The Horse Dancer

  'Go,' she whispered to him. 'Go on.' The words flew backwards into her throat. Boo would not have heard her even if she had shouted; he was lost in some purely physical world of his own, instinct telling him to relish this freedom, to allow his tight muscles to stretch, his legs to fly across the rough ground, his lungs to tighten with the sheer effort of maintaining such a speed. She understood it. She needed it too.

  In the far distance steel pylons stalked the skyline, strung together by cables that traced a delicate progression across the city. Below them, on a thin strip across the marshes, raised on concrete pillars, the traffic moved in a never-ending procession. Several horns sounded at a distance; possibly at her, she could not focus long enough to tell. Boo was moving faster than the cars and lorries caught in the rush-hour traffic, and the thrill this gave her threatened to transmute into fear as she wondered whether she would be able to stop. She had never gone so far with him before, never let him run so fast. He swerved to avoid an old bicycle frame in the long grass, almost unseating her, and as she struggled to maintain her balance, she could feel his great quarters gathering under him as he pushed faster, now blurring her vision, causing her breath to stall in her chest. She lifted her head from his neck, spitting out the fronds of his mane that whipped at her skin, trying to gauge how much distance she had left. She pulled slightly on the reins, recognising that she had little strength left to pull him back, should he fight her. Some distant part of her hardly cared: how much easier it would be for them to keep going. To race up that grassy bank, straight across the motorway, skidding through the cars, his shoes sending up sparks. They would jump the cars, the fences. They would fly under the pylons, past the warehouses and car parks, and keep going until they hit the countryside. Just her and her horse, galloping through the long grass into some uncomplicated future.

  But some part of Boo was still owned by Papa. Feeling the increasing tension in the reins, he slowed obediently, his ears flicking back and forth, as if he was trying to check that he had read her message correctly. Sarah allowed herself to sink back into the saddle, her body slowly becoming upright, reinforcing what she was telling him, to slow. To do as she asked. To return to their world.

  Some fifty feet from the dual carriageway, Boo slowed to a walk, his frothing sides heaving with the effort of what he had just done, his breath leaving his flared nostrils in short, noisy bursts.

  Sarah sat very still, squinting back at the distance she had covered. She was no longer in the wind, but the tears in her eyes kept coming.

  Ruth, the social worker, was at the school gates. Sarah had been searching for loose change in her schoolbag when she caught sight of her. She was standing just to the side, her neat little red car parked across the road, as if she did not want to be obtrusive. Every single kid gawped at her as they came out of the gates. Sarah walked up to her reluctantly; Ruth could not have been more conspicuous if she had worn a tabard with 'Social Worker' in neon letters across it. They all had that look, like plain-clothes policemen.

  'Sarah?'

  Her heart leapt as she grasped the possible significance of the woman's presence. Ruth must have registered it because, as Sarah hurried towards her, she said, 'There's nothing wrong with your grandfather. No need to worry.'

  Her chest deflating with relief Sarah followed her reluctantly to the car. She opened the passenger door and climbed in. She had planned to see Papa tonight; half of her wondered whether she could persuade Ruth to give her a lift. It was then that she noticed the two black bags on the back seat. At the mouth of one she could see her tracksuit bottoms. Five weeks and two moves had told her what those bags meant. 'Am I going somewhere?'

  'Sarah, I'm afraid the Hewitts have had enough.' She started the car. 'It's not you - they think you're a lovely girl - but taking responsibility for someone who keeps disappearing is too much for them. It's the same story as with the MacIvers. They're frightened something will happen to you.'

  'Nothing's going to happen to me,' Sarah said, her voice tinged with scorn.

  'The school is equally concerned. They tell me you've been skipping classes. Do you want to tell me what's going on?'

  'Nothing's going on.'

  'Is there some boy involved? Some man? That's a lot of time you've been disappearing for, Sarah. Don't think we don't notice. Between the Hewitts and the school we've added it up.'

  'No. There's no boy. No man.'

  'So what is it?'

  Sarah scuffed her feet in the footwell. She wished Ruth would just drive somewhere instead of sitting outside the school so that everyone could stare into the car as they filed out of the gates. But she was waiting for her to answer. 'I wanted to see my granddad.'

  'But it's not just that, is it? I went to the hospital on Tuesday when the school last rang to tell me you'd disappeared. I went to pick you up but you hadn't been there that day. Where were you?'

  Sarah stared at her hands, which were still blistered from the reins. They were going to find out. She knew it. She thought of Boo, of the feeling of him beneath her, the fleeting sense of freedom as they ran towards a different future. She edged her hand into her bag, checking reflexively for the keys to the stableyard.

  'You've got to help me, Sarah. I'm running out of options for you. You've been through two foster-families in five weeks. These are good people, nice people. Do you want to end up in care? I can put you in a residential home where they'll make sure you stay in. We can impose a curfew, or get someone to accompany you to school and back every day. Is that what you want, Sarah?'

  Sarah reached into her bag and pulled out the piece of paper.

  'Anything you need,' he had said, 'anything at all.' 'Mac,' she said, lifting her face to Ruth's. 'I want to go back to Mac's house.'

  Ten people. Six lots of viewings. And not a single offer. The estate agent had been apologetic. 'It's interest rates,' he had said. 'It makes people nervous. Takes them twice as long to make an offer.'

  'But we need to sell this house.' Natasha had surprised herself. She had not wanted to leave, but that was before Mac had taken up residency.

  'Then I can only suggest a price reduction. Everything sells if it's cheap enough. Oh, and if you don't mind me saying, it might help if you could tidy up the spare room a little. It never helps if potential buyers are having to step over men's - ah - underclothes to get to a bathroom.'

  Natasha lay in the bath, wondering how much they should drop to achieve a sale. It had to be enough to attract buyers, but too much and she would feel cheated. It was a beautiful house in a nice street. This area of London was on the up - everyone said so - and she needed enough to buy a flat somewhere else.

  When she thought about living in a flat again, Natasha couldn't dispel the cloud of gloom that settled over her. You reached your mid-thirties and expected to have laid the foundations of your life. You should have met a partner, settled in the house you loved, made a good career. Perhaps a baby or two. Her resolutely flat stomach was just visible beneath the floating relief map of bubbles. One out of four. Not a great tally, when it came down to it. And since the episode with Ahmadi she wasn't even sure how confident she felt about the career.

  'Natasha?'

  She sat up in the bath and checked that she had remembered to lock the door. 'I'm here,' she called. Please don't let him have brought anyone home.

  She heard the dull thud of things being dropped on the floor, his footsteps on the stairs. His equipment was steadily encroaching along the hall - piles of lights, canvas camera-bags, foil light enhancers - so that soon she would be forced to play stepping-stones every time she wanted to enter or leave the house.

  'I'm in the bath,' she called again. She heard him stop outside the door and felt oddly self-conscious. She could almost see him in his T-shirt and jeans, running a hand over the top of his head.

  'I've been to the supermarket,' he said. 'Bought a load of stuff. It's in the kitchen. Teabags and all.'

  Great, she thought. You want a medal?

&
nbsp; 'And I called the estate agent. They said those last people still might offer. It's only two days since they viewed.'

  'They won't, Mac. You like somewhere, you offer straight away. You know how it works.'

  She could hear him receiving a text message. When he spoke again he sounded distracted, as if he was texting back. He had never been able to do more than one thing at a time. She sank lower into the bath, letting the bubbles rise up to her chin, so that Mac's voice became muffled. 'Anyway, I guess he told you there's someone coming next Wednesday. So you never know.'

  They had viewed this place together, Mac coming straight from an assignment so that his camera still hung around his neck. She had told him he looked like a poseur, but he had taken pictures of the rooms, and later they had both been excited by the light, the space. They had put in an offer the following morning.

  'And I had another call.' He was tentative this time.

  Natasha wiped her eyes. 'What?' She pushed herself upright.

  'From Social Services. That girl who spent the night with us.'

  'What about her?'

  'They've asked if we'd consider fostering her for a few weeks. Apparently her current placement isn't working.' He paused. 'She asked to come to us.'

  The girl's wary eyes gazing at her breakfast plate. Her shocked face confronting the devastation of her fifth-floor front room.

  'But we don't know her.'

  'She's told them we're friends of her family. I didn't like to contradict. But I guess it's irrelevant. I said I didn't think it would be possible.'

  Natasha climbed out of the bath. 'Why?'

  He didn't answer immediately. She heard him move closer to the door.

  'You just seemed . . . reluctant before. I wasn't sure if you'd want someone you didn't know in the house, what with everything. I told them you might have too much work on.'

  'We don't know anything about her.'

  'True.'

  She wrapped herself in a soft white towel and sat on the side of the bath. 'What do you think?' She was facing the door.

  'I wouldn't mind, if it helped her out for a few weeks. Just till we sell the house. She seemed an okay kid.'

  She could hear it in his voice. He would be as relieved as she would. A different focus. An enforced break in the tension.

  She thought back to a stolen packet of fish-fingers. The girl had sworn she would have paid for them. Come on, she told herself. Not all these kids are on the make. She might just need a chance.

  'Tash?'

  It might be the closest to parenting she was ever going to get.

  'I don't see why a couple of weeks would hurt,' she said, 'but you'd have to fit your work around her. I've got a big case coming up and I won't be able to take time off.'

  'I think I can manage that.'

  'I don't know . . . It's a big responsibility, Mac. You'd have to play an equal part - lay off the dodgy cigarettes, drink less. You couldn't just come and go as you pleased. It would be a big change in lifestyle for you. In fact, I don't know if you--'

  'I'll ring them,' he said, his footsteps already headed for the stairs, 'and find out what we do next.'

  Nine

  'First, then, it must be realised that spirit in a horse is exactly what anger is in a man.'

  Xenophon, On Horsemanship

  She heard Sarah coming down the stairs before she saw her. Her footfall was deceptively light, almost as if she wanted not to be heard, but for Natasha, still acutely aware of the presence of other people in her house, it was enough to make her break off from her files. She had been working at the kitchen table (she had lost her study to Mac's sleeping arrangements) and now leant back in her chair to see through the doorway. 'Are you going out?'

  Sarah whipped around in the hallway, almost as if she hadn't expected to be seen. She was wearing a puffy jacket and a striped woollen scarf. 'I won't be long,' she said.

  'Where are you off to?' Natasha tried to make her question casual.

  'To see a friend.'

  Natasha stood. 'Would you like a lift?'

  'No . . . thank you.'

  'Well, shall I pick you up afterwards, now that it's darker in the evenings? It's no problem.'

  Sarah raised a smile. It wasn't terribly convincing. 'No, thanks,' she said. 'I can get the bus.' And before Natasha could say anything else, she was gone. Natasha was left staring at the front door, her pen still hanging loosely from her fingers.

  Sarah had been with them for ten days, and after the initial strangeness of the first two, when she had barely spoken, and hidden in her room if Natasha was at home, the three had fallen into something like a routine. Natasha would make breakfast (she was usually the first up) and Mac would drop Sarah at school, on the advice of the social worker. He was in charge for the first couple of hours after school, and then, depending on how late Natasha stayed at work, either Sarah and Mac, or the three of them would eat together in some facsimile of family life. It was awkward, at first, eating with Mac. Conversation was forced and tentative. But he chatted to Sarah, and if she didn't say much in return, they had at least settled into something that felt a little safer and even, on occasion, companionable. Sarah's life, her small needs, even her recalcitrance, gave their exchanges a focus.

  Twice, the school had rung to say she had missed lessons. Sarah insisted she had been confused by her timetable. Or, once, that she had been present and the teacher was mistaken. They had been warned by Ruth, the social worker, that the girl did not always follow the routines set for her. 'We've had some issues about her not being where she should be,' Ruth had said. Natasha had felt they were not getting the full story.

  'Surely that's the whole point of being a teenager?' Mac had said cheerfully. 'I was never where I was meant to be.'

  'I just don't think you should give her too much freedom,' Ruth continued, directing her comments at Natasha. 'By all accounts her grandfather was quite strict, and she seems to be responding to the lack of that stability by going a bit off the rails. She's missed quite a few classes, and seems pretty unwilling to talk about what she's doing. I'm not suggesting she'll be a problem for you,' she added quickly. 'I'm just telling you that she seems to be a child who thrives better on routine, and if you can negotiate some boundaries with her about when and where she goes out, I think it will work better for everyone.'

  They had the advantage, Ruth had said, smiling, that Sarah had asked to be with them. 'We find that young people do much better in their chosen environment. I'm sure that will be the case here.'

  Natasha had not had time to feel flattered by this. Now that Sarah had settled in, she seemed to want to spend as little time with her as possible. She was monosyllabic over supper, escaped to her room most of the time she was at home, and was out so often that sometimes it felt as if they were not housing another person at all.

  That first dinner Mac had said, 'Okay. We've never had someone your age as a houseguest before. How do you want to play this?' He had been so cheerful, so relaxed.

  Natasha had stood at the stove, scraping burnt pizza from the baking tray, trying not to look as if she was eavesdropping.

  'I usually visit my friends after school,' she said cautiously.

  Mac shrugged. 'Fine. Let's say twice a week to start with. I think you should come straight back on the other days and we'll run through your homework together. Although I can't say I'll have the faintest idea what you should be doing.'

  'I'm used to letting myself in and out.'

  'And we're not used to having anyone else here so we'll need a little time to adjust, Sarah. I'm sure we can give you some keys of your own soon, but just work with us for now. Okay?'

  The girl had shrugged. 'Okay.'

  Natasha had thought having her here was simply Mac's smokescreen for their discomfort with each other. But he was throwing himself into Sarah's care. He had stopped smoking, and drank no more than one glass of wine or a beer each night. He had scanned the cookery books so that he could cook when Natasha was not
at home. He seemed to know instinctively how to talk to Sarah, what she might like to eat, or watch on television. She occasionally smiled at things he said, had confided a few daily events to him when she came home from school.

  Natasha struggled to find the right tone - she sounded frequently, even to her own ears, as if she was addressing a client. 'Do you need anything? What kind of things do you generally have for a school lunch?' It sounded awkward, interrogative, and Sarah wore an expression of wariness during such exchanges, as if that was how she viewed them too.

  Sarah had not wanted her to help personalise the guest bedroom. She had smiled politely at Natasha when she showed her the new duvet cover she had bought, the toiletries she had placed in Sarah's bathroom. She had gently refused Natasha's offer to go out at the weekend and buy some posters or pictures to put up. Natasha had snuck into the room one afternoon when the girl was at school, trying to get a grip on who she was, what she might need, but her few belongings had offered little: some cheap, chain-store clothes, no different from those of any other teenage girl she saw around, a photograph of her with two old people, probably her grandparents. Some books on horses and her school uniform. Oddly, despite her neatness, her shoes were often filthy, covered with mud, and her jeans bore dirty marks and a pungent smell that Natasha couldn't identify. When she tried to bring this up one evening, Sarah had coloured and said she and a friend had been walking a dog in the park.

  'It's okay. She'll open up, given time,' Mac said, after Sarah had disappeared to her room. 'Think how strange it is for her. Her whole life has been turned upside down in the past couple of months.'

  Hers isn't the only one, Natasha wanted to say. But she took her files and went to work in the kitchen, feeling, as she increasingly did, like an intruder in her own home.

  '. . . so I won't be going to Kent this weekend.'

  Conor seemed unable to believe what he was hearing. 'You and Mac are fostering a kid?' he repeated.