Springtime at Cherry Tree Cottage

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘Ten would be great,’ I say, thinking that I can store them in the spare loosebox at Mel’s.

  Robbie names a fair price.

  ‘It’s a bit cheeky of me, but could you deliver them too?’

  ‘If you come and help me load the trailer –’ a smile plays on his lips – ‘and buy me a drink sometime.’

  ‘Of course. Thanks, that’s great.’

  ‘I have a meeting tomorrow afternoon, but I’m free in the evening. Drop by at six.’

  ‘I’ll see you then.’ I watch him lead the pony away before I return the anvil and trolley to the truck, and wait a few minutes for Mel to return so we can set out for the next yard.

  We visit two more establishments, one north of a place called Talyford where I do two sets of refits. The shoes aren’t worn, so I remove them, trim the hooves and put them back on until next time – six to eight weeks later, as long as the horse isn’t doing too much road work. At the next and final yard, I replace a couple of sets of fronts – some horses can get away without shoes on the back.

  On the way back to Furzeworthy, Mel talks about horses he has shod and the people he’s met. He can talk for England, and I find myself switching off as I drive back through the lanes with a smile on my face because I’m going to see Robbie again tomorrow night.

  ‘Flick, did you hear that?’ he says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Are you listening to me?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I was somewhere else.’

  ‘I was asking you what you’re planning to do after you’ve done this stint for me.’

  ‘I thought you knew – I told you about my plans when I spoke to you on the phone. I’m going to buy a van and kit it out as a mobile forge so I can get my own round up and running.’

  ‘Not here though,’ he says sharply. ‘Not on my patch.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ I pause. ‘Well, I might dream of it, but I wouldn’t do it. I’m already on the lookout for an area where there’s a shortage of farriers, perhaps due to retirement, for example.’

  ‘I’m not going to retire in a hurry. I can’t afford to. The doc says this op gives me a fair chance for a full recovery.’ Mel falls silent and I glance across to check he’s still alive. My new boss is big and loud, but he’s also scared. ‘I’d miss it if someone told me I could never do it again,’ he says eventually. ‘That’s shoeing, not sha—’

  ‘Okay, I get the idea,’ I interrupt.

  ‘I’m sorry. Remind me to mind my tongue.’ He changes the subject. ‘Do you fancy a beer on the way home?’

  ‘I’m all right, thanks. I really should get back for Rafa.’ I hope I haven’t offended him by turning down his invitation.

  ‘I’d forgotten you were one of those mad horse owners I see every day. Another time.’ He’s smiling. ‘I expect Lou will have some chores for me to do. She wants everything done before I go into hospital. That’s what marriage is all about, I suppose: penance.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’ When I was going to marry Ryan, it was going to be the best day of my life, the start of a wonderful existence with my best friend, lover and – I can’t quite bring myself to add ‘soulmate’, because he so obviously wasn’t. Looking back, it was Sarah, my BFF, who was my confidante while I was with him. I feel a little guilty now. She had a lot to put up with.

  ‘You’ll find out when you get hitched,’ Mel sighs.

  I don’t think there’s much chance of that now, I muse. I can’t imagine letting myself get that close to anyone again. In my experience, dating only leads to disappointment.

  On our return to Wisteria House, I turn Rafa out and muck out the stable. I straighten his bed and sweep up outside ready for the morning. I notice that Ashley is watching. I offer him the broom. He shakes his head. I don’t push it.

  After a shower, I go down for dinner in the kitchen, where Louise dishes up ham, parsley sauce, peas and potatoes.

  ‘I ate with Ashley,’ she says. ‘I hear you had a good day out with Mel.’

  ‘It was great,’ I say, sitting down at the table.

  ‘What did you think of the Saltertons? Mel said you had quite a reception.’

  ‘They’re an interesting family.’ I’m not sure how to go on. ‘I didn’t know Robbie had a daughter …’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s very sad. Maisie lost her mum.’ Louise shakes her head very slowly. ‘Carla and Robbie were teenage sweethearts. They were together for a few years until Carla fell pregnant – there was some kind of trouble from her parents over the pregnancy that made them split up. Carla died giving birth to Maisie. It was terribly sad. Tragic. She was young and so looking forward to being a mum.’ Louise pulls a tissue from a box on the dresser and dabs at her eyes. ‘It still gets to me. We were pregnant at the same time. Maisie was born a couple of months before Ash. She never knew her mother.’

  She glances towards the back door, which is open on to the garden, where Ashley is playing with a toy digger in one of the flowerbeds. ‘I won’t say any more now. I don’t want to worry him when his daddy is about to go into hospital. Anyway, Robbie’s had to step up and he’s been amazing, the best father anyone could wish for.’

  I don’t know what to say. Poor Maisie. Poor Robbie. It puts my problems into perspective.

  ‘He deserves to be happy after what he’s been through, and there’s nothing I’d like more than to see him find love again, but I’m not sure that he will. He’s never short of female attention, but he never stays with anyone for very long. I don’t know if it’s because he’s stuck thinking that there’s no one in the world who can match Carla, or if he’s simply not met the right person.’

  ‘I got the impression he and Kerry were close.’

  ‘If they are, Robbie’s keeping it very quiet.’

  A doorbell jangles in the distance.

  ‘I’d better get that. I’m expecting guests, so you’ll have neighbours on your landing tonight. See you later.’ She bustles away, leaving me with my dinner and my reflections on my first day at work. I gaze down at the Peppa Pig plaster that’s peeling away from my finger, and my thoughts return to Robbie and a little girl who’s lost her mother, which makes me wonder how I’d feel if someone called me to say mine had passed away when I hadn’t spoken to her for weeks.

  I pick up the business phone – I need to get mine repaired somehow – and call my parents.

  ‘To what do we owe this honour?’ my mum says sarcastically when she realises that it’s me.

  ‘I wanted to say hi and see how you and Dad were, and let you know that I’m okay.’

  ‘That’s nice, I suppose. How’s Rafa?’

  ‘He’s settled into his temporary home.’ The conversation is stilted and I’m not sure what else to say. ‘He bucked me off yesterday. How’s Dad?’

  ‘You can ask him yourself. Here he is.’ There’s a crackling sound as she hands over the phone. ‘It’s Felicity.’

  ‘Hello, how are you, stranger?’ My father’s voice is filled with warmth, making me feel guilty for not keeping in touch. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘All’s well. I’m shoeing horses in a little place called Furzeworthy in Devon.’

  ‘You’re happy?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Well, you know how your mother feels about that.’

  ‘I know, but I don’t want to argue about it any more. I’ve made my choice and it’s the right one for me. How are you, anyway?’

  ‘So-so,’ he says. ‘The knees are playing up, but I can get about. Your mum and I are staying at the villa for a while.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were away.’

  ‘You only have to ask.’ His tone is sad rather than critical. ‘You’re more than welcome to visit us in sunny Spain.’

  ‘I’d like to, but I can’t at the moment—’

  ‘Your job,’ he cuts in.

  ‘That’s right. I’m covering for another farrier while he’s in hospital having surgery.’

  ‘Never mind. We understand that you’re busy.
Keep in touch, won’t you? None of us are getting any younger.’

  I wish him goodnight and cut the call, glad that I got in contact with them and wishing that we could return to a time when we had an easier relationship and I was their golden girl, but that can’t happen. I can’t rewind the clock.

  Chapter Four

  Irons in the Fire

  I’m on my own today. It’s a great feeling, not having Mel looking critically over my shoulder or having to listen to his incessant chat. I’ve mucked out the truck, and installed an air freshener. I have a packed lunch – Louise offered me a good deal, much cheaper than the bakery in town – and I can relax knowing that, by the end of the day, I’ll have a stack of hay for Rafa.

  Even though I have no intention of getting involved with anyone while I’m here, I’m looking forward to seeing Robbie again. Not only is he easy on the eye, but I think we could be friends.

  With the address for Nethercott Farm programmed into the satnav, I head south on the road signposted to the coast. At the top of the hill, I catch a glimpse of the sea glittering in the morning sunshine, confirming that I am going in the right direction. (Having been sent down a lane in the dark and straight into a flood that wrecked the engine in Tony’s van when I was an apprentice, I have an inherent distrust of satnavs.)

  When I arrive at the farm, I have to get through the gate into the yard and past a white Range Rover while an old fawn goat tries to get out, so I’m already stressed when I meet the horse owner, who is positively hostile.

  ‘You aren’t Mel.’ Her hair is thick and glossy, her make-up more evening than daytime, and her cropped top shows off her tanned stomach and a jewelled blue piercing. She’s older than me, in her late thirties or early forties.

  ‘I’m Flick,’ I say cheerfully. ‘You must be Gina.’

  ‘I was expecting Mel.’

  I notice her looking down at my plaster, a blue one that Louise gave me to replace Peppa Pig. I hide it behind my back.

  ‘He promised me he’d fit me in before his op,’ she continues.

  ‘He’s having his surgery today.’

  ‘I don’t understand why he didn’t tell me.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m really not sure about this.’

  ‘Do you want me to shoe your horse or not?’ I ask.

  ‘Obviously, my horse needs to be shod. He’s a TB and has very sensitive feet.’

  I sigh inwardly. From my experience, thoroughbreds are sensitive in every respect.

  ‘Mel’s a miracle-worker, the only farrier who’s been able to keep shoes on him for more than five weeks.’ She pauses, making her decision. ‘I’ll go and get him.’

  She brings a chestnut gelding out of the loosebox in the corner of the farmyard and holds on to him.

  ‘He hates being tied up. The first time I had him shod, he pulled back and the side of the stable came down. He was petrified – it made him ten times worse.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. What’s his name?’

  ‘Rambo. He’s an ex-racehorse.’ She gazes at him adoringly. ‘He only ran three times. He won once, was placed twice, and then he decided he didn’t like racing – he didn’t even get out of the stalls. My husband was part of a syndicate who bought him as an investment. Their loss is my gain.’ She smiles. ‘I’m retraining him to jump. He’s going really well now.’

  I look at Rambo’s feet. He’s flat-footed with low heels and it’s a challenge to remove his existing shoes without damaging his crumbly hooves, but I get a new set on and Gina seems pleased with the result. Crossing my fingers that they’ll stay on until my next visit, I pack the tools and anvil away while she returns the horse to the stable.

  ‘I’ll get the gate for you,’ she says, reappearing.

  ‘You mean the goat?’ I say, but she doesn’t seem to have a sense of humour. I open the diary to look at the price list. ‘That will be …’ I name the figure.

  ‘Oh no, you’ve got that wrong.’

  ‘It says here.’ I run my finger along the line to show her.

  She looks at me. ‘Mel and I have an arrangement.’

  ‘He’s told me that everyone knows that it’s cash on the day.’

  ‘No, I said Mel and I have an arrangement.’ She emphasises the word to make it clear that she isn’t referring to money. I guess she’s talking about payment in kind, but what kind?

  ‘Look, I’ll call him.’

  ‘You can’t. He’s at the hospital and I have his business mobile.’

  ‘I have his private number.’ She takes her mobile out of the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Give me a minute.’ She walks away until she’s out of earshot. I stroke the goat until she comes back and hands the phone to me.

  ‘Hi Flick,’ Mel says.

  ‘I’m sorry about this—’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I’m still waiting to go into theatre,’ he cuts in. ‘Gina is one of my specials.’

  ‘She says you have an arrangement.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he says smoothly. ‘She’s set up a bank transfer so it’s fine. All under control. How is Rambo?’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’ My brain is racing. If they had set up a bank transfer, why didn’t Gina just say so? Equally, why didn’t Mel? ‘Good luck,’ I add.

  ‘I’ll see you in a few days.’

  ‘Cheers,’ I say, handing back the phone.

  ‘Mel,’ Gina says. ‘Mel? Oh, he’s gone.’ She looks at me. ‘Happy now?’

  I nod. Happy, yes, but not satisfied that I really understand what’s going on.

  I say goodbye and repeat the game with the old goat at the gate while Gina looks on. Once outside, I reset the satnav for my next destination, where I shoe two ponies at a private house. On my way back towards Talyton St George, there’s a call on the hands-free.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Hello?’ says a man’s voice. ‘Can I speak to Mel?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s had to take some time off.’

  ‘He didn’t mention it last time I saw him.’

  ‘He was supposed to have notified all his clients.’

  ‘Oh well, I don’t think admin is one of Mel’s strengths,’ the man says with humour. ‘Do you happen to know who’s covering his round?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘You?’ It’s his turn to apologise. ‘I thought you were one of Mel’s friends answering his phone. I’m Jack, Animal Welfare Officer for this area. I’ve picked up a pony abandoned in a field over at Bottom End and I’m taking him to the Sanctuary. I wondered if you could drop by ASAP to look at his feet. His hooves are so overgrown the poor thing can hardly walk.’

  ‘I can be there within the hour.’

  I’m going to drop into town to send my mobile away for repair, and pick up some cash from the hole in the wall to pay for the hay for tonight and, in spite of my straitened circumstances, treat myself to a cream tea at the Copper Kettle, the teashop in Talyton St George first. It’s a bit early in the day for scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam, but working outdoors gives me an appetite.

  ‘That’s great,’ Jack says. ‘See you later.’

  The call cuts out and I realise I’ve forgotten to ask him for the address.

  When I’m in town, I find the postcode in the back of the diary and head to the Sanctuary. I follow a narrow lane, which peters out into a long gravelled track where the hedgerows press in on either side. At the end, there’s a gate. I open it and enter, parking in front of a bungalow that’s surrounded by tubs of tulips in bud.

  I slide out of the driver’s side of the truck, but before I can follow the sign that reads ‘Visitors this way’, a woman emerges from the bungalow. She’s carrying a baby on her hip and I’m guessing from the blue dungarees and khaki sunhat that he’s a boy. I’m not sure how old he is – a year, eighteen months, maybe. I’m no good at babies.

  ‘Hi, you must be Flick. I’m Tessa, Jack’s wife. I’m the manager here.’ The woman tucks a stray lock of wavy, almost black hair behind her ear. The baby turns away f
rom me and rests his head against her breast. ‘Oliver, don’t be shy.’ She smiles warmly. ‘He’ll be all right in a few minutes.’ He starts to cry. She puts her hand in the pocket of her overalls and pulls out a soother, pops it into her mouth and then the baby’s. Silence prevails. ‘Jack wanted to be here to meet you, but he’s been called out to a car fire – nothing major.’

  ‘He’s a busy man,’ I say, noticing that Tessa appears to have another baby on the way.

  ‘He’s a part-time firefighter. He’s always on the go.’ She pauses. ‘I’ll take you to see the pony. The vet’s on his way to look at him too. Oh, here he is now. That’s his car.’

  The vet parks his silver four-by-four alongside Mel’s truck. He jumps out and greets us with a brief smile. About thirty-five years old and five foot ten, he has a rugged appearance with short brown hair, hazel eyes and a square jaw. He wears a check shirt and grey moleskin trousers and carries a stethoscope tucked into his breast pocket.

  ‘Hello Tessa, and …’

  ‘Flick.’ I hold out my hand. ‘I’m the farrier.’

  ‘Ah yes – Mel told me you were covering for him. How’s it going?’

  ‘Okay so far, thank you.’ I hesitate, wondering if he’s going to introduce himself. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘I’m Matt Warren from Westleigh Equine. Where’s this pony?’ he goes on. ‘I’m sorry to rush you both, but I have to get back for one of the horses at the clinic.’

  ‘He’s this way,’ Tessa says, and we follow her past a kennel block and cattery to the far end of a barn, where there’s a small lean-to stable. She stands back with the baby while the vet and I peer over the door. ‘Jack says, please can you give us some idea of his age and breed, and check for a microchip. There’s a head-collar on the hook. We had to take the one he was wearing off – it’s left a wound across his nose.’

  I take the head-collar and walk into the stable, where a chestnut pony with wary brown eyes, a white blaze down his face, patches of white where the saddle would sit if he had one on, and one white foot at the back is pulling strands of hay like spaghetti from the net hanging from the ring in the wall.

  ‘Hello, boy,’ I say quietly, my chest tightening when I notice the band of raw flesh around his nose. I buckle the head-collar around his neck and lead him over to the door.