It was nearly the end of the summer holidays, and I had to make a skirt for the sixth form. I sat, as I had done every day since the accident, composed but forlorn on the sofa in the playroom, cushioned by Honey’s plump sleeping form. Louise tacked my skirt together for me, and I began to hem it, struggling with unyielding tweed. Staring mindlessly at the television I moved my tongue around the inside of my mouth, feeling for the hundredth time the rough bump of the inside of my cut. Music blared out as the local news programme began.
‘The headlines tonight. Dereham protests against bypass plans. Norfolk beaches are under threat from litter-lout tourists, and Tom Letson, elder son of Robin Letson the racehorse trainer, has been killed. The tragedy occurred when his horse fell while he was competing at the Byborough County Show this afternoon. The horse, Dancing Rainbow, was also injured, and had to be shot.’
Excitement at hearing Tom’s name on television turned to cold horror as the reporter completed his announcement. Dead. Killed. Tragedy. Shot. The words swarmed in my head. I stood up, limbs heavy and stomach contracted, and turned off the television before stumbling through to the kitchen. I tried to tell Mummy, but no words would come out. Instead I was sick, coughing and sweating over the sink. Mummy bathed my face with an old floorcloth which smelt of cat pee. I spluttered, she led me to a chair.
‘Darling, what is it? Are you hurt? What has happened?’ She leaned over me, stroking my hair. ‘It’s delayed shock from your accident. I must ring the doctor. Sit there and sip this water.’
I grabbed her arm and shook my head, another wave of nausea rising. ‘No, not me. I’m fine. It’s Tom, Amelia’s cousin. He’s been killed. I saw it on television. I can’t believe it. It’s not fair.’
I bent forward and rocked in the chair, trying to focus the thoughts swarming in my head. Mummy wrapped her arms around me, murmuring.
Daddy appeared. ‘What’s the matter in here?’ Mummy told him. He went out, and came in a moment later with a glass half full of brown liquid. It smelt bitter and pungent. ‘Drink this, love, it will steady you.’
His gentleness calmed me. I drank the brandy, shuddering again at the hot taste. It stopped the whirling thoughts and filled the emptiness of shock. I wiped my eyes, and Daddy gave me a cigarette. ‘I know you are not supposed to smoke these things,’ he said, raising one eyebrow, ‘but needs must when the Devil rides.’ I began to feel safe again. ‘Now tell me what has happened to this young man.’ Daddy took my hand and sat down next to me.
‘I saw it on television – he’s been killed at a horse show. I didn’t know him well, but he was the one we crashed into the other day. He was very handsome.’ I began to cry. Big splashy tears chased down my nose and dribbled on to my hand and into my glass.
Daddy took his red handkerchief and dried my eyes. ‘I must tell you something serious; it offers no comfort, but is beautiful. “Whom the gods love die young.” Your friend was a special young man, and he will remain that for ever. You will not forget him, nor will he ever become less than he is to you now. And he will never change. Do you understand me?’ Daddy’s voice splintered harsh in the silent kitchen. Mummy gave me another cigarette, and brought in the bottle of brandy.