‘Oh… what’s the matter with him? Is he all right?’
‘He is a she and, if the damned vet doesn’t get here soon, she will be no more…’
‘The poor thing. What on earth is wrong with her?’ I asked as the grunting started anew.
Rafe Ahern gave me such a withering look, I actually felt myself wither. ‘What the hell do you think is wrong with her? Her waters broke half an hour ago but she can’t get the foal out.’ He glanced at his watch once more. ‘Vet should have been here an hour ago.’
‘Shouldn’t she be in a nice warm stable somewhere?’ I asked, rubbing my eyes and feeling a scratchy tickle start at the back of my throat ‘You know, if you knew she was about to give birth why did you leave her out in the field?’
‘Well, yes of course, if I’d known she was going to go into labour three weeks early, I’d have brought her in. Luckily, a couple of walkers spotted her and called in on Ted Jarvis who rang me.’
I sneezed. ‘Ted Jarvis?’
‘Farmer. Puts his cows on my fields occasionally. Lives across the valley.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘Shit, I should have been at Manchester airport by now.’
‘Oh, anywhere nice?’ I asked, trying to be pleasant through my sniffing, sneezing and the surreptitious wiping of my nose on my sleeve. ‘I always like Greece at this time of year… you know, before it gets too hot? Or the South of France?’
‘Syria,’ he said shortly and then turned from Twiggy to look at me properly for the first time that evening. ‘Have you got a cold? Do you need a hanky?’
‘Allergic to horses,’ I sniffed. ‘Anyway, I’d better be off…’
Rafe pulled a clean white handkerchief from his jeans’ back pocket. ‘Here, have a good blow on that, and then you’re going to have to help me.’
‘Help you? Me? God, I don’t know anything about horses, pregnant or otherwise.’ No way was I going to tell this bossy boots I was actually frightened of the damned great brutes. Having said that, poor old Twiggy was so frightened herself she didn’t appear at all dangerous.
‘Normally, I wouldn’t interfere with a mare when she’s foaling—best to just stand back and let her get on with it, but she’s been straining for nearly two hours now…’
I had a sudden vision of Lucy in Midhope General, shouting and swearing as Mum and I tried to calm her, hold her hand, help any way we could as she struggled to push out Allegra.
‘Oh, hang on.’ Rafe suddenly got down on his knees right beside the mare. Under the horse’s tail, a whitish, glistening bubble about the size of a grapefruit had begun to protrude. ‘Her membranes are out.’
Twiggy lifted her head a couple of times trying see along her flank, but she appeared exhausted and soon sank back onto the ground. Rafe said nothing, but looked constantly at his watch.
‘Shit,’ he hissed again, hitting buttons on his mobile. ‘Graham, Rafe Ahern again. I need you here, right now, or this mare won’t survive.’
I looked at my own watch. Sophie would be wondering where the hell I was, especially after coming home to find Lucy standing in the kitchen earlier. While Rafe left his message, I hastily rang the home number.
‘Sophie, can you get Sam to stay with you a bit longer?’
‘What’s happened? Where are you? Are you all right? We were just considering ringing the police…’
‘No, no, I’m fine. Honest. I’m helping Rafe Ahern with a horse that’s gone into labour in one of the fields. I don’t know how long I’ll be, but don’t worry. Is Sam OK to stay with you?’
Rafe flung his mobile onto his jacket and went to the mare’s head, crooning and stroking her with such tenderness I couldn’t believe this was the same man who’d shouted at me for murdering his chicken, and at Izzy for parking in the lane. ‘Don’t know where he is,’ he muttered. ‘Probably in the pub in the village.’
‘Do you want me to run down? See if I can find him?’
‘No, there’s not the time.’ He moved back down to the mare’s rear end and looked at his watch once more. ‘You see, the foal itself isn’t visible. Dangerous, very dangerous if the foal can’t be seen in the membranes after ten minutes.’ Rafe stood up, paced a bit, fondled George’s ears absentmindedly a couple of times and then obviously made a decision.
‘Right, I need to get her up.’
‘Up? Are you sure? Isn’t it best to be lying down to give birth…?’
Back came the withering look. ‘You mean in a labour ward with clean white sheets and a nice bit of gas and air? Believe me, we need to get her up.’ Rafe moved over to the wall and picked up a halter. ‘OK, there’s obviously some obstruction. By getting her on her feet the foal will move back into the expanded uterus for a second and hopefully the obstruction might shift.’ He managed to get the halter over the mare’s head although she obviously wasn’t happy about it. ‘Right, pull on the halter and I’ll try to get her on her feet.’ Rafe took the riding crop he’d picked up with the halter and hit the mare hard on her behind shouting, ‘Up, up, up,’ as he did so.
‘Stop it,’ I shouted. ‘Stop it. What the hell are you doing? You can’t hit a poor pregnant woman like that.’
‘It’s a bloody horse, Clementine, not a woman,’ he said savagely and hit her again.
Enraged, Twiggy managed to get her forelegs off the damp grass before deciding she wasn’t up to it, settling back, grunting once again, on to her side.
Rafe hit her once again and this time she bared her huge yellow teeth at me. I jumped back in terror, letting go of the halter. ‘Grab the sodding halter,’ Rafe roared at me, hitting Twiggy once again with the crop. This time she managed to heave herself up onto all four feet and Rafe shouted, ‘Pull her, Clementine. Get her walking.’
He ran up to me, grabbed the halter from my hand and pulled, walking the mare as she stumbled but stayed upright. ‘Believe me, Clementine,’ he breathed as he pulled on the halter, ‘I hate doing this to her, but it’s either this or she’ll die, as will her foal.’
Twiggy suddenly dropped back down to her knees and, grunting, turned onto her side. Rafe moved down to her tail end. ‘Oh, shit. Still nothing. OK, let’s try again. You get her walking and then I’m going to have to help her.’ He cracked the whip on her flanks twice and bellowed in her ear as he did so. She got onto her feet once again, and as I pulled on the halter she stumbled unsteadily after me. Immediately, Rafe plunged one hand into the mare’s vulva, gently keeping it there as she slowly ambled after me.
‘Oh my God, I feel like I’m on the set of a James Who-is-it drama,’ I panted, desperately trying to keep the mare from falling back down.
‘Herriot,’ Rafe panted back at me. ‘James Herriot. Right, when she has a contraction next I’m going to apply some traction…’
Rafe didn’t say anything else, but I could hear his steady breathing and occasional muttered curses. The mare’s legs suddenly folded like an ironing board, and she went down.
‘Right, OK. Something’s happening here. I can see the foal now but its legs are stuck back, rather than protruding. I need a cloth.’ Rafe looked round and grabbed his jacket but, as it was made of a coarse thick material, threw it to the ground in a temper.
‘Give me your shirt,’ he shouted.
‘My shirt?’
‘Yes, your bloody shirt. Get it off and throw it over.’
Hastily, I let go of the halter and, as the mare’s head sank onto the ground, unbuttoned my white, now dirty, cotton shirt and threw it to Rafe. Quickly, but very carefully, he reached into the mare once again, wrapping the material round the foal’s hooves and gave a slight twist. ‘Needed to do that so the hooves wouldn’t cut her insides as I twisted… Right, OK, we appear to be in business.’
I moved down to Twiggy’s tail end, just as a pair of hooves, followed by legs and then a head, slithered wetly onto the grass. The mare raised her head and grunted and sighed as the rest of the foal followed.
‘Oh, a baby,’ I said, and was surprised to find I had tears running do
wn my cheeks. ‘A little baby. Get out the way, George,’ I added as I pushed the dog away and sneezed, trying to see the new foal in the dark. ‘Look, it’s a little boy.’
‘That,’ Rafe said, giving me another of his looks, ‘is part of the umbilical cord. As far as I can see, she’s a little filly.’ He was just about to say something else when a hearty voice called out from a distance. ‘Are you there, Rafe? Ahern?’
‘Over here,’ Rafe called. ‘About bloody time, too, Graham,’ he added as an old jeep bumped towards us down the field, its driver hanging out of the open window.
‘What have you been up to?’ Graham asked lasciviously as his eyes came to a halt on my breasts, covered only by a fairly scanty bra.
Rafe took his jacket and placed it around my shoulders. ‘Don’t want that pervert looking at your tits,’ he muttered.
‘Do you mind if I borrow this to walk home?’ I asked, suddenly feeling shy at standing semi-naked in front of the two men.
‘Just hang on ten minutes and I’ll walk down with you,’ Rafe said. ‘It’s dark across those fields. Right, Graham, seeing you’re the vet and I’m paying you, I’m going to leave both of them with you now.’
The vet was already unloading a huge arc light and medical equipment from his jeep. ‘You can certainly leave the one in the bra with me,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘I’ll check her over and give her a lift home…’
‘Just concentrate on my two girls, Graham,’ Rafe said mildly.
‘Well, from what I can see, you’ve done a pretty good job between you.’ The vet nodded towards the beautiful black foal that was already up on shaky legs looking for her mother’s teat. ‘If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, Rafe, assume you don’t need to put either of them in the stable; they’ll be fine out here.’
We walked almost in silence the half-mile across the fields towards home. ‘Why Twiggy?’ I asked. ‘Why call a horse Twiggy?’
‘That’s my mother for you. She was a model in the Sixties, and so every mare we’ve had has always been named for one of them. Over the years we’ve had Chrissie, Shrimp, Cheryl, Yasmin, Naomi, Linda etc. etc. My mother thinks it hugely funny to think of her competitors munching grass and being put out to stud. Twiggy is actually the second Twiggy we’ve owned. We thought she was past it—basically put her out to grass for her retirement.’ He laughed. ‘Never thought, when we let her out with Keith—yes, after Keith Richards—the pair of them would be up to no good. But then, that’s Keith Richards for you.’
‘Where are all these horses?’
‘Oh, the ones that are being trained are over in Ireland—my father’s side of the family have always kept racehorses. The four that are in the stables are basically my mother’s responsibility. She still likes to ride them.’
‘Right, we’re here. Thank you so much for walking me back…’
The events of the evening—Lucy’s unexpected turning up, my being well and truly put in my place by Mandy Henderson and then this last hour acting as midwife had me charged with a nervous energy and I knew I was a long way from being able to sleep. I turned to Rafe. ‘Would you like to come in? Have a coffee or something?’ I felt shy again, but suddenly didn’t want him to go.
‘Thank you. I could murder a beer.’ Rafe looked down at himself, at his filthy stained white T-shirt and then across at me. ‘Actually, I’m going to have to get off—I’m in desperate need of a shower.’ He smiled down at me. ‘As are you.’
‘You’re welcome to have one here,’ I heard myself saying. ‘I can stick your jeans on a quick wash and dry them while you have a shower and a beer…’
He hesitated. ‘I really don’t want to put you out. I’m sure you have enough on with this place…’
‘It really is no bother—and to be honest I could do with the company.’
‘Oh?’
‘Long story.’
I led Rafe into the kitchen where Sophie and Sam were making some sort of stir-fry.
‘Oh, I’m really glad you’re still here, Sam,’ I said. ‘Thanks very much for hanging on until I got back. This is Rafe Ahern, our neighbour. We’ve been acting as midwife to his horse up in one of the fields.’
‘I couldn’t leave Sophie alone here with the kids after your visitor earlier,’ Sam said, stirring the pan with a flourish.
Rafe raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
‘He’s here because he’s starving,’ Sophie snorted dismissively. ‘Honestly, you just can’t feed him enough. He’s already finished off what we had for supper.’ And then, turning to me said, ‘God, you look a mess, Clem. What’s wrong with your eyes? Have you been crying…? ‘Phew,’ she curled her nose in disgust. ‘What is that smell? Is it the dog?’
‘All of us, I’m afraid,’ Rafe said. ‘I think we’ve all picked up our fair share of cowshit…’
‘Right, come on,’ I said hastily, ‘let’s get showers going.’
*
After I’d shown Rafe where he could shower and handed him the huge navy bath towel in which to wrap himself afterwards, I looked in on the kids and then went to my own bathroom. Blimey O’Reilly, I looked a fright. Any makeup I’d been wearing earlier had long since gone as a result of my sobbing, sneezing and sniffing. My eyes were puffy and red, as was my nose, and my hands were filthy from hanging onto Twiggy’s halter.
I peeled off my filthy jeans, pants and bra, kicking them into the corner of the bathroom before stepping under the shower where I let the needles of scalding water and Jo Malone do their work. If only I could cleanse my mind of the fear brought about by Lucy’s visit as easily.
I washed my hair, scrubbed my filthy fingernails and, once out, rubbed Hermes’ Kelly Caleche—a last present from Peter before he died—into my skin in an effort to erase the smell of cowshit and sweating horse that still seemed to be in my nostrils. I pulled on a clean pair of jeans and sweater, scrunched my hair as best I could, applied a slick of lipstick and bronzer and went to find Rafe.
He was already in the laundry room, the navy towel wrapped around his waist, drinking from a bottle of Peroni that Sophie had found for him, obviously trying to work out how the washing machine worked.
‘I can stick all this lot on a quick wash,’ I said. ‘You’ll probably have to give them a second wash when you get home, but at least I can get them dry enough to actually get you home. Can I get you something to eat?’ I asked, suddenly embarrassed at my close proximity to this tall, powerfully built man whose lower body was covered only in a towel. His bare chest was tanned and smooth apart from one small mat of black hair and, while I could imagine Rafe Ahern having little patience for the demands and narcissism of the gym, his upper arms and torso were taut and well-muscled.
He frowned and looked at his watch. ‘I’m trying to work out the best way forward. I should have left the country for the Middle East by now. I think I’m probably going to have to drive down to London in the early hours of the morning rather than try and get another flight from Manchester…’
‘I could scramble you some eggs?’ I said. ‘If you’re going to spend several hours on the motorway after playing vet to Twiggy, you should eat.’
‘Thanks, I won’t say no to that. I’ll just go and make a couple of phone calls first.’ He took his mobile, wallet and keys from the jeans’ pockets and, taking a business card from the wallet, picked up his mobile, leaving the other things on the work surface. ‘Where’s the best place to get a signal?’
After I told him, I cracked and scrambled eggs, toasted a couple of slices from a loaf of granary bread I’d made that morning and found some smoked salmon I was using for a canapé do in a couple of days. I snipped chives, filled a cafetière with good strong coffee and made myself a huge mug of tea. Rafe was still on the phone, so I found cutlery and a napkin and then, leaving the plate of food to keep warm, went to gather his wallet and keys from the laundry room so that he wouldn’t forget them once his clothes were dry.
His wallet was open where he’d left it and, as I picked
it up with the keys, I couldn’t help but see the instantly recognisable, very beautiful face of JoJo Kennedy pouting up at me from the photo window of the wallet. And, for some very strange reason I couldn’t quite grasp, I felt a lurch of something in the pit of my stomach as I remembered this was Rafe Ahern’s girlfriend.
*
‘This is seriously good,’ Rafe smiled as he tucked into the eggs. ‘I’d never have thought to put chives in with scrambled eggs.’
‘I’m surprised you know what they are—Peter certainly never did.’ I smiled back, ridiculously pleased that not only was this usually irritable man wolfing down my food with obvious pleasure, but he knew something about herbs too.
‘I actually love cooking—when I get the time, which, at the moment is very rare.’ He paused and put down his knife and fork. ‘I’m sorry about Peter. It was very rude of me not to send my condolences; he was my neighbour after all. You must have had a tough time of it.’
‘Yes, but more so for his children. It’s been a particularly bad time for them, losing both their parents. I have to keep a constant eye on Max who seems outwardly OK, but is, I know, hiding a lot of his hurt inside still.’
‘And the daughter?’
I smiled. ‘A totally different story. Sophie, being a typical teenager, hated me from day one for daring to marry her father and then, after his death, I became her punchbag for all the anger and distress at losing her mum and dad as well as the usual teenage angst she was having to cope with.’
‘She seemed OK this evening?’
‘She is, she really is. I can’t tell you the change in her over the last few months. She’s actually a very bright girl and is loving being at the local sixth-form college rather than being away at school. Once she realised I was on her side and that we didn’t have to move out of here she started to come round a bit. And then she fell in love… which always helps. Sam is just brilliant.’
Rafe finished his plate of food. ‘And you have a little boy of your own too?’
‘A little girl, Allegra. She’s just six…’ My heart did a little flip as I spoke. Allegra wasn’t my little girl and Lucy was absolutely right; by deliberately keeping from Allegra the fact that I was her auntie and not her mother, I had actually stolen her.
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