Authors: Jill Hucklesby
Samphire Song (12 page)
‘My sister is sick but she is going to get better. Bye,’ she calls, giving us a wave from the door, which closes softly behind her.
‘She was cute,’ says Mum, relaxing a little.
I don’t reply. My thoughts are racing. Images of Ed flash through my mind and my brain is still pounding, but it’s hooves I can hear. And suddenly a face flashes across my consciousness, with indistinct features and colourless hair. A face that had a name.
‘Who is Ed’s kidney coming from?’ I blurt out. Mum pauses before she answers.
‘A teenage girl. No details.’ We’re both quiet for a few minutes, thinking about this sad kid who is weirdly, strangely, becoming integrated into our family; who’s helping my brother have a new life; who gave her consent to organ donation, never believing the day would ever come. I’m glad we
don’t know her name, or what she looked like.
‘Everything’s going well,’ says Lizzie, poking her head round the door. ‘Ed should be back in recovery in about fifteen minutes. I’ll keep you posted.’ She beams and disappears. There is a girly
woof, woof
nearby, so we know that Geoffrey is listening and wants us to know he approves.
I think again about Ed, who is only little but so brave. He doesn’t moan about any of it – the transfusions, the hours sitting at the clinic, the lessons he has to make up, the sport he hasn’t been able to do.
I’ll follow his example. He and Mum need me to be strong and there for them in every way. The idea that’s been gnawing at the back of my mind is emerging from the shadows. I’m beginning to see it clearly now – and I can’t hide from it. There’s something I must do . . .
There will have to be some changes
.
Lizzie is back and her big smile says it all. ‘They’re very pleased with him,’ she confirms. ‘Once Ed is moved to intensive care you can go and be with him.’
Mum gives me a big hug. She’s shaking. It must be a mixture of relief and worry. Ed is out of danger for now, although it will be a tough few weeks while he gets used to the anti-rejection drugs and his new organ.
‘I’m so glad you were here today,’ she says in my ear. ‘I’m really proud of how you’re handling this.’
‘I missed double French,’ I reply with a shrug and as much of a grin as I can muster. It’s lucky Mum can’t see into my brain, where a beautiful grey horse is now running for his life, no place of safety in sight.
Grooming Samphire has taken twice as long as usual. Every sweep of the brush over his coat has been heavy and slow, so different from my usual routine. He keeps nickering and nibbling my sleeve, sensing that something is wrong.
I lean against him and let my head rest on his neck. He smells musty after a night in the stable, but his warmth is a comfort. My hand is stroking his flank, which quivers. He knows that, very soon, I will saddle him up for a ride and his body is taut with anticipation.
‘I’m so sorry, Sam,’ I whisper. He whinnies a reply and rubs his face against mine. ‘But I promise you, when everything is OK again, I’ll find you and bring you home.’
I told Mum that I was going to sell Samphire on
the night she brought Ed home from hospital. I waited until he was asleep, because I don’t want him to know. I said my mind was made up, because it would mean Mum can have her money back and won’t have to find an extra lump sum each month to subsidise Samphire’s livery. We have to focus on getting Ed well again and that has to be more important than anything else.
Mum didn’t say anything. She listened, held me tight and cried silent tears. After some time, she said just two words: ‘Thank you.’
It was so hard telling Rachel and Sue. I knew they would try to come up with some options to help me keep Samphire. Sue offered to keep him as a hacking horse until I was able to reclaim him. Rachel’s lovely family said they would pay for his keep at the stables temporarily.
The trouble is, we need the lump sum from his sale to keep us going until Mum can work again. And she would never accept financial help from Rachel’s parents or Sue. Even if Sam could stay at the stables,
with his sensitive nature, he wouldn’t like the change and he’d find it hard to adapt to being a hack with lots of new handlers. He might even become unrideable again, or ill. It would be the hardest thing in the world to see his spirit broken. At least, if he goes to a good home, he’ll have a better life than that.
A decision is one thing. Making it happen is totally different. I don’t think I’ve eaten a whole meal since that night – my stomach is permanently knotted up. I’ve had to tell Ed I’ve got a bug. He’s really worried about me, which is mad. He’s the one who needs all our TLC.
‘You’re like a stick, Stick,’ he said to me this morning.
‘What’s a stick stick?’ I replied.
‘It’s like a Twiglet, only twice as thin.’
‘Don’t worry, as soon as I’m better I’m going to eat a whole bag of doughnuts,’ I promised.
‘Maybe you’ve got a tarantula in your belly, which is eating your food,’ he suggested, helpfully. Ever since
he watched
Spider Attack
on DVD, he’s had them on the brain.
‘That must be it. Thanks for the diagnosis, Teddy.’
He looked at me through narrowed eyes; I think he’s getting suspicious. He’s already asked Mum why she’s not going to London. She told him that her work is on hold while he’s recovering, but he’s clever – it won’t take him long to put two and two together once I’m doing fewer hours at the stable.
Samphire is pawing at his straw. I’ve been daydreaming and not in a good way. Mum said I should try to live for the moment and enjoy every precious minute I have with him.
I’m doing my best, but I wish with all my heart I could hold back time.
‘Come on, boy, let’s go,’ I say to Samphire, urging him into a fast canter. The ground beneath his feet is squishy with water after days of rain. Today, sun is dancing around the edges of the clouds and the puddles on the woodland tracks are silver mirrors to the sky.
It’s Christmas Eve. Ed is making progress but he’s needed dialysis again while he adjusts to his new kidney. That’s not unusual after a transplant, his surgeon assured us. But I think Ed’s disappointed. He’s been very quiet, even when he had a couple of friends round for his birthday tea last week. I know Mum’s worried, but she’s busying herself with preparations for the Christmas lunch tomorrow. We’re keeping it low key as my secret is weighing heavily on us both.
Sam is skittish and bolshy, sensing my distracted mood. He’s flinching at the sight of bushes and almost bolts when confronted by a rabbit darting from behind the stump of a dead tree.
‘Shh, boy, careful now.’ I try to ease his nervousness with soothing strokes on his neck. He won’t be calmed, though. This ride he knows so well is suddenly like foreign territory to him, every step a potential trap. I think he knows that everything is about to change. When I saddled him this morning, I couldn’t look him in the eye. I feel like a betrayer.
All around us, a blanket of orange-brown ferns lies heavily across the soggy undergrowth. The hidden beginnings of life beneath are waiting for warmer days to begin their ascent. I wish it would be winter forever, though. Once spring begins, Samphire will be gone, taking my hopes for happiness with him.
The advert that we’re going to place in January is already drafted on my desk at home:
Beautiful, grey part-Arab stallion, 3 years old, 15 hands.
Spirited, suitable for experienced rider. Event potential, willing jumper. Family illness forces sale. £2000
.
In a few days, I will be entering these words, my name and number into a box on my computer screen and with a click of the mouse, Samphire’s details will be added to the ‘For Sale’ section in the next edition of
Riding
magazine. He will never know that he’s becoming more valuable with every new skill he learns; that to me, he is priceless.
Each morning, when I wake up, I think the whole situation is just a bad dream. I blink and rub my eyes. The first thing I focus on is the photo of Samphire by my bed. In seconds, my memory starts to function, sending an aching sadness from my stomach to my throat.
Then I see Ed, who on a good day will be sliding down the banisters, cleaning his beloved Spitfire, laughing like a loony over some stupid cartoon, his mad fringe twizzled into blond dreadlocks with pencils sticking out of them, and I feel guilty and ashamed.
‘Sacrifice is about giving something up for a higher good,’ our head teacher said in the last assembly of term. She hoped we would sponsor a cow or donate money for school books in the Third World instead of asking for presents. The boys made mooing noises and the Glossies turned up their noses at the idea of fewer parcels of beauty products under the tree.
My eyes had stung, especially when she ended by saying, ‘It’s not just about sharing your last chocolate, but the good intent in your heart.’ I wanted to yell that sacrifice is really about the big things in life, not just cows or books or sweets or gifts wrapped up with ribbons. And that sometimes, it’s a terrible choice.
‘But it doesn’t have to be forever,’ I say out loud, curling lower, willing Samphire to go faster. ‘I will come and find you, Sam, wherever you are, however long it takes.’
‘Hey, Jodie,’ says Rachel, as she leads Rambo towards his stable. He’s just back from an afternoon ride and steam is rising from his back. He has orange chunks in the corner of his mouth, the remains of a carrot given by his appreciative young rider.
‘Hey,’ I say, mustering a smile and then busying myself with the curry comb on Sam’s muddy legs to avoid further conversation. Rachel knows how hard I’m finding the situation. I wonder if she’s seen the ad in
Riding
. She’s so kind, but there’s nothing she can say to cheer me up.
Samphire is nuzzling my boot, then my pocket, where the pony nuts live. When I don’t respond, he leans against me and his left foot stomps on my toes.
‘Bad horse,’ I say, pushing him off. ‘You don’t
get treats until I’ve finished brushing you. You know the rules.’
‘So handsome,’ says Rachel, appearing by my side. She strokes Sam’s nose gently. He tosses his mane as if in agreement. ‘As soon as the field drains, we could try him on some jumps,’ she suggests. ‘What do you think?’
‘No point,’ I shrug. My throat feels tight and dry.
‘Any calls yet?’ she asks. She must have seen the ad. I shake my head.
‘It’s so tough. I think you’re being really brave,’ sighs Rachel, sadly, her hand on Samphire’s neck. She wouldn’t say that if she’d seen me punching my pillow at night.
‘I’ll get him back,’ I state.
‘Good,’ says Rachel, giving Sam a kiss on his nose. ‘We don’t want to let you go for long, gorgeous,’ she whispers in his ear, before moving away with a thoughtful, backward glance.
There’s no going back now, Sam
. The part of my brain
that kept telling me I could always change my mind has just realised that it’s no use pretending. These will be our last days together, unless a miracle comes or Mum wins the Lotto.
I can’t believe that I was lucky enough to find you and now I’m losing you
. The unfairness of it all is twisting and gnawing at my guts. The ache is turning to constant pain.
