It was Pax who had possessed her parents’ eye for a stride, and that divine seat which could rebalance itself faster than a finger-click, lower leg never moving, no matter how wild the leap or steep the landing. She’d been bred to hunt. And yet she’d refused to do so almost as soon as she’d graduated from a Shetland’s basket chair to a saddle. It was cruel, she’d protested at the grand age of five, red plaits swinging, indomitably, politely stubborn even then. Despite the Captain roaring with laughter and barking, ‘She’ll change her mind soon enough!’ she hadn’t altered her opinion over the ensuing twelve years, during which little Pax Ledwell had grown to become one of the most stylish riders Lester had seen, selected absurdly young for British junior teams, tipped to be the next big three-day eventing sensation, the perfect emissary for the stud’s young horses. Hers was a different courage to her mother’s: not blood-and-guts Percy sportsmanship, but something altogether more cool-headed and analytical that Lester had recognised with an element of concern, that suspension of fear which was almost superhuman. Like her father Johnny…
Then, at seventeen, she’d visited her brother in London one school holiday and never come back to pick up the reins again. Lester still didn’t know precisely why, although he sensed it was no coincidence she’d been walking out with young Bay Austen all that summer. At the time, the Captain had brushed it off with talk of academic ambitions, but it struck Lester as most unlikely. She had been ethereal on a horse.
When Pax had taken herself off, Lester had been bereft. It had been like losing Ronnie all over again. Barely eighteen months old when her mother had left, Pax had always been his compensation, the little redhaired Percy cub he’d taken under his wing. Johnny was already too reliant on the bottle to make much of a fist of fatherhood, his emotions buried alive. After his death, Lester and Pax had become even more inseparable, united by their faith in the power of horses to heal grief. Her nature was so different from her siblings, both forthright Percy terriers who snarled to get to the bowl while she hung back through kindness. The most intuitive of all Johnny’s children, she’d had a way with nervous mares, and her husky, jazz-singer’s voice was beautiful, a choirgirl at school who sang like Nina Simone at home.
Lester had seen very little of her after she decamped to London, fleeting visits when she’d shown no great interest in the horses, always in a hurry, distractedly polite. He’d stored each snippet of news he was told – which was little, Jocelyn and Ann Percy being taciturn, pragmatic sorts – patiently piecing together a picture of a woman quite unlike the girl he’d known, a drifter in a cosmopolitan herd when once she’d galloped a straight line. He’d been even more dumbfounded when she’d married Malcolm ‘Mack’ Forsyth, a divorced Scot twenty years her senior whom Lester thought very brash. They’d moved to Argyll to start a family, and the Percys had seen even less of Pax until Ann’s illness years later, a cancer so aggressive there was barely time to adjust, her youngest granddaughter travelling from one end of the country to the other to visit, toddler on her hip, tears in her big, golden hare’s eyes when it turned out the stud’s lifeforce was frail and mortal after all.
Lester listened to the owl screeching again. He refused to bow to superstitious nonsense. Death came to them all, and for Ann it had been ignoble but merciful. Full of gin and morphine to kill the pain of the cancer eating at her bones, she’d nodded off in the bath with a cigarette on the go and started a fire, smoke inhalation suffocating her in her sleep. They’d caught the blaze before it spread, and she’d been spared the slow and agonising bedridden death rattle she’d feared most of all.
Soon afterwards Pax surprised them all by uprooting and moving her family and the business she and Mack ran to the Cotswolds, saying she wanted to spend more time with her grandfather. But Jocelyn withdrew himself, deeply antisocial and hard to like by the end. The grandchildren clashed over his care, Alice and Tim ganging up, undermining Pax. Yet the Captain had adored his youngest granddaughter, convinced right up to his death that he’d one day breed the horse to persuade her back in the saddle.
Lester watched the colt flick his head again and trot off on springs.
That’s one for Pax, the Captain repeated in his head.
As far as Lester was aware, Pax hadn’t ridden since she was a teenager. She’d seemed to lose the passion for horses totally, almost overnight. Even today, she was detached and cerebral around them. Lester found himself disappointed in her, irritated by her ambivalence.
The owl shriek had moved further away, to the spinney beyond the walled garden, making him breathe out with relief.
The bigger stable yard was icy underfoot. He took it very steadily. The cobbles were precarious, and his hips were aching. The doctors said he needed an operation, but he couldn’t take time off even if he wanted to.
Grumbling to Stubbs that there would be no hunting if the frost lingered – and none if he didn’t get the yard done in time – he set about distributing hay nets and hard feeds.
Ronnie’s grey stallion was even more het up than usual, wired by last night’s midnight fireworks exploding across the valley from the Austens’ farm and by Lester’s impatience. The two had built a begrudging respect over the weeks that Beck had lived at the stud, but this was all too easily undermined by displays of temper on either side.
Today, eyes like coal and nostrils two scarlet commas, he struck out at his side wall, bit at the bars and then turned to fire his hind feet at the door.
Lester had quickly learned that Beck was all show: fierce dragon snorting and ear-splitting bellows, teeth bared, neck snaking, hooves lashing out to spark off the flags and rattle the partitions, the door jumping in its hinges. Reaching for the bolts, he ignored him, quashing the instinctive wariness he always felt when handling the horse. Rigidly disciplined in Germany, the stallion had been taught to stand at the back of his stall the moment the door was opened, glaring at the intruder who dared invade his space to attach a head collar, skip out, change nets or refill water. Today, he was particularly ratty, lingering just long enough to nip hard at the old man’s shoulder.
‘Gerrof, you devil,’ Lester muttered, raising a hand. Although a royal wave not a threat, it was enough to send the stallion slamming to the back wall, eyes white-edged, every nerve in his body alert.
Tutting, Lester cursed his arthritic fingers as they struggled to unknot the hay net which Pax had tied far too elaborately the previous afternoon. That girl! She’d forgotten everything he’d taught her. In his peripheral vision – much reduced these days – he could see that the stallion was head-bobbing agitatedly, ears flat back. Warning bells were ringing in Lester’s head, his owl shriek tinnitus, but he stilled them, patiently fiddling in the gloom. As he did so, the light from the yard’s tungsten floods spilled in, the stable door opening, a soft voice asking, ‘Need some help?’
‘Get out!’ Lester cried, eyes darting to the stallion.
Fast as a cobra, Beck lunged at the open door. In the nick of time, it was slammed shut, his bared teeth clashing against the bars. Then, tossing his great head, he spun to face the man still in his stable. One foreleg struck out and hammered down.
‘Get back with you,’ Lester muttered softly, lifting his chin, assessing the distance to the door. The horse’s head swung sideways, teeth raking against the wall, then dropped low, feet stamping again. Lester kept very still, aware that even a royal wave would provoke attack now. He had seconds at best.
The soft voice spoke at the door, ‘Just come here, you big wimp.’
‘You are not helping,’ Lester breathed.
‘Who’s being a silly bloody clot, eh?’
‘Really, madam, I’d rather you – argh!’ It happened too fast. The horse swung round to present his rear guns and Lester flattened himself against the wall, eyes tight closed, bracing himself for a body-breaking kick with both iron-shod hind feet.
It didn’t come. Instead he heard a soft laugh and slurping. Slowly, he opened his eyes again.
To his am
azement, the horse’s silver ears were pricked as he nosed the stallion bars, lifting his lip. He’d lost all interest in the man trespassing in his stable.
‘Budge up, big boy,’ came the soft voice and the stallion stepped back as the door opened again, a blonde head looking around it. ‘I’m so bloody sorry. Do you want to come out?’
It was the scruffy, tattooed blonde mother from the estate who Lester was forever catching pushing a buggy full of snotty infants around the tracks. Ronnie had a soft spot for her.
‘Carly,’ she reminded him.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak without giving the tremble in his voice away. His heart was still thundering, adrenaline spiking. For a moment he’d thought the owl’s omen was coming true. As he brought out the empty hay nets, Carly thrust a sweet bag under his nose.
‘Cherry Tangfastics,’ she explained, offering him one. ‘Me and Ellis save them for lover boy here. He’ll do anything for one.’ To illustrate, Beck’s bristly pink and grey upper lip wobbled through the bars like an anteater’s snout.
‘That’s very good to know.’ Lester dusted himself down and glanced at his watch, as much to cover how flustered he was as check the time. He already knew he would never get the yard done in time to set off for the meet if he worked alone. He eyed the girl doubtfully; elfin features, lopsided ponytails, ripped jeans and painted nails. She hardly looked strong enough to lift a bucket. Ronnie’s temporary recruits were a motley bunch, press-ganged into volunteering for a few hours at a time until the new manager arrived. He was furious with Pip for letting the side down. For all the pink wellies and chatter, she was as strong as an ox. The two of them had coped perfectly well for months. ‘Did Mrs Ledwell ask you to come along?’
She half nodded, half shrugged.
‘And your children?’
‘Still asleep round at their nan’s.’
‘You can fill hay nets.’
‘Yay!’ She did a little victory punch in the air which, despite himself, Lester found rather endearing.
The outdoor bell for the telephone started ringing. Grumbling, but aware that it might be Pax whose continued absence concerned him greatly, he limped into the cottage as quickly as he could. ‘Stud.’
‘I must speak with Luca O’Brien.’ It was man’s voice, American possibly, but hard to tell because he was snarling like a bear.
‘He’s not here, sir.’
‘I just spoke with his family in Ireland. They said he’s coming straight to you.’
‘Have you tried his portable telephone?’ Lester suggested.
‘He’s barred my number.’
‘In that case I suggest he might not wish to speak with you. Good day.’ He lifted the receiver towards the cradle.
‘Wait!’ The bellow was so loud he felt duty-bound to ask what the matter was.
‘I’ll leave him a message,’ was hissed. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Lester.’
‘Lester, tell O’Brien that if he comes anywhere near my daughter again, I’ll shoot him.’
‘And your name, sir?’
‘He’ll know.’
*
Across the dim hotel room, Luca eyed Pax from beneath the baseball cap, gauging her sobriety and sanity.
She was sitting up, wearing his crumpled clothes, long fingers rubbing her face.
He’d foolishly imagined Ronnie’s daughter would be just like her, a pocket-sized dynamo with no off-switch. But she was wired to self-destruct. They looked nothing alike; a head taller than her mother and freckled like an English foxglove, Patricia Forsyth was one of those bony, breedy British types who rattled with neuroses. If she had a battle with her sobriety that was sad – he’d been there recently enough to know its damage – but that was not his problem.
The stud was.
‘Are you awake yet?’ he asked smoothly.
She felt her wrist for a watch that wasn’t there. ‘What time is it?’
‘Seven.’
She clambered across the bed and sat on its edge, blinking as her head spun. ‘I’m so sorry; I didn’t introduce myself last night.’ Like Ronnie, her voice was throaty and velvet, but several semitones deeper. Her red hair, washed in shower gel and dried on a pillow, was a cloud of dull frizz, her face chalk white.
‘I knew well enough who you were.’
‘I can explain…’ She stood up shakily, having to grab at the borrowed breeches to stop them falling down.
‘Save it for later.’
Luca knew very little about the Percy family, but from what little he’d gleaned, Ronnie’s three children had wasted no time trying to sell off the once-legendary Cotswold stud after their grandfather died, and Luca’s summons here was to prove them wrong by steering it off the rocks and making it profitable again.
If Ronnie’s other two children were anything like Pax, those profits were being served on the rocks and knocked back in one.
The puppy wriggled out of his arms and bounded over to her, far more forgiving.
He stood up. ‘I want to make tracks. You have a car, I take it?’
‘Yes.’ She peered at her watch groggily.
‘I’ll drive,’ he said. ‘You’ll still have way too much alcohol in your system.’
‘I can drive.’ The treacle-topped voice was practised, like a newsreader reliant on autocue. ‘I just need something to eat first. So does that puppy.’
‘You’ll only throw it up. Liquids are better. You need hydrating. We’ll stop for breakfast on the way.’ He went into the bathroom, gathering their still-damp jeans which he wrapped in a plastic laundry bag and rammed in his pack along with the rest of her clothes. ‘You’ll have to tell the hotel about the damage the dog’s done.’
She was looking disconsolately round at the chewed flexes, chair legs and soft furnishings. ‘I need to make a list.’
‘Take photos on your phone. It’s quicker.’
‘The battery’s dead.’ She picked up a brace of phones, both screens blacked out. ‘So’s Mummy’s.’
There was something about women of his own generation who still said ‘Mummy’ that grated on Luca.
‘Why do you have your mother’s phone?’
‘She’s staying with friends. She left it behind.’
Now he knew why Ronnie’s number had gone to voicemail every time he’d called last night. So much for thinking she’d meet him at the airport, small and indomitable, arms thrown wide, that infectious laugh already coaxing him out of deep hibernation.
Instead, the chalk-faced daughter was standing in front of him. He could smell her hangover, sense the cold sweat and embarrassment. They were the same height, their eyes level. Hers were wide set and rust hazel, the whites bloodshot, nothing like her mother’s bright, piercing blue.
‘I really am sorry about last night,’ she faltered. He noticed how much her hands were shaking, belying the calmness in her voice, nails chewed right down. ‘There’s absolutely no excuse for behaving as I did.’ The apologetic drunk was a lot more buttoned-up when sober, it seemed. ‘I’d rather you didn’t say anything to my mother. To anybody, really.’
‘You could use some help, maybe.’
‘It was a one-off. New year, new me and all that.’ The soft voice was lullaby reassuring, as if she was reading a bedtime story, although she couldn’t look him in the eye for more than a split second at a time. ‘I overdid it, that’s all.’ She held up her hands to underline the point, then grabbed at the slipping breeches. ‘I wasn’t about to swing from a ceiling beam by my belt – I’m truly fine.’
He tilted his head to look at her, finding the soothing voice hard to read. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out a belt to hand her. ‘Try this.’
She looked at it in white-faced horror.
‘It’s to hold up your trousers,’ he said wearily. ‘Put it on and I’ll drive you home.’
She stooped to pick up her discarded bra and knickers and hurried into the bathroom.
*
Hoodie over
her bobble hat, Dua Lipa singing ‘New Rules’ in her ears, Carly swallowed yawns as she pushed the muck barrow over the damp cobbles, wrists jiggling like a car’s suspension, shoulders balancing like its axis, aware of the old man’s eyes on her, berry-black and critical.
After two hours doing exactly as Lester told her, keeping the pace up all the while, not pausing to talk or tea-break as dawn broke, she sensed he was grudgingly impressed. A compliment was hard won. As she wobbled up the plank onto the muck heap, upending the barrow, she heard him bellow behind her, cutting through the electric beat.
‘Not there!’ he snapped. ‘You emptied that far too soon. Look at this heap and tell me what you see.’
She took out an earbud. ‘It’s a big pile of horse shit.’
‘Look again.’ He stomped up the plank, proud architect in the grey morning light. ‘It’s stepped so that it heats up evenly and decomposes more efficiently, you see? Twelve feet high at the back there. It takes months of work to create a muck heap like this, young lady. It is a work of art.’
‘An Egyptian pyramid of poo, hey?’
She started wheeling back down but he lifted a hand like a traffic cop and stopped her, raising a thin smile. ‘The last girl we had was next to useless to start with too, but Pip did one thing very important. She listened. Now take those things out of your ears.’
She did as she was told, birdsong and crackly opera from a distant radio replacing pop. ‘I always play my downloads when I work.’
‘Not here.’
He wasn’t exactly chatty company, his own choice of dreary classical music droning constantly through the rattly loudspeaker in the feed room which she thought was hypocritical. And he was really slow and stiff. Wheeling beside him was like tailgating a Sunday driver. She wanted to accelerate off but guessed it was bad manners.
‘So does Pip still work here?’ she asked, needing to know where she stood with Ronnie’s staffing plans if she was going to make it a regular thing.
‘Not for me to say. I imagine Mr O’Brien will rota casual staff.’ It clearly pained him to say it. ‘Sweep that bit again, will you? It must be immaculate.’
The Country Lovers Page 14