by K. M. Grant
Daisy spoke without really meaning to. ‘What happens if Pa’s right about The One?’
Garth turned himself back upright, stalked out of the room and slammed the door.
‘Don’t daydream, Daisy,’ Rose advised when the echo had died away. ‘Pa’s never been right before. Why should this horse be any different?’
‘I don’t know,’ Daisy said, ‘except that Hartslove’s never been for sale before.’
‘And you think that’ll make the horse run faster?’ Rose tried not to sound exasperated.
Daisy saw the horse’s face again. ‘It might,’ she said.
Rose pressed her fingers together. ‘Forget about the horse – except I suppose we could sell it.’
‘That would upset Pa,’ Lily said.
‘He’d get his four hundred guineas back.’ Clover and Columbine spoke together.
Rose pressed her fingers harder. Four hundred guineas. For a horse. She stood up, not because the council of war was at an end, but because if she didn’t move she thought she might scream. ‘I’ll get a job,’ she announced.
They all stared at her.
‘Doing what?’ Daisy asked.
‘You think there’s nothing I can do?’ Rose was very sharp indeed.
‘No – no,’ said Daisy. ‘I just meant – I just meant . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Pa will never let you.’
‘Pa must never know,’ said Rose fiercely. She sat down again. ‘Mrs Snips will help me.’
‘I could work too,’ said Lily. ‘I’d do anything so that we don’t have to leave here. Anything.’ It was unlike Lily to be so emphatic. Clover or Columbine began to bite her nails.
‘Don’t bite your nails, Clover.’
‘I’m – oh, it doesn’t matter,’ said Columbine.
Rose was not listening. ‘No, Lily. Your job will be to stay here and look after the others. That’s the best way you can help.’ Lily’s relief was immediate and evident. The outside world was terrifying to her. Columbine and Clover were dismayed. Lily look after them! Why, she couldn’t even look after herself. Clover opened her mouth to say so. Rose shot her a warning glower.
‘You’ll never earn enough money to save Hartslove, Rose,’ Daisy pointed out, trying to be realistic. ‘You’d have to be – I don’t know – the prime minister or something to earn enough. And even if you were the prime minister, you’d still need to be him for a long time before you had enough money, and a buyer could come up the drive tomorrow with money in a sack.’
Lily gripped her chair.
‘For God’s sake, Daisy!’ shouted Rose, losing her temper. ‘I’m trying my best!’
Lily began to cry and the twins to clamour. Though she was sorry to upset, Daisy still had her question. ‘But what if the horse really is The One? I mean, if he really did win the Derby, would Hartslove be safe then?’
‘For goodness sake, Daisy! Clover! Columbine! Shut up!’
‘But would it?’ Daisy could not give up.
Rose tried to collect herself. It was not fair to be angry with Daisy. ‘I suppose so,’ she said.
The twins stopped clamouring. ‘And if Hartslove was safe, would Ma come back?’ Columbine had to ask.
There was a small gasp from Lily, Daisy and Clover. All faces were now turned to Rose. ‘I don’t know,’ she said bluntly.
‘But might it help?’ Clover leaned forward.
Rose stood up very quickly. ‘Why do you have to ask such things?’ she cried. ‘We don’t even know why she went, so how can we know why she’d come back!’
Lily shrank into her chair. Again, Rose tried to collect herself. ‘It couldn’t make things worse though,’ she said in her more usual voice. ‘It absolutely couldn’t do that.’
The council of war came to an unglamorous end. Lily was white as a ghost. Clover and Columbine scurried back to the newspaper hoard. Rose counted it a failure.
Daisy went into the hall. Somebody had slotted her crutches one under each arm of the Furious Boy. Despite the frost, she swung herself out to the Resting Place and sat on the flat stone. For once the Resting Place offered no comfort. Nothing stirred. The shadows were absent. Restless, she got up and swung herself to the stable yard.
Skelton had taken the vegetable cart on errands and The One was alone in the last of the six loose-boxes. He was looking out, but when Daisy called he took no notice. Nor did he seem to notice when she stroked all the way down his white blaze and traced his sickle snip. He was in a world all of his own. Leaning her crutches against the wall, Daisy unbolted the stable door, went inside and bolted it again. The One still did not move. Skelton had laid down straw, but the bed did not look comfortable. As best she could, Daisy began to push the straw into banks against the wall and to flatten out the rest. The colt still took no notice, not even when she straightened the woollen rug fastened loosely under his belly. She sat down, her legs out in front of her. ‘I’m sorry you’re alone,’ she said. ‘There used to be lots of horses here, but they’ve all been sold.’ He turned his head to scratch, and only now seemed to catch sight of her. He cocked his ears and wandered over, clumsily scuffing the straw. Daisy was suddenly very aware that her legs were completely exposed. If he was careless, he would stand on one or both. She could try and pull them up or she could do nothing. He loomed enormous above her. One front hoof was raised. Daisy did nothing. The hoof came down, brushed her calliper, then veered to one side. A dark nose was lowered and two lips tickled. She was closer to the colt than she had been by the drawbridge. She could see the mixed red and white hairs in his diamond. She could smell the hay on his breath and see that the white tissue round his eye which gave him a look of permanent surprise was in fact the colour of mother-of-pearl. She also noticed for the first time the slight overbite, top lip folding over bottom, suggestive of the colt’s rueful dismay at finding himself not quite as everybody had hoped.
She put out her palm. He took a finger between his teeth, more to hold, she felt, than to bite. He seemed shy. Daisy told him about his predecessors, at least those she could remember, and then about Hartslove itself; about Rose, Lily, Garth, Clover and Columbine, Gryffed and Mrs Snipper and the Dead Girl, and their mother, and everything else that was important to her. She did not speak of her father. She did not know what to say about him. The colt seemed quite gripped, and when Daisy moved, moved with her. He did not object when she put her arms round his neck to pull herself up, or when, seeing yesterday’s sweat still ridged on his coat, she began to pick at it with her fingers. ‘Skelton should have done this,’ she murmured apologetically. After a bit she decided to take off his rug and give him a proper brush. He was too tall for her to reach his back so she tipped the water out of his bucket and used the bucket as a step. A shadow loomed. The horse started backwards, knocking over the bucket and crashing Daisy into the straw.
A scraping of bolts and Skelton seized the horse by the forelock.
‘Don’t! It was my fault!’ Daisy shouted.
Skelton let go of the forelock and pulled Daisy to her feet. ‘You shouldn’t be in here, missy. He’s a careless brute.’ Skelton fetched a head-collar and tied up The One outside.
‘You’re not going to try the saddle again,’ Daisy said quickly.
‘No, Miss Daisy. Not today.’ Skelton was running his eyes slowly from the tip of the horse’s ears to the end of his tail.
Daisy could not stop herself. Unpleasant as Skelton was, he knew more about horses than she did. ‘Could he be a good racehorse?’ she asked.
‘Good?’ Skelton blew on his hands then crossed his arms. ‘He’s not much to look at, but he’s got strong limbs and enough space for powerful lungs. So yes, if he buckles down and learns his job, perhaps he could be a good racehorse.’
Daisy’s heart banged. ‘Could he be The One?’
Skelton cast a crafty glance. ‘Important that he is, is it?’
‘You’ve seen the “for sale” sign,’ said Daisy blankly.
‘And you don’t want to move?’ Skelton
walked round The One, slapping his rump as he went. The horse swished his tail. ‘Don’t you kick me, sonny,’ Skelton warned. He returned to Daisy. ‘I’d have thought you and your sisters would like nothing better than to live in a nice cosy house and have bedrooms that don’t leak. This old castle’s had its day. It’s full of the past, when the future’s what counts.’
‘Hartslove’s our home,’ said Daisy stiffly, wondering how Skelton knew about the leaking bedrooms.
Skelton laughed. ‘People move homes every day, missy. That’s how the great big world keeps turning.’
‘Not our world,’ Daisy said.
Skelton sniffed. ‘Your world!’ Then he seemed to think the better of his manner. ‘See here,’ he said in more respectful tones, ‘his head and neck, well, they’re too heavy. Too much muscle here’ – he slapped the colt’s crest before moving behind – ‘and not enough here.’ He slapped his rump again. ‘As I say, he’s got decent enough legs, strong bones and room for lungs, though his back’s too short. A racehorse needs to be able to stretch and spread himself. And, of course, his coat’s a mess, and his mane and tail are thick as Tinker’s. Common blood in there somewhere.’ Daisy gazed at the horse in silence. She was sorry she had invited the insult. The horse himself, however, was staring into the middle distance again. Skelton threw on the rug and fastened it.
‘I’ll put him back in his stable,’ said Daisy. She wanted to apologise to the horse in private.
‘I don’t think so, missy.’
‘I said, I’ll put him back in his stable,’ Daisy repeated.
Skelton shrugged. ‘If he gets away again, your father’ll be furious.’
‘It’s my legs that don’t work, not my arms,’ said Daisy coldly.
Skelton undid the rope and handed it over. Daisy waited until he was in his house before she moved. Inside the stable, she undid the head-collar and took the horse’s long bony face between her hands. ‘Are you The One?’ she asked. He pushed her a little with his nose. ‘Are you?’ she whispered. She tightened her hands. ‘I’m going to believe you are, and you’ve got to believe it too. We’ve got to believe it until it’s not possible to believe it any more.’ She wanted a sign – anything would have done – but no sign came and the horse drifted over to his manger. Daisy did not really want to leave him, but she was worried about Garth, and after a while went off to find him.
When she had gone, Skelton came across the yard. He opened the stable door, threw off the horse’s rug and scrutinised every inch, tapping his fingers on his chin. He replaced the rug and went into the feedstore. Only two bins had anything in them: one was filled with oats and barley; and the other, into whose lock Skelton fitted a small key, was filled with bottles of brandy. Skelton counted the bottles with some satisfaction. Though he had paid for them himself, he was not tempted to open one. He had an idea in his head, though no actual plan was as yet formed. He relocked the bin and went outside.
The horse was staring over the door of his box. Skelton flicked the feedstore key at him, making him jump. ‘Don’t be a dreamer, laddie,’ the groom counselled. ‘There’s been too much dreaming altogether round here. You can’t live on dreams. The world’s a-changing, boyo, and places like this with their ghosts and their tombstones need new blood.’ He noticed that Daisy had left her crutches behind and toppled them over with the toe of his boot. ‘Those girls! Might as well be living in 1261 as 1861! As for that boy –’ he flicked the key again – ‘he’s going to be good-for-nothing, just like his da. Wise woman, that Lady de G. Got out while the going was good.’ Whistling, he returned to his house and slammed the door with a loud and proprietorial flourish. He thought nobody heard, but the tombstones at the Resting Place rattled like teeth.
4
Though the castle was hunched under a blanket of mist and the roads treacherous, the first of the potential buyers turned up the following morning, unannounced. Charles himself had only just struggled back from the town, having been in a hurry to exchange Sir Thomas de Granville for three crates of wine, two of brandy, a small wodge of notes and a bag of change. He quickly carried the crates to the wine cellar, fearful of meeting his children. He could not explain his need of the contents of the crates to them or even, satisfactorily, to himself. He had sampled the brandy already.
Gryffed alerted him, and coming back to the hall, the last crate safely stashed, Charles found a father, mother and two pretty daughters, the father remarking unfavourably on the statues, the dust and the inadequate light. Rose, Lily, Daisy, Clover and Columbine had heard Gryffed’s bark too and come running down. Garth was nowhere to be seen.
‘Ah!’ said the father of the daughters, ‘good to catch you in, Sir Charles. I’ve had my eye on this place for years.’ Without further introduction he began to outline the tremendous work that would be involved in bringing ‘this old wreck’, as he called Hartslove, ‘up to scratch’. ‘You must admit that it’s a disgrace as it stands.’ He waved a chequebook. ‘Now, I’m a fair-minded man so I’ll pay a fair price on condition that you’re out in six weeks. We’ll want the place thoroughly modernised before the summer. That ruined front will have to go. And the moat. All very quaint, I’m sure, but the Wars of the Roses are over, you know.’ He laughed at his little joke and scribbled out a sum not quite as large as he might have written had he not smelled the brandy on Charles’s breath. ‘Take this, Sir Charles, and we’ll consider the bargain sealed.’
Rose was shocked into paralysis. Surely it could not be this quick. Six weeks? Their father would refuse. He must.
Only he did not. Actually, Charles felt an extraordinary desire to laugh. It should not have come to this. Of course it should not. But it had, and brandy made everything very easy. Grab the cheque and it was done. He was going to exchange Hartslove Castle for a bit of paper. It really was quite funny when you thought about it. He stretched out his hand, but as his fingers brushed the cheque, the air was shattered by a scream so blood-curdling that Gryffed’s every hair stood straight up on end. Daisy clutched her father. Lily clutched Rose. Clover and Columbine clutched each other. The buyer clutched his wife and children. The cheque fluttered to the floor.
The scream came from outside, and Charles, dragging Daisy, was first out of the front door, closely followed by Rose and Lily and Clover and Columbine, still attached to each other. The buyer and his family brought up the rear.
The first thing they saw was Mrs Snipper, one hand over her mouth and the other braced, palm outwards, as though waiting to catch something. They squinted up, as she was doing, and through the mist they could just see the top of the battlements. First there was nothing except stone, then there was Garth, now visible, now not, performing slow backflips, his feet only just catching the narrow merlons sticking up between the gaps in the castellation. Mrs Snipper was beside herself. ‘Do something, Sir Charles. For God’s sake. Master Garth’ll kill himself.’ She wrung her hands. Charles opened his mouth.
‘No,’ Rose said quickly. ‘If you shout, you’ll distract him. He’ll fall.’
Charles’s lips snapped shut. Over and over went Garth, his white shirt billowing, so that there looked to be no boy inside it at all. Charles ran back inside, heading for the tower staircase.
Daisy glanced at the visitors. Both girls were whimpering. She was frightened for Garth but it struck her, in a brainwave, that this was an opportunity. She hobbled over. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘The Spirits don’t usually appear during the day. Perhaps your father’s upset them by not offering enough money.’
‘What?’ blustered the father. He had no idea of Garth’s existence so was not sure what he was seeing.
‘The Spirits,’ Daisy explained, employing her most practical smile. ‘They come with the castle, I’m afraid.’
‘Spirits? Don’t be ridiculous,’ the man declared. But he could not take his eyes off the whirling white cog high above him.
‘Please don’t worry,’ Daisy said. ‘The Spirits are quite harmless.’ She paused. ‘Most
ly.’
The mother had begun to shake her head and shove her girls towards the carriage. The horses were already straining to be away. ‘Let’s go, Wilbur,’ the woman said. ‘There’s plenty of other places. I don’t know why you ever wanted this one. It’s giving me the creeps.’
The man resisted. His wife was adamant. They were still arguing as the carriage jolted off rather faster than the coachman intended.
Daisy forgot about them instantly. In the unearthly light Garth was like a bouncing star, except he began to miss his handholds. Nothing could stop Mrs Snipper calling to him. ‘Come down, Master Garth,’ she implored. ‘Come down!’
But Garth kept on flipping, over and over, round the crumbling battlements, behind the keep, down the south-east wing and back. He was in a world of his own; a world of spinning and arching, where death and life were all the same because he was not just a de Granville, he was all the de Granvilles there had ever been, and he was standing with them against the enemy who these days might come in carriages with wives and daughters, but whose chequebooks were as dangerous as Saracens’ swords. And there were other enemies. Garth named them as he flipped: drink – the thief who had stolen his father away; false hope in the shape of that horse; anger and sadness, both of which were eating him up. He thrust his body over and over. He would never stop flipping. Flipping was the only thing he had left. His feet slipped. The drop yawned. He did not care.
He heard his name shouted. Charles had made it on to the roof and was holding out his arms. ‘Garth! Garth!’
Garth jerked, was almost lost. His father caught him and yanked him on to the flat of the roof, but Garth slipped through and flipped on, all the way down the south-east wing again. Only his concentration was broken. Now he was aware of the upgust of wind rattling through his shirt. His left hand missed the merlon completely. He was flipping on air – he was falling. For the first time, a tingle of fear. He did care. And here his father was again, again holding out his hands, those same sweet, kind, treacherous hands that held his children close even as they handed over money and opened bottles. Garth could not help himself. He clutched at them. Charles pulled him close and for a moment father and son were locked in a desperate embrace. Then Garth felt the smooth neck of the brandy bottle in his father’s pocket. His fear turned back to anger, his anger to despair. He thrust away, leaving Charles once again with empty arms. ‘Garth!’ Charles cried. ‘Garth.’ Garth shook his head and ran to the edge of the ruins. Here he stopped and stood tall, his shirt draped like an angel’s gown. He opened his arms and the sleeves were like wings. He was Hartslove; Hartslove was him. At the Resting Place, the gravestones shimmered. In the stables, The One stirred. In the wood, Snipe paused. Without a sound, Garth thrust upwards, arched, and plummeted into the dark.