I care for are in my name, that the buyers who try them will nod approvingly at me instead of at Benjamin Malvern.
The Malvern stables are not truly the Malvern stables, after all, but a complex of stone barns that housed horses on Thisby long before the Malvern name existed on the island. The only thing that can match these buildings in stature, especially the main stable, is St. Columba’s in Skarmouth. The barns were constructed with the same spiritual fervor. The ceiling is held up with carved columns that depict wide-eyed men whose hands support the feet of men whose hands support the feet of other men in turn and again in turn, and at the top of all of them are men with the heads of horses. Like the church in Skarmouth, the sloped ceiling of the main barn is supported with ribs of stone, and in between, the surfaces are painted with complicated animals whose limbs knot around each other. The walls, too, are painted, with small, twisted figures jotted into the oddest places: a corner of a stall, in the center of the floor, along the left side of windows. Men with hooves for hands, and women coughing up horses, and stallions with tentacles for manes and tails.
And the most impressive painting of all covers the wall at the end of the main stable. In it, there is the sea, and a man – a forgotten ocean god, perhaps – dragging a horse down into it. The water is the color of blood and the horse is red as the sea.
It’s an old animal, this stable, the oldest on the island.
Everywhere in it are clues to the stable’s previous life. The stalls are so large that in all but three, Malvern has put up dividers so that he can accommodate more of the sport horses that he sells on the mainland. The door frames are iron, the door handles will turn only counterclockwise, and there is something written in red runes above one of the thresholds. The floor of the
It was not always stylish sport horses that were housed in this barn.
I finish with the stalls and the feed room and every other chore that I can think of performing, and then I shut down the lights so it’s just me in the dark, ancient stomach of the stables. One of the
The thing is, I don’t actually want the Malvern stables, not in either of its forms. I don’t want Malvern’s rich buyers, coming each October to watch the races and buy his thoroughbreds. I don’t want his money and his reputation and his ability to come and go as he pleases from Thisby. I don’t need forty head of horses to feel complete.
What I want is this: a roof over my head that is my own, accounts at Gratton’s and Hammond’s in my name, and, most of all, I want Corr.
For the first time in nine years, I lock the door to my flat, thinking of Mutt Malvern’s purple face and fisted hands. I lie awake for a long time, listening to the ocean violent against the rocks of the northwestern shore of the island, and thinking about the piebald mare.
Finally, I sleep, and when I do, I dream of a day when I can turn my back on Mutt Malvern and keep walking.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The morning is raw and pink as I make my way out to Dove’s pasture. Cold as a witch’s tit, my father used to say, and my mother would say
I call Dove’s name and bash the coffee can of feed against the fence post. It’s not a lot – I’ll feed her more after we’ve worked – but it’s enough to tantalize her. I can see her muddy rump poking out from the lean-to. Her tail doesn’t even move as I jostle the can again.
I jump as Finn says, right at my elbow, “She knows you’re cranky, that’s why she won’t come over.”
I glower at him. Somewhere, someone in Skarmouth is making meat pies, because I can smell them on the wind and my stomach grumbles as it rolls to point in the direction of the scent. “I am not cranky. Aren’t you supposed to be cleaning the kitchen or something?”
Finn shrugs and stands on the lowest rung of the fence. He seems unperturbed by the cold. “Dove!” he calls gaily. I am gratified to see that Dove doesn’t move an inch for him, either.
“Well,” he says, “she’s a useless mule. What are you doing today?”
“Taking her down to the beach,” I say. I touch my nose with the back of my hand; it’s that sort of cold that makes me feel like it’s going to run, even though it’s not.
“The
The idea of answering him irritates me as much as the answer does, so I pull the rule sheet out of my woolly jacket pocket and hand it to him. I rattle the can while he unfolds the sheet, and try not to feel sorry for myself as he reads. It takes him awhile to get to the rule that answers his question. I can tell exactly when he gets to it, because his mouth gets thin. I had thought, when I first decided to ride Dove in the races, that I would be able to exercise her far away from the beach and go down there only for the race. But the rule sheet that Peg Gratton gave me tells me I can’t. All entries must train within 150 yards of the shoreline. Penalty: disqualification with no refund of the entry fee. It feels specifically designed to thwart me, even though I know there’s a good reason for it. No one wants water horses running amok over the island as it gets close to November.
“Maybe you can ask them to make an exception,” Finn says.
“I don’t want them to notice me at all,” I say. If I went to the officials and made a kerfuffle over Dove, they might disqualify me anyway. My plan seems frightfully thin at the moment. All for a brother who left before either of us got up.
Finn and I both start at the sound of a car coming up the road to the house. Cars are never a good sign. Not many people on the island have them, and fewer still have a reason to come out here. Usually the only people who come this way are men who don’t take off their hats as they hand over unpaid invoices.
Finn, valiant soul that he is, vanishes, leaving me to it. The same amount of money has to be handed over regardless, but it stings less if you aren’t the one who has to count it out for them.
But it’s not a bill collector. It’s a long, elegant car the size of our kitchen, with a tall, elegant grille the size of a dustbin. It has round, friendly-looking eyeballs with chrome eyebrows; its tailpipe breathes white puffs that creep around the tires. And it is red – not the red of the horse I saw on the beach yesterday, but red like only humans can imagine. Red like candy. Red like you’d like to taste or possibly paint your lips with.
Red, Father Mooneyham often remarks sadly, like sin.
I know the car. It belongs to St. Columba’s, officially, donated to Father Mooneyham for his home visits by a well-meaning parishioner who’d come from the mainland and had some sort of spiritual conversion in the waters near Skarmouth. And it is true that Father Mooneyham travels all over the island in the car, visiting the islanders and giving last rites and first rites and in-between rites. But he never budges from the passenger seat. If he can’t find anyone willing to drive, he uses his bicycle as he did before, never mind that he’s old as sod.
I feel a little bad that Finn has hidden himself in the house, because he would’ve appreciated the grand red car of the priest. I tell myself it serves him right for being a coward.
Before I can properly wonder why Father Mooneyham has come out here, the driver’s side door opens and out steps Peg Gratton. Her feet are armored in dark green rubber boots that are unimpressed by our mud. I see Father Mooneyham fretting over something in the passenger seat, but he remains in the car. It’s Peg who has business with me, and that is a worrying thought.
“Puck,” she says. Her short hair is curled and red – not the same color red as either the car or the horse from
