The Horse Dancer (51 page)

‘Nerves’, the doctor had called it when, a matter of weeks after Simone was born, Florence had begun to complain that her body wasn’t working as it should. Sometimes it was like this with new mothers, he had confided to Henri and her mother, as they stood in the narrow corridor after he had examined her. They saw terrors, dangers that weren’t there. They might even hallucinate.

‘At least she’s bonded with the child,’ he observed. ‘She and Baby should stay with Granny for a while. Just until she has become a little more . . . comfortable with motherhood.’ What could Henri have said? He had nodded his acquiescence, marvelling that they could not see how every atom of him was straining towards the Channel.

Florence was crying again. He watched her try to wipe the tell-tale teardrops off Simone’s cotton gown, her head bowed, and felt a suffocating weight drape itself over him.
How much longer?
he wanted to yell at her. He thought of Gerontius, perhaps even now waiting for him, his head bowed over the stable door.

‘I’m sorry. I know you thought France would be the answer for us,’ she said quietly.

And there it was. The thing that had hung, unspoken, between them for weeks. She could not cope alone, and he could not risk anything happening to the child. He could not return to Le Cadre Noir
and
be there to support her. He had no family he could place her with, no money to pay for nurse.

They would have to remain here, in reach of her parents.

He stood, walked over to her chair. ‘I will write to Monsieur Varjus,’ he said.

She glanced up. ‘You mean . . .’

‘We will stay in England a little longer.’ He shrugged, his teeth gritted. ‘It’s fine. Really.’

The baby’s fingers opened and closed on her exposed skin, demanding, rhapsodic. ‘Perhaps when I’m feeling a bit better . . .’ Florence said quietly.

And next year, there would be new horsemen,
écuyers,
waiting to take his place.

When she placed her arm around his neck, sobbing her thanks into his aching shoulders, he realised with shame that he felt nothing but despair. His second thought was worse: how could a woman who was unable to use her hands hold on to him so tightly?

‘It was about a year after that that I met him. He was working on the track above my yard. First time he’d seen horses since leaving his country, ones that weren’t pulling a cart, anyhow.’ Cowboy John tilted back his hat. ‘I looked up one afternoon and saw him staring at my old mare as if she was a mirage. We were both new to the area then, both outsiders. I waved him down, and he ate his sandwiches outside that stable there, one hand rubbing my old mare’s nose the whole time.

‘A lot of people found him a little stiff but I liked him. We rubbed along fine. For years we’d sit there in my office, drinking tea, talking about the little farm he’d have in France one day, the riding school he was gonna set up once he’d made some money.’

‘Is that what Florence wanted?’ Natasha asked. She had been so lost in the story that she realised she had forgotten briefly why they were all in the car in the first place.

‘Oh, Florence would have gone along with pretty much anything that man asked her. I think she felt real guilty about what she’d saddled him with. She knew, like he did, that she wouldn’t be able to cope in France, what with the illness. She spent most of her energy trying to make it up to him.’

‘I don’t understand. Illness?’

John looked at them, frowning. ‘You two didn’t know?’

‘Know what?’

‘Sarah didn’t tell you? Her nan had – oh, whaddaya call it? – multiple sclerosis. She was in a wheelchair for years. Sarah was helping her grandpa look after the old lady almost from the time she could walk.’

They had given up on Dover and decided to head down the coast road towards Deal. Mac drove in the dark, calling out hotel names, just in case it was one that Natasha hadn’t yet rung. Or hadn’t rung twice. Natasha was still talking to John, her imagination captured by Henri Lachapelle’s travails.

‘The way Sarah talks about her grandparents, they sounded so close.’

John snorted. ‘Sure they were close, but that man’s whole life is one of regrets.’

‘You mean Sarah’s mother?’

‘Oh, man, Simone was a mess. She was fiery, argumentative – the opposite of him. Everything he kept in, she let out. Florence couldn’t manage her, didn’t have the strength, and he tried to keep her on a tight rein, like he does Sarah. He was an old-fashioned disciplinarian, a little too much so for some tastes. He didn’t like her mixing with the local boys, staying out late. The situation with Florence probably made him more protective than he would have been. But Simone wasn’t having it. Oooh, no. She fought him every inch. The more he pulled her one way, she pulled straight back the other.’

He lit another cigarette. ‘The sad bit is, he knows now he handled her all wrong. He should have eased up. They were actually more alike than they knew. But it’s hard, you know? When you think you’re losing something, you don’t always behave in the smartest way.’

Natasha glanced at Mac; he was engrossed in John’s story.

‘By the time he worked out what he was doing wrong, she was way down the road on the drugs and he couldn’t get her back. Then there were about four, five years when she ran off to Paris and they never heard from her at all. ’Cept when she needed more money, of course. Damn near broke their hearts. I know he blames himself.’

‘And then ten, eleven years ago, Simone turns up on their doorstep one day with this little child, sayin’ she can’t cope. She’d had a baby in France. Never said nothing to them. They got the shock of their lives.

‘And she says she’s goin’ to sort herself out back here and starts leavin’ the child with them. Each time it’s for a bit longer and a bit longer, and then she doesn’t turn up when she’s meant to turn up, and in the end they apply for custody and get it. Simone never even turned up for the hearin’. He was mad at first – he was super-protective of Florence, of the extra burden it put on her to have to take care of a little one – but to tell you the truth, they was real happy to have Sarah around.’

He grinned. ‘The day they got custody it was like the two of them got a whole new lease on life. The old man was thinkin’ about horses again – and they were happy. Happiest I’d ever seen them together, anyhow. It was a blow when they heard Simone had died, but I guess it was a kind of relief too. He’d gone out looking for her for years, giving her money, sorting out the messes she’d gotten herself into, trying to get her straight – not that Sarah knows about any of that, you understand. He wanted to protect the little girl from it . . . some of what he knew . . .’ John shuddered. ‘No girl needs to know that about her mother . . .

‘Anyhow, Florence passed away around – what? – four years past. After her funeral they got an offer from the council, some kind of financial incentive to give up their ground-floor place, they needed it for other disabled people. Well, he took the money, moved them to that flat in Sandown, and spent the money on Baucher, that Rolls-Royce of a horse of theirs. And from then on he began to seem like himself again. Everything was about getting Sarah into a better place.’

‘He wanted Sarah to be like him,’ she mused.

Cowboy John shook his head. ‘You know what, Miss Lawyer Lady? He wanted the exact opposite. Oh, you can think what you like about her, but Sarah,’ he said, his rheumy eyes looking into the distance, ‘is the one thing that man ever felt he got right.’

The girl had fallen asleep. Thom drove on through the night, occasionally glancing at her, curled up on the front seat, her head resting against the window. And then, almost reflexively, at the CCTV monitor that showed her horse, partitioned between the other two, standing vigilantly as if he wouldn’t allow himself to relax but was bracing himself for the next stage of his journey.

He had not told Kate what he was doing – he knew what she’d say. She’d tell him he was insane, accuse him of being irresponsible, of endangering the child’s life. He knew that if his step-daughter, Sabine, had run off like that, hitched a ride with a stranger to another country, they would have been out of their minds with fear and worry.

But how could he explain he’d had to let the girl go? Even, hearing her chatter away these last hours, that he envied her a little. How many people got the chance to chase a dream? How many people even knew what they wanted? When she talked about her journey, about her love for the horse, the uncomplicated life she pictured for herself, her grandfather, he saw how easy it was to get hemmed in, buried in routine and mundane concerns.

None of it stopped him worrying, though, or thinking several times that he should stop the truck on the side of the road and call the police. He glanced up again at the CCTV. The horse lifted its head a little and, for a moment, gazed directly at the camera.

‘Look after her, old fella,’ said Thom, quietly. ‘God knows, she’s going to need all the help she can get.’

At a quarter past eight, they stopped at a fast-food restaurant to use the lavatory. John asked for a large, black coffee with two sugars – although Natasha pointed out that he’d be using the loo even more frequently – and strode off to the payphone to call the hospital. Routine, he announced cheerfully. He liked to call or pop in each day. The old man would want to know what was happening.

‘What are you going to tell him?’ she said.

‘The truth. That we know she’s close by, we just ain’t worked out exactly where. He’s a cussed old man, though. He’s probably been telling her where to go so’s we won’t find her.’ This thought made him laugh, and she watched him chuckle all the way to the phone.

She went to the table and put the plastic tray in front of Mac, trying not to notice that he flipped his mobile phone shut, as if he’d been checking a text message.

‘If I say dark horse, are you going to hit me over the head?’ he asked.

‘She never said.’

‘We never asked.’

‘But she never said anything. I’ve talked to her about her grandparents, and all she ever said was that they were happy.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Mac, stirring creamer into his coffee, ‘that was the only thing she considered important.’

She held up the black coffee as John returned, but he shook his head, his face sombre. ‘Guys, I’m gonna have to split. Henri ain’t too clever. If Sarah ain’t around . . . Well, someone should be with him.’

‘How bad is he?’

‘They just asked me to come by. Well, they asked for Sarah, but I said that wasn’t possible right now.’ He was shuffling for change in his pockets, checking what he had with him. He looked tired suddenly, and a little frail.

Natasha stood up, reaching into her bag, the coffee forgotten. ‘We’ll take you to the station. Here.’ She handed him some cash. ‘Take that for the train.’

‘I don’t need your money, lady,’ John said irritably.

‘It’s not for you, it’s for him. So he doesn’t have to be on his own. Oh, for goodness’ sake, just get a cab from the station,’ she said. ‘You’ve earned it.’

He looked down at the notes she was holding out and, for the first time, the knowing, mocking expression was missing from his weathered face. He took them and tipped his hat to her. ‘Well, thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ll ring you when I know how he is.’

They were in the car before she realised that the sudden absence of his mordant humour had disconcerted her more than almost anything that had happened so far.

It was as they reached the station car park that her telephone rang. Natasha flipped it open. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said, glancing at John, who was letting himself out of the car. ‘Sorry – can you repeat that?’ The line was poor and she flapped a hand at Mac to turn off the engine. ‘Are you sure? . . . Thank you very much for letting me know . . . Yes, I’ll be in touch.’

‘Everything okay?’ John was holding open the rear door. He was plainly eager to leave, but something in her face must have halted him.

She shut the phone.

‘What?’ said Mac. ‘Don’t just sit—’

‘That was the credit-card company. You’re not going to believe this,’ she said. ‘She’s in France.’

 

 

 

Sarah had been dreaming of horses, blood and motorways. She woke to a blast of cold air and saw Thom peering through the driver’s door. She pushed herself upright. The clock on the dashboard told her it was a quarter to eight.

‘Morning.’ He was dressed and clean-shaven, as if he’d already been up for some time.

‘Where are we?’

The atmosphere was curiously bright, as if the whole world was a few shades lighter than it had been in England. A short distance away she could see an immaculate stableyard, honey-coloured with a low, red-tiled roof, flanked by a dense, flat-surfaced hedge. Great tubs of carefully trimmed yew stood at the gates, and a man was mucking out a stable, swinging forkfuls of dirty straw into a wheelbarrow with cheerful ease.

‘Just outside Blois,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a good night’s sleep.’

‘Where’s Boo?’ That same, reflexive panic.

‘You mean Mr Diablo? In the yard.’ He jerked his thumb towards the stables. ‘We got here late last night but you were sparko and I didn’t think it was fair to turf you both out late at night. He’s in the third stable along from the left. He’s fine. He was a little frothed up when we got here, but he’s good as gold.’

She blinked, just able to see Boo’s nose reaching for a haynet.

‘You can have that night on me. But I need to be headed back for Calais, Miss Sarah, so I’m afraid this is where you and I must part.’