The Horse Dancer

  Natasha thrust her hands deep into her pockets, watching in silence. The horse was trotting so slowly now that he appeared to be floating, his knees lifting, a gentle bounce to his gait. She could see the animal's intense concentration, mirroring the girl's. His flanks were quivering; his head dipped as he lifted and lowered his hooves in time to some unheard beat. And then he was off again, cantering in a small circle around the girl as she murmured again.

  'It's like ballet for horses,' Mac said, beside her. He had his camera to his face, and was shooting off a reel of film. 'I've seen her do this up-and-down thing before. Can't remember the name of it.'

  'Piaffe,' Mrs Carter said. She was standing beside the gate, watching intently. She had become rather quiet.

  'She's good, isn't she?' he said, lowering his camera.

  'It's a talented horse,' Mrs Carter conceded.

  'She wants to do . . . dressage with him. Something like that. Kind of ballet movements. Air something.'

  'Airs above the ground?'

  'I think that's what she said.'

  Mrs Carter shook her head. 'I don't think you can have got that right. She wouldn't be doing airs above the ground. Not at her age. That's the preserve of the European academies.'

  Mac thought for a moment. 'She definitely said dressage.'

  'Well, she needs to work on her basic tests to start, prelim, novice, elementary . . . If she's good she can work up to medium in time, with proper instruction, but she won't get anywhere if she's not competing him.'

  She sounded so certain that Natasha felt a pang of sympathy for Sarah. She wasn't sure what she was seeing, but the girl was so lost in concentration, so focused on the horse's movements. There was no sign here of the resentful teenager, just a kind of calm competence, love of what she was doing, a silent, willing reciprocation from the animal alongside her. This is it, she thought. Your great passion.

  'You haven't seen her ride yet,' Mac was saying, as if in Sarah's defence. 'She's fantastic.'

  'Anyone can look good on a halfway decent horse.'

  'But she just sits there. Even when he does this rearing thing . . .' He mimicked the action of a horse coming on to its hind legs.

  Mrs Carter's eyes widened. 'No horse should be encouraged to rear,' she said firmly. 'If it falls over backwards it could injure or even kill itself. And its rider.'

  Mac made as if to speak, then let out a long sigh and closed his mouth.

  They had finished. Sarah turned now, and began to walk Boo towards the gate. His head was low, and he appeared relaxed. He nudged her back with his nose as she approached them. 'He likes it in here,' she said, apparently forgetting herself for a moment. 'His whole action changed. He thinks it's springy.' She was grinning. 'He's never been in an arena before.'

  'No? But where do you work him at home?' Mrs Carter opened the gate to allow her out. Natasha took several nervous steps back.

  'In the park, mainly. There isn't really anywhere else.'

  'A park?'

  'I've marked off an area next to the playground.'

  'You can't work in a park. In the summer the ground's too hard, and in the winter you'll damage his tendons if it gets muddy. You'll wreck his legs if you're not careful.' Mrs Carter's voice held a hint of scolding, and Natasha saw Sarah bristle.

  'I'm not stupid,' she retorted. 'I only work him when the ground's good.'

  The brief exultant open smile was gone. This is how it goes, with children, Natasha thought. One hard word at the wrong time, and they feel squashed. She guessed that Sarah would not smile again at Mrs Carter.

  'Well, put him in the stable now. The one behind the others. As we discussed.'

  Sarah stopped. 'But he'll get lonely up there by himself. He's used to being with other horses.'

  'He'll hear them,' Mrs Carter said firmly. 'He's too big for that stable. And, besides, I have to get Brian to fix the holes he kicked in the wall.'

  'Do as Mrs Carter says,' Mac urged. 'C'mon. He seems happy now.' The look Sarah gave him was of resentful compliance. Natasha couldn't work out why it made her feel so odd, until she realised what else she had seen in Sarah's face. Trust. The girl walked the horse into the new stable.

  'Right. I need you to fill in some forms,' Mrs Carter said, steering them towards the office. 'I'd like a cheque for the deposit, too, and the repairs, if you wouldn't mind.' She was picking up speed, her dog trotting behind her. She placed a hand on Mac's arm - all women did that, given the chance. 'You know, he's not a bad horse. The best thing you could do for him, Mr Macauley,' she said quietly, 'is find him a new home. Somewhere he can fulfil his potential.'

  There was a brief silence.

  'I think,' Mac said, 'I'd rather make sure that happened to his owner.'

  When they got back to the cottage Sarah disappeared to her room. Natasha spent some time searching for clean towels and tidying the linen cupboard. It was only when she went back downstairs that she thought to check her phone, which had been on the table.

  There was a missed call from Conor, and a text message from the estate agent:

  Mr and Mrs Freeman hv offered on yr hs. Pls call ASAP

  Mac was outside, collecting logs from the woodpile. She watched him bending and stooping easily as he threw the dry logs to one side, then stepped into the kitchen to make the call. It was, the agent advised, a 'sensible' offer, only a couple of thousand below their asking price. The buyers were chain free and in a position to move quickly. 'I'd recommend your acceptance, given the state of the market,' he said.

  'I'll talk to my-- I'll get back to you. Thank you,' she said, and rang off.

  'I'm surprised you don't have muscles like Schwarzenegger, lugging these about.' Mac staggered through the doorway, somehow too large for the little house, bearing a full log basket. He dropped it with a crash beside the fireplace, sending showers of wood splinters and dust across the floor.

  'That's because I usually bring in two or three logs at a time, not the whole basket.'

  He dusted off his hands on his jeans. 'Shall I build it up, then? Nice to get a fire blazing. You can feel the temperature really dropping out here.' He shook himself theatrically, bits of bark spraying from his jacket. The cold had turned the tips of his ears pink.

  She wondered at how relaxed he was, building a fire in what must surely feel like another man's house. He arranged the logs on top of the kindling, then crouched, lighting the newspaper underneath, blowing until he was sure that the first licking flames had taken hold.

  'We've had an offer on the house,' she said, and held out her phone. 'Two thousand less than we were asking but they're chain free. The agents think we should go ahead.'

  He held her eye a fraction longer, then turned back to the fire. 'Sounds good to me,' he said, placing another log in the grate. 'If you're happy.'

  In a film, she thought afterwards, that would have been the point at which she said something. The point at which the whole thing really did become irretrievable, when feelings, actions, took on a momentum of their own. But no matter how hard she thought, she couldn't work out what she wanted to say.

  'We'll have to tell Sarah,' she said, 'in case . . . in case things move quickly and we have to find her somewhere else to stay.'

  'Let's cross that bridge when we come to it.' He didn't look up from the fire.

  'I'll go and ring them, then,' she said, and walked back to the kitchen, her socked feet cold on the hard floor.

  Mac had asked if he could cook. He pulled from the boot of his car a box of ingredients, covered them with a tea-towel, and announced that they were not to look until it was ready. Natasha, a little disarmed by her ex-husband's acquisition of culinary skills, found she felt less thrilled by the prospect of this uncharacteristic treat than unbalanced again. Why did he have to turn into Mr Perfect almost as soon as they had split up? He looked better, behaved better, had committed to a grown-up job. He had lost none of his charm. Her life, in comparison, had stalled. It had been as much as she could manage just to k
eep going. She was oddly reassured when the food arrived on the table.

  'It's . . . ah . . . Mexican,' he said, the faintest hint of apology in his voice. Natasha and Sarah regarded the brown gravelly mound in the blue bowl, the tacos still in their packet. Strips of an unrecognisable substance lay in a slimy film of oil, interlaid with something red. Their eyes met briefly across the table and they broke into spontaneous giggles.

  'Okay . . . so I still haven't quite mastered the timing,' Mac said. 'Sorry. The beef might be a bit overdone.'

  'What's that?' Sarah prodded at the sludgy mound. It looked, Natasha thought, trying to keep a straight face, like something her horse might have left behind.

  'That's refried beans,' Mac said. 'Haven't you had refried beans before?'

  She shook her head, mildly suspicious, as if this might be some practical joke.

  'It tastes better than it looks. Honest.'

  He waited, watching them.

  'Oh, okay,' he said. 'Let's get a takeaway.'

  'There are no takeaways, Mac,' Natasha said. 'It's the country. Look,' she broke open the packet of tacos, 'if we smother it all in sour cream and cheese it'll taste fine. That's all Mexican food's about anyway, right?'

  After supper Sarah disappeared for a bath, then emerged to say that, if it was okay by them, she'd go to bed. She clutched a battered paperback under her arm.

  'It's only nine thirty!' Mac exclaimed. He and Natasha had moved to the little front room where his feet rested on the log basket. 'What kind of teenager are you?'

  'A tired one, I should imagine,' Natasha said. 'You've had quite a day.'

  'What's the book?'

  Sarah pulled it out from under her arm. It was covered in red paper, held together with sticky tape. 'It's my granddad's,' she said, and then, when they looked expectant, 'It's Xenophon.'

  'You read classics?' Natasha couldn't hide her surprise.

  'It's about horsemanship. Papa used to read it so I thought it might help . . .'

  'The Greeks can teach you about riding?'

  She handed it to Mac, who examined the cover. 'Nothing very much changes,' she said. 'You know the white horses of Vienna?'

  Even Natasha knew of the gleaming white stallions. She had assumed they were just a decorative tourist attraction, like Beefeaters.

  'Their riders still work from the Treatise of La Gueriniere and that was written in 1735. Capriole, croupade, curvets . . . The airs, the movements, that is, haven't changed since they were performed in front of the Sun King.'

  'A lot of the principles of law date back that far,' said Natasha. 'I'm impressed that you're interested in classical texts. Have you read The Iliad? I've got a copy upstairs. You might enjoy--'

  But Sarah was already shaking her head. 'It's just . . . it's just about teaching Boo. While Papa isn't here.'

  'Tell me something, Sarah.' Mac reached for a taco and put it into his mouth. 'What's it all about?'

  'What?'

  'This fine-tuning stuff. All this making sure your feet are in exactly the right place. That your horse moves his legs exactly this way or that. That his head is exactly here. I mean, I can see the point of jumping things or racing. But I watched you in the park, going over and over the same things, again and again. What's the point of that?'

  She was startled, Natasha thought, as if the question had been heretical.

  'What's the point of it?' Sarah said.

  'Of doing those little movements so obsessively. I can see it looks lovely, but I don't get what you're pursuing. Half the time I can't even see what you're aiming for.'

  She had washed her hair and, damp, it still held the tiny, regular furrows of the comb's teeth. She looked at him steadily. 'Why do you keep taking pictures?'

  He grinned, enjoying this. 'Because there's always a better one to take.'

  She shrugged. 'And I could always do it better. We could always do it better. It's about trying to achieve the perfect communication. And a little movement of your finger on a rein or a tiny adjustment of weight might do that. It's different every time because he might be in a mood or I might be tired, or the ground might be softer. It's not just technical - it's about two minds, two hearts . . . trying to find a balance. It's about what passes between you.'

  Mac raised an eyebrow at Natasha. 'I think we get that,' he said.

  'But when Boo gets it,' Sarah continued, 'when we get it right together, there's just no feeling like it.' Her eyes drifted sideways, her hands closing unconsciously on imaginary reins in front of her. 'A horse can do beautiful things, incredible things, if you can work out how to ask him properly. It's about trying to unlock that, unlocking his ability . . . and then getting him to do it. And, more than that, getting him to do it because he wants to. Because doing it makes him the best he can be.'

  There was a short silence. She was a little awkward now, as if she had revealed too much.

  'Anyway,' she said, 'he'd rather be at home.'

  'Well, you'll have him back soon,' Mac said cheerfully, 'after his little holiday. And we'll be just a bad memory. Something for you to tell your friends about.'

  'I don't think,' Sarah continued, as if she hadn't heard, 'he'll be very happy when I'm not here in the week.'

  Natasha felt impatience swelling within, sharpening her tone. 'But we've been through this. Even if he's in London you wouldn't be able to see him. At least here you can be sure someone's taking care of him. Come on, Sarah . . .' She hadn't meant to sound irritated, but she was exhausted.

  Sarah made as if to leave the room, but turned back. 'Are you selling your house?' she said, from the doorway. 'I heard you talking when I was in the bath,' she added.

  It was too small a house for secrets. Natasha looked at Mac, who blew out a long breath. 'Yes,' he said. 'Yes, we are.'

  'Where are you moving?'

  He threw the box of matches towards the ceiling and caught it. 'Well, I'm probably moving to somewhere in Islington, and I'm not sure where Natasha's going, but you needn't worry. It isn't going to happen for a while, long after you're back with your grandfather.'

  She dawdled in the doorway. 'You're not together any more, are you?' It was an observation more than a question.

  'Nope,' said Mac. 'We're just staying together for the sake of the children. That's you, by the way.' He hurled the book at Sarah and she caught it. 'Look, don't worry about us,' he said, catching her discomfort. 'We're good friends, and we're happy to stay together until everything's sorted out. Aren't we, Tash?'

  'Yes.' It came out as a croak. Sarah was watching her and she felt that the girl could see through her, sense her discomfort.

  'I'll sort out my own breakfast,' Sarah said, tucking the book under her arm. 'I'd like to go down the lane as early as I can, if that's okay.' And then she was gone, creaking up the narrow stairway to bed.

  The first night Mac and Natasha had spent in their London house they had slept on a mattress on a dusty floor. Somewhere in the move from her flat the bolts that fitted the two parts of their divan bed together had disappeared and, exhausted after a day's unpacking, they had laid the mattress in front of the heater in the living room and covered themselves with a duvet. She remembered it now, lying in his arms beneath the bare windows that looked out on to the darkened street, a distant plane crossing the night sky. They had been surrounded by teetering cardboard boxes that would stay unsorted for months, someone else's wallpaper, the strange feeling of sleeping in a house that they owned but was not yet theirs. The two of them, camping in that space, had somehow added to the sense of otherness, of unreality. She had lain there, her heart beating too fast, not even picturing where they would be, what this house would become, but relishing one small, perfect moment, a convergence of happiness and possibility that she suspected she knew even then could not last.

  Feeling his arm resting across her body, the vast space of the old house around them, she had been filled with the sense that they could do anything. As if this was simply the starting point for something as
endless as that sky. And she had turned to gaze at him, this beautiful, besotted man, running her fingers lightly over his sleeping face, dropping kisses on his skin until he woke slowly and, with a sleepy murmur of surprise and pleasure, pulled her against him.

  Natasha poured herself a large glass of wine. She stared at the television, unsure what she was watching. She felt strangely exposed and realised, with horror, that her eyes were pricking with tears. She turned a little away from Mac, blinking furiously, and took a long swig from her glass.

  'Hey,' said Mac, softly.

  She couldn't turn round. She'd never been able to weep discreetly. By now her nose would be glowing like a beacon. She heard him get up and walk across the little room to close the door. Then sat down and turned off the television. She cursed him silently.

  'You okay?'

  'Fine,' she said briskly.

  'You don't look it.'

  'Well, I am.' She lifted her glass again.

  'Has she upset you?'

  She pushed herself upright. 'No . . .' This wasn't going to be enough. 'I guess I find the whole horse thing a little exhausting. Actually, just having a teenager around is pretty exhausting.'

  He nodded.

  'It's not been . . . straightforward, has it?'

  He grinned at her.

  Don't be nice, she thought. Don't do this. She bit her lip.

  'Is it . . . the house?'

  She forced her face into an expression of blank nonchalance. 'Oh . . . I suppose it was always going to be a little strange.'

  'I don't feel too great either,' he said. 'I love that house.'

  They sat in silence, staring into the fire. Outside, the cottage was enveloped by the black night of deep country, muffling sound and light.

  'All that work, though,' she said. 'All those years of planning and decorating and imagining. It's just . . . hard, knowing it's all going to disappear. I can't help thinking about what it was like when we first got there, when it was a wreck but with all that potential.'

  'I've still got the pictures,' he admitted. 'A print of you knocking through that back wall, all covered in dust, with your sledgehammer . . .'