CHAPTER THREE
Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to be one of those people who sleep until midday at the weekend. At six in the morning our kitchen is silent, apart from the pop and click of the kettle switching off and the fizz of instant coffee as I fill the flask.
Screwing the lid on tightly, I shove it in my rucksack and hitch it over one shoulder. I’m sure they’ll know where I am – I’m a creature of habit, after all – but I’m getting better at this stuff, so I leave a note, scrawled on the back of an envelope, lying next to the toaster on a heap of last night’s crumbs, which I’ve forgotten to clear up, but never mind.
I pull the door behind me and my bike clatters down the front steps, as if eager to get away. It’s a funny sort of half-light at this time of the morning and the town feels like it doesn’t quite belong to anyone – night has handed it over, but daytime isn’t quite here yet and there’s only me, and the almost-silent whirring of the milk float that’s waiting outside the houses opposite.
And then I’m in the yard and everything is forgotten. The stables are a sanctuary. The routine – the way every day is the same, no matter what’s going on in the outside world – is part of why I love it here. I throw my rucksack down in the tack room and pick up the kettle, shaking it from side to side. It’s still warm – Polly must be here already. I’ll have a coffee when I get back from the field.
Mabel’s there, as if she read my mind. I reach across the fence, holding my hand out, palm flat, feeling the velvet whiskeryness of her muzzle as she softly sniffs me hello. I don’t bother putting on a lead rein or a halter when there’s nobody around to tell me off – she doesn’t need it. I open the gate and she slips through gracefully, one ear flicking backwards as she senses the other members of the herd looking up.
Together, side by side, we walk up to the yard, her hooves clipping precisely as we step from the earth of the track on to the concrete. I open the door to her stable and she steps inside.
When I’m with Mabel, everything melts away. I forget about the coffee. I brush her silver-grey mane until each strand shines like spun silk. When she’s groomed, I shove her grooming kit back in the cupboard under the feeding trough and pull out her saddle and bridle, tacking her up quickly. I want to be out while it’s still early, before the rest of the world comes alive, and we make it, a plaintive whinny from Mabel’s best friend, Harry, sounding out across the field as we disappear from sight.
There’s nothing in the pink silence of the morning but a gentle clinking as Mabel chews on her snaffle bit. We turn down on to the bridle path, startling a hare, which stops front paws in mid-air, before shooting off into the hedgerow. The leaves are sparkling with dew, my breath and Mabel’s puffing in clouds as the thin sun breaks through the clouds.
Spring and autumn are my favourite times to be outside. And winter, when it’s cold and the sitting room is full of the sparkly darkness of fairy lights and candles on the fireplace. But not summer. Summer’s too obvious, too yellow, too shiny and easy to please. It doesn’t have to try too hard and everyone just loves it anyway.
We’re as one, Mabel and me. Her ears are pricked forward, questing, the dark grey tips curving in towards each other, her mane flying gracefully, neck curved in an arc. The repetitive rhythm of the trot has me counting one-two-one-two like Penny, my riding instructor, used to when I was seven and having lessons. I realize I’m muttering it under my breath as we reach the top of the little hill.
The trees here have been sawn away by the forestry workers, exposing circles of startled pale wood, the ground still blanketed with fallen needles. I pull Mabel to a stop and slide off, hooking her reins round my hand. I’ve got a packet of mints and I’m training her to take one from my mouth. I balance the sweet between my lips and she reaches out gently, her mushroom-soft top lip catching it and knocking it to the ground. She hoovers it up instantly. We’re working on it.
Anna, who appreciates Mabel – but from a distance – thinks it’s disgusting that I’d let a horse snuffle all over my face.
But I love Mabel with the heat of a million suns. She’s standing, silhouetted in the golden light of early morning, her profile as beautiful as her desert ancestors, nostrils flaring in a sigh of contentment. I reach up, placing a hand against the flatness of her cheekbone, sending a silent message.
Thank you. Thank you for letting me be your person. Thank you a million times for the day they said, ‘We’ve decided you can have a horse of your own.’ I can’t say the words out loud, but I feel them pulsing through me and into the warmth of her skin.
And then there’s a crash, which sends Mabel wheeling and snorting to the end of the reins, my arm jerking as she pulls away from me, the tips of her ears almost meeting in the middle, her nostrils flaring, neck rigid with shock.
‘Shit.’
There’s a voice behind me.
There’s a metallic sound and a groan. As I turn, I see a mountain bike emerging from the ditch, followed by a soaking-wet, mud-splattered arm, followed by –
‘Jesus. What are you doing up here at this time of the morning?’
The voice comes first before a shape clambers over the bank, its face completely covered in mud, water dripping from the visor of his – it’s a he, I realize – helmet. He hauls himself out over the edge of the bank and looks at me through his mud mask, wiping his face with the hem of his sweatshirt. I’m so hopeless at recognizing people out of context that it takes me a second before I recognize the dark brown eyes staring out from the mud-covered face.
‘It’s a bridle path. And this –’ I indicate the highly unimpressed Mabel, still stock still, who gives a well-timed huff of disapproval – ‘is my horse. Wearer of a bridle. Hence the path.’
Shut up, Grace, for God’s sake.
Gabe Kowalski looks down at the slightly mangled bike, which is lying beside him on the grass.
‘Right,’ he says, and he’s laughing. ‘Did you have sarcasm flakes for breakfast?’
I thought I was simply stating the obvious. Not sure what to say, I carry on looking at him as he clambers to his feet, frowning down at the bike wheel.
‘I’m not being sarcastic,’ I manage eventually. ‘It’s just – what on earth are you doing riding a mountain bike into a ditch?’
‘It wasn’t exactly in the plan. I was coming down the hill and the ditch just sort of – appeared. And then we – me and the bike – were in it.’
He gives a sheepish smile. One front tooth crosses over the other, I notice.
‘D’you need a hand?’ I step forward, but Mabel has other ideas. She’s rooted to the spot and she’s not moving one inch. She’s got no concept of sisterhood, this horse.
‘Looks like your transport isn’t behaving any better than mine.’ He hauls the bike upright. ‘It’ll be fine, just need to get it home and fix the forks.’
‘If you take the path down there –’ I wave my arm in the direction of the stables – ‘there’s a shortcut back to Lane End.’
‘Past the stables?’ He’s holding on to the bike now, readying himself to leave.
‘Yes.’ I don’t know why I don’t say, ‘Oh, that’s where I keep Mabel.’ Or even, ‘That’s where I’m headed – do you want to walk with me?’
I couldn’t really say that (even if it wasn’t a lie, because it’s not where I’m headed, obviously) because Mabel is utterly convinced that the bike is some kind of evil swamp monster designed to murder her in her sleep, but, even so, I can tell this is one of these moments where if I was in a film I’d say something cute, and so would he, and then he’d wipe the mud off his face and we’d walk home together chatting and . . .
‘See you, then.’ He jerks his head upward as a sort of goodbye, and heads back down the track towards home.
‘Yeah,’ I say, realizing as I do that Anna and I are going to replay this conversation a million times. ‘See you.’
I watch him wheeling the bike, the damaged front wheel in the air, down the track towards the stables, until he’s a tiny speck in the distance and Mabel’s nudging me in the back, the metal of her bit jingling, and then I get back into the saddle and ride on, up to the moor.
The hollow thudding of her hooves on the peat turf and the occasional whoop of the birds overhead are the only things I can hear. It’s not exactly helpful. My thoughts are going round and round inside my head, my brain going over all the amusing things I could have said. Like, ‘Hello, I’m Grace; we’re in opposite sets so we don’t share any classes, but it’s nice to meet you.’ That might’ve been a start. Instead, just for a change, I’ve gone for socially awkward, as usual. A vision of me at Charlotte’s party, standing in a corner, trying to look like I’m mysterious and interesting instead of a total loser with no social skills pops into my head and I feel a bit sick.
I’m looking forward to the party. Keep telling yourself that, Grace.
I am.
I loosen the reins and Mabel, reading my mind, soars forward into a canter and I lose myself in the thrumming of hoof beats and wind in my face.