As I headed up to the horse yards I reckoned it was just as well I’d followed an impulse born of pure fear and only pretended to take my pill. When I wiped my mouth after I drank, I just popped the pill out into my hand. I’d never had to do anything like that before and I almost swallowed my heart I was so afraid Stacey would notice. If she caught me I doubted she’d be impressed. She might phone Dad. If Dad knew I’d fallen off or—even worse—that my hands were sore enough to cause the fall in the first place, I’d be back home before you could recite an Introductory dressage test. But I was stiffening up already and without the insurance of an extra pill I doubted I’d be fit to ride the next day.
I had my dressage session in the morning and I really had to be fully operational to show Petra Hein what Jinx was capable of. He could be difficult at the best of times and lately the good times had been pretty scarce. If we were going to crack it at Novice level, he had to be round and soft and thoroughly on the bit, able to collect or really cover ground as required. The guidelines for Novice competition level might not be that advanced, but in reality that was what you had to do if you wanted to be competitive. Jinx thought all my signals meant ‘go faster’ and I’d been struggling physically with this latest arthritis flare, so our riding sessions usually ended with me teary and sweaty and Jinx in a bit of a lather.
I waited until I was almost back to the horse yards before I slid my thumb—least swollen of all my digits—into the pocket of my jodhpurs and pushed the pill deeper in to make sure it stayed safe.
I was always careful with pain meds and I usually only took one when it got so bad I couldn’t stand not to. I’d had the dangers of medication abuse drummed into me over and over—how if I relied on them too much now, when my joints deteriorated further I’d have a high tolerance and the drugs wouldn’t work. That was a really scary thought; things could get pretty bad now. And lately, my good times, when I felt almost normal, had been scarce. I’d had one flare after another. They were still saying I might grow out of it, but I was having trouble believing it these days. It felt like time was getting away on me.
The chance to ride with Petra Hein had never happened before and might never happen again. I had to be fit to ride. If my hands were puffed-up crab-claws in the morning I may as well not even bother rolling out of my swag. That extra pill was insurance against that happening.
I turned up the alley between the pony yards, heading towards the back where the bigger horse yards ran parallel to the road beneath the shelter of a belt of gigantic old oaks and plane trees. I wanted to dump my helmet, currently slung carefully over my forearm, and get Jinx’s halter before I went looking for him. But as I stepped out of the alley into the sun-speckled shade, what I saw startled me so much I missed my next step. Slowing down long enough to avoid a stumble—I didn’t think my rattled bones would appreciate another crash—I went to where Jinx was standing calmly in his yard, pulling at a bulging hay net.
His reddish brown coat gleamed with brush strokes, black forelock hanging sleek and straight as he turned his head in recognition. His yard was immaculate: water bucket brim-full, halter and lead coiled neatly on the gatepost. Even the brushes and other bits and pieces I’d left strewn around when I got him ready that morning had been picked up, probably packed into the grooming kit that rested on top of Jinx’s neatly folded rug outside his yard. No sign of his saddle or bridle, but I guessed those would be just as neatly put away in the float Dad had parked in line with all the others, about twenty metres away along the back fence of the grounds.
William. It had to have been.
I looked at Jinx, who gazed back at me briefly from his large, honey-flecked dark brown eyes before swinging his long, elegant head away to tend to the much more important business of scoffing his lucerne hay.
Sliding the helmet strap down over my arm, I tucked my wrist to make sure it didn’t bump into my fingers as I dumped it on Jinx’s folded rug. Then I carefully climbed in through the rails and went to my horse, making a slow circle around him, peering at his glossy black legs for any bumps or cuts or swellings. Once I was sure he’d survived his little adventure unscathed, I wrapped my arms around his neck, wrists cocked to keep my hands safe, so I could bury my nose in his mane. He bumped my side gently with his muzzle and went back to munching.
I inhaled, strands of his mane tickling my face, sucking in his unique Jinx smell, which was distinctive from the surrounding scents of horse manure and pee, lucerne and canvas and leather. All good smells—familiar and comforting. I didn’t know exactly how to feel, finding Jinx in his yard. I knew I should be grateful and of course I was, not just to find him safe, but so well looked after. I’d been dreading the thought of getting all his gear off and brushing him down properly with the way my body was aching. But now I felt sort of deflated. Cheated, even. Usually nobody could catch Jinx but me.
I was fully aware of how ridiculous I was being, but that didn’t change anything.
Leaning into Jinx, absorbing his warmth and his smell and his solid sense of himself through the bare skin of my arms, I felt like I was reconnecting with him. Reclaiming him.
William did strange things to my insides. Part of me was thrilled that he’d bothered to unsaddle Jinx and take care of him. The crazy fantasy that he could possibly be interested in me was trying to creep into my brain, doing my head in. But I’d get over that. I just had to look at my twisted hands to get a reality check. Guys like William went for girls like Sally. Pretty girls with straight fingers. Girls a guy could hold hands with.
But Jinx didn’t care about my hands. If anything, he probably loved the fact that sometimes I didn’t have much in my hands but a fiery weakness. I doubt he minded when I couldn’t hold him, judging by the way he made the most of those opportunities to get away with going faster. Not that I’d admit it, even to my friends, now that I was getting a bit old for that kind of thing, but it was Jinx I loved most in the world. And I wanted the world for him. I wanted the world to know how wonderful he was, like I did.
So far, the world seemed to see him as a moderately talented thoroughbred who was too hot and too ordinary (aka not an expensive, flavour-of-the-moment warmblood breed) to make a top dressage horse. But I knew better. I knew what he was capable of, what he’d sometimes produced during riding lessons or at home. We were getting there, getting better all the time. I just needed more time.
But time is definitely not on my side. Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis, or JRA as it’s usually known, is a degenerative condition. Eventually my joints will get so bad I won’t be able to ride. There is a chance I might eventually go into remission (JRA is something you can literally grow out of) but I have the polyarticular kind of JRA and the chances aren’t good, even though the doctors never want to admit that. Still, I’m lucky I don’t get all the other crap that can come with it, like random fevers and crushing fatigue.
My parents get that I’m chasing a dream, but we’re talking real parents here, not fantasy land. There are conditions attached to my riding and we’re all pretty clear on the consequences. During flares (like I was having right now) I’m supposed to skip it, leave Jinx getting fat in the paddock and stick to swimming, which is non-weight bearing and helps keep me active and flexible, blah blah blah. High impact or strenuous sports are a no-no when my joints are actively inflamed and riding ticks both those boxes. If Dad knew I was riding at camp during a flare I’d be in deep trouble and Mum would start nagging again about me spending more time with her in the city.
Mum thinks I’d rather be with Jinx than with her. I deny it, but there’s enough truth in it to make me all hot and guilty. Jinx has never bailed out on me. It makes no difference to him that I’ve got a crappy disease. If Mum got me to the city I’d be lucky if I saw Jinx for the next month, let alone managed to ride him. I could hardly train him for the upcoming dressage competitions and forget selection for an elite squad. If anyone found out how bad my hands had been lately, that I fell off because I couldn’t hold Jinx not bec
ause I misjudged the jump, then my riding was over for the rest of the year at least. Maybe forever.
“Melissa, bloody hell, are you OK?”
I lifted my face out of Jinx’s mane and turned around to see my two best friends. They were coming across the trampled grass to lean on the top rail of Jinx’s yard—the scuffing sound of their boots on the hard ground had been blotted out by Jinx’s grinding teeth. He flicked his ears at their presence, but didn’t bother to remove his nose from his hay net. They were no threat to him or his hay, but he kept one ear cocked towards them, just in case they had any sneaky hay-stealing ideas.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m good.”
Tash, with her strawberry blonde ponytail spilling over her shoulder like a golden waterfall, delivered a sceptical glance from sea green eyes. I sighed and gave Jinx’s neck a final squeeze with my forearms before reluctantly removing myself. I squashed a surge of unworthy gloom at Tash’s knock-you-dead beauty and glanced at Eleni, smaller, darker and rounder, but almost as pretty, hanging over the rail beside our super-model mutual friend. She was giving me a hopeful look from her big brown eyes, as though she was willing to believe me, but couldn’t quite get there either.
“Guys, I’m fine. I fell off, whatever. We all fall off.”
“We haven’t all got joints like you,” Tash retorted. Blunt as well as beautiful, that’s Tash. I looked again from one to the other, almost giggly with relief that I had friends like them who accept both my condition and my need to not talk about it.
They even accept my obsession with proving myself and Jinx, though I know they don’t really get it. They don’t think it’s normal to be more interested in reading dressage magazines than Cleo or Girlfriend. Sometimes all the eye-rolling gets annoying, like they don’t trust me to know what’s best for me, but today was not one of those times.
“I thought you might need help with Jinx,” Tash offered. She looked past my shoulder and frowned. When she looked back at me her face cleared. “Guess you must really be OK if you’ve already got him sorted.”
I opened my mouth, then hesitated. The advantages of not pointing out that I hadn’t in fact put Jinx away myself were obvious. Tash could be relentless once she had the bit in her teeth and I’d have a hard time convincing her I was fine if she made up her mind I wasn’t. With a mental apology for depriving William of the humungous points he would have scored in the eyes of my friends for looking after my horse, I shut my mouth, dredged up a smile and tried not to look guilty.
“So what happened? Susanna Trapper said Jinx bolted and you fell off,” Eleni said.
“Bolted! Susanna’s such a drama queen,” I said indignantly and hid a wince as an echo of my headache rattled through my skull. I thought longingly of a hot bath and some paracetamol, but one, there weren’t any hot tubs conveniently supplied at camp and two, I was going to have to tough it out if I wanted to have the good stuff if I needed it tomorrow.
“He didn’t take off,” I said carefully. “I let him come in a bit too quick and just stuffed it up.”
“Typical. Bloody dressage riders, amateurs the lot of you,” Tash replied.
“Yeah, right, Miss Showjumper. I hear you didn’t exactly cover yourself in glory on the cross country course yesterday morning,” I said, a grin creeping onto my face.
Tash shrugged and smiled, swinging away from the railing. “Nah, I leave that up to Eleni. She’s our eventing expert.”
Eleni scowled. She can never take a compliment. It’s like she’s embarrassed to be so good at three-day eventing. She works so hard and she’s so talented, it’s a shame that any praise just makes her squirm. If you compliment her horse, though, she glows. I get that; love me, love my horse.
“If you did more dressage, Tash, your horse would jump a lot better,” Eleni said. We shared a conspirator’s grin, while Tash just predictably rolled her eyes.
“Dressage is for pansies and eventers, no offence. We showjumpers are free spirits, you can’t contain us behind little white fences.”
“No, it’s over, under or crash right through for you lot,” Eleni said.
I’d just ducked down to begin my careful hand-protecting wriggle through the rails and had to stop for a minute while I finished laughing. I wish I could think of smart things to say as quickly as Eleni does. I never think of anything till hours later, if ever.
“There’s nothing small about the fences I jump over,” Tash declared. She reached out a long arm, curling her fingers around my bicep to steady me as I slid cautiously between the rails.
“Touché,” Eleni acknowledged. She stepped up and wrapped a hand around my other arm as I emerged from Jinx’s yard. As soon as I was upright they let go. They know just how much help to offer; just how much I can accept without feeling stupid. Again, gratitude rolled over me, making my chest tighten. I blinked, ambushed by the emotional rush and determined not to get soppy. If I got teary my well-meaning friends would have me back at the St John’s Ambulance before you could say JRA to have me checked for a brain injury.
“Come on then, let’s go. I’m starving,” Tash said, jerking her head in the direction of the lunch tent.
As I fell into step between them on our way to eat and they started arguing about the merits of dressage for jumping horses— “the German showjumping team does dressage and they’ve won a gazillion gold medals” from Eleni, countered by a darkly muttered “not lately” from Tash—my headache returned with a vengeance, pounding behind my eyes. I flexed my fingers experimentally, just reassuring myself.
Whenever it was this bad, when my joints grew hot and sluggish, I was always afraid. What if this time the pain didn’t ever let go?
Chapter 3
It was lucky I’d pocketed that pill. It had been an impulse at the time, a tiny white circle of insurance because I was feeling pretty sore and I knew from experience that if I’m hurting right after a fall it’s going to be 10 times worse the next day. When I edged my aching body out of bed the following morning, with more of those pain-bombs going off in my bones and joints, I didn’t muck about. I downed the pill with the contents of the water bottle I always keep beside my bed. Then I slowly gathered my shower things and shuffled out to apply hot water to the outside of my body while the drugs got to work on the inside.
By the time Stacey appeared with her trusty little bum-bag, I’d loosened up enough to pass her inspection. But I was still bad enough for her to offer me another pill. I repeated my magician’s trick, knowing I was going to be in a state by the end of the morning’s dressage session and afraid I would be too sore to get any sleep that night. The pill I could ask for the following morning wasn’t going to be much help to me during a long and potentially miserable night of aching joints.
As I wiped my mouth, Stacey frowned, her eyes following my hand. I froze, a horrible moment of fear clamping my guts when I thought she’d busted me. I didn’t have to take risks like this at home. I kept a few extra pills hidden in a bottle out in the tack room for emergencies. But she didn’t accuse me of anything, just told me to take it easy and not to hesitate to come see her if I had any pain.
“Don’t ride if you feel dizzy or weak,” she’d cautioned me and I had promised not to. I went out to saddle Jinx, feeling a little wobbly in the legs (and a lot guilty) at the risk I’d taken. Never again. I wasn’t cut out for this sneaky pill-palming stuff.
Now sweat slid down my face in sticky trails and the muscles in the front of my thighs quivered as I circled Petra Hein in sitting trot. The beautiful morning had continued to heat up, shooting past fine and tipping over into scorcher about half an hour ago. We were all getting tired and were all way past hot as the dressage session drew to a close. Then Petra had started pulling us in for individual work.
Jinx strode out, back swinging rhythmically beneath me, and I forced myself to keep breathing regularly, striving for a sort of attentive relaxation that allowed my body to move with his, ready to act but never hindering his movement.
“Y
es, Melissa, good, good. Now ask for a bit more,” Petra called out and my stomach clenched. I didn’t think I had any more in me. I’m pretty fit thanks to all the lap swimming I do as part of my joint mobilisation program, though it doesn’t help that much for riding. But when an instructor asks, you try. And I wanted this, didn’t I? I wanted to impress Petra with how talented Jinx was so she’d pick him—us—for the squad. I lifted my ribcage just a little bit and wrapped my legs around Jinx’s swinging sides, squeezing my legs against him with a pulsing motion in time with his strides. Being Jinx, he went faster.
“Yes, Melissa, now half-halt, block with the hands, sit tall and then release and drive him on.”
I did as she demanded, breath rasping my throat, simultaneously trying to keep track of the fifty other things you need to make your body do when you’re actively trying to shape your horse underneath you. I closed my fingers on the reins—barely an ache there, yay for the painkillers—and squeezed my upper arms against my sides, giving Jinx a ‘stop’ message through the reins, feeling for the hesitation in his stride as he responded to the signal, and then opened my fingers a little to allow him to continue on, in theory with his speed checked, redirected into more impulsion, more ‘oomph’ in his stride.
I almost laughed out loud when it worked.
“Yes, yes, that’s it!” Petra yelled, her enthusiasm thickening her German accent and sending a flush of happiness through my body.
I felt Jinx’s back lift me up, as he rounded himself, his weight transferring a little to his hindquarters as he thrust himself forward and up from the ground with more energy. It was amazing.
“Wonderful Melissa, yes, good! Now back to walk, when you’re ready, and give him a stretch and a pat.”
Oh, I was ready. For all the magnificence of that moment on Jinx, I could sense how fragile it was, how close I was in my exhaustion to losing it, and I gratefully let my weight sink into the saddle, stretched down into my knees and closed my fingers on the reins. Jinx made an unbelievably smooth down transition into walk, soft and willing in my hands, sweetly on the bit and going forward into a rhythmic, swinging walk. I fed the reins through my fingers, offering him more freedom, and he took it happily, following the contact with my hands and stretching his neck, just like he was supposed to.
Riding on Air Page 2