by Jodi Taylor
‘Thomas.’
I put my arms around him. It was so wonderful to touch him again. He lowered his head and rested his forehead against mine. I lost myself in huge happiness. I stroked his cheek, arranged his mane, and tidied his forelock. He blew in my hair.
‘Shall we walk a little?’
We set off in the dim, grey morning light. Somewhere in the trees, a bird started to sing. They’d all be at it soon, heralding the start of another long summer’s day.
I put my hand on his neck as we walked. He didn’t seem to mind.
‘So, how are you, Jenny? What’s been happening?’
Where to begin?
‘Well, Russell is exactly the same. He’s painting like a madman at the moment. A local gallery took some of his work, which was quite well received. Someone came down from London to see them. He sold one and got a commission and the local paper did a piece about him and he’s putting together a body of work for an exhibition next year.’
‘How’s it going? Is it coming back to him?’
‘He’s struggling a little. His work is – different. I think he’s making a mistake trying to capture his old style. He’s not the same person he was then.’
‘Is he happy?’
‘He shouts a lot, so I think so.’
‘What about Francesca?’
‘Oh, you’ll not believe this; she took a shine to Marilyn and offered to do a promotion for the local donkey centre. The press was there and she was photographed cuddling hugely photogenic baby donkeys. She was a massive hit and now does a lot of fund raising for them and donkeys in general. Tons of good publicity of course, which does her no harm at all, but I think she enjoys it. And, more surprise, she’s very big in Spain.’
‘What? Is it our revenge for the Armada?’
‘They love her over there. She’s always dashing off to do photo shoots and things. Daniel often goes out to join her.’
‘They’re still together, are they?’
‘Very much so.’ I paused. ‘A lot of people learned a lot that night. Oh, you’ll never guess – Mrs Crisp has a boyfriend.’
He stopped dead and I walked into him.
‘No!’ he said, as we sorted ourselves out.
‘Yes. It’s the assessor from the insurance company. He turned up to inspect the damage and assess the claim. He kept coming back with all these silly questions. Russell was going mad thinking they were trying to wriggle out of paying and was barely even civil to the poor man, and then it turned out that Mrs Crisp was the attraction. He can’t keep away. His name is Bill and he takes her out every Sunday. She stayed out overnight once and didn’t turn up until after breakfast the next morning and we all had to pretend she’d just overslept. Russell is worrying he’s going to have to do the “What are your intentions?” speech.’
‘Who’s “we all”?’
‘Well, Kevin’s still with us, but not for much longer. Sharon has seen suitable premises for her cup-cake shop, with living accommodation over the top. We loaned them a bit of money. No idea whether it will be a success or if Kevin will get a job after college, but they’re young. They’ll cope.’
‘Whereas you, of course, Jenny, are almost completely over the hill.’
‘I consider myself to have reached the age of mature reflection, if that’s what you mean.’
‘So, what else?’
‘You’re insatiable, aren’t you? Not a lot, really.’
He sighed. ‘I mean, Jenny, what about you?’
‘Oh, me. Well, I’m in the process of selling the bookshop. A national chain, you know the one, has made me an offer I’m going to accept. And I did a bit of work with Daniel on his TV series. It was really interesting. I loved it. And we may do another about Queen Isabella. You know, The She Wolf of France. And I ride a lot.’ I paused. ‘Did you send him?’
‘Who?’
‘The other Thomas.’
‘Certainly not. How could I? I simply caused a few things to happen.’
I remembered Russell telling me about the mare I’d so nearly had. ‘But as soon as I saw this fellow, I knew he was the one for you …’
‘And see how well it all turned out.’
By now, we were passing the Braithwaites’ farm. Martin stood by his back door, mug in hand. I waved.
The sun was coming up over the hill as we stepped out on to the moors. Another bright, golden day was being born. Although not as bright and golden as Thomas himself, looking down at me with love in his eyes.
‘So, what about you, Thomas? Are you well?’
‘Of course.’
‘And your little boy? Did he …? Was he …?’
‘No.’
There was a world of pain in that short word.
I stopped.
‘Oh, Thomas.’
He sighed. ‘ I did what I could. It wasn’t enough. It’s never enough. He was so small. But I was able to take away his pain and his fear at the end. ’
I felt my own eyes fill with tears. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It happens, Jenny. More often than I would like. There isn’t usually a happy ending. In fact, I can only ever recall one.’
Poor, poor Thomas. Who gave his all. Every time. Who never stinted. And who almost always failed. I stood on tiptoe and kissed his forehead. ‘It’s good to see you. Why have you come?’
‘I left you more suddenly than I wanted to. There were still things to say. And I missed you. And I thought you might like to see this.’
We started forwards again. I rested my hand on his shoulder, feeling his warmth and strength. Trying to find the courage to come out and say it …
‘Thomas, would you like …?’
I stopped, suddenly. We breasted the top of the hill and there, spread over the valley before me – a whole herd of huge horses of every colour. Flashing chestnut, creamy white, glittering silver, rich dark brown. Beautiful horses. Beautiful, big, strong horses. Some stood in small groups with their heads close together; some grazed, one or two drank from the stream, some stood quietly and alone, perhaps quietly enjoying the early morning sun. A snatched moment of peace.
Above them all, on the hill, stood a solitary horse, far bigger than all the others, coal black, still and watchful. The King Horse.
But there was only one golden horse. My Thomas, standing quietly at my side, watching me watch them.
My heart swelled at the beauty and majesty of them.
‘Thomas …’
He said, ‘This doesn’t happen very often. I thought you might like to see it. You could call it a works outing, I suppose.’
On the hill opposite, the black horse shook his head and stamped his foot. I felt the ground tremble.
‘I must go.’
No, he mustn’t …
‘Wait. Thomas, I wanted to say … you don’t have to be alone. Your little boy died and you’re sad, but you don’t have to be alone. Why don’t you come and see me, just every now and then? When you need to talk. Or if you don’t want to talk, if things have gone badly, just to be with a friend. I don’t want to lose you. I hadn’t realised, until I saw you again … And I owe you so much. Let me repay a little. Please. Don’t let this be the last time we see each other.’
I stretched out a hand to him.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Because you’re special.’
The King Horse shook his head again and trumpeted a call, long and clear. The horses lifted their heads. One or two began to move.
‘I must go,’ said Thomas again, still not moving.
I couldn’t let him just leave. Not again. Something was tearing inside me.
‘Please, Thomas, what do you say? Will you come and see me sometimes? You should have someone to talk to. You shouldn’t be alone.’
He thought about it for a very long time. My heart thumped. I couldn’t lose him again. I just couldn’t.
‘I’d like that,’ he said, softly. His eyes gleamed with the sudden mischief that brought back so many memories. ‘ I’l
l come on special occasions – like the birth of your first child.’
‘Oh. OK.’
If a horse could grin, he grinned. ‘So that’s in just less than six months, then.’
‘What? Thomas, wait …’
But he was gone. He cantered gently down the slope and jumped the stream at the bottom as he had done before. And as he had done before, for a split second, he hung motionless in the air, a perfect arc, before galloping uphill to join his herd.
Now the other horses were moving after their leader. Moving as one, they wheeled around. Manes and tails streamed behind them like medieval banners. From a standing start, they moved to a full gallop, their necks outstretched, and powerful muscles bunching under their glossy coats. Full tilt, they thundered up the hill. A glorious sight that nearly stopped my heart in wonder. The ground shook under their hooves. One by one, they vanished. Gradually, the noise of thunder died away until just the early morning birdsong remained. That and the gentle breeze lifting my hair.
But, as he disappeared over the top of the hill, the last horse, the very last horse, the big, golden one, kicked up his heels for fun and the sheer joy of living.
And then they were gone.
The Chronicles of St. Mary’s Series
by Jodi Taylor
For more information about Jodi Taylor
and other Accent Press titles
please visit
www.accentpress.co.uk
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2014
ISBN 9781783753987
Copyright © Jodi Taylor 2014
The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN