‘Thanks, Yvonne,’ I said as she handed me my change, declining to comment. I turned to go. ‘Nice to see you.’

‘You too, Poppy. And I’m glad you’re finding your feet again.’

I turned back. She’d lowered her voice conspiratorially even though there was no one else in the shop. ‘Getting out and about,’ she went on softly. ‘And don’t you pay any attention to those that think it’s a bit soon. Can’t be in widow’s weeds for ever, eh? I know after my Bill died I stayed indoors for months on end, but that’s not everyone’s way, is it?’ She shot me a kindly look before bustling away to attend to a consignment of lavatory paper which had just arrived and was sitting in a towering pile by the post-office counter, ready to be stacked.

I went home, thoughtful. Stirred, but not shaken by her remark. No, I wouldn’t pay any attention. Yvonne wasn’t to know I hadn’t had a man in my life for many years; wasn’t to know that in fact, rather than it being too soon, I’d left it rather late.

Archie was sound asleep in his pushchair now, eyelashes a pair of perfect crescents, mouth open, wet thumb dropped on his chest. Once inside I lifted him out carefully and carried him upstairs to his cot, then went down and gazed out of the front window, arms folded across my chest.

A grey mist had descended like an aged duvet, the once crisp and golden leaves dank and soggy now underfoot. Of course, it was that time of year again, wasn’t it? The hunting season. Other country sports too. A time when shots were fired in the air, horns were blown, bonfires crackled. The long run-up to Christmas, when people in towns hunkered down, and those in the country revved up. Polished their spurs, filled their hip flasks, had their horses clipped for action. Hunting. An ancient tradition, which, it seemed to me, still sorted the men from the boys, at least in this village. Mounted: Chad and Hope Armitage, Angie Asher, Mary Granger, Angus and Sylvia in their younger days but represented these days by their grandson Hugo, fresh out of Harrow, and, no doubt, Sam Hetherington. Foot followers: people like me, Jennie, Yvonne, Bob, Frank – oh, and Pete, who shod all the horses around here but didn’t actually own one.

And Hope had automatically put me in that foot-soldier category, hadn’t she? Wouldn’t have given it a second thought. And she was right. I’d followed before, stood around at meets. The whole village would turn out for this one, the first of the season, unless you really didn’t agree, which was unusual in the country. Yes, everyone would be there: the great and the good aloft and on high on their stamping, snorting beasts, bits jangling, and oozing … what was it, sex? Money? Status? Then down below, people like me and Jennie and Frankie, who’d help the publican pass up the port in little plastic tumblers, looking on in awe and wonder. Later, the whole ensemble, horns blowing, hounds alert, would trot smartly off up the lane. As Sam would trot too, flanked perhaps, on either side, by Angie and Hope, sexy in their tight breeches, hairnets, lipstick, nipped-in jackets. I was pretty sure I had one of those jackets somewhere …

I gazed at the mist. An idea began to form. Consolidate and thicken, like the grey haze outside. Suddenly, on an impulse, I plucked my phone from my pocket and perched sharply on the arm of the sofa. It rang a moment, then answered.

‘Hi, Dad, it’s me.’

‘Darling. How lovely. How are you?’

‘Really well,’ I assured him. I hadn’t been, as recently as a couple of days ago, but was determined to be now. Not to go backwards. Fall in any holes. I rushed on. ‘Um, Dad, a favour.’

‘Of course, my love. Fire away.’

‘Can I borrow a horse?’

‘A horse?’

‘Yes, there’s a meet here the day after tomorrow. The opening meet, actually. I thought I might go out.’

There was a long pause. Finally, when he spoke, incredulity and delight filled his voice. ‘But you haven’t ridden for years, Poppy!’

‘I know, but I can ride, can’t I? One doesn’t forget?’

‘Oh, sure, it’s like riding a bike, but –’

‘But what?’

‘Well, hunting is a slightly different kettle of fish, love.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, everything goes up a gear. Fences, ditches – the horse itself. More adrenalin. Much more speed.’

I thought of Sam, galloping along on some gleaming steed, spurred and confident, the Grangers behind him.

‘I can go up a gear.’

‘Of course you can!’

My dad had a terrific can-do attitude. All he’d felt honour-bound to do was voice some caution, which he’d surely done. Now, however, the brakes would come smartly off.

‘Come over tomorrow,’ he said eagerly. ‘I’ll see what I can fit you up with. Tosca, perhaps. Or even Badger? Quite a challenge. A mount for my girl! Yes, pop by tomorrow and we’ll sort you out. Day after tomorrow, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you can take it back in my lorry. Leave your car here.’

‘Except … where would I put it?’ I glanced wildly around my very small sitting room.

‘Hasn’t your friend Angie got stables? You can pop it in with hers for the night, can’t you?’

‘She has got stables …’ I stood up from the sofa and caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror above the mantle: quite flushed for me. Some unfamiliar bright eyes looked back too. I licked my lips. ‘Except, I quite wanted to keep it a secret. Just – you know. Turn up. Surprise everyone.’

My father barely missed a beat. If there was one thing he liked more than a challenge, it was a surprise. ‘Oh yes, much better! That’ll show them. Anyone who’d written you off as a wilting widow.’

‘Well, quite,’ I said quickly. He’d got the gist. I walked to the window, arm still clenched round my stomach. ‘But … where would I put it, Dad? Would it be all right in the field with the sheep at the back, if I cleared it with the farmer?’

‘Farmers can be awfully antsy about that sort of thing. Haven’t you got some sort of outbuilding at the bottom of your garden?’

‘It’s called a garden shed, Dad. With a lawnmower and spades inside it.’

‘Well, you can move the lawnmower, love. Don’t get bogged down by the minutiae.’

I sensed my father warming to this. He’d been known to employ some pretty eccentric dwellings for animals in the past and we’d once had a miniature Shetland pony that wandered into the kitchen when it rained, to lie down by the stove. And of course the fish in the bath. I could sense him powering on regardless.

‘Saw the door in half,’ he said firmly. ‘I can’t visualize that shed offhand but I’m sure it’s big enough. Anyway, don’t you worry – we’ll sort something out. I’m just so thrilled you’re up for it Poppy! Atta-girl! Good for you.’

It occurred to me as I put the phone down, that for all his relaxed attitude, Dad might have been more worried about me than he’d let on. He was clearly thrilled to bits. I should have taken more time previously, to reassure him. Oh well, he was certainly reassured now.

As I bounded up the stairs to Archie, who I could hear crying – clearly not as sleepy as I’d thought – I realized I was humming. ‘Raindrops on Roses’, Mum’s favourite. And cheesy though it was, The Sound of Music always came to me in moments of elation. Elation, I thought in some surprise, as I lifted my son from his cot. I twirled him round the room in my arms and he gurgled in astonished delight. I planted a resounding kiss on his flushed cheek. No, I would not be written off. Not yet, anyway. I would not sit quietly in partial shade. I would have a stab at the sunlight. I would trot up the road alongside Sam Hetherington, cheeks pink, lipstick gleaming, I would not be sweet Poppy Shilling who was slowly finding her feet; I’d be up and running. Galloping, even. I sailed out of the room with Archie in my arms. Even if I broke my bloody neck in the process.




20

I found my father in front of an old Elvis DVD, slumped on the exploding beige sofa, the one where you had to know where to sit to avoid the springs. A couple of bantam hens seemed to be watching too, from the top of the piano, where they roosted occasionally amongst elderly copies of the Racing Times. The two dogs lay across his lap. Dad was playing an acoustic air guitar, winsomely plucking at imaginary strings, crooning softly. As I came in the room he turned and I saw his florid cheeks were damp with tears.

‘It’s the bit where she tells him she can’t marry him because she’s dying of that dreadful disease and he sings “This is My Heaven”. The hula-hula girls are about to come on.’

‘Ah.’

I sank down beside him with a smile, shoving Mitch up a bit. I was still in my coat, but then coats were a necessity in Dad’s house; he was still in his. I’d seen this movie a million times, had grown up on it, along with all the other black and whites in Dad’s collection, but it still held a certain allure, and before long my eyes were filling too. We even swayed a bit and waved our hands along with the hula-hula girls at the end. As more tears rolled along with the credits, I wondered if they were for Elvis and his lost love or the way this house always made me feel: its cosy shambolic familiarity, the peeling paint, the clutter of tack and books and bottles, the terrible carpet and the terrible aching feeling I got whenever I came. The temptation to stick my thumb in my mouth and stay for ever, curled up with Dad watching old movies, Mum’s photo on the crowded sideboard smiling down at us. Safe. Surely most children feel like that when they’re little but then can’t wait to get away, achieve some distance. Most would surely hurtle from a place like this; so why, then, did I still feel some incredibly visceral, gravitational pull?