Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Cathy Woodman
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Maps
Chapter One: A Fresh Start
Chapter Two: Only the Horses
Chapter Three: New Shoes
Chapter Four: Irons in the Fire
Chapter Five: Wet Shirts and Hidden Depths
Chapter Six: Nailed it
Chapter Seven: Why Walk When You Can Ride?
Chapter Eight: The Healing Power of Horses
Chapter Nine: In Your Arms
Chapter Ten: Hammer, Anvil, Forge and Fire
Chapter Eleven: The Cherry on the Cake
Chapter Twelve: No Foot, No Horse
Chapter Thirteen: The Way the Wind Blows
Chapter Fourteen: Hammer and Tongs
Chapter Fifteen: The Price of Fish
Chapter Sixteen: St Dunstan and the Devil
Chapter Seventeen: Nelson’s Last Stand
Chapter Eighteen: My Kingdom for a Horse
Chapter Nineteen: The Wrong End of the Stick
Chapter Twenty: One-Trick Pony
Chapter Twenty-One: Negotiate with a Stallion, Tell a Gelding, and Ask a Mare
Chapter Twenty-Two: Life is a Bowl of Cherries
Chapter Twenty-Three: Another Bite at the Cherry
Copyright
Trust Me, I’m a Vet
Must Be Love
The Sweetest Thing
It’s a Vet’s Life
The Village Vet
Vets in Love
Country Loving
Follow Me Home
Vets on Call
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Epub ISBN: 9781473507470
Version 1.0
Published by Arrow Books 2016
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Copyright © Cathy Woodman, 2016
Cathy Woodman has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Arrow Books
Arrow Books
The Random House Group Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Arrow Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099598923
In loving memory of Dr Brian Chadwick, geologist, bibliophile and wonderful dad
I should like to thank Laura Longrigg at MBA Literary Agents, and the team at Penguin Random House UK for their continuing enthusiasm and support for the Talyton St George books.
I’m also very grateful to my family, some of whom have enjoyed our forays into the horsey world, some of whom have merely tolerated it! I wouldn’t have written this book without my experiences of owning and riding a variety of horses and ponies.
Last, but not least, I’d like to mention Penny, Steve and Riley at Cherry Tree Stables for the inspiration for the title of this book.
Christian Grey, eat your heart out. My horse is the original fifty shades and far more gorgeous. It’s true that I have a whip and spurs somewhere amongst my belongings, but I’ve never had any desire to use them. I’ve never loved anyone even half as much as my beautiful grey boy. When I’m with him my heart beats faster and my blood bubbles with happiness. I don’t have to pretend to be one of the lads at work, or make out that I’m having the time of my life in front of my ex, or act the perfect daughter to please my parents. I can be myself.
I lean forwards in the saddle and stroke Rafa’s neck, running my fingers through his flaxen mane, which falls in waves down past his dappled shoulder. He smells of sweat, fly-spray and de-tangler, and his coat feels warm and slightly damp.
I sit up straight and ride on, squinting in the rays of the early-evening sun that slant between the branches of the gnarled trees bordering the lane. The ancient oaks are unfurling their leaves and the blackthorn is frothing with blossom. It’s late March and my favourite time of year, when the weather is getting better and the days start drawing out, meaning there’s more opportunity to get out riding.
At the top of the hill where the scent of wild garlic and farmyard starts to fill my nostrils, Rafa sidesteps a shadow. I take a tighter grip on the reins and push him forwards with the pressure of my calves. He breaks into a trot and I begin to relax again as he covers the ground, the sound of his feet muffled by the grass that’s growing lush and green between the stones and patches of tarmac.
I bring him back to walk. He shies for a second time, snorting as if to say, ‘Scary monster alert. Let’s get the hell out of here.’
‘Oh no you don’t,’ I say, spotting the offending plastic bag that’s drifting slowly across the ground in front of us. ‘You are such a wuss,’ I add lightly. That’s what he’s like, though. He doesn’t care about trucks, rattling trailers or tractors, but show him a crisp packet and it’s the end of the world.
‘It’s nothing.’ I take a firm hold. ‘There’s no need to be silly about it.’
I focus on the scenery, trying to ignore the way his hindquarters are bunching up beneath me as he utters another snort, blowing air through his nose so hard that he makes us both jump.
At the summit of the hill, the lane bends sharply one way then the other before hugging the contour of the slope on the way down the far side. There’s a bank of red earth to the right and a hedge to the left filled with hazel, pale yellow primroses and blue speedwell. I can hear the faint sound of church bells and water, a small torrent emerging from a culvert below the hedge where the ground falls away. In the distance I can see glimpses of a river and the market town of Talyton St George.
When I hear the rumble of an approaching tractor, I decide to trot along to the next gateway to give it space to pass, but as we get closer, the scent of farmyard becomes more noxious. Rafa stops dead in the middle of the lane, his ears pricked, his nostrils flared and his head up like a giraffe. I make a clicking sound in my throat to ask him to move on, but he refuses to budge any way but sideways. As he starts to sidle up the bank, I give him a firm nudge in the ribs with my heels. He doesn’t respond so I lean across and snap a twig off a nearby hazel, using it to give him a tickle on the flank.
I can hear the tractor moving closer, chugging up the hill. In desperation, I flick Rafa with the twig again, and with my legs flailing in best Pony Club fashion, we’re away, at least as far as the gate where he stops abruptly, sending me halfway up his neck. I slide back down into the saddle, trying to regain my stirrups. His heart is pounding loud and fast. He’s genuinely scared this time. He snorts for a third time. The echo, followed by a series of loud oinks, comes back from behind the hedge, and all is lost.
He plunges forwards, unseating me so I’m clinging to his withers. I grab at his mane and I’m just about hanging on until he bucks and I lose my grip on his slippery tresses. He tips me off into the hedge beside the gate and bolts towards the tractor, the clatter of his hooves fading into the distance.
Struggling to catch my breath, I extricate myself from the brambles in full view of an audience of sandy-coloured pigs. My burgundy sweat top is adorned with sticky buds and the knees of my cream jodhpurs are stained green. The screen on my mobile has cracked into little pieces, but I’m okay: my skull-cap is intact; no bones broken.
Cursing the amount of de-tangler that I used on Rafa’s mane while getting him ready, I start to run after him, listening out for the sound of skidding wheels and the sickening crash, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the tractor appears and draws up alongside me. The driver, a middle-aged man in a red baseball cap, leans out of the cab.
‘You’re going to have to run faster than that, my lover. Running faster than the wind, he was,’ he calls in a broad Devon accent, dropping his aitches and rounding his vowels.
I thank him – I’m not sure what for – and keep running down the hill until I reach a crossroads with a wooden signpost and a grassy triangle in the centre. Rafa has left a circle of hoof-prints, as if he paused for a mouthful of grass.
I call his name repeatedly. There’s no sign of him, no clue as to which way he went. I’m really panicking now, agonising about what I’m going to find. He could be lying in the road with a broken leg for all I know. My lungs are raw, my muscles are burning and my feet are killing me. I can’t hear anything except a pulse of impending doom thudding in my ears.
And then I catch sight of two horses, a black one and a grey, heading my way along the right fork at the crossroads. My heart floods with relief, and my face with embarrassment as the rider of the black horse moves closer. He halts just in front of me, and looks me up and down, one eyebrow raised.
‘I assume this is yours,’ he says, handing me Rafa’s reins.
‘Thank you for catching him,’ I say, still breathless. I check my horse’s legs, running my hands over his knees and fetlocks. There are no cuts or obvious bruises. He’s had a lucky escape.
‘Is he all right?’
‘He’s fine.’ I look up. The rider of the horse is male, most definitely male, and in his mid-to late twenties. He sits tall in the saddle, with his long muscular legs in dark breeches and leather boots wrapped around his horse’s body, but it’s his shirt that really catches my eye. It’s flamboyant and rather ridiculous, made from cream-coloured cheesecloth with a ruffle down the front. He wears it with the top buttons unfastened, revealing the shadowy dip at the base of his neck and a generous view of the slab-like muscles of his chest. The sleeves are rolled up to show off his lean, tanned arms.
‘How about you?’ he asks. ‘You look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.’
‘You aren’t far wrong there, but I’m okay, thanks.’ I’m carrying my riding hat under one arm and my shattered mobile in the other hand. Aware that I must have one of the worst cases of hat-hair ever, I run my fingers through my short dark brown crop in a vain attempt to give it some body.
‘Are you sure? You’ve cut your lip.’
I touch my mouth, tasting the metallic tang of blood.
‘It’s nothing.’ I try to make out his features, but his face is shaded by the peak of his hat; a helmet – like the polo players wear – not a skull-cap like mine.
‘What happened?’
‘He took a dislike to the pigs.’
‘It’s funny how some horses can’t stand them.’ The sunlight catches the rider’s face, revealing strong cheekbones, a clean-cut complexion and a wicked smile. I can’t help wondering if his long dark eyelashes might be enhanced in some way, and I’m pretty sure he’s wearing a touch of pearlescent eye shadow and some lip-stain.
‘It isn’t that funny,’ I say fiercely, sensing that perhaps, amid his concern for my health, this man who’s riding around the countryside pretending he’s Ross Poldark is laughing at me. There was a time when my friends and I would have found the whole idea of Rafa disappearing at full gallop without me hysterically funny too, but I start work tomorrow and I need to be in one piece.
‘I’m sorry. My name’s Robbie, Robbie Salterton.’
‘I’m Flick. It’s short for Felicity,’ I say, testing out my right knee as I look around for a convenient place from which to get back into the saddle.
‘You look as if you’ve taken quite a tumble,’ Robbie goes on as I lead Rafa towards the bank. ‘Are you sure it wouldn’t be safer to lead him home?’
‘No, really. I prefer to be on top.’ Immediately, I wish I could unsay what I’ve just said …
‘Oh, so do I,’ he says, his voice laced with humour and suggestion, as I turn Rafa to face the way we came from, as well as to hide the heat in my cheeks. ‘Let me give you a leg up.’ Robbie is on his feet and at my side, his horse standing quietly without restraint. Before I can argue that it isn’t strictly necessary, he’s in position, ready to take my lower leg in his hands.
I take up the reins and bend my left knee.
‘On the count of three. One, two, three …’ Robbie propels me back into the saddle with seemingly effortless force, almost sending me off over the other side.
I regain my seat with as much poise as I can muster and slip my feet into the stirrups. He vaults easily on to his horse’s back.
‘Thanks again,’ I say, as I’m planning a rapid escape to salvage the last remnants of my self-esteem. It’s all very well falling off now and then, but why did it have to go and happen in the proximity of this gorgeous, capable and well-spoken stranger? All I want to do now is get away to check my wounds.
‘Anytime,’ he calls over his shoulder as he rides off in the opposite direction. I notice how his horse has a loose shoe, making a double clink as its hoof touches the ground.
Now, I should have thought ahead. Rafa’s coat is dark with sweat. He’s in an emotional state, and looking for reassurance and safety in numbers, so why on earth would he want to leave the other horse and return to face the pigs alone? When I ask him to walk on, he refuses, and I wish I’d hung on to the hazel stick. I growl at him and flick the loop of the reins against his neck, hoping that Robbie isn’t looking behind him, but he still won’t budge.
There are times when I wonder if owning a horse is all it’s cracked up to be, and this is one of them. Horse and rider in perfect harmony. Not.
I hear the sound of hooves and Robbie’s voice behind me.
‘I should have thought to offer you a lead.’ He chuckles. ‘Don’t say there’s no need for it – I’d hate to think of you standing out here all night.’
I have no choice as he walks his horse up alongside Rafa, our stirrups clashing as we move along the lane.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘It’s no problem. I was riding what we call the square, which is really more of a circle. I can go back home either way.’ He pauses. ‘I haven’t seen you around here before. What brings you to Furzeworthy?’
‘Work.’ I try to get Rafa to leg-yield towards the hedge, but he’s like a limpet clinging to the other horse’s side.
‘Are you staying at Mel’s?’
‘That’s right. How did you guess?’ When I arrived at the B&B today, Louise – my new boss’s wife – told me the place was a hotbed of gossip, but I didn’t imagine that news travelled this fast.
‘Actually, I saw the horsebox outside when I was driving by earlier.’
I glance towards my companion. He’s grinning.
‘I’m the farrier who’s taking on his round,’ I say, smiling back.
‘I see. Mel did mention that he was sorting out cover for when he goes into hospital for surgery on his back. I didn’t realise you were …’ He hesitates.
‘A woman?’ I finish for him.
‘I don’t mean to sound sexist. I’m not like that,’ he says, sounding somewhat bashful. ‘I’m just surprised. I don’t know why, when I’ve had a female vet and saddler before.’
I bet you have, I think. Going on his good looks and confidence, I reckon Robbie’s the type who’s had many women.
‘This is the first time I’ve come across a female farrier,’ he continues.
‘There aren’t many of us about – not yet, anyway.’
‘I hope I haven’t offended you.’
‘Not in the slightest. It happens all the time.’ I smile again. ‘In fact, the most misogynistic clients I’ve come across have been women, and their attitude is more down to the fact they’re disappointed because I’m not some fit guy with potential, rather than that they don’t trust me to shoe their horses.’
‘I think you’re going to have an interesting time. Not in a bad way,’ he adds quickly, ‘but you know what horse people are like.’
‘The farrier I trained with says there are three types of personality. Type A, who are the stressy ones, type B, who are the laid-back characters, and type H, who are completely mad about their horses – the sort who always have hay in their pockets, buy nothing but corn oil and carrots at the supermarket, and spend most of their wages at the tack shop.’ I pause. ‘Your horse has a loose shoe, by the way.’
‘I have noticed,’ he says lightly. ‘Mel’s been finding it hard to keep up. Nelson’s overdue for shoeing.’
‘He’s lovely. He’s a Friesian, isn’t he?’ He’s tall and well built, like a carriage horse, and about 16.2 hands high – my height, the equivalent of five foot six at the withers, the point just in front of the saddle. He has a magnificent crest to his neck and a mane that’s almost as impressive as Rafa’s. His veins stand out from his gleaming black skin, as if he’s so full of life that it’s bursting to get out.
I can hardly tear my eyes away from this double vision of masculinity, man and horse.
‘Yes, the Admirable Nelson – that’s his full name – is a Friesian stallion. He’s amazing, the best horse I’ve ever had.’ Robbie’s voice is filled with pride and affection as he reaches down to stroke his flank. ‘Yours is a Spanish horse, isn’t he?’
‘My parents kept an Andalusian stallion at stud.’ I have fond memories of the farm – I must have been the only child at school to think that it was perfectly normal to keep bags of colostrum next to the Mini Milks in the freezer. ‘They bred Rafa from one of their mares.’
‘They haven’t got any more, have they?’
‘Sadly not. They sold up a couple of years ago. My dad’s retired, although he and Mum still have contacts in Spain, if you’re serious.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. I’m always on the lookout for horses like him. How old is he?’
‘He’s thirteen now, old enough to know better,’ I grimace as he tenses beneath me, having caught the scent of pig as we move closer to their field. ‘He was born the day before my sixteenth birthday. I was supposed to be revising for my GCSEs, but I knew from the way the mare was dripping milk that she was about to give birth. I couldn’t go downstairs because my parents were entertaining, so I climbed out of my bedroom window and down the ladder I’d taken out of the garage beforehand.’
‘Did you get caught?’ Robbie asks.
‘They found out when I crashed their dinner party, calling for help. Dad wasn’t happy that I’d risked my neck, but Mum was more concerned about the foal.’ I was remembering finding him lying in the straw, still wet from the birth. He’d been born black – he hadn’t started going grey until he was a couple of months old.
‘I watched him stagger to his feet.’ He’d had knobbly knees and his long legs had seemed out of proportion to his body. ‘When he went to his mother to feed, she went for him.’ I remembered that too: the way she’d pinned back her ears and bared her teeth, her eyes filled with fury, while her baby had cowered in the corner of the stable, lost, confused and distressed. I hadn’t been able to stop crying.
‘What did you do?’
‘I fed him colostrum from a bottle and then we tried him with another mare we had. She had a foal at foot, and wouldn’t entertain taking on a second mouth to feed, so I took him on. I made him a rug and fed him with milk replacer from a bucket every two hours.’
‘What happened to the exams?’
‘I passed. I’d never have heard the end of it if I’d failed.’
‘I’ve been around horses all my life, but I don’t have any experience of hand-rearing one. I imagine it’s pretty challenging.’
‘Rafa had the other foal to play with. He was cheeky, but I made sure he had respect for humans. When he tried to kick out, I used to grab his hind legs and hang on to them so he couldn’t do it. He was a quick learner. I put a halter on him, brushed him, picked up his feet, and did everything to make sure he grew up with good manners.’
‘So what went wrong?’ Robbie laughs, before sobering up quickly. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you by criticising your horse.’
‘No offence taken,’ I say, although I do feel a little hurt.
‘I know what horses are like. One minute, you’re on top of the world, the next you’re on the floor.’ Robbie stares at me – intently, covetously – and I wonder what he sees in me; a woman of twenty-nine with hazel eyes, slim yet fit, with killer guns that are well defined, but still feminine … then I realise he’s looking at Rafa.
‘These two would look amazing in an arena together. Can he do any tricks?’
‘I do a bit of dressage with him, if that’s what you mean.’ I smile to myself at my mistake.
Rafa slows his pace and comes to a stop a couple of metres from the gateway, while Nelson walks straight on past. Robbie pulls up and waits. The pigs, which have been digging in the mud around the trough, come wandering across to investigate. Rafa puts himself into rapid reverse, stops and rears up, refusing to go forwards.
Robbie trots his horse back down the lane and manoeuvres him so he’s alongside Rafa and facing in the same direction. Without warning, he leans across and grabs my reins.
‘Do you mind?’ I exclaim, but we’re already on our way past the gate, with Nelson shielding Rafa from the sight of the pigs. Robbie releases the reins, letting me take back some kind of control as Rafa breaks into a jog.
‘Thanks for that,’ I say, bringing him back to walk. ‘I feel really stupid now. No one’s done that to me since I was about ten.’
‘I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. My father used to do it all the time with my mounted games pony, and in front of my friends.’
‘I suppose it had the desired effect,’ I say ruefully, as we hack side by side along the wide grassy verge that opens out ahead of us. I change the subject, not wanting to dwell on the fact that my horse appears to have transferred his allegiance to Robbie, temporarily at least. ‘Have you had Nelson long?’
‘Since he was a yearling. I backed him and brought him on. He’s been a star ever since. I have other horses, but he’s the best. He’ll do anything for me: play dead; jump through fire …’
‘Oh?’ I’m not sure whether or not to believe him.
‘I’m a stunt rider, qualified, insured, and a member of Equity. My brother Dillon and I are masters of Roman and liberty riding.’
‘Enlighten me. I haven’t a clue what that means.’
‘It’s where you control a team of horses, standing on their backs and using your voice.’
‘What? No reins?’
‘That’s right. I can manage up to twelve at once.’ His eyes flash with humour as he continues, ‘That’s on a good day, at home, when there’s no wind to get under their tails. Dillon and I usually run displays with a team of eight. We travel to some of the agricultural shows, and we’re booked to perform at an international event next year. We train every day. I’ll show you sometime, if you like.’
Like, I think? I’d love it.
‘A stunt rider? That’s amazing. It explains a lot – the shirt, for example. Are you wearing make-up?’ I have to ask.
‘Do you think I’ve overdone it?’ he teases.
‘It’s a little weird. I’m all for guys being in touch with their feminine side, but that seems a bit much.’
‘It’s part of the act. A reporter for the local newspaper came out to interview me and take some pics today. The Chronicle is filled with stories of rescued animals and local non-events, but any publicity is good publicity as far as I’m concerned. I’m hoping the story will get picked up by the nationals, to spread the word about what we can do with our horses.’
‘Have you been in any films or on TV?’
‘I’ve been a stunt double for –’ he mentions an actor that everyone, even my mother, will have heard of – ‘and my brother and I have provided horses for a few TV ads and a couple of one-off dramas. It’s top secret, so I probably shouldn’t be telling you, but I’m talking to a production company about a contract to provide horses and riders for a TV series.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t say anything.’
‘I’m crossing my fingers that I’ll have good news soon, because we could do with the money to build up the team. We need more horses.’
‘How many have you got?’
‘We have nineteen between us at the moment, plus my old games pony, but we could always do with more for our various equestrian activities. We train aspiring stunt riders and run confidence-building courses. We also break and school horses for trick riding, and I’m developing the concept of horses as therapy. I volunteered at a centre in Wiltshire to see how we could offer it at our place.’
I’m swooning in the saddle. If I were in a costume drama right now, I’d be begging for the smelling salts. At last! All my life – well, since I was about sixteen and first recognised the existence of boys – I’ve been hoping to find a man who is as mad about horses as I am, and I think I’ve just found him.
I wish circumstances were different, that I hadn’t sworn off men for the foreseeable future and just shown myself up as the world’s worst horsewoman. I give Rafa a pat, hoping there’ll be time for the shame to fade before I see Robbie again.
We pass a tub of spring daffodils and a road sign that reads ‘Furzeworthy’, the name of the hamlet where I’ll be staying for the next three months at least.
‘You’ll be all right now?’ Robbie stops at the gate of Wisteria House, where there’s a forged-iron B&B sign hanging from the wall that hides the house from the road.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ All I need is a shower and a couple of paracetamol for my bruises.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’ Robbie swings his horse around with the merest touch of the reins against his neck.
‘Tomorrow?’ My forehead tightens.
‘Hasn’t Mel told you?’
I shake my head. ‘I haven’t met my new boss yet, only chatted to him on the phone.’
‘You’re booked to fix Nelson’s loose shoe,’ he adds cheerfully over his shoulder as he rides away.
That’s awkward, I think as I dismount. I lead Rafa on to the drive, closing the wooden gate behind him in case he has any plans to accompany Nelson. I take him past the house, a former farmhouse, built from red Devon brick with a tiled roof and freshly painted white wooden window-frames. Woody branches of wisteria run from one side of the house above the main door and along the pergola at the front.
There’s a soft-top sports car and a family MPV parked along the gravel, but no sign of a farrier’s van. Beyond the vehicles, there’s a pair of wooden loose-boxes – one for my horse and another for his gear and my tools – and a double garage and brick extension with a horseshoe hanging upside down above the door.
I tie Rafa up outside the stables, untack and hose him down. He stamps his feet, taking a moment to appreciate the sensation of cold water against his skin. I remove the excess with the scraper and lead him out to the field next to the stables, where he goes straight down and rolls.
Grey horse plus Devon mud equals a peculiar shade of orange.
He hauls himself up and gives himself a thorough shake. He takes a mouthful of water and dribbles it out between his whiskery lips before heading off to graze.
‘I haven’t shod a stunt rider’s horse before.’ I lean against the gate. ‘How cool is that.’
‘Hello, Flick. What was that?’
I turn abruptly to find Louise immediately behind me. She’s wearing a wrap dress that flatters her curves, and wellies that don’t do anything for her at all. I flush to the roots of my hair at being caught apparently rambling on to myself.
‘Oh, nothing. I was talking to Rafa. It’s a bad habit of mine.’
‘Come in and have a glass of wine.’ Mel’s wife has a ready smile, wavy blonde hair down to her shoulders and blue eyes. She’s about the same age as me, yet she’s settled with a husband and son, and the B&B, while I’m no longer sure what I’m looking for, or if I’ll ever find it.
‘Yes, why not?’ I say, thanking her.
I leave the head-collar in the stable ready for the morning, and follow her into the back of the house. We pass through the boot room where Louise leaves her wellies, and I pull off my jodhpur boots and chaps before entering a proper country kitchen with an Aga, butler sink and dresser. There’s a brown ceramic hen on the windowsill and yellow curtains printed with red roosters. There’s a bottle of rosé, a flagon of cider, a couple of wine glasses and a toy train on the elm table in the centre.
‘So you’re in one piece,’ Louise says. ‘I’ve been worried about you, coming off your horse like that.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Well, apart from the grass stains on your knees and the bloody lip, Robbie called – he wanted me to make sure you were all right.’
‘That’s kind of him.’ An image of the stunt rider on his testosterone-fuelled stallion jumps into my head and lingers there.
‘That’s my cousin all over. He’s a lovely guy. A bit of a lad, maybe, but he’d do anything for anyone.’ Louise picks up the wine bottle and gestures towards the sink. ‘You’re welcome to wash your hands. Would you like a drink? It’s way past wine o’clock,’ she adds when I hesitate.
It’s true. I had dinner – or what she called ‘tea’ – at five with Louise and her son, Ashley, a quiet boy of about seven. He didn’t utter a word the whole time, which I found rather disturbing. I wasn’t a shy child.
‘You can have cider if you prefer, but I wouldn’t recommend the local brew unless you’re actively seeking a laxative effect.’ Louise smiles as I run my hands under the tap. There doesn’t appear to be a towel so I let them drip dry. ‘Or there’s a beer in the fridge. Mel likes a lager when he gets in from work.’
‘A beer would be great, thanks.’ I don’t want a hangover tomorrow. ‘Isn’t Mel back yet? I was hoping to have a chat with him.’
‘He dropped in for his tea before going off with his brother for a couple of pints. They’ll have gone to the Talymill Inn or the Dog and Duck in Talyton. I shouldn’t wait up if I were you.’ Louise fetches a bottle of lager, opens it and passes it over to me. ‘Please make yourself at home.’
I pull up a chair and sit down as she pours herself a glass of wine.
‘I’m so pleased you’ve agreed to cover for Mel while he’s getting himself sorted,’ she begins. ‘I hate to see him dragging himself out to work when he’s in such terrible pain. A bad back is an occupational hazard, but we hoped he’d get away with it for a few more years at least. He’s only forty-eight, after all: a spring chicken.’
I’d hardly describe a man in his late forties as a spring chicken, I think, as she continues. ‘Sometimes he wishes he’d gone into dairy farming like his brother, but he wouldn’t be any good at getting up in the mornings.’
‘When does he have the operation?’ I ask.
‘Tuesday, the day after tomorrow. He had his pre-op checks last week so he’s ready to go. I think he was half hoping they’d find something wrong with his heart or liver so he had an excuse not to go ahead.’
‘Tony told me that you and Mel met while he was shoeing your horse.’
Tony was my ATF, or Apprentice Training Farrier. Based in Wiltshire, he’s in his early fifties, and an experienced – if not always patient – teacher. I can recall his cutting remarks whenever I put the wrong shoes in the furnace, or dropped a box of nails. It was a fun, fast-paced, and sometimes pressured environment, and I loved it. In fact, I miss being part of the gang now. There were always three or four apprentices at different stages of training, and Tony. He’s a mate of Mel’s, which is how I found out about this job. He put in a good word for me and here I am.
‘I’m one of those horsey women who fell for their farrier.’ Louise runs her fingers up and down the stem of her glass. ‘Mel was still married to his first wife, but they were living separate lives – pretty much, anyway.’ I wonder if she uses that excuse to justify his infidelity and her involvement in breaking up a marriage. I can see why an older man would fall for her, with her caring outlook, sense of humour, and the beauty spot on her cheek. ‘Everyone said it wouldn’t last, but we’ve been together for nine years now, and married for seven.’
‘You don’t have a horse now?’ I ask.
‘I kept my mare until Ashley turned two and things started getting difficult. I couldn’t manage any longer.’
It seems a little odd, I think, because Louise seems very much like the coping kind.
‘I imagine that it’s pretty time-consuming, running a B&B,’ I observe.
‘The business does well in the summer, but it’s very quiet in wintertime. My parents run a small hotel not far away from here. They’re my mother’s pigs – the ones that gave Rafa the heebie-jeebies. Anyway, I’ve had years of experience in hospitality. It fits in well with looking after Ashley – and Mel, of course.’ She pauses, checking the clock on the wall before turning back to me. ‘Are you married, or engaged, or seeing anyone?’
‘Oh no,’ I say, revealing more than I intend in the forceful tone of my voice.
She smiles wryly. ‘You sound like someone who’s decided to remain single, come hell or high water. What happened? You don’t have to say,’ she adds quickly. ‘I’m sorry, I’m such a gossip.’
‘No, it’s fine. I can talk about it now,’ but before I can go on, Ashley cries out from somewhere upstairs. Louise raises her eyes towards the ceiling as he cries again.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me another time. I’m going to have to sit with him for a while,’ she sighs. ‘You’re welcome to stay here, or take your drink into the snug or your room. Help yourself to another.’
I wish her goodnight and head for my room at the front of the house, one of the three en-suites that she uses for her bed-and-breakfast business. I look out of the window where I can just make out Rafa’s grey silhouette in the darkness.
Louise’s questioning has brought unwelcome memories of Ryan back to the forefront of my brain. A wave of regret washes through me as I recall the good times with my ex, the cuddles, kisses and companionship … And then the infidelity, utter devastation, and legacy of debt that he’s left me with … I take a deep breath, count to ten and close the curtains, determined not to waste any more emotional effort on the waste of space who was once my fiancé. I can do it. I know I can. I’m over him, but I’m not ready to move on. I’m not sure that I ever will be.
I shower and change into my PJs before retiring to bed, but I can’t sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll be out on the road with an anvil, tools and van in my first job as a qualified member of the Worshipful Company of Farriers. I can’t help wondering if Mel’s clients will be receptive to having a female farrier to shoe their horses, or if I’ll struggle to prove myself. I wonder, too, having demonstrated my complete inability to control my own horse, if I’ll have to work extra hard to win Robbie Salterton over.
I wake to the sun’s rays passing between the heavy brocade curtains and the aroma of sausages and bacon. I feel as if I’m on holiday until three alarms sound from my iPad, alarm clock and watch, bringing me to reality and the realisation that it’s my first day in my new job.
The adrenaline kicks in. I jump out of bed and throw on a pair of jeans and a baggy sweater. I pad barefoot downstairs, past the snug for the B&B guests that’s complete with a sofa and bookshelves laden with romances and thrillers. The corridor is filled with chicken-themed ephemera, including paintings, ceramic plaques and ornaments.
When I reach the door that’s open into the kitchen, I pause to listen to the fierce sizzle of frying bacon and Louise’s one-sided conversation with her son. I walk on by, my stomach growling as I put on my wellies and head outside to find Rafa. There’s a black Toyota Hilux parked outside the garage that wasn’t there last night.
I don’t think Rafa is as pleased to see me as I am to see him. When I reach the far side of the field to catch him, he lifts his head and gives me a look as if to say, ‘Can’t I stay out today?’ I’m tempted to leave him, but his belly is round with the lush spring grass and I don’t want him overdoing it. Usually, I like to have him on full-time turnout by the beginning of April, but there’s too much to eat out here. The pasture is a smorgasbord of grasses and herbs.
I bring him into the stable where I give him a tiny feed and a small hay-net. I’m down to my last couple of flakes of hay, never a good feeling. Rafa digs up the bed of shavings that I made for him the night before and takes a couple of mouthfuls of hay before resting his leg and closing his eyes. I leave him to snooze, although I doubt he’ll sleep much with the throbbing of a tractor muckspreading in a nearby field, the cooing of wood pigeons and cawing of rooks, and the frantic clucking of one of Louise’s backyard hens that’s laying an egg.
I return indoors to brush my hair and do my make-up, adding a touch of foundation with SPF, mascara and lip-gloss, before returning downstairs for breakfast. I knock at the door into the kitchen – I’m not sure if I’m supposed to order breakfast here, or wait in the dining room that’s set aside for the B&B guests.
‘Come on in. There’s no need to knock. We don’t stand on ceremony.’ Louise beckons me across to the table before attending to a pan on the Aga. Ashley is sitting in front of a bowl of Rice Krispies, his head to one side, as if he’s concentrating on the noise they make as he pours milk on to them from a jug. The milk wells up over the rim of the bowl, spills on to the table and trickles towards the edge.
‘Ashley, you’re spilling it,’ I say, at which Louise turns and grabs the jug from his hand.
‘You’re making a mess, darling,’ she says, hardly raising her voice. She hands him a spoon which he drops on the floor – deliberately, I think. I pick it up, rinse it in the sink and wipe it with a tea towel printed with chickens. I put the spoon on the table within Ashley’s reach. He picks it up and starts eating his cereal without saying a word.
‘Did you say thank you to Flick?’ Louise says, giving me a look of apology.
He doesn’t look up, even when I sit down opposite him to eat a plateful of fried potato, bacon, sausages, egg, mushroom and tomatoes.
His mum sends him off to clean his teeth and fetch his bag for school.
‘You’ll have to bear with him, I’m afraid. He doesn’t mean to be rude.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, although I do feel a little confused by his behaviour. It’s as if he doesn’t want to know me.
‘He has problems communicating and processing information, which means that he struggles with any form of social interaction. He goes to Talyton Primary where he has a Learning Support Assistant, but we’re under pressure to send him to a school for children with special needs instead.’ Her eyes grow glassy with tears. ‘Even though the other children do their best to include him, he knows he’s different. It’s very hard. Mel finds it particularly difficult to accept. He’s a real man’s man, very sociable and hardly stops talking. You’ll see when you meet him.’ She looks past me. ‘You made it in time for breakfast, I see. Mel, this is Flick.’
‘So the cavalry’s arrived.’ I turn to see a thickset man, dressed in a tweed jacket over a check shirt and jeans; he’s walking stiffly over to the table, his back bowed. He shakes my hand, pumping it roughly up and down. ‘It’s great to meet you at last. Tone’s told me all about you. What’s he said about me?’
‘That you’re a top bloke.’ Those were his exact words and I don’t mind repeating them. Mel seems pleased.
‘We’ve been mates for many years. He was best man at our wedding, wasn’t he, Lou.’
‘I’m surprised you remember,’ she says cheerfully. ‘Of course I remember.’ He moves around behind his wife, slides his arms around her waist and gives her a bear hug. ‘Getting shackled to you was the best day of my life.’
‘Sit down, you charmer,’ she says, turning to kiss him on the lips.
When he straightens up to pull up a chair, his belly seems to slump over the top of his belt. His head is shaved completely bald and his skull has a pointed appearance. He has massive arms, a ruddy complexion and a Roman nose. As he sits down, Louise places a mug of coffee and a cooked breakfast in front of him.
‘I thought we’d better have a quick chat before you go on the road.’ He smiles, revealing two gold crowns in his upper jaw. Louise hands him a bottle of ketchup. He squeezes half of it over his food and picks up his knife and fork.
‘You can use the forge whenever you like – the key’s under the stone trough, right-hand end. I’ve entered you for the Eagle Eye class at the spring Farm and Country Festival in a few weeks, so you might want to practise. I need you to represent my business while I’m out of action, and it’s a good way to make a good impression and meet new clients.’
‘I’ve had plenty of practice making shoes,’ I say, amused. ‘I didn’t do much else before my exam.’
‘Tone said you were pretty dedicated.’ He takes a huge mouthful of food and chews for a while before continuing again. ‘But you did have something to prove, being one of the few females in the profession. I reckon you’ll stir things up around here.’
I can’t help wondering, as I watch him eat, if I’m here to give him some kind of notoriety while he’s out of action.
‘I’ve got my surgery this week. I’ve put it off for as long as I can, but the pain’s too much to bear—’
‘On some days, he can hardly move,’ Louise cuts in. ‘On other days, he’s fit enough to walk back from the pub after a few pints with his brother. There are times, like this morning, when it’s hard to feel any sympathy.’
‘Heartless woman.’ Mel gazes fondly at his wife. ‘Thanks for driving me back to fetch the pick-up this morning.’
‘You’ve made me late for the school run.’ Louise touches his shoulder as she leaves the kitchen to go and find Ashley. ‘I’ll see you both later.’
‘Well, Flick, we’d better make a move.’ Mel stands up slowly from his chair, one fist pressed into the small of his back. He picks up a book and a mobile from the dresser and hands them over to me.
‘Here’s the diary and the business phone – I can’t be arsed to change the number.’
‘Have you got a price list?’ I ask.
‘It’s in the back – Lou printed it out for me. It’s flexible. When a client pays in kind with cider, cake, or a leg of lamb, I’ll cut a fiver off the bill, but don’t let anyone take the mickey. It’s payment on the day – cash, not cheques, and absolutely no credit.’ He pauses, his eyes on my face. ‘Don’t look so worried. My clients are well schooled in my ways. As time’s gone on I’ve been able to pick and choose. I’ll admit there are some oddballs, but they’re okay on the whole.’
He hands me a set of keys. ‘These are for the Toyota.’
‘Thanks. That’s great,’ I say, guessing that this is the end of my induction, but he follows me outside.
‘I’ll give you the guided tour.’ He opens the tailgate of the truck to show me the set-up in the back: the aluminium-lined workspace with drawers and gas furnace, which consists of a metal box with a door in the front of it, fuelled by a propane cylinder.
‘It has twin burners,’ Mel says proudly. ‘I’ve had it for a while. I replaced the ignition system and cleaned the jets the other day. I’ve loaded the drawers with shoes and nails. You should find everything you need: anvil, stand, vice, trolley, etc. I’ve sharpened the knives.’
‘Thank you.’ I have brought my own tools with me, apart from an anvil.
‘The front isn’t this tidy.’ He grins. ‘I didn’t get around to that. I’ve been too busy trying to keep on top of things. The competition horses are back in full work and everyone’s making the most of the good weather and lighter evenings. I’m not complaining, though – it pays the bills.’
I tuck the mobile in my pocket and open the diary to check where I’m supposed to be going first.
‘What time am I supposed to be at Eclipse?’ I ask, reading Mel’s handwriting. ‘It doesn’t say.’ It also doesn’t say where – or what – Eclipse is.
‘Oh, that’s the Saltertons’ place. There isn’t a time – I always get there when I get there. It’s just up the road.’ He waves vaguely in the direction in which Robbie rode away last night. ‘All the addresses are programmed into the satnav in the front of the truck.’
He closes the tailgate while I go around to the driver’s door and jump in. There’s a packet of sweaty sandwiches, a couple of chocolate wrappers and several empty cola bottles in the passenger footwell. A pen dangles on the end of a piece of string tied to a diary on the dashboard, and there are crumbs on the seats.
It’s pretty disgusting, but it will do. I make a plan to muck it out later.
I fasten the seatbelt, switch on the engine and satnav, and I’m ready to drive off when Mel gets in too, grunting as he slides his bulk into the passenger’s side. He glances across at me, one eyebrow raised at my surprise.
‘I didn’t realise …’ I stammer.
‘That I was coming with you,’ he finishes for me. ‘It’s only for today, to help you out with the navigation and introduce you to the Saltertons.’
I wonder if he can actually let go; if he’s one of those people who are unable to delegate. I don’t blame him for being protective of his business, but it makes me feel as if I’m on trial. He reaches out and taps the dashboard, reminding me of my old driving instructor.
‘Let’s go. Turn left.’
‘Left?’ I pull up at the gateway on to the lane as the satnav is telling me to leave the unmade road and turn right.
‘You don’t need to listen to that thing.’ Mel reaches forwards and turns it off. ‘I thought I’d show you around, so you can get your bearings.’
‘You really don’t have to.’
‘I hate sitting around. I’m one of those people who’s on the go all the time.’
I have my eyes on the road, but I can tell from his voice that he’s smiling when he continues, ‘It drives Lou mad.’
The gears scrunch as I change from second into third.
Mel winces.
I drive on down the lane, taking care at the blind bends and praying that we won’t meet anything coming the other way.
‘It’s fine. We have all day,’ Mel says with sarcasm. ‘Tone said you were a bit flaky behind the wheel.’
I’d love to be able to abandon my new boss in the lane and tell him to make his own way but, considering it’s my first day, I decide it probably isn’t the best move.
‘Take the right fork at the crossroads,’ he goes on. ‘That takes us down into town. I’ll show you where to buy the best sandwiches.’