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By Root 1832 0

had been stormy, thunder and lightning erupting over our heads as we awoke. Now, mid-morning, the heavy rain had eased but the wind hadn't. It seemed the whole dirty sky was shifting fast as we drove with it, the last spots of rain drumming with soft fingers on the roof of the car. Ant and Anna were in the front since Anna was always car sick, and I was in the back reading old copies of OK! and sucking Werther's Originals, neither of which Anna could do without retching. So there we had it: the two grown-ups in the front listening to Brahms and chatting about – I glanced up from Liz Hurley's wedding, my finger marking my place as I strained to hear – oh, bird-watching, their latest shared passion; more starlings, fewer finches in the north, apparently, with Mum in the back, reading comics and eating sweets.

We'd been lulled by the summer holidays, then distracted by the new term, then, as half-term approached, it had taken a frantic few days to get us to this ostensibly cosy, familiar point. Not withstanding the nervous flutterings of my heart, there had also been Hector our new dependant, to deal with. I'd first prevailed upon Malcolm to horse-sit, pretending that, since he was doggy, he might also be horsy. There'd been an astonished silence on the other end of the telephone.

‘How long have you known me, Evie?’

‘Er… twenty-two years.’

‘And in that time, have you ever, ever seen me with a horse?’

‘Um… no. I suppose not.’

‘Have you ever heard me mention a horse? Affectionately or otherwise?’

‘You told me Toby Brewer was hung like one.’

‘Don't be fresh. Comparative allusions aside, do the phrases “tacking up” and “trotting on” seem synonymous with one Malcolm Pritchard?’

‘Not entirely. But the horsy world's very gay, you know. Lots of leather? Tight jodhpurs? Might be right up your alley?’

‘You leave my alley out of it. Do you see me wielding a pitchfork, perchance? A dirty barrow?’

I sighed. ‘It was a long shot, Malcolm.’

‘Longer than you'll ever know, sweets. Surely your horsy sister-in-law is the obvious port of call?’

‘Which is exactly why I don't want to ring her.’

‘Needs must, petal. Steel yourself.’

I put the phone down. No. Out of the question. I sank back into my chair in despair and gazed bleakly at the kitchen wall. Years ago, of course I'd have rung Mario, Dad's farm worker. Dear, wizened old Mario, with his round walnut face and his eyes that all but disappeared when he smiled. Dad had liked the colour of them, he'd said, and his wife, Maroulla's, when they'd come to the farm one day looking for work. What, black? Tim and I had asked in surprise, and Dad had laughed. Originally from a poor village in Andalusia, they'd come across to work at the Triumph factory, planning to stay for five years and take the money back to Spain. Instead, they'd lasted one at Triumph, missed working on the land, come to the farm and stayed for ever. Mario had died just ten days after my father, and Maroulla had moved out of the cottage to live with her daughter. Whenever I thought of Maroulla now I felt a sort of non-specific guilt. No, specific guilt actually, because I knew she'd recently moved to a nursing home and I hadn't been to see her. I told myself I was wary of bumping into her children, who, despite having grown up with us, viewed us with suspicion – the rich, posh folk – but there was an element of idleness too. I sighed. But, yes, Mario would have looked after Hector like a shot. ‘Of course, Eviee – ees no problem!’ I could hear him saying in his severely broken English. ‘I look after thees horse for you. You go!’

Instead I shut my eyes tight and punched out another number. Malcolm was right. Needs must. Caro was silent for a long moment when I'd finally gabbled and stammered my way through.

‘Well, I think you're very brave to go and see them. Where are you staying?’

‘With them.’

‘God, won't that be awkward?’

‘Well, I'm not exactly relishing it, but I promised. Can't go back on my word, can I?’

I seemed to remember Caro saying something very similar about how she, A Good Mother, would never break