There’s a welcoming fug of steam and heat in the small space. Only a short time ago, I would have taken my food and gone somewhere else to eat, not wanting to feel the odd one out among the ‘cool’ crew. Thanks to Rachel, I’m feeling more a part of things here. Having Samphire has given me a new status too. I’m an owner now, not just a volunteer, and I work to pay as much of his livery as I can.
I’m licking the tomato ketchup off my fingers and my eyes are focused on the notice board, which has several pieces of paper pinned on it. Some relate to feeds for the horses, with special asterisks for those on medication. There are lists of rides booked for today and the coming week and a thick health and safety document hanging on a string from a drawing pin, which we’re supposed to learn by heart. At the bottom, in the right-hand corner, there’s a flyer about the Oakhurst cross-country race in the new year.
‘Why don’t you go for it?’ asks Rachel, observing my gaze. ‘Take Samphire through his paces.’
‘Do you think we’re ready?’ I ask, anxiety mixed with sudden excitement.
‘It’s a few weeks away. I can help you prepare,’ replies Rachel, eyebrows raised, willing me to agree.
‘Wow,’ I say quietly, considering the enormity of the challenge of taking Sam over a two-mile course with more than twenty testing jumps.
‘Say yes,’ encourages Grace. ‘He’ll get a rosette just for looking beautiful.’
‘OK,’ I hear myself whispering. ‘As long as he doesn’t have to have a plait!’
I’m riding my bike as if propelled by rocket fuel, pedalling along the lane that leads to my house. Water droplets from the recent shower splash on my head and neck from the overhanging branches. My tyres swish through the sheet of liquid, splattering mud on to my boots and jodhpurs.
The afternoon air tastes damp. My nose breathes in the musty fungal fragrance of mulched leaves and earth, decaying bark and the black water of the still stream by the verge, which is steaming gently like a potion in a cauldron.
Winter sun is poking at the soil with its long, straight fingers, making the stagnant ground stir with new energy. I think Samphire has done the same for me. I’m riding up our path now, desperate to tell Mum and Ed about the race. I lean my bike against the garage and run in big bounds to the back door. I kick off my dirty boots on the mat and pull down the handle at the same time, eager to get into the kitchen. There’s no sign of life, or the tea and cake that are usually on the table at this time.
‘MUM! TEDDY!’ I yell as I run through the Aga-warmed room to the hallway.
I jump as I crash into Mum, with her finger to her lips. She’s on the phone. Her face looks drawn and tired. Ed is sitting on the stairs, holding his favourite teddy. He’s a strange grey colour. His lips are translucent and the rims round his eyes are purple. His breathing is wheezy and his shoulders are hunched forwards, making him look very small.
‘Thank you. Yes. We’ll come straight away,’ says Mum, into the receiver, before pressing the ‘end call’ button and replacing the phone on its cradle.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask, breathless from adrenaline and sudden fear.
‘Ed’s got to go to hospital, Jodie,’ explains Mum, quietly.
‘Thing is,’ says Ed. ‘There’s blood in my wee.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘Did you bring your magic wand, Stick?’ asks Ed, quietly. He is lying in a bed in the medical assessment unit of the hospital, with tubes coming out of his arm and his chest. The machine that is pumping fluid and painkillers from a suspended clear sac into his body bleeps every so often. His blood samples, taken when we arrived, are being analysed. Mum is with the doctor.
‘You won’t need a wand, Teddy,’ I tell him, squeezing his small hand a bit too hard. ‘I’m going to get Doctor Who to take you home in the TARDIS.’
‘That would be cool.’ He grins. ‘Maybe he could take me to the future where no one gets kidney disease.’ Ed isn’t quite meeting my eyes. I notice that his face is puffier than when we arrived two hours ago. It also has a yellowish tinge, matching the flowery curtains that are pulled around his bed, giving us some privacy in the busy ward.
‘These are a bit like those tablecloths Dad used to make us tents in the garden. Do you remember?’ I ask him, nodding to the screens of fabric dotted with daisies and bees.
‘A.C. was so mad that we were using them as walls for our fort,’ Ed responds. A.C. is our abbreviation for Auntie Connie. ‘Madeiran lace, hand-made,’ he says, imitating her earnest and put-out tone.
Mum says that her older sister’s heart is always in the right place, but her affections lean more towards creatures in distress than young children.
‘So, Edward,’ continues my brother, still mimicking A.C. ‘Just think to yourself, “Bother! Life has dealt me a bad hand, but I’m going to say fiddle de dee and make the best of it.”’ He pulls one of her serious faces, eyes wide and nostrils slightly flared, like a sheep. We’re both giggling. Ed’s a bit breathless. I pass him a glass of water from his bedside table.
‘You’re going to be all right, Teddy,’ I reassure him. ‘Maybe you just need some more blood. You did a lot of running around with the plane yesterday.’
‘Can I see the pics again?’ asks Ed. The camera is still in my pocket. I always carry it about in case I want to take a photo of Samphire, which I do, pretty much every day. I click it into life and scroll back through the shots of Sam rolling on his back in the frost this morning, trying hard to get the padded winter coat off. Ed sighs and tuts.
‘Hang on,’ I tell him. ‘There, found it.’ I pass the camera to him so that he can see himself holding his prized Spitfire with Mum. I lean forwards and help him zoom in so that he can look at their big smiles.
‘Quite good looking,’ he comments, nodding.
‘Big-head!’ I tease.
‘The plane, Whinny, dur,’ he replies, with a pained expression. His gaze focuses on the frames as he clicks between them. For a moment, he seems lost and sad.
‘We’ll take it flying again really soon,’ I say. Ed just shrugs.
Mum appears through the curtains. She sits carefully on the edge of the bed and takes a little breath before speaking.
‘OK. Well, they think we’re going to need to go to London for more tests. You’re not showing up for infection, but the doctors here have been speaking to the specialist kidney team and they want to take an organ tissue sample to see what’s going on. They’re making arrangements to transfer us in an ambulance.’ Mum touches Ed’s arm lightly and gives him a big smile. ‘They are the top team in the country. We’ll be in good hands.’
Ed gives her a single nod to let her know he’s taken in the information.
We all sit in silence for a moment. Then Mum looks at me. ‘Jodie, I’m going to ask Auntie Connie to come and take care of you, just while Ed has his tests and until we know what’s happening.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ I announce, shocked that she could think otherwise.
‘The ambulance can only take one other passenger,’ explains Mum gently. ‘And there will be a lot of waiting around up there. Samphire needs you here. I’ll tell you everything that’s happening. I think we’ll be back before you know it.’
‘Can I stay with Rachel?’ I spurt out. My brain is in panic mode. I can’t bear to think of being separated from Mum and Ed. The idea of A.C. flying down in a flap from Scotland and ‘taking care’ of me fills me with complete dread.
Mum considers this. ‘I could ask Rachel’s mum if you like,’ she says. ‘Hopefully, it will only be for a couple of days.’
I give Mum Rachel’s number. She takes her mobile off to the nearest corridor away from the ward where phone calls are allowed.
‘You get to miss school,’ I say to my brother, making out I’m jealous.
‘The Evil Ice-Woman will track me down,’ Ed replies.
‘We won’t tell her,’ I promise.
There’s a tear sliding slowly down Ed’s right cheek. ‘Somethi
ng in my eye, Stick. Got a tissue?’
I feel in my pocket and find a crumpled, used one, which smells of horse. I tear off a corner and pass it to Ed, who stares at it, perplexed.
‘What am I supposed to do with that? Take a shrinking potion and blow my nose?’ Ed tuts again before lifting the bed sheet towards his face and rubbing hard, removing all traces of blubbering. ‘Probably just an eyelash,’ he says, not meeting my gaze.
Chapter Twenty
Everything is dark. I’m surrounded by flickering, warm hair. My head is buried deep into a grey horse-flank. My eyes are closed. Samphire is standing very still, staring at the full moon. From far away, he must look like a ghost-horse in the mist, rising from the frost-rigid field. His left rear fetlock is tilted, the tip of his shoe resting on the ground. We breathe in unison. I imagine seeing the world through his eyes. I want to think of nothing but food for my belly, a warm shelter, an open trail to explore and the freedom of the winds.
There would be no images of blood and tubes and machines. No charts and pills and fluids. No acrid smell of bodily functions, anti-bacterial soap and cleaning agents. No doctors in huddles, comparing notes.
Mum called and said the London hospital is very modern with bright paintings on the walls and a brilliant play area with computers. Ed is in a small ward of eight kids. She can sleep next to him on a special pullout bed. They’ve had some tea and everyone is really friendly.
‘When will you be home?’ I asked, at least four times.
‘We’ll see the medical team in the morning. I’ll know a bit more then,’ she replied. ‘Jode, I need you to email my feature to Rupert at the magazine, can you do that? He’s getting one of the editors to finish it off.’
‘Yup,’ I reply. ‘I’ll ask Rachel’s mum if we can stop off at home. I’m sure she won’t mind.’
‘Thanks. You’re brilliant. I’m sending a hug. Here it comes . . .’
My phone is buzzing. There’s a text: Stick, am so glad u r not on the pullout bed. Cld not stand the snoring. Top hosptl. There r planes on my duvet + a jet mobile. Howd they know??? Played snap 4 money wiv drs. I won £2. I have to wee in cardboard thingie. Theres a kid here clld Ravi. He got 1 eye. Hope u r OK. bfn :) xxx
Ed never sends kisses. He must be really scared. My chest tightens at this thought and a lump forms in my throat. Before I know it, my nose is streaming. I reach for a tissue and find the crumpled bit from earlier. Just seeing it makes me want to cry, but no sound comes. Samphire turns his head and looks at me with unblinking eyes. Then he nuzzles my hand, my neck, my cheek. He’s trying to comfort me. His whiskers are quite spiky and tickle my face. I’m smiling now, although my ribs are hurting with sadness. I lean against Sam and let my cold fingers text a reply: Sleepg w S in stable. Don’t tell Mum. Kidding! Going home w R soon. Will b strange. Hurry up + get better lol xxx ps when u were little u weed in bin so cardboard thingie no prob!
The full moon is bathing the whole field in cool, clear light. Rabbits are skittering about in the far corner, nibbling blades of grass and sitting upright in turn. The three other horses nearby are all standing still, like Samphire, facing the light as if it’s pulling them towards it, drawing them in. They seem caught in a moon-spell, watching, listening, alert.
‘Bedtime, Sam,’ I tell him, stroking his ear, which is tensed forwards, straining for any sounds. I slip my hand under the cheekstrap of his halter and ease his head towards me. He resists at first. Maybe he and all the night-time creatures are waiting for a message from the universe.
Maybe there’s a special magic, a portal to dreams, and the animals see it. Just in case, I make a wish, for Ed and Mum and me, and I blow it softly from the palm of my hand, up into the blackness, to London, to space. To Dad, whose breath and laughter and words are out there somewhere.
‘Ouch, geroff my foot, you oaf!’ I command Samphire, who is protesting and causing me acute pain at the same time. A grumble travels from his throat and comes in snatches through his opening and closing lips. It’s a strange conversation, but the meaning is clear. He’s telling me off.
‘I hear you, stroppy. But you’re going back to your stable, no argument.’ This time, he walks with me without hesitation and without me leading him. He stays close, almost in step and he waits for me to open and then close the gate before continuing down the concrete path to the yard.
I prepared his stable earlier, so when I close the door and run the bolt across, I expect him to put his nose in his bucket as usual. But he turns and faces me, neck arched and proud, his eyes full of moonlight. Again, the grumble from his throat, the snatches of horse-speak, more quietly this time.
‘What is it?’ I ask him, stroking his neck.
‘He’s telling you everything’s going to be OK,’ says Rachel, who is waiting patiently, my overnight bag, stuffed with schoolbooks and PE kit, on her shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-one
There’s a high-pitched squeal, the clash of metal on metal. Then comes a jolt, which makes my body lurch and we’re thrust from the darkness of the tunnel into the gloomy light of late morning. Through the smeary window, my eyes follow rows of terraced houses, so close to the track they seem to be breathing on it; billboards with white-toothed, smiling families; blocks of flats with lines of washing hanging on narrow balconies; the legs of pedestrians under umbrellas; cars bumper to bumper parked in long lines, street after street after street.
I’m coming, Ed. I’m on my way.
Soon, to my right, there is a disused power station – an ugly, brown castle of bricks with broken windows. The train has slowed and is snaking between office blocks and the backs of superstores. The curve of the London Eye rises high into the sky, ever watchful. As we near the River Thames, the buildings shine with polished glass and chrome opulence.
The people here live like hamsters, stacked in cages. The idea of it makes me shudder.
We’re approaching Waterloo Station. Mum is meeting me there and taking me to St Saviour’s to be with Ed. Everything she told me last night is swirling in my brain. It’s hard to take it in.
Ed is very sick. His right kidney is packing up and his left one isn’t strong enough to do the job of both. He needs a transplant urgently. The kidney team is trying to find a match.
I feel bug-eyed through lack of sleep. I was counting the hours and minutes until Rachel’s mum was able to take me to the station and see me on to the train. My stomach is complaining too. Someone further down the carriage is eating a burger; the smell makes me feel nauseous and hungry at the same time. I only had a bite of toast with butter earlier – I couldn’t force myself to eat any more.
I thought, until yesterday, that our family had had its share of bad luck and sadness. But now we’re back on our life raft, paddling for survival.
Ed’s situation is complicated. He has a rare tissue type, which is why Mum and I were discounted as donors when he was first diagnosed. The doctors said it would be like ‘looking for a needle in a haystack’ if the time came to find a matching organ. In my book, that means very difficult, but not impossible. You just need to search very thoroughly.
But there’s an even greater problem in this case. Our enemy isn’t really Ed’s bad kidney, or the immune system that has suddenly failed him. The doctors have said it’s something you can’t touch, see or taste. Time. Why do people say it’s ‘running out’, when it has no legs?
We are in a ‘race against time’, according to the consultant. That’s why I’m here. To help Ed win.
Mum is waiting on the platform as the train pulls in. I have to queue to get out of the carriage behind a granny with a wheelie suitcase, a kid in a pushchair, two women in saris and a man with a cello in a case. But soon enough, Mum’s wrapping her arms round me and holding me tight. Something goes crunch. I look down and there’s a paper bag full of freshly made cookies between us.
‘Caramel and milk choc chip,’ she tells me. ‘How was the journey?’
‘Fine,’ I answer, tucking into a cookie
. Mum has her hands on my shoulders and her eyes are a bit watery.
‘They’ve found a kidney for Ed,’ she says softly. ‘In the Irish Republic.’
‘That’s so brilliant!’ I exclaim, crumbs showering on to the platform.
‘Yes. It’s amazing really. It’s all happened so fast, it’s hard to take in,’ continues Mum, her face taut with anxiety and tiredness. I don’t suppose she’s been sleeping well in the ward.
She’s guiding me across the concourse. Buses, cars, people cross my line of vision, a blur of action and noise. We’re swept along in the grey tide of business suits and overcoats. The air is biting cold. My face and hands are numb. Mum isn’t saying a lot and her expression is starting to make me very nervous.
She hails a taxi and in moments we’re sitting in the back of a black cab, edging through traffic, still south of the Thames. The windscreen wipers squeak and judder. Puddles splash over pedestrians’ feet on the kerbside as we pass through a hostile, unfamiliar landscape. This is the city where there is an act of violence every few minutes, I remember my geography teacher telling us. Many of them are knife crimes.
I feel like there’s a blade in my belly, turning very slowly.
Mum’s mobile starts to ring. She reaches into her bag and answers it with a curt ‘Yes?’ instead of her usual friendly ‘Hello’. She listens, says, ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ and ends the call.
‘It’s on its way. Ed can have surgery later today.’ Mum squeezes my hand. ‘Everything will be all right,’ she tries to reassure me.
Chapter Twenty-two
‘Heyyyy, Sticko,’ says Ed, giving me a small wave, his hand only just raised from the side of the bed.
‘Hey, little brother,’ I reply, giving his fingers a gentle tug.
Samphire Song Page 7