Springtime at Cherry Tree Cottage

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘They haven’t got any more, have they?’

  ‘Sadly not. They sold up a couple of years ago. My dad’s retired, although he and Mum still have contacts in Spain, if you’re serious.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. I’m always on the lookout for horses like him. How old is he?’

  ‘He’s thirteen now, old enough to know better,’ I grimace as he tenses beneath me, having caught the scent of pig as we move closer to their field. ‘He was born the day before my sixteenth birthday. I was supposed to be revising for my GCSEs, but I knew from the way the mare was dripping milk that she was about to give birth. I couldn’t go downstairs because my parents were entertaining, so I climbed out of my bedroom window and down the ladder I’d taken out of the garage beforehand.’

  ‘Did you get caught?’ Robbie asks.

  ‘They found out when I crashed their dinner party, calling for help. Dad wasn’t happy that I’d risked my neck, but Mum was more concerned about the foal.’ I was remembering finding him lying in the straw, still wet from the birth. He’d been born black – he hadn’t started going grey until he was a couple of months old.

  ‘I watched him stagger to his feet.’ He’d had knobbly knees and his long legs had seemed out of proportion to his body. ‘When he went to his mother to feed, she went for him.’ I remembered that too: the way she’d pinned back her ears and bared her teeth, her eyes filled with fury, while her baby had cowered in the corner of the stable, lost, confused and distressed. I hadn’t been able to stop crying.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I fed him colostrum from a bottle and then we tried him with another mare we had. She had a foal at foot, and wouldn’t entertain taking on a second mouth to feed, so I took him on. I made him a rug and fed him with milk replacer from a bucket every two hours.’

  ‘What happened to the exams?’

  ‘I passed. I’d never have heard the end of it if I’d failed.’

  ‘I’ve been around horses all my life, but I don’t have any experience of hand-rearing one. I imagine it’s pretty challenging.’

  ‘Rafa had the other foal to play with. He was cheeky, but I made sure he had respect for humans. When he tried to kick out, I used to grab his hind legs and hang on to them so he couldn’t do it. He was a quick learner. I put a halter on him, brushed him, picked up his feet, and did everything to make sure he grew up with good manners.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’ Robbie laughs, before sobering up quickly. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you by criticising your horse.’

  ‘No offence taken,’ I say, although I do feel a little hurt.

  ‘I know what horses are like. One minute, you’re on top of the world, the next you’re on the floor.’ Robbie stares at me – intently, covetously – and I wonder what he sees in me; a woman of twenty-nine with hazel eyes, slim yet fit, with killer guns that are well defined, but still feminine … then I realise he’s looking at Rafa.

  ‘These two would look amazing in an arena together. Can he do any tricks?’

  ‘I do a bit of dressage with him, if that’s what you mean.’ I smile to myself at my mistake.

  Rafa slows his pace and comes to a stop a couple of metres from the gateway, while Nelson walks straight on past. Robbie pulls up and waits. The pigs, which have been digging in the mud around the trough, come wandering across to investigate. Rafa puts himself into rapid reverse, stops and rears up, refusing to go forwards.

  Robbie trots his horse back down the lane and manoeuvres him so he’s alongside Rafa and facing in the same direction. Without warning, he leans across and grabs my reins.

  ‘Do you mind?’ I exclaim, but we’re already on our way past the gate, with Nelson shielding Rafa from the sight of the pigs. Robbie releases the reins, letting me take back some kind of control as Rafa breaks into a jog.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ I say, bringing him back to walk. ‘I feel really stupid now. No one’s done that to me since I was about ten.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. My father used to do it all the time with my mounted games pony, and in front of my friends.’

  ‘I suppose it had the desired effect,’ I say ruefully, as we hack side by side along the wide grassy verge that opens out ahead of us. I change the subject, not wanting to dwell on the fact that my horse appears to have transferred his allegiance to Robbie, temporarily at least. ‘Have you had Nelson long?’

  ‘Since he was a yearling. I backed him and brought him on. He’s been a star ever since. I have other horses, but he’s the best. He’ll do anything for me: play dead; jump through fire …’

  ‘Oh?’ I’m not sure whether or not to believe him.

  ‘I’m a stunt rider, qualified, insured, and a member of Equity. My brother Dillon and I are masters of Roman and liberty riding.’

  ‘Enlighten me. I haven’t a clue what that means.’

  ‘It’s where you control a team of horses, standing on their backs and using your voice.’

  ‘What? No reins?’

  ‘That’s right. I can manage up to twelve at once.’ His eyes flash with humour as he continues, ‘That’s on a good day, at home, when there’s no wind to get under their tails. Dillon and I usually run displays with a team of eight. We travel to some of the agricultural shows, and we’re booked to perform at an international event next year. We train every day. I’ll show you sometime, if you like.’

  Like, I think? I’d love it.

  ‘A stunt rider? That’s amazing. It explains a lot – the shirt, for example. Are you wearing make-up?’ I have to ask.

  ‘Do you think I’ve overdone it?’ he teases.

  ‘It’s a little weird. I’m all for guys being in touch with their feminine side, but that seems a bit much.’

  ‘It’s part of the act. A reporter for the local newspaper came out to interview me and take some pics today. The Chronicle is filled with stories of rescued animals and local non-events, but any publicity is good publicity as far as I’m concerned. I’m hoping the story will get picked up by the nationals, to spread the word about what we can do with our horses.’

  ‘Have you been in any films or on TV?’

  ‘I’ve been a stunt double for –’ he mentions an actor that everyone, even my mother, will have heard of – ‘and my brother and I have provided horses for a few TV ads and a couple of one-off dramas. It’s top secret, so I probably shouldn’t be telling you, but I’m talking to a production company about a contract to provide horses and riders for a TV series.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t say anything.’

  ‘I’m crossing my fingers that I’ll have good news soon, because we could do with the money to build up the team. We need more horses.’

  ‘How many have you got?’

  ‘We have nineteen between us at the moment, plus my old games pony, but we could always do with more for our various equestrian activities. We train aspiring stunt riders and run confidence-building courses. We also break and school horses for trick riding, and I’m developing the concept of horses as therapy. I volunteered at a centre in Wiltshire to see how we could offer it at our place.’

  I’m swooning in the saddle. If I were in a costume drama right now, I’d be begging for the smelling salts. At last! All my life – well, since I was about sixteen and first recognised the existence of boys – I’ve been hoping to find a man who is as mad about horses as I am, and I think I’ve just found him.

  I wish circumstances were different, that I hadn’t sworn off men for the foreseeable future and just shown myself up as the world’s worst horsewoman. I give Rafa a pat, hoping there’ll be time for the shame to fade before I see Robbie again.

  We pass a tub of spring daffodils and a road sign that reads ‘Furzeworthy’, the name of the hamlet where I’ll be staying for the next three months at least.

  ‘You’ll be all right now?’ Robbie stops at the gate of Wisteria House, where there’s a forged-iron B&B sign hanging from the wall that hides the house from the road
.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ All I need is a shower and a couple of paracetamol for my bruises.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’ Robbie swings his horse around with the merest touch of the reins against his neck.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ My forehead tightens.

  ‘Hasn’t Mel told you?’

  I shake my head. ‘I haven’t met my new boss yet, only chatted to him on the phone.’

  ‘You’re booked to fix Nelson’s loose shoe,’ he adds cheerfully over his shoulder as he rides away.

  That’s awkward, I think as I dismount. I lead Rafa on to the drive, closing the wooden gate behind him in case he has any plans to accompany Nelson. I take him past the house, a former farmhouse, built from red Devon brick with a tiled roof and freshly painted white wooden window-frames. Woody branches of wisteria run from one side of the house above the main door and along the pergola at the front.

  There’s a soft-top sports car and a family MPV parked along the gravel, but no sign of a farrier’s van. Beyond the vehicles, there’s a pair of wooden loose-boxes – one for my horse and another for his gear and my tools – and a double garage and brick extension with a horseshoe hanging upside down above the door.

  I tie Rafa up outside the stables, untack and hose him down. He stamps his feet, taking a moment to appreciate the sensation of cold water against his skin. I remove the excess with the scraper and lead him out to the field next to the stables, where he goes straight down and rolls.

  Grey horse plus Devon mud equals a peculiar shade of orange.

  He hauls himself up and gives himself a thorough shake. He takes a mouthful of water and dribbles it out between his whiskery lips before heading off to graze.

  ‘I haven’t shod a stunt rider’s horse before.’ I lean against the gate. ‘How cool is that.’

  ‘Hello, Flick. What was that?’

  I turn abruptly to find Louise immediately behind me. She’s wearing a wrap dress that flatters her curves, and wellies that don’t do anything for her at all. I flush to the roots of my hair at being caught apparently rambling on to myself.

  ‘Oh, nothing. I was talking to Rafa. It’s a bad habit of mine.’

  ‘Come in and have a glass of wine.’ Mel’s wife has a ready smile, wavy blonde hair down to her shoulders and blue eyes. She’s about the same age as me, yet she’s settled with a husband and son, and the B&B, while I’m no longer sure what I’m looking for, or if I’ll ever find it.

  ‘Yes, why not?’ I say, thanking her.

  I leave the head-collar in the stable ready for the morning, and follow her into the back of the house. We pass through the boot room where Louise leaves her wellies, and I pull off my jodhpur boots and chaps before entering a proper country kitchen with an Aga, butler sink and dresser. There’s a brown ceramic hen on the windowsill and yellow curtains printed with red roosters. There’s a bottle of rosé, a flagon of cider, a couple of wine glasses and a toy train on the elm table in the centre.

  ‘So you’re in one piece,’ Louise says. ‘I’ve been worried about you, coming off your horse like that.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, apart from the grass stains on your knees and the bloody lip, Robbie called – he wanted me to make sure you were all right.’

  ‘That’s kind of him.’ An image of the stunt rider on his testosterone-fuelled stallion jumps into my head and lingers there.

  ‘That’s my cousin all over. He’s a lovely guy. A bit of a lad, maybe, but he’d do anything for anyone.’ Louise picks up the wine bottle and gestures towards the sink. ‘You’re welcome to wash your hands. Would you like a drink? It’s way past wine o’clock,’ she adds when I hesitate.

  It’s true. I had dinner – or what she called ‘tea’ – at five with Louise and her son, Ashley, a quiet boy of about seven. He didn’t utter a word the whole time, which I found rather disturbing. I wasn’t a shy child.

  ‘You can have cider if you prefer, but I wouldn’t recommend the local brew unless you’re actively seeking a laxative effect.’ Louise smiles as I run my hands under the tap. There doesn’t appear to be a towel so I let them drip dry. ‘Or there’s a beer in the fridge. Mel likes a lager when he gets in from work.’

  ‘A beer would be great, thanks.’ I don’t want a hangover tomorrow. ‘Isn’t Mel back yet? I was hoping to have a chat with him.’

  ‘He dropped in for his tea before going off with his brother for a couple of pints. They’ll have gone to the Talymill Inn or the Dog and Duck in Talyton. I shouldn’t wait up if I were you.’ Louise fetches a bottle of lager, opens it and passes it over to me. ‘Please make yourself at home.’

  I pull up a chair and sit down as she pours herself a glass of wine.

  ‘I’m so pleased you’ve agreed to cover for Mel while he’s getting himself sorted,’ she begins. ‘I hate to see him dragging himself out to work when he’s in such terrible pain. A bad back is an occupational hazard, but we hoped he’d get away with it for a few more years at least. He’s only forty-eight, after all: a spring chicken.’

  I’d hardly describe a man in his late forties as a spring chicken, I think, as she continues. ‘Sometimes he wishes he’d gone into dairy farming like his brother, but he wouldn’t be any good at getting up in the mornings.’

  ‘When does he have the operation?’ I ask.

  ‘Tuesday, the day after tomorrow. He had his pre-op checks last week so he’s ready to go. I think he was half hoping they’d find something wrong with his heart or liver so he had an excuse not to go ahead.’

  ‘Tony told me that you and Mel met while he was shoeing your horse.’

  Tony was my ATF, or Apprentice Training Farrier. Based in Wiltshire, he’s in his early fifties, and an experienced – if not always patient – teacher. I can recall his cutting remarks whenever I put the wrong shoes in the furnace, or dropped a box of nails. It was a fun, fast-paced, and sometimes pressured environment, and I loved it. In fact, I miss being part of the gang now. There were always three or four apprentices at different stages of training, and Tony. He’s a mate of Mel’s, which is how I found out about this job. He put in a good word for me and here I am.

  ‘I’m one of those horsey women who fell for their farrier.’ Louise runs her fingers up and down the stem of her glass. ‘Mel was still married to his first wife, but they were living separate lives – pretty much, anyway.’ I wonder if she uses that excuse to justify his infidelity and her involvement in breaking up a marriage. I can see why an older man would fall for her, with her caring outlook, sense of humour, and the beauty spot on her cheek. ‘Everyone said it wouldn’t last, but we’ve been together for nine years now, and married for seven.’

  ‘You don’t have a horse now?’ I ask.

  ‘I kept my mare until Ashley turned two and things started getting difficult. I couldn’t manage any longer.’

  It seems a little odd, I think, because Louise seems very much like the coping kind.

  ‘I imagine that it’s pretty time-consuming, running a B&B,’ I observe.

  ‘The business does well in the summer, but it’s very quiet in wintertime. My parents run a small hotel not far away from here. They’re my mother’s pigs – the ones that gave Rafa the heebie-jeebies. Anyway, I’ve had years of experience in hospitality. It fits in well with looking after Ashley – and Mel, of course.’ She pauses, checking the clock on the wall before turning back to me. ‘Are you married, or engaged, or seeing anyone?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I say, revealing more than I intend in the forceful tone of my voice.

  She smiles wryly. ‘You sound like someone who’s decided to remain single, come hell or high water. What happened? You don’t have to say,’ she adds quickly. ‘I’m sorry, I’m such a gossip.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I can talk about it now,’ but before I can go on, Ashley cries out from somewhere upstairs. Louise raises her eyes towards the ceiling as he cries again.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me another time. I’m goin
g to have to sit with him for a while,’ she sighs. ‘You’re welcome to stay here, or take your drink into the snug or your room. Help yourself to another.’

  I wish her goodnight and head for my room at the front of the house, one of the three en-suites that she uses for her bed-and-breakfast business. I look out of the window where I can just make out Rafa’s grey silhouette in the darkness.

  Louise’s questioning has brought unwelcome memories of Ryan back to the forefront of my brain. A wave of regret washes through me as I recall the good times with my ex, the cuddles, kisses and companionship … And then the infidelity, utter devastation, and legacy of debt that he’s left me with … I take a deep breath, count to ten and close the curtains, determined not to waste any more emotional effort on the waste of space who was once my fiancé. I can do it. I know I can. I’m over him, but I’m not ready to move on. I’m not sure that I ever will be.

  I shower and change into my PJs before retiring to bed, but I can’t sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll be out on the road with an anvil, tools and van in my first job as a qualified member of the Worshipful Company of Farriers. I can’t help wondering if Mel’s clients will be receptive to having a female farrier to shoe their horses, or if I’ll struggle to prove myself. I wonder, too, having demonstrated my complete inability to control my own horse, if I’ll have to work extra hard to win Robbie Salterton over.

  Chapter Two

  Only the Horses

  I wake to the sun’s rays passing between the heavy brocade curtains and the aroma of sausages and bacon. I feel as if I’m on holiday until three alarms sound from my iPad, alarm clock and watch, bringing me to reality and the realisation that it’s my first day in my new job.

  The adrenaline kicks in. I jump out of bed and throw on a pair of jeans and a baggy sweater. I pad barefoot downstairs, past the snug for the B&B guests that’s complete with a sofa and bookshelves laden with romances and thrillers. The corridor is filled with chicken-themed ephemera, including paintings, ceramic plaques and ornaments.