One spring afternoon Sophy took me out into the park by the lake. I was riding a new horse. His name was Nimrod and his Arab nostrils flared red excitement; he capered and swished his streaming auburn tail. Nimrod rolled the whites of his eyes. He quivered, then grabbed the bit and bolted. I clung on, exhilarated, as we floated over a gate and sped off through a grove of walnut trees. I tried to stop, afraid that he might slip, but I was too late. A branch slapped me in the face, cracking between my teeth, and I was swept to the ground.
I came round in hospital, stirred into consciousness by a fracas at my feet. A cluster of nurses twittered like sparrows. They had a knife. They wanted to cut off my boots. Mummy did not want them to. Her protective instincts were sharpened by the sight of my football-sized face and her inability to help me in any other way. I had broken my jaw. I lay on the stretcher, tears tightening the parts of my face I could still feel. I couldn’t speak, nor could my numbed tongue feel any teeth in my mouth. A nurse noticed my distress and, interpreting it as grief for my riding boots, called off the battle.
Two operations later someone gave me a mirror. I had black eyes, a stitched gash beneath my lip where my teeth had gone through and wire binding my mouth. Behind the wire my teeth were still there, yellow with blood and old saliva. Where my skin was not black with bruising it was greenish white and my face was pear-shaped. I stared in horror. ‘This is not me. This is someone else. I am at home with Mummy and Daddy and the boys and Poppy.’
I pushed the mirror away and refused to look in one again until I left hospital three weeks later.
Daddy came to see me, his eyes full of tears. ‘These bloody horses. It breaks my heart to see what they’ve done to you.’ He smiled, shaking his head. ‘My love, you are brave and foolish. I wish to God you wouldn’t do it.’
Mummy kicked his ankle. He had promised not to mention his campaign to make me give up riding. Only my lips moved when I spoke. ‘It wasn’t the horse’s fault. It was an accident.’ I fell back against the pillow, sweat breaking with the effort of utterance.
Daddy kissed my forehead. ‘You have courage. I am proud of you. I wish you could come home with us today.’ He moved back to let Brodie talk to me.
Brodie had been hysterical since my accident. He refused to believe I was alive until he saw me himself. His eyes flickered over my warped face. He burst into tears and whispered to Mummy. She took him out and came back moments later, alone. ‘Brodie’s been sick,’ she said calmly. ‘He’s very shocked, I must take him home.’
It was lonely and tedious in hospital. I could not eat, so even the small diversion of mealtimes was denied me. For protein I was given mugs of yeasty Complan which I sipped gingerly, revolted by the potent iron taste and thick blood-warmth of the drink. Mummy’s and Daddy’s visits were my daily high-point, but through the long dull afternoons I was vulnerable, supine. Friends of my parents, people I hardly knew and people I didn’t like at all visited me. I lay in my bed, gloom mounting, as these well-meaning folk ambled down the ward looking for me. My face was too sore to bury in the pillows or duck beneath the blankets. I had no choice but to sit there waiting, lips stretched back over my steel-filled mouth in a permanent, unwanted grin.
Reverend Thompson, who had come to our primary school to tell us the facts of life, brought a box of Turkish Delight. I hated Turkish Delight. Two of the old ladies from the village made a special trip on the OAPs’ bus. They had sacrificed their bingo for me and I was not pleased. They were part of the coven of busybodies at the bottom of our drive. They loathed Dobe because he once went down to the village wearing some red lacy camiknickers we had dressed him in. I knew they were only visiting me out of nosiness. I frowned throughout their stay as they tittered and gibed about the village fete and the vicar winning a bottle of gin. All the visitors sat at the end of my bed and gazed at me with eager pity. I glared back, mute and frustrated in my mouth harness, furiously embarrassed by the long silences which persisted through all visits save those of my family.
Sophy came, bringing her two-year-old son, Adam. Adam thought he was a dog. He had spent his whole small life in the stables with dogs or in the car with dogs and he didn’t speak, he barked. He sat on my feet whimpering and then uttered a soft yap and smiled. Mummy arrived, absently patting him as she reached to kiss me. ‘Good boy, Adam, good boy.’ She got out a paper bag and handed it to me.
‘Darling, I brought you these. I chose lots of different kinds for you from Mr Cardew’s. He sends his love.’ She beamed encouragement. In the bag a dense mass of wrapped toffees rustled in their pretty floral papers. There were red ones and green ones, purple ones with pink flowers and yellow and blue ones. Dozens of them. All flaunting their chewiness. All mocking my affliction. I looked at Mummy, eyes stark at her stupidity; grunts of horror gurgled in my throat. She looked back at me and recognition of her wrong dawned. She started to laugh. Her eyes creased up and disappeared; tears eased down her cheeks as she continued to laugh. Embarrassed, Sophy left. I chucked a few toffees to Adam. He picked them up in his mouth and trotted after his mother. Mummy still laughed. Finally I did too, wincing as mirth tore through the wires in my gums. Mummy stayed a long time and when she left, I noticed that she had eaten all the toffees.
When I returned home from hospital Dobe wasn’t there. ‘Where is he?’ I still spoke through clenched teeth like a Dalek; the wires were not being removed for six weeks. Mummy sat down and pulled me towards her.
‘Darling, I have something very sad to tell you.’ My stomach churned and I began to cry, knowing already that Dobe was dead. ‘Dobe had a heart attack just there, over by the sink, last Tuesday. He jumped up to steal some food, then crashed to the floor. He didn’t suffer. He was so well and happy and then he was dead – no pain or fear.’
I shook as I cried, wanting to bawl like a baby, prevented by my caged jaws.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I sobbed, but I knew Mummy was right when she said, ‘It would have been awful for you to have known and not to have been here.’
She took me out to the Wilderness where Daddy and the boys had buried Dobe. I lay in the grass and wept until I was empty. I felt robbed and cheated. I hadn’t been there. I hadn’t dug his grave or said goodbye. I hadn’t known and he would never be back.