by Ryder, H
My side still aches from the fall and the bruise is getting blacker with a stormy hint of purply grey and green, but it isn't anyone’s fault. I wince as I lift down the feed buckets from their hooks, the recycled rubber makes them very heavy but at least when Harry stands in it, it doesn't do any damage. I had just watched them having a mad moment in their field. George bucks his huge powerful rump high into the air with a sideways twist of his body, Harry rears up and spins round on his back legs, then they gallop off around the perimeter of my land. Harry swings his head from side to side low to the ground, George, his head held high and magnificent his tail high too. Paces elevated, extended, floating as if they aren’t touching the ground at all. Together, matching each other’s speed and reach, they canter huffing and puffing in perfect syncrinosity, not from fatigue, but from excitement. They stop on a penny, stand tall and magnificent, heads alert and pretty, manes blowing gently in the breeze, how I love those bay boys.
The phone rings again, I answer in the feed room.
TC: "Hello?" I snap frustrated, I don't like being disturbed when I’m in the yard. “This is the Chinese laundry speaking, we're not open at present, but please call back later.”
PF: "Hi, Tharie for fuck sake where have you been? I’ve been calling,” wow! Who’s blowing up her tail?
TC: “Pete, “I’m in the yard.” That explanation should suffice most who know me at all.
PF: “You're feeding the boys, well, it's me, you still OK for tomorrow?" My best friend is always so happy sounding, but this time I sensed an edge to her tone as if she was annoyed or frustrated with something, or likely someone…? Is that it? Not quite, I’m not sure, usually I’m good at this. Must need tea.
TC: "Pete, something’s up I can sense it, now don’t hide your feelings just let them out, but do it quick, I’m in the yard and George will finish Harry’s dinner if I don't intervene...." I shouldn’t need to add anything further should I? Horses come before anything, without exception. True story. Harry has chaff over the little hairs on his muzzle, he snorts loudly probably because it tickles him, they are content and happy because horses are always happy when they're eating.
Harry's sleek conker coloured body starting to darken for the colder months ahead, the tone changes beginning at his shoulder and neck and working its way down his body, the filth and mud streaked across his rump and shoulder from rolling.
I'm drifting away from the conversation. What's this in my hand?
George, my huge youngster, a lighter, brighter bay than Harry with dark brown legs not black like a usual bay, George is the colour of an old walnut piano, polished lovingly every day. He is already prepared for winter, his coat is dark all-over and very furry where the clippers have left a pattern around his body, and with an accompaniment of mud splashed up his legs, he looks gorgeous. Yep, I love those horses, I almost forget I have a phone handset in my gloved hand.
TC: “Well? Do I need to drag it out of you?” Well do I?
PF: “Tharie, you went all quiet on me there, when that happens one of two things is happening….it’s George or its Harry.” She knows me better than I know myself.
TC: “OK, spill” I say laughing, she’s good.
PF: "It’s a story babes, we’ll need wine, I can’t give you a synopsis either, spoilers remember?” I do, it's from Dr Who.
TC: “Let’s meet up then.” Tomorrow night, can’t wait.
PF: “OK, I’ll tell you all about my drama tomorrow, see you then honey, and remember, wear the new dress, the McQueen, bye, love to the boys"...and Pete is gone.
Patricia has been my friend since forever, she is the pretty one, she hated her name, said it made her sound like someone who sells mortgages. I told her banking is a perfectly acceptable career choice, but there was no talking sense into her. So shortened it to Pete, must be something going around eh? My Dad called me Tharie when I was a toddler, it was how I tried to say my name apparently, and it stuck. Mum absolutely hates it, and is the only one on earth who calls me Catharine.
Pete has a slightly Asian look from her grandmothers side, almond shaped eyes widely spaced with a narrow aperture perfectly sculpted brows. Her eyes made up dark and smoky. Her hair black as night, shiny and always tidy, delicate features, eyes a dark deep greeny brown, long slender neck, tiny curve less frame. She lives on air and champagne. She wears Prada, black pencil dresses and twenty four-hole DrMartens boots. A Balmain leather biker jacket, this seasons, with clever channelled padded panels and huge silver chunky zips, a huge black plastic technical-looking watch, waterproof to 100metres, but she can't swim. She has the most beautiful blossom tattoo across her back that took fifteen hours to complete. I don’t want to do something that feels good for that long! But that's just me.
I know full well she doesn't give a monkeys about my horses, instead she (wrongly) pegs them as the things that stop me buying those Isabel Marant boots. But she is great company and 'Pete' as she is known, is always funny and up for dancing or shopping or whatever medicine is needed at the time, to beat that empty single feeling, so why did she call me? The Agatha in me wants to follow the trail to a story, there's always a story.
Back to the yard, I change the horses' rugs for the cold night ahead, getting myself covered in filth too, as I add neck covers. Satisfied my outdoor creatures will be snugly and have plenty of hay to eat, I close up the feed room, shut off the yard lights, and head back indoors where my stove will keep me toasty all winter long.
Hungry now.
I order curry for one, veg dhansak, sag aloo, plain rice and 2 plain naan, put my plate to warm on the wood burning stove top, lit already. It's chilly in this old building and I love the sound of the logs crackling and the flames humming and the smell too. I settle down to catch up on Doctor Who, love Matt Smith, who doesn't? Ready to relax for the evening, Beauty one side and Max on my lap purring away, where the other one is I’ll never know, he's outdoorsy like me, I love my life.
Bloody phone!
LC: “Babes, how’s the training going?” She’s all about winning.
I’m hungry.
TC: “Fine Liza, the boys are fit and ready to go” I just like the speed and to have fun.
Curry. Did they say twenty minutes on the phone?
LC: “My trainer is working me very hard” I bet he is.
TC: “Your good looking, tall blonde trainer-man in tight breeches who’s improving your flying change?” How she can concentrate just demonstrates how much she wants to win.
LC: “Do you have a point?” Always.
TC: “Unnecessary” but that doesn’t stop me.
LC: “And you, still single?” Here we go.
TC: “It’s like a disease” just like my Mother, everyone wants me to have a boyfriend, wrapped up in nice neat little packages of life. But life isn't neat is it?
LC: “Just don’t tell me you don’t have the time” broken record.
TC: “I don’t have the time” broken record, but it's true.
LC: “See you then Lx” count on it.
Note to self, put diesel in the lorry.
Oh, good! Curry's here!
Chapter two, Monday:21ndoctober2013, the beginning part. Please pay attention, this part is before the above chapters!
5.30am looks like intense blue-black with a handful of stars thrown carelessly into the sky, not scattered evenly, but making a denser trail across the darkness, to nothing at the extremities. I think, the stars wouldn't shine without the darkness, now where did I hear that? Winter is coming. The boys are ready for their breakfasts and I feed them in the field. Watch the moon as it reflects just enough light around that I don't really need my head torch. It's an eerie silvery kind of still light, which gets everywhere. As I move around the yard with my 'Quickie' broom imported from the states, I ache. My side hurts as I twist and I am stiff all down my left side. I came second in my class, so it was worth it...or was it? George performed brilliantly, as we finished the jump-off faster by seven seconds than the next r
ider, he excitedly threw a massive buck... Described it later as a captain caveman moment, and I fell. Or rather was propelled unceremoniously into a horsebox on my side (not my horsebox happily). Luckily it happened outside the ring, and the blue rosette is ours. I hang it proudly from my horsebox window. I refill their hay bars, the hay smells wonderfully sweet, and say "have a great day babes." One day they'll answer me won't they?
Back in the warmth of the cottage, I rush around as usual to get myself ready for work. After a quick shower, I dress in a black jersey sheath dress, its tight pencil shape skirt to my calf, long tight black boots and an old Portobello find my army parka. A huge khaki twill cocoon with double hood lined in fleece, big deep pockets everywhere, inside and out, drawstring waist adjustment and a fishtail dropped-hem. Which of course I’d washed in Dettol several times before I wore it, I’m really not keen on 'vintage' second hand things unless I’m certain they are clean, a trait I got from my Grandma.
The cats and horses come first always, I don't eat breakfast as usual, down a cup of dark tea, grab my Burberry soft as butter leather handbag, and head out to my car. Drive to my space at the station, park my old bashed up and draughty black Landrover 90 defender in my allotted space and just make it onto the train in time. I put my 'cyber-man' Bose headphones on, click the end into my iPhone, and Stone Sour thrashes happily inside my head, it's good, I love loud music, it stops me over thinking things, which I tend to do. The loud music, overpowers the endless chattering, leaves me quiet up there, so I can think.
My phone interrupts the noise, breaking through the thrashing with 'Bring Me Sunshine'. Bloodygoddamit!
EC: “Hello Mother here, remember me?” She's almost as funny as me, I always thought I got funny from my Dad. Strange.
TC: “Hello Mum, everything OK?” I’m going to regret asking that aren’t I?
EC: “its cold out, wrap-up” she's not wrong.
TC: “You too, love you, I promise to come see you when I’m not so busy” I put my phone away a little guilty for not seeing her this weekend, but that’s the effect Mum's have on you isn’t it?
Note to self, remember the old proverb: 'he declares himself guilty, who justifies himself before accusation'.
EC: “You never come and see me” feel better now?
TC: “I will soon, I promise” don’t I say that every week?
I open my book, I can't wait to find out what Dirk Pitt is up to trying to raise the Titanic, bound to be in some sort of pickle, and as the adventure unfolds I am transported.
Far too soon, my train pulls in, and I disembark the carriage into a busy concourse. I catch the feint whiff of a familiar scent that stirred my insides, and see in the distance the man that is in my thoughts. I don't want him there, I am happy as I am, but I can't shift the feeling, and he is very attractive. I will meet him face to face this afternoon, not just the reconnaissance mission Pete took me on when I told her about the interview. She has contacts at the venue, naturally, and got VIP passes to the event, the launch of Milk&Honey, of course. “Just turn up and have a look at who you'll be working with, what's the down side?” (He could see me!). She pleads, “And open bar.” As if that clinches it, which of course it does, well a girl's got to drink. So she drags me to a pretentious wine bar in the City all clean white walls neon and champagne cocktails, smelling of a heady mixture of strong colognes and perfumes. I hated it. ...and don't get me started on the DJ either, bloody hell.
But over by the bar is Daniel Pearce. Pete had done her homework, he is very handsome. I have already downed a JD just to have the nerve to come into this bright clean homogenised environment, I hate these places. I down a glass of cranberry without ice as quickly as I can, I don't like cold drinks or champagne, leave Pete chatting to a gorgeous Hispanic girl, apparently called Steffi, and head home. Pete says he's too skinny, but she likes girls so what does she know? Lean and muscly about 6ft3, with a tight arse, young Elvis hair with shaved sides, a scull ring, wearing black skinny suit trousers and winkle picker boots. A tight suit jacket with skinny lapels, a white shirt with a tiny curved shirt collar and very skinny black tie, half sleeve tattoos on each arm, I saw a picture of him I a trade magazine. And the palest grey/green eyes I had ever seen. He has an elegant walk, and all the women, and some of the men, can't help staring, he has such a beautiful uncommonly breath-taking face. Right now, I watch him slide into the back seat of his car that was waiting for him, he briefly looks over and I fancy to myself it is me he is looking at. I feel immediately self-conscious and lower my head feeling stupid. He disappears off in the black shiny car, and the faintest scent of him lingers in the air for a moment or two.
TC: “You're right as always” she is.
PF: “You're only now realising this?” Don't push it though.
TC: “No one likes a show-off” is that really true?
PF: “Later xx” she's a woman of many words, I appreciate that.
The City of London is so beautiful, the architecture, the vibe, a sunny day, cold as autumn should be and very bright its almost blinding as it reflects off the pale surfaces of the old marble. I jump onto the tube and put my head back in my book and my ears back to work sending the invigorating sounds of Depeche Mode directly into the part of my brain that appreciates it, the bit in the middle.
I work in a very busy, creatively uninspiring design room. I am my own energy, and I operate in my own little denim bubble, which people find either amusing because I’m completely focused, or frustrating because they can't pop the surface and get in. But that's the whole point I don’t tell them, but in here my head stops hurting and quiet prevails. Helped by tea of course, yes, let’s get the kettle on again. I arrive at my desk at work, hang my parka over the back of my chair and sip my tea, drop of milk, very strong, bag-in, just like Grandad. Nothing new that I’m interested in on e-mails, I begin to wonder how his day had started. Does he have a smart pencil-skirt wearing secretary who brushes her hair to within an inch of its life, had endless manicure appointments and always looks immaculate in make-up?
I have horses, I’m lucky if I don’t have hay in my bra! I feel compelled to check, so I do, after remembering there's a security camera above my desk. Oh well.
Does he sit behind a heavy glass desk with an amazing view of the river behind him? Drink a posh coffee? Have endless strategy meetings?
A familiar rumble breaks the thought apart, as my phone goes off.
PF: “There was a fracas” she couldn't tell me earlier? Must mean last night at Henry’s do, in which case why am I not surprised? I should have gone, but I needed a night off.
TC: “Surprise me, he tried it on with someone else’s girl? And also, you know the word fracas?” Quelle surprise.
PF: “And got into a little shenanigans for his trouble” what is he like? A rhetorical question, I know exactly what he is like! And where did Pete learn how to spell shenanigans?
TC: “Tell me” do I really want to know, I almost always ends the same way?
PF: “He got the Merlot” he drunk it, stole it, smashed it?
TC: “He does like a good vintage” not quite what he had in mind I’m sure.
PF: “Smashed over him? Such a waste!” Bloody hell.
TC: “What vintage?” I have to know.
PF: “What has that got to do with it?” Some drink better than others.
TC: “The 2000 was a questionable year” true bloody story, the devil is in the details.
PF: “Babes, you’ve got more issues than Vogue” does she think she’s funnier than me, will she ever learn?
TC: “Sharp honey, we’ll make a comedian out of you yet” true story
PF: “Bet the bottle was no lighter though” she’s funny, but what she says is true. Mum hasn't called me, so either she doesn't know, of it's not that bad.
TC: “He’ll seen the sense in it I’m sure” true story, if it's undrinkable what do you do with it?
Bloody hell, he'll give it to Mum won't he? She'll drink anything.<
br />
I shake my head at the news of my Brothers continued antics, it’s the way he is, in the same way I am who I am, there’s no changing either of us. And despite what our Mother tells us, she wouldn’t change us either, it appeals to her tidy mind to have projects that need working on, things that need fixing. And what better than her own children? Once my hair is cut and Henry is married to a ‘nice girl’ she’ll be bored to tears and likely up her tai-chi from two nights to four. If she ever meets a bad man in a dark alley, she could disarm him, very slowly. But still, not every one’s a ninja.
Back to reality, denim needs designing, it can’t do it by itself, but first, I just can’t commit to my job today without another tea, and something else.
I must know if he’s OK, and if I’m to see photos of him in the press I want the real story not just the sensationalised press release version. You know, the one that will improve single sales by 500%.
TC: “Henry, how’s your head?” Hope you’re awake, it’s daylight after all.
HC: “Busted! You heard?” Naturally, I’m your sister, and you invited all my friends.
TC: “Yes, you took to the bottle” stupid boy.
HC: “Undrinkable year, bloody manager” cheapskate.
TC: “Glad you’re OK” hope Mum doesn’t know.
HC: “I’m fine, I didn't drink it!” see what I mean?
TC: “Be good” unlikely, but I'm his Sister, I have to try.
HC: “Fuck sake, don’t tell Mum” a slippery slope, as if!
After pouring over details and wash panels, laundered lengths and thread colours, sketching pockets and emailing suppliers, I realise I have completely forgotten to eat lunch.
Again.
Later in chapter two, Monday:21ndoctober2013, the middle part.
The phone rings, it’s Pete
My fingers fly over my keypad to answer,
TC: “Hi babes” her timing is always spookily impeccable.
PF: “...bet you skipped lunch again?” how does she do that? A spy camera somewhere I casually look around me just in case I’m right, and wave at the little ruby red plastic dome on the ceiling.