Soaring

by Jassy Mackenzie

  I put the cream jug back into the fridge, and walked outside with my coffee, blinking in the brightness, taking in the vivid colors. The emerald fields, the azure sky dotted with small, fluffy clouds, the riot of hues in the flower beds. And the smells…I could smell the rich, earthy aroma of compost or manure, underscoring the clean scent of wet foliage. Breathing it in made me feel happy, as if I were renewing a connection with nature that I had lost, and missed, without even knowing it.

  I’d almost finished my coffee when I saw Noreen approaching. She was leading the two horses along a pathway that curved down the hill. The majestic gray was accompanying her calmly. The smaller bay was dancing impatiently sideways, shaking its head and trying to pull the halter rope out of her hand. He was the dandelion snatcher; the naughty one.

  From where I was standing, I could hear Noreen swearing.

  Probably, she could use some help.

  Quickly, I put my mug back in the kitchen, then jogged down the hill, slowing to a walk as I drew closer so as not to startle the misbehaving bay.

  “You little varmint, if you try to pull my arm out of its socket once more, I swear to God I’m going to take you to the market! Stop trying to bloody well run off. We’ll get there soon enough, dammit…oh, morning, Claire.”

  “Morning! Could you use a hand?”

  “I could, thanks! Are you okay to lead this one?” She glanced at the well behaved gray.

  “Yes, I’ve had experience with horses.”

  That had been fifteen years ago at summer camp…I’d loved caring for them, and had excelled at my riding back then. I hoped I hadn’t forgotten what I’d learned.

  Gratefully, Noreen passed me the gray’s halter rope, and I held it as I remembered being taught, hoping it was correct. The large horse didn’t challenge me or try to pull away. He simply turned his head in my direction, nostrils flickering, then continued walking steadily along the pathway.

  With two hands to manage the smaller horse, Noreen had gotten him under control again, even though he was rolling his eyes, as if in disgust, and jogging sideways.

  “I’m taking them to a fresh pasture,” she explained. “They always get excited on the way to a different field. Or rather, Murphy does. Titan’s a real gentleman. Clever enough to know the grass isn’t always greener.”

  “Are they hunters?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “And you probably won’t believe me when I tell you Murphy never puts a foot wrong on hunting day. As soon as he hears the sound of the horn, he’s an angel. Titan also does dressage. My daughter used to compete with him, before she bought the horse she owns now.”

  That must have been the large bay I saw in the photos. “And where is that horse now?”

  “She shipped him over to England.” Noreen sounded sad. “She got it into her head she wants to try to get to the top in dressage. So she’s boarding him at that Carl Hester’s yard. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He’s a famous dressage rider. He was on the British team, who won at the last Olympics.”

  I hadn’t heard of him, but even so, I nodded knowledgeably. I wasn’t going to tell Noreen that I’d stayed in that exact same Olympic village and I, too, had competed for my country at that event. I hadn’t met any equestrian competitors while I was there. And, of course, with Dave managing me, I had not attended many of the parties.

  Noreen sighed. “I’d rather she’d gone to university. But she has her heart set on trying to make it big in her sport. I think it was the wrong decision. But I’m only a parent…what do I know?”

  “I guess you have to let her try,” I ventured. “To follow her dreams, I mean.”

  What was I saying? It wasn’t as if following mine had worked out so well for me long-term. Probably, I would have done better to give up on fencing and study economics or accounting. Why then was I leaping to the defense of a teenager who’d made the same stupid decision as me?

  “Yes, I know,” Noreen admitted reluctantly. “It’s just that…life with horses is hard. Very hard. She hasn’t chosen an easy road.”

  “It’s the same with any sport at top level,” I said carefully. I didn’t want to give away too much to Noreen, but I knew how many arduous hours of practice, practice, and more practice was required. Long sessions of perfecting my lunges, parries, and footwork, with and without a partner. I’d repeated the moves until the muscles in my hand were too sore to continue holding the saber and my left arm was aching.

  Most times, my best friend Monika had trained with me. We’d fenced together for years, and had competed in many national and international events together. Her encouragement, uttered in her husky, Eastern-European flavored accent, had always spurred me to push harder, parry faster, take myself to new limits. Monika was a great training partner, whether it was fencing practice or fitness. Slight, lithe and surprisingly long limbed, she was perfectly coordinated and had seemingly endless stamina. At the end of a hard training session, while I was trembling with tiredness, she’d be laughing at me over her Diet Coke and suggesting that we go out clubbing and dancing later.

  Training with Monika made fencing fun, and I sometimes wondered how much our love of the sport hinged on the friendship and support we gave each other.

  “Life is short! Live it once,” Monika liked to say, usually just before opening a fizzy alcoholic drink. Perhaps the memory of her cheerful words prompted me to tell Noreen, “If dressage is your daughter’s passion…she has to try and succeed in it.”

  Nonsensical as I believed my own advice to be, I was surprised that my words seemed to reassure Noreen.

  “Well, it’s good to hear your opinion,” she said. “Makes me feel I wasn’t completely crazy for allowing her to go.”

  She turned left, where a wooden gate leading into a large, grassy field stood open.

  “Now, hang on to Titan’s rope,” she said. “Murphy’s going to bolt.”

  She unfastened the halter, and as she slipped it off the bay’s head, he tore away from her, kicked up his heels, and set off up the grassy slope at a full gallop.

  Titan stood like a statue, watching his departure with pricked ears, obedient even though every muscle in his strong body and arched neck was tensed.

  I slipped the halter off him carefully and he waited for a few moments more, until we were safely back at the gate, before squealing in joy, and launching himself away with a drumming of hooves to join his friend.

  “You’re welcome to ride while you’re here, if you like,” Noreen said. “Titan’s very steady, and I haven’t had time to start fitting him up for the hunt season.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’d love to.”

  I wasn’t sure if I meant it. Would my still-weak left arm hold up if I rode? And what would it be like doing a sport that was considered dangerous? I’d been banned from all of them for years, because of the risk of injury. Skiing was a no-no, and Dave had even balked at the idea of mountain biking. And then injury had happened anyway. A freak occurrence…there had been no avoiding the car accident that had resulted in a broken left wrist.

  “How big is this farm?” I asked as we walked back up to the house alongside the undulating fence line.

  Noreen made a face. “Too big. It’s actually two separate farms. There’s a large, fallow section of sixty acres to the south, which we bought years ago as an investment, and the smaller farm of twenty acres that we live on. Our plan was to sell off the bigger portion.” She sighed. “But that hasn’t worked out, with the economy the way it is—nobody wants to buy undeveloped land. So we’ve ended up stuck with it as an expense, which is why my husband, Connor, had to stop what he was doing, and go back to his old work.”

  “What does he do?” I asked, remembering the photograph of the smiling, dark-haired man.

  “Connor recently started out as an artist. He’s always loved to paint, and he’s really good. He picked up a few commissions; he was making a name for himself.”

  “Did he do the paintings in your house? They’re stunning. I was
looking at them this morning.”

  “He did them all,” Noreen told me proudly. “But the economy really suffered here a few years ago, and we needed more money than his artwork and the farm produce could bring in. It wasn’t the right time to launch a new career. He was in the police force before he married me, so he went back into that line of business. Security guarding. In Afghanistan.” Her voice was tight and emotionless. “It’s very risky, but the pay’s good, and we need it. I just pray he gets back in one piece.”

  “I hope he does,” I said, feeling worried on her behalf. I liked Noreen a lot. She seemed to be a forthright, fun person who was dealing with her challenges bravely. I’d only known her for a day, but I wanted her to be happy.

  “Now, have you had breakfast?” Noreen asked as we walked back to the farmhouse, as if I hadn’t eaten enough for three people last night before falling asleep like a lazy log.

  “I had coffee,” I told her. “I’ll skip breakfast because I’m going out for lunch.”

  She raised an eyebrow at that, but she didn’t ask where I was going. And, as I thought of seeing Patrick again and of the dizzying passion of our kiss, I was glad I didn’t have to speak, because I felt suddenly breathless.

  As we approached the stone farmhouse, I saw there was a battered green Land Rover parked outside. The driver climbed out when she saw us approach. She was a tall, imposing woman with short, curly hair that was such an impressively bright shade of red. I could only assume it was natural—who’d dye their hair to look like a ripe tomato?

  “Noreen!” she called.

  I thought that I heard Noreen say, very quietly, “Oh, God, not her,” before replying, loudly and more enthusiastically, “Geraldine!”

  “I’m on my way into town. I thought I’d come round and see if you’re done with the baked goods. If you are, I’ll take them through for you.”

  “Yes, they’re ready.”

  Geraldine turned and regarded me, staring down her beak-like nose.

  “This is Claire,” Noreen hastened to introduce me. “Claire…er…?”

  “Harvey.” Reluctantly, I supplied my surname.

  “Claire Harvey,” Noreen repeated. “And this is Geraldine Page, who lives across the valley and heads up the Castle Hill Women’s Guild.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I stepped forward, and Geraldine crushed my hand briefly in a powerful handshake. I remembered that Noreen had said the Women’s Institute ladies were egotistical interferers. I guessed she’d been partly referring to her red-headed neighbor.

  “Claire Harvey? Now, why does that name sound familiar?” Geraldine asked, her words sending a chill of fear through me. “You’re from America, by the sound of it?”

  “Yes, from New York,” I said. “I’ve never been to Ireland before. I’m here for a holiday. To see the countryside.”

  “I can’t think where I’ve heard that name,” Geraldine mused. “You’re not a dressage rider, are you?”

  “No,” I said, smiling, even though I was cringing inwardly because guessing any competitive sport was too close for comfort, and I was worried her next question might be, “Did I see you at the Olympics?” in which case I’d have to tell a lie.

  “Lovely meeting you,” I said quickly. “Sorry to be rude, but I have to get ready to go out.”

  “Nice to meet you, Claire. I’m sure I’ll figure out where I’ve seen you before. I’m very good with faces. Now, Noreen, where are the scones and cakes?”

  “One of them’s inside Guinness,” I heard Noreen retort, and I had to suppress a smile at that answer.

  Turning away from Geraldine’s eagle-eyed stare, I hurried upstairs to check my phone. Dave had called me, and so had Monika. It was 7:00 a.m. in New York, and I knew Monika would just have finished her early training session. I called her first, smiling at the thought of speaking to her again.

  “Well, look who it is!” she answered. “The prodigal. Where are you? I was trying to find you this morning, to see if you knew where my black scarf was. I think you might have taken it after our last training session. Accidentally, of course.”

  “I left the country,” I told her.

  “Scarf theft is not such a serious crime!” Monika retorted, giggling, and I found myself smiling.

  “That wasn’t the only trouble I had to escape,” I told her. “Dave’s home, if you want him to look for your scarf”

  “Thank you,” Monika said. “But talking of trouble, the news is moving on to more important matters. Beyoncé has had plastic surgery, and Michelle Obama changed her hairstyle.”

  It was my turn to laugh. Monika had a way of putting things that made them seem less serious than they were. We were good at comforting each other. When I’d found her in tears one afternoon in the change room, devastated because she hadn’t won an award she’d been nominated for, I’d been her shoulder to cry on. I had cheered her up afterwards by suggesting we bunk training for the day, and that I take her to the bar down the road for beer and fries. I never forgot what fun that illicit outing had been, and how happy Monika had seemed afterwards.

  She’d been able to cheer me up, in turn, after my mother’s accident. And more recently, she’d provided a listening ear when I’d discovered that Dave had taken a large chunk of our savings and spent it on playing the stock market…and losing.

  “That was money my parents needed,” I’d sobbed to Monika, who had done her best to soothe me.

  “Dave’s just an idiot man,” she’d told me. “Wooden-headed moron! I don’t know why you put up with his shit, seriously. If I were you, I would kick him out. He probably thought he was helping you by trying to invest it. But imagine if he’d doubled it! Then we’d all be laughing now.”

  It felt reassuring to be able to get her take on the dismalness of my current situation.

  “I went to Ireland,” I confessed. “But please, don’t tell anybody, because I just want to be away from it all for awhile.”

  “I thought I would see you at training this morning. It’s been more than eight weeks now. Has the doctor not cleared you for getting back to work?”

  “Not yet. I don’t know if I’m going to come back. It depends on what the sponsors decide.” I sighed.

  Monika was quiet for a few moments. Then she spoke in a softer voice than usual. “I never apologized to you.”

  “Apologized? For what?”

  “It was my fault you ended up in…that situation. Because I introduced you to Hassan.”

  Hassan. The handsome Moroccan fencer whose name would now be linked with mine forever in a thousand gossip columns and web pages. I remembered the first time we’d met up at the opening of a local athletic stadium. I’d been intrigued at how somebody so physically imposing, tall and strong with bulky muscles that seemed hewn from mahogany, could be so shy and humble. But I’d liked Hassan from the start, and the relationship between us had quickly grown closer.

  If I’d known back then how things would end, I would never even have greeted him that first time. But it was not Monika’s fault.

  “You couldn’t know,” I sighed.

  “Now I have lost a friend,” she complained. “Warming up is boring without you. Running is not as much fun without a partner. I never get to sneak off to bars when I am upset. And I have to wave a sword around on my own.”

  “I promise I’ll come back soon and wave mine around with you,” I told her, even though I didn’t know whether I would be able to keep my word. What would I do, if I was forced to retire? Never mind how I’d be able to pay College Sport back if they carried out their threats of legal action.

  I realized with a shock that I did not feel my usual passion when I thought about my sport. I needed to rekindle that love for competing. I had at least four more years at my peak and a chance at the next Olympics. Why was I suddenly finding it so difficult to want to make a comeback?

  “You take care, then. Where are you staying?”

  Telling Monika about the farmhouse seemed too complicated. “
At the Park Hotel, in Castle Hill.”

  “My lips are sealed,” she said, and we both laughed before saying goodbye.

  My next call was to my soon-to-be ex-husband.

  Dave answered sounding more cheerful than he had the last time we’d spoken.

  “Hey there,” he said. “Listen, I have some good news, I think.”

  “Good news?” I echoed, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice.

  “With any luck, College Sport is back on board.”

  “College Sport?” I gasped. Never in a million years would I have thought this deal could have been saved. As far as I’d been concerned, it had been over. Finished. But now, it seemed, there was hope on the horizon. Was this the second chance I’d prayed for?

  “Look, I had a meeting with them yesterday,” Dave continued. He cleared his throat. “I explained to them things hadn’t been going well between us. That we’d had some problems recently. I told them that anybody can make a mistake…once.”

  “Once,” I echoed. My mouth felt dry.

  “That’s it,” Dave said. “The once. And I told them I forgive you. Which I do, Claire. It’s taken some work, but I’ve reached that stage. They want reassurance that it won’t happen again; so we’re going to present a united public front and go for counseling. As an example, you see, to everyone else who loses the way. We could become role models. No marriage is perfect, right?”

  “What?” I shouted out the word. “Jesus Christ, what’s going on here? Dave, we’re in the middle of a divorce!”

  There was a short pause.

  “Yeah,” he said, and I thought he sounded abashed. “Look, it was premature, okay? But you know how upset I was.”

  “But what about me?”

  “I’m sorry, babe,” Dave said. He was misunderstanding me and I couldn’t work out if he was doing so deliberately. “I know I shouldn’t have rushed into the divorce without thinking everything through. But we can make things right.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, but it was as if he hadn’t heard me.