would react to that springy surface as if to an electrical charge.

Listen to me
, she told him, with her seat, her legs, her hands. But there was something exhilarating about knowing such power was just waiting to be unleashed.

Levade
, a little voice said, inside her head.

Papa had told her she was not to try it, that it was too ambitious a movement.
Levade
asked the horse to shift its weight on to its back legs, keeping at an angle of thirty-five degrees. It was a test of strength and balance, a transition to the greater challenges of classical dressage.

But Papa had done it. She had done it from the ground. She knew Boo was capable of it.

Sarah breathed in the damp air, wiping the moisture from her face. She trotted Boo in small circles, halting, then moving forward, forcing him to concentrate on her, creating an invisible arena between the park bins, the bollards and the long edge of the children’s play area. When she was sure he was warmed up, she began to canter, first on one rein, then on the other, trying to hear her grandfather’s instruction: sit deep, hands still, legs back a little, more contact on the outside rein. And within minutes she was lost, transported from the endless frustrations of living by someone else’s rules, of the money she owed, of the sight of Papa, frustrated and unhappy in a bed that smelt of chemical pine and old people. It was just her and Boo, locked into their paces, working until they steamed under the fine mist of rain. She brought him back to walk, and loosened the reins, allowing him to stretch out. He no longer jumped at the noises of the street, or at the three double-decker buses: hard work had relaxed him, grounded him. Papa would be pleased with him today, she thought, running her hand along his wet neck.

Levade
. Would it really be such a sin to test him a little? Would Papa ever have to know? She took a deep breath, and gathered up the reins again, urging him into a slow trot, which she gradually restricted until he was in
piaffe
, lifting his hooves rhythmically on the spot. She straightened her back, trying to remember Papa’s instructions. The hind feet must come under the horse’s centre of gravity, the hocks almost sinking to the ground. She leant back a little, her legs encouraging him, telling him that his energy must go somewhere, holding him back with the faintest pressure on her reins. She clicked her tongue, a series of instructions, and he tensed, listening to her, his ears flicking. He couldn’t do it, she realised. She needed a second person, someone to explain to him from the ground. Then she felt his rear sink beneath her, and for a moment she panicked a little as if it would unbalance them both, but suddenly his front end was rising in front of her and she leant forwards to help him, feeling him quiver as he tried to maintain it. They teetered there, defying gravity, Sarah regarding the park from a new, heightened angle.

And then he was down. Caught off-guard, she collapsed on to his neck and he shot forward, bucking once, twice with exuberance so that she struggled to stay on.

Sarah pushed herself upright and laughed. She felt a great bubble of elation rise inside her, and clapped the horse on the neck, praising him, trying to convey to him a sense of his own magnificence. She reached down and put her arms around his neck. ‘Clever, clever horse,’ she said again, watching Boo’s ears flick, listening to her approval.

‘Impressive,’ said a voice behind her. Sarah twisted in the saddle. Her stomach lurched.

Mac’s jacket was dark with moisture. ‘May I?’ he said, then strolled forward and stroked Boo’s neck. ‘He’s hot,’ he observed, drawing back his hand and rubbing his fingertips together.

She couldn’t speak. Her thoughts dissolved, and sick dread flooded her.

‘Have you finished? Shall we head back?’ Mac gestured towards Sparepenny Lane.

She nodded, her fingers tightening on the reins. Her mind raced. She could go now. She could just urge Boo on, and the two of them could fly across the park towards the marshes. She could go miles before he could catch her. But she had nothing. Nowhere to go.

She walked slowly back to the yard, Boo stretching his neck down, apparently wearied by the intense work, her own posture now defeated. She studied Mac’s back as he walked, unable to detect anything from his demeanour.

She halted in front of the gates. Cowboy John appeared from his shed and opened them. ‘Taken a shower, Circus Girl? You’re drenched.’

He patted the horse as he passed, then caught sight of Mac, hovering beside her. ‘Can I help you, young man? You interested in some eggs? Fruit? I got some fine avocados in today. I can do you a whole tray for just three of your English pounds.’

Mac was staring at Cowboy John as if he’d never seen anything like him. It might have been because John was wearing his scruffiest cowboy hat, a red handkerchief and the neon jacket that one of the road fixers had left the previous year. But it was probably the huge joint clamped between his yellowing teeth.

‘Avocados?’ said Mac, recovering. ‘Sounds good.’

‘Better than good, my man. These are on the very point of ripeness. Any riper they’d be busting out of their skins and whipping themselves into a guacamole. You want a feel? By God, that’s gotta be the best offer you’ll get all day.’ He gave a dirty chuckle.

Mac walked in through the gates behind her. ‘Show me the way,’ he said.

Sarah led her horse to his stable. She removed the saddle and bridle, wiped off the raindrops and put them carefully into her lock-up, then began to muck out. At the far end of the yard, she could see Cowboy John presenting Mac with fruit and vegetables. Mac was nodding. He kept glancing around the yard, as if trying to take everything in, apparently asking questions. She could see John pointing out the various horses, his hens, the office. Mac seemed interested in all of it. Eventually, as she filled Boo’s bucket with clean water, John and Mac strolled under the railway arch and up to the stable. It was raining even harder now, little rivers of water running down the slope, weaving through the cobbles.

‘You done there, Circus Girl?’

She nodded, standing close by the horse.

‘I never seen you for two days. You been having trouble getting over here? Old Boo here was threatening to bust out on me again this morning.’

She glanced at Mac, then at the ground. ‘Something like that,’ she said.

‘You seen your grandpa?’

She shook her head. She thought, to her horror, that she might cry.

‘We’re going over there now,’ said Mac.

Her head shot up.

‘You want to?’ he asked.

‘You know this girl?’ Cowboy John stepped back theatrically, then gestured towards Mac’s cardboard box of fruit. ‘You know Sarah? Man, you should have said something. I’d never have sold you that crap if I’d known you was a friend of
Sarah
’s.’

Mac raised an eyebrow.

‘I can’t sell you those,’ John said. ‘You come back in my office and I’ll give you the good stuff. I just keep that out there for the passers-by. Sarah? You say howdy to your old man for me. Tell him I’ll be dropping by Saturday. Give him these.’ He threw her a bunch of bananas.

As Mac followed John back to the office, Sarah could just make out a smile playing around his mouth.

Her clothes were still wet when she climbed into the car. He had received a parking ticket, and he was peeling it off the windscreen and leaning inside to throw it into the glove compartment when he noticed she was shivering.

‘You need something dry to wear?’ he said. ‘There’s a spare jumper in the back. Put it on over your uniform.’

She did as he asked. He pulled out into the road and began to drive, his brain racing as he tried to work out what to say. When they reached the traffic-lights, he said, ‘So that’s what it’s all about. The absences. The disappearing.’ He didn’t mention the money.

She gave the smallest nod.

He indicated and turned left. ‘Well . . . you’re certainly full of surprises.’ He felt reassured. She was just a kid with a pony. If a slightly oversized one.

‘What was it you were doing? The whole jumping-up-in-the-air thing?’

She muttered something he couldn’t hear. ‘
Levade
,’ she repeated, louder.

‘Which is?’

‘A movement from
haute école
. It’s like dressage.’

‘Dressage? Is that the thing where they go round in circles?’

She smiled reluctantly. ‘Something like that.’

‘And the horse is yours?’

‘Mine and Papa’s.’

‘He’s pretty smart. I don’t know anything about horses, but he looks amazing. How’d you end up with a horse like that?’