by Fiona Walker
She started to retrace them.
They ran almost parallel to hers, leading her back along the drive and straight past her car.
He must have trotted along just minutes after she had parked, bound on an arrow-like path back to the home he had known best. Wherever he had come from, Rory, she was certain, was waiting.
Knowing that she was far safer staying with her car, she got in and followed the pawprints along the lane with her headlights, Twitch sitting importantly beside her on the passenger seat. No other cars, humans or animals were out in this godforsaken weather. She had the village to herself, the place that had once been her second home now rendered her silent, empty kingdom.
When the tracks disappeared a part of the way along the snow-covered lane that ran alongside Broken Back Woods, she parked and climbed out, eyes immediately watering in the bitter wind. There were no signs of a car passing here apart from her own – the drifting snow had long since covered any tracks.
She called out, the words snatched back into her mouth. Great wads of snow landed on her head as they were dragged by the wind from the tree branches overhead; elsewhere snow dusted down like icing sugar. She shouted and hollered. Nothing.
Then she reached for her phone and called his number.
Somewhere, just audible above the howling wind and creaking, freezing snow, she heard ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ ring out to answer her.
Faith fought tears of relief. He hadn’t changed his ringtone in two years – not since she had shown him how to download tones, using Wagner as an example, a lesson he had immediately forgotten. He hated that ringtone, but it was now his life-saving siren. As she neared her target, she used her mobile phone to call Rory’s again and again so that she could close in on the muffled melody coming from one of the piles of snow ahead of her.
At last she found his car, a fattened cartoon shape, totally covered in white and wedged into a tree. Beneath its thick snowy jacket it was twisted and bent, the damage revealed as she brushed its white-iced perfection away.
And there was Rory. He was unconscious.
The driver’s door was jammed closed by the snow and stoved in by the impact. On the opposite side, the passenger’s window was partly wound down and Twitch had obviously burrowed out from it, but Faith couldn’t hope to get close to it through the undergrowth and snow.
Pulling her frozen hand into her sleeve, she hurled her elbow at the window in front of her and yelped as pain razed through her, but at least it cracked and she could smash out the glass, trying not to let too much shower over Rory inside. He stayed totally still and corpse-like.
Heart hammering like a machine gun, Faith felt for a pulse and listened for breath.
Both were strong and even.
The smell of whisky was overpowering. There was a litre bottle of expensive-looking malt on the passenger seat, which was almost empty. Beside it lay the little bronze dog she had given him, and a broken porcelain horse.
For all her love, she spared him little sympathy now, so angry and terrified that she might not have ever found him and that he might have died there. She trudged back to her car and grabbed her Christmas shovel to begin to dig him out, hurling great showers of white over her shoulder until she could wrench the door open at last.
Then she fetched the shiny barrow and hauled Rory into it to push him back to her car.
Only then did he briefly regain consciousness. ‘Where am I? Haydown?’
‘Yes, Rory,’ she replied through gritted teeth. ‘I’m shovelling shit as usual.’
He started to sing: ‘In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan …’
He lapsed back into unconsciousness for the journey to Berkshire and Faith debated taking him to A & E, but she was terrified that he had done something illegal, and she knew his drinking habits well enough to gauge this stupor as one he could sleep off, albeit with pretty major tremors. If Hugo found out – as he inevitably would, should Rory get arrested – then Rory would probably be out on his ear. Better to risk it, she decided, stopping off at an all-night garage to stock up on dextrose tablets, bottled water and caffeine drinks.
‘Bad night to be travelling,’ the cashier sympathised.
‘They say travelling hopefully is sometimes better than arriving,’ Faith replied bleakly, carrying her goodies back to her unconscious passenger, who had Twitch under one arm and the broken horse figurine under the other.
By the time they arrived at Haydown Rory was starting to come to, with nauseous, delirious confusion. It was not a good moment to meet his new housemate. But Lough was just emerging from the steamy bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist and a toothbrush poking from his mouth, when Faith hauled Rory upstairs.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ he bellowed.
For a moment Faith was dumbstruck. She was staring at his tattoos – although that was far too prosaic a word for the amazing body art that adorned at least half of his muscular biceps and torso from the collarbones down, intricate Maori patterns and symbols, arm bands and moko designs, almost all on just one side of his body. It was breathtaking.
But just at that moment Rory opened an eye, groaned and threw up on his feet, which wasn’t the greatest first impression.
‘Food poisoning!’ Faith apologised, dragging Rory into his room while Lough retreated back to the bathroom.
He could tell – and smell – that it wasn’t food poisoning. He hadn’t heard a lot about Rory Midwinter: in fact his very presence at Haydown had not even been brokered when Lough and Hugo first agreed any tenancy deal, but that was a long time ago now, of course. Lem was clearly not a fan, and during his brief catch up with his boss earlier had already let slip that Rory was on his last chance and had to stay on the wagon to remain at Haydown. From what Lough had just seen, Rory Midwinter was about to go as cold turkey as the Christmas leftovers in the Beauchamps’ fridge or he’d be out on his ear.
When Lough re-emerged from the bathroom, the girl was scrubbing the sick from the landing carpet.
‘I’m Faith.’ She pulled off a yellow rubber glove and held out her hand.
‘Lough.’ He took it in a vice-like grip that made her wince before stepping past her with a swish of towel and a waft of hot, showered male skin that even Faith noticed was scented with such uncompromising testosterone that he would make the Top Gear team look like the cast of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.
She checked on Rory, washed his face and lips as best she could, lined up his dextrose tablets and water, and kissed him on the freshly wiped cheek before backing quietly to the door. He still had the broken china horse under one arm, she noticed, hoping that he wouldn’t cut himself.
Just as she turned to reach for the door handle he called out her name.
‘Yes?’ She looked over her shoulder, but his eyes were still closed and seemed to be asleep. She turned wearily away again.
‘Thank you. I love you.’
Faith froze, knowing that drunks said that to everybody. Yet her heart sucked it in, pounding it joyfully through her ears.
‘I love you too. Now sober up and see if you remember that.’
Trailed by a hopeful, tuck-tummied Twitch, she slipped out and fed him a packet of stewing lamb from the fridge (no doubt put there by Tash who was under the illusion that Rory could cook like Jamie Oliver) and then headed outside, determinedly not screaming when she got tangled up with two feathery, freshly shot pheasant hanging from the porch – also, no doubt, a gift from Tash.
After checking on Whitey and the rest of Rory’s horses, she mixed their morning feeds and then drove back to Fosbourne Ducis through the drifts, hardly noticing as her car jack-knifed this way and that on the now icy roads.
She had never been more grateful to see Lime Tree Farm glowing a welcome, the Moncrieffs and their houseguests all curled up on threadbare sofas and sag-bags amid the piles of old horse magazines and schedules in the farm’s sitting room, warming their toes by the huge open log fire, swigging mulled wine and taking it
in turns to have baths when the immersion had heated enough water. All had been hunting earlier in the day, forced to return when the weather changed. They were very pink-cheeked and jolly.
‘Get what you wanted for Christmas?’ Penny stretched out an arm in welcome, her bright berry eyes mischievous.
Faith paused in the doorway as she passed, suddenly finding a tired smile on her face. ‘I got something I’ve been dreaming of for years.’
‘Good for you.’ Penny waved her away cheerfully, already reaching for the phone to call Anke and report that her daughter was back safe.
In her chilly little attic room Faith changed out of her still-damp clothes into two pairs of pyjamas, two sweaters, several pairs of socks and a woolly hat before crawling into bed, her teeth chattering and her body starting to shake uncontrollably. Guessing Rory was shaking too, she sent him a message to remind him to drink water, before conking out to have a disturbing dream that Lemon was holding Rory down in a tattoo parlour, insisting that he have ‘I Love Sylva Frost’ inked across his forehead. The tattoo artist was Lough Strachan.
Rory took almost two days to recover enough to venture out of the lodge cottage. Faith appeared sporadically to check in on him, bringing fresh supplies of fruit, biscuits and bottled water. He told her he had flu. She seemed to believe him, and told him his horses would be fine in her care until he recovered. He could remember almost nothing of Boxing Day. He had no idea whatsoever how he’d got back to Haydown.
But when he finally emerged, feeling very weak and shaky, Faith wasn’t there. She was working at Lime Tree Farm all day, Beccy told him when he headed on to the yard.
‘I’ve had flu,’ he explained. ‘My new housemate probably brought something bubonic over from the colonies.’
Beccy flashed a wary smile, very jumpy on the subject of Lough.
‘I like the hair. Suits you.’
‘Thanks.’ Beccy blushed, deciding he was getting nicer these days. She felt rather sorry for him, being ill. He looked truly terrible. ‘Hugo and Lough are riding in the indoor school if you want to see them.’
‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’ He’d gone very grey and had to lean against a wall for support.
Lemon led out a horse behind him, tacked up ready for Lough to swap rides.
‘You’re still alive then.’ He looked disappointed. ‘Food poisoning, wasn’t it?’
‘Flu,’ Rory corrected, deciding he really needed to go back to bed.
‘No wonder you got a chill, driving into a snow drift like that.’ Lemon eyed him resentfully.
Rory had no idea what he was talking about, but that might start to explain the voicemail message he’d received from his brother-inlaw Amos, asking if he wanted his car removed from Broken Back Woods before the police impounded it.
‘Mate,’ said Lemon as he stepped closer, voice dropping to an accusing hiss. ‘Faith could have died saving you back there. I think you deserved to freeze, frankly.’
Before Rory could ask him what he was talking about, there was a clatter of hooves as he led the horse away.
‘Take no notice of him.’ Beccy reappeared from a stable with a barrow. ‘He’s in a foul mood because the big bad boss has finally arrived to make him the whipping boy again. He shouts at Lem all the time. He must be tricky to live with.’
‘What?’ Rory was finding fragments of Boxing Day floating through his conscience at last.
‘Lough?’
‘I’ve barely spoken to him. Been too ill.’
Beccy wheeled away, relieved.
Over the coming days Rory’s mind gradually started filling in the blanks. Oblivious to the cross currents swirling around the yard like the hay strands blowing in the ever-changing wind, he spent an uncharacteristic amount of time on his own, riding Rio who couldn’t enjoy a long holiday in the fields like the others because his stallion’s wanderlust meant he would only tolerate being turned out for a few hours at a time.
He barely noticed Hugo legging a very reluctant Tash up onto her old grey, Mickey Rourke, and making her ride in the school, her face so frozen with fear and her body so stiff that she looked like a mannequin taped to the saddle. Nor did he spot Lough watching them in his silent, black-eyed way. He avoided Lemon, who was spoiling for a fight, and Beccy did her disappearing act most days. But he made time for Faith, the flu lie sitting awkwardly between them.
He didn’t know what to say to her or how to thank her. His humiliation was total; he’d been completely self-pitying and out of control and now he was so deeply ashamed he longed to wake up again and find it was all a dream. But he didn’t.
He rode over to Fosbourne Ducis on New Year’s Eve, a bright, blue-skied afternoon, the snow now pushed back to the verges in grubby piles like royal icing peeled back from its marzipan and fruit mix, but it was still uniform Christmas-cake white across the fields. Lime Tree Farm was in disarray as the Moncrieffs prepared for their annual party.
‘Bloody Faith’s sloped off to Marlbury without saying when she’ll be back!’ Penny told Rory as she rushed past with a case of wine. ‘Put that horse in a stable and help me out while you wait for her.’
Rory did as he was told, not thinking to ask why Penny knew that he had come to see Faith in particular.
‘Here – take this.’ She thrust a box at him when he reappeared. ‘You’re coming tonight, aren’t you?’
Rory found himself swaying under the weight of six bottles of cheap scotch, his personal poison.
‘I can’t make it,’ he apologised, carrying the case into the house like a ticking bomb. ‘Something’s come up.’ Just the clank of the bottles made him break out in a cold sweat.
He was forced to head back to Haydown when the light started fading.
‘I’ll tell Faith she missed you.’ Penny waved him away distractedly. ‘Happy New Year. Got any resolutions?’
‘Sobriety,’ he said with feeling.
When Faith got back to Lime Tree Farm to find that Rory had been there looking for her, she called him straight away.
‘You saved my life,’ he answered without preamble.
Faith listened to him breathing as he walked. She guessed he was still with his horses on the yard.
‘Hey, it was nothing,’ she said eventually.
‘It was everything to me. I wanted to thank you in person. You’re amazing. Amazing.’
Her chest tightened with fear and pleasure. ‘No worries.’
She could hear him clanking through a door. Terrified that he was going to ring off at any moment, she blurted: ‘Why were you at Broken Back Woods in the first place?’
He coughed and clattered about some more. It was clear he didn’t want to talk about it, or didn’t remember enough to be able to. Faith could hear him scooping out feeds in the background, the rattle of pasture mix falling into buckets.
‘I’m sorry for what I did. I’m sorry I put you through that. I’m sorry. I owe you big time. Anything. Name it.’
Oh, the temptation. Faith ran through her options, all the time knowing there was only one. Immediacy. ‘Come to the party tonight.’
For Rory, it was the one chamber with the bullet in it. ‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
He said nothing for a long time, and Faith tortured herself with all manner of hot encounters he might have lined up.
‘Hugo’s just told me he wants Lough to go to the States instead of me.’
Faith caught her lip beneath her teeth. She knew it was a devastating blow to him. But to her it was salvation. If he didn’t go to America with Hugo she’d have him close by. She couldn’t keep the elation from her voice. ‘Let’s just all celebrate New Year first.’
‘I’m not quite ready to party again yet,’ he apologised.
Chapter 43
Tash prized Gok, Trinny and Susannah over her festive curves before reaching for the red suede dress that Sophia had given her for Christmas, assuring her it was by a designer who was ‘brilliant at hiding post-natal bumps’. But not crotche
s, it seemed. She tugged the very short skirt down towards her knees and studied her reflection in the long mirror. It was years since she’d worn something this revealing. Yet her sister had been quite right about the figure-hugging creation. A leggy, wasp-waisted vamp stared back. She pouted and threw a model pose, then squeaked in delight. This would surely cheer up Hugo.
In the adjacent bathroom, he was out of the shower and complaining loudly about Lough as he towelled his hair dry.
‘He’s so bloody-minded. He won’t last five minutes in the States if he behaves like this.’
In the past week Lough had spent his days avoiding his hosts, ignoring the yard rules and working horses at the opposite end of the indoor arena to everyone else like a rival warming up for a jump-off, all of which drove Hugo mad. They’d barely exchanged a word for days, so the prospect of taking the New Zealander out to a New Year’s Eve party needled at Hugo’s usual generosity. He’d already torn a strip off Tash for offering Lough and the rest of the Haydown contingent a lift to the Moncrieff’s farm.
‘I think he’s terribly shy,’ she told him now, striking a few more poses as she added distractedly, ‘please try to be nice to him tonight. It could be just the ice-breaker you two need.’
‘Plenty of ice around here, so every chance of a serious breakage.’ Hugo appeared at the door, the towel falling from his head as he took in her scarlet harlot dress.
‘What d’you think?’ Tash asked, eager for approval.
There was a telling pause before he answered in a terse voice. ‘Very smart. Where’s the skirt to go with it?’
‘It’s a dress.’ Tash wilted, Gok’s sterling support digging into her deflated ribs. She really must be mutton dressed as lamb, she realised. In her fantasises Hugo had scooped her up and thrown her on the bed, saying the party could wait. In reality, he just turned back to the bathroom to clean his teeth.
She painted her lips red with shaking hands then she looked at her reflection again, tugging down the hem. She could hear a text message coming through on Hugo’s phone, which was lying on the chair in the bathroom. A moment later the door was pushed closed.