At first the disappointment was hard to shake off. I wasn’t the only one suffering, either: on Monday morning on our way to class we passed Maudie waiting for her bus to the big school in town.
‘Who is that new boy?’ she demanded, still fuming. ‘’Cause he don’t sound local to me.’
‘I dunno,’ I admitted.
Neither Lena nor I knew anything about Nate Clatworthy, though I’d a dreadful feeling he might turn up in our class today, like a grim repeat of Saturday at the pool. All morning, I kept an anxious eye on the door. Our teacher, Miss Setherton, noticed I wasn’t paying attention, and made me stand up at the front to write spellings on the blackboard, which didn’t go well. But by lunchtime, there was still no Nate Clatworthy. 54
‘He’s too good for us,’ was Lena’s view.
In the playground that Monday most of the talk was about what had happened at swimming club. Tim and Bob were both very relieved to not be picked by Mrs Lamb.
‘Twenty-odd miles of freezing sea? The lido’s cold enough!’ Bob said with a shudder.
‘Yeah, but when you reached the other side, you’d be the first kid our age to do it,’ I countered. ‘And that would be the absolute business.’
‘I wouldn’t mind the money,’ admitted Tom. ‘Though they’d have to pay me millions.’
Personally, I’d have done it for the glory.
*
Now satisfied Nate wasn’t coming to our school, I spent the next few days in class deep in daydreams. I’d imagine Mrs Lamb calling my name instead of Nate’s. Or I’d wonder if he was swimming every day, and if so, how far? Was he eating special food, learning special techniques? How did it feel to be picked for such an incredible challenge? Had he been to France before?
Even Miss Setherton rapping on my desk with her ruler didn’t snap me out of it for long. 55
I simply could not stop thinking about the swim. I envied Nate Clatworthy so much it hurt. The more time passed, the more I wanted to be the first child to swim the Channel. I even began thinking up ludicrous schemes to oust him from Mrs Lamb’s favour.
‘Maybe he’s a spy,’ I suggested to Lena. ‘Or a criminal. We should follow him and see what he’s up to.’
‘Or put chillies in his swimming costume’ was her idea. She grew pots of red and green ones in our kitchen window. Her mum had sent the seeds from India. Chilli scrambled eggs was one of our favourite breakfasts.
I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You can’t do that!’
‘Why not?’ she said, all innocent. ‘He’s bad news, he is.’
The daft game of Mamas and Papas forgotten, we now made it our mission to find out all we could about Nate Clatworthy. We started by asking Mrs Lee at the post office because she knew everything. She told us he didn’t go to school but had a tutor at home.
‘That’s super posh,’ I remarked.
So was the house where the Clatworthys lived: a handsome Victorian villa in the next valley where the stables had been turned into a row of garages.
‘Bet his dad’s got a fancy car,’ sighed Lena. 56
‘Some people get all the luck, don’t they?’ I said, thoroughly fed up. ‘I know it’s not about the money, but he doesn’t even need it.’
‘I definitely like him even less now,’ Lena agreed.
*
On Wednesday, on the way home from school, Lena tapped her knuckles on my forehead.
‘Ouch!’ I cried. ‘What was that for?’ Though, to be fair, I had been thinking about Channel swimming again.
‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you?’
‘Have.’
‘What’ve I just said about the meeting today?’ she asked, testing me. ‘The one the whole village is going to, in the village hall?’
‘What meeting?’
Lena gave me a very long look. ‘Bet you didn’t hear Mr Blackwell at breakfast asking us to do Perry and Sage so he can go, did you?’
‘Yes, I did.’ Though I’d clean forgotten it until now.
‘Thought you’d at least remember who’s called the meeting,’ Lena said. ‘A Mr Clatworthy?’
‘Oooooh!’ I stopped walking. ‘Nate’s dad?’ 57
She nodded.
‘What’s the meeting about?’
Lena grinned. ‘You know, I’ve an idea Mr Clatworthy’s a famous film director and he’s looking for somewhere to set his next film.’
‘Yeah!’ I gasped, thrilled we might be on to something. That’s why Mrs Lamb chose Nate, because of his dad’s connections! She wanted someone with star quality who could be really famous!’
‘And having a dad who worked in the movies would be a big help.’
‘What time’s the meeting?’
‘Ah.’ Lena’s face fell. ‘It’s adults only, so they’ll never let us in. Anyway, we’ve got the horses to do.’
‘I know that, you great chump,’ I said, linking her arm with mine and walking on.
‘So why’re you looking at me like that?’
‘You’ll see.’
*
Swapping our school shoes for boots, we went to the top field to meet Mr Blackwell, where he was working the horses. He was clearing a hedge, the trailer stacked with dead wood and brambles. Perry saw us coming and gave 58a throaty neigh. He was my favourite of the two horses; it amazed me how a creature so big could take carrot bits from your hand so daintily. And if you had no treats on offer straight away, like today, he’d check your pockets with his top lip.
‘That time already, is it?’ Mr Blackwell asked, stepping back from the hedge. He didn’t wear a watch, claiming proper country folks told the time by the angle of the sun. Though today it was grey and cold with no sun to speak of.
‘Better hurry or you’ll not get a seat,’ Lena told him. ‘I’ve heard it’s going to be packed out.’
She’d heard nothing of the sort, but Mr Blackwell, who loved an occasion, was at the horses’ heads in a flash and leading them back down the hill.
In the yard, Ma Blackwell was waiting for her husband. She had her coat on already, her best hat pinned in place.
‘There you are,’ she tutted.
‘Here I am, Missus,’ he replied, throwing the reins to me.
They went off to the village hall as eager as two people going to a tea dance. It was all rather intriguing, and made me more determined to find out what Mr Clatworthy was up to. 59
‘It might not be a film, but he’s here for some reason,’ agreed Lena.
Once we’d untacked the horses down to their bridles, we rode them bareback to the ford. It was the horses’ usual routine. Mr Blackwell swore the ice-cold water was good for cooling their legs after a hard day, and the horses knew it meant their work was over. They could be skittish and silly, and start pawing at the water: you had to watch it then, because if they rolled you’d get thrown off or flattened underneath.
Today, they were calm, but even when they weren’t I still loved doing the horses. It was their sweet smell, their solid, armchair bulk, and the way they looked at you with such honest faces. At first, Lena had been terrified of Perry and Sage. But last summer, bit by bit, I’d taught her to ride – or at least to stay on top long enough to get to the ford and back.
Now, the horses drank deeply, then stood, heavy headed, water dripping from their horsey beards. In the hedge behind us a thrush was singing into the dusk. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the rumble of a car’s engine. Sage heard it too, her head swinging up, ears pricked.
The car came into view on the road above the village. It was travelling at considerable speed, its headlights 60zigzagging down the hillside, picking out gorse bushes, grazing sheep, the reddish-brown soil of the valley.
‘That’s not Captain Farley, is it?’ I said.
‘Nope. Wrong type of car.’
Even from this distance I understood what Lena meant: the car’s engine sounded deeper; its shape was long and low to the ground. Not many people round here had a car, never mind a fancy one. The road down to the village was little more than a stony track. The grocery van might risk it if the weather was dry, but everyone else came and went on foot, bicycle, horseback or cart.
According to Lena, in the future everyone would own a car, and tracks like ours would be smoothed over with tarmac, the trees and hedgerows cut down to make a wider, straighter road. It would make our little village look like a town, and I couldn’t imagine that at all. Yet this particular driver seemed to think he was in a town, and driving way too fast. At the final bend, when it was already too late, the car tried to slow.
Lena groaned. ‘He’s not going to stop, is he?’
I felt a flash of fear.
‘Go! Go! Go!’ I cried, urging Perry further downstream.
Lena drummed her heels against Sage’s sides. 61
We only just got the horses away from the ford in time. As the car hit the water, spray went everywhere. There was a crunching sound like metal scraping rock, and the grinding of brakes. The horses snorted, side-stepping into each other. I grabbed handfuls of Perry’s mane and held on tight, as the car roared past only a few feet from us.
‘Slow down, you idiot!’ Lena yelled at the driver.
In the blur of water and horse and car, I glimpsed the driver’s face. In the passenger seat beside him was a boy I recognised. The car was through the ford and gone before I could react.
‘That was flipping close!’ Lena slumped forward, hugging Sage’s neck. ‘What sort of person drives like that?’
‘Nate Clatworthy.’ I said his name with a new level of disdain. ‘Not driving, obviously, but he was in the car.’
‘That must’ve been Mr Clatworthy, then.’ Lena whistled. ‘You know what type of car that was, don’t you?’
I didn’t. But Lena was clearly going to tell me.
‘A Jaguar SS. Seriously expensive,’ she said, eyes wide. ‘Maybe he is a film director.’
The encounter had left both horses soaked through and jumpy. They were also well aware of what normally 62followed a trip to the ford – a trough of bran and oats and a rub-down in a nice warm stable. They were glad to be heading home. The problem was we weren’t, not yet. My bright idea was to ride up to the village hall, where, from the back of a giant of a horse, we’d be able to see in through the windows. The trouble was our route to the hall took us straight past the gate into our yard.
I’d all good intentions, driving Perry on with my heels and seat. And he was responding, head up, stride brisk, listening to my commands. Yet at the last minute, he veered left towards Combe Grange, almost sending me over his shoulder. There, he stopped dead, and refused to go any further. I tried everything – heels, threats, promises of carrots – but he’d had enough. And if he’d had enough, so too had Sage. There was no arguing with eighteen hands of horse.
By the time we’d fed Perry and Sage and reached the hall, it was dark and the meeting was well under way.
‘Bet Nate’s been allowed in,’ I said, crossly.
Paraffin lamps burned brightly at the windows, and though the door was closed, the walls were thin, corrugated tin, making it possible to catch snatches of what the now infamous Mr Clatworthy was saying, though it didn’t sound very interesting. He was talking about water pipes. 63
I pulled a face at Lena. ‘Is that what he’s here for? Pipes?’
‘Guess we can forget about the film director idea,’ she replied, disappointed.
We couldn’t hear much after that: it had started to rain, and the rattle of it on the tin roof drowned Mr Clatworthy’s voice. Lena suggested going home. As we went back down the lane, discussing another of our favourite topics – what was for tea – I almost walked straight past Nate. He was on his knees, being sick in the hedge.