‘Hello,’ Ryan smiles. ‘Nat, this is Flick. Flick, this is Nat, my wife.’
‘Congratulations. I wish you all the luck in the world.’ I address this to Nat because she’s going to need it. ‘You look a little sunburned, Ryan. Have you been somewhere nice?’
‘We’ve just got back from St Lucia.’
‘We got married on the beach,’ Nat adds.
Bile rises in my throat. That’s where we went on holiday. That’s where he proposed to me. I wonder if his new wife – who looks as if she exists on skinny lattes and salads – knows that. Part of me wants to tell her, but it won’t make any difference. It won’t make me feel any better. There’s an awkward silence before Ryan speaks again.
‘Mel tells me you’re working for him.’
‘It’s only temporary, a stopgap before I set up my own round,’ I point out coolly.
‘If you’re just half as successful as I am, you’ll do well.’ Ryan nuzzles Nat’s scrawny neck, making me feel sick to the stomach.
‘I see you’ve found yourself a cougar,’ I comment when he joins me with the other entrants for the Eagle Eye class, waiting for Mel’s instructions.
‘Well, you know what they say about older women,’ he says brightly.
‘No, I don’t actually.’
‘They have the benefit of experience.’
‘And money, I assume.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Oh come on, we both know you didn’t pay for the wedding.’
‘I contributed.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to contribute to paying off our debts and the overdraft.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t at the moment. The flights alone cost an arm and a leg.’ He pauses as my blood begins to boil. ‘If I had some spare cash, I’d offer to help you out.’
‘We both spent the money. We’re jointly liable,’ I point out.
‘I know, but the loans are in your name and the bank can wait.’
‘Sure,’ I say bitterly. What did I expect?
I become aware of Robbie’s presence. He’s standing with Maisie, watching us intently.
‘It wasn’t all my fault,’ Ryan whispers. ‘I admit I could have handled the break-up better, more kindly, but it would have happened whatever. We weren’t right for each other. I think you were in love with the prospect of us working together, not me. You were too busy for me in the end.’
‘I was preparing for my exam,’ I say, outraged, ‘and you were never at home because it turned out you were with her.’ A fresh tide of anger and regret hits me. ‘And now you’re here, making out that you’ve made it, when everyone knows that you’re only where you are today because you’ve taken advantage of other people.’
‘Isn’t that the way of the world? I wanted us to help each other out, but you wouldn’t let me. You were always wanting to do everything on your own, and your way. You can be too independent, you know. It isn’t attractive.’ Ryan delivers his final blow. ‘It doesn’t come across as terribly feminine.’
‘While sponging off women instead of standing on your own two feet makes you look soooo manly,’ I say sarcastically. ‘You’re a complete wuss. You never take responsibility for anything.’
‘Flick, is everything okay?’ Robbie steps up beside me.
‘It’s fine,’ I say firmly, as Mel calls for quiet and introduces the judge, a retired Fellow of the Worshipful Company of Farriers, who is dressed in heavy tweeds. He makes a speech, welcoming everyone to a celebration of farriery that will show off the medieval craft of making horseshoes, before Mel takes over again to read out the rules for the first class.
‘You have fifteen seconds to look at the foot, followed by twenty-five minutes to make a concave hunter shoe with a toe clip to fit.’ He smiles cheesily. ‘Are you ready? Let’s shoe.’
‘May the best man win!’ Robbie calls across.
‘Flick’s a lady,’ I hear Maisie correct him.
‘May the best farrier win,’ says Mel. ‘First up –’ he pauses for effect before continuing – ‘Felicity Coleridge.’
‘Good luck,’ Ryan says from beside me.
I glance down at my hands, which bear the evidence of hours of practice in the forge, remembering though how Tony used to diss our handiwork. A ‘That’s just about okay’ from Tony was high praise indeed.
A little grudgingly, I wish Ryan luck too.
I move away and, having looked at the foot on a rather bored-looking grey cob, I head for my workstation, keeping a picture of the shape and size imprinted on my memory.
I take a bar of steel, heat and cut it. I mark the bar just off centre and hold it with tongs over the horn of the anvil so I can bend the white-hot glowing toe with overlapping blows of the hammer. I get into a rhythm, my ears ringing with the hollow sound of metal against metal, and I start to lose myself.
Once I’ve started to shape the toe, I create the edges of the heels and check that the shoe is the same thickness all over, working quickly as the metal changes colour from yellow to orange. I slide it back into the fire and wait impatiently for it to become malleable enough to work with again.
When it’s ready, I mark the positions of the nail holes with the stamp before ramming the end of the pritchel straight through with blows from the hammer. Time must be running out. I’m not sure I’m quick enough. I redouble my efforts.
I draw out the toe clip and rasp the heels until they’re smooth.
‘One minute left,’ Mel says.
Ryan has finished. He stands, watching me, his arms crossed, his expression smug.
I make one last check and I’ve finished too. My shirt is sticking to my back and my cheeks are burning with the heat.
Ryan strips off his singlet and uses it to wipe the sweat from his face, chest and armpits.
‘All shoes are to be cooled and labelled, and left for judging,’ Mel says. ‘Labels and pens are here on the table.’
Ten minutes later, he gathers the shoes in a bucket and carries them across to the grey cob, walking slowly with his stick to allow the judge to keep up. I can’t help thinking that they make a pretty good ad for spinal surgery: the judge the ‘before’ and Mel the ‘after’. The judge stoops to lift the cob’s foot and check each of the seven shoes against it. He struggles to stand up again, slips on a pair of horn-rimmed specs and makes notes on a clipboard before deliberating for what seems like hours on his decision, as the temperature continues to rise and the sheep next door bleat wearily.
From a distance, all the shoes look pretty similar, although I can’t help thinking that Ryan’s is larger than the others, which means he misjudged the size of the horse’s foot. I smile to myself. It isn’t the only thing he’s ever overestimated. I recall him with the other apprentices, bragging about the size of his—
‘Here are the results of the Eagle Eye class.’ Mel takes a piece of paper from the judge and reads out the names in reverse order. Ryan is fourth. ‘And in first place is none other than our own Flick Coleridge.’
‘I suppose I should congratulate you, but they got it wrong. The old bloke should have gone to Specsavers,’ Ryan mutters.
Mel basks in our shared triumph. ‘Come and collect your prize.’
A hand on my back propels me forwards.
‘Go and get it then,’ says a familiar voice.
‘Robbie.’ I turn and flash him a smile.
‘Well done,’ he says.
The judge presents me my prize of a shiny new drawing knife, a Dartington glass tankard and a certificate, and a whiskery kiss on both cheeks, before I return to where Robbie and Maisie are waiting. Maisie relieves me of the tankard.
‘That’ll be perfect for your beer,’ Robbie observes. ‘If I didn’t have to get the horses home later, I’d suggest we stay and celebrate. By the way, who’s the bloke you were talking to?’
‘My ex, Ryan. I wasn’t expecting to run into him here.’ I glance across to where Ryan’s wife, Nat, is flicking through her mobile. I have a feeling that she
’s going to give him his comeuppance one day, but it doesn’t matter to me now. There is some truth in what Ryan said earlier. The break-up wasn’t entirely down to him. I played a part in it too. I pursued my career at the expense of our relationship. He felt neglected and, even though I was aware that we were drifting apart, I didn’t do anything about it except nag and niggle. I’m glad he’s moved on. He’s married so there’s no going back, even when, in my lowest moments, I’ve thought that I’d like to. I change the subject.
‘You and Dillon were brilliant earlier.’
‘It takes practice, attention to detail and a dash of creativity, I hope.’
‘I don’t know how you do it.’
‘Me neither, sometimes. It’s been a long three days and we have more shows coming up over the summer. It’s great, though – I’ve never felt so good about the team’s prospects.’ He pauses. ‘Are you still up for the picnic tomorrow? I’ll be free at eleven – I’ll pick you up—’
‘I wanna come,’ Maisie interrupts.
‘Another time,’ Robbie says.
‘What can I bring?’
‘Nothing. It’s my treat.’ He removes the tankard from Maisie’s grasp and returns it to me. Our fingers touch and linger, and all I want to do is lean in and kiss him, but Maisie is here, pulling at his shirt and demanding an ice cream. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ His gentle smile makes my stomach turn in the best possible way. ‘Bye.’
‘B-b-bye,’ I stammer as I watch him walk away with Maisie skipping along by his side. I can’t wait to see him again.
I spend a while longer with my fellow farriers and an hour wandering around the showground looking at the horsey stalls. I spend money I haven’t got, using my credit card, on a purple-and-black glitter lead rope for Rafa.
All in all it’s been a good day. I’ve upheld Mel’s honour in the shoeing contest, I’ve faced up to Ryan without collapsing in a heap and, best of all, I have a few hours alone with Robbie to look forward to. Will we decide to remain friends who fell into bed together? Or will we choose to commit to having some fun during the summer? My head tells me to go for the sensible option, while my heart yearns for the riskier one.
Chapter Eleven
The Cherry on the Cake
On a perfect sunny Sunday morning in the middle of April, I hack Rafa out before Robbie arrives. I shower when I get back from the ride and slip into a yellow blouse and navy crops, keeping it casual, I think, although I feel far from relaxed inside. As I head downstairs, I hear Louise letting someone into the house.
‘Flick,’ she calls. ‘Robbie’s here.’
‘I’m on my way.’ I grab the bottle of elderflower fizz that I bought yesterday at the festival from the fridge and meet him in the hall. He leans in and kisses my cheek, his fresh scent of shower gel and toothpaste igniting a flame of longing in my belly.
‘You’re looking very bright.’
‘Is it too much?’ I gaze at his outfit of a khaki shirt unbuttoned over a dark vest, black cargo shorts and loafers, relieved to see that he appears to have made an effort too.
‘No, you look lovely,’ he says quickly. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Enjoy your day out.’ Louise appears in the front doorway with a hen in her arms. ‘This is Tansy – she’s our resident escapologist. I’m on my way to put her back with the others. Will you be wanting dinner, Flick, or will you be late?’
‘I’ll be back.’ I’m willing myself not to blush, but my cheeks aren’t getting the message … I turn and walk outside, Robbie close behind me.
‘I wondered if you could do me a big favour,’ he begins, hesitating on the doorstep. ‘It’s a little cheeky of me, but Nelson’s not quite right after yesterday. I thought you might be able to use your hoof-testers on him to put my mind at rest, if nothing else. I mean, it may be nothing.’
‘I’ll get them,’ I say. ‘We can go and do that now.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘Of course I’m sure. I know how I feel when I think there’s something amiss with Rafa.’ I return to fetch the keys to the truck. ‘I’ll drive round.’
‘Okay. Follow me.’
We park in the yard at the Saltertons’. All the horses are out, having a day off, apart from Paddington and T-rex, and we have to go out to the field to catch Nelson and bring him back to the stables.
‘I’ll trot him up first.’ Robbie runs alongside Nelson, trotting him across the concrete. The horse’s hooves send up sparks as he powers past me. ‘What do you think?’ Robbie pulls him up and pats his shiny neck.
‘He looks pretty good to me.’ So does his handler, I muse, thinking wicked thoughts.
‘During yesterday’s second performance, he felt pottery, as if he wasn’t picking his front feet up properly. The ground’s very hard because we’ve had no rain and I’m hoping he’s just picked up some bruising.’
‘I’ll have a look at his feet.’ I fetch the hoof-testers, a set of large pincers.
‘He isn’t right,’ Robbie insists.
I run my hands down Nelson’s leg and feel for the pulses at his fetlock, and any heat or swelling, but there’s nothing obvious. I pick up his foot and squeeze it in various places with the hoof-testers. When I pinch the middle third of the frog, Nelson reacts slightly, trying to pull his foot away.
‘That hurts,’ Robbie says.
‘It does, but it isn’t excessive.’
‘Is it an abscess?’
‘I can’t see any trace of one.’
‘I’ll call the vet out tomorrow. It’s better to be on the safe side.’
‘It’s probably nothing.’ I echo his opinion from earlier on because I don’t want him to worry, but I can’t help feeling concerned that it’s something far more serious.
‘Thanks. I’ll turn him out and we’ll go for that picnic.’
I wash my hands under the outside tap while I’m waiting for him.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask when he returns.
‘I was planning on going over to East Hill. We can sit and look at the sea … or each other …’ He grins. ‘Let’s go. It won’t be that long until I have to be back for Maisie.’
He drives me through the countryside towards the coast, and up to the top of a steep hill covered with trees, gorse and heather. We stop in a clearing under the beech trees and get out of the Land Rover. I take the bottle of fizz, while Robbie brings a picnic hamper and rolled-up blanket. We walk along an avenue with Devon banks on each side, and green boughs forming an arch overhead. As the land flattens, the avenue opens out into an expanse of rough grass and scrub.
‘I can see the sea,’ I say, looking towards the horizon, where the hill slopes away sharply to another plateau and the cliffs and deep blue-green water beyond.
‘It’s a great view, isn’t it?’ Robbie says, keeping his eyes fixed on me.
We move on through the unfurling fronds of bracken and set up our picnic in the grass away from the beaten track. We sit down side by side. Robbie opens the hamper and passes me a plate.
‘This is civilised,’ I say.
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ he says, smiling. ‘I know how to behave. Would you like a sandwich? Salmon and cucumber or chicken salad?’
‘I’d like to try both. Did you make them?’
‘I’ve been up for hours, getting this ready.’ He offers me sandwiches from two plastic boxes. ‘I even cut the crusts off.’
‘Thank you.’
We eat. The food is delicious and I’m starving. I rest my empty plate on the blanket, slightly concerned because we appear to have run out of things to talk about. Robbie is unusually quiet. I wonder if he’s worried about his horse.
‘I expect Nelson will be all right,’ I begin eventually. ‘Maybe I could shoe him with some pads next time.’
‘That isn’t a bad idea. Thanks for having a look at him.’
‘I told you, I’m happy to. It’s an unusual thing to do on a date – if it is a date,’ I say. ‘We haven’t really talked about wh
ere this is going.’
‘This?’
‘Us.’ I shouldn’t compare him with Ryan, but my ex was hard to pin down at times. Robbie gazes at me, one eyebrow raised, and I suddenly realise that he might think that I’ve overstepped the mark. ‘I don’t mean – I’m not making any assumptions,’ I go on quickly. ‘I just like to know where I stand, that’s all.’ I pause, waiting for him to respond. ‘Was it a one-night stand?’
‘Of course not. We’re here, aren’t we?’
‘But?’ I sense there’s something wrong.
‘Your ex. You seemed upset yesterday when you were talking to him.’
‘Are you asking me if I still have feelings for him?’
‘It’s none of my business, but—’
‘No, fair enough. I have nothing to hide. I hadn’t seen him since we broke up and I was upset to find he’d just got back from honeymoon with his new wife, the woman he cheated on me with.’
‘So it still hurts?’ Robbie’s eyes are downcast.
‘No, I was shocked because they had the wedding on St Lucia where he proposed to me.’
‘So you aren’t really over him yet?’
‘I don’t love him any more. I am over him. I am soooo over him,’ I repeat.
‘Okay, I believe you. Here, have a cake.’ He offers me a Bakewell tart. I take it and pick the cherry from the top. ‘He sounds like a complete bastard!’
‘I’m a little wary of getting involved with anyone because of what he’s put me through.’ I pop the cherry into my mouth and enjoy its sickly sweetness as I recall the predicament that Ryan has left me in.
‘I understand.’
‘I’m not sure if you can ever really “know” someone. Your parents would probably contradict me on that.’
‘Does that mean you’re turning me down?’ Robbie bites his lip.
Springtime at Cherry Tree Cottage Page 17