‘Not yet, no. Not exactly, but … You see, sometimes when he kisses me I feel I want … really want it and not just because he does. Then I think of that horse and so on and whether it will hurt a lot and … Oh, I’m such a coward.’
I started assuring her that no, she wasn’t, but Midge cut in. ‘What would happen if you did and got enceinte?’ (Even advanced women still put ‘pregnancy’ in French.)
‘I asked that. Alan says there are … ways.’
Which just showed how far the discussion with Alan had gone. We talked about it for a bit longer and came to no conclusion, beyond that it was a very serious step for a woman and that Imogen should think carefully before doing anything and she said she was thinking, of course she was. Only I remembered certain evenings in Alpine meadows and what undoubtedly would have happened if his father hadn’t taken him away, and knew that there were limits on what thinking could do to help you. So I went to sleep, because next morning the Old Man had ordered us all to be up early for the ride.
* * *
We assembled in the stable yard soon after it was light, around five o’clock. The aim was to do a fair part of the ride before the sun got too hot, then find somewhere in the shade to rest and water the horses and finish the journey to the sea in the evening. The horses we’d be using had been kept in overnight and were looking out of their loose boxes. There were saddles ready on the loose-box doors, bridles on hooks beside them. Robin was doing most of the work. When he saw me he grinned, happy as a schoolboy on holiday. I tried not to imagine him helping to carry Mawbray’s dead son as easily as he was carrying hay bales and water buckets. For these two days, I was going to enjoy myself and try to forget about it. The horse I’d been allocated was a palomino mare named Sheba. When I went into her box to tack her up she turned to me confidingly and nudged her nose against the green lapels of my jacket. It was a while since I’d had anything to do with horses, but Sheba was cooperative and by the time the Old Man called from the stable yard to come out and mount up we were ready. It was the first chance I’d had to see my companions on horseback. Nathan was hauling himself on to the back of the good old cob, Bobbin, not very expertly with a lot of laughter from Midge who’d come out to see us off. Meredith was already mounted on an Arab mare about a hand taller than mine and looked more at home than I expected. Next to him, Alan was adjusting the girth of a useful-looking dark bay gelding I’d seen in the paddock with the mares, not pure-bred Arab. Imogen was standing beside him, their heads close together. Robin led another bay gelding out of a box. This one looked a handful, raw-boned, around sixteen hands high and probably young. It tried to bite him when he tightened the girth and whirled round and round when he put his foot in the stirrup, but he said something to it that calmed it enough to let him swing himself up with the easy grace of a man who spent more time with horses than human beings.
The Old Man had disappeared for a while, but as soon as Robin was settled in the saddle he came riding back into the yard on Sid, or Seawave Supreme to give him the title he deserved from the way he looked that morning. The Old Man was hatless, his hair and beard gleaming silver in the sun as bright as the stallion’s mane and he had the air of a patriarch come to lead his people. He looked all round at us and if I hadn’t guessed he was short sighted I’d have been sure he was checking every strap, buckle and curb chain. He nodded at Kit, who was standing by the wall of the yard with Dulcie and Midge on either side of him.
‘Look after them well, now. Don’t stand for any nonsense.’
Alan had got himself into the saddle by then, none too expertly, so it was just as well the Old Man wasn’t looking. Imogen had a hand on the horse’s neck and as Alan adjusted the reins he took her hand, leaned down and dropped a quick kiss on the back of it. She bent her head and the back of her neck blushed pink. I don’t know what made me look towards Kit at that point. Perhaps the sheer intensity of the way he was staring at them both was a kind of magnet. His head was up, his whole body tense and his anger seemed to sear the air like a lightning flash. I don’t know if anybody else saw it – certainly not Alan and Imogen because they were too absorbed in each other. Here was yet another complication to our philosophical summer. It seemed clear from that look that Alan and Kit’s long-standing friendship might not survive the choice she’d made. I thought that if she’d chosen Kit, the brilliant one, Alan might have accepted it more easily. But Kit wasn’t used to taking second place to his friend and hurt pride was part of his loss. Still, I didn’t have long to worry about it because the Old Man raised his riding whip as a signal and we were away, in no particular order down the lane to the mares’ paddock, where Robin opened and closed the gate for us without needing to dismount, though his big bay was still trying to spin round.
We went at a walk alongside the river, with the loose horses leaving their grazing to crowd beside us. This early, there was still a wide band of mist marking the line of the little river. The only sounds were the water, the horses’ hooves swishing through the long damp grass and the clink of bits and curb chains. We passed the bathing place and came to a narrow gate at the bottom of the paddock. Here we had to wait, while the Old Man and Robin chivvied the loose horses away. Once that was done, Robin held the gate open while we filed through. I happened to be next to the Old Man and noticed that he was looking back uphill to the house, with a closed-in look on his normally expressive face, as if thinking hard about something. Then he saw me looking at him and grinned.
‘You happy with Sheba, then?’
‘Very. She’s beautiful.’
‘Let her have her way when it doesn’t matter and insist on having your way when it does, then you’ll get on fine – like any woman.’
I didn’t try to answer that. The river turned a bend, round the bottom of a wooded slope. I was pretty sure that we were off the Old Man’s land now and on to Major Mawbray’s. Just as we rounded the bend, Sheba gave a little shy at something up in the wood. I glanced there, expecting to see a squirrel or pigeon and did my own equivalent of a shy. There was a man standing there, watching us. He was no more than a few yards away from us on the other side of the stream, but so nearly hidden in the leaves and so still that even the other horses had gone by without noticing. He was wearing a tweed suit and brown felt hat but was unmistakably the same man I’d seen two days before on the magistrates’ bench, Major Mawbray. Just for a moment his eyes met mine and the enmity in them was so stark that I almost cried out. Sheba, catching the alarm, surged forward and our eye contact was broken. When I looked back there was no sign of the man, just leaves. I decided to say nothing to the others. I wondered how he knew we’d be passing that way or whether he was out there early every morning. Was he looking for his son or looking for the man who’d killed his son? It was some time later, not until we’d had our first canter and the sun was high, before I got the chill feeling out of my spine.
* * *
After that, we had the ride of a lifetime. The Old Man was grandly unconscious of the laws of trespass and seemed to take it for granted that we could ride where we wanted as long as we didn’t trample crops or scare cattle. Nobody seemed to resent it. Once we were a few miles clear of Studholme Hall people working in fields waved to us and children on the outskirts of villages ran to see the horses, not to yell insults. I hadn’t realised until then how the feeling of being besieged and at odds with our neighbours had grown on us in such a short time, and being clear of it and back in the normal world made the air smell even sweeter. We followed the river down for a while then struck westwards and crossed the railway line. The Old Man halted Sid between the rails and stood guard until we were all across, as if his presence would be enough to stop a coal train in its tracks. Then we took a long loop to the north to avoid Aspatria and its coalmines.
The land flattened out as we got nearer the coast and there were long stretches where we could gallop, the horses surging along in a herd with manes flying, racing each other. Robin’s big bay was usually in the lead at the
end, with competitive little Sid not far behind. Alan’s gelding hated being passed by the two smaller mares that Meredith and I were riding, but had to put up with it. On one of these occasions Meredith looked at me as we passed Alan on either side, so closely that our stirrup irons almost clashed, and gave me a smile of sheer triumph and devilment – most unphilosophic. Invariably Nathan and Bobbin ran way at the back of the field, still plodding at their lumbering canter with Nathan bouncing around in the saddle long after the rest of us had stopped for breath. It didn’t bother Nathan at all. Best fun in a long time, he said. Sheba was by far the best horse I’d ever ridden, so responsive that it seemed I only had to think something and she’d do it. Like most Arabs her stamina was amazing. Minutes after a long gallop she’d be raising her head and sniffing the air for the next challenge. My rational dress turned out to be just as suitable for riding as for bicycling and the balance and freedom of sitting astride convinced me that side-saddles were an invention of men for making sure that women couldn’t outride them.
At midday, with the sun hot and the horses and ourselves bothered by clouds of flies, we stopped by a little stream in a grove of willows and alders. We watered the horses then untacked them and let them roll in the grass while we settled on the bank under the trees. I hadn’t thought to bring food and didn’t know whether anybody else had, but anyway it was too hot for eating. After the early start most of us dozed or, more probably, slipped into that happy state where you’re too near sleep to speak or move but just conscious enough to enjoy it. At one point I roused myself enough to worry that the horses might be wandering off but when I opened my eyes there was the Old Man, sitting upright with his arms round his knees, watching over them and us. I thought, ‘Well, if you did kill him I hope he deserved it’, and let myself drift back to the state where nothing mattered but the murmur of the stream and the willow leaves shifting in a private little breeze that seemed to operate only for them, nowhere else. Or perhaps one other thing mattered – the consciousness of Meredith lying on the bank a few yards away from me, not doing anything, not saying anything, just there.
In mid afternoon, when the sun had shifted westwards and was shining into our grove of trees we drank from the stream, saddled up the horses and went on our way. This second part of the ride was slower. The drowsiness of the midday halt was still clinging to us and the horses, and the temperature must have been well up in the seventies. It was freshened though by the consciousness of the sea being near, though we couldn’t see it yet. There was a salt whiff to the air, the occasional gull flying overhead. The land under our hooves changed from the long grass of cattle pastures to cushiony turf with sheep grazing and thickets of golden-flowered gorse instead of trees. In the early evening we came to a line of low sandhills and beyond them the sea, calm and blue as the Mediterranean. We sat in our saddles and watched the white sails of yachts and the cargo steamers going in and out from Maryport to the south and Silloth to the north. Between us and the sea there was nothing but a long sandy beach broken by patches of shingle and small rocks. A small stream, probably the same one we’d dozed by earlier, ran between the sandhills and spread over the beach in a miniature delta of runnels in the sand and tumbled pebbles.
‘Tide’s just turned,’ the Old Man said. ‘Be in and out again by morning.’
He seemed pleased with himself. We’d gathered on the way that the plan was to sleep in the sandhills then get up at first light for a gallop along the beach before turning for home. This evening we simply walked the horses down to the sea, to cool their feet and legs in the waves that were breaking as slowly as a big animal breathing, with hardly any foam. Afterwards we tethered them to graze just behind the sandhills near the stream, so that nobody would have to stay up all night to watch them. Robin and the Old Man produced bread and hard cheese from their saddlebags and shared them out, a few mouthfuls for everybody, washed down with water from the stream. Later we rolled ourselves in our blankets and slept in a hollow between the sandhills. The moon was full in a clear sky, turning the sea and sandhills black and silver. I lay awake listening to the sea and looking up at the moon, feeling some of the tension slipping away.
* * *
It was light at four. The Old Man was up before any of us. I saw him with the horses, standing beside Sid. He wasn’t stroking him or talking to him, just standing there. The rest of us came awake slowly, stiff-limbed and heavy eyed because you never sleep as deeply outside as under a roof, unless you’re used to it. Robin helped us sort out the tack. I knelt to drink from the stream, splashed water over my face and went to find Sheba with her head up and nostrils flared, sensing excitement. Most of the horses had come down to gallop on the beach before and knew what to expect. Only Bobbin, solid as a wagon, seemed unaffected and went on cropping grass. I felt a flutter of nervousness as I adjusted the tack. As far as I could see there was nothing to stop us between there and the Solway Firth and the pace was likely to be wild. Also, from what I’d seen the evening before, the beach needed more caution than it was likely to get with all of us going full tilt. Avoiding the rocky patches wasn’t going to be easy. Still, the Old Man and Robin knew what they were doing and if I stuck close to them, all should be well. The Old Man was mounted before the rest of us and waited at the top of a sandhill looking out to sea. When we joined him he turned and smiled.
‘Are we ready, then?’
There was a little edge to the smile and his voice. Perhaps even he was nervous too. Without waiting for an answer he pressed his leg lightly against Sid’s silver flank, cantered down the sandhill and on to the beach.
We followed in an untidy bunch, backing into each other, hooves sliding on the sand. Once we were on the beach Sheba went off like a stone from a catapult, so fast that I could hardly think or even see beyond a blur and all my efforts were concentrated on staying in the saddle. When things cleared a little I saw Robin and his big bay ahead of me to the right, on the landward side, and the silver streak that was Sid further ahead, closer to the sea. Given the bay’s wildness I decided that following the Old Man was the safer option and nudged Sheba over a little with my right leg. From the sound of several sets of hooves thudding along behind me, I guessed others had made the same decision. We galloped along, getting faster if anything, and with Sheba’s smooth pace it felt like being suspended between sea and sky. The only worry was that we must hit a rocky patch soon and I wondered how we’d slow down. Then I saw the Old Man signalling with his right arm. He seemed to be telling us to bear right, back towards the shore. Sheba turned as soon as I thought it and the others followed. I glanced left, expecting to see the Old Man turning too but he was going straight ahead. Then suddenly, as I looked, he wasn’t there. Only sea and sky and the silver stallion checking for a moment then turning, still at the gallop, in a long curve to join the rest of us, riderless. Robin must have seen it as soon as I did because he’d pulled the big bay round and was cantering towards where the Old Man had disappeared but I was nearer. Somehow I managed to pull Sheba up and turned her in the same direction. There was another rider beside me. Meredith.
‘Has he fallen?’
I didn’t say anything. We came back from a canter to a walk because the beach was dangerous now, first scattered pebbles, then larger stones and small rocks covered in green weed – just the place anybody with sense would avoid. We found the Old Man sitting on a rock. There was a gash on his forehead and tears running down his face. He looked at me.
‘I’ve made a mess of it, haven’t I?’ he said. Then, ‘Is Sid all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew he would be. Sure-footed you see. Bred for it.’
Meredith was off his horse by then. He went up to the Old Man and offered him a clean handkerchief to put to his forehead. The Old Man waved it away angrily and tried to get up.
‘Just sit there for a moment, sir. You’ll be—’
But the Old Man ignored him and got to his feet, rather shakily and unmistakably furious. Meredith took hol
d of his arm and I slid off Sheba and tried to support him on the other side, but he pulled away from us.
‘For Christ’s sake don’t make such a fuss about it. And don’t tread on your bloody reins.’
By this time Robin had arrived and dismounted too. He got the same reception and the three of us walked back to where Alan and Nathan were waiting with the Old Man striding ahead of us. Alan had hold of Sid’s reins. The Old Man ran his hand over Sid’s legs, then snatched the reins and swung himself into the saddle. Then, without a word, he rode off the beach and through the sandhills, not watching to see if we were following.
* * *
The ride home through the stifling day seemed endless. At one point, on a wide path through some woodland, Meredith came to ride beside me.
‘A nasty fall for an old man.’
‘It wasn’t a fall,’ I said. ‘He deliberately threw himself off.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘As I’m sure of anything. He wanted to kill himself.’
‘I wondered. But I thought he wouldn’t risk the horse.’
‘He said Sid’s sure-footed. The idea was to ride him as close up to the rocks as he could get then throw himself off and break his neck. Only his neck turned out to be tougher than he thought.’
‘Poor man.’
‘Yes. He thinks they’ll either hang him or put him in a lunatic asylum. He’d decided to go the way he wanted, off a horse galloping by the sea. Only it didn’t work.’
Chapter Ten
WE GOT BACK IN THE MIDDLE OF THE AFTERNOON. Imogen ran to Alan before he’d dismounted. Kit caught his eye and raised a hand in what might have been a welcome back to his friend, but not a very warm one. Midge jokingly helped Nathan down from the saddle and perhaps he needed the help more than in joke, because the ride had been a hard one for him. Dulcie stood at a little distance with a smudge of flour on her nose, smiling at everybody, seeming glad to have us back. There were the usual inquiries about whether we’d had a good time and we said yes – except for the Old Man who said nothing. As soon as we got into the stable yard he’d dismounted without speaking or looking at anybody, unsaddled Sid and led him to drink from the stone trough. It was only when he was leading Sid past the rest of us to take him back to the paddock that anybody noticed the gash on his forehead.
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