Chapter 9 #2
“Pff . . . they never realize the best part of the changeover takes place over here. All the visitors will catch back there are the horses standing stock still for an hour,” the same officer remarks.
“The smart ones will figure it out sooner or later, Ian.”
I stop, recognizing the name. The MOD police officer looks like he’s about the same height as the guy who assisted me, but his face is obscured with a face mask. I don’t blame him, it’s freezing cold today. Yet another reason I hope I run into Sam. I want to get these silk thermals to him.
“Hello.” I walk up and wave. “Nice to see you again.”
He studies me for a moment. “Minerva?”
“That’s me.”
“I hope you’ll keep an eye on your bag today.”
I swivel my new lavender handbag from my hip to my front. “Uh-huh. You can count on it. I’ve even upgraded to an anti-theft model. This one is supposedly pickpocket proof and slash proof.”
“Good to hear.”
“Did the Met officers call you with any news?”
“No. I’m due to check in with them after three.”
“Well, let’s keep our fingers crossed for good news,” Ian says. “What brings you by Horse Guards today? Are you waiting for a certain soldier?”
My face warms. “Yes,” I admit.
“If it’s Trooper Baker you’re waiting on, I doubt his squadron will be in today.”
“Oh.” I lift my chin.
“Squadron A likely won’t return for three shifts.
” The muscles in my forehead tense. Noticing my confusion, Ian takes pity on me and explains, “Each regiment is divided into one of four squadrons. The Life Guards who were on duty this weekend are part of Squadron C. The Blues squadron they replaced on Friday were the A group. So I wager it’ll be the B squad entering today, but you never know, sometimes things change. ”
My eyes widen. “That makes sense.”
Why is it when I’m around Sam, my brain turns to mush, and I forget to use plain logic? Of course there would be other soldiers to rotate through working here.
Ian glances at his watch. “Either way, you’ll have your answer in about five minutes.”
Disappointed, I thank him, then slowly wander out the tunnel to the back. Checking my phone’s home screen, all I’m greeted by is a photo of an Impressionist painting. There is no message from Sam.
I take a wide route, walking around the assembled tourists. In the middle, like a circus ring, the Life Guards who rode out a few minutes ago are in a neat line. Two horses are throwing their heads, and their bridle chains jingle.
In the distance, two yellow-and-red-striped police cars turn off the street and onto the sand.
I stop to watch. Behind them is a mounted Met officer riding a dappled gray horse, followed by two lines of Blues soldiers.
Their gold helmets glisten in the morning sun.
Just as the lead horse enters the ring, the clock on the bell tower chimes eleven times.
The Blues’ horses walk in a semi-circle and re-form into one line. The lead rider gently pulls the reins of his horse, rides up to the Life Guards’ lead rider, and exchanges a few words.
A minute later, a powerful voice bellow, “Troopers, to your post.”
Five horses advance forward and turn left to ride through the tunnel.
This part of the ceremony, I’ve seen a few times.
Both the remaining Life Guards’ and Blues’ horses will stand out here until the remainder of the Life Guards join them.
Just as Ian was saying earlier, there isn’t much to see.
All the noteworthy action takes place behind closed doors.
I have no idea if Sam is here. I didn’t get a good look at any of the soldiers’ faces.
From where I’m standing, they appear nearly identical with their helmets and matching cloaks.
Taking my leave, I cut across kitty corner to where the Blues’ relief came from.
The drivers of the police cars are out, chatting with the two officers on horseback.
All the muscles in my body clench. Mustering the little courage I have, I march right up to officer on the dapple gray horse and ask, “May I pet him?”
Their conversation stops. “Sure thing. This is Henry. He’s a big ol’ softie.”
I reach up with shaking hands. I haven’t willingly gotten this close to a horse in years. “Nice, Henry.”
He moves his nose and attempts to nip me, but I jump back. My pulse is racing rapidly.
“Henry, behave,” the officer chides. “Go ahead and try again, miss, ’e won’t hurt ya.”
Every fiber of my being is telling me to run away, but horses are important to Sam and my fear of them is something I’m going to have to start working through if he and I end up dating, and maybe even becoming a couple.
He’s mentioned wanting to become a riding instructor.
It’s clear to me that horses are always going to be a part of his life.
If I can learn to connect with them, it’ll give us something special to bond over.
Shuffling my feet forward, I try again. My hand touches his nose. It’s wet and coarse, like the fabric of a stiff cotton towel. After a few gentle strokes, my body starts to relax.
“That’s it. Nice and easy,” the officer says.
Maybe this isn’t so bad after all. Tension flees my body. I stroke his nose one final time. “Thank—” The words die on my lips, however, as Henry promptly sneezes on me. Suddenly, I’m covered in horse spit.