Grounded

Acknowledgements

More than ever, I have been grateful for the practical and literary support which made the writing of this novel possible.

I am indebted to the Arts Council of Northern Ireland for their generous ACES award, which has given me fantastic opportunities. In 2011 I was lucky enough to make two visits to the Tyrone Guthrie Centre, Annaghmakerrig, where a month’s work seems to get done in a day. Lee Weatherly’s mentoring support was invaluable as always – she has taught me more than she’ll ever know. Other readers also commented on the first draft with honesty and insight – thank you, Susanne, Elaine, Rhona and Julie. Thanks to everyone at Lighthouse Ireland for their openness and generosity.

Talking to readers, especially teen readers, about Taking Flight has been one of the greatest joys of becoming a ‘real’ writer: thanks to everybody who took the story and characters to heart – it’s safe to say that without their enthusiasm, Grounded would never even have been thought of. Special thanks to the reading groups at St Dominic’s High School, Belfast and Trinity Comprehensive School, Ballymun, for sharing their ideas about the characters’ futures. Now you can find out what really happened!

A year ago I knew perhaps two or three people in the Irish children’s literature world. Now that world, CBI and beyond, has welcomed me and made me feel part of something very friendly and important: thank you all. Similarly, the UK chapter of SCBWI has introduced me to wonderful writers and enthusiasts; a huge thanks to Keren David for her championing of Taking Flight in corners of the internet far too cool for me.

Anne and Patrick Dornan and my wonderful parents Poppy and John Kerr freed me from much domestic drudgery. Having a novel to finish is a great excuse never to clean, garden, cook or iron again. The staff at Bilbo’s Bistro in Castlewellan are very patient about me sitting in the corner scribbling, and have always made me and my notebooks welcome. (I do buy copious amounts of tea. And food.) Scott Naismith, my principal at Methodist College, has been unfailingly supportive of my ‘other’ career, and without his generous attitude I would not have been able to say yes to half the fun things I’ve been invited to take part in. The generous hospitality of Tony and Jennifer Williams and Juliet Bressan on my Dublin trips makes being away from home a pleasure. It’s only possible for me to go off and do those things knowing that the staff of Mount Pleasant Trekking Centre are there to look after my pony Songbird in my absence, and I’m extremely grateful, especially to Sharon and Nicole.

A huge thanks to Siobhán Parkinson and Elaina O’Neill for commissioning Grounded and being so great to work with, once again; and, last but never least, to my lovely agent Faith O’Grady, without whose ‘yes’ back in 2009 Declan and Seaneen would never have found so many friends.

1.

At first it looks like a ghost, lurching towards us out of the early-morning grey mist that’s hanging over the main road above the estate. Or maybe I just see it that way it because I’m nervous anyway, thinking of what a big day this is.

Seaneen’s hand tightens in mine. ‘What the –?’

It’s not a ghost. It’s a kid, off his head. He staggers into the road and nearly falls. Seaneen breaks away from me.

‘Seaneen! Leave it!’

She ignores me. Goes after the kid and steadies him with her arm. I sigh and set my bag down on the footpath. It’s got all my posh riding clothes in it and it’s heavy. ‘Seaneen, we’ll miss the bus!’

Seaneen comes back, half-dragging the kid with her. He’s about fourteen, eyes huge and bleary in a thin face, his hoody wet and rumpled. There’s puke on his trainers. ‘Where do you live?’ Seaneen asks him, keeping hold of his arm. He can hardly stand.

He makes a visible effort to focus. ‘T’con Pade,’ he slurs.

Seaneen turns to me. ‘Did he say Tirconnell Parade?’

‘Dunno.’ I live in Tirconnell Parade. I’ve never seen this kid before but then I don’t know half the wee hoods on the estate.

‘We’d better take him home,’ Seaneen says. ‘If he falls into the road again he could get knocked down.’

‘Seaneen! We haven’t got time.’ And this kid’s got nothing to do with us. Not my fault he’s staggering around off his head at seven o’clock in the morning.

She stares at me. ‘Declan, it’s only a horse show. Some things are more important.’

‘Point him in the right direction. He’ll be OK when he’s off the main road.’ I check the time on my phone. ‘Look, we have four minutes to get the bus!’

Seaneen shakes her head. ‘You go ahead,’ she says. The kid’s body jackknifes and he pukes. I step back. Seaneen doesn’t flinch. ‘Come on,’ she says to him. ‘Let’s get you home.’

I turn away and start running towards the bus stop.

2.

‘Last to jump, Declan Kelly on Flight of Fancy.’

The gate into the arena swings open and we enter at a trot. Flight feels bold and ready for anything, pulling and snorting already, keen to be off round the jumps again. I lean down and run my hand over his sweaty shoulder. ‘Steady,’ I whisper. His red ears flick back at my voice.

The bell rings and we’re off. I love jumping against the clock. It’s not just galloping; it’s all control and split-second timing and courage – mine and Flight’s. Only Patrick Scott has been clear so far and he played it fast but safe, going the long way round from number 5 to number 6. We have to cut the corner and take the risk.

Flight knows what I want. The slightest shift of my weight is all it takes. He turns for me in mid-air so that we hit the ground just right for the short cut.

‘Come on, boy.’ The jump flies at us sooner than I expect, and he gathers himself before launching with a grunt from his powerful back legs. We seem to hover for ages over red and white poles. Like flying.

Seaneen’s face materialises in the crowd, eyes wide. My focus wobbles. A pole rattles.

The crowd gasps; I hold my breath, waiting for the thud. Silence. I lean forward and give Flight his head and he stretches out his neck and gallops through the finish so fast that the few people hanging around the gate draw back in alarm. I have to circle to get him back in control, just as the announcer says, ‘And that’s clear in 39.17 seconds for Declan Kelly on Flight of Fancy. And that’s the winner here today.’

‘Yes!’ I pat Flight’s neck.

Everybody I know seems to be waiting outside the gate. Because it’s not just another horse show. This is Balmoral, the biggest show Flight and I have ever done. ‘Fair play to you, Kelly,’ Patrick Scott says, holding out his hand. ‘I’ll get you next time.’

Everybody from the stables is here: Cam and her girlfriend, Pippa; my cousin Vicky who owns Flight, all jumping up and down and hugging each other. They press forwards. Vicky flings her arms round Flight’s neck. ‘Clever horse.’ She looks up at me. ‘I could never have done that.’

‘I know.’ I lean forward to stroke Flight’s neck and to hide my ridiculous ear-splitting grin. I look round for Seaneen.

‘Declan!’ She appears at Flight’s shoulder, conspicuous among the horsey crowd in her denim shorts and black tights. ‘I made it.’ She grins, her green eyes sparkling. I want to reach down and hug her but Flight’s too skittery. He tries to rub his sweaty head on Seaneen’s chest and she steps sideways in alarm. He shakes flecks of foamy slobber over her and she grimaces but then stretches out her hand to pet his neck, which is so wet the chestnut hairs are dark brown.

‘I was scared you’d get wrecked,’ she says. ‘Those jumps were the size of houses.’

I laugh. I feel like I could do anything. Jump a house. Fly.

There’s a lot of standing around getting our prizes – a trophy and a fancy rug for Flight – and then posing for photos which makes me feel weird. Me in the Ulster Tatler!

Then the lap of honour, Flight leading, the red winner’s sash clashing with his coat, his hooves pounding the turf even though he must be knackered. As we pass the gate for the second time I see Vicky and Cam talking to a tall, grey-haired man in a faded Barbour over white breeches. It’s Fintan Brady, one of the best jumpers in Ireland. And he’s looking at me. I wonder what they’re saying.

When we ride out of the ring for the last time I dismount. Flight shakes himself like a dog and biffs me with his nose. ‘Come on,’ I say, pulling the reins over his head. It’s the first thing Cam ever taught me – you look after your horse first. And anyway, I want to be on my own with Flight for a bit. I walk him round to the car park. It’s full of trailers and lorries with registrations from all over the country. I dismount and tie him to Cam’s lorry. Nobody’s around. I go through the usual routine: untacking, washing, rubbing down, all the time thrilling inside.

We won.

We’re the champions.

We belong.

Because I’ve always felt like an outsider in this world. Starting late, coming from a dodgy estate, having the wrong accent, not having my own horse. Even getting my National Diploma in horse care at college hasn’t made me feel I belonged as much as winning at Balmoral.

I pour cool water over Flight’s hot body and start to walk him round in the sun. ‘You are mine, really,’ I tell him, scratching behind his ear in the place he likes. Vicky hasn’t ridden him for months. She broke her leg last summer and never got her nerve back. In my mind, in my dreams, in every way that counts, Flight’s mine. And when Vicky goes to university maybe he’ll be even more mine. I buckle on his cooler rug and lead him up the ramp into the cool quiet lorry. He blows down through his nostrils and noses at his hay net. ‘You’re the best horse in the world,’ I tell him.

Flight stretches his head round and bites at an itch on his belly through the fine fleece of his rug, then settles down to pulling strands of hay from the net. I pull his long red ears and he twitches them away.

Around us the show is still going on. An ice-cream van jingles. I should go and talk to people but I want to stay here with Flight. I climb through into the tiny living area in front of the horses’ bit of the lorry, open the wee fridge and take out a cold can of Coke. I press it against my burning cheek.

‘Dec? Hiya.’

I swing round. Seaneen stands outside peering up through the small door, the sun glinting on her honey-coloured curls. She has her hands dug into the pockets of her tight shorts and her black top shows off her lovely tits and her freckly white cleavage. She swings herself up the steep steps. I reach out for her hand and pull her in. The door slams behind her.

Seaneen takes the Coke from my hand and takes a slug. She grins and looks round the tiny space. ‘Cosy,’ she says. ‘Like a wee caravan.’

The air in the lorry fizzes. Flight shifts and sighs behind the barrier. Further away the sounds of the show drift by – announcements, horses neighing and, beyond that, the traffic rumbling past on the Lisburn Road.

Seaneen sets down the Coke and puts her hand on my leg. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ she says. She leans over and nuzzles at me with her lips. Her curls tickle my face. She runs her hand up inside my white shirt. My flesh tingles at her touch. ‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘Those clothes.’

‘I’m all sweaty.’

‘I know, it’s dead sexy.’ She giggles and moves across on top of me, straddling me, her leg brushing against my crotch.

‘I’m glad you came,’ I say. ‘You brought me luck.’

‘I nearly didn’t make it,’ she says. She blows a stray curl off her face. ‘That boy, he’s called Cian, and guess what? He lives in Gran’s old house. His –’

‘Don’t talk about him.’ I pull her towards me, and kiss her properly. Her warm body against me is nearly as lovely as the feeling of winning.

Until the knock on the lorry door.

Seaneen pulls away.

‘Coming!’ I yell. I jump up, pull my clothes into some kind of order, and flick the door open. It’s probably Cam, wanting to get on the road back to the stables.

But it’s Vicky and Fintan Brady. Oh my God. Fintan Brady has a big yard in Wexford. Sometimes he takes on a talented young rider to work for him, help bring on his novice horses. As soon as I see him I know what he’s here for. He’s going to offer me a job. Behind me I can feel Seaneen, all warm and laughing. I love her, but I know I’d leave her to go to Wexford.

‘Declan,’ Vicky says. ‘This is Fintan Brady.’

‘I know.’ I give Brady a quick smile. I hope I don’t look too dishevelled.

‘He wants to buy Flight.’

1.

Flight hasn’t got a clue. Vicky leads him out of his stable and up the ramp into the white lorry and he swings up, all bizz, ears pricked, big eyes shining as he looks round the yard. He doesn’t know it’s for the last time. He probably thinks he’s going to a show.

I stand at the door of the barn and pick at a loose thread on some random headcollar I’m holding.

Vicky doesn’t come out for ages. I suppose she’s taking her time saying goodbye, probably crying into his neck. Or not. Cause she’s the one selling him.

‘Declan.’ Cam stops beside me, leading one of her young Welsh ponies, who sniffs hopefully at my pocket. ‘It’s a good home. You’ll probably see him jumping in Dublin someday.’

I shrug like I’m not bothered.

But Cam knows me too well. ‘She couldn’t keep him, Declan. You know that.’

‘Hmm.’ I rub the pony’s tiny black velvet nose.

I do kind of know. The part of me that’s eighteen, finished college, that’s ridden and worked with dozens of horses over the last two years knows. It’s just that inside there’s this other me, jumping up and down and screaming not fair.

Cam scratches the black pony’s neck and he stretches out his head and neighs. From inside the lorry comes an answering call.

‘There’ll be other horses,’ Cam says. ‘There’s always other horses.’

Vicky comes out of the groom’s door, landing carefully on her bad leg, and then she and Brady go round the back and start closing up the ramp.

I don’t want to see the lorry driving away, its Wexford number plates reminding me how far away he’s going, and I don’t want to talk to Vicky or any of the Saturday pupils hanging around gawking, so I say, ‘Right, I’d better get on with some work,’ and turn and walk into the barn, dumping the headcollar over a hook on the back of the door.

It’s dark and cool in here, empty like it always is in summer when the horses are mostly out in the fields. Only bad-tempered Willow, a fourteen-two palomino grade A showjumper is standing in, because Lara, his owner, is jumping him tonight and doesn’t want him all blown up with grass. He puts his ears back as usual as I pass his door.

The door of Flight’s stable is open. His bed’s dirty, even though he was only standing in for a couple of hours waiting for the lorry. Might as well muck it out. In fact, I might as well clear the bed out completely. Then I can wash it down and it’ll all be ready for whatever horse uses it next.

I take a fork and the biggest wheelbarrow and get stuck in. It’s a hard job, but years of working with horses have made me quick and strong. Other lads round the estate take the piss and say horses are gay, but they shut up when they feel the strength in my arms. Not that I’ve had to hit anybody for a long time. I yank the fork hard into the bottom of the bed and it breaks open into a damp dark blur. The ammonia smell of old piss catches my eyes. I fill two wheelbarrows, getting into a rhythm that stops me thinking. Spick and Span, the Jack Russell pups Pippa bought Cam for her thirtieth birthday, dash in and out, fighting over clumps of dried-out dung.

A shadow falls across the doorway.

‘I can’t believe you’re doing that already,’ Vicky’s voice says.

I straighten up, wipe my hand across my sweaty face and look at her. She’s playing with her car keys. ‘It needs done,’ I say and brush some shavings into a pile.

Vicky leans against the door and sighs. Why’s she still hanging around? Flight’s gone. She’s got her own car parked outside, eighteenth birthday present from Darling Daddy, so it’s not like she has to hang around waiting for a lift. She picks at the brass nameplate – Flight of Fancy. ‘I should unscrew this and take it home,’ she says.

I go back to my brushing but she hovers, if the very solid Vickyish way she hangs around could be called hovering.

‘As a memento. Not just of Flight. My whole childhood’s been at this yard.’

Crap. Even before the fall that smashed up her leg and her nerve, Vicky never hung out at the yard much. The last few months she’s hardly been here at all. First her leg, then her A levels, so that Flight became more and more my horse.

Until she and Darling Daddy sold him for £6,000.

‘And people don’t understand,’ she witters. ‘About horses. It’s like saying goodbye to a really good friend.’

I bend over my brush and wonder if I can fit another few forkfuls of shavings into this load. ‘Can I get past?’

Vicky pouts and shudders away from the teetering smelly wheelbarrow, then follows me all the way to the muck heap, going over and over all the reasons why her dad ‘made’ her sell Flight.

I tip the wheelbarrow up and watch the soft damp landslide of shavings. Vicky stands at a safe distance, keeping her expensive trainers well away from the muck. I don’t think she even knew there was a muck heap before today. I spend ages shaking the upsidedown wheelbarrow to get all the loose shavings out.

‘Well,’ she says at last. ‘I suppose I should go. Last exam on Monday.’ She grinds her toe into the ground. ‘Thanks. And … well … thanks for your help with Flight. We wouldn’t have got such a good price if you hadn’t done so well on him.’

I concentrate on wheeling the barrow back down the slope of the muck heap.

‘Oh,’ she says before she gets into her wee white Fiat, ‘you can have the name plate. I mean – I thought you’d like it.’

Back at the empty stable I unscrew the name plate. But I don’t know if I’ll bother bringing it home. I want Flight, not a bit of brass.

* * *

‘Declan?’ Cam looks round the door of the tack room where I’m hanging up the bridles from the lesson she’s just taken. ‘Do you want a lift home?’

‘I’ve got the bike,’ I say.

‘Throw it in the back of the jeep if you like.’

‘Nah, it’s OK.’

She picks at a grassy slobber I’ve missed on Magic’s bit. ‘Declan, people change, lose interest; it’s not a crime. Not everybody’s as obsessed as you.’

Interest. Like horses are just a hobby.

‘And it’s a fantastic home. Fintan Brady’s got one of the best –’

‘I know.’

I wish she’d go but she starts fussing around a pile of saddlecloths that have fallen onto the ground.

‘Would you rather Lara’d bought him?’

‘God, no.’ When there’d been talk of Lara buying Flight I’d thought I’d have to steal him and run away with him. Flight hundreds of miles away is terrible but Flight here, owned by that bitch, would be a million times worse. Thank God when she tried him out Flight tanked round the school and then bucked her off.

‘Heard about any of those jobs yet?’ Cam spits on her hand and rubs it over one of the saddlecloths to wipe the hairs off.

I shake my head. In the last two weeks I’ve applied for seventeen jobs with horses. Three down south, the rest in England. Sometimes they don’t even email you back. Those that did said they were looking for more experience.

‘You know there’s always your job here,’ Cam says. ‘Jim’s not fit for the heavy work now. And he’s too big to help me back the Welsh ponies next spring.’

Two years ago the height of my ambition would have been to work here. It’s a great wee yard and I’ve learnt as much from Cam as I did at college. But I want to be a groom in a proper jumping yard where we drive off to competitions in a big silver lorry with our logo on the side, where I have the chance to ride wonderful horses, like Flight. To bring on talented young horses. To recapture that last amazing jump-off. To be part of that world all the time, even just as a groom. I can’t stay here without Flight.

‘It’s just … I think I should get away. Get more experience.’ The best bit of my course was the ten weeks I spent in a jumping yard in Wicklow. Not just the work, which was so hard I used to fall into bed about nine o’clock every night, but the craic with the other lads and being away from home. I missed Seaneen and Flight but nothing else.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You’re right. Go while you have the chance.’ Her voice is a bit sad. Cam was working abroad when her parents were killed in a car crash and she came home to take over the farm, turning it into a livery yard, doing a few lessons. I don’t think she’s had more than a day away from it ever since except for the odd three-day show. Though she takes a bit more time off now Pippa’s on the scene.

‘What does Seaneen think about you going away?’

‘I haven’t said much.’ I wish Seaneen wanted to go away too but she’s a homebird and she’s got a good job in a daycare nursery on the Falls Road. ‘I should head on,’ I say to change the subject. ‘See you tomorrow.’

‘Sure you don’t want a lift?’

‘No. Thanks.’ Most of the time I’d jump at the chance, especially as my bike – a cast-off from my old teacher Mr Dermott – is a rattly heap, but tonight I welcome the ride. Nobody can get to you when you’re on a bike, or make you talk. It’s just you and the wind and the leg-killing, mind-numbing slog.

But all the way home, though I try not to think, my thoughts swoop and dive with the bike. Whooshing downhill, the air still warm and the fields glowing, I can push the ache of never seeing Flight again to the edges of my mind. I convince myself he’s just a horse. If I’m going to work with horses I’ll have to get used to seeing them go. And it’s daft to get hung up on other people’s horses that are bought and sold on a whim. The next horse I get to care about will be mine. He’ll be so talented that people will be begging me to sell, saying I can name my price, but I’ll just smile and say he’s not for sale; he’ll never be for sale. And he’ll know me the way Flight knew me, only even better.

And when I get home, maybe there’ll be a letter – from the big yard in Kildare, or the small but successful one in Galway. And I’ll be miles away from that empty stable.

It’s only when I’m urging the stupid heap of junk up the hill to the estate, cars up my arse and fumes up my nose, that reality crashes back in to taunt me. That I’m never going to get a horse of my own. That being one of the best horse-care students at college hasn’t led to a single job offer. Vicky’s driving home in her brandnew car and I’m dragging myself up the Stewartstown Road on a second-hand pushbike with a stupid lump of brass digging into my back through my rucksack.

2.

The estate’s quiet, a few kids hanging around Fat Frankie’s chippie.

‘Oi!’ shouts one. ‘Go into the offie for us?’

It’s that wee toerag from the other day. Cian or something. He doesn’t recognise me. I say no and he calls out, ‘Be like that, fruit!’ and gives me the middle finger.

Cycling past Seaneen’s house, I keep my head down, but not before noticing that her bedroom light’s on. The instinct to be with her, to lick my wounds, is fierce, but I’m trying to wean myself off her. It’s going to be hard enough leaving her.

At least Saturday night TV should have Mum safely pinned to the sofa. If I time it right and land in in the middle of one of her programmes, then with any luck she’ll just give me a quick wave and carry on watching and I won’t have to talk.

I go round the back and wheel the bike up the path to the door. She won’t let me bring it into the house. We haven’t got a shed so I usually fling an old blanket over it and lean it against the fence, only tonight I can’t be bothered.

The kitchen light’s on, and two teabags slump on the speckly surface of the worktop. I touch the kettle. Still warm. Two teabags? Mum’s always bringing whiney women home since she started going to all these support groups.

Sure enough when I open the kitchen door voices come out to meet me. Boys … aye, you’re right there … two wee girls … no bother … och lovely …

I have to go through the living room to get upstairs so I brace myself. I hope it’s not Mairéad, Seaneen’s mum, who always wants to know far too much about me.

But the woman sitting on the sofa opposite Mum is somebody I’ve never seen before. Younger than Mum, skinny with big dark eyes in a thin, prettyish face. Blonde hair with reddish roots.

‘There he is,’ says Mum, proving that she’s been talking about me to this stranger. ‘Declan, this is Stacey. From across the road.’

There’s a plate of funsize Twirls between them on the coffee table. I grab this week’s Horse and Hound out from under it. I’ve already checked the jobs pages but I can have another look in case I missed anything.

‘Irene’s house,’ Mum goes on like I’m interested enough to want details. She turns to Stacey. ‘Declan goes with Irene’s granddaughter. Over two years.’

‘Two years,’ says Stacey. She turns to Mum. ‘Och, at their age.’ She must think I’m about twelve.

‘Seaneen’s a lovely girl. She fairly settled you down, didn’t she, love?’ Mum says, as if I’m a badly trained dog.

This is a load of crap. If I did settle down two years ago, while Mum was away drying out, it was mostly because of the horses. And living with my aunt Colette, Vicky’s mum. Not that it wasn’t brilliant with Seaneen. The two of us would sneak away from school at lunchtimes to ‘check the house’. It was amazing what you could get up to in an empty house in three quarters of an hour. Always in my bedroom, at the back, so Seaneen’s nosy old cow of a granny over the street wouldn’t cop on to anything.

‘Maybe that’s what your Cian needs, a nice girl,’ Mum says.

Cian. So that’s who she is.

Stacey sighs and pulls her ponytail tighter. ‘God, Theresa, it’d take more than that. He’s going to end up in Bankside, I swear.’

I need to get out before Mum tells this stranger about my two months in Bankside for joyriding. They’re getting on like they’ve been best friends for years instead of minutes. It’s a female thing. They do it with words. My mum can say more in a day than I would in a month, especially now she’s had all this addiction counselling and she’s in touch with her feelings and that.

‘I’m going upstairs,’ I say. ‘See you.’ I reach down and snatch a couple of Twirls.

‘Not seeing Seaneen tonight?’

I grit my teeth. ‘No.’

Pushing open my bedroom door, it feels like days since I left it this morning. I pull the curtains shut, even though it’ll be light for a couple of hours yet, and fling myself on the bed, not bothering to take off my dirty fleece. Usually I love the way the horsey smell travels home with me – sweat and haylage and leather – and works its way into the house. That sweet, dirty smell on my duvet cover is proof that it’s not all going to evaporate, that horses are the most real part of my life and I’m only back here for a short time until I get a job and go …

Anywhere. Anywhere that’s too far for me to cycle home every night.

I open the magazine and go straight to the jobs pages. But there’s nothing I’ve missed. At the start I was only interested in showjumping yards, but now I’d take pretty much anything. There’s one in Scotland that sounds so brilliant – caravan provided, lots of travelling to shows, own horse welcome – that I wonder why I didn’t circle it last night, until I see the bottom line – Must have HGV licence.

I haven’t even got my normal driving licence. Seaneen passed her theory last week and has put in for her test. She gets paid more than me.

Usually when I’m fed up, reading Horse and Hound cheers me up. Looking at the pages of beautiful horses for sale; imagining buying one of the houses with stables out the back and acres of land. Mum complains about the horsey magazines piling up beside my bed. I say at least it’s not porn. But tonight the fantasy doesn’t work. The words HORSES FOR SALE across the tops of pages just conjure up the white lorry driving off with Flight inside. All the pages of events and competitions, the photos of brave, lovely horses stretching themselves over banks and fences and walls jab at the angry bruise inside me. I hate every person in this magazine. All the ones who won’t give me a job. All those rich bastards who can do what they want with their horses. Flight was more mine than he was ever Vicky’s. He went brilliantly for me. Mine was the voice he’d calm down for if he was in one of his strops. I was the one he’d jumped his heart out for, launching at every obstacle as if he was going to jump out of his skin. The feel of him under me at that last jump-off, faster than flames, responsive, clever and brave, trusting me…

It’s all meaningless now. Because the owner’s name on his passport wasn’t Declan Kelly. Was never going to be Declan Kelly. Owner. Strange word to think of in connection with a living creature. He’ll still be on the road now. Wexford’s so far away. I hope Brady stops and gives him a drink and lets him stretch his legs. What if he won’t go back into the lorry for a stranger? He’s not the best traveller.

I fling the magazine away. As a distraction it’s useless. I almost wish I did have some porn.

It’s too early for sleep. I lie on my bed with my hands crossed under my head and though my body’s aching from my marathon muck-out, my head’s buzzing.

I half-feel like going out and having a few drinks. Only I’m not on drinking terms with anybody round here these days, except Seaneen. Plus I’m working in the morning and I know from experience, mainly in Wicklow, that horses and hangovers don’t mix.

To hell with weaning myself off Seaneen. I’ve had enough goodbyes for one day. I text her: Are you in? Will I come round? Without waiting for a reply, I go and have a long, lovely shower with loads of the shower gel Colette got Mum for Christmas. I wash the smell of horses and my own sweat away, closing my eyes and forgetting everything but the hot needles pricking and soothing my skin. I shave for the first time in a few days and smile at myself in the steamed-up mirror. Working outside so much has made me tanned already, and I don’t seem to get spots these days.

Back in my room I find some cleanish clothes. Seaneen’s texted back: Yes Yes xxx.

* * *

Seaneen nuzzles into my neck. As always her springy curls make my skin tingle. I smooth them back. The distraction worked. Even tonight, with her mum downstairs screaming at her wee sisters to shut up and go to bed and let her watch Casualty in peace, it was lovely.

I don’t mean it was just a distraction. I sigh and trace the freckles on her bare shoulder with my fingertip.

‘You OK?’ she says, her lips fluttering against my skin.

‘Just Flight going.’

Seaneen hasn’t a clue about horses but she knows a lot about me. She hugs me – awkwardly, since she’s lying half on top of me. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘Missed you.’

‘I haven’t been anywhere. Just work. It’s been mad.’ That’s a lie. The yard’s been so quiet that I spent most of last week creosoting fence posts and watching Cam working with her new horse, a gorgeous grey called Spirit. And making the most of the dwindling time with Flight.

She kisses my cheek. ‘I wasn’t complaining. I just missed you.’

Seaneen never nags. She doesn’t complain that I’m hardly ever home and that, when I am, I’m knackered and sometimes stink of horses. She doesn’t point out that other guys my age are either on the dole, and so have plenty of time for their girlfriends, or else have jobs that pay a hell of a lot more than I get. I look at her, half asleep in her white bed with the pink duvet pulled up over us both. Opposite the bed a shelf full of old teddies grins down at us. Half of them are battered, with eyes missing and ears hanging off, but Seaneen won’t get rid of them. Our clothes are all over the floor, my jeans tangled up in Seaneen’s yellow spotty bra.

‘Seaneen?’

‘Hmm?’ She sounds half asleep.

‘Nothing.’ I pull her closer to me. Breathe in her warmth and her biscuity, perfumey, slightly sweaty smell. ‘Just … you’re the nicest person I know.’

She giggles. ‘Ah, Declan, that’s so sweet.’

It’s true though, and right now, looking down at her curls spread out over my chest, her freckled arm lying across me, I know that I want to stay here with her nearly as much as I want to go away. But only nearly.

I wish I wasn’t going to break her heart.

About the author

Grounded

Acknowledgements

I. Flying

1.

2.

II. Leaving

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