by Karen Swan
She never took her eyes off her beloved mare, being led down the beach to the finish line by one of Sean’s grooms. It made her feel sick to see it, her proprietorial instincts bridled by the very sight of someone else casually taking away her prize horse, but she knew she had to be calm. Clear-headed. That thing she could never normally be: patient.
Just ahead of her, Sean was playing to the crowd, spinning his stallion – Galway Pride – in circles. At 16.2 hands and with a lineage to make her weep, she knew she was the underdog, by a country mile. Fergus was 15.1 hands and no looker, but he had heart, and a long memory – and like her, he wasn’t taking his eyes off the prize.
He took a few steps back and whinnied again, eager to get going, as though he knew what was expected of him. Which he did. But he didn’t know what was at stake. What they would lose if Sean was first to cross the line drawn in the sand.
She knew it was gamesmanship, Sean rallying the troops like this, whipping up what was supposed to have been a private race into a local event. Ottie was going to be furious when she—
‘Pip!’
She looked down. Talk of the devil. Ottie and Willow were staring up at her with accusing eyes, their cheeks pink from the biting sea wind. Pip was shivering too, even though she couldn’t feel the cold.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Ottie asked her crossly. ‘Why are all these people here?’
‘Don’t blame me. Sean told them. We’ve got a race.’
‘No! Really?’ Ottie asked sarcastically, indicating the demarcated course. ‘What do you mean, you’ve got a race?’
Pip’s eyes slid over to Willow’s guiltily.
Willow understood immediately. ‘Oh, Pip, no! It’s not another bet?’
‘I had to,’ she said quickly. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘We do! We understand you almost died last time!’
‘Yes, well, that’s not going to happen this time. I’m not drunk, for one thing. I’ve given it a lot of thought. This is balanced this time. Equal.’
‘Pip, it’s not equal. His horse is huge!’ Ottie cried, waving towards Sean with a sweep of her arm.
‘I can take him,’ Pip said determinedly, coughing. ‘I know I can.’
‘You thought that last time too,’ Willow said bitterly.
Pip stared down at both her sisters. ‘Look, I just have to do this. I have to win back Shalimar. I know you don’t understand what she is to me but . . .’ Her voice trailed away.
‘And what if you don’t win her back, huh? What are you losing this time?’ Willow asked. ‘What will he get out of it?’
It was a long time before she replied, the words refusing to form. ‘The Lorne Cup.’
It was an even longer time before they answered.
‘Tell me that was a joke,’ Ottie said in a quiet voice.
‘Otts, I’m not going to lose it—’
‘That was Dad’s most prized possession.’
She nodded. ‘I know. It was the only thing I could offer as inducement.’
‘You’re not doing this.’
‘Otts, I won’t lose.’
‘No. You’re not doing this,’ Ottie said more firmly.
‘It’s my cup,’ Pip said obstinately. ‘Dad left it to me.’
‘And this is my beach! I’m calling this whole thing off right now!’
Pip sat straighter in the saddle at her words, pulling back on the reins and lifting Fergus’s head up. Readying him. He pawed the sand, taking a few steps on the spot before she squeezed her knees in on his sides. ‘I’m sorry.’ And she trotted over to where Sean was parading near the start line.
‘Pip!’ Ottie cried, but her shout flew headlong into the wind, dousing back over her like a bucket of water. The crowd rushed forward seeing the two riders get ready, an expectant hush coming down like a veil so that all could be heard was the sea and the wind and the horses snorting.
Another of the grooms from Sean’s yard had brought a starter’s gun along with them and he raised his arm in the air. Fergus had never raced competitively before; frolicking in the field was as close as he got to gallops, but his shock from the forthcoming gunshot might just give him an edge to begin with. That or he’d go completely berserk and cart her backwards instead.
‘Come on, boy,’ she murmured. ‘Don’t let me down. Let’s go get her.’
‘Good luck, Pip,’ Sean smirked from on-high, on her right-hand side.
‘You’re going to need it!’ someone shouted from the crowd.
She’d have liked to flick them the bird but the reins were already threaded through her fingers and she looked dead ahead, down the straight towards the distant chestnut-brown blob by the cliffs.
The gun fired and as she had hoped and prayed, Fergus shot into action as fast as the bullet, tearing across the sand in fright before he even knew what he was doing. An almighty cheer erupted as they were off and Pip dipped down low, feeling her eyes instantly start to stream as they ripped through the wind. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw sea and sky, but no stallion, and she knew her instinct had been right, that the initial element of shock had been to her advantage. But Galway Pride was a seasoned racer; his head would be down, his rhythm balancing out and she knew his top speed would outgun theirs, and he would edge into her frame of sight, sooner rather than later.
She squeezed her knees harder around Fergus’s stocky body, her knees almost up to her shoulders as she tried to bring her face down between his ears. ‘Come on, boy, come on,’ she urged him as they covered the beach in galloping strides, eating up the distance. Already Shalimar’s shape could be seen more clearly, prancing friskily and causing the groom some problems as she watched the horses advancing rapidly towards her.
They weren’t even at the halfway mark when Galway Pride edged into view, his dark muzzle gaining inches with every stride. Panic shot through Pip but she tightened her body deeper into the fold, reducing wind resistance. She could hear Fergus’s breathing – heavy, rhythmic, desperate – and she spoke to him as they raced. ‘That’s my boy . . . Let’s get her . . . Come on, boy.’
It was neck and neck. There was a hundred metres left to go and Shalimar was having to be trotted in figures of eight to keep calm. The roar of the crowd could have parted the clouds but it was dim to Pip’s ear as she trained all her focus – her entire being – onto the finish line. Galway Pride had extra stride length, propulsion, horse power, conditioning on his side. But she and Fergus – they had heart. Ottie and Willow didn’t understand that she wasn’t doing this for glory or money, spectacle or even pride. It was for love, plain and simple, and sometimes that meant risking everything.
She saw the simple line ahead in the sand, drawn with a stick and ready to be washed away by the next tide – but it heralded everything for her. Fergus was sweating heavily, his nostrils flared for extra breath, his head dipping as Galway’s rose, out of time with one another and yet nothing between them.
She could see the ‘judges’ either side of the line, their mouths parted in concentration as they filmed on their phones but would that be enough? Without slow-mo technology, would it detect the margin between them? This would be a photo finish, open to conjecture . . . Even if she edged it, could she make the verdict stick?
But then Shalimar, seeing them so close now, gave a loud whinny of recognition. It was the sound that she used to greet her with every morning when Pip would come down the stairs from her flat and wander straight into the stables, eyes still half closed, her hair wild . . . With a gesture of delight, she jumped high into the air, kicking her back legs out like a Lipizzaner. It had been her party trick whenever she was let out into the field and Fergus added a lunge to his gallop in reply, clearing the line by a neck’s length and haring beyond it, almost sliding to a stop and nuzzling his old companion.
Pip heard a scream and realized it was hers, her fist punching into the sky as she slipped her feet out of the stirrups and jumped down onto the sand, laughing and crying so hard she triggered
a coughing fit that saw her eyes stream. But she was crying anyway as she bent double, trying to believe it, her whole body shaking with adrenaline. As soon as she could breathe, she threw her arms around Shalimar’s beautiful head, kissing her cheek and Fergus’s too, patting his flank and telling him through her sobs how well he’d done, how proud she was, how much she loved them.
It was no accident she had suggested Shalimar be positioned at the finish post. Sean had readily agreed, considering it almost a taunt – so near, yet . . . Certain in his belief that she had no chance against his superior stables. But she knew better. It was a lure. The only being who had needed to act with any passion here was Fergus. He’d make sure he got to her first.
‘Good race, Pip.’
She turned to see Sean slumped on his horse, Galway breathing heavily, his hide shiny with sweat.
‘Yeah, good race,’ she managed, still unable to stem the tears. She was crying like a lunatic but she didn’t care. She didn’t care.
‘That was close. I thought I had you at the end.’
‘Yeah,’ she sobbed as Shalimar and Fergus nuzzled her neck, making her laugh again.
His eyes narrowed as he looked down at her, seeing the sweat matting her hair, her too-bright eyes as she coughed and laughed and cried. ‘Was it worth it, all this? You’ve risked everything, including your own life – only to end up with exactly what you had in the first place.’
He was absolutely right. And yet, everything had changed too. She didn’t know how to explain it. She laughed again, trying to control her tears. ‘D’you remember that fable about the old woman who complained her house was too small, so the wise man told her to put a cow in it?’
Sean squinted in confusion.
‘And then a goat. And a pig. And a dog and a cat and so on . . .’ She repeatedly wiped her cheeks dry but the tears kept on coming, an unstoppable force. ‘And just as she was beginning to lose her mind because they were all tearing around the tiny house, he told her to take them all out again – and suddenly her empty house felt huge . . .?’ She shrugged. ‘That’s kind of how I feel.’
‘Right.’ From the blank look on his face, she suspected he wasn’t big on allegory. He gave a weary shrug. ‘Look, I think you’re nuts but good luck to you, Pip. I reckon you’ll get what you want somehow.’
‘Somehow,’ she whispered back, watching him pull on Galway’s reins and turn him round, slowly walking back the way they’d come. The crowd at the far end of the beach was advancing towards them in a jubilant mass, but Pip didn’t need to do a celebratory lap or receive their plaudits. She took Shalimar’s reins from the groom and pulled her horses in closer. She knew the value of what she had now and it was everything she wanted, all that she needed. From now on, treading water (in every sense), would be enough for her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘See you tonight then?’ Pip said, throwing the bolt on the horsebox.
‘I’m up for that. Sounds fun,’ Ottie shrugged. ‘Will?’
‘Uh . . . maybe,’ Willow replied evasively, Mabel and Dot back on their leads and waiting patiently to be walked home and to the comforts of an afternoon sleep in front of the fire.
‘There’s no maybe about it,’ Pip said staunchly. ‘It’s not Christmas till I’ve sung “Silent Night”. Just look at this, we’ve got snow, we’ll have carols, mince pies . . .’ She winked and gave a cheesy smile. ‘It’s beginning to feel a lot like Christmas—’ she sang.
‘Oh God. Winning’s put someone in a good mood,’ Ottie grinned. ‘Seven on the green, yes?’
‘Yep. See you there,’ Pip said, pulling the collar of her jacket closer as she shivered.’ Both of you.’
‘As long as you wear a thicker coat,’ Ottie chided. ‘You’re chattering like a monkey.’
‘Only because I’m sweaty now and that wind’s a bastard. Laters.’ She blew them both a kiss and climbed into the truck.
‘Well . . .’ Ottie sighed, watching as she pulled away before turning back to Willow again. ‘D’you still want that coffee?’ she asked as they began to trudge up the lane too.
‘Oh . . . another time,’ Willow smiled weakly. ‘I’m feeling pretty windswept now. I’d better get the dogs back.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah. Thanks though.’
Ottie frowned as her sister turned to leave. She seemed distracted, flat. Flattened?
‘Listen, Pip’s right – for once,’ she called after her. Willow looked back. ‘Try and make it to the carols tonight if you can. You’ve clearly been hard at it recently. It’d be good for you to get out. For all of us, I think. It’s been so long since we did anything all together.’
Willow hesitated, the wind catching her dark hair and making it stream like ragged black silk. ‘Okay then.’
‘Okay,’ Ottie said, watching her go, her apprehension only growing. Willow looked like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders and she felt a sudden pang of guilt that in all her shock, anger and disappointment, she’d effectively abandoned her baby sister to her new fate. Finding out she hadn’t inherited had been a shock for her, but for Willow to find out she had . . . might that have been worse?
She walked carefully over the grass towards the cottage – the snow made it hard to see the rabbit holes so she kept her gaze firmly downward, not wanting to risk a twisted ankle – when she suddenly remembered her sister had been on the brink of telling her something, just as they’d stepped onto the beach. She turned and made to call out to her but Willow was already halfway across the field, Dot and Mabel trotting contentedly beside her. She dropped back, watching her slight silhouette become smaller and smaller. It would have to wait, whatever it was.
Ottie opened the gate at the bottom of the garden and stepped onto the smooth lawn – that was safe underfoot at least – when she noticed the boat-store doors downstairs were open. She hesitated. Burglars? It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had opportunistic passers-by from the Way, looking for a spare bike or kayak. But as the door rattled against the stone wall, she realized it was the wind that was her culprit. She couldn’t have closed the bolts properly when she’d been here the other day; she’d been in such a rush to get back upstairs before Ben had come back . . .
She went to fasten the door shut, when she heard a movement inside.
Tentatively, she peered round.
‘Hey!’ Ben grinned back at her, looking more animated than she had ever seen him. ‘Are these yours?’ he asked, indicating the dense racks of canvases propped up on rails off the ground.
She felt the floor drop away from her feet. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘We got back early from my appointment. I’ve been given the all-clear.’ He looked like he was expecting a cheer, but then he saw her expression. ‘Oh you mean, here? I saw the crowd on the beach and when you weren’t here, I figured I’d walk down and join you. I noticed the door banging in the wind, so I came to shut it and—’
‘And then just decided to have a nose around?’ She stared at him, emotions rushing at her all at once – anger, embarrassment, shame.
‘What? No—’
‘How dare you? You can’t be in here.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He looked perplexed. ‘. . . what am I missing here? These are incredible, Ottie’ he said, holding up one of the smaller canvases. It was a vignette painted at the foot of the Morran hills. She had taken the boat out across the bay last summer and spent the day painting en plein air, scarcely able to stop herself. It was her favourite. She had dared to be so pleased with it. He looked back at her again. ‘You have real talent, Ottie. Why did you never say you were an artist?’
‘Because I’m not.’
He cocked a half-grin, as though he thought she was pulling a prank. ‘Uh, yes you are. A blind man could see it. I mean, I know you mentioned having a place at art school, but I never realized . . . And why are none of these upstairs? You’ve got those huge blank walls and nothing on them?’
‘Because they
’re not good enough.’
‘Ottie,’ he laughed, but the smile faded as he saw, finally, the expression on her face. This wasn’t false modesty. It was fact. ‘Ottie, are you serious? You honestly think that?’
‘I know that. They’re childish, self-indulgent, melancholic, over-dramatic.’ She rushed across and grabbed the canvas from him, tossing it into the corner of the space. It caught on one of the hooks of the rack, tearing across the upper corner. She gave a horrified gasp, tears instantly springing to her eyes.
He looked down at it in disbelief. ‘Ott—’
‘Just get out! You have no right to be in here!’ she cried, feeling herself begin to fall apart.
He stared at her, shocked by the wildness in her eyes, not understanding that this was her most private space. Her secret. The part of herself no one was allowed to see, not anymore.
‘Ottie, I’m sorry, I had no idea.’ He reached an arm out to her but she dodged away easily, knowing he couldn’t move fast, running out with a sob. She ran into the cottage, slamming the pink door behind her, but there was nowhere for her to go, not even her own bedroom. He was everywhere. She hurried over to her bag by the front door, looking for her car keys but they weren’t there. Where are they? she thought frantically, running from the sofa to the bathroom to the kitchen counter . . .
He limped through the front door a few later, looking ashen, and for a moment they just stared at one another, her sobs still high in her chest.
He closed the front door softly as she turned away, unable to bear his clear-sighted gaze.
‘Did he say those things to you?’
‘Who?’
‘You know who.’
‘No. I don’t.’
He gave a weary sigh. ‘Bertie.’
She shot him her most withering look but her pulse had spiked. ‘Why would Bertie say those things to me?’
He shrugged. ‘To keep you here, I imagine. To keep you small.’
She felt herself begin to tremble; after the shock in the boat shed, her emotions already felt dangerously out of control. ‘That makes no sense,’ she said with scorn.