Barbara Erskine - Sands of Time

‘But they weren’t mine, the horses I rode.’ Chris glanced at him shyly.

‘What, not that gorgeous grey?’

‘Grey?’ She stared at him.

‘The one I saw you on a few nights ago.’

Her mouth went dry. For a moment she stood stock still, looking at him, her eyes intently searching his face, then she turned away. ‘You have seen me riding at night?’

‘Yes.’ She heard the puzzled tone in his voice, the chink of the chestnut’s bridle as it pushed at his pockets, eager for another sweet.

‘On a white horse? In the moonlight?’ She was staring out across the field.

‘I wasn’t spying, Chris.’ She could hear the amusement in his voice.

‘No. No, I’m sure you weren’t.’ Suddenly afraid, she found herself clenching her fists.

He noticed. Unseen by her, an eyebrow rose fractionally and a glint of understanding showed for a moment in his eyes. ‘Whose horse was it? Did you take her without asking?’

‘No!’ Her indignation took him aback.

‘Then I don’t understand.’

‘No.’ She shook her head violently. ‘No, nor do I. I’m sorry, Tom. I have to go. I’m late for work.’ Sighing she shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her jeans. ‘I’m sorry I can’t ride with you, I really am.’ She couldn’t meet his eye. Turning away from him she almost ran back towards her gate and fumbling with the latch she let herself into the garden.

That night as she rode Moonlight out into the darkness she was not thinking about Tom Ketch, the riding school horses, the surgery, the children. In her dream she was one with the horse, leaning forward to rest her cheek against the warm firm neck before urging the horse faster and faster towards the horizon.

On the edge of the field in the shelter of the trees Tom Ketch watched in silence. Only when she was out of sight did he turn and make his way up the field path to her gate. It was closed and overgrown with weeds. In the beam of his torchlight he could see no hoof marks, no bruising of the grasses, no trampled corn. For a long time he stood staring through the apple trees at the sleeping cottage windows, deep in thought. Then at last he turned away. Smiling to himself he began to walk home through the darkness. Tomorrow he was going to ask Chris Dean once again if she would like to ride with him. On one of his horses, the pretty grey Arab mare he had thought of selling. And perhaps, if he persevered, he would for the first time in his life be in a position to make someone’s dreams come true. It was a wonderful thought.

Charlotte put her hand on the gate and pushed hard. In the soft twilight the air was cool and fresh after the heat of the road. ‘Are you sure this is the right house?’ she called over her shoulder. She couldn’t bear it to be wrong. Already she loved the place. She could feel the weight of stress and exhaustion lifting from her as she stood there.

‘I’m sure. It’s just like the photo on the brochure.’ Rob slammed the boot lid and followed her up the path, a case in each hand, a bag under his arm, and waited while she put the key in the lock and after a short struggle turned it.

The silence of the room rose at them, enfolding them, holding them momentarily still and speechless.

Rob dropped the bags on the floor. The sound broke the spell and suddenly they could hear the birds outside again, the ticking of a clock somewhere in the corner, the creak of the door as it swung behind them. ‘It’s a bit cold in here.’ He looked round and shivered. ‘Let’s leave the door open and let in some warmth.’

Lilac Cottage was tiny. A living room, pink-washed between the heavy oak beams, with a large fireplace filled with dried flowers took up most of the ground floor with behind it a kitchen furnished in old colour-washed pine. Behind that a small modern bathroom had been slotted somehow into what must have once been a lean-to shed. Upstairs there were two rooms each with two single beds covered in brightly coloured eastern throws, the curtains flame cotton, the old boards covered in rag rugs.

Charlotte surveyed the beds quickly. Hardly ideal for patching a marriage. Four beds. Two rooms. They would not be thrust into one another’s arms. She glanced at Rob ruefully but he was staring out of the window.

‘Look at the garden. It’s gorgeous.’

The riot of colour echoed that of the bedrooms. Scarlet and russet and violet and blue and pink and orange jostled and quarrelled in the beds outside. The result was exuberant and vividly cheerful.

‘Food?’ Charlotte grinned at him. That at least was an uncontentious suggestion. It would put off the allocation of beds.

He gave her a smile in return. ‘Sounds good to me.’

They clattered down the narrow wooden staircase. The living room was full of sunshine now. Charlotte stopped, entranced.

Rob was immediately behind her. ‘What’s wrong?’ He passed her and picked up a box of food. ‘Come on. Last one in the kitchen does the washing up.’

Alone in the middle of the floor she glanced round. She could hear a blackbird singing in the garden, hear Rob cheerfully crashing round in the kitchen. For a moment she didn’t move. Then she followed him.

‘Drink?’ He had found the corkscrew and the glasses. ‘I’m afraid the wine is a bit warm.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ She took the glass from him and raised it. ‘Here’s to us.’ He was still very handsome, her Rob. His square, regular features set off by his startlingly blue eyes and dark hair, his figure kept trim by games of squash and sessions at the gym.

‘To us.’ Rob smiled and leaning forward, almost shyly, he kissed her on the cheek. ‘Pax,’ he said quietly. ‘No more fighting.’

‘Pax.’ She nodded.

They unpacked the food and laid out a cold meal on the kitchen table. Rob heated some soup whilst Charlotte searched the drawers for cutlery. The crash in the next room made them both look up.

‘What was that?’

‘Only the door. We left it open, remember?’ Rob turned down the hot plate and went to look.

Following him, she saw Rob staring round. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ She was nervous about the room. It felt, she realised suddenly, as though there was someone there, watching them.

‘The door is still open. I wedged it.’ He gave her a sheepish smile. ‘We mustn’t let ourselves get spooked.’

‘Who is spooked?’ She sounded defiant. ‘This is the country. It was probably a sheep or something.’

‘A sheep!’ He let out a yell of laughter. ‘Oh, Carla, my love, there are no sheep for miles.’