The Horse Dancer (9 page)

‘Won’t that make him mad?’ she said.

Ralph spat on the floor. ‘Nah. The Pikeys know all Sal’s lot are mob-handed. And they’re tooled up, just in case. But I reckon we’ll stay on Vicente’s truck – case we need to get away in a hurry.’ He laughed. He always relished the prospect of trouble.

The men were climbing back into the trucks and Sarah shivered, unsure whether from nerves or excitement. Above them, supported by giant, rough-cast concrete pillars, traffic thundered on the flyover, the beginning of the rush-hour evident in the increasing density of vehicles.

Someone whistled, a dog barked, then Ralph was pulling her to the slip-road. Three trucks reversed, headed back the way they had come, in a pre-agreed formation. They disappeared, ready to join the traffic on the flyover, and then it was just the men standing on the slip-road, and the horses, steam blowing through their nostrils, their hooves picking daintily at the road surface, held firmly at the head by their handlers. Behind the grey mare, Sal crouched in his bright red sulky, legs braced, reins held loosely in one hand, glancing behind him repeatedly, waiting for the signal. His presence was magnetic. Sarah found herself watching him, his wide, confident grin, his eyes, which seemed to know everything. Ralph, beside her, lit another cigarette, muttering under his breath: ‘Oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, yes . . .’

All eyes were on the traffic on the flyover now. The men muttered to each other. Still the traffic came.

‘I bet Donny’s got pulled over. He’s got no bloody car tax.’ Someone laughed, breaking the tension.

And then there was a shout, and above them, just visible, one of the travellers’ pick-ups, its hazard lights flashing through the safety barrier. ‘Go!’ someone shouted. ‘Go!’ And, in one fluid movement, the two horses were on the slip-road, sulky wheels almost touching, their two drivers hunched forward, whips held high as they urged them along the emptied stretch of road.

‘Go, Sal!’ Ralph was yelling, his voice high with excitement. ‘Go!’ And Sarah felt him grab her sleeve, pulling her towards Vicente’s pick-up, which was already revving, preparing to follow the racing horses already almost out of sight.

He shoved her aboard, and then she heard the horns of the stationary vehicles, the screech of rubber, her hands wrapped around the bars on the back windscreen, the wind in her ears.

‘He’s doing it!’ Ralph was yelling! ‘He’s ahead!’ And she saw the grey mare, her unnatural trot too fast, an unearthly pace. She could see the grimace of the traveller, his whip hand raised as he pushed his own horse faster, his expletive as it broke, briefly, into a canter, incurring a roar of protest from the Maltese.

‘Go on, Sal!
Muller
him!’

Her heart was in her mouth, her eyes on the brave little mare whose every sinew strained with the effort of maintaining such a speed at the trot, her little hooves barely touching the road surface.
Go on
, she willed her, afraid that she would lose and be handed over to the travellers, lost for ever in some ragwort-strewn wasteland with the black-and-white cobs and broken supermarket trolleys. She felt a silent communion with the little horse, fighting for her own survival amid the shouting, the sweat and the noise.
Go on.

And then, with a shout of victory, it was over, the horses off the flyover as swiftly as they had claimed it, the trucks peeling away behind them, the cars surging forward in bad-tempered confusion. And Vicente’s truck was swerving left off the slip-road, Sarah’s knees and arms bumping painfully against the truck’s sides as they hit a pothole, her schoolbag open and her books, pages flapping, flying. She lifted her head and saw Sal, leaping from the sulky even as the little horse kept going, his hand high in triumph, a colleague greeting him with a high-five. She and Ralph were laughing, clutching each other, infected by the madness and by Sal’s victory.

The grey mare would be safe for a few weeks more. Safe at Cowboy John’s.

‘I had a nicker on that!’ Ralph was yelling, face flushed, grabbing at her school blazer. ‘Come on! Sal said if he won he’d buy us all breakfast when we get back to the yard.’

Papa was there when she returned after school. He was in Boo’s stable, bending and dipping as he brought a mirrored shine to the horse’s quarters. Sarah could hear his fierce breathing even before she saw him, and saw the T of sweat along his carefully pressed shirt before he turned; Papa did nothing if he couldn’t do it properly. It was all those years of military training.

As she entered the arches, Cowboy John was leaning against his stable door, drinking a mug of varnish-coloured tea. He never seemed to put much effort into anything but somehow the yard always got done. ‘Circus Girl’s here,’ he observed, and Ralph, leaning on the rump of a slab-headed black-and-white cob, winked at her.

‘Bus was late,’ she said, resting her bag on a bale of hay.

‘She forgot her tutu,’ said Cowboy John.

‘You got your maths test back yet?’ Papa asked.

‘Twelve out of twenty.’ Sarah waved the book, hoping he wouldn’t see the tyremarks and dirt on the cover. She caught Ralph’s eye; he suffered a sudden fit of coughing.

‘Did I tell you Maltese Sal bought and sold that black horse today, the one he got from the Italians over at Northolt?’

Her grandfather rested his hand on Boo’s chest, and the horse moved backwards obediently. ‘The pacer?’ he asked. Maltese Sal was forever buying and selling trotting horses.

Cowboy John nodded. ‘Man came to pick it up this afternoon.’

‘He’ll be lucky to get that horse out of a walk,’ said Ralph. ‘Runs like a bow-legged cowboy in stilettos.’

‘Way he sold it, it was Bucephalus.’ Cowboy John mimed the shaking of his head. ‘Horse came out of its stable like it was ready for the Kentucky Derby.’

‘But how—’ Sarah began.

‘He stuck a marble in its ear,’ interrupted Ralph.

Cowboy John hit the boy with his hat. ‘You been listening in on me?’

‘You’ve told everyone who came past this morning,’ Ralph protested.

‘That horse came out shaking his head something wild. Money he got for it, he bought two more. They’re coming Saturday. Both for racing.’

Sarah knew Papa disapproved of the old dealers’ tricks. He was pretending not to listen.

Ralph removed a piece of gum from his mouth and stuck it on his stable door. ‘Do you remember when you sold that old palomino to the Italian bloke over on the marshes and stuck a piece of ginger in its arse to liven it up?’

Cowboy John’s hat shot out again. ‘I didn’t know how it got in there!’ he insisted. ‘There was nothing wrong with that horse. Nothing. You kids are slandering me. You’re lucky I even let you stay in this yard, the badmouthing I get from you. You should be at school. Why the Sam Hill you never go to school . . .’ He stalked off towards the gates, muttering to himself, breaking off to yell at a middle-aged redhead walking past the gates. ‘Mrs Parry! Was that you I saw on television last night?’ The woman continued walking. He removed his hat and waved it for her attention, as he stood beside the gates. ‘It was! I knew it was you!’

She checked her speed, turned her head a little, perplexed.

Ralph groaned.

‘On
Britain’s Next Top Model
! There – see? You’re smiling. I knew it was you. You want to buy some eggs? I got some beautiful avocados too. A whole tray of ’em, if you like. No? You come back soon, you hear? When that modelling contract’s finished.’

He was grinning when he came back to the railway arch. ‘That Mrs Parry from the post office, she is
fiiine
.’ He dragged out the word in appreciation. ‘If she was twenty years younger . . .’

‘. . . she could hand you your Zimmer frame,’ said Ralph.

Papa didn’t say anything. He was brushing again, hard, brisk strokes: every so often Boo had to brace himself against the pressure.

Cowboy John took another swig of his tea.

Sarah loved afternoons like this, when the horses stood sleepily in the sunshine, and the men traded good-natured insults. Here, Nana didn’t feel like a gaping absence. This was where she fitted in.

‘Girl, I keep telling your grandpa. This is why he ain’t never going to get himself a new girlfriend. Look at that!’ She followed his gaze to where Papa’s brush swept briskly down Boo’s gleaming flank. Cowboy John held out his hands and slid them dreamily to one side, winking at her. ‘I tell you, Capitaine, women like a slow hand,
gentle
treatment.’

Papa looked balefully at him, then returned to his task.

‘And there was me thinking the French were meant to be great lovers,’ said Cowboy John.

Her grandfather shrugged, banging the dust from his brush. ‘John, if you cannot yet tell the difference between loving and grooming, it is no wonder your horses look so confused.’

The boys hooted. Sarah smirked, even though she knew she was not meant to grasp the joke, then straightened her face when Papa told her to run for her hat.

The sun was sinking, edging low towards the railway bridge and the flyover beyond. Rush-hour was under way, and around the park queues of traffic waited, the drivers briefly diverted by what they could see on the grass.

Sarah didn’t notice them. Papa stood beside her, his arms outstretched, helping to build the contained energy that would propel Boo upwards. ‘Sit up straight,’ he murmured. ‘It’s all from the seat, Sarah. Keep your leg on . . . but still, still, ride him from the seat,
comme ça
.’

She was sweating with effort. She could see Papa’s whip out of the corner of her left eye – it never touched Boo’s fine bay coat – could feel the power building beneath her. She sat as still as she could, her legs resting lightly against his sides, eyes looking straight through his pointed ears. ‘
Non
,’ he said again. ‘Forward. Let him go forward. Now try again.’

They had been working on
piaffe
for almost forty minutes, and the sweat had stuck her school shirt to her back, the sun beating down on her hot head. Forwards at a trot, then halt, then trot again, trying to build up the energy so that he would trot on the spot, the rhythmic gait that would be the starting point for the more elaborate moves – which Papa had told her repeatedly she was not yet good enough to progress to.

Some months ago, when she had begged, he had shown her from the ground how Boo could be persuaded to
levade
, balancing on his hind legs, as if rearing, and she was desperate to try the movements that would bring him off the ground – the
courbette
, the
capriole
– from atop him. But Papa would not let her. Groundwork, again and again and again. Certainly no
levade
in a public park with people watching. What was she trying to do? Tell Boo he was a circus horse? She knew he was right but sometimes it was so boring. Like being stuck in the starting gates for ever.

‘Can we break for a bit? I’m so hot.’

‘How are you going to achieve if you don’t practise? No.
Continue.
He’s getting it.’

She thrust her lower lip forward in mute protest. There was no point in arguing with Papa, but she felt as though they had been doing this same thing for hours. She thought of the little grey mare that morning. At least she had got to go somewhere.

‘Papa—’

‘Concentrate! Stop talking and focus on your horse.’

Two children ran by, one shouting, ‘Ride him, cowboy!’ She kept her gaze between Boo’s ears. The narrow gap between them was slick with sweat.

‘And forwards. Reward him.’ She allowed the horse to move forwards, then half halted again, attempting to bring him back with a shifting of weight, the gentlest pressure on the reins.

‘
Non
! You are tipping forwards again.’

She collapsed on to the horse’s neck, letting out a wail. ‘I’m
not
!’

‘You are sending him conflicting signals,’ said Papa, his face creased with frustration. ‘How can he understand if your legs tell him one thing and your seat the opposite?’

She bit her lip. Why are we doing this? she wanted to shout. I’m never going to be good enough for what you want. This is just stupid.

‘Sarah – concentrate.’

‘I
am
concentrating. He’s too hot and bothered. He’s not listening to me any more.’

‘He knows you don’t listen to me. That is why he doesn’t listen to you.’

It was always her. Never the horse.

‘You sit there
comme ça
, you are teaching him not to listen.’

She was too hot. ‘Fine,’ she said, throwing her reins into one hand, and sliding off. ‘If I’m so useless, you do it.’

She stood on the hard ground, stunned at her own defiance. She rarely contradicted Papa.

He glared at her, his eyes burning so that, like a disgraced dog, she found hers dropping to her feet.

‘
Je
m’excuse
,’ he said abruptly.

She waited, unsure what he was going to do. But he walked briskly to Boo’s side and, with a slight grunt of effort, placed his left foot in the stirrup and sprang upwards, lowering himself gently on to the horse’s back. Boo’s ears flickered backwards; he was startled by the unfamiliar weight. Papa said nothing to her. He crossed his stirrups over the front of the saddle, so that his legs hung long and loose. Then, his back impossibly straight, his hands apparently doing nothing, he walked Boo once in a large circle, then prompted the horse into action.

Sarah, her hand at her brow, shielding her eyes from the sun, watched as her grandfather, a man she had never seen on a horse, asked, with almost imperceptible movements, for something the horse did not know how to give, and Boo, his mouth white with foam, lifted his legs higher and higher while he moved nowhere. Sarah’s breath stilled in her throat. Papa was like the men on the DVD. He did everything while seeming to do nothing. She found that her fists had clenched and thrust them into her pockets. Boo was concentrating so hard now that sweat ran in glossy rivulets down his muscled neck. Still her grandfather appeared to do nothing, while Boo’s hooves beat a rhythmic tattoo on the cracked brown earth. Suddenly he switched to the rocking motion, the stationary canter of the
terre à terre
. And finally, out of nowhere, she heard a ‘Hup!’ and as she stepped back, Boo rose on his back legs, the front pair folded neatly under him, the muscles of his quarters quivering as he struggled to maintain his balance.
Levade.