Kiss and Tell

by Fiona Walker

  Then, just as he was about to climb down, he spotted the familiar shape of the quad bike at the base of the scarp, where there was a rocky stretch of land known as the Glacier Pasture. Sliding down though the chalky grass to investigate, Rory could just make out Hugo in the shadow of the oak wood at its far corner. The horse was nowhere to be seen. He sprinted across the bumpy field.

  ‘Oh Christ!’ He gaped in horror when he saw what had happened to Heart.

  A stream ran the length of the woods, creating a natural boundary where chalk soil gave way to heavy clay, its steep banks creating a narrow gorge of fast-moving water six feet deep in parts.

  The horse had turned over in the narrowest gully, his neck trapped under an old fallen tree trunk and his head half-submerged in the stream. The water around him was red with blood. Huge gashes in one bank showed where he must have slipped on landing, the soft ground giving way beneath him and tipping him back into the trench.

  Up to his waist in the stream as he battled to keep the horse’s head above the water, Hugo was drenched and covered in blood and mud.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ he told Rory, teeth gritted with effort, ‘but I’m not sure for how long. He was panicking like stink when I found him which is why his neck’s stuck like this. It’s my fault he took off. I was leading him when my phone rang, lost concentration for a second and, woomph, he was up on his hind legs and away. There’s no mobile signal here, not even SOS, and I can’t let go because he’ll go under water if I do.’

  ‘I’ll get help.’

  ‘Take the quad. Phone Jack Fotheringham – you’ll get reception on the far side of the wood. Tell him the horse has severed an artery near his off hind hock. Then fetch ratchet straps and tarps, and a wood saw. And any spare bodies you can to help.’

  Rory ran for the quad bike, ignoring the screaming pains in his head. The woods seemed never-ending, the tracks riddled with potholes, boulders and deep, muddy puddles. At last he broke into sunlight again and raced up the familiar slope of the field known as Thirty Acres.

  Ten minutes later, Gus took a call from Rory.

  ‘I donnowhatodo!’ his words were slurring even more than usual because he was panicking. ‘Jack Fotheringhamshata sheminar in Newmarket; the clinic can’t getanothervet here foranhour.’

  Promising to be straight over, Gus rushed off to find Penny, but Lough was alone on the yard, washing off Toto. ‘She and the others all hacked out about half an hour ago.’

  ‘I’ll have to go without her.’ Gus started throwing shovels in the back of his Toyota. ‘Hugo can’t keep the tourniquet on the hind leg while he’s holding the horse’s head up. I don’t think there’s much chance of getting him out alive, frankly.’

  ‘I’m coming too,’ Lough said before he quickly led Toto back to his stable.

  ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

  He re-emerged, squinting in the sunlight, deep voice gritty with determination. ‘The horse will bleed to death without veterinary treatment. I’ll just fetch my kit.’

  Hugo had been struggling to keep Heart’s head up for a long time. At first the horse had fought for all he was worth to escape, thrashing and kicking, sending water and mud and blood flying. But he had already galloped his legs off by the time he slipped into the ditch in the first place and the adrenalin had quickly dissipated. Now he was lethargic and resigned to his fate, his handsome head heavy in Hugo’s arms, the heart-shaped star hard to discern amid the dirt and blood. He’d gashed his eye and poll, but that was nothing to the thick red stream still pumping from his hind leg. Hugo was literally standing in a river of blood, his arms riddled with cramps, his body so cold that his teeth chattered now that the sun had dropped lower behind the oak wood and cast him in deeper shadow. He’d stopped being able to feel his feet half an hour ago.

  At last Rory buzzed back on the quad bike with straps, chains and a heavy canvas tarpaulin ready to lift the horse out.

  ‘Is the vet coming?’ Hugo called, his voice cramped with cold.

  Unable to trust his slurred voice, Rory just gave a thumbs-up as he passed and rocketed up the steep slope to fetch the abandoned tractor.

  A moment later Gus’s pick-up truck appeared, weaving through the boulders like he was in Wacky Races, and Hugo felt weak with relief. He gripped Heart’s head tighter, kissing him on his cold, drenched muzzle. ‘We’ll get you out of here. Just hang on in there. Gus! Thank God. Apply some pressure to that hock will you?’

  Then Lough Strachan stepped from the pick-up.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘He’s a vet. You need a vet.’

  ‘He’s not coming anywhere near my horse!’ Hugo hissed through chattering teeth.

  Gus stooped down to his head level, dropping his voice. ‘Right now, you have a choice: give this animal a fighting chance by pulling together for its sake, or carry on throwing blows until you’re flogging a dead horse.

  Hugo glared up at him. ‘Did you give Lough that little pep talk too?’

  ‘I didn’t need to. He volunteered.’

  Lough didn’t look at Hugo as he got to work, putting a clamp on the artery to stop it bleeding and then giving a small dose of sedative and painkiller combined: ‘He’s pretty exhausted, but he’ll start fighting again once we try moving him so it’s best to keep him calm. A bit of dope will do him no harm.’

  ‘Not the first time you’ve said that, I’ll bet,’ Hugo muttered, but Lough ignored him as the others began to slip the wide straps beneath the horse.

  It took the four men almost an hour to get Heart out of the ditch, but eventually he was lifted out in a makeshift sling attached to the tractor’s front loader as easily as moving a bag of fertiliser. Muddied, exhausted and bedraggled, they formed a bizarre cavalcade as they drove back to the yard, the tractor in the lead bearing the sedated horse in a tarpaulin sling like an oversized stork’s bill, followed by the quad and the pick-up truck. All rolled under the arch and into the yard to be greeted by a loudly-cheering Franny, who’d prepared a bed in one of the open-fronted stalls.

  As soon as the horse had been lowered to the ground, Lough worked quickly and quietly to sterilise and close the wound. The internal stitching was incredibly delicate and he was horribly out of practice, not wanting to let the others see how much his hands were shaking. It took him twice as long as it once would have to put in twenty external sutures, working slowly and meticulously, determined to leave as minimal a scar as possible.

  ‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ he told his audience, ‘but not enough to need a transfusion and there should be no ill effects from lack of supply. There’s no reason he won’t be a hundred per cent sound on this leg again as long as he’s given time to recover and the old injury hasn’t flared up after his run, of course.’

  ‘He got away from me,’ Hugo said. ‘Jumped clean over the yard gates and all the post and rails between here and Thirty Acres.’

  Rory whistled. ‘He’s got shome scope.’

  ‘Most exciting horse I know,’ Hugo agreed, stooping to scratch Heart’s neck and withers, putting him on a level with Lough, who was applying a dressing. He turned to him briefly. ‘Thank you.’

  Lough nodded, saying nothing.

  The tension between them was monumental, but nobody could doubt Hugo’s integrity or Lough’s skill.

  Eager to lighten the mood, Rory gave a jolly laugh that somewhat misfired, coming out as more of a Kenneth Williams sneer, his speech bad because he was wiped out. ‘Teach youneverto anshwer your mobile when leading a horsh,’ he told Hugo.

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to take the call.’

  ‘Letsh hope it washn’t important.’

  ‘It was Tash.’

  There was an awkward pause.

  Gus appeared from behind the pick-up where he’d been smoking a cigarette, then thought better of it and went back to light up another.

  At last Lough stood up from bandaging the leg. ‘All done.’

  ‘Good.’ Hugo turned back to the
house. ‘If you’ll all excuse me, I have a call to make. There’s brandy and hot drinks in the tack room. Franny can look after you. Welcome back, Rory. Come for supper later if you’re not too bushed.’ He walked out of earshot, dogs at his heels.

  ‘That’s as close as you and I will get to a personal thank you.’ Gus wandered back to Rory’s side at the stable door, fag dangling from his mouth. ‘Good to see you out and about again.’

  Rory nodded wanly.

  ‘Have you got analgesics?’ Lough asked as he put his equipment back in the pick-up.

  Rory shook his head. ‘I left them behind at the hospital.’

  Lough pressed a foil blister pack of tablets into Rory’s hand. ‘Take two every four hours dissolved in water.’

  ‘What is it?’ he eyed the pills suspiciously.

  ‘Soluble Disprin.’ He smiled. ‘Strictly for human consumption.’

  Rory waved them off and left Franny finishing off the yard.

  He wanted to crawl straight into bed, but he managed to shower and change in to clean clothes before heading through the walled garden to call on Hugo, who was charring some sausages in his honour. The familiar comforts of the huge, warm kitchen were lost without Tash at its helm. Like the rest of the house, it was a tip.

  ‘Silly and Verucca buggered off back to Czechoslovakia – sorry, the Czech Republic – last week,’ Hugo explained. ‘They seem to think that Tash has left me, so they decided to follow suit.’

  Rory crammed his mouth with sausages because he didn’t know quite what to say, and didn’t trust his tired head to say it without slurring too badly to be understood. His own experience of broken marriages was limited, largely based as it was upon his mother, who was a notorious bolter. But when Truffle had left a husband she’d always had another lined up. Tash had run away from Lough as well as Hugo. That had to bode well.

  ‘I’msureshe’llbebackshoon,’ he said encouragingly, but it came out so jumbled and sibilant that Hugo clearly didn’t take in a word. He just looked sad as he stared into his empty wine glass.

  On the table between them, Rory’s phone rang out with ‘Jessica’s Theme’ from The Man from Snowy River, a photograph of Faith on Whitey lighting up on its screen. Cheeks instantly streaking deep red like sunset clouds, he politely apologised. ‘I’ll ring her back.’

  ‘Take the call.’ Hugo stood up. ‘Trust me, you might not get another chance.’

  Head throbbing more intensely than ever, Rory grabbed his phone.

  ‘How are you?’ she demanded anxiously.

  ‘Great!’ he feigned gusto. Hugo was still well within earshot, opening another bottle of wine.

  ‘Really?’ she sounded doubtful.

  ‘Marvelloush!’

  ‘And Hugo?’

  ‘Edgy!’

  ‘I heard there was high drama earlier.’

  ‘All shorted!’

  ‘Are you honestly feeling okay? You sound odd.’

  ‘Not odd at all! Marvelloush!’

  ‘You’re with Hugo,’ she finally twigged.

  ‘Absholutrely!’ He stood up and headed into the rear lobby for some privacy, leaning against a wall because he was suddenly very light-headed.

  ‘And you’re shattered, aren’t you?’

  ‘Rather!’ His exclamations were losing some of their pizzazz.

  ‘Go to bed. You are recovering from a serious head injury. I repeat, a serious head injury.’

  ‘Understood!’

  ‘I’ll come and muck out your horses first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Not on your nelly! I repeat, not on your nelly!’ He hung up, feeling faint.

  Hugo found him squatting by the gun-room door, his head between his knees.

  He patted him on the shoulder. ‘Thank you for your company tonight. You need rest – go to bed. We’ll muck out your horses in the morning.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Rory was feeling too ill now to protest.

  Chapter 76

  In the heat-baked Loire Valley the sunflowers were turning their heads from east to west through the day without the shadow of a cloud crossing their faces. Alongside these slowly shifting yellow acres, the fields of solar panels followed their movement. It was a landscape of paradox, modernity living cheek by jowl with age-old customs: nuclear power stations loomed over fields of ancient vines tended by hand; modern metalled roads skirted magnificent old estates with fairytale châteaux luxuriating in their lush parkland.

  Le Manoir Champegny, nestled on the side of a hill overlooking the river just east of Saumur, was among the Loire’s prettiest country residences, a full-scale doll’s house with turreted towers built from creamy local tuffeau stone. Its broad, leafy flanks were patterned with shuttered casement windows fringed by scented climbers, and pretty circular dormers peeking from the grey slate roof. It was wildly romantic, with Juliet balconies and hidden courtyards, terraces on a multitude of levels shaded by vine-laden pergolas and vast, sculptural pots of topiary and fragrant shrubs. Beneath it lay a garden full of secret glades and paths, fruit orchards and a mosaic swimming pool that glittered like a big square sapphire tempting the house’s occupants to cool off. It was in this impossibly seductive, romantic setting that Hugo had first fallen for Tash with that fierce, proud passion that had now apparently burned itself out.

  She had wonderful memories of summers at Champegny: the entire family gathered around the pool, bickering and laughing and debating; the amazing feasts that seemed to last all night with gallons of wine from the manoir’s own little vineyard; the days on the river with picnics and dinghies; trips to watch the Cadre Noir and visit the museum of the horse in Saumur, to hear al fresco recitals in Tours, or wander around glorious châteaux.

  This trip had no such lustre of ripe grapes and sweet orchard fruit. Mildew had wrecked the harvest, rotten apples and sour grapes haunted her, and decay was running through the roots of her haven in the Garden of France.

  When she arrived in the blazing midday heat she didn’t immediately see the changes at Le Manoir, the way the garden had overgrown, the house had begun to crumble and corrode, the air of neglect and decrepitude. She was too wrapped up in her own agony, in the stress of driving two tots through France with tears continually welling up, pain in her heart and unspoken pleas to Hugo running through her head and across her lips. Arriving was her single goal, and she had achieved it. All looked comfortingly familiar at that moment, down to the chickens pecking in the courtyard and the spaniels surging in a skewbald stream from the house; she hadn’t thought beyond this arrival, apart from the reunion with her mother and the hug that she so desperately needed.

  Appearing at last in the doorway, Alexandra looked quite extraordinary in an orange and purple kaftan, her skin tanned deep walnut and her neat, shiny bob now pure white. She was slimmer than ever.

  ‘Caught dysentery in India. Great for the figure,’ she explained, rushing forward to embrace her daughter. ‘Tash, sweetheart, you feel like you’ve had a bout of it too – there’s nothing to you.’ She stooped to gather up her grandchildren. ‘My lovely Cora – and Amery! We meet at last. My goodness, you are so handsome! Just like your father.’

  Tash burst into tears.

  Striding out of the house behind his wife, Pascal had been about to bear down on his favourite stepdaughter with kisses and Gallic bonhomie, but faced with a vision of wailing heartache he abruptly diverted his welcome towards the children, whom Alexandra swiftly handed into his care. The ultimate double act, they communicated with just a brief exchange of nods so that Pascal swept the disoriented toddlers away with promises of chickens, geese and ponies to admire, while Alexandra ushered Tash into the house for a strong drink and more hugs.

  ‘What is it, my darling?’

  As the enormity of her messy marriage struck her afresh, Tash found she couldn’t even begin to explain. Instead, she hid behind cliché. ‘I’m just tired,’ she said lamely. ‘You’re even harder to pin down in France than you are when you were globe-trotting.’

&nbs
p; It had been a nightmarish journey, with the car breaking down just outside Caen, forcing her to book into a hotel for two nights while the mechanic ordered parts. There, she found she’d left her BlackBerry at home with her address book stored on it and so couldn’t ring around her mother’s many numbers to find out whether they had arrived back in France and if so where they were, and her calls to Hugo seemed destined to be answered by a machine. When she’d finally got hold of somebody in Pascal’s office who knew the d’Eblouirs’ whereabouts, she was told that they were in Paris, Marsailles and the Loire, which hardly helped.

  ‘Polly wanted to stay on in Paris after we landed, but I was desperate to see this place again,’ Alexandra explained, hugging her again. ‘Darling Pascal had to fly down to the coast to see his mother – she’s almost a hundred now, you know. But he’s back now and you found us, so we must celebrate being together.’ Alexandra filled two small sherry glasses with clear liquid from an unmarked brown bottle. ‘Jean’s eau de vie. You remember him?’

  Tash nodded; nobody could forget Le Manoir’s ancient retainer, now widowed and living in the village with his large family, most of whom still worked for the d’Eblouirs. The drink was pure fire, but at least it scorched some much-needed colour into her cheeks and warmed her belly.

  They settled in the Blue Room at the back of the house, which years ago Tash had helped decorate as an impoverished art school student, with little trompe l’oeil streaks of cirrus crossing the cerulean plaster ceilings. Now she had no such blue-sky thinking she wanted to grab a stepladder to add thunderclouds and the odd flash of lightning.

  ‘Will Hugo be joining us this week?’ Alexandra settled beside her as she gazed into space.

  Tash said nothing, listening to the spaniels snuffling around underfoot and the lone cockerel patrolling on the highest terrace crowing outside the windows. Pascal had taken the children into the garden below now and little chatters and giggles indicated an entente cordiale. Hearing them, she started to cry again.

  ‘Oh sweetheart.’ Alexandra drew her daughter’s head beneath her chin and stroked her hair. ‘I shouldn’t have gone away so long. I might have guessed you’d get in a terrible pickle.’