The Horse Dancer

  'You'll have that, Sarah, if you were born in France,' Natasha observed.

  Sarah said nothing.

  'All this aside, Mademoiselle, I would like to say that what you did was magnificent. You and your horse. "A good horse makes short miles." You know who said this? Your George Eliot.' The old man leant over the desk. 'If you can fulfil the requirements of our system there is no reason why, within a few years, you and your horse should not return here. You have both ability and courage. To achieve what you have achieved at your age is . . .' he shook his head '. . . something I am still having difficulty in accepting.'

  He looked down at his hands. 'I would also like to tell you that your grandfather was a fine horseman. I was always very sorry that he left. I believe he should have been a maitre ecuyer. He would be very proud of what you have achieved.'

  'But you're not going to take me.'

  'Mademoiselle, I cannot possibly take a fourteen-year-old girl here. You must understand this.'

  Sarah looked away, biting her lip.

  Mac spoke: 'Sarah, you heard what Monsieur Le Grand Dieu said. He thinks you're very talented. Perhaps we can work out how best you two can keep training and maybe some day you'll be back here. Tash and I want to help you.'

  Sarah was staring at her stark white plimsolls, bought with a change of clothes by Mac that morning. There was a lengthy silence.

  Outside, Natasha could hear hooves on concrete, a distant whinny. Sarah, please say something.

  Sarah looked up at the Grand Dieu. 'Will you take my horse?' she said.

  'Pardon?' The old man blinked.

  'Will you take my horse? Baucher?'

  Natasha glanced at Mac, her own confusion reflected on his face. 'Sarah, you don't want to give away Boo.'

  'I'm not talking to you,' she said firmly. 'I'm talking to him. Do you want him?'

  The old man's eyes flickered towards Natasha's. 'I don't know if now is the time to--'

  'Do you think he's talented? Est-ce que vous pensez il est bon?'

  'Mais oui. Il a courage aussi, c'est bien.'

  'Then I give him to you. I don't want him any more.'

  The room fell silent. The man from the administrative section muttered something in the Grand Dieu's ear.

  Natasha leant towards them. 'Gentlemen, I think Sarah is very tired still - I don't think she--'

  'Stop telling me what I mean!' Her voice filled the little room. 'I'm telling you, I don't want him any more. Monsieur can have him. Will you take him?' Her voice was insistent, imperious.

  The Grand Dieu looked carefully at Sarah, as if assessing how serious she was. He frowned. 'This is what you genuinely want? To give him to Le Cadre Noir?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then, yes, I will gratefully accept, Mademoiselle. It is obvious he is a very gifted horse.'

  Something in Sarah seemed to relax. She had clenched her jaw so tightly that Natasha could see the outline of a muscle in her cheek. Sarah straightened her shoulders and turned to he. 'Right. Can we go now?'

  It was as if they were all paralysed. Mac's jaw hung open. Natasha had begun to feel ill. 'Sarah . . . this is a huge decision. You love that horse. Even I know that. Please take some time to think about it. You've been through an awful--'

  'No. I don't need any time. I just want someone, for once, to listen. Boo is staying here. Now, if we're going back, I want to go now. Now,' she said, when nobody moved. 'Or I'll go by myself.'

  It was all the prompt they needed. They rose as one, Mac shooting a bemused look at the old man as he followed Sarah into the sunshine.

  'Madame,' Le Grand Dieu said, when they were out of Sarah's earshot. He took her hand in both his own. 'If she wants to visit him, or even if she changes her mind, it's fine. She is young. A lot has happened . . .'

  'Thank you,' Natasha said. She would have said more, but something had lodged at the back of her throat.

  He glanced out of the window to where Sarah stood in the sunshine, her arms crossed, kicking at a stone. 'She is just like her grandfather,' he said.

  The rain began to full in unremitting sheets shortly after they left Saumur, the stormclouds colluding in a forbidding block across the horizon, then scudding towards them. They drove in silence, Mac's car forging through plumes of surface water, his attention on the road.

  Natasha almost envied him: the silence within the little car had become oppressive, the time to be alone with her thoughts unwelcome. Occasionally she would glance up at the mirror on her visor, seeing the reflection of the thin figure on the back seat gazing out at the passing scenery. Sarah's face was impassive, but the air of misery that hung about her was so overwhelming that it had permeated the whole car. Twice, Natasha had tried to tell Sarah that it was not too late, they could return for the horse, but the first time Sarah had ignored her, and the second she had put her hands over her ears. Natasha was so disturbed by this that her voice had faltered to nothing.

  Give her time, she kept telling herself. Put yourself in her shoes. She has lost her grandfather, her home. But she couldn't make sense of it: why would a girl who had fought so hard to keep her horse, the one thing she had left in all the world, her link with the past and perhaps her future, let it go so casually?

  She thought back to the last moments of their visit to Le Cadre Noir. The Grand Dieu had accompanied them to the stables. 'I would like you to see your horse before you leave, Sarah,' he said, 'to ensure you find his condition satisfactory.'

  Natasha had guessed his motive: he believed that seeing Boo would change her mind, would force her to contemplate the true ramifications of what she had decided.

  But she had walked almost reluctantly towards the stable and stood a few feet back, too far away to see properly over the high door. 'Please,' he urged. 'See how much better he looks this morning. See what our vet has done to his injuries.'

  Go on, Sarah, Natasha had urged silently. Wake up. See what you are about to do. She no longer minded the prospect of being responsible for Boo. At that point she would have done anything, anything, to alleviate the girl's suffering. But Sarah glanced only briefly at the vet's handiwork. Even when the horse had stuck his head over the door and made a proprietorial sound of greeting, one that had seemed to emanate from deep within his belly, she had not moved towards him. Her shoulders stiffened, her hands pushed a little deeper into her pockets, and then, with the slightest of nods towards the Grand Dieu, she had turned and walked towards the car, as the horse, ears pricked, looked after her.

  It was not only Sarah and her losses that preoccupied Natasha. As the rain beat down, obscuring the brake lights of the vehicles ahead and camouflaging the road, she had found herself watching Mac's hands as they drove closer to Calais. When they left this car in England it would all be over for her too. There would be a negotiated agreement over who occupied the house for its final weeks, some financial discussions, and then he would be gone to his new home, and she would be alone, picking up the pieces of what remained of her life. She had nothing. She had lost her treasured home, jeopardised her career, ruined a potential relationship. She had lost the man she loved. It was a terrible thing to discover you no longer wanted the life that stretched ahead of you.

  She closed her eyes. When she opened them, gazing out at the town below the motorway, she caught a glimpse of a girl riding a bicycle, stooped, moving through the empty street with a steady grace that belied the weather. She recalled suddenly the train journey, months before, when she had seen a girl astride a rearing horse in a London back-street. It hadn't been the unlikeliness that had cemented the image in her mind but the calm, the sense of girl and animal working in harmony. Even in a split second she had recognised that.

  And then a voice popped into her head: the strained, high-pitched tones of Constance Devlin, her witness: It will be surprisingly easy for Lucy to head down the wrong path. All you have to do is stop listening.

  'Mac, stop the car,' she said suddenly.

  'What?' said Mac.

  'Stop
the car.' She knew only that she could not allow this journey to continue. Mac pulled up and, as he looked on, confused, she found herself clambering out, opening the rear door. 'Come on,' she said to Sarah. 'You and I need to talk.'

  The girl shrank away from her as if she was mad.

  'No,' Natasha said, not even sure where the words were coming from. 'We're not going any further, Sarah, until you and I talk. Come on. With me.'

  She took her hand, then pulled her out of the car and through the rain until they reached the awning of a cafe opposite. She heard Mac's protest, and her own determination as she told him to leave them alone.

  'Right.' Natasha pulled out a chair and sat down. There were no other customers; she wasn't even sure the place was open. Now that she had Sarah here she had no clear idea of what she wanted to say. She just knew she couldn't go on in that car, surrounded by the waves of pain, of silent suffering, without doing something.

  Sarah flung her a look of deep distrust and sat down beside her.

  'Okay, Sarah. I'm a lawyer. I spend my life trying to anticipate the games people play, trying to out-think them. I'm a pretty smart judge of character. I can usually work out what makes people tick, but I'm struggling here.'

  Sarah stared at the table.

  'I cannot work out why a girl who would lie, steal and cheat to keep a horse, a girl who only had one aim in life, which revolved around that horse, would throw it all away.'

  Sarah said nothing. She turned away, her hands resting on her knees.

  'Is this some kind of temper tantrum? Are you thinking that if you throw it all up in the air someone will step in and change the rules for you? Because if it's that, I can tell you they're not going to change anything. Those men work according to principles set down three hundred years ago. They won't shift them for you.'

  'I never asked them to shift anything,' she snapped.

  'Okay, then. You don't think they're telling the truth when they say you'll be good enough one day? I don't know, perhaps you can't be bothered to try?'

  She didn't reply.

  'Is it about your grandpa? Are you afraid you can't look after the horse without his help? Because we can help you there, Sarah. I know you and I haven't got off to the best start but that - that was because we weren't honest with each other. I think we can improve that.'

  Natasha waited. She was aware that she had sounded as if she was talking to a client. But she couldn't help it. That's my voice, she said silently. That's the best I can do.

  But Sarah just sat there. 'Can we go home now?' she said.

  Natasha screwed her eyes shut. 'What? That's it? You're not going to say anything?'

  'I just want to go.'

  Natasha felt the swell of a familiar anger. Why do you have to make this so difficult, Sarah? she wanted to yell. Why are you so determined to hurt yourself? But instead she took deep breath, and said calmly, 'No. We can't do that.'

  'What?'

  'I know when someone's lying, and I know you're lying to me. So, no, I'm not going to take you anywhere until you tell me what's going on.'

  'You want the truth.'

  'Yes.'

  'You want to talk about the truth.' She laughed bitterly.

  'Yes.'

  'Because you always tell the truth.' Her tone was mocking now.

  'What do you mean by that?'

  'Uh . . . like you're still in love with Mac, but you don't tell him?' She nodded towards the car where Mac, just visible through the rain-washed window, was poring over a road map. 'It's so obvious it's pathetic. Even in the car you don't know what to do with yourself around him. I see you sneaking little looks at him. The way you accidentally brush into each other the whole time. But you won't tell him.'

  Natasha swallowed. 'It's complicated.'

  'Yes, it's complicated. Everything's complicated. Because you know like I do--' There was a break in her voice. 'You know like I do that sometimes telling the truth makes things worse, not better.'

  Natasha stared across the road at Mac. 'You're right,' she said finally. 'Okay? You're right. But whatever I feel about Mac, I can live with it. When I look at you, Sarah, I see someone who is throwing away a lifeline. I see someone who is creating more pain.' She leant forward. 'Why, Sarah? Why would you do this to yourself?'

  'Because I had to.'

  'No, you didn't. That man thought you might be good enough in a few years if you--'

  'In a few years.'

  'Yes, in a few years. I know it seems like a long time when you're young, but that time will fly.'

  'Why can't you just leave it? Why can't you trust me to make the right decision?'

  'Because it isn't the right decision. You're destroying your future.'

  'You don't understand.'

  'I understand that you don't have to cut everyone out of your life just because you're hurting.'

  'You don't understand.'

  'Oh, believe me, I do.'

  'I had to let him go.'

  'No, I'm telling you you didn't. Christ! What was the thing your grandfather wanted more than anything for you? What would he say if he knew what you'd done?'

  Sarah's face whipped round. Her expression was ferocious. She was shouting now: 'He'd understand!'

  'I'm not sure he--'

  'I had to let him go. It was the only way I could protect him!'

  There was a sudden silence. Natasha sat very still. 'Protect him?'

  The girl swallowed. It was then that Natasha saw it: a glistening at the corner of Sarah's eyes, a tremor in her whitened knuckles. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. 'Sarah, what happened?'

  Suddenly, abruptly, she began to cry, a terrible, grief-stricken sound. She cried as Natasha had cried thirty-six hours earlier, gulping sobs of utter loss and desolation. Natasha hesitated for just a moment, then pulled the girl to her, holding her tightly, murmuring words of comfort. 'It's okay, Sarah,' she said. 'It's okay.' But as the sobs slowly subsided into hiccups and Sarah began to whisper a halting tale of loneliness, of secrets, debt, fear and a dark path so nearly taken, Natasha's own eyes filled with tears.

  Through the blur of the windscreen, Mac watched Natasha holding Sarah so tightly that there was a kind of fierceness in it. She was talking now, nodding, and whatever she was saying, the girl was in agreement. He didn't know what to do; it had seemed clear that Natasha had some plan in mind. He didn't want to interrupt if she was managing to elicit some explanation for the past three days.

  So he sat in the car, watching, waiting, hoping she had some way of making this thing better. Because he was pretty sure he didn't.

  A woman arrived at the table, the owner probably. Natasha was ordering something, and as he watched, she turned to him. Their eyes locked, hers suddenly bright, and then she was beckoning him to join them.

  He climbed out of the car, locked it behind him, and went to where they were sitting under the awning. They were both smiling, shy smiles, as if they were embarrassed to be caught so close to each other. His wife, his almost ex-wife, he thought, with an ache, looked beautiful. Triumphant, almost.

  'Mac,' she said, 'there's been a change of plan.'

  He glanced at Sarah, who had begun to pick at the basket of bread in front of her. 'Would this change of plan involve a horse?' he said, scraping back a chair.

  'It certainly would.'

  Mac sat down. Behind them, the skies were clearing. 'Thank God for that.'

  All the way back to England, Natasha sat with Sarah in the rear of the car, their voices a low murmur, occasionally lifting to include Mac in the conversation. They would not return to Saumur today; Sarah knew a man, she told them, the one man she would trust to bring Boo back for her. They had rung Le Cadre Noir who, to Sarah's visible relief, seemed to have been expecting their call. The horse was fine. He would be safe there until someone came to collect him. No, Natasha said, she didn't think Sarah would return in person - 'I'm afraid we have a funeral to arrange,' she said softly.

  Occasionally Mac would glanc
e back at the two heads, organising, talking, seemingly now in perfect communion. Sarah would stay with Natasha. They were considering all options: boarding-schools - Natasha rang her sister who said she had heard there was one that took horses - or livery yards far from that part of London. There would be no more problems with Sal, Natasha told her. Without Sarah's signature on the terms and conditions, his claim on the horse was worthless, and she would send a legal letter telling him as much and warning him to keep away. And Boo would be safe. They would find a different kind of life for him. Somewhere he could run in green fields.

  Natasha, Mac thought, was doing what she did best: organising. Occasionally, when Henri Lachapelle was mentioned, Sarah's face crumpled a little and Natasha's hand reached out to squeeze hers, or just to pat a shoulder. Little acts of kindness to tell her, again and again, that she was not alone.

  Mac saw all this in the rear-view mirror, his gratitude tempered by the odd sensation of exclusion. He knew Natasha was not deliberately leaving him out, that whatever had occurred between the two of them he would keep Sarah in his life too. Perhaps this was Natasha's gentle way of telling him that their night together had been a mistake, that away from the intense atmosphere of the search she was seeking to return to a more stable existence with Conor. What had this been, after all? Some kind of swansong? Closure? He dared not ask. He told himself that sometimes actions spoke louder than words, and by that account what she was saying was pretty clear.

  When they reached Calais, Sarah finally telephoned the man she had said could transport her horse back to England. She took Natasha's phone and walked away across the tarmac for some time, as if she needed this conversation to be private. Mac was struck by how relaxed she seemed about the prospect of leaving Boo in another country, until he thought about it: there was no place - other than with her - that she would rather have him.

  'You're very quiet,' Natasha remarked, as Sarah talked some distance away, walking between the cars queuing for the ferry, her left hand pressed to her ear.