The Silver Chain

by Primula Bond

Despite everything that has gone on between us, despite the fact that we’ve been alone together several times, done intimate things to each other, talked about intimate things, despite this unaccustomed breezy cheerfulness, I am suddenly rigid with shyness. It’s like a shell forming round that snail’s curl of doubt.

  The stark afternoon is lighting up the whites of his eyes, the sheering bone structure of his face accentuated by the weekend bandit’s beard.

  And the mouth. The usual grim lines are relaxed into a sensual fullness. Oh, he’s still so beautiful. And yet he won’t kiss me. I know that now, and worse than that I know why. He’s brought me to this beautiful setting, for this weekend away, but there is another presence here. How can I feel relaxed in the very place where he lived and loved with Mad Margot, the same woman whose mention still has him pacing and cursing?

  This is the place where her perversions developed into a thriving profession. Where all those debauched parties and antics occurred. Where Margot reigned supreme. What am I doing here?

  I’m his protégée, that’s all. He’s brought me here to sort something out in his own mind. Or, as he said, as a dogsbody to help him pack up some old mementos.

  ‘Just one more thing, Folkes.’

  His voice is so quiet, so soothing. He’s holding out a pair of soft leather and woven riding gloves. I refuse to meet his eye this time as he pulls my hands out straight in front of him. But the skin inside my wrist quivers just the same when he circles it then separates the fingers. My body tightens just the same when he eases the leather fingers over mine. His breath tickles my face as he twitches the gloves tight. The sensations are all the same as that first night in the square, and later in the bar of Dukes Hotel when he dressed me up to go out into the cold.

  ‘Have I told you how good it is to see you here?’

  I shrug wordlessly. He hooks one finger round the silver bracelet and pulls me closer to him.

  ‘Takes your breath away, doesn’t it? The mountains, the lake, the horses. You don’t have to speak. God, we all spend our lives banging on, don’t we? Being here suits you. You’ve a real bloom in your cheeks already. It means a lot to me that you came. I can’t wait to show you my favourite spot.’

  I glance quickly at him, astonished that tears are pricking my eyelids.

  ‘Thanks for inviting me,’ I blurt quickly, and turn towards my horse. For the first time he is reading me all wrong. ‘But let’s not bother with talking. Let’s get out there.’

  I place my foot in the stirrup and swing easily up onto my horse, remembering not to thump down too heavily on the spine of the saddle. Yes. This feels right. Some good hard exercise to get the blood pumping. A good night’s sleep in the mountains. Make my excuses and go back to London tomorrow. Hard sell to finalise the exhibition. Onwards and upwards.

  I grip the reins. I get it now. I’m some girl he’s picked up who has surprised him with her talent but he’s basically enrolled me to further his own profile in the art world. A cute chick he can amuse himself with when he needs to take his mind off his troubles. Someone wet behind the ears he can practise a little light spanking on to keep his hand in. But who isn’t good enough for him to kiss.

  ‘Right. Let’s see what kind of horsewoman you make then, Folkes.’

  The world looks different from up here. It all comes flooding back. The powerful beast between my legs. The flicking forward of the ears, the dancing legs, the skittering of her hooves across the cobbles as I check my stirrups. The rocking and creaking of the saddle. And I can’t ignore how unutterably sexy my companion looks as he strides over to his mount.

  Black clad, black hair falling over his face as he strokes the black mane. In another life I’d have done anything for him. But he’s not mine. He never will be, no matter how cute and clever I try to be. So what if Gustav stops in his tracks at the sight of me astride the Arab mare? I know I look good. What else is new?

  ‘Lead on,’ I cry brightly. I’m forced to straighten my spine, and as the horse strides out my body tilts in response, bottom sliding on the saddle and breasts thrusting forwards with each step.

  Gustav vaults nimbly on board without bothering to use the stirrups. He looks me up and down with frank delight, eyes lingering on my breasts, my hips, my legs, before nudging his horse in front of me.

  ‘You look stunning up there, Serena. Majestic. The warrior queen, born to ride.’

  ‘This is me at my best.’ I trot up beside him. ‘And you don’t look too bad yourself.’

  His black eyes flash wickedness under his glossy hair. He clicks his tongue and I’m still trying to harden my heart as we trot briskly out of the stable yard and straight up a bank into the dense forest.

  ‘Wait for me!’ I call, but he ignores me, pressing his horse into a gallop up a well-worn path and disappearing round a corner.

  When the horse’s tail flicks out of sight I squeeze my chestnut mare into a gallop to follow them. The man in black on his black horse flashes in and out of the trees, in and out of the shadows, into brief oases of daylight, hooves muffled on the pine needles. I have to concentrate at first to get into my horse’s rhythm, thighs screaming to grip the saddle, bottom tensed up into a half standing position, but then I catch up, I’m right up behind Gustav as he crouches over his horse, his hair streaming in a similarly glossy mane, his hard, muscular, squeezable butt held up in the air like a jockey.

  And then we are neck and neck, very dangerous on the rock-strewn pathways, so close I could flick at him with my whip if I had one. I laugh out loud at that. Whips in London, whips in art galleries and echoing mansions, but not here, in the great outdoors, when you’re actually riding.

  His long fingers in tight black gloves are curled on the reins, controlling his horse as we race. The blood is pounding through me now, beating in time to the drum of hooves. I am determined to overtake him, but he keeps pace with me. On and on we race, the going getting tougher because it’s steeper, and stony. We’re on the mountain, now, but the peaks recede as if laughing at us.

  Up high in this forest the trees press together, cramped as a crowd of people straining to watch a street performance, pushing at us as we gallop neck and neck, twigs grasping at my arms, swiping with their spiky, thorny branches as if to drag us off our saddles.

  All at once the light opens up, the tunnel of trees becomes sparser, they fall back as if to make way, and then we burst onto a rocky plateau flat and bright as an arc-lit stage. The horses clatter to a halt just as I realise that there’s a mere few yards of shiny granite between us and a sheer drop. It’s not the ravine I was thinking about earlier. There is simply a void of air between us and the mountains on the other side of the lake. The ground seems to have been sliced away by a giant pair of shears.

  Gustav walks his horse a few feet closer to the edge, just as Polly and I used to do on the cliffs. The hoofs clatter noisily, slipping on the frosty surface.

  ‘For God’s sake stop pissing about, Gustav!’

  ‘I’m flattered you’re concerned for my safety, Serena, but I know this terrain like the back of my hand, and so do the horses.’ He laughs, settling his hands on his saddle. His legs are so long in those black jodhpurs. So relaxed as the toes rest in the stirrups.

  ‘Just feast your eyes on all this splendour, Serena. This is one of my favourite vantage points. I used to walk or run or ride up here to get away. To think. To plan. You see? We’re almost on top of the world.’

  The peaks are that much closer, it’s true. The illusion is that they’re at eye level, that I could reach out and tap their outline. It’s as if the earth was in a rage when it forged this landscape, punching its way as high as it could out of the plains, aiming for the heavens, fighting itself into these muscular fists of jagged rock to separate territories and make a statement.

  We mere humans and horses can only stand and admire and grip the ground. The clouds of our mammal breath are wispy imitations of the weighty clouds up in the massive bowl of sky, but for now we are part
of the landscape too.

  ‘See, there’s snow on the high points above us.’ He is turned sideways. He points over the deadly drop. He looks like a Sioux chief surveying his prairie. ‘It’ll be coming further down by nightfall tomorrow. You can tell from the light. We won’t be stranded at the house but we won’t be going out on horseback again. To ski we’d have to go over to St Moritz or Como.’

  ‘You know I’m a beginner at skiing?’

  ‘You’d give it a go, though, wouldn’t you, my gutsy girl?’

  I shrug to distract him from my reddening cheeks. If he’s a big chief, does that make me his squaw? ‘Maybe. But I don’t know you well enough to risk making a clown of myself.’

  ‘Anyone less like a clown I can’t imagine. And you do know me, Serena. Better than you think. Certainly well enough to let me teach you to ski.’

  I stare at him. Where are the words when I need them? He has this way of taking coherent thought and rubbing it out before I can articulate it. Do I know him? I know his face. I think I could reproduce every line, every eyelash, every shadow now, if you gave me a pencil and paper. But can I interpret the commentary behind those black eyes? I’m not so sure.

  When I don’t reply he sighs. ‘Well, we may not have the time. My priorities for this visit are to get the house cleared and sold and off my hands.’

  I can hear the harsh chord of bitterness as he speaks.

  I clear my throat. ‘So tough for you, when you so love this place.’

  ‘This particular spot, yes. She’s killed my affection for the house and the land. Oh, I’ll still manage my investments from here. And maybe I’ll buy another property over the border in Italy. A ski lodge, maybe. What do you think? Or a house on one of the other lakes.’ He squeezes his knees to urge his horse a couple of paces nearer the edge. I stifle my squeal of horror. ‘But this is the last time we’ll ever set foot or hoof on this part of the mountain.’

  ‘We?’

  He is turned from me now, his hair hiding his face, and doesn’t respond. I decide it was a slip of the tongue. This setting just proves how far removed his life really is from mine. There can’t possibly be a ‘we’. Can there?

  I follow his glance. Far below us the lake is a smooth looking glass. I can see one or two of the slim ferry boats spitting their white triangular wake over the water. The tiled Lombardy roof tops glow red as the sun retreats. The mountains become shadowy silhouettes as it drags its train of fire behind them, leaving embers of shredded pink cloud.

  I am sharing Gustav’s love of this amazing vista. We are sharing it.

  I turn my horse across the plateau, hoping he’ll follow me. The mountain rears above us. I tip my head back dizzily to see the summit. It’s been obliterated while we’ve been up here, the dark grey clouds anxious to dump their load of snow. I’m just about to aim my camera at the sunset when I see, tucked in a little grove and surrounded by an incongruously twee picket fence, a little white Bavarian-style chapel, its elegant spire adorned with an iron cross. The one Dickson pointed out to me earlier.

  That’s the chapel where they were wed.

  TWELVE

  I try to halt my horse, cursing under my breath but even though I tug on the reins she ploughs on. The chapel is closed, the high doors bolted, the arched painted windows shuttered. But I can just picture them, Gustav and Margot Levi, newly married, emerging from the wooden interior to a shower of confetti and well-connected applause, he dark and victorious in his morning suit or perhaps a traditional Swiss jacket, she with features and colouring I can’t decipher, but nevertheless stunning and smug and dancing along the path in a beautiful white dress, one hand holding his and the other clutching a sweet bunch of white edelweiss into which she mock-shyly dips her nose.

  The pain of the image winds me sharply as if someone has kneed me in the stomach.

  ‘No wonder this is your favourite location, Gustav. But I’ve suddenly gone off it.’

  He turns from his reverie. I see his face like the sky transforming from thoughtful to thunderous. He kicks his horse over and grabs the reins of my horse.

  ‘Forgive me, Serena. Of course it’s not the church that draws me up here. I barely give it a thought, and nor should you.’

  ‘You married her in there, Gustav. How can I ignore that?’

  ‘Ten long years ago. I was a different person then. Blind, clueless. Now I’m seeing clearly and that’s thanks to you. Five years ago I was divorced. Serena, don’t look at me as if I’m gabbling in a foreign language. Everything was different then!’ He shakes the reins, and my horse stamps her foot, jolting my balance. ‘None of it applies any more. You’ve got to believe me.’

  ‘I don’t have to do anything! It still happened. You still married her. It all feels horribly real to me!’ I can’t help it. I’m shouting, and angry. ‘Oh, let’s just get back.’

  He drops the reins and backs his horse away, lowering his eyes. I can see the muscle working in his jaw as his face goes tight. But I’m too upset to forgive him. I’m too furious with myself for giving myself away, for being gripped by this fresh fist of jealousy just when I thought it was safe to go back into the water. Or up the mountain.

  Gustav clicks his teeth and the horses’ ears prick up. So no apology then. With no sign from me my horse quickens into a trot. Their hooves ring out smartly on the hard plateau as we turn our backs on the little chapel and the fading sunset. We barrel back into the darkness of the forest, and then Gustav lowers himself over his horse’s neck and kicks her into a gallop. My horse copies. There’s nothing for it but to adjust my seat, grip with my knees and press myself down low into the saddle as we swerve and rush break-neck through the trees, through the tunnels of spiny trees, slithering down the vertiginous narrow paths, leaping over fallen branches.

  Gustav’s steed is faster, and soon he’s several corners ahead of me. Sobs of panic escape me as my horse stampedes after him. It’s getting dark, and now the ground is descending ever more steeply. I am just beginning to tire of gripping on for dear life when far ahead Gustav swerves through a curtain of ivy and vines and vanishes.

  ‘Hey! Gustav! Wait!’

  I gallop through the curtain. My horse rears up and whinnies as she trips over a huge twining root. We are in a coppice overhung with branches like a tent. All sounds, including hooves, are extinguished in here. It is curiously warm and sheltered. The fading light can’t penetrate.

  I think I see Gustav’s horse flickering through the stark winter shadows up ahead, obviously knowing perfectly well which way to go. They disappear from view. I try to kick my horse to go after them, but she wheels round and stops dead, lowering her head so suddenly that without warning I shoot down her neck, over her ears, and onto the hard cold ground. My ankle is twisted awkwardly underneath me.

  It hurts like hell. I didn’t hear a snap, but I remove one boot carefully, knowing I must do that in case the ankle swells.

  ‘This is all I bloody need!’ I yell to the elements as I roll my sock down and see the blooming palette of blue and purple, the flesh bulging already around the ankle bone. I burst into tears.

  There is only the strange, dry creaking of the trees accompanying my furious weeping. That same church bell tolls the next evening hour, and my naughty horse stamps and snorts. At least she hasn’t run away. She is investigating some bright green shoots over on the far side of the copse. The wind has died down completely which sheds an eerie silence over everything. The twilight has nearly closed in.

  I hold myself very still, hugging the ground. Logic tells me that I’m not totally lost. That only happens in nightmares, or horror films. The horse will know her way home. But then again, she might only understand German instructions, or Italian. She might take me further into the forest. Or bolt with me down to the lake and gallivant with me in front of all the sophisticated Swiss residents sipping Glühwein in the cafes.

  The first time I was lost like this I must have been about five years old. Why they brought me up on Dartmoor, cl
imbing the craggy outcrops around Hay Tor when it was threatening snow, I have no idea. The adults were always too far away. I remember running and tripping to keep up. I was wearing wellies with no socks. Why no socks? Did they expect me to put them on myself? Did they give me a few seconds to do so, sitting on the bottom step of the steep dark stairs, then get impatient with waiting and bundle me into the car anyway?

  The wellies were too big, and rubbed the skin on my feet into blisters. I fell over, into some kind of bog. I was knee-deep in mud. I knew I’d be in trouble for messing up my clothes. And when I got back to my feet everyone had gone. There was nothing to be seen but the looming crags, like broken bones sticking up out of the bruised skin of the purple moor, and a couple of bad-tempered-looking wild ponies.

  ‘Wait for me!’ I wailed, but my childish voice was a kitten’s mew in the huge open space. Like I’m doing now, I held myself very still. I crouched underneath a huge stone with my knees up to my chin. If I sat still enough, nothing bad would happen because nothing bad would see me. On the other hand, no-one would find me either.

  There was no relieved crying out and comforting arms when they found me. Only furious voices, accusations of being slow like a little worm, and a smack on the back of my legs.

  After that I learned to do it deliberately. Run away and hide from them, and wherever possible find my own way home. Eventually they stopped taking me out anywhere, even if it was for a day, sometimes a night. I preferred the empty house.

  I am doing it now. Sitting very still. Not hiding exactly, but weighing up the relative safety of dying out here of cold and starvation, or being found and bawled out for injuring the horse.

  I’m not sure I can put weight on this foot, either. I try to move it and it twinges.

  Now fear is replaced by anger, and I force myself upright, holding onto the nearest tree for support. The horse glances up at me. She is fine. And there are no bones sticking out of my bruised skin. It’s not broken after all. But it’s badly twisted.