The Sweetest Thing (36 page)

So it
is
my fault. I didn’t listen to Guy or Maria. I thought I knew best.

‘I’ll give her a shot of painkiller while you’re deciding,’ Alex says, and although he’s being terribly nice, I feel as if I’m being judged.

‘I’d like you to go ahead and do the X-rays,’ I decide. ‘That way, we’ll know where we stand.’

‘I’ll give her a couple of shots now then, and come back in about an hour.’

Georgia looks at me questioningly when I return to the paddock gate.

‘Alex is bringing a couple of injections for Bracken now, and we’re going to put her in the stable until he comes back to X-ray her feet.’ I don’t go into any more detail. That can wait.

Alex returns within an hour with a load of equipment in the back of his 4×4.

‘How’s she doing, Georgia?’ he says, looking over the stable door.

She rubs Bracken’s neck. ‘She seems to be more comfortable. She hasn’t moved though.’

‘Let’s get a closer look at these feet, shall we?’ Alex enlists Georgia’s assistance with setting up the machine for the X-rays, using an extension cable to reach an electrical socket inside the house, and sending her out of the way of the radiation when he takes the pictures, which he downloads on to a laptop computer. Then he explains what he can see to me and the girls. It isn’t good, but as we stand in the doorway of Bracken’s stable with Alex holding the laptop away from the glare of the light outside, I discover that condemning an animal to certain death isn’t as straightforward as it first appeared. Bracken isn’t just a pony any more. She’s part of my family.

According to Alex, the bones in Bracken’s feet are showing early signs of rotation, and there’s still a chance of saving her, so instead of going with my gut instinct to have her put down to save her further agony, I find myself letting him continue to treat her with more drugs, and special supports taped to the soles of her feet.

‘Have you got any hay?’ he asks. ‘She needs a low-sugar, high-fibre diet, ideally some meadow hay that’s been soaked for twenty minutes or so to get the sugar out before you feed it. She can’t go back on the grass for a while.’

‘I haven’t …’

‘Guy’s probably got some – you could ask him,’ Alex says. ‘If you’re really stuck, give me a call and I’ll see if I can find you a couple of bales to tide you over.’

‘Thank you.’ My head is spinning. All these instructions. A recipe for looking after a sick pony. Weigh out the hay four times a day. Fresh water. Plenty of fresh air – that isn’t a problem, the stable is well-ventilated, with holes in the wall under the eaves.

‘She’ll need lots of TLC as well,’ Alex goes on. ‘Oh, by the way, you have got a passport for her?’

‘I’m not planning on taking her abroad or anything,’ I say, bemused, before I remember that Delphi gave me one with her. ‘Actually, I remember now. I have got one somewhere in the house.’

‘I’ll have a look at it next time I’m here. If you’re concerned about anything at all, call me. Otherwise, I’ll drop by on my way home tonight.’

More money, I think, my heart sinking further. Why on earth didn’t I insure her?

Shortly after Alex leaves for the second time, I’m getting the cremated remains of a cherry and walnut cake out of the Aga when Guy drops by with Adam. That’s one of the difficulties I have with the Aga – it’s impossible to smell when something’s burning unless you stand outside downwind of the flue.

‘Did I see the vet’s car?’ Guy says, joining me in the kitchen as I’m throwing the burned offering in the bin.

‘Bracken’s sick.’

‘Laminitis?’ I nod as Guy goes on, ‘I could see it coming … too much grass and no exercise.’

‘Yes,’ I say, ashamed and embarrassed. Why didn’t I listen to him? I feel so guilty. I can still see the pain in Bracken’s eyes. ‘Um, you don’t happen to have some hay I could buy from you? She’s got to stay in the stable.’

‘How many bales do you want?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ll bring you five to begin with.’

‘Thanks.’

He’s back within ten minutes – with Adam riding next to him in the cab, the bales on the back of the trailer that he tows, rattling down the drive. Guy makes handling the bales look very easy, but when I have a sneaky go at lifting one, it’s a struggle to get it even a few inches off the ground. He stacks them in the stable next to Bracken’s, standing them on a pallet he collects from the barn and making sure that they don’t come into contact with the walls.

‘How much do I owe you?’ I ask.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. We’ll settle up when we’ve picked the apples,’ Guy says. ‘I’m going to get old Bill – he works on one of the farms round here – to give me a hand tomorrow. Anyone else who wants to help out is welcome. We’ll make the cider next weekend when the apples have had time to mature.’

‘I love this smell,’ I say, picking at the hay and holding it to my nose.

‘This is good stuff, this year’s crop. Meadow hay, which is more suitable for a pony like Bracken than seed hay,’ he says with pride. ‘Making hay is like working to a recipe. You have to do it right. Too dry and the goodness goes out of it. Too damp and you get
a load of mould. And you have to have the right ingredients in the first place – the right kind of grass, fertiliser, rain and sunshine.’

‘I didn’t realise there was so much to it.’

‘Sometimes I wonder if you realise much about anything,’ Guy comments dryly.

‘What do you mean by that?’ I respond, hurt by his cutting remark. ‘I didn’t intend for the pony to suffer.’

‘I’m not sure that’s any excuse,’ he says. ‘After all you said about animal welfare when we first met, about how it was cruel to hit the cows …’

My face grows hot with annoyance, not so much at him as at myself. I don’t need Guy, or anyone else, to remind me of the part I played in neglecting to attend to Bracken’s weight. I knew she was overweight, but I didn’t understand the significance of that. I assumed she was like us; that she might develop heart disease or sore joints later on in life. I didn’t believe she was in immediate danger.

‘I’m sorry, Jennie,’ Guy goes on, as if he’s read my mind. ‘How are you?’ Stepping back into the shadows of the stable, he lowers his voice. ‘I miss you.’

‘I miss you too,’ I say softly, moving closer. His eyes glint with desire and my heart twists with longing for what cannot be, for the moment at least.

‘Is there any chance …?’ he says, his voice breaking. Then he shakes his head, as if remonstrating with himself. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

I turn away abruptly and head back outside into the light where Adam’s still waiting in the tractor. Guy follows.

‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ Guy wipes his palms on his jeans, leaving grubby streaks. ‘Are you helping out with the milking tomorrow, Adam?’ he calls up to him.

‘I thought I’d join you this afternoon as well.’

‘No, Adam,’ I say. ‘You’ve got some catching up to do with your schoolwork.’

‘But, Mum,’ he moans.

‘You can’t bunk off school without there being some consequence. Catch up with your maths today and you can help with the milking in the morning.’ I give him a scowl too, to show that I mean it. I don’t like it, but I’ve realised that I have to be firmer with Adam and give him clear boundaries. Although it’s tough on both of us, it’s for his own good.

Alex is with us three more times over the weekend. Bracken isn’t responding to the treatment and the bill is soaring. I don’t know what to do. The pony is still unwilling to move about in her stable in spite of the painkillers, and Georgia refuses to leave her side, insisting on snoozing whilst sitting in a sleeping bag on a unopened bale of shavings.

I take a hot chocolate out to her on the Sunday evening and sit with her.

‘Georgia, we need to talk,’ I begin. I don’t need to say any more. She turns her face to me, her eyes glinting in the half light, her mouth set in a stubborn line.

‘There’s no way I’m letting you have Bracken put down,’ she says sharply.

‘Georgia, darling—’

‘Mum, it’s our fault that she’s sick, which means it’s up to us to help her get better.’

‘I don’t like to see her suffer.’

‘Neither do I.’ Georgia tips the hot chocolate out into the shavings, as if it’s poison, and thrusts the mug back into my hands. ‘Now go away,’ she says, getting up and moving over to Bracken, wrapping her arms around her neck and burying her face in her mane. ‘I
don’t want to talk to you. And before you start going on at me, I am not going to school tomorrow.’

‘You don’t have to,’ I say curtly. ‘It’s half term.’ I retreat, eyes stinging and sore, because I can’t see a way out. I can’t see how I can afford any more treatment for Bracken. I’m not earning enough from the baking to pay the solicitor and pay out on a loan to cover the vet’s fees. Whatever I decide, either Georgia will never forgive me or my family will end up in penury.

The following morning, a deputation consisting of Georgia and Sophie arrives in my bedroom at six-thirty. I don’t know if they’re aiming to exploit any possible weakness on my part caused by lack of sleep. Sophie is in her pyjamas while Georgia is in the same top and jeans as she was yesterday.

Rubbing my eyes, I sit up in bed. Outside a chicken is squawking and clucking as if she’s trying to lay a football, not an egg.

‘How’s Bracken?’ I ask.

‘That’s why we’ve come to see you, Mummy,’ Sophie says.

‘To tell you,’ Georgia continues for her, ‘that if you kill Bracken, we’ll never get over it, and we’ll go and live with Dad and Alice for the rest of our lives.’

‘Or until we go to university,’ Sophie corrects her big sister.

‘I don’t want to kill Bracken,’ I say, ‘but it’s going to cost a couple of thousand pounds to treat her, and even then there’s no guarantee that you’ll be able to ride her again. Alex says her feet might never recover.’

‘I know that, but I don’t care if I can’t ride her,’
Georgia says. ‘It’s better than her being dead.’ She adds great emphasis on the word ‘dead’, as if to punish me all the more.

‘The problem is that I haven’t got that kind of money going spare.’

‘We have decided that we will pay the vet,’ Georgia announces.

‘How are you going to do that?’

‘We’ll get a job, like Adam.’

‘I’m afraid you aren’t quite old enough for that,’ I say gently, a lump in my throat.

‘We’ll bake cakes then,’ Georgia says, her voice rising with doubt. ‘We’ll hold a cake sale at school to raise the money.’

‘That’s really sweet of you both.’ I pause, reluctant to disillusion them because to pay this vet’s bill, we aren’t talking about a few flapjacks and fairycakes. We’re looking at several bespoke wedding cakes, at least. And there’s the solicitor’s bill as well.

I gaze at my two daughters, standing hand in hand at the end of the bed, looking back at me expectantly. I can’t do it to them, can I? It’s clear that they’ll do anything for Bracken, just as I’m prepared to do anything for them. It occurs to me that I might ask David for half the money, or talk to the vet about paying in instalments, but pride won’t let me. ‘All right, let’s have no more talk of putting Bracken down. We’ll find the money somehow.’ Like Mr Micawber in D
avid Copperfield
, I shall have faith that ‘something will turn up’.

I bake two more cherry and walnut cakes for the apple picking.

Guy has already collected a trailer-load of apples from Fifi’s orchard at the garden centre that he delivers
to Uphill Farm before coming with his tractor and trailer to collect ours.

‘How’s the pony?’ he says, parking the tractor in the paddock and jogging back to have a look over Bracken’s stable door. I hang back, letting Georgia answer that question.

She and Sophie stay with Bracken. Alex drops by twice to check on her, pronouncing her condition to be stable. Guy, Adam and old Bill, an elderly man with a complexion much like the skin of a shrivelled russet, do the bulk of the picking. I keep to myself, checking that the windfalls aren’t rotten, because then they can’t be used for the cider, and picking the apples on the lower branches of the trees, while Guy and old Bill go up and down tall ladders, picking from the higher ones, the tops of which are over thirty feet from the ground.

Adam works from a stepladder. I thought he would get bored, but he picks all morning and into the afternoon. By then, the apple pickers and Bracken’s nurses have gone through both cherry and walnut cakes, along with a dozen scones with jam and cream.

Whenever I see Guy, I’m aware of his shy smiles and yearning glances. I know we’re staying ‘just friends’ for good reason, but I wish it didn’t have to be this way.

It’s the last week of October. The few remaining apples have been blown off the trees in the orchard and the ground is turning to a sludgy orange mud that cakes everything: boots, shoes and Lucky’s feet. The children are supposed to be going to David’s for the weekend, but according to him there’s a problem.

‘I understand that the children aren’t keen to visit this weekend,’ he says.

I keep walking, talking to him on my mobile. I’m down by the river with Lucky.