CHAPTER EIGHT #2
‘Thank you.’ It was all Sage could manage.
Terrified that she was going to break down and cry – not from fear but from overwhelming relief mixed with mortification – she hastily turned Skylark away from him and rode slowly back to join Dillon and Dear Morris, who were waiting by the Bedford Lodge Hotel, just before the entrance to North Place.
She rode sheepishly back into the main yard behind Dillon, keeping her head down and hoping, however futile it was to do so, that her grandfather would not come out of his office to see how they had got on.
She dismounted Skylark, who was standing quietly now, completely worn out, and ran up her stirrups before slipping the light saddle off.
The filly was covered in dry sweat which had turned her normally copper coat almost black.
‘What happened?’ came Dennis’s loud and somehow all-knowing voice from his lair. He stepped over the threshold, a stern expression on his face.
Oh shit, thought Sage, her toes curling.
‘Erm … this morning did not exactly go to plan.’ She inhaled a deep breath and soldiered on.
‘I fell off. Skylark galloped down the Bury Road and Rafe Dunbarton caught her. I think she’s all right – she felt fine …
’ she added beseechingly, ‘I mean, she was sound in walk, at any rate. I made sure I only walked her home. I’m so sorry, Bumpa.
I just came straight back and untacked her. What do you want me to do?’
Dennis was silent for a moment. Sage watched him fretfully, waiting for him to explode.
Instead he said quietly, ‘Trot her up for me, please, Sage.’
Sage duly led the tired horse over to the straight bit of tarmac that was used specifically for the purpose and asked her to trot up and back down the path.
Dennis watched Skylark’s movements closely, his eagle eyes missing nothing.
‘You were lucky. She is fine,’ he said gruffly.
‘Put her away – she’s done more than enough today.
You can go and have a bath.’ He put his pipe to his mouth and then lowered it again.
As ever, seemingly all knowing, he chided, ‘Next time, don’t take your bad temper out on my horses.
’ He put a large, calloused, gentle hand on Sage’s shoulder; that was the end of the matter.
Sage trudged towards the house, tired but faintly amused at her grandfather’s uncanny ability to read a situation perfectly.
Half an hour later, Sage was lying in the bath, floating in arnica and Epsom salts to ease her sore and aching bones.
She could hear Hal cantering up and down the hall outside the closed door, making clicking noises to sound like pony hooves on grass and whinnying like a wild mustang.
He was anxious to take Custard for a ride which Sage had promised they could do as soon as she was dressed.
Spending some time with Hal would rejuvenate her.
He had such a propensity for joy and she could do with soaking up a little of his sunshine today.
Wearily, she pulled herself to an upright position and reared clumsily out of the bath, pain searing her limbs, and as she stumbled onto the bathmat, she slopped water all over the thick cream carpet that lay on the floor.
‘Oh bugger!’ she cried in frustration.
‘Bugger, bugger, bugger!’ a gleeful Hal parroted through the keyhole. Despite her mood, Sage found herself laughing.
She got dressed quickly, throwing on a pair of Casper’s old Levi’s that had been left in his room and a dark green jersey that clung to her slim figure.
Through the large bay window of her bedroom, she gazed at the bare trees dully glowing in the gloom of the grey day.
Water lay on the ground like a glistening mantle but the rain had stopped, at least. She set down her mobile which was still switched off.
She found Hal in her grandmother’s room.
Hanging her head upside down to dry her hair, she watched Hal jump on the enormous four-poster bed, already dressed in his riding clothes.
‘Bugger, bugger, bugger!’ he chanted happily.
He had not once asked after his father or other grandmother, Sage thought wryly; he seemed to have no lingering emotions whatsoever about leaving Islas Del Penta or Panama.
She felt a rush of gratitude to the evident resilience of her child.
Perhaps he would not suffer any trauma at all.
She could sense a change in his temperament already, he was more outgoing and confident.
He seemed lighter of heart, and that made her dare to hope that she was doing the right thing.
They went down to the kitchen, Sage leaving the phone and any thoughts of Santiago safely abandoned upstairs.
She procured an unopened bottle of good whisky from the cupboard, then took Hal’s eager little hand in hers and after pausing to wrap the child up in the smart coat Betsy had found for him and grab an old Barbour and boots for herself, she led him out into the main yard.
Her grandfather had sweetly allowed Custard to take up residence in one of the huge, smart loose boxes.
The tiny golden pony had illustrious neighbours, being flanked either side by Group 1-winning thoroughbreds.
Dennis had even had a little flap put into the stable door so that Hal could open it up and let Custard peer out, for he could not see over the top like the larger horses.
Hal now unhooked the catch and the inquisitive, whiskery yellow face immediately appeared through the window with a friendly whicker of greeting.
Hal produced a carrot from his pocket and the pony accepted it enthusiastically, taking the offering with gentle lips from his outstretched hand.
Sage glanced down at her childhood wristwatch that she had found in the drawer of her bedside table; it was nearly lunchtime.
They’d better get a move on, otherwise they might miss him; she was banking on the fact that Rafe would stop for lunch.
Her caution about his brutish manner had been tempered by the gentle humour he’d shown at the dinner party, and even though she still felt wary she couldn’t ignore the obvious need to say a proper thank-you to him.
He had undoubtedly saved the day that morning.
She tacked Custard up in his tiny saddle and bridle, aided by her little helper.
‘Mumma – he needs a coat, too. Like the big horses!’ Hal insisted.
‘Oh, does he now! I do beg your pardon, sir.’ Sage took the saddle off again and threw on a smart, striped woollen rug with her grandfather’s initials stamped proudly on the corner.
She had to fold it almost in half to fit Custard but when she stepped back, she was pleased to see how well it looked with the small leather saddle secured safely on top.
‘That’s better. You do always know best, after all.
’ Gathering up a stretching, wriggling Hal, she popped him on top of the quiet pony.
Crowing in ecstasy, he immediately busied himself with his reins, having remembered how to hold them correctly, and when he had arranged them to his satisfaction, he looked up at his mother with proud, sparkling sloe eyes to check she had noticed.
Sage smiled at him, affirming how clever he was, then with a Thelwell thump of his little booted heels in their tiny stirrups, which rested no lower than the saddle flaps, they set off down the Bury Road towards town.
Turning right before they reached the clock tower roundabout, Sage marched past the Severals, trying not to let the mortification of her and Skylark’s earlier calamity impede her progress.
Custard walked peacefully beside her, the weight of responsibility lying softly and reassuringly on his back along with his featherlight pilot, who was singing ‘Puff, the Magic Dragon’ loudly and out of tune.
Hal was muddling his words and was stuck on the line that now sounded like ‘fock-i-licked in the autumn mist in a Lana Honilee’, which was being sung on a loop.
Sage wondered if it sounded a bit rude but let him carry on as he was so jolly, and it was at least an improvement on a straight-out ‘bugger’.
Looking at him on his pony, his angel hair curling beneath his hat and his perfect, cherry-red cupid’s-bow mouth open in song, made her heart constrict with pride and love.
All she wanted was to keep her son safe, secure and by her side.
She still woke tense and poised for flight in the mornings, expecting Santiago to be nearby, and she dreamt wistfully of finding a space where they could breathe freely again, from the very beginning of every day.
She would come up with a plan to stand on her own two feet without relying upon anyone else, she promised herself.
As they approached the crossroads, Sage turned right and walked through an elegant black gate under a red-brick archway and into Rafe’s yard, Touchstone Lodge, which was beautifully laid out in a huge horseshoe shape.
A sweet little cottage stood at the end of a gravel path.
She led Custard through another wrought-iron park gate and up the path, then tentatively knocked on the solid oak door.
She bit her bottom lip and twirled the blue lead rope through her cold fingers.
After about a minute, there was still no reply.
Shamefully relieved, she turned the pony and child to leave; however, as they reached the gate she heard the door open behind her.
Turning around, she was confronted by a man in his mid-twenties shivering on the doorstep in just a pair of jeans, his chest brown and noticeably defined.
‘Oh. You’re not Rafe.’ Sage was flustered.