Finding Hope at Hillside Farm

by Rachael Lucas

  There was a skirmish as Lido and Lily, brother and sister, both strikingly beautiful with their chestnut coats and four white socks, shoved and squealed their way through the gate. Tor gave a snort of surprise and stepped back, pulling at the rope.

  ‘Watch it,’ warned Ella. Her expression and body language was enough to settle them and they dropped their heads in polite submission, walking nose to tail down the long path that led back to the stable yard.

  Last of all came Bella, Sweetbriar’s sister, who gave Ella an apologetic look. If Ella had a favourite mare (although she told herself over and over again that she loved them all equally, like children), it would be Bella. Her coat was darker – a deep chestnut brown. Her huge brown eyes were fringed with long dark lashes, and her mane and tail looked as if they’d been into London for an expensive colouring job – the ends highlighted a beautiful caramel gold.

  ‘Go on, then, beautiful.’

  Ella let her through and pulled the gate shut behind them. She ran a hand down Tor’s mane, praising him for waiting patiently. He nudged at her pocket, hoping for an extra treat. There were a few crumbs there and he took them gently from her outstretched hand, nodding his head in thanks.

  With the horses installed safely in the outdoor school, standing nose to tail, waiting for instruction, she pulled the gate shut and checked the time on her watch. Miranda had said she’d be there by one.

  ‘Do you want me to iron this polo shirt?’ Bron shouted from the depths of the washing basket. Clothes had a tendency to make it from washer to tumble dryer and then into a pile on the worktop in the boot room, where they’d be hauled out in a tangle of socks and winter long johns. Often they stayed there, the plastic washing basket acting as a makeshift wardrobe. There wasn’t much time at either end of the day for sorting out domestic stuff, and Ella had loved Bron’s cavalier attitude to housework and laundry when she was a child. Having grown up with her father’s military organizational skills, she was drawn to her aunt’s comfortable chaos. Her mother, Bron said, smiling reminiscently, had always been bloody untidy as well. It was in the genes.

  ‘Iron?’ Ella laughed as she buttered some toast. ‘We are going to town, aren’t we?’

  ‘If you’re going to be in the Mid Wales Argus, I want you looking respectable. I can do that for you before I go, at least.’

  ‘Do we even own an iron?’

  From the boot room came a clatter, the sound of some cardboard boxes falling over, and several swear words.

  ‘Yes. I knew it was in here somewhere. Hope it still works.’

  ‘I’m going to go and give the horses a bit of a brush, make them look half decent in case she wants a photo.’

  By the time she had taken advantage of the unseasonably warm sunshine to take off the waterproof rugs of every horse – apart from tough little Binnie, who grew a thick enough coat that she could survive a winter on the mountains by herself – Ella was covered in a layer of dust and horse hair.

  Taking a brush, she groomed each of the horses quickly, running the bristles through the silken strands of mane, smoothing the hair of their winter coats where the rugs had left it ruffled. They all looked beautiful. She, on the other hand, looked like she’d been rolling on the dusty all-weather surface of the arena.

  ‘Hell’s bells, girl,’ said Bron, who was folding a reluctant, squeaking ironing board. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Eight horses.’

  ‘I should go and get in the shower if I were you.’

  Ella kicked off her boots with a resigned sigh, taking the neatly ironed polo shirt from her aunt.

  ‘Not bad, considering neither me nor the iron have done anything like that in blooming years.’

  ‘Maybe you could earn a few bob in Australia, get yourself a holiday job?’

  ‘Don’t push it.’ Bron pursed her lips in mock-warning. ‘You get yourself cleaned up. I’ll go and give the office and waiting room a bit of a sort out.’

  Ella stood in the shower, washing the dust and dirt out of her hair, trying to convince herself that the interview wasn’t a terrible mistake. She and Bron trundled along quite happily, except – she upended a bottle and squeezed out the last of the conditioner – they didn’t have a bean in the bank for contingencies. One unexpected bill and she was screwed. She’d spoken to Maddie, her mentor, about a pioneering scheme that was being offered by some NHS trusts. If she could get approval for that, and get referrals . . .

  Maybe that could work. But it was a massive leap out of her all-too-safe comfort zone. She ducked her head under the hot water of the shower and tried to clear her busy mind.

  Stepping out of the shower and drying herself, she looked out of the window and across the hill. There were a fair few people in the village who thought she was up to something akin to witchcraft – using horses to help people overcome emotional issues was a new, and at the same time very old, form of treatment. Back in the desert past, the Arabian ancestors of her own horses would have lived in the tents with their Bedouin owners, and a bond, once made, was made for life. That special connection, Ella was sure, was why her horses worked so well with people.

  In the far distance she could see the tiny white speck of a cottage across the valley. If the inhabitants of the cottage had binoculars, she realized, they’d be able to see right into her bathroom window, which had never had any kind of blind or covering. It was lucky that people didn’t come round that side of the cottage as a –

  Ella pulled the towel around herself with a start. She looked down, catching a glimpse of what looked like the same dark-haired little girl she’d seen before, standing at the gate at the back of the garden, looking straight up through the window.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Ella stepped back out of view, feeling herself blushing scarlet. When she looked back again, there was no sign of the girl. At least Ella knew now that she hadn’t imagined her earlier sighting. She’d have to find out who the girl was, somehow.

  She looked into the toothpaste-splattered mirror and noted the dark shadows under her eyes. She rinsed her mouth with water and patted her face dry, taking a moment to rub in some of the expensive face cream she’d bought ages ago but always forgot to use. One day, if she wasn’t careful, she’d look into the mirror and see Bron’s face looking back at her. She peered more closely, checking her parting for any signs of grey hairs.

  The crunch of gravel and the sound of a car alerted her, and the metal yard gates squealed a warning. It must be Miranda – early, and in typical journalist fashion no doubt making herself welcome by wandering around all over the place where she wasn’t wanted. Ella felt her stomach sink with dread and old, familiar memories, and took a deep breath.

  Not all journalists, she reminded herself. This one is kind and nice and wants to talk about the horses, not me. She threw the towel over the radiator to dry and pulled on her clothes.

  Knowing Miranda was probably downstairs by now, she hastily rubbed her hair dry before attempting to blast it into submission with the hairdryer. After a couple of minutes the dryer started emitting a weird smell and humming. Ella peered down the barrel: the heating element was glowing an alarming, fiery red. She switched it off and unplugged it. The last thing she needed was her hairdryer bursting into flames.

  She pulled open the drawer of her dressing table and found a stray lipstick, applying it quickly. It was bright scarlet – left over from one of Lissa’s attempts to make her more glamorous and less yokel-like. There wasn’t a tissue to hand, so she pulled her old T-shirt off the floor and wiped most of it off with the hem. Sophisticated to the last, she thought to herself, throwing it back onto the side of the bath. It slithered off and landed in a puddle of water.

  ‘Ah, there you are.’ Bron, putting a cosy over the teapot, looked up from the kitchen table. Miranda, perched on the edge of one of the rickety wooden chairs, clearly didn’t quite know what to do with herself. The space where she might put her elbows or even a notepad was – as always – swimming with the oceans of crap
that floated through their daily lives. Ella lifted the Farmers’ Weekly and a copy of Horse & Hound, and shoved two of Bron’s Georgette Heyer novels onto the dresser.

  ‘Sorry I’m a bit late –’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Miranda, her pale blue eyes wide. ‘Being early is a very bad habit of mine.’ Her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. ‘Didn’t mean to catch you unawares.’

  I bet you did, thought Ella. Classic journalist trick. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘I suppose you’re not used to having people wandering around the place unannounced.’

  ‘Not really.’ Ella sat down opposite her, shoving a wobbling pile of paperwork to one side. She picked up the teapot and shook it slightly, before putting it down again. Her hands were trembling. This was a hideous mistake.

  ‘I’ve seen far worse, don’t worry,’ said Miranda, cheerfully. She took out a notebook and put it down on the newly cleared space on the table.

  ‘There’s biscuits here on a plate,’ said Bron, ‘and there’s a plug over there, if you need one for your laptop or whatever it is you use.’

  She motioned to the wall by the dresser where the dogs lay in a heap on their bed, tails wagging lazily. Cleo raised her head, noticing she was being pointed at, half-hoping for a walk.

  ‘Not you,’ said Bron, firmly. Cleo’s head sunk back down onto the pillow she was resting on.

  Miranda sat back in her chair as Bron left the room with a novel under her arm. She was off to curl up, as was her wont, by the fire in the cosy little book-lined sitting room where she’d lose herself for hours in Regency romance, the light from the log burner filling the room with a warm golden glow. Ella felt a pang of envy.

  ‘This place is so cosy!’ Miranda pulled out a pen from the top pocket of her shirt and fiddled with her phone.

  ‘D’you mind if I record our chat? I’m hopeless with shorthand, and it’s far easier for me to go back over it if I’ve got it all here on the phone.’

  Ella felt her eyes widening in panic and her throat tightening. Her pulse was racing in her chest. She took an unsteady breath, placing both of her hands flat, palm down, on the table. Exhaling, she realized she was beginning to tremble.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Miranda looked at her curiously.

  ‘I’m fine.’ She pushed back her chair and made for the kitchen sink, pouring a glass of water. She took a sip slowly and carefully, trying to manage her body’s reaction. Panic attacks were rare for her now, partly because she’d learned to recognize the signs and stop them in their tracks. But it didn’t always work. Her heart was thudding against her ribcage.

  ‘Would you excuse me for just a moment? I’ve just realized I’ve forgotten to double-lock one of the gates.’

  She turned, hands by her sides, palms flat against her legs. She was convincing her body that she felt calm.

  ‘Of course, that’s fine.’ Miranda smiled at her. ‘I can’t seem to get a mobile reception here. Is there a wi-fi password?’

  ‘Violet1867,’ said Ella quickly. ‘I’ll just be two minutes.’

  She closed the door and flopped back against the cold stone of the farmhouse wall outside. The air was sharp on her cheeks.

  Come on, she told herself. This is a new start. You NEED this to work. She took another long, slow breath and let the air out, counting to five in her head. Her pulse rate steadied. It was ridiculous that she’d dedicated her life to helping people overcome their own traumas, and here she was hiding from a journalist and trying to fight the overwhelming urge to jump in her car and drive miles away.

  ‘You OK to start?’ Miranda, tapping at her phone, looked up with a smile as Ella came back into the kitchen. Ella pulled out the chair, tucked herself in and sat up very straight, allowing as much oxygen as possible to get into her lungs. She nodded briefly.

  ‘Course.’

  Miranda tapped her phone again and hit record.

  Ella paused, her eyes on the red button on the phone screen.

  ‘You’re OK with me recording this?’

  ‘Mmm.’ She couldn’t trust herself to speak. We need the money, she reminded herself, lifting up a copy of the local paper and putting it down carefully on top of the heap of bills so that Miranda couldn’t read them upside down.

  ‘So, you’ve got a gorgeous set-up here,’ she began. ‘And it’s your aunt’s farm?’

  ‘Mine now, actually.’

  Bron had signed the house and land over to Ella a couple of years ago, for a token sum. That way, she’d said, looking unusually serious, if anything happened, she wouldn’t be stung with death duties, or whatever they had these days.

  ‘Lucky you.’ Miranda looked across the kitchen at the battered red Aga, the flagstone floor and the window which looked out over the valley, the sweeping sky bright blue above the hills. ‘This place is super sweet.’

  ‘I like to think that when clients come up here they can get away from it all, and find a place of refuge. That’s why I came here to –’ Careful, thought Ella. It would be all too easy to let things spill out by accident.

  Miranda inclined her head a little to one side and raised her eyebrows ever so slightly, questioning.

  ‘To . . .?’ Her pen hovered over her notebook.

  Ella was firm. ‘For the first clients that came here. That’s when I realized that what we had was something very special.’

  ‘And how did you get into equine – therapy? Is that what you call it?’

  ‘I had a psychology degree, and I was doing postgrad research,’ Ella began, cautiously. She didn’t add that she’d stopped her research abruptly and never returned to it. ‘And then I went to Lancashire, and trained alongside a woman called Maddie who was doing some amazing work with autistic children. I realized that it would be good to work with people who were suffering from emotional upset or trauma, and that the horses have a way of helping people to open up.’

  Miranda glanced for a split second at the teapot. ‘Shall I?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Ella took off the cosy and poured tea into the two flowery mugs Bron had left on the table.

  Miranda took the milk jug in one hand and lifted it.

  She was young, Ella thought, but she was clearly very astute. She wouldn’t last long on a local paper before she was off, probably headed for online work or television. A journalist needed to give the impression of a warm nature, of being just like you. That was the easiest way of instantly building a rapport with people. It was a case of being a chameleon. Miranda smiled at her, and Ella thought to herself that she wasn’t going to fall for it on any level. She sat up, adjusting the collar of her shirt.

  ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Just milk, thanks.’

  ‘So you use the horses to help get your clients to relax? And then do you do therapeutic work with them on a one-to-one basis? Counselling, that sort of thing?’

  ‘To a degree, yes, it comes out as part of the process. But really the work is about helping people to rediscover themselves. Working with such big animals, getting them to behave in a manner that you’ve suggested – it’s incredibly beneficial. Makes people feel like perhaps they can make the changes they need to in their own lives.’

  ‘Do you find it helps you?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Ella leaned forward, taking a mouthful of tea before looking out through the glass door. She could see Sweetbriar’s head snaking forward out of the stable door, peering out to look at the herd in the outdoor arena. There was a muffled clattering as she banged an impatient hoof against the stable door. ‘Yes, of course, working with horses was my dream, so I’m very lucky.’

  ‘And do you ride them?’

  Ella shook her head.

  ‘Really? What a shame. I can’t imagine having all these horses and not wanting to go riding up in the hills here. Aren’t you tempted at all?’

  ‘I spend enough time up the hill tending to them in winter.’ Ella took hold of a lock of hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail and twisted it absent-mindedly around a finger. ‘I
don’t miss riding.’

  ‘You used to ride, though.’

  It wasn’t a question. Ella felt a warning chill.

  She put the mug down and pushed her chair back, the legs screeching on the flagstone floor. ‘Do you want to come and have a look at the herd? If you bring your phone we can chat out there, and I can explain what we do – maybe show you some of the equipment we use?’

  ‘If there’s something you want to discuss off the record, I can always switch the recorder off – I won’t quote you on it, but it might give a flavour to the interview? We’re always looking for a bit of human interest for these sorts of things.’

  ‘There’s nothing,’ said Ella, holding the door open. She pulled a jacket, stamped on the back with the business name, from the hook by the back door and shrugged it on. The sunshine was deceptive, and it was still November crisp outside.

  ‘And there’s just you and your aunt – Bron, wasn’t it?’ Miranda was holding the phone, cupping a hand around the microphone to protect it from the wind that was whistling around the side of the barn.

  ‘Us and the dogs,’ said Ella, motioning to Bob and Cleo, who were sniffing around the wheels of Miranda’s car. On cue, Bob, the scruffy little rough-coated Jack Russell, cocked his leg and peed vigorously against the alloy wheels. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’

  There was a flurry of whickering as the horses jostled forward, reaching out with their noses, hopeful faces in search of treats.

  ‘Actually –’ Ella remembered she had a secondary motive. ‘Bron’s leaving soon for Australia, to visit family for a few months. I’m planning to take someone on to help out. Maybe you could mention that in the article?’

  ‘I’m sure I can fit it in.’ Miranda stepped back as one of the horses nudged hopefully at her arm. Ella gave him a look, and he stepped backwards politely. ‘So you’re a sort of horse whisperer, too.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Ella laughed. ‘I use a clicker to train them, so they learn from their first days how to behave if they want treats. It means they respond to my body language – but horses do that instinctively, anyway. Watch this.’