The Day We Disappeared (7 page)

‘Well, you see, Maria, horses are
my passion,' I said, verbatim. ‘I left a very successful career at
Google Dublin so that I could start out in the eventing world. But the deal I made
with myself was that, if I was going to do it, I would only do it with the very
best.' I glanced at Mark. ‘So here I am, with the best event rider in
the country!'

There was a brief silence, which Maria
broke with an unpleasant laugh. ‘Jesus.' She chuckled, in a South
American way.
Hayzoos.
It seemed even more insulting than plain old
‘Jesus'. ‘They are all the same.' She got up and left the
room. I heard her scream her daughter's name.

I waited for Mark
to apologize, to make good his wife's behaviour somehow, but he didn't
say a word.

‘I meant it,' I tried
desperately. ‘It really is an honour to be working for you. The very best of
the bunch, you know? Ha-ha?'

‘Kate. It is Kate, isn't
it?'

I nodded.

‘Kate. Most eventers enjoy having
smoke blown up their arses. The industry is rife with heavy-drinking, horse-doping
egotistical maniacs, who cover themselves with expensive kit and make-up and get
themselves photographed in the champagne tent every time they go to a competition.
They'll respond gladly to flattery.'

I withered. I could feel Sandra to my
right, begging silently for her son to show me some mercy. ‘They sound like a
bunch of silly articles,' I tried lamely.

‘I'm not one of them, Kate.
I'm running a very tight ship here. I have no time for posing at parties,
letting people tell me how great I am. If you're looking for that sort of
thing, you're best off working for Caroline Lexington-Morley. What
I
'm looking for – and please be clear on this – are the most
observant, meticulous, tireless grooms in the business. Because without people like
that I have no hope of winning.'

‘Of course, of course.' I
smiled, my face bland and reassuring. I didn't like people who wanted to
win.

‘My staff must love my horses more
than they love me, because they're the most important people here. I want them
to be respected, adored, fussed over but never petted. You get out of bed at six
a.m. for them, not me.'

‘Understood.' I liked that
he called his horses people.
Beyond that,
I didn't like anything I'd just heard. ‘So the horses first, you
second and me last. I think I can work with that.'

Mark didn't laugh.

‘So, love, tell us about your
ponies,' Sandra said kindly, tucking her grey bob behind an ear. Sandra and
the dogs were the only nice thing about this lunch. Dirk the Labrador sat on one
side of her and an enormous grey Irish wolfhound on the other.

‘I had a pony called, um,
Frog?' I experimented.

Sandra's eyes lit up. ‘Oh,
what a name!' she cried. ‘Frog! Imagine that, Mark! It's almost as
good as Stumpy!'

Mark, who was shrugging on a fleece
laced with horse hairs, didn't react.

‘And how old were you when you got
Frog?' Sandra asked.

‘I was four.' I tried to
remember what Becca had said about horse heights. ‘He was, er, fifteen
two.'

Mark's eyes had swivelled back to
me. There was something going on in there that I couldn't put my finger on.
‘Time to get back,' he said. ‘You were late, so this conversation
will have to continue later. Please make sure you're on time in
future.'

Silently, sadly, I said goodbye to my
soup.

‘Off to shovel some more shite
then!' I beamed. I was Kate Brady. I would not be beaten.

Mark stopped in the doorway.
‘Email me your CV,' he said. And, just at the moment I decided he was
one of the more unpleasant people I'd met, he smiled.

His daughter galloped in and threw
herself at him, telling him how much she hated her mother. Mark picked her
up and carried her out to the yard on his
back. And, unless I was very much mistaken, he told her he completely agreed.

Sandra looked at me, and I looked at
her. I felt there were many things that we both wanted to say, but none were said.
She tidied up the bowls, mumbling genially about needing to pop into town, and
wandered out with the dogs padding after her. ‘That's Woody,' she
said, pointing to the Irish wolfhound.

Then it was just me. I closed my eyes
for a second, trying, through all this uncomfortable newness, to remind myself that
this was par for the course. The odd employers; the strange atmosphere: it was never
going to feel right straight away.

It's okay, I told myself. It
really is okay. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and before you know
it it'll be dinner time. You're doing brilliantly!

I wasn't sure I believed myself,
but I stood up anyway, pulling Becca's spare bobbly gloves on to my already
blistering hands. ‘Once more unto the breach,' I said to the empty room.
‘Once more unto the bloody breach. Oh, God.'

‘What the hell is Mark and
Maria's relationship about?' I asked Becca. We were reaching the end of
my first day on the yard and dusk was stretching its long, cold fingers over the
farm. Our breath, which had straggled out of our mouths like damp little clouds all
day, now plumed richly like smoke. Becca was showing me how much haylage to give
each horse. It was a sweet-smelling, slightly damp version of hay, the point of
which Becca had explained to me and I had promptly forgotten.

‘Ah, pet, don't ask me about
Mark and Maria!' she muttered, loading a pile of haylage into a wheelbarrow.
‘Pair of fuckin' nutters. Were they shouting at each other?'

‘Mostly hissing. Although their
kid did a lot of shouting. She's fierce!'

Becca grinned. ‘I love that little
devil,' she said, suddenly tender. ‘She knows herself better than either
of her horrible parents know themselves.'

I nodded thoughtfully. Ana Luisa's
language might have been unusually fruity for a six-year-old but she was the only
one in that room who'd actually expressed her feelings. Her mother was curdled
with passive aggression and her father was a column of frost, while Sandra and I had
merely cowered, like Labradors.

‘Maria told
her off and she tried to run away.'

A little chuckle. ‘Aye. As
usual.'

‘Oh! Really?'

Something unreadable crossed
Becca's face. ‘Mmm. But we always find her.'

‘Where does she go?'

‘To my room, mostly.'

‘How funny! Actually, Maria said
you'd find her. How come?'

Becca was not enjoying all my questions.
‘Dunno.'

I left it. I had enough skeletons in my
own closet and, besides, we had reached the first stable door, over which hung a
handsome chestnut face that looked very happy about the haylage I was carrying.
‘Kangaroo', his name plate said.

I smiled, nervous but delighted to find
myself face to face with a horse at last. There had been horses around me all day –
being groomed, being ridden, being fed, and a bunch of mad ones galloping and
bucking on the iron-hard frozen ground of the paddocks earlier, much to
Tiggy's dismay – but I hadn't met a single one of them yet.

As I looked at this magnificent beast,
however, I wavered. Not only was he absolutely enormous but it was now clear that I
hadn't the faintest idea how to approach him. What to say to him. How even to
give him some hay. ‘Um, hi, Kangaroo!' I said uncertainly, sticking my
spare hand out in the direction of his face. Kangaroo swung his head away, back into
his stable.

‘Oh,' I said, laughing to
cover my disappointment. ‘Kangaroo doesn't like me.'

Becca smiled. ‘Come here,
lad,' she murmured, and held
out her
own hand. Kangaroo eventually came over, snuffling at her with his lovely soft nose.
I wanted to kiss it.

‘They can always tell when
you're nervous,' Becca said. ‘They pick up on everything. Just
relax, pet, he's a lovely boy.'

I hadn't done much relaxing of
late, but I tried to loosen up my body a bit and concentrate only on the beautiful
horse in front of me. He was a delight. Smooth, muscled, perfectly groomed, snug in
a smart red stable rug with Mark's initials in the bottom corner.

‘Hi,' I said to him.
‘Hi, Kangaroo.'

Kangaroo eventually took a few wisps of
haylage from my hand, although he didn't seem entirely convinced by me. We
moved on to the next stable, marked ‘Stumpy'. He was out being lunged by
Mark so I loaded his hay rack under Becca's supervision.

What lovely names, I thought, shutting
his stable door behind me. Kangaroo and Stumpy. There was a Harold somewhere, and an
Alfie. And a whole load of others whose names I couldn't remember, but all of
them were good. None of this ‘Spotty' or ‘Neptune' nonsense.
I wondered who'd given them such sweet names. It certainly wouldn't have
been Mark.

‘So are they always fighting,
then?' I asked, as we moved on. ‘Mark and Maria.'

Becca nodded. ‘Sometimes I wonder
if we're in Camp sodding Bastion, not Somerset. The problem is, she owns his
best horses so he can't ever tell her to go and do one.'

I stopped wheeling the barrow.
‘She owns his horses? Seriously? Why doesn't he own them?'

Becca peeled some haylage off the pile
and put it into
a stable marked
‘Steve'. Steve snatched a mouthful, then let half of it fall on
Becca's head. She laughed, rubbing his nose. ‘Thanks, Steve,' she
said. ‘A horse that can compete at four-star level – which is the very top –
costs about two hundred grand,' she explained. ‘So even the richest
riders don't own all of their own horses. Zara Phillips included, pet. The
real money in this game is with the owners.'

Two hundred grand!

‘Mark's horses are owned by
all sorts of people but his five best ones – including Stumpy, who's his World
Class horse – are owned by Maria. Or, precisely, Maria's dad. But she's
in charge. Daddy just signs the cheques and swanks around in the owners' tents
at the events.'

‘Jesus,' I said, handing
Becca some more haylage. ‘So it's a marriage of convenience?'

Becca glowered. ‘They fell in love
for a bit,' she said darkly, ‘then realized they were both arseholes.
But Maria doesn't want to lose out on Mark's fame and Mark can't
lose out on Maria's fortune. It's a dark situation, pet, and I'll
tell you that for nothing. Sharing the lorry with those two is a fate worse than
death.' She straightened up a row of shovels and forks.

‘They were arguing about that at
lunchtime,' I said, as we moved on. ‘The horsebox.'

‘No surprise there. It cost him
three hundred and seventy grand.'

‘It cost WHAT?' I stared
over at the huge silver truck with awe. ‘MARK WAVERLEY, TEAM GBR', it
said on the side. I could have bought a mansion with that money!

‘The living quarters are like a
palace,' Becca added.
‘Room
for eight of us to sleep. Flatscreen TV, wardrobes and underfloor heating. Even a
bog and a shower!'

‘Whoa,' I breathed.
‘He should live in it. His house is so sad and run-down.'

‘They had money, once, the
Waverleys – well, you can see the size of this place – but Mark's dad died
with his finances in a mess and they've had to sell nearly everything just to
stay afloat. It's all a bit
Downton Abbey
, pet.'

I looked back at the vast, hulking
horsebox. ‘So you'll all sleep in it when you go to
competitions?'

‘Aye.' She indicated for me
to throw her some more haylage.

‘Mark and Maria too?'

Becca stopped by the wheelbarrow.
‘Why are you so interested in them?' she asked.

‘Er … just morbid
curiosity.' I pulled my hat down over my ears as a biting wind punched through
the yard. ‘My own folks are still so happy together I find it odd when I see
couples who hate each other. I mean, why do they bother?'

‘GALWAY!' It was Joe,
approaching us on a vast, sweaty horse, which was jiggling sideways and snatching at
its bit. Joe sat easily on top, grinning down at me. ‘Will we be having a
cuddle later?'

‘We will not,' I
confirmed.

‘Ah, Galway! Come on!'

I loaded haylage into the next loose
box. ‘I'm not after the sex with you,' I told Joe, who had swung
himself off the horse and was loosening its girth.

‘Can you sponge him down?'
he asked Becca. ‘I've got to get that silly tit Harold out before
it's properly dark.'

‘Can you do
it quickly yourself, pet?' Becca asked. ‘I'm still showing Kate
the ropes.'

Joe looked sulky. ‘I want to show
Kate the ropes. I want to show her
my
rope. I want to make sweet love to
her and hold her all night. Get her some Shreddies and a nice cup of tay in the
morning.'

Becca picked up a broom and waved it
threateningly. ‘If you and your nasty peen go anywhere near this girl, I will
deck you. Now, fuck off.'

‘She fancies you, Galway.'
Joe winked, leading the horse off.

‘So what colour is that horse
Joe's got there?' I asked, as he walked away. ‘Would you call it
tabby?'

Becca, who'd gone bright red,
roared with laughter. ‘It's a roan, pet,' she said.
‘Although I prefer tabby!'

We were loading another wheelbarrow with
haylage just as Mark walked into the yard leading the most beautiful horse I'd
ever seen. He was the one from the photo in the dining room: brilliant white, except
for the dark grey mess creeping up his legs from being in the outdoor school, with
lovely fat rounded ears like little satellite dishes. A very soft-looking white mane
and forelock framed his sweet, open face. He stared keenly at our wheelbarrow of
hay. ‘Ho-ho-ho,' he whickered, and I fell in love on the spot.
‘Stumpy needs more lunging,' Mark said in Becca's general
direction. ‘He keeps dropping his inside leg. Here,' he said to me.
‘Can you sponge him down and give him his waffle?'

His what?

He held the long lead-rope to me and
turned back to Becca, who was trying to engage with him while keeping
an eye on me. ‘I'll get Tigs
to work more lunging into the schedule,' she was saying.

‘Well, Tiggy says she passed the
job on to
you
,' he snapped, moving away, with Becca trotting
anxiously at his side. ‘I want to sort this out now. Is she in the tack
room?'

I fingered the lead-rope and looked up
at the big, powerful animal, an extraordinary feat of natural engineering. He gazed
at me, one of his comically fat ears sliding backwards. He didn't seem
anywhere near as happy as he had ten seconds ago with Mark. ‘Come on,' I
whispered nervously, moving off towards the washing-down area that Joe was already
vacating.

Stumpy, behind me, didn't move. I
pulled a little bit harder, terrified Mark would turn and see us. ‘Please,
Stumpy,' I whispered. ‘Come with me.'

Both of Stumpy's ears swung back
and he refused to move. I didn't need to know much about horses to understand
that this was a fairly bad situation.

Becca, seeing all of this going on,
pretty much shoved Mark into the tack room.

I tugged on the rope a final time and
Stumpy, if anything, leaned back. Desperate, I walked back to his shoulder.
‘Please tell me what I'm doing wrong.' I gave him a stroke on the
neck in case that helped. There was a curious whorl of hair just under his mane,
like a little hurricane. I fingered it. Suddenly, Stumpy turned to me. A big kindly
eye, fringed by long lashes, took me in while he had a good sniff of me.
‘What's wrong, you weirdo?' he seemed to ask.

I remembered what Becca had said about
horses tuning
into our mental states.
‘Come on!' I said brightly. ‘Come on, old chap!'

I tugged at the rope but he didn't
move, just continued to stare at me, sniffing delicately.

Putting on a confident voice
wasn't going to be enough. I wasn't calm and this horse knew it.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes,
still stroking Stumpy's warm, smooth neck. I could feel the muscle beneath my
hands, and the sweet, comforting smell of horse.
Relax
, I told myself.

Nothing happened.

Relax
, I repeated.

Something warm and heavy suddenly landed
on my shoulder and my eyes opened. Stumpy had just calmly rested his soft, velvety
muzzle there, as if that were the most natural thing in the world to do right now. I
felt the warm plumes of his breath through my jacket and – just like that, without
any further effort – my body slackened. It was the first time in months.

‘Thank you,' I said quietly.
I stroked the dark grey tip of his nose, which he wiggled under my hand like a funny
hamster. Without warning I gave him a little kiss. And then we were walking calmly
over to the washing-down area, with me still at his shoulder, and him ambling along
beside me, a gentle giant. A feeling of deep joy and accomplishment washed through
me. What a lovely thing Stumpy was. How deeply, unbelievably grateful I was to be
here looking after him, rather than back in my old life, feeling frightened and out
of control.

‘Thank you,' I said.
‘Thank you, you beautiful thing.'

It was only when we got to the
washing-down area that
I realized Mark had
been walking quietly on the other side of the horse.

‘You forgot his
head-collar,' he said briefly, slipping off the more complicated lunging
head-collar that Stumpy was wearing and replacing it with a simpler version. In a
two-second movement he tied Stumpy up to a piece of baling twine on a ring in the
wall.