Snow Foal--the perfect Christmas book for children

by Susanna Bailey

  ‘Want your mam too, don’t you?’ Addie said, her words ragged, thin. She covered her face with her hands and tried to control her own breathing. When she moved them away, the foal was staring at her, his wide dark eyes shimmering in the yellow light.

  ‘Hello,’ Addie said.

  The foal stretched his neck towards her, struggled to move his body free of the blankets. Addie saw that his mane was wild with knots and caked with mud. A shrivelled leaf clung there.

  She slid down on to the straw and reached towards him, her hand hovering, unsure. The foal nudged it with a velvet nose, then rested his head on her knee. It was as light as air; barely there at all. Addie kept still; hardly dared to breathe. She watched his long eyelashes flutter and close; smelled his earthy scent.

  ‘That’s it,’ she whispered. ‘You just sleep.’

  ‘It’s amazing,’ Sam told Ruth. ‘Not even Gabe could get near that foal.’

  Ruth looked up from her mixing bowl, pointed towards Addie with a buttery spoon. ‘Well done, Addie,’ she said. ‘You’ve got the magic touch.’

  Sunni bounced into the kitchen. A rainbow-bright bag swung from her shoulder.

  ‘Who has?’ she said.

  Addie shrugged. ‘I just sat there,’ she told Sam.

  ‘Oh, her,’ Sunni said. She flung herself on to the chair opposite Addie; glared at her.

  Gabe took off his jacket. He leaned over Ruth’s shoulder, stuck a finger into her mixing bowl and wandered across to Sunni. He placed a dollop of yellow cake mixture on her nose and grinned at Addie. ‘Like I said, Addie, you’re the chosen one.’

  ‘I wouldn’t choose her for anything,’ Sunni muttered. She shook the contents of her bag on to the table. A purple slipper and a torn magazine fell to the floor.

  ‘Dirty clothes in the washer, please, Sunni,’ Ruth said. ‘And let’s try to be kind, shall we?’

  Sam raised his eyebrows at Sunni. She bundled her nightdress, jumper and jeans back into the bag, picked up her magazine. ‘So-rry,’ she said.

  She wasn’t.

  No one was ever sorry. Not the boys in Addie’s street, with their sharp, twisting finger burns on her skin. Not the girls who blew smoke in her face outside Mr Borovski’s shop, and called her mam names as she hurried past them.

  Addie lifted her chin and looked away. Sunni wasn’t important. But just let her say one thing about her mam.

  Sam sat down, held his hands towards the fire. ‘What Gabe means, Addie, is that it’s something special – that sort of affinity with a wild creature. That foal’s so young and scared, too. To be honest, we thought he would shut down and give up. So did the vet.’

  ‘Better hang around a bit after all, Addie,’ Sunni said. ‘Or he might die.’ She picked up her magazine, flicked through the pages. ‘No pressure.’

  Sam glanced at Ruth. He looked back at Sunni, his mouth a firm line. ‘How much sleep did you get at Mira’s, young lady?’

  Sunni shrugged.

  ‘Gabe, how about you give Sunni another guitar lesson?’ Ruth said. ‘She needs something to do, I think.’

  ‘Come on then, trouble,’ Gabe said. ‘Long as you promise not to play better than me this time.’

  ‘Lunch in half an hour, mind,’ Ruth called as Sunni jumped to her feet. She put a tray of muffin cases on the table. ‘Perhaps you’d like to help me with these, Addie. Then we can ice them later.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ said Addie. ‘No. Thanks.’

  ‘It’s all that pony whispering,’ said Sam. ‘Hard work.’ He stretched back in the chair, crossed his ankles and ran his hands over his shock of dark hair. Addie watched him. He seemed so calm and relaxed. Was he always that way?

  Addie jumped as Ruth slammed the oven door closed.

  ‘Don’t let me forget those cakes, Addie,’ she said. ‘They’re a new recipe. I’m practising for Jude’s birthday cake.’

  ‘It’s his birthday?’ said Addie. ‘When? Is his mam coming?’

  ‘No, love, she isn’t.’ But we’ll make it really special for him, won’t we?’ She smiled at Addie. ‘Its next month. Soon be here.’

  Addie put her head in her hands. Why wasn’t anybody listening? She wasn’t going to be here next month. She wasn’t going to be here for even one more day.

  Sam shifted in his chair, cleared his throat. Ruth’s hand was on Addie’s shoulder.

  Addie pulled away and clattered up the stairs. She threw herself on her bed, listened to the twang of Sunni’s guitar through the wall. Gabe’s voice rose and fell; Sunni giggled. Addie curled in a tight ball and thought of the foal under his blankets in the dark barn. She hoped he wouldn’t give up and fade away now that she’d left him all alone.

  The snow didn’t stop the next day or the one after that. Penny didn’t come.

  She rang, said that she’d be there just as soon as the snow let up a bit. She said Mam sent her love and that she was doing OK. Her voice went up at the end of the sentence, like she was making that bit it up – wishing that it was true.

  The rain arrived on Saturday. And Penny was coming, too. Even though it was the weekend. Addie didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one. Jude’s social worker, Tim, was giving Penny a lift in his special jeep, which was good for winter weather. Addie wondered why nobody had thought of that before.

  Her stomach tightened every time she thought about what Penny might say when she got here. Might she take Addie home, after all?

  Addie couldn’t swallow her toast at breakfast. She didn’t feel like talking, so she curled up on the window seat and pretended to read. Rain hit the window in fat circles, then ran to the sill in crazy rivers; stole the frost feathers from the glass. Addie kept an eye on the tall clock by the door. Its black hands never seemed to move.

  Ruth brought Jude into the kitchen, fresh from the shower. His hair twisted in damp ringlets on his forehead. His wide blue eyes scanned the room and held Addie’s for a small moment.

  ‘Jude’s going to help make some scones, aren’t you?’ Ruth said. ‘Penny and Tim can have some with their coffee.’ She put an enormous mixing bowl on the table. ‘Want to help, Addie?’ She went to a cupboard, began piling ingredients on the bench and took milk from the fridge.

  ‘Dunno,’ Addie said. Social workers drank lots of coffee. She knew that. But she wasn’t sure they should get scones to go with it.

  Jude sat down at the table, his face barely visible above the rim of the bowl. He stared at Addie, wooden spoon in hand.

  ‘OK then,’ Addie said. ‘I suppose.’

  She and Jude stirred butter and sugar, piled glistening cherries into the bowl. It was hard work. Addie’s arms ached.

  Jude held the sieve while she tipped in flour bit by bit. It lifted in a white cloud when he shook the sieve, dusted their wrists and hands. Addie faked a huge sneeze. Jude’s lips twitched, as if he might smile. He didn’t. Maybe he had forgotten how to do that too.

  ‘Goodness,’ Ruth said, laughing, ‘it’s snowing indoors now!’

  She showed them how to push the sticky mixture from the spoon with one finger; how to make little piles on silver trays for the oven. Jude screamed at Ruth about a speck of mixture on his T-shirt. Ruth took him upstairs to change.

  Addie thought they would be a while. That was the only T-shirt Jude had agreed to wear since Addie arrived. She went back to the window seat and peered through the blur of rain into the yard. She breathed in the warm smell of the scones as they baked. She tried to remember the last time she had baked with Mam – kneeling on a chair to reach the table, feeling the crack of eggshell under her thumb, the yellow stickiness of yolk between her fingers and running down her arm. She heard Mam’s voice. ‘Go on, never mind, Addie. Try another . . .’

  She thought of the eggs in Ruth and Sam’s henhouse; of the mother hens, with their nodding heads and ugly claws, their wing feathers softly spread to protect their babies inside those fragile shells.

  She tried to hear Mam’s voice again. It wouldn’t come.

/>   Feet thundered down the stairs and the kitchen door swung wide. It banged against the wall. Sunni struggled in, laptop clutched to her chest, books and a bunch of papers tucked under her arm. She slid the laptop on to the table and thumped the books down. Pieces of paper slid to the floor.

  ‘Don’t help then,’ she said.

  ‘OK,’ Addie said. ‘I won’t.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, Ruth said you had to work in the bedroom. On your own.’ She hoped that Ruth wouldn’t be gone too long after all.

  Ruth appeared a minute or two later, holding a red-faced Jude by the hand. He was still wearing his Batman T-shirt. It had a dark, wet patch right across Batman’s face. Jude was holding the damp material away from his body, his nose wrinkled in disgust.

  ‘Sit here, Jude,’ Ruth said, pointing to the rocking chair by the fire. ‘It’ll dry before Tim gets here, don’t worry.’

  ‘He won’t be here for ages,’ said Sunni. ‘The roads will be even worse now, all icy under the snow. His jeep will probably get stuck.’

  Addie glared at her. Sunni flicked her hair over her shoulders and bent over her books. ‘Mira’s dad said,’ she added, as if that meant it must be true. ‘He does loads of driving.’

  ‘I think they’ll be fine, Sunni,’ Ruth said. She smiled at Addie and Jude. ‘Tim’s car has special tyres for the snow, hasn’t it, Jude? It’ll get icy overnight, for sure. But not yet.’ She handed Sunni a glass of milk. ‘You might be better off in your room, Sunni, love,’ she said, ‘or in the snug. You need to concentrate on that homework and get it finished.’

  ‘Don’t see why I have to do it anyway,’ Sunni said. ‘On a Saturday.’

  ‘Because you didn’t want to do it on a Friday!’ Ruth laughed, shook her head. ‘I don’t know! See how you get on at the table in here then. But no annoying the other two, or back you go.’

  Sunni smirked at Addie, sat down and opened the laptop. Addie turned away; listened to the tap of Sunni’s fingers on the keys, the clatter of tins, the surge of the water, as Ruth washed the baking things in the sink. Ruth was always so busy. Addie should offer to help. She didn’t.

  Jude curled up in the rocking chair, his knees under his chin. Widget jumped on his lap. He pushed him off, brushed at his trousers. Addie watched him rock back and forth; back and forth. The wooden rockers ticked off the seconds on the tiled floor.

  Sunni looked up from the laptop and slammed it shut. ‘I’m too tired,’ she said. She pointed at Addie with her pen. ‘Why doesn’t she have to do school work?’ She pulled her mouth down at the edges. ‘Think you’re so lucky, Addie,’ she said. ‘But you’re going to get miles behind everyone else. Not so lucky then.’

  Ruth shook her head. ‘What did I say, Sunni?’ She smiled an apology at Addie. Her eyes were kind; crinkled at the corners. ‘You’ll be fine, Addie,’ she said. ‘We’ll make sure you catch up before you go. You can join Gabe for his home-school sessions, if you like. It’ll be fun, I promise.’

  ‘Right,’ Sunni said. She snorted, looked away.

  Ruth dried her hands on a red-spotted tea towel. ‘You’re really a kind girl, Sunni, I know. So let’s have no more of that. Come on, show me how far you’ve got.’ She sat down next to Sunni, opened the laptop and rested an arm across Sunni’s shoulders.

  ‘I like school work,’ Addie said. ‘I like school. If I wasn’t stuck out here, I’d be there.’ She stretched out on the window seat, folded her arms behind her head. ‘And I wouldn’t keep moaning about homework.’

  She missed school. She did.

  School the way it used to be.

  She remembered her first classrooms: the rainbow colours, the clamour of voices, the books with their secrets and puzzles. The new words that stretched her tongue; the new ideas that made her brain fizz. She remembered the shiny corridors, the smell of polish and roast potatoes; the soft, sticky warmth of Hattie’s hand in hers as they skipped on summer grass.

  Hattie. Her best friend. Forever.

  She saw herself standing on the playground wall next to Hattie, arms outstretched: a small tightrope walker, balanced and sure, the sun warm on her bare arms. She tried to hold the memory, to be that Addie again, there in Ruth’s kitchen.

  The memory blurred; trickled away like the rivers of rain on the window. The tightrope walker was gone.

  She saw herself sitting on the playground wall, swinging her legs as if everything was fine. She saw Hattie, watched her run hand in hand with Lola Smythe.

  She saw Daren Oates and his stupid mates, heard their jeering calls:

  ‘Hey, Adelaide Forgettable Jones!’

  ‘Where’s your mam this time, then?’

  ‘Oh, wait. Everyone knows where she’ll be . . .’

  The front door clicked open, wrenched Addie from the memory. Boots stamped in the hallway.

  Addie felt sick. Really sick. She chewed at her nails.

  The door slammed shut again.

  ‘No sign yet,’ Sam shouted. ‘I’ll just get out of these clothes.’

  Jude sighed. Addie glanced over at him. His head was tucked down low on his chest, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He was waiting too, hunched and huddled like the cold birds on the barn roof. Addie wished she could cheer him up. She didn’t know how.

  Ruth was next to her, a large cardboard box under one arm.

  ‘You OK, there?’ she said. ‘Miles away, eh?’

  Addie nodded.

  ‘Have a look through these,’ Ruth said. She opened the flaps of the box. ‘Come on, Jude. You too. Best keep busy while you both wait. And your turn for the laptop too, Addie, if you like. Sunni needs to work from her books for a bit.’

  ‘Typical,’ Sunni said. She picked up a book, pushed it away again.

  Addie got up. ‘Thanks,’ she said. Anything to make the time go quicker. Anything to annoy Sunni. She crossed to the table.

  The box was crammed with craft materials: cracked lumps of clay wrapped in film, pots of modelling dough – green, pink and blue, a ball of striped string, bundles of ribbon, buttons in a jar and rolls of rough grey paper. ‘Look, Jude,’ she said. ‘Clay and stuff. Come and see.’

  Jude didn’t move. Perhaps he would come if she ignored him.

  Addie spread the contents of the box on the table for him to see. She opened the laptop. She typed ‘Exmoor’ into the search bar. Maybe she could find out exactly where she was. How far she was from home.

  She scrolled through pages of text, complicated maps and shots of moorland: summer green, with a wide blue sky that Addie could not imagine here; red and gold autumn scenes, a haze of purple heather across sloping fields. And, of course, the ice-white winter stillness that she already knew so well.

  There were grainy black and white photographs of tall stones like the ones Addie had seen in a book about Stonehenge. Crumbling buildings, shepherds with long beards and thin pipes, dogs like Flo. And ponies. Herds of brown ponies with dark tangled manes and black almond-shaped eyes. A tiny foal feeding from its red-coated mother. A group of larger foals leaping on strong black legs. Their coats were sleek and smooth: nothing like the shaggy chaos that covered the foal in the barn.  ‘Exmoor youngsters in their summer coats,’ Addie read, ‘having fun together under the watchful eyes of their mothers and their herd.’

  Jude was beside her. She smiled at him.

  ‘Exmoor ponies, Jude. Look. Like the one Flo and Gabe found in the snow.’

  Jude stared at the screen. He pointed at the small foal with its mother. His thin finger trembled. The images on the screen swam. Addie closed the page and pushed the laptop away.

  ‘How about we make one – a pony – out of clay?’ she said. ‘And a boy, like you, for its friend?’

  Jude sat down. Next to Addie. He reached for a ball of clay and rolled it towards her.

  Eleven o’clock. Still no Penny and Tim.

  Gabe appeared at the window, his face distorted by the rain. He knocked, pressed his nose against the glass.

  Ruth opened the window. A blast of cold,
damp air rushed into the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry, Ma,’ Gabe said. ‘Can’t come in. Pig-pen boots. Particularly rich in there today.’ He wiped raindrops from strands of hair that had escaped from his sodden beanie hat, and looked across at Sunni.

  ‘The foal needs you, Addie. He still won’t take his breakfast from me. I tried twice, but I don’t match up. Obviously.’

  ‘I’ll come,’ Addie said. She was glad to escape the kitchen with its slowly ticking clock; glad to escape the warm, sweet smells that made her feel nauseous today. ‘Bet I’ll be finished before Penny even gets here.’

  ‘Get some proper waterproofs on,’ Gabe said. ‘Or you’ll be looking as good as me – difficult though that would be.’ He turned up his collar. ‘I’ll go and do the hens, Ma, while Addie works her magic on the foal. Save you getting soaked later, as well.’ He pushed the window shut.

  Addie left Jude with his clay figures. She would make more later, she promised. Unless Penny was taking her home.

  Addie squeezed round the barn door. ‘Only me,’ she said.

  The foal whinnied softly. His pale muzzle appeared at the edge of his stall. He struggled to his feet as Addie came close, pushed up with his long back legs and unfolded his front ones – slowly – as if it was still a puzzle to get them all to work together.

  ‘Well done,’ Addie said.

  He took a tentative step towards her, nudged the bucket in her hands.

  ‘You want this first? Go on then.’

  Addie put the bucket of mixed feed on the straw in front of him. She rested the bottle of milk on the makeshift seat Gabe had made her. The foal’s head disappeared inside the bucket. She watched him eat. His jaws slid from side to side as he chewed; his teeth scraped at the metal base of the bucket.

  ‘You’re starving today, aren’t you?’ she said.

  The foal looked up at Addie. Bits of mixed meal clung to his lashes and decorated his nose. He blinked, shook his head; wobbled on his thin legs.