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SHE COULDN’T WAIT ANY longer to have Lockie with her. At Grace’s insistence, and despite her misgivings about accepting any favours from Alexander’s family, she took up Grace’s offer of the Draymere horsebox. The same lorry that had delivered Lockie to Draymere, it was familiar, light and roomy. Grace had also suggested Hettie might ‘borrow’ Snoop – the ancient pony who had taught all the Melton brothers to ride during his long career and was now enjoying a peaceful and pampered retirement. Bert had picked up his duties at Draymere again, so she’d have no more reason to go there when Lockie came home, and no more risk of running into Alexander.
Snoop trotted into the horsebox with eager legs, and ears pricked like the old pro he was. But any hope Hettie had fostered that the familiar lorry and the relationship she had built with Lockie would be enough to coax him to load were quickly dispelled. Lockie thundered backwards and upwards for the best part of an hour. She struggled with growing impatience; she had a million jobs to get through before her open day, and she didn’t have a morning to waste on loading an awkward horse. Not awkward, she reminded herself. Scared and mistrustful. With bloody good reason to be so. It was beyond her comprehension how anyone could mistreat such a proud and beautiful animal.
Hettie stroked Lockie’s neck. Job lists and minutes and hours were hardly important. What was real, what was vital, was that she did right by this boy, whatever the provocation. She might not be able to undo his past, but she could make bloody sure his future was better.
All the same, as the battle went on and Lockie dragged her off the ramp yet again, landing on her foot for good measure, Hettie did begin to wonder if he was being a sod just for being a sod’s sake.
She grunted, and sat on the ramp of the lorry, letting Lockie graze the grass on the verge while she nursed her foot. ‘I’m guessing you were always a feisty bugger, even before life did the dirty on you.’
Lockie twitched an ear.
‘Quite happy now though, aren’t you? Stuffing your face, thinking you’ve won this round. Sorry, mate, but you haven’t. One way or another you’re going in. We can do it the easy way, or we can do it your way, and either is fine with me. I’ve got all the time in the world.’
Finally, eventually, she persuaded him in. Or maybe it was down to Snoop and his gentle whickers. No matter the method, Lockie was in the lorry. Hettie would sport a limp for her open day, which wasn’t ideal, but at least there would be real horses on show in Hardacre paddock: a shaggy little grey pony, and a big black thoroughbred... who was tracking the pony like a wild-eyed stalker.
She would worry about Lockie’s attachment issues after her open day.
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THE MORNING DAWNED mild and breezy. Hettie had strung the yard with balloons and bunting and laid fresh blonde-straw beds in the stables. She’d arranged garden furniture, begged and borrowed from friends and family, on the pristine hardstanding. Bert leant on his shooting-stick, greeting visitors and pointing them on to Anna, who was brewing cups of tea from the village hall urn, which had blown the fuse on the bungalow’s electricity three times already that morning. Hettie overheard Bert telling the new arrivals that there was no one better than young Hettie to look after their horses. She squeezed his hand and dropped a kiss on his cheek.
The compliment boosted her over her natural reticence to get on with some hard selling. She limped from table to table, handing out vouchers, offering price lists and a welcoming smile. Grace and her boys dished out Anna’s homemade cupcakes, the state of Fred’s face suggesting he ate more than he gave away, but all the same Hettie was emotionally grateful for the friends and family who had turned out to support her. Even Dave the handyman was here, and Mrs Handyman, too. Hettie’s cheeks ached from smiling.
A lot of the visitors were clearly there out of nosiness rather than genuine interest, but they helped to make the event look busy and exciting. Their children turned the stables into a playground and their dogs hurled cheery barks.
Hettie rushed off to grab her phone from the lean-to, so she could take some photos. The buzz on the yard was invigorating. It was real, it was actually happening and all these people had come! She smiled to herself. Hettie Redfern, livery yard proprietor. Friends and family networking their arses off for her benefit; it was humbling. From the doorway she saw Ewan and Clare get out of their car and walk towards the stables and was about to call out to them when she noticed Clare’s frown and her angry gesticulation.
‘Ewan, there is no way I’m letting Hettie down.’
‘I wasn’t telling you not to come. I just said it’s difficult for me, a tricky situation. It feels so disloyal with Al as he is. I’m representing the practice.’
‘You jumped-up arsehole! “Representing the practice!” I’m representing my mate!’
‘Your mate is the one who—’
‘Ewan, don’t you bloody dare! Really? Like Alexander’s a saint...’
Their voices dropped to harsh whispers as they neared the buildings. Hettie cringed, and shrunk back inside the lean-to.
‘Bert! How are you?’ She heard Ewan’s voice, raised now in greeting. The skin on her face burnt. Difficult... disloyal... Al as he is...? She wished she hadn’t heard that. To be the subject of a fight between her friends was bad enough, but how was Alexander? Angry and hurting, of course. Or had Ewan meant Alexander as he’d always been? Difficult and moody, quick to pass judgement for any disloyalty, real or imagined.
Hettie rolled a cigarette, just because the tobacco was there, but she paused with the cigarette halfway to her mouth. She should be outside with her guests, not hiding in here. Your mate is the one who... what? That comment had stung. Okay, so she had fucked up, but so had he. And this refusal to even speak was way overboard. He’d changed his number for fuck’s sake. As if she was going to chase after him and beg for forgiveness.
She put the cigarette down. She might have fucked up, but he was the one who’d broken them. Now he was being a bastard just for being a bastard’s sake. She limped outside. ‘Clare! Ewan! Thank you so much for coming!’
Tom turned up at the open day too, and Hettie got the feeling he hadn’t suffered any qualms about being disloyal to Alexander. Illogically, that annoyed her as well. He was over-friendly, and beckoned her aside to press his card into her hand. ‘In case it’s awkward, you know, ringing through to the practice. My mobile number is on there. Call any time.’
Hettie took the card. Tom had a point after all, but inwardly she bristled at his sympathetic manner, and the I’m-on-your-side inference his hushed voice implied. It seemed there was just no pleasing her. She smiled back at Tom and put the card in her pocket.
When the day was done and the plastic cups, tables and discarded price lists had been tidied away, Hettie sat on the gate overlooking Lockie’s field. She smoked a cigarette as the orange harvest sun dropped behind Hardacre paddock.
If attendance was a measure of success, the day had been a triumph.
So why did she feel disgruntled, unsettled?
Lockie edged closer to Snoop, resting his muzzle on the pony’s shoulder, and a chill breeze whispered up from the stream.
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IN THE OMINOUSLY QUIET days that followed the open day, Hettie kept her fear of failure buried by concentrating on Lockie. Her money had run out, the last few pounds devoured by the mountain of monthly bills. She was only surviving now thanks to the generosity of her mum, who turned up often with bags of groceries and invitations to supper.
Tom called several times to ask how she was getting on. He was pleasant and friendly, but Hettie found his interest difficult and his manner too familiar. She snatched up her phone every time it rang in case it was a customer, but when Tom’s name flashed on the screen again, she hesitated before answering.
‘Tom, hi. What can I do for you now?’
‘Ah, sorry, are you busy? Nothing really, just a social call to see how you are.’
‘I’m good, but yes, really busy. It’s not a great time...’ Hettie doodled on the magazine she’d been reading when the phone rang.
‘No worries, I’ll call back later. It might be a lot later though. We’re busy since Alexander took off.’
‘Took off?’ Hettie straightened, the question was out before she could stop it.
‘Yes, I thought you’d know. Disappeared without a word, Ewan seems to think—’
‘Tom, I’m sorry but I am really busy.’
‘Of course. Maybe we could do dinner next week, or...?’
‘Not happening, I’m afraid. Too much going on, and I have to see Mum in the evenings.’ She squeezed her eyes shut, embarrassed by the lies spilling out of her. Too busy, ha! Her mum was the busy one. Anna was rarely at home now she was selling her pictures from Imogen’s shop, exhibiting at a local gallery and teaching a class at the local tech. And when she wasn’t at work, she was over at Draymere chasing about after Bert, or hobnobbing with Celia. She was a damn sight busier than Hettie was.
The deflation in Tom’s voice made her feel mean and ungracious. But come on, had he really mentioned her ex and then asked her out in the very same breath?
She tried to go back to her magazine after he’d hung up, but she was distracted now, worried by thoughts she didn’t want to let in. Where was Alexander? And why hadn’t anyone told her he’d gone?
She rinsed her coffee cup, and tidied the papers on the plant shelf before collecting Lockie’s head collar from the barn. And Snoop’s too, because Lockie wouldn’t leave the field without his mate. She had sectioned off a corner of the paddock for Snoop, to give the stoic pensioner a much-needed rest from the thoroughbred’s relentless pestering, and because the grass was far too rich for a small native pony.
Lockie came in from the field willingly enough, if his mate came too. He stood, and even appeared to enjoy, her attention and grooming. She thought she might try slipping a saddle onto his back soon.
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HETTIE USED SOME OF her empty hours hunting for furniture to fill the bungalow, loading up the Landy with chuck-outs sourced by word of mouth and the lucky find of two rugs thrown into a skip. Gradually the bungalow began to look like a home. A coffee table, its cracked veneer hidden under an old headscarf of Grace’s; a white chest of drawers with mismatched handles; and a threadbare yellow footstool with a pleated valance, which Doris immediately claimed as her bed.
‘I love what you’ve done here!’
Hettie thought Imo was being sarcastic, until she got her phone out and started taking photographs.
By unsubtle probing of Grace, Hettie learnt that Alexander had emailed James to say he’d be away for a couple of weeks. They didn’t know where he’d gone, but he’d spoken to Celia on the phone.
Hettie was relieved. Wherever he was, she could stop worrying about him now. She should worry about her business instead. Nearly three weeks since the open day, and only four calls, which had all come to nothing. She turned her head at the sound of wheels on the gravel, and peered out of the window to see Bill Harding pull up in his sleek silver Bentley.
‘Lass has just told me she’s off back to uni.’ Bill shrugged his shoulders, a what-can-you-do gesture. ‘The boyfriend has gone back early, so Portsmouth is calling. Alright if I drop my fellas off with you on Monday morning?’
‘Better than alright, Bill!’ Hettie almost hugged him. ‘As you can see, I’m hardly rushed off my feet. Your horses will have my full attention.’
‘You need perseverance in business, lass. If you put in the hours, the money will follow.’
Hettie wished she had a grain of Bill’s conviction. But no sooner had he gone than her telephone summoned her back to the lean-to, with a tinny rendition of the Horse of the Year Show theme tune. The plummy tones of a pony-club mother enquired about riding lessons for her children. The shock of a real enquiry caused Hettie to assume her professional voice as she reached for the virgin diary unopened on the shelf. ‘Let me check for you. Ah, yes. I think I can fit you in.’
That call was quickly followed by another. ‘Redfern Livery Stables.’
The man who replied curled his vowels in dramatic, theatrical fashion. ‘Now darling, please tell me you have stables vacant. I am at my wits’ end!’
Hettie was amused by his level of passion. ‘Oh dear, well I’m sure we’d be able to find you a stable somewhere.’
‘Darling, I don’t need one stable, I need three! And I move next week! I cannot have my poor boys living in a field.’
Hettie imagined a dramatic shudder accompanying his words.
‘Imogen Tatler gave me your number. Adorable girl, she’s doing a restyle on the new house, and she insisted that your yard was the only place for my boys. It will break my heart if you can’t take them.’
‘You’re a friend of Imogen’s? Then we absolutely must help you!’ Hettie’s mind was somersaulting: three horses, a recommendation! Imogen, I love you!
‘You’re a lifesaver, darling! But can you take them next week?’
‘Hang on, don’t you want to visit the yard? I haven’t told you my prices, and you haven’t told me exactly what it is you’re looking for. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name. I do have a contract which would need to be completed...’
‘It’s Gregor, darling, Gregor. I fly to New York tomorrow! Have you got a pen? I’ll give you my PA’s direct line and email address. Tiff will be the one arranging transport for the boys; send the contract through to her. She can give you their diet sheets and tell you all about them.’
Surely this was a wind-up. Hettie frowned and chewed her lip. The ridiculous voice, the daft suggestion anyone would put their horses somewhere they’d never seen. The man was still talking, spelling out an email address with exaggerated precision. Hettie gritted her teeth and wrote it down.
‘Tiff handles everything. She’ll sort you out. She knows the boys’ routines better than I do, but don’t tell her I said that!’
Hettie ended the call with as much politeness as she could dredge up. Probably some dick from the open day. But what if he was for real?
She glared at the email address, which, it had to be said, looked genuine enough, while she fretted with indecision about whether to use it or not. The risk of making even more of a fool of herself (she imagined someone, somewhere, killing themselves with laughter at her expense) versus the risk of ignoring a genuine customer. There was no choice really, she couldn’t afford pride at the moment.
Hettie typed a short and rather curt email, and then she clicked send.