The next two nights she dreamed of nothing at all. On the third she dreamed she was stacking supermarket shelves with biscuits she had made herself on a bonfire at the back of the surgery. Bitterly disappointed, she retraced her steps, next morning into the garden.
‘Moonlight?’
She shook her head in despair. Losing her marbles, as Mat would say. Calling out loud to a dream horse from a dream world. Perhaps she shouldn’t have ridden for real. Perhaps the experience had destroyed the dream.
She made her way towards the gate and out onto the path. The ground had dried out now. It was hard and dusty. Turning left out of the gate she began to walk along the track listening to the skylarks high above the field, screwing up her eyes so that she could see the tiny specks against the brilliant blue of the sky.
The horse was upon her before she knew it, galloping around the corner, its rider intent upon the path. With a scream Chris threw herself sideways into the corn as the animal reared up and skidded to a standstill.
‘Are you all right? My God, I’m sorry. I never saw you!’ The man was off the horse and at Chris’s side almost before the animal had stopped.
Shaken, she lay still for a moment, then slowly she sat up. ‘I’m OK. It’s not your fault. I wasn’t paying attention. I should have heard you.’
His chestnut mare had trotted a few yards away and stopped. It stood near them, its rein trailing, snatching greedily at the hedgerow grass.
‘I’m Tom Ketch. From Saddlers farm.’ He had taken her arm and helped her gently to her feet. He was tall, tanned, her age, or perhaps a bit older. He was dressed in jeans, leather jacket and boots. ‘You’re Chris Dean, aren’t you? I’ve seen you around. Is your ankle twisted?’ She had staggered slightly as she put her weight on it. ‘I’m so sorry. Look, sit here. Let me look.’
‘I’m all right. Really.’ It was wonderful to be so fussed over. But at the same time it was embarrassing. What kind of an idiot must he think her, nose-diving into the wheat like that? She firmly removed her arm from his and planted her foot on the ground, stamping experimentally and resolutely hiding the answering needle of pain which shot up her leg.
‘It’s a wonderful place to ride,’ she said. ‘Please don’t think you can’t gallop round here because of me. It’s my own fault. I was too busy listening to the skylarks.’
‘And why not?’ He smiled and she found herself smiling back suddenly, unable to take her eyes off his face. ‘Perhaps we can ride together some time?’ he went on.
She wanted to. Oh yes, she wanted to, so much. She had placed him now. Tom Ketch. Newly returned from living abroad to take up the family farm and stables. Handsome. Fortyish. Gossiped about. And single.
She sobered rapidly. ‘But I don’t ride – or at least, I’ve only just started – ’
‘Nonsense. You’re good. I’ve seen you several times.’
She could feel herself reddening. He must have somehow watched her that last occasion at the riding school. But several times? No.
‘I’ve no experience at all. Honestly. I wouldn’t be very good company.’
‘On the contrary. You look as though you’d be very good company.’ He broke off, looking stricken. ‘I’m sorry. That sounded like a really corny chat-up line.’
‘And a very nice one.’ His discomfort gave her a little confidence. How stupid to feel so at a loss. It was so long since she had been involved in a conversation like this – a relaxed flirtatious to and fro, with a good-looking man.
‘So, where do you keep her stabled? I thought I knew all the liveries round here. I know there’s nowhere at your cottage.’
Chris frowned. ‘I don’t understand. I’ve been riding at Hodges.’
‘My God, why?’ He reached into the pocket of his jeans and produced a distinctly grubby-looking packet of peppermints. The horse immediately looked up and whickered at him hopefully, a long trail of wild grasses hanging from the corner of her mouth.
‘Yes, greedy, for you.’ He held one out for the animal and she came to him like an eager dog.
‘She likes them?’
Nodding he gave the horse one and rubbed her nose, then as she had feared he offered one to Chris. With a hidden smile she shook her head.
‘I didn’t realise that the Hodges took in livery horses.’
‘But they weren’t mine, the horses I rode.’ Chris glanced at him shyly.
‘What, not that gorgeous grey?’
‘Grey?’ She stared at him.
‘The one I saw you on a few nights ago.’
Her mouth went dry. For a moment she stood stock still, looking at him, her eyes intently searching his face, then she turned away. ‘You have seen me riding at night?’
‘Yes.’ She heard the puzzled tone in his voice, the chink of the chestnut’s bridle as it pushed at his pockets, eager for another sweet.
‘On a white horse? In the moonlight?’ She was staring out across the field.
‘I wasn’t spying, Chris.’ She could hear the amusement in his voice.
‘No. No, I’m sure you weren’t.’ Suddenly afraid, she found herself clenching her fists.
He noticed. Unseen by her, an eyebrow rose fractionally and a glint of understanding showed for a moment in his eyes. ‘Whose horse was it? Did you take her without asking?’
‘No!’ Her indignation took him aback.
‘Then I don’t understand.’
‘No.’ She shook her head violently. ‘No, nor do I. I’m sorry, Tom. I have to go. I’m late for work.’ Sighing she shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her jeans. ‘I’m sorry I can’t ride with you, I really am.’ She couldn’t meet his eye. Turning away from him she almost ran back towards her gate and fumbling with the latch she let herself into the garden.
That night as she rode Moonlight out into the darkness she was not thinking about Tom Ketch, the riding school horses, the surgery, the children. In her dream she was one with the horse, leaning forward to rest her cheek against the warm firm neck before urging the horse faster and faster towards the horizon.
On the edge of the field in the shelter of the trees Tom Ketch watched in silence. Only when she was out of sight did he turn and make his way up the field path to her gate. It was closed and overgrown with weeds. In the beam of his torchlight he could see no hoof marks, no bruising of the grasses, no trampled corn. For a long time he stood staring through the apple trees at the sleeping cottage windows, deep in thought. Then at last he turned away. Smiling to himself he began to walk home through the darkness. Tomorrow he was going to ask Chris Dean once again if she would like to ride with him. On one of his horses, the pretty grey Arab mare he had thought of selling. And perhaps, if he persevered, he would for the first time in his life be in a position to make someone’s dreams come true. It was a wonderful thought.
The Girl on the Swing
Charlotte put her hand on the gate and pushed hard. In the soft twilight the air was cool and fresh after the heat of the road. ‘Are you sure this is the right house?’ she called over her shoulder. She couldn’t bear it to be wrong. Already she loved the place. She could feel the weight of stress and exhaustion lifting from her as she stood there.
‘I’m sure. It’s just like the photo on the brochure.’ Rob slammed the boot lid and followed her up the path, a case in each hand, a bag under his arm, and waited while she put the key in the lock and after a short struggle turned it.
The silence of the room rose at them, enfolding them, holding them momentarily still and speechless.
Rob dropped the bags on the floor. The sound broke the spell and suddenly they could hear the birds outside again, the ticking of a clock somewhere in the corner, the creak of the door as it swung behind them. ‘It’s a bit cold in here.’ He looked round and shivered. ‘Let’s leave the door open and let in some warmth.’
