THE RACE

ALLY KENNEN

A bell is ringing. I think this means it’s time for breakfast.

A bell! How old-fashioned.

Mum and Dad dropped me off at the farm yesterday evening. They were in a rush to catch their plane so they stayed less than an hour. I’d watched their car lights trail away into the night, getting smaller and smaller, and then, nothing.

“You’ll get used to us and our ways!” Aunty Mo had smiled.

“And we’ll get used to yours,” cracked Uncle Lee.

Maybe I will and maybe I won’t. There’s a lot to get used to.

So now I’m inside the airing cupboard. My extremely narrow bed has been built out of wooden pallets and my mattress is made of sofa cushions. My clothes are still in my suitcase as there’s nowhere else for them to go. But I’m not complaining. I’m the only kid in the house with their own bedroom. I have five cousins. Yes, FIVE. All boys. Somebody save me!

I wrote Marnie a message last night, but it didn’t send because there’s no Wi-Fi in here.

I look at it now, to remind myself what I’m in for.

Emergency Situation: abandoned with hardly seen relations for two weeks.

In countryside. On farm. Trees/tractors/mud/dark etc.

Five boy cousins aged from 7 to 15 years old. Ben, Barney, Sid, William, Jack. Can’t remember which is which.

Uncle Lee and Aunty Mo. Aunty Mo told me not to call her“Aunty”because it makes her feel old but I’m too embarrassed not to.

Why did my evil parents leave me here? Why why why? Miss you forever! How is Canada? Every time I see a plane in the sky I think of you!

I sniff a bit, feeling tears come. I miss Marnie. I rub at my eyes and breathe.

The bell rings harder as I shuffle down the bed and thump at the tiny ivy-streaked window. It creaks open and a delicious draught of air comes in.

From my perch I can see the farmyard, a row of low old buildings with birds flicking in and out from under the roofs, a dirty quad bike, and various buckets and bits of machinery. Beyond the yard is a large modern barn full of black-wrapped silage bales. I know what they are at least. The tin roof creaks as the wind blows.

On the far hill I can see the horses swishing their tails against the flies.

It’s July. I’ve just broken up from school. I didn’t sleep well. I had too much to think about and the bed is so small, and it was really stuffy and I could hear the muffled arguing and chatting of my cousins in the bedrooms beyond.

Five boys!

I hear footsteps on the landing, the thudding of feet down the stairs. There’s not time to redo my plait so I wrap my dressing gown round me. (It is PINK. I wish it wasn’t. In this house of boys, the colour feels like a challenge.)

There’s a bang on my door.

“Hurry up, Fay, or it will all be gone.”

I think that was Barney. I can’t be sure. I’m hoping that he is going to be OK. I don’t know any of my cousins especially well. I’ve only seen them in the distance at weddings. They are farmers and Mum says farmers don’t often leave their farms. Her sister is my Aunty Mo. Mum has always said they didn’t have much in common.

Anyway.

I tie the pink ties tighter round my waist, lift myself off the bed, edge along the wall and open the door.

The clamour grows louder as I approach. This is an ancient house with thick walls and probably lots of dusty history. But it’s not spooky.

At home I eat breakfast alone. I read and eat my cornflakes to the hum of the shower pump and the whirr of the hair dryer as Mum gets ready for work. Dad would have already left.

It’s not like that here.

When I open the door I’m blasted with warm air and smells. Smells of bodies, smells of burnt porridge, smells of coffee and toast. And the noise! A radio playing, loud chatter, a dog barking, Aunty Mo clattering dishes in or out of the dishwasher. The sounds layer over each other.

Uncle Lee is frying eggs. He’s wearing a grey boiler suit with mud on the knees. I count twelve eggs in his frying pan, which must be the largest one in the world. And there are many, many boys sitting or standing at the table, feeding like hungry livestock.

One of the cousins has built a wall of cereal boxes around himself. All that can be seen are his pyjamaed elbows. Someone else is reading the paper, the pages held high so I can’t see anything of him either.

There is thumping coming from under the table, which makes the breakfast plates jump.

“STOP IT, Sidney,” snaps Aunty Mo. “Hello, sleepy,” her voice kinder when she speaks to me. “There’s eggs, bacon, toast, cereal, juice, tea, coffee…”

“Thanks,” I say, aware of many eyes upon me. The eggs in the pan hiss and spit. Uncle Lee grins at me. He’s missing a tooth. “Sunny side up?” he says.

I can’t speak in front of all these people so I just smile in return and wonder if I’m brave enough to cross the room and sit on the only empty chair. It’s beside a huge teenager, who has hair growing thickly on his arms and a smell coming off him like he’s eaten a bucket of garlic and run a marathon.

This must be…

“Jack,” says Jack. He grimaces “Don’t eat Dad’s cooking. He never washes his hands and he’s been docking sheep.”

I hesitate. Was docking sheep anything like docking your phone?

“Sleep well?” asks Uncle Lee, not bothering to defend his hygiene.

I nod, sit next to Jack-the-giant and bravely spear a slice of toast from a cracked plate in the centre of the table. Jack shovels in a huge spoonful of Cheerios then empties out the box for another round.

He really stinks.

Uncle Lee, catching my eye, winks and opens the window above the kitchen sink.

“How’s the cupboard, Fay?” says a high voice. I think I know this one – this is Ben. My youngest cousin. He’s small and a little bit chubby, with dark hair and a smiley face.

“Great,” I say, realising it’s the first word I’ve said.

“It was full of our sheets and towels, but we reckoned we could turn it into a tiny, tiny bedroom for you.” Aunt Mo looked apologetic.

“I love it,” I say truthfully.

“Eggs,” says Uncle Lee, and flips one on to my toast. It’s a deep yellow. It would be like eating sunshine. My stomach rumbles and I remember I was too tired, too flustered, to eat anything when I arrived yesterday. Through all the noise and chatter, someone shoves a dish of butter at me, and from somewhere else the tomato sauce lands near my plate.

Aunty Mo places a mug of tea in front of me.

“This treatment won’t last long,” says a voice from behind the sports pages of The Times. “Tomorrow you’ll have to fight for every scrap like the rest of us.”

This must be William. He lowers the paper and takes a slug of tea. He is extremely thin, with long arms. His knuckles look like they’ve been glued on.

He’s also wearing a pink and yellow flowery dressing gown. If anything it’s more girly than mine. His bony wrists stick out from the lacy hems. He looks the tiniest bit like my dad.

“So then, cousin Fay, why have your mum and dad gone on holiday without you?” pipes up Ben.

“Shhh,” says Aunty Mo.

“Don’t they like you?” asks Ben, not shhh-ing.

I can’t think of anything to say when everyone is looking at me.

“Shut up, Ben,” says Uncle Lee. “Her parents don’t need a break from her. They’re having an anniversary holiday.”

I stab my egg. I don’t mind my parents going off to Paris without me. But I do mind coming here. I was supposed to be staying with my other GIRL cousins. Ones I know. Stella and Lou. But the whole house got a sick bug and so I’ve ended up here on the farm in Somerset, in the middle of the countryside, with no Wi-Fi, no shops or buses and all these boys.

“You need a haircut,” says Ben, twitching the end of my plait.

“I know,” I say.

“Sid had long hair but he kept getting nits,” continues Ben. “He had more lice than the dog.”

“I see,” I say.

“Mum said she should get a flea collar for him,” says Ben.

“Well, I haven’t got nits,” I say somewhat haughtily.

“Got one!” shouts Ben, pinching at my hair.

“Leave her alone, Ben, you little beep,” says William, whacking him with his newspaper. “Don’t worry, cuz, it means he likes you.”

“Great,” I say uncertainly.

“You don’t say much,” says Ben.

“You say too much,” says Uncle Lee.

“Do you ride?” comes a fresh onslaught from under the table.

“A little bit,” I reply. I lean down and lift the tablecloth. Underneath, a boy about my age sits cross-legged, wearing nothing but old jogging trousers. A plate of toast crusts rests on his lap.

“I’m Sid.” His hair is shaved nearly to his skull and there is a smear of jam on his face. “We’ll meet you in the yard in ten.”

I am instantly horrified. I haven’t ridden for years and even then I wasn’t particularly good at it. I stopped riding because, Alice, one of Mum’s friends, fell off her horse and broke her leg really badly.

She still has a limp now.

“She doesn’t have to get on a horse the second she gets here. She might want to come and look at the cows first,” protests Uncle Lee.

“She can ride Crispy. He’s good with everyone.” Aunty Mo clears plates and wipes up spills. “She can do The Race with us.”

“Do you want to ride?” asks Uncle Lee. “This lot are all horse-mad but you don’t have to be. You can come and help me turn the hay if you like. How old are you? Twelve or so? You look like you wouldn’t have much problem driving a tractor.”

“She’s eleven,” says Aunty Mo. “Don’t let him bully you into it.”

“I’m not,” protests Uncle Lee. “I’ve got a new tractor. Well, new-ish. Only fifteen years old. It’s got a hydraulic seat and a cab radio. The brakes are very responsive; you’ll have no trouble stopping,” he added.

“Er,” I say. Everyone is looking at me.

“Tractor driving is a life skill,” says Uncle Lee. “You can put it on your university application under ‘interests’.”

Was he joking? I couldn’t be sure.

“Shut up, Dad, she’s coming with us,” says Ben. He looked at me. “Hurry up! It’s race day!”

“Do you want to?” asked Aunty Mo, looking hopeful.

“I’ll do it,” I say, and instantly regret it.

I whip off up the stairs feeling excited and scared, and ten minutes later, wearing somebody else’s too-big wellies, I stand in the stable yard, watching my cousins dash about leading, watering and brushing horses, and finding hard hats. In the distance I hear the roar of Uncle Lee’s new-but-old tractor.

I still haven’t done my hair.

It’s a bright but windy day and the wind blows shreds of straw over the yard. A small, off-white dog ambles up to me and gazes into my eyes.

“Hello,” I say, and a thin line of drool spools from its jaw.

“We’re in here,” calls Aunty Mo from the nearest stable. She’s vigorously brushing down a sleepy-looking white horse. The dust from its coat flies into the air.

Aunty Mo hands me the brush. “This is Crispy. He’s very gentle.”

Crispy sniffs me a couple of times, then goes back to munching hay. I set to, brushing burrs and mud out of his coat. I breathe in the smell of horse. It’s a good smell, I remember now.

 

It’s exactly a month since Marnie left for Canada. We had FaceTimed every day at first, then twice a week, and last week there had just been an email from her.

It was weird at home without Marnie. We’d been in and out of each other’s homes all the time and we’d spoken every day about everything. But now she was thousands of miles away forever.

How will I cope without her?

How will I BE?

The dirt comes off Crispy in cloudy, hairy handfuls and settles on my clothes.

I’m wearing new jeans with a purple flower on the leg and my old green T-shirt with more flowers round the hem. Mum likes flowers. Nearly every piece of my clothing has one on it somewhere. I didn’t used to mind, but recently the clothes have felt all wrong.

“They’re too young for me,” I said, when Mum had come home with the jeans.

“But I wear clothes like this and I’m forty!” said Mum.

So I’d worn them. I’m not the arguing sort. But I’d like clothes like Marnie’s big sister, Willow. She wears leggings, long T-shirts, hoodies, plain black trainers. Not a flower in sight.

She has short hair too. It looks cool.

Me and Marnie have the longest hair in the school. We’ve been growing it for years and years. It’s sort of a competition, but it’s also something that binds us together. I think mine is a bit longer than hers, and she says hers is longer than mine. It grows to our waists. I love and hate mine. Love it because it is thick and soft and on bad days I can hide under it. Hate it because Mum insists on brushing it and that makes me feel like a baby.

“I can brush my own hair,” I say.

“So why all the knots?” says Mum.

On the morning after Marnie had flown to Canada, I asked if I could get my hair cut. I know what I want, a bob, to the jaw. But Mum had just laughed and kept on brushing it out.

“Never make big decisions when you’re feeling stressed,” she said. “I know the day will come when we have to cut your beautiful hair, but not today, not today.”

She’s always saying that.

And now, brushing Crispy’s mane, I tut aloud.

“A horse!” I say. “That’s what I feel like.”

“You don’t look like one,” said a voice. It’s Sid, leaning in through the half door. I’m beginning to recognise these boys now. Sid is the mostly naked one.

Now he’s wearing army shorts and trainers and nothing else.

“Don’t you ever wear any clothes?” I ask him bravely.

Sid shrugs. “They only get dirty and itchy.”

Aunty Mo walks past carrying a saddle.

“He’s never worn them,” she says. “He spent most of his toddler years naked. He’d scream the house down if I tried to put him in normal clothes. It was dreadful when he started school and had to wear proper clothes every day. It was like trying to train a Mongolian Mustang.” She looked at my flowery jeans and sighed. “I don’t expect I’d have had that trouble if I’d had a daughter.”

I smile. There’s trouble and then there’s trouble.

“Why don’t you like clothes?” I ask Sid.

Sid shrugs. “Dunno.”

“Don’t you get cold, and burnt?”

“Yep,” says Sid, “but I’m used to it.”

“Is it your thing?” I ask.

“My thing?”

“You know, everyone has a thing. Mine is my long hair and being an only child. My mum’s is her deep hatred of butterflies (it’s the powdery wings). My dad’s is the way cats can’t resist him. Everyone has a thing. Is this nakedness thing your thing?”

“I guess it is,” said Sid. “And Mum’s thing is horses and sons, Dad’s thing is tractors and biscuits. Ben’s thing is being a pest and taking a very long time on the toilet.”

“What about him?” I ask, nodding to a boy cousin (Barney?) who’s fitting a saddle on a large white horse.

“He’s pretty average,” says Sid. “But he’s the nice guy, and he loves cheese and banana sandwiches. Maybe that’s his thing.”

“What about Jack?” I ask, confident my largest cousin was correctly identified.

“Oh, he’s good at everything, sport, music, maths, English, everything.”

“And him?” I point up to a bedroom window where William is lolling out.

“That’s easy,” grins Sid. “He’s the family weirdo.”

“In what way?” I ask.

“Weird ones,” says Sid mysteriously, and skips off.

I feel something pull at the hem of my T-shirt.

Crispy is trying to eat me.

“He thinks you’re a hedge,” says big Jack, clopping past on a large brown and white horse.

I really, really hate this top. Maybe I’ll stuff it in a bin somewhere when no one is looking.

I go back to my brushing. I think I’m nearly done when little Ben struggles in with a bucket. It is full of brushes and hoof picks and horse stuff. He sets it down and draws out a pair of gleaming scissors.

“Why don’t we cut your hair?” he says. “It would be fun.”

I stop brushing. Look at the scissors. Feel my fat plait.

“Don’t be stupid,” I say.

“I like being stupid,” says Ben. “It’s fun. Join me.”

I feel the end of my plait. The hair wisps over my fingers.

Mum would go insane if I cut my hair. I’ve been growing it since I was four years old. And people don’t just cut their own hair, they go to the hairdresser and pay someone else to do it.

But I’ve got a crazy feeling inside me, and Mum is hundreds of miles away.

“Just a couple of snips and you would be free,” says Ben advancing, working the scissors.

“Hand me those right now,” I say.

I watch as my cousins thunder out of the yard and through the gate into the field. As I pull at Crispy’s head I see all the boys galloping around like mad cowboys. I feel wobbly up here on Crispy’s back. It seems a long way to the ground.

I remember Alice’s leg.

“Come on, love, give him a kick,” calls Aunty Mo, crashing past. She leans over and grabs the reins, tugging Crispy along. He speeds up for a few metres then slows down, wrenches his head free and snatches some grass from the hedge.

The boys wheel round and gallop back to me.

“Come and do The Race. It doesn’t matter if you’re not a real rider,” shouts nearly naked Sid, his cheeks blazing and his muscles taut. “You look like you’re about to fall off.”

“She won’t be able to keep up,” sneers Jack, dark and enormous on his frothing horse.

I feel a surge of annoyance.

“We don’t have to do The Race. It’s Fay’s first day,” says Barney kindly. He’s riding an extremely fat pony with a long black mane and wicked look about it.

“But it’s the first official day of the holidays,” shouts Jack. “We always do The Race on the first day and the last day. It’s tradition.”

“Go for it,” I say, heaving Crispy’s head up and away from the hedge. “I wouldn’t want to break the tradition.”

“You can just puddle around in the field if you like,” says Aunty Mo. “Or follow the trail of dust. It’s a race round the circumference of the farm. We end up back here.”

I tighten my fingers round the reins.

I think of the trails I’ve been following in the last few days. The trails of light from Mum and Dad’s car, the aeroplane trails in the sky…

“They’re all desperate to win,” says Aunty Mo.

“But I always win,” says Jack.

“Not last year,” says Sid.

“That’s because I had a broken leg and I still came second,” says Jack.

“You had a horse race with a broken leg?” I ask, thinking again of Alice.

Aunty Mo shrugs helplessly. “Jack’s like that.” She looks at me. “Did something happen to your hair?”

I point down. My discarded plait swings from my saddle like a war trophy. I’d cut it off just below the shoulder.

“Oh dear,” says Aunty Mo. “Ben! Did you do that?”

“No,” I say. “I did it.”

“Oh dear,” says Aunty Mo again.

“So who won the race last year?” I ask. I’m learning that if we talk about horses everyone is distracted.

“Me,” says William. “It was a hollow victory owing to Jack’s leg. This year I want to win for true.”

William, I realise, talks funny.

Barney trots back to me. “Can you gallop?” he asks.

“Of course,” I lie. I have no idea if it’s true because I’ve never done it. I used to be able to canter and trot. How hard could galloping be? The only reason I hadn't done it is because galloping wasn’t allowed in my London riding school. The manège was too small.

“Great! Let’s just go for it,” says Aunty Mo, who, I know, is as excited as any of them.

“Eat my dust,” grins Jack.

“Eat my feet,” retorts William

“Going DOWN.” Sidney circles the yard.

“No pushing, no trampling, no use of whip,” orders Aunty Mo. She has completely forgotten about my hair. “No elbows.”

I raise an eyebrow. What is this, rugby?

“ON YOUR MARKS,” screams my aunt, “GET SET…”

“GO GO GO,” howls little Ben, thundering out in front on his short-legged horse.

So I drag Crispy’s head up and urge him on, as my relations belt off round the field.

I know I can’t win, but I’m going to be part of this race.

Crispy seems to finally realise that I want him to move, and he ambles at a quick jog after his teammates. I’m bumping up and down and try to remember what I know about riding. Move with the horse, don’t let the reins flap and, if in doubt, grab the saddle.

Crispy, seeing his mates vanish into the next field, lets out a little neigh and picks up speed.

“Good BOY,” I say. This is fun. Maybe this fortnight with these mad cousins wouldn’t be so bad after all. I wonder for a split second what Marnie is doing. Probably nothing like this. I wonder what she’ll say when she finds out about my hair. She didn’t want me to cut it either. “We’re the exclusive hair gang,” she’d said. She said that a lot. She didn’t really like me having other friends. I suppose it doesn’t really matter any more, seeing as she isn’t coming back.

The next field is full of yellow stubble, and already the boys are thundering through the open gateway at the far end. I don’t know who’s in the lead, but as we fall into a canter and the breeze blows into my face, I feel a surge of joy.

I absolutely do not want to come last.

“Come on, horse,” I say, and nudge Crispy in the ribs with my oversized wellies.

The effect is not exactly electric, but Crispy does pick up his pace, snort and kick up a bit of dust of his own.

And the gap between me and the boy at the back – is it Barney? – is decreasing.

As we push through the next gateway, the path winds down a cow-walk into a wooded area, until we reach a stream. And here I find, red-faced and furious, Barney, his trousers all wet, watching helplessly as his horse rolls in the river.

“Is he OK?” I ask, trotting up. (I can remember how to do this.)

“He’s FINE,” shouts Barney. “He’s just rude. I felt him go down, and I had to jump off before I got crushed. He’s doing it for fun and to cool down his scabby back.”

I watch as the horse rolls and rolls, legs kicking, droplets of muddy water flying over the forest like silver flies.

“Can I go on Crispy?” asks Barney hopefully. “It’s not important to you. But it is to me.”

I’m about to say “OK” reluctantly, but instead different words come out of my mouth.

“No way,” I say and splash past, up the crumbling bank and after the others.

Crispy charges out of the wood and up into the bottom of a steep, steep field. I see the group up ahead, slower now as they climb.

“Come on then,” I say, and Crispy pulls after them. I’m gaining on them, and then they vanish over the horizon and as I crest the hill I find myself neck and neck with little Ben and his horse.

“His legs are too short,” he wails. “I’ll never win on this heap of junk.”

“That’s not very nice,” I say, overtaking.

“I always get the rubbish things because I’m the youngest,” moans Ben.

“Tough luck,” I say, surging ahead. “I thought I’d got the rubbish horse.”

“You have,” says Ben. “Crispy is the laziest horse we have.” He gets off his horse and tries to pull it up the hill.

“I WANT A MOTORBIKE,” he yells.

I lean forward and pat Crispy’s neck and he eyes a patch of nettles hopefully.

“No,” I say, and we chase the others, cantering along the top ridge of the field. The sky seems huge, and for a moment I feel like I’m in an aeroplane looking down on the fields and hedges as the wind blows over my face.

Crispy is getting into his stride, and I am gaining on the next rider, naked Sid.

We’re going faster now and my legs ache trying to cling on. I’m feeling a bit scared as we go faster than ever. This is not a smooth canter, but a fast, drumming move. It must be a gallop.

I’m galloping! ME!

HA HA! I think, and here is Sid, cantering along, looking neat and balanced, not arms flying, feet bumping, like me.

But I am faster.

I keep quiet as we approach, realising Sid has no idea we’re here.

I lightly kick Crispy’s sides as the ridge starts to slope down and I draw level with Sid and his horse. He looks over, amazed.

“Where are the others?” he shouts.

“Back there,” I crow.

Sid picks up speed and for a while we canter side by side, until Crispy’s long legs get the better of Sid and his horse and we surge ahead.

“What’s got into him?” calls Sid. “He never goes like that for me.”

“Maybe he needed a real rider,” I shout, and charge off. I seem to have found my voice.

Now I’m travelling fast through rows of Christmas trees. I see Jack, William and Aunty Mo ahead.

Can I do this? Can I?

Crispy snorts, as if reading my thoughts. If I keep going I will, at least, achieve my aim of not losing too badly. But where’s the fun in that?

“Come on, Crispy,” I say. “Let’s show these boys what we can do.”

But then Crispy abruptly stops, puts his head down and yanks at a patch of grass. I nearly go over his head, but manage to stay on.

“Traitor.” I glance behind as Sid narrows the gap.

“You’re really getting into this!” shouts Sid.

“It’s all over,” I say.

But then, from nowhere, a jet tears out of the sky. Crispy jerks up, spooked, and belts hell for leather after the others.

I hold on for dear life. This feels even faster than galloping, if that’s possible. I’m being shaken all over the place. This is bolting. Even though I pull hard at the reins I can’t make Crispy slow down. We fly out of the wood and into a flat field. I’m pulsing with fear and have to grab the saddle so I don’t fall off. I’m unable to do anything apart from cling on as Crispy runs and runs, terrified by the roar of the jet.

I pass William and Aunty Mo in a blur.

“Are you OK?” yells Aunty Mo.

I have no idea. I’m frightened, but still feel a jolt of delight as we pass Jack, pounding solidly over the flat field.

“NO WAY!” he shouts.

If I can keep hanging on, everything will be OK. I might even win.

Up ahead I see the farmhouse roof. We are near the end and I am going to win.

The drumming hooves fill my head.

Then I fall off.

It happens quickly. One second I’m in the saddle, the next I’m on the ground, breath knocked out of me, looking at the sky in surprise. I’m bootless – my wellies are still stuck in the stirrups.

Jack bolts past, not bothering to stop.

I cough and wheeze. My arm hurts a bit where I landed on it, but not much.

Aunty Mo pulls up.

“You’re so good at falling!” she says, clearly delighted.

“Am I?” I gasp, raising myself.

“Textbook roll,” says Aunty Mo. “Clean fall, no getting tangled in the reins. A born rider. Back in a tick.”

Then she too kicks her horse and accelerates off, leaving me in the grass. At first I think she’s going to catch Crispy, who’s now munching the only outcrop of greenery in the shorn field, but no, I should have known better – my mad aunt is chasing Jack.

“THOU ART DEFEATED!” shouts William as he too passes me by.

As I sit up I hear the growling putter of Uncle Lee’s tractor.

“They’re all deranged,” he says. “Want a ride?”

Back in the yard, I climb down from the tractor, as Crispy sheepishly clatters into the yard. The boys crowd round, congratulating, commiserating. Laughing.

“You don’t actually ride very well, Fay,” says Sid. “You looked like a sack of potatoes.”

“A fast sack of potatoes,” I reply. “I was thrashing you until I fell off.”

“True,” says Sid.

“I’m having Crispy next time,” says Ben.

This is a victory of sorts.

Jack struts round, patting his horse and blowing out his cheeks. “Good effort, all,” he says. “Especially you, Fay.” He gives me a look of amused surprise. “But I won. I am the true winner.”

“Congratulations,” I say. “And my name is FAITH.”

That last bit came out rather loudly.

Maybe I can come back at the end of the holidays and do the last race. Maybe I can beat him next time.

There’s always a next time.

“Actually, Jack, you didn’t win,” calls Aunty Mo. “I did.”