The Day We Disappeared

by Lucy Robinson

  We’d passed three parked police cars on the A46 and I was still feeling jumpy. The sight of them had made my heart stop and my hands were shaking even now. The police are really not here for you, you fool, I reminded myself, as Mark and Tiggy jumped out of the cab. Stop being so silly! I stayed for a few minutes, determined to get my head straight and my body calm. I breathed slowly, finding comfort in the equine smells drifting through the open window: horsefeed, hoof oil, fly repellent.

  In … and out.

  In … and out.

  Stumpy whinnied in the lorry behind me.

  I could do this. I’d get out and help, and over the next few days I’d do everything with a smile on my face.

  Since he’d caught me kissing Joe on the kitchen floor, Mark had gone back to talking to me only when he had to, moving through each day with his face set, detached once again from the world around him. I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t disappointed but I knew that in the long run his coldness would make things easier for me. He’d go back to being Mark Waverley, the closed door, and I’d go back to being Kate Brady, the cheeky little fecker from Dublin.

  I got out in time to see Stumpy towing Mark down the ramp. The horse was excited. His head was at least eight feet off the ground, and he pranced around like a colt. ‘Hoohohohohooo!’ he shouted, skittering sideways into Tiggy.

  ‘Stop it,’ she said, slapping his quarters, then marched up the ramp to calm Harold, who was stamping and whinnying.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I asked Mark. I’d never seen either horse like that.

  Mark looked vaguely in my direction. ‘You know what they’re like when they arrive at a competition,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I blushed. ‘Yeah. Mad little bastards, horses!’ As Mark tied up Stumpy I caught him smiling, which lifted my spirits.

  Mark went off with Sandra, who’d driven behind us in her falling-apart Clio, to register at the horse-trials office. Tiggy and I walked the two horses down Badminton village’s little high street and into the stabling complex, where Stumpy started jogging again.

  ‘You,’ I told him, as he towed me through a vast old arch into the stableyard, ‘are being very silly.’

  The yard was full of people and horses, tousle-haired young men with walkie-talkies, signs and noticeboards everywhere. Yellow-stoned, huge and beautifully historic, the stabling ran off down the side of the enormous bulk of Badminton House with a rather lovely duck pond thrown in, lest any of the horses failed to notice that they were living now with the aristocracy. Mark’s two were to be stabled in the ‘under the clock’ section, which was so lovely it made me feel quite emotional. I’d been expecting huge temporary stable blocks, not something that looked like the set of Black Beauty.

  ‘Noisy in this section, but lovely to be in the thick of it,’ Tiggy told me.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I breathed, shutting Stumpy into his ancient stable with its smart red walls and cast-iron rails. His name was already on the door. ‘I can’t believe I’m here!’

  I took Stumpy’s bandages off, checking his hind leg for warmth or swelling. Three weeks ago he had had a swollen fetlock and all hell had broken loose: Mark had decided immediately to withdraw him from Badminton and Maria had screamed that if he did, without giving the horse a chance to recover, she would take Stumpy and all of her father’s horses away to another rider. Stumpy, Harold, Madge, Alfie and Kangaroo, Mark’s very finest horses, all probably capable of winning Badminton.

  Had I been allowing myself to think about Mark at all, I’d have been heartbroken for him. Every time I had dealings with Maria I was struck by the concrete hardness of the woman, her casual cruelty, her extraordinary lack of respect for the man she’d married. If, as Becca had intimated, Mark felt stuck with her because he would otherwise be horseless, his life must seem impossibly bleak.

  Stumpy’s leg was fine. Phew.

  Later on, after a thunderstorm had hammered across the site like a gun battle, Stumpy and Mark went off to the trot-up in front of Badminton House. Tiggy explained that it was a rather old-fashioned demonstration of each horse’s soundness and rather entertaining. ‘Go and watch,’ she said. ‘I really don’t need you here. Oh, and look out for Jochim Furst – he’s one of Mark’s biggest rivals. German. He’s shagging Maria.’

  I stopped. ‘He’s what?’

  Tiggy shrugged. ‘He’s shagging Maria,’ she repeated, applying a quartermarker to Stumpy’s bottom. ‘Everyone knows.’

  ‘Including Mark?’

  She frowned. ‘Not sure,’ she said. ‘It’s not the easiest thing to say to someone, is it? “Your wife is shagging your rival and everyone knows.”’

  The crowd went wild when Mark and Stumpy appeared through the stable arch. I watched them trot along the gravel, dumbfounded by what I’d just heard. Didn’t anyone care? Mark’s wife was cheating on him! The mother of his child was at it with one of his closest professional rivals!

  I noticed the tightness in Mark’s jaw as he ran alongside his horse in front of the bowler-hatted officials and knew how much he would be hating the attention. Caroline Lexington-Morley, who’d gone before him, had worn a short skirt and heels and had been devoured by the cameras. She and Mark could not have been more different.

  I suddenly felt an overwhelming sympathy for my quiet, introverted boss. He worked so bloody hard at this, gave it every atom of energy he had, and there was his wife making a mockery of him while everyone gossiped behind his back. I wanted to help him, but how? What could I possibly do for a man who wouldn’t let me anywhere near him?

  Just be cheerful, I reminded myself.

  ‘Nice work!’ I said, as we led Stumpy back to the stables.

  Mark shot a grateful look in my direction. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really, boss. I was impressed. A fantastic arse you’ve got there in those trousers.’

  It was a risk, but Mark, to my intense relief, was quite amused. ‘Oh. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Captain!’

  Stumpy’s hoofs clicked and clattered over the uneven cobblestones.

  ‘I hate all that shit,’ Mark admitted. ‘I wish I didn’t have to do it.’

  ‘I know,’ I said sympathetically. ‘I totally don’t blame you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Whatever you might think, Mark, I don’t enjoy noise and attention either. In fact, I hate it. That’s why I love working on your farm so much.’ I paused. ‘It’s the nicest job I’ve ever had.’

  To my amazement, Mark smiled right at me. It was the first smile he’d sent my way in quite a long time. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly, and I glowed because I knew he meant it.

  There’s no one really on your team, I thought, as Mark handed Stumpy to Tiggy. Your mum loves you, but she’s useless. Your daughter loves you but she’s six, and your wife is shagging someone behind your back. Your grooms are all far too scared of you to be your mates and you don’t have time for proper friends.

  No wonder he was so close to Stumpy. He was lonely. We actually had quite a lot in common, Mark and I.

  Mark turned to find me watching him. ‘Want to walk the cross-country course with me?’ he offered. As soon as he asked, his cheeks coloured. ‘Tiggy doesn’t need you at the moment,’ he explained quickly. ‘I think she wants you off her hands.’

  Three hours later, as the sun set over the uneven roof of an old barn at the edge of the lorry field, I was sitting in the cab of our box having a secret brandy from Sandra’s supply.

  There were two reasons why I was drinking alone while everyone else was at dinner. The first was fear. Mark and Stumpy couldn’t possibly make it round that course alive! It was monstrous! Mark had caught me lying down in a big ditch over which was suspended an enormous tree trunk – a trakehner jump, apparently. I had lain down first to see how many of me could fit lengthways across it and had stayed there because I was so shocked and frightened at the thought of Stumpy trying to clear this abyss that I couldn’t get up.

  The se
cond reason I was drinking was that in the last three hours I had become very seriously confused. Mark had really come alive as we’d walked round in the bright post-thunder sun, chatting quite animatedly about the history of the course. ‘But of course you know all of this,’ he’d said, as we stood by a giant lake into and out of which he had to jump. ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I’d muttered, dodging a posh bloke in wraparound sunglasses who was driving a golf buggy at high speed. ‘But it’s, er, much more helpful to hear it from an expert.’

  Mark had laughed. A lovely, gravelly, sweet laugh that had split his face in two and made the polo-shirted girls following us round the course take unashamed pictures of him. ‘Oh, Kate,’ he’d said, at my beetroot-red cheeks. ‘How much longer are we going to keep this up?’

  Oh, shite.

  ‘Kate Brady,’ Mark said, still smiling – a gorgeous, bashful smile that completely eclipsed the dazzling beauty of the Duke of Beaufort’s estate, ‘I know you’re not a horse person! There was no pony called Frog. There was no childhood spent galloping around on ponies. I seriously doubt that you’d so much as patted a horse before you arrived on my yard.’

  I’d just stared dumbly at a huge Mitsubishi advert next to where Mark was supposed to jump out of the lake. ‘Um, what was that?’ I’d said eventually.

  Mark had thrown back his head and laughed. ‘Kate,’ he’d said, walking towards me. My stomach lurched. STOP IT, I hissed at it. THINK OF BECCA. THINK OF THE BAD SHIT. AND THEN THINK OF EVERYTHING THAT’S GOOD ABOUT YOUR NEW LIFE, STOMACH, AND STOP LURCHING.

  ‘Kate, the first thing you told me was that you sat on a fifteen-two horse and went for a gallop when you were three. That was, er, pretty surprising.’

  I sighed. A couple of weeks after that awkward lunch I’d thought back to what I’d said and felt a bit sick. Already I knew it had been laughable. I’d just hoped they’d thought they’d misheard me.

  I looked helplessly at Mark, because I didn’t know what to say, and then I looked away because he was absolutely gorgeous, grinning straight at me with his hair doing that wavy windblown thing and his face all burnished by the late sun.

  ‘And Frog,’ he said, sniggering. ‘Outstanding.’

  I found my lips beginning to smile. How had I ever thought I’d get away with it? I was a joke!

  ‘You told me you’d got your A test at Pony Club. Even though only about ten people in the country take it each year. And really, Kate, every time you opened your mouth for the first two weeks, you gave yourself away. Pretty much everything you said was bollocks.’ He sat on the grass because he was laughing so much. ‘And yet you just carried right on!’

  ‘Oh, God.’ I sat down beside him. I dipped my head away as a photographer pointed a camera at us. I was going to have to be careful of that.

  Mark was laughing so hard I couldn’t help but join in. The harder he laughed, the harder I laughed. It went on for what seemed like for ever.

  ‘So why did you keep me on?’ I’d asked eventually. ‘Why did you let me have the job? You told me you needed the best grooms on the planet.’

  ‘I gave you the job because I liked you,’ he said simply. He turned to me and, against my better judgement, I turned to him. ‘Your Irish charm won me over. I was having a horrible fight with Maria and you just bowled in telling loads of lies. With a nice smile and lots of steamrollerish good cheer. You were very funny.’

  ‘Funny doesn’t make a good groom.’

  ‘No.’ Mark turned to the lake now. ‘It doesn’t. But desperation does, and you had that in spades.’

  I swallowed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Kate.’ Mark’s voice was kind. Dangerously so. ‘I know what it’s like to feel trapped and desperate, and I wanted to help.’

  I thought about Maria, the awful things I’d heard her say last week when she was on at him not to withdraw Stumpy. She had called him a coward and a small man; she’d said he was a disappointment to her father, who’d invested so much money in him; and she’d rounded off by telling him he was the laughing stock of the eventing scene, which was completely untrue.

  Yes, he probably knew a thing or two about trapped and desperate.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ I said eventually. ‘You’re right, I was desperate. Really very desperate indeed.’

  ‘Poor you. I heard it was a burnout, over in Dublin.’

  ‘Oh. Who told you?’

  ‘Tiggy.’

  I’d supposed it would only be a matter of time before Mark found out. I knew Becca would have kept it to herself but then Joe had started asking questions so I’d blurted it out before he’d started reaching conclusions of his own. And, of course, once Joe knew something, it was open season.

  ‘Sorry I lied,’ I muttered.

  Mark shook his head. It didn’t matter.

  ‘And thanks again for giving me the chance,’ I added. ‘I hope you think your risk paid off.’

  ‘You’re shaping up to be a fantastic groom,’ he said. ‘You’ve given it your everything, like I knew you would, and because of that you’ve learned fast.’ His cheeks coloured faintly, and of course mine followed suit. ‘You’re great, Kate. I know I’m not very good at communicating these things – at communicating anything, really – but I do value you very highly indeed. You’re the best thing that’s happened to my yard in a very long time.’

  I couldn’t stop looking at him. At those mysterious eyes, which were beginning to give away their secrets.

  ‘Well, your yard is great already,’ I said weakly. ‘You don’t need me to improve it! It’s the dog’s bollocks, Mark!’

  ‘It scrapes by,’ he said, unconvinced.

  ‘It more than scrapes by! It’s a bloody king among yards!’

  ‘Oh, Kate! It’s nothing of the sort. It’s shabby, it’s chaotic, it’s poorly laid out and everything’s falling apart. If you saw a proper eventing yard you’d know what I meant.’ He shielded his eyes from the low sun. ‘But as you’ve probably heard my father drank all of the family’s money away before, er, drinking himself to death when I was twelve. So there just isn’t any. We do the best we can and we let the world laugh at us for running such a ramshackle place. And until such time as I get twenty extremely rich owners and sponsors lining up to throw cash at me, that’s just how it’s got to be.’

  I stared at him. ‘I didn’t know,’ I whispered, horrified. ‘Jesus, Mark, I’m so sorry. I thought he’d died of cancer or something. That’s absolutely terrible.’

  ‘By the end it was better for Mum that he died,’ Mark said. ‘He was in a dreadful state, had been for years. It’s appalling, watching someone destroy themselves against their own will.’

  No wonder it’s so hard to get near you, I thought sadly. You poor thing. I imagined a frightened little Mark watching his father fall apart. It made my chest hurt.

  He must have spent every penny he had in making the grooms’ barn nice while living all the time in a house with shonky electrics and holes in the roof.

  ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Mark,’ I said quietly. ‘But this just proves that your yard – no, your career – is a huge triumph, and you’ll not convince me otherwise.’

  Mark looked pleased, in a tired sort of a way. ‘Thank you. And sorry, I don’t know why I suddenly told you about Dad.’

  ‘Because you wanted to talk about it?’

  Mark coloured.

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ I said, ‘than human beings wanting to talk to each other about things that make them sad.’ I held my breath. Was that too much? Too far?

  Not quite. Mark smiled. ‘Talk about my feelings? Me? You’re fired.’

  We shared an easy silence.

  ‘Well, if there’s anything I can do for your yard, tell me,’ I said. ‘You’ve helped me more than you’d know.’

  ‘Work your corporate Google magic and get us a couple of million pounds, maybe? That’d be helpful.’

  ‘Ha-ha-ha,�
�� I said, hoping he didn’t mean it. ‘What I will do is work until my back breaks. I’ll work on my days off, if you need me. Just say the word. I want to help.’

  ‘You have an interesting approach to recovering from burnout,’ Mark said. He was watching me like I was a nutter.

  ‘Ah, well, it was more mental than physical. I’m happy here. Happiness gives you energy.’

  ‘Interesting,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Well, you don’t need to break your back. You’re doing fine just as you are. You do us so much good, Kate, all those bad jokes and that cheeky talk.’

  A fly landed on his nose and I wanted to reach forward and brush it off so that I could touch his face. I sat still.

  ‘Well,’ Mark said, ‘we’d better get on with this course. Thanks,’ he said. ‘For, er, you know. Conversational things.’

  We stood up. ‘All I’ll say,’ Mark added, and I could hear both nervousness and determination in his voice, ‘all I’ll say is that I really hope you stay at the farm, because I want you on my team, Kate Brady. I really do.’

  In the lorry I poured myself another brandy. I needed to sort myself out, urgently.

  The girl’s hiding place is good, she knows that, but Mummy should surely have found her by now, shouldn’t she? The stream is loud here, where a clump of smooth rocks, like the tops of mushrooms, have made a little barrier against the cold water. She didn’t hear Mummy shout, ‘Coming to get you!’ Nor could she see her because of the boulders and bushes everywhere.

  It’s been ages now.

  Slowly, carefully, she stands up and tries to survey the field where they were sitting. No sign of Mummy. Perhaps she shouldn’t have run so far.

  She scratches her clavicle where the daisy chains lie against her skin. Tiny beads of sweat have appeared on her chest and she swipes at them as she crosses back over the stream. In her face there is still laughter; the expectation that, in a few minutes, she and her mother will spot each other, scream at the moment of discovery. Scream and laugh and probably chase each other around the daisy meadow.