Samphire Song

by Jill Hucklesby

  ‘Moody dudey,’ he declares. ‘Mum says that’s because of your horse-mones.’

  ‘Look, shut up!’ I snap. ‘Get off my bed and out of my room. I should be at the stables.’

  ‘Don’t mean it,’ he teases, wrapping himself up in my duvet as I swing my feet on to the floor, treading on the sad pancake and in the runny honey on the plate.

  ‘I really DO!’ I yell, kicking the tray away and hopping out of my room towards the bathroom. Once inside, I slam the door and raise my sticky foot to the tap in the basin. Cold water gushes over it, sending the nerves into frenzy.

  ‘Aaargh!’ I exclaim. There is a soft knock. ‘What?’ I answer.

  ‘About you hating me,’ says a small voice.

  ‘I don’t hate you, Teddy,’ I answer, more gently.

  ‘I understand, s’OK.’

  ‘Why would I hate you?’ I ask, busy drying my toes with the towel.

  There is a neigh from the hallway and fingers making galloping sounds up and down the door. I find myself sliding down, leaning against it. I can hear Ed breathing, very close.

  ‘I’m not stupid, Stick,’ says my brother. I’m hugging my knees under my chin. I feel so small. The loo, basin and the bath look enormous from this angle.

  ‘I didn’t want Mum to tell you,’ I say.

  ‘She didn’t. I asked Dr Devereux. He told me you were the best sister in the world. I couldn’t argue cos I had a thing down my throat. Kidding. You are the B-E-S-T-E-S-T.’ There is an awkward silence between us. I think we are back to back, because I can feel the door vibrating when Ed breathes out.

  ‘I’ve got a hundred pounds in my tin,’ he says, after a while, certain that this will solve all our problems.

  ‘That’s two weeks’ livery,’ I tell him.

  ‘That horse eats too much,’ sighs Ed, his head flopping back with a thud. ‘Don’t sell Samphire, Stick,’ he almost whispers. ‘Pleeeeeeease.’

  ‘I have to, Ed. We need the money. But I’m going to work really hard and buy him back as soon as I can.’

  ‘In six months?’ Ed asks.

  ‘Definitely,’ I say, crossing all my fingers, the way Ed and I do when we tell white lies.

  ‘Are you crossing your fingers?’ he asks. I untangle them immediately.

  ‘Nope,’ I answer.

  ‘Stick?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m really sorry. I’ve made you something. You don’t have to like it.’ There is a scuffling noise and under the door Ed pushes a piece of paper, neatly folded into a star shape with four pointed corners. There is a word written in different coloured felt tip on each. They read I love you sis.

  My body is shaking with sadness. No tears come, just a pain that holds my jaw rigid and my breath locked inside my chest.

  ‘You have to come out now,’ says Ed.

  ‘In a minute,’ I manage to reply.

  ‘No, now, Stick. There’s someone on the phone and Mum says it’s for you.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  ‘Steady, Sam. I need you to stand still.’ I’m putting the last protective boot on my horse’s restless legs, making sure that he’s insulated from the hazards of being transported by trailer across the county.

  It’s the morning I’ve been dreading. The sky is grey-metal heavy. There’s an icy north wind, carrying with it showers of sleet, which clatter on the corrugated roof of the tack room. Outside Sam’s stable, the yard is awash with brown water running off the fields. The red-brown sludge in the soak-away channel is causing a small stream to run down to the lane. The flood is like the life-blood flowing from my heart.

  I will always remember the searing pain of this moment as I look at Samphire, almost regal in his clean coat and polished halter, his oiled hooves and conditioned mane. His eyes are bright and watchful, his nostrils sniffing at the stormy January air. His ears flick back and forth, trying to pick up any sounds that will tell him what is happening next.

  I snip a small clump of hair from under his forelock with my trimming scissors and put it in my pocket. I need to have something real left behind, something I can hold and smell. I’m already thinking I won’t wash my jacket, with its smears of horse spit where Sam has probed for pony nuts and tugged my collar. And these jodhpurs, with their dark marks on the knees rubbed from his belly on our last ride through the forest, will go into my drawer as a precious memento.

  ‘They’ve arrived,’ says Rachel, appearing by the door. ‘They’re backing up.’

  The noise from the Land Rover reversing a horsebox up into the yard grinds in my brain. It sounds like a tank on manoeuvres. It has its sights fixed on us and is approaching. There’s nowhere for us to hide. Samphire whinnies and it must be a warning, as Rambo and several other horses reply with anxious snorts and neighs.

  ‘Do you want me to load him?’ asks Rachel, really concerned at the sight of my face, which must look like that painting The Scream, only worse.

  ‘No,’ I reply, my voice an octave higher than usual, the sound strangled by the closing of my throat. ‘He’ll feel less scared if I do it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Samphire,’ I whisper, for the thousandth time. The words don’t seem enough. ‘I promise you, I won’t ride another horse – no one but you.’ I’m looking into his eyes as I say this, so he can see it’s a solemn vow. There are voices outside and a sharp clang as the trailer door is lowered on to the ground. Footsteps, a deep cough that rasps behind ribs, a greeting from Rachel.

  I pull the bolt on the stable door back angrily, my other trembling hand holding the halter rope. Sam senses that this isn’t a normal exit from his safe haven and throws his head back in a jolt, backing away from me.

  ‘He’s being silly, Daddy,’ says the fifteen-year-old girl called Leila who has persuaded her father that a part-Arab stallion will fill the gap in her list of birthday presents. ‘He didn’t do this the first time we came to see him,’ she adds, looking at me accusingly.

  ‘He likes routine,’ I try to tell her. ‘Trailers frighten him.’

  ‘He’ll have to get used to it,’ she replies. ‘I’m going to take him to lots of Pony Club events.’

  Leila doesn’t seem like the same girl I met before. That girl was kind and full of smiles. That’s why I agreed to sell Samphire to her.

  ‘And if you decide to sell him on, you’ll call me, like you promised?’ I’m taking every chance to remind Leila of the agreement we made when her dad handed me a cheque two weeks ago.

  ‘Yes,’ she sighs, a bit irritated. Then her face softens. ‘I know this is really hard for you.’

  I just nod. ‘If you stand away a bit, I’ll bring him out.’ There’s a knife in my guts, twisting . . .

  I reach into my pocket and find some nuts, showing them to Sam, who is messing up the hay on the ground with his right hoof. ‘Look. Treats,’ I say, gently. He snorts and takes two steps forwards, suspiciously. ‘Good boy. Now we’re going into the yard. Come on. Quietly. Ssshhh. That’s it. You can have them as soon as we get you up the ramp. Four more steps, Sam, just four more.’

  ‘Up you go!’ says the father, sternly, his hand on Samphire’s flank. Sam lashes out with a rear foot, his eyes rolling. The father steps away in time, a finger pointing in accusation, then he clenches his fist as Sam backs himself down the metal plate and attempts to bolt. I’m holding his rope with all my strength. He’s circling, whinnying, lurching, his whole frame full of mistrust.

  ‘Lead him down the lane a little, Jodie. Quieten him,’ says Sue, arriving back in the yard on Kaloo. She dismounts, her face full of concern.

  ‘Can’t we just force him in?’ asks the man, looking at his watch.

  ‘You don’t want a terrified horse in your trailer,’ Sue responds. ‘He could damage himself and the vehicle.’

  I’m walking Sam down through the yard, past the entrance gate and into the lane. It’s good to get him away from the commotion. He moves swiftly, his mouth teasing my loose bun, the way he does before I mount him and we set o
ff on one of our adventures.

  ‘I’m not riding you today, Sam,’ I tell him. Normally, by now, he would be snatching at the patchy winter grass by the side of the lane. His instincts for fight or flight are on red alert. I want to leap on his back and gallop him to the ends of the earth. I feel helpless: I can’t protect him. I can’t explain why this is happening. I will just be one more useless human in his life’s journey.

  There are footsteps behind me. If this is Leila, telling me to drag Samphire back to the yard, I’m going to lose it.

  ‘Jodie? Are you OK?’ It’s Mum. I’ve never been so grateful to see her. I shake my head. My chest starts to convulse. ‘Hey,’ she says, soothingly, holding me close. Samphire whinnies – it’s a short burst of his song. I think he’s guessed what is coming. He rests his nose on my shoulder.

  ‘They’re loud and impatient and he got frightened. I thought Leila would be kind but she put on an act when she visited last time. She’s not right for him, Mum,’ I tell her, my voice a plea. But there’s nothing Mum can do. The miracle I’ve hoped for hasn’t arrived by helicopter, the way Ed’s did. And the trailer is being moved down to the lane. Sue and Rachel are either side of me now. Sue is putting a hood over Sam’s head. He is letting out the most ear-piercing cry I’ve ever heard from a horse.

  Somehow, my feet are moving and I’m leading him up the dropped ramp into the narrow space, tethering him. I stand holding him, feeling the quiver of fear in his abdomen. I am solid, like a monument, like the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, massive and impregnable. They will have to get a crane to lift me away, or dynamite to turn me to dust.

  But seconds later I’m in the lane again and Mum has a hand around my waist and Rachel is beside me and the ramp is being secured. Leila is giving me a little wave and closing her passenger door in the dark Land Rover. I can see Sam’s rump and his hooded head and now they are receding, the sound of his back hooves lashing out against the metal sides and his frightened cry filling the icy air.

  I feel hot and my vision is blurring, narrowing into a dark tunnel. I’m spinning inside it, thrown into the vortex, somersaulting at the speed of light. Nausea is rising from my belly. My whole body is sweating. I’m on my knees in the earth, the wetness of the soil soaking through my jodhpurs, its coldness burning.

  And when the sound of Samphire in distress has become just an echo in my pounding brain, I am sick. Everything is black and distant and peaceful now. I never want to open my eyes again.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  ‘Don’t come down till we call you, Jodie,’ calls Mum. I’m sitting on my bed, taking deep breaths and trying to calm myself for the challenge I’m about to face – phoning Leila. It doesn’t help that I can hear low voices in the kitchen, some giggles and someone saying ‘Shhh’.

  Mum and Ed have been up to something for days. There have been secret mobile calls, family conferences to which I’ve not been invited, shopping trips ditto, exchanged looks and odd questions, a bit like an interrogation. For example:

  Ed: Apart from he who shall not be named, what spesh thing would you really, really like in the WHOLE world? Anything, from skiing off Mount Everest to surfing on molten lava?

  Me: (yawning) Oh, I don’t know. A chocolate factory.

  Ed: (narrow eyes, making notes with his fluffy ostrich pen) Is that a visit or a whole one to yourself?

  Mum has been behaving equally weirdly, talking about the flowers in the garden one minute and then asking whether I’ve spoken to Rachel lately, or considered going to the stables, or joining an after-school club, almost in the same breath. I think she hopes if she says it quickly, I won’t get stroppy and stomp off.

  It’s true I have been a moody dudey, as Ed would say. After Samphire went away, I hit what our doctor says was a ‘bit of a wall’ for a month. I was off school, off food, off life. All the tests I was sent for came back negative. The educational psychologist I was referred to concluded that the shock of selling my horse had reawakened the grief of losing Dad and this added to the stress and worry of Ed’s illness. I was suffering from PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. It would pass. We had to be patient. I needed complete rest and a great big chill pill (Ed’s suggestion).

  School was OK about it. I started getting work sent home, just like Ed. He and I would sit at the kitchen table, doing catch-up and betting who could finish first. I think it was actually good for Ed to have the company. He’s had a lot to deal with since the operation. There have been some blips – a couple of infections that had us really worried. But he’s always so positive. ‘So far, so goodie gum drops,’ he keeps saying and now his consultant agrees, which is the best news ever.

  Mum flitted about, pretending to be busy, when we both knew she was watching us like a hawk. I heard her crying on the phone one night. When I asked her about it the next day, she said she was talking to A.C. and that sometimes she gets lonely, even though we’re here all the time.

  Then something unexpected happened. Mum’s old editor, Rubber Gloves, phoned to offer her a contract for regular features on a new gardening magazine, working from home. Mum said that once the work started, we would be able to manage very well, as RG had worked a minor miracle and payment for the work would be really good. So I decided to do two things. The first was to take the big step of going back to school. While Ed is busy with his planes, which is most of the time, Mum can concentrate on her writing, without me getting under her feet. It was weird getting on the bus again, but after just one day, it felt like the same old, same old. My teacher was lovely. She wrote ‘Welcome back, Jodie’ in big letters on the whiteboard and the Glossies told me they were going to buy me a manicure set, now I was horseless, then changed their minds. It was a kind gesture, sort of, but Ed put it very succinctly.

  ‘Dur.’

  I sat with Poppy on the way to school and she gave me an envelope. Inside was a CD she had put together for me – all her favourite tracks. I love all of them. It looks like we have exactly the same taste in music. I think we might become friends.

  Rachel pops in at home sometimes and tells me the stable gossip, but I haven’t been back there yet. Just thinking about the place makes me feel panicky. I hold the lock of Samphire’s mane in my hand at night and in my dreams, we’re riding together. Dad is usually with us and we’re laughing in sunlight. It’s horrible waking up and remembering the truth. My subconscious seems to have got stuck in the past, muddling my memories, taunting me. Sometimes, I have nightmares. Samphire is tied up in a burning stall and although I’m there, I can’t move to raise the alarm or rescue him. His screams make me cry out and Mum comes running. On those nights, I usually end up in her bed, on Dad’s side, with my eyes wide open until the dawn starts to break.

  So the second thing I decided to do was to make a call, which is why I have the phone in my hand. It’s taken me a long time to work up the courage to ring the number on the piece of paper I’ve kept in a drawer for the last five months. I’ve tried to run through the conversation I’m about to have and prepare myself for things not going too well. I’m not sure I’ll cope if the news isn’t positive. Whatever happens, I have to know what the situation is.

  I count the tones and am up to twenty when a young, female voice answers.

  ‘Hi?’ she says, a bit out of breath.

  ‘Hi, is that Leila?’ I ask. My voice is trembling slightly.

  ‘Yeah. Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Jodie Palmer, Samphire’s last owner. I was wondering how he’s settled in with you.’

  ‘OK,’ Leila responds. I can hear something like indifference in her tone.

  ‘That’s good,’ I say. My mind is racing. Just do it, Jodie. ‘But I wanted to say my situation has changed and I’m serious about buying him back. If you wanted to sell him, I could give you two hundred more than you paid for him.’

  ‘Cool. Maybe. Yeah. I’m sort of over horses, especially crazy ones,’ she sighs. ‘My dad’s been saying we should get rid of him before the winter.’ My heart l
eaps.

  ‘Could I speak to him, please?’ My heart is hammering in my chest. I might be just a conversation away from getting Samphire back.

  ‘He’s out, sorry,’ Leila answers.

  ‘Could you pass my message on to him when he gets back? And ask him to phone me?’ I’m almost begging.

  ‘Sure. What’s your number again?’

  I give her my home phone and my mobile, and Mum’s mobile for good measure. Leila writes them all down, says ‘OK, bye,’ and rings off quite abruptly. There was so much more I wanted to ask. In what way has Sam been ‘crazy’? Has he thrown her, or just been disobedient? Is he eating well or is he pining? But Leila obviously didn’t want to discuss it. The important thing is, she may soon be ready to SELL HIM BACK TO ME!

  That’s why I’m kissing the phone receiver and doing a little dance next to my bed.

  For the first time in months, the knot in my stomach is loosening and a surge of energy flows through my body.

  Now Sam’s return is a real possibility, I must start saving big time. Mum said that, in a couple of months, she would be able to help with Sam’s livery costs again. But I have to raise the lump sum for his purchase. I’ll do it, somehow. As soon as Mum and Ed say I can come downstairs, I’ll tell them the good news.

  Our family cloud suddenly has three silver linings: Ed’s consultant says he can go back to school very soon; Mum’s worry lines are disappearing now she has the offer of work . . . and I’m going to bring Samphire home where he belongs.

  ‘OK, Jodie, we’re ready!’ calls Mum.

  I’m running downstairs, two at a time. The kitchen door is closed and there is scuffling behind it. I turn the handle and push, waiting a moment before peeping round into the room. My eyes are met by banners and things going pop and helium balloons and quite a few familiar faces grinning at me.

  There’s Rachel and Sue, Mum and Ed, Rachel’s mum and dad and, looking through the open back door, Rambo with a ribbon in his mane. He looks ridiculous, but cute. I’m wondering how they got him into the back garden when I notice a heap of presents on the table and all my favourite nibbles on big plates near the cooker.