By

Sabrina

Sequel to The Start of Something Big (Or ‘Season 4, episode 2’?)

Slugger squinted up at the Lightning Tree, and the little flashes of green that unfurled high up on its twisted, tortured branches.

“Daft tree,” he said.

“Oh, Slugs, it’s not daft, it’s a miracle,” sighed Dora happily, pouring another libation of water onto the tree’s roots. “Leaves, this time of year.”

“It’s a miracle, she says. Daft, I say again. Who ever heard of a tree sprouting leaves in th’middle of winter?” Slugger scratched the ears of the Bubble the donkey. Squeak obligingly came up for his turn.

Dora just grinned. She knew her buckets of water and sharing her dreams with the ancient trunk had worked magic on the tree – there was no other explanation.

Up near the barn Steve was talking to Clegg the builder about the new stables, which were going up slowly and would be finished some time in the spring. These new buildings, constructed jointly of pre-fab material and tumbled cut stones from an outhouse which had succumbed to the elements decades ago, had been a bone of contention between himself and Dora in the autumn.

The Colonel was willing to pay for their construction. Steve was determined that Follyfoot should make enough money to pay for them – or at least pay the Colonel back. Dora, he felt, had to learn that you couldn’t live on charity, that there was a sense of fulfillment in achieving something yourself. She’d never had to struggle for material goods, even if she’d struggled for love and acceptance before she came to Follyfoot. Steve had been bereft of both, and Follyfoot had made him whole.

Slugger noticed Dora’s eyes move to the construction zone, and her expression soften.

 “Gettin’ on okay, then, you an’ Steve?”

“Oh, yes, Slugs!” She blushed. “I think we’re finally chasing the same rainbow with Follyfoot.”

Slugger patted her shoulder. “Wasn’t just Follyfoot I was thinkin’ of, luv. I seen the way you two look at each other. Glad you didn’t leave, are you, girl?”

 “Very glad, Slugs.” Dora hugged him. “It’ll all be fine now, you’ll see.”

 “Gawd, I ‘ope so. We can’t run this place wivvout both of you, not now these all them new ‘orses in.”

 Which was true enough. Dora and Steve barely had a moment’s rest all day between breaking in two yearlings and training four young horses.

 There wasn’t even time to explore the magic of love, Dora thought regretfully, trudging back to the tap and filling the bucket for Copper. It had been two weeks since she’d fallen and hit her head, and Steve told her he loved her. Since then there had been barely a kiss. Plenty of smouldering glances, hugs when nobody was looking and only when they were out with the horses, and stopped to rest them, did Steve take her in his arms and kiss her.

 It was almost as if he were afraid to admit it to anyone, Dora thought, a little annoyed.

 “Don’t go telling everyone I love you and you love me,” he’d said, as he held her tight with the bruise on her head still the size of a duck’s egg. “Ron’ll have a field day teasing us – or he’ll get jealous and leave.”

 “Ron? Jealous?” Dora’s forehead wrinkled.

 “Oh girl, you’ve got eyes but they don’t always see.”

 “Ron’s just a FRIEND.”

 “I was just your friend, too, once. Ron’s got feelings, like any other bloke. Let’s break the news gently. We can’t afford to lose him, even if he doesn’t pull his weight.”

 And as Dora was thinking, Ron!?, Steve kissed her again and she forgot everything, and lived for the moment.

 But right now, she didn’t know how much longer she could hide her feelings in front of the others – she wanted to shout it from the rooftops. She didn’t have to, of course. Everybody had guessed. The Dora who’d been moody all autumn was full of spring sunshine and laughter in the heart of winter, her eyes warm and soft and a smile never far from her lips. Only one thing did that to a girl, Ron remarked to Slugger, and that was love, wozzinit?

 “Luv, ‘e says.” Slugger poured Ron a cuppa. “You okay wiv that, Ron? Steve an’ Dora? Only it makes ‘im more than the ‘ired ‘elp, doesn’t it?”

 “And I’m still ‘ired ‘elp,” agreed Ron, philosophically. “I know me place, Slugs. Shovellin’ muck like the peasant I am. An’ besides, I like it ‘ere.”

 “That’s ‘cos you get out o’work at the drop of an ‘at. You should be out there now muckin’ out not ‘ere drinkin’ tea.”

 Ron grinned. “Yeah, there IS that. Nah, Slugger me ole mate, I’m fine. Besides, the paff of true love never runs smoove, does it? Especially them two. They’ll have another tiff sooner or later and my big strong shoulder will be there for Dora to cry on.” He laughed. “Ronald Stryker, always the gentleman, eh, Slugs?”

 “You be careful, Ron. Don’t go stirrin’ up trouble. Things have got nice an’ calm now. Hazel’s settled in and everybody’s ‘appy.”

 “Don’t worry, Slugs. That won’t last. It never ‘as.” With a last chuckle Ron threw the tea cosy accurately at Slugger’s nose and slipped out the door, whistling.

  *     *     *

 Dora stood at her window; below her, frost had started to form on the grass under the clear winter sky. Stars sparkled, the milky way cutting a swathe in the middle of them. Steve’s light was still on in his loft – if she craned her neck a bit she could see it.

She sighed. Saying you loved someone was one thing, actually doing something about it another. He’d kissed her goodnight as they checked the horses after dinner (a kiss for each horse, as it turned out), but while his eyes gave her a promise, the reality was that he still slept in his cold little loft and she in the pretty sprigged bedroom.

 She had to admire his gentlemanly conduct. Her parents would be impressed with it. But dear God, this was the 1970s! It was, of course, entirely possible that the concept of sex outside of marriage hadn’t permeated to the far-flung corners of Yorkshire, and that there was probably at least one person in this county who thought free love was a giveaway you got with the Sunday papers or green stamps, but Steve was a man of the world and if he felt anything like she did -!

 “Not yet,” he’d whisper each night, his arms around her, feeling the slenderness of her frame beneath her warm coat.

 “When?” Frustrated, holding him close, exploring his back with her fingers.

 “Soon. Don’t rush things, we’ve got forever in front of us.”

 But when was soon? Dora wondered. Steve set her senses on fire in a way that no other man she’d ever met had. A closely guarded life had seen Dora chaperoned through boarding school and finishing school. An interest in horses had far outweighed an interest in boys. Until Steve. In short, Dora had had as much experience with the physical side of love as the two yearlings, unbroken and unridden, had had with riders on their backs. In this day and age, she told herself, she was a disgrace. And the only man whom she wanted to explore this unchartered territory with had just turned off his light. She hoped, a little bitterly, he was feeling as sleepless as she, and shivered her way to her own bed, snuggling up to her hot water bottle and looking at the stains on the ceiling until the exhaustive day took its toll on her.

 *    *    *

 If it was any consolation to her, Steve was tossing and turning. He wanted Dora desperately, but the conditions had to be just right. No hay barn, no quick shag in her bed while Slugger was out getting the groceries. This girl deserved the honour of time, tenderness and romance.  Getting it in Follyfoot was going to be difficult.

 And then it struck him. Dora had had an old-fashioned upbringing, almost Edwardian. He’d swear on a stack of bibles she’d never slept with a man. So perhaps he had to approach this in a romantic, old-fashioned way.

 He’d court her. He’d take her out, take her away from Follyfoot – God knew when, they were so busy! – and show her a good time. They’d pretend they didn’t work together for hours every day and they’d be like any other young couple, holding hands, kissing, without their workmates watching; discovering each other.

 The last few months had been rough on both of them – he thought Dora had come close to a breakdown around the time Hazel arrived; she’d been at her most vulnerable, and her most angry, driven close to the edge. The power struggle between them over the best way to run the place had been heartwrenching, but somehow they’d found a way to compromise and see a future for Follyfoot both of them could accept.

 Saying he loved her, and hearing her say she loved him, was wonderful. But if they courted, without Follyfoot in the way, they could discover joy in each other without the daily grind, the arguments about stables and Chadwick’s and Hazel, taking a lead role. It was something they both needed to do.

 Steve grinned. It was all so clear, so obvious. Tomorrow, he’d go out and buy her flowers. The courtship would start. Contented, if frozen in the loft, he fell asleep, the blankets tucked around his chin and the only warmth that of the horses below slowly permeating through the floorboards.

 *     *     *

 Steve stood in front of the kitchen fire, warming his hands behind his back. God, it was cold in the loft! He’d got to the point where he’d given each of his chilblains a name. Boris was the most painful this morning, itching redly. “Dora not down yet, Slugs?”

 “Not seen her, lad. She must’ve slept in. Gawd only knows she could do wiv it. Works all hours.” Slugger poked Steve out of the way and put a heavy iron frypan onto the fire.

 “Eggs again, Slugs?”

 “Eggs is a proper breakfast,” Slugger said resolutely, not noticing Steve miming the very words. “Bacon too this morning.”

 Hazel slipped into the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She rubbed her hands. “Oh, it’s warm in here! Steve, don’t you get cold in the loft?”

 “’Course I do,” Steve replied, taking the kettle off as it started to whistle. “I’m used to it, though.”

 “I thought you’d move in here now. You know, with Dora.”

 Steve hoped the heat he felt in his cheeks was from the fire.

 “None of that, young Hazel,” Slugger admonished before Steve could think of a reply. “They ain’t married, are they? You can’t share a bedroom if you’re not married.”

 “Yes you can,” Hazel said practically. “Lots of people do. There was a girl at the reform school…er…never mind. Living together is normal these days. Isn’t it, Steve?”

 “I …er… well, yes, people do,” Steve muttered, busying himself with the kettle and teapot.

 “Helps if you put the tealeaves in the pot,” Slugger pointed out.  “Hazel, you want to see if Dora’s in the land of the livin’ yet? Only ‘er breakfast’ll spoil otherwise.”

 “It usually does, anyway!” Hazel retorted with a cheeky smile and ducked out the door as Slugger made to chase her.

 “Learns fast, doesn’t she?” Steve commented.

 “What you gonna do, lad? About Dora? Like Hazel said, it’s cold in the loft. You an’ ‘er, you seem to be an item now, as you young folks say.”

 “Dunno, Slugs.” Steve frowned. “I had this thought last night, that I’d…well… court her, in the old-fashioned way. We’ve been through so much together with Follyfoot it might be nice if I took time out to show her how much she means to me. Take her out. You know, movies, dancing, all that stuff. Give her flowers. Before just, well, living together, as Hazel said.”

 Slugger beamed. “That’s a great idea, Steve! Dora don’t get much fun. She lives for them horses. She’s been through a rough time the last few months. And it’s nice, you know, if a young man courts ‘is lady proper like.”

 “I’ll court her proper like, Slugs, don’t you worry!” Steve grinned back. “Slugger, I think the bacon’s on fire…”

 *     *     *

 The only flowers Steve could find at the village shop were past their best, hothouse roses which were trying vainly to open. They cost a fortune, too, but Steve bought them anyway. As Slugger would say, it was the fort what counted.

 As he drove back he noticed clouds getting heavier and heavier in the sky. Damn! If it poured with rain they wouldn’t be doing much with the young horses this afternoon. Dora would probably end up in the office, struggling valiantly with the accounts ledger.

 The first heavy drops fell as he braked outside the farmhouse. Slipping from the Land Rover with the flowers hidden as best he could, Steve tiptoed into the office and wondered where he could put them. The office had always been the Colonel’s domain, and vases weren’t high on his list of priorities. He left the roses on the desk on top of the open ledger and decided to chance his luck in the kitchen and grab a jug or something.

 As luck would have it, Dora, Ron and Hazel were all sitting down, waiting for Slugger to dish out his winter – and summer – favourite, stew.

 “You was long enough away,” Slugger grumbled. “Almost missed dinner, you did.”

 “Had to pay the saddler in Tockwith,” Steve lied. He rubbed his hands together. It was cold enough outside to make Slugger’s stew almost desirable.

 “I didn’t think we owed him anything,” Dora said, pushing her stew around with her fork.

 “He mended some blankets, remember?”

 “That was ages ago. And we hadn’t paid him! Oh Steve, I feel awful. I ordered a new bridle for one of the colts only last week.”

 “It’s okay, girl. He’s fine about it.”  Steve hated lying; you got yourself in deeper and deeper with every sentence. Of course they’d paid the saddler, and Dora would find out herself when she did the accounts after lunch.

 “It’s pouring outside.” Hazel wrinkled her nose and watched the rain dribbling down the wndowpanes. “We won’t be able to ride.”

 “Ah, wot a shame,” said Ron, scraping the last bits of stew from his plate and smacking his lips. “We got nuffin to do until tea time. Who fancies a game o’cards?”

 “Who fancies cleaning some tack?” Steve responded.

 “Not me, mate!” Ron grinned back.

 “I’ll do it,” offered Hazel.

 “Both of you should do it,” Steve suggested. “There’s a lot there to do. I’ll help. We’ll have it done in no time.”

 Ron saw his pleasant afternoon with the latest copy of Beano disappearing, and sighed.  Still, Hazel was easy on the eye, even if she was only a kid.

 Dora sipped her tea. She hated doing the accounts, but they had to be done each month and shown to the Colonel and the local solicitor, her trustees for the farm until she turned 21. On the other hand, she mused, they might look in better shape this month with the extra income from Hardacre’s horses. Adding figures up in her head, she didn’t really notice Steve chivvy Ron and Hazel out of the farmhouse and up to the tack room. It was only Slugger’s noisy washing up that made her realise she’d be far better actually working in the office with the ledger than trusting her dodgy mental arithmetic.

 Two minutes later a fuming Dora burst into the kitchen. “Slugger, who left flowers in the office?”

 Slugger almost dropped a plate at her angry face.

 “Steady on, luv,” he began.

 “Because the stems were wet and they’ve ruined the ledger! I was using one of those new felt pens and now the ink’s run everywhere and I can’t read a thing!” She stamped her foot like a cranky horse.  “Was it you, Slugs? It was very nice of you but –“

 “It was Steve,” Slugger interrupted. “’E didn’t mean no harm, I’m sure. ‘E probably couldn’t find a vase to put ‘em in.”

 Dora gaped; her anger faded almost instantly. “Steve? But he’s never bought me flowers!”

 Slugger raised an eyebrow. “Maybe he finks it’s time he did. Grab that big jug from the sideboard, girl, and put the flowers in it. And remember to fank ‘im.”

 “But…but the ledger! It’s…it’s…”

 “Just fank ‘im, girl. The ledger’ll dry out, you’ll see, and you’ll be able to make ‘ead and tail of it. Might ‘ave to rewrite a bit of it, but no real ‘arm done.”

 Only a few months ago Dora would have flown out the door and had a row with Steve. Now she took a deep breath and realised just how much the gesture of flowers meant. Sighing, she filled the biggest jug with water and took it back to the office.

 The ledger dripped when she picked it up. She couldn’t read a bit of last month’s accounts. It was pointless to even try to redo them until the paper had dried out. She set the roses in front of the window, and spent a long time gazing at them, but not seeing them at all.

 *     *     *

 “Come on, Hazel,” Ron pleaded. “It’ll be fun.”

 “It’s so cold, though. Who’d go to a funfair in winter?”

 “Lots o’people. Nuffin else to do round here on a Saturday night ‘cept go to the pub, and there’s no dance on. Anyways, you go on rides and get so scared it keeps you warm, don’t you?”

 Steve put down the saddle soap. “A funfair? This time of year?”

 “Yeah, mate, in Tockwith this Saturday. You know, they come round twice a year. In the summer, when it rains but it’s warm, and in the winter, when it rains and it’s cold but it’s somefing to do.”

 “I never knew,” said Steve slowly.

 “That’s ‘cos you always got your nose in a stable. You gotta get out more, mate. Wot about Dora, fink she’d go?”

 “I…I dunno. I’ll ask her,” Steve decided with a grin. Now what could be a better start to a courtship than an innocent night at the funfair, with a kiss on the ghost train to keep the scary things away, stuffed toys to win on the shooting gallery and food that was even worse than Slugger’s?  He began rubbing at his saddle with renewed enthusiasm.

 An hour later he ventured into the office to find the ledger steaming by the fire and Dora sorting bills and invoices into piles. The roses, he was pleased to see, had perked up a bit and even gave out a pretty scent. He grinned.

 “Hey, Dora.”

She jumped; she’d been engrossed in her work. “Oh, Steve. Hi. Thanks for the flowers,” she said shyly.

 Steve gave what he hoped was a casual shrug. “You deserve them. I should have got you flowers while you were lying in bed with a duck’s egg on your head. What happened to the ledger?”

 “Oh. Oh, that. The flowers. They’d leaked all over it during lunch.” Dora tried to act nonchalant, but Steve guessed he’d missed quite a tantrum.

 He groaned. “Sorry, girl! I forgot about them! I was going to get a vase or something from the kitchen but you were in there, and then it wouldn’t have been a surprise.”

 “It was certainly a surprise,” Dora said wryly.

 Steve glanced at the illegible ledger and groaned again. “Look, I’ll make it up to you. Come to the funfair with me on Saturday night?”

 “Funfair?” You’d have thought Dora had never heard of such a concept. She cocked her head to one side.

 “Funfair. You know, rides, and sideshow games. Fun.” Steve grinned. A thought struck him. “Dora, have you ever BEEN to a funfair?”

 “Do you know….no, I haven’t,” she said slowly.

 A bark of laughter burst from Steve’s mouth before he could stop it. He grinned. “You’re joking!”

 “No, I’m not. Mummy always thought they were common. I was never allowed go when I was little.”

 “Oh, girl, what you’ve missed out on!” Steve shook his head in disbelief.  He caught her arms, pulled her close and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Rug up warm, and I’ll take you out and win you a silly stuffed toy, the biggest one I can.”

 Dora giggled. A funfair! The diplomat’s daughter at a funfair! “Oh yes,” she said happily.

 *      *      *

 The fields were sodden the next day, but the sun shone weakly, and it was time to start Cezanne, the quietest colt, on the next stage of his breaking in. He was happy enough trotting and even cantering in circles on the lunge rein, and once or twice now Dora had fastened the reins to the roller he wore like a girth around his middle. He’d been led around wearing a saddle, too, and took it philosophically, nuzzling Dora’s hands for pony nuts.

 Steve was busy with the other colt, Raphael, in the field, so Dora asked Hazel to help her.

 “What you’ll do is lean across his back, so he gets the feeling of your weight there.”

 “Me?” Hazel’s eyes widened in delight.

 “You’re lighter than I am. It’ll be easier for him to get used to.”

 They had finished lungeing the colt – this time in a saddle with no stirrups – and had taken him back to his stable. Dora turned a bucket upside down, and Hazel stood on top of it and slowly leaned across the saddle, wriggling until the colt bore all her weight. He stiffened his back and neck, but a handful of pony nuts reassured him, so he relaxed with a sigh and Hazel stayed there until she complained of aching ribs, then slid slowly to the ground.

 They both made a huge fuss of the colt, who was as placid as his stablemate was temperamental. Hazel rubbed her ribs and did it again, and this time Cezanne barely flickered an ear.

 “We’ll try it in the field later on,” Dora told her. “I’ll try leading him around with you leaning over him.”

 Hazel couldn’t believe her luck. She’d hated Dora at first, but the older girl was giving her chances nobody would have dreamed of handing her. If Mrs Corbett from the welfare could see her now, she would hardly have recognized her. Follyfoot had worked its magic and Hazel had transformed from a sullen, violent teenager into a young person filled with joy from doing something she really loved.

 Dora helped Steve lunge Raphael while Hazel groomed Cezanne. The big chestnut plunged in a circle around Steve, his canter rocking and rolling in the heavy loam.

 “He’s getting much better,” Dora said encouragingly. “Look at him go!”

 “Oh, he goes fine,” Steve said. “Getting him to stop is the hard thing!”

 “Will you help me with Cezanne after lunch? Hazel and I are backing him, but we think we’ll try it in the field, he’s so quiet.”

 “And after that, we’ll have to school a couple of the youngsters,” Steve said agreeably. “It’s good that Hazel’s coming on so well, we need all the help we can get.”

 “Well, it was your idea to take on lots of young horses that need plenty of exercise,” Dora reminded him. “This time of year there aren’t enough hours of daylight to fit it all in! You’ll be suggesting we build a covered yard next so we can exercise them at night as well.”

 “Maybe we should build that instead of your new stables,” Steve grinned.

 “Don’t you dare even think of it,” warned Dora, half-joking. She’d fought long and hard to get Steve to agree to more stables. “Look on the bright side, Steve. When the stables are finished we can get some of our horses back from Chadwick’s and save five pounds each horse each week.”

 “Yes,” said Steve noncommittally.

 Dora peered at him. “You were thinking of using the new stables for more horses to train, weren’t you?”

 “The thought HAD occurred to me. It’s good business.”

 “Oh, Steve! Firstly, we’re having trouble exercising the ones we’ve got, let alone taking on more. Secondly, Follyfoot is …Follyfoot. It’s for old horses who need a home. I agree that training these horses is working, it’s bringing in some money, but we can’t lose sight of what Follyfoot is, and farm every old horse out to Chadwick’s!”  Dora glared at him.

 “Hey, girl, I wasn’t suggesting we do. But think of the spring and summer, when some of the Follyfoot horses spend all their time in the field. We can take on more horses for training then – there’ll be empty stables. See?” He lowered the lunge whip and Raphael’s pace faltered.

 Dora said nothing; Steve knew that moody look too well. She considered. So that’s why Steve had finally agreed to having more stables. She had only thought about this winter and the overcrowded stalls and the horses living outside that had to come in. He looked further into the future, filling the stables with paying customers in the warmer months – but what happened in summer when old, tired, sick horses came along that needed a stable too? “Very clever,” she said finally, and didn’t elaborate.

 “It’s for us, girl,” Steve said fondly, putting an arm around her shoulder and watching Raphael slow to a walk. “Old horses cost money to look after. Vet bills for starters. How else are we going to be able to do it, if we don’t get an income? It’s all about balance. A balance between the young horses and the old. It’ll work. Tansy and Ladybird and all the others will be fine. Just trust me, girl.” He kissed her hair and squeezed her shoulder, loving her slightness, wanting to build a future that would protect her.

 They made the most of the sunny day. After lunch – bangers and mash this time for a change, with Ron commenting that bangers were appropriate, one good jab with a fork and they’d explode like fireworks – Dora, Steve and Hazel took Cezanne to the field. To their delight, the colt stood patiently while Hazel, almost shaking with excitement, lay over his back. They walked the colt in a wide circle, watching his expression as he felt the weight on his back as he walked. It was almost comical: the colt’s wide eyes and pricked ears, especially when he turned and saw Hazel’s legs hanging down his ribcage.

 “Hazel,” Steve said quietly, bringing Cezanne to a halt. “Swing your right leg over and sit up. But whatever you do, don’t kick him!”

 Slugger even left the warmth of the kitchen range to watch as Cezanne carried a rider on his back for the first time. Ron was tempted to start up his motorbike (always good for a backfire or two on ignition) but decided not to; he liked Hazel.

 The colt good-naturedly carried Hazel for fifteen minutes, then Steve thought it was enough for the day and Hazel, stuffing pony nuts into Cezanne’s mouth, led him back to the stable.

 After that the rest of the daylight hours were spent riding Hardacre’s other young horses. Dora took Misty over the low practice jumps, impressed by the filly’s scope and confidence. Steve had less joy with the volatile Picasso, who decided the plain post and rails was harbouring a ghost of immense proportions, and backed away from it with crackling nostrils and ears flattened. It took Steve almost half an hour of gentle persuasion to finally coax the gelding over the jump.

 Dora was exhausted by the time she helped with evening feeds. Riding all day was bliss, but the young horses were far more challenging than anything else in the Follyfoot stables. She decided to go for a hack on Copper the next day, as he’d been too long in the stable and needed a good gallop. She was so tired she fell asleep in the living room after dinner, and didn’t even notice when Steve carried her to her bedroom, slipped her boots off and tucked the blankets tenderly around her. She awoke bemused the next morning to find herself fully dressed and with one of the roses from the study beside her on the pillow.

 *    *    *

 By lunchtime Saturday Dora was so tired she was almost regretting saying she’d go to the funfair, but then told herself not to be stupid. Of course she had to go! She’d been looking forward to it for days.

 Outside it was cold but sunny, and the six young horses had been turned out in the fields to romp and play like the four-legged children they were. Dora had put the two colts in the jumping field with Folly for company and watched, delighted, as they explored the jumps, nosing at them and rattling them, deliberately scaring themselves.

 She leaned against the Lightning Tree and sipped her tea, cupping her fingers around the hot mug and enjoying the warm steam on her face. She recognized the footsteps behind her back and smiled as Steve joined her.

 “Ready for some fun tonight?”

 “Oh, yes.” She smiled through the steam.

 “It’s going to be good, just getting out for a bit, the two of us.” Steve felt his tea warm him through. “I can’t wait to see your face on some of those rides though!”

 “Beast!” Ron, when he’d found out Dora had never been on a fairground ride, had told her horror stories about some the rides and told her not to eat before going on them – and to hope that nobody else had either!

 Steve tipped the tealeaves onto the roots of the tree and slipped his arms around Dora’s waist. “I’ll protect you. You won’t be frightened.”

 His arms were so warm and strong she believed him. She couldn’t wait for night to fall and the fun to begin.

 *   *   *

 Filled with Slugger’s stew, and rugged up to the hilt, Steve and Dora ran from the farmhouse to the LandRover. Ron had already taken a giggling Hazel on his motorbike. Their voices singing “Saturday night’s alright for fighting” were louder than the Triumph’s motor as Ron revved out of the yard.

 Compared to the polite dimness of Tockwith the funfair shone like a beacon in a field on the town’s outskirts. Gaudy, noisy, enticing, with whirling lights and screaming riders, the rides dipped and spun and twisted. The smell of frying chips battled with the diesel generators and the scent of grass crushed underfoot.

 Dora gaped and Steve grinned at her expression. People jostled them, girls wearing huge furry hats their fellas had won for them on the coconut shy, teenage boys with cigarettes dangling from their lips, roaming in packs oozing bravado, and couples walking hand in hand, their eyes shining even brighter than the rides.

 “Come on, girl, what do you want to go on first? How about this one?” Steve dragged her towards a ride that spun its passengers out on long limbs, twirling in little seats and defying gravity. ‘The Cha Cha’ proclaimed a star-studded golden sign. Before Dora could protest Steve had bought tickets, and hustled her into one of the seats. He pulled the bar in front of them down tightly and wrapped his arms around her.

 “Ready?”

 “Steve, I’m not sure this is a – aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh!” Dora shrieked as the ride started and the seat began to twist and turn.  Faster and faster it went, until the fair below them was a blur.

 Dora clung to Steve, terrified and exhilarated, loving her fear. Her nose turned icy in the cold night, and the Cha Cha spun and whirled.  Steve laughed as Dora screamed, and hugged her closer. After a small eternity the ride began to slow down and the giant pneumatic arms brought their seat down to ground level again.  Dora wiped tears from her eyes; the wind, and her fear, had made them water.

 Her legs were shaking and Steve almost carried her away and sat her down next to the coconut shy. “So? What did you think?”

 “That was amazing,” Dora said shakily. “So scary, but I felt so alive. What was most frightening was not being in control of it. Like riding a horse that’s truly bolting and unstoppable.”

 “Let me win you something daft to make up for it.” Steve jingled coins in his pocket and waited his turn, watching to see if the coconuts fell easily or whether, like a lot of fairground games, the game had been rigged and the coconuts weighted down. The boy in front of him managed to knock one over and Steve was encouraged.

 Taking careful aim, Steve threw hard and knocked down three coconuts with his three balls. Bootfaced, the man who took his money told him to choose something from the top shelf. Steve’s eyes lighted on a stuffed pony, the kind of thing young girls keep on their bed. He couldn’t resist it and gave it to Dora with a flourish.

 “Follyfoot’s latest misfit,” Steve said lightly. “This one’s coming to Follyfoot because his nice shiny coat has turned into pink fluff.”

 Dora giggled. “Oh, Steve, he’s sweet! I never had many stuffed toys when I was a child. We were always moving and then I went to boarding school. Thank you!” From the way she flung her arms around him and kissed him, Steve thought, he might have given her a priceless jewel instead of a garish pink pony. He wished he COULD give her a priceless jewel.

 “What’s next?” Dora said, looking around her.

 “How about a drink? Something fizzy.”

 “I’ll be sick when I go on a ride then.”

 “That’s half the fun.” He pulled her close with one arm and they walked, hip to hip, to the food stall and gulped Coke.

 “Oh,” Dora breathed. “A carousel. Can we?”

 Steve rolled his eyes theatrically. “I bring you to a funfair and all you want to do is ride horses.”

 Dora dug him in the ribs. “Come on,” she urged, so he sat with her, laughing as their painted horses moved up and down on their poles, the carousel music tinny but melodic. Steve’s horse was shiny black, with bared teeth and rolling eyes. Next to it, Dora sat on a white pony with a gold bridle, sedate and elegant.

 “Ready for a real ride again now?” Steve teased, when the music had stopped and the horses frozen on their poles. “What about that one?” He pointed to the nastiest-looking ride in the place. Shrieks and screams from its passengers were louder than all the others as it spun them around mercilessly.

 “Okay,” Dora said recklessly, clutching her pink pony tightly. Her knees were shaking as she stood in line; it looked terrifying.

 “Roll up, roll up for the Maneater!” howled the spruiker who handed them their tickets. “Wildest ride this side of London! Only for the brave!”

 There were plenty of brave people jostling and clamouring to be scared senseless. Dora and Steve shared a cabin with four excited teenage girls who’d all dared each other to go on the ride and who began shrieking before the ride even started.

 Dora closed her eyes. She was aware that they were rising high above the spectators, then the cabin started to move forward. Faster and faster they went, then pitching up, then pitching down. It was like riding ocean waves in a storm; Dora’s stomach lurched with each drop, and she regretted downing the can of Coke.  The girls were screaming themselves hoarse, Steve was yelling with excitement, and when Dora opened her eyes and saw the earth coming closer and then, so suddenly, moving further away, she yelled too.

 When the ride stopped Dora was dizzy and disoriented. She stumbled down the stairs away from the ride, Steve’s hand steadying her elbow, and staggered into the nearest dark spot she could find. Dora knelt on the grass, her world still spinning. She was spectacularly sick, Coke and Slugger’s stew steaming on the ground.

 Steve fished in his pocket for a handkerchief. Kneeling beside her, he tenderly wiped her face. “Sorry, girl. That one was a bit too much for you, wasn’t it?”

 Dora leaned against him. “It would have been fine on an empty stomach.” She smiled weakly. “This isn’t very romantic, is it?”

 “Loving someone isn’t just chocolates and flowers,” Steve said lightly, dropping a kiss on Dora’s nose. “Come on, let’s go and sit down for a bit. I’ll get you some water.”  Pulling Dora to her feet, he led her through the crowds. He sneaked a look at his handkerchief and, repressing a sigh, dropped it in the rubbish bin near the chippy.

 Dora shuddered at the smell of chips and food, so they wandered past the sideshow alley and its harmless pursuits, where the screams and shouts were distant and the whirling lights not so bright.

 With a sigh, Dora tucked her coat tightly around her and sat on the cleanest patch of grass she could find, right at the edge of the funfair. Steve sank down beside her, noticing that colour was coming back into her pale cheeks.

 The nearest stall was a shooting gallery manned by a hearty chap shouting out how easy it was to win, come and try your luck. Prizes for the lads and prizes they could win for their lasses, everyone wins a prize.

 Dora smiled. “Are you going to try?”

 “Me? With a  gun?” Steve shook his head. “I don’t like guns.”

 They watched as a boy about Steve’s age aimed carefully and hit nothing. “The sights aren’t aligned properly,” Steve murmured. “So it’s hard to hit your target.”

 The stallholder gave the boy a teddy bear so small it was almost a cat toy, and his girlfriend squealed in delight and tucked it into her pocket.

 In the sudden silence, Dora heard the unmistakable sound of a horse snorting. “Steve, there’s a horse here!”

 “Considering this is some farmer’s property, it’s hardly surprising,” Steve said equably. “It’s probably in the next field. Sound carries at night.”

 “No, it was close.” Dora scrambled to her feet. “Poor thing, with all this noise and carry on. Let’s just take a look.”

 Steve sighed. “If it was upset, we’d know about it. He’d be whinnying and screaming.” But he clambered up and took her hand as she walked carefully into the shadows behind the shooting gallery.

 A tired-looking cob dozed between the shafts of a cart. “Cunningham’s Novelties” was painted in peeling pale script along the side.  Dora crept closer and peered over into the cart. Timber stakes, canvas sheets, sacks and various signs for the shooting gallery and its prices lay tumbled on the floor.

 Dora glanced from the cart to the shooting gallery, remembering the shelves laden with prizes, and the heavy bench that stood along the front.

 Creeping forward, she murmured at the cob and he turned his blinkered head as far as he could to look to her. Light from one of the rides flickered on his nose, and Dora saw the unmistakable face of an old horse, the flecks of white bleeding out from the thin stripe down his dark face, the sunken cheeks.

 “Steve! Look! This poor old fellow, he shouldn’t be pulling this cart!”

 Steve groaned. “Dora. No. Leave it. Not tonight.”

 “But that man must use him to go all over the countryside. Look, you can see… he packs the whole shooting gallery in the back.”  Dora wrestled with the horse’s mouth and finally, triumphantly, peeled the lips back and saw the yellow, sloping teeth. “He’s ancient. He shouldn’t be working.”

 The shards of light flittered over Dora’s face. Steve saw the determined expression he knew only too well. “Dora, it’s not our business. Not right now. We’re being us tonight, not just Follyfoot.”

 “Follyfoot IS us,” Dora insisted. “I’m going to see that man and ask him what he thinks he’s doing.” She tugged the belt of her coat more tightly around her.

 “If you do,” Steve said unsteadily, “You can find your own way back to Follyfoot. I’m not getting involved. Not this time.”

 Dora glared at him. “Don’t, Steve. Don’t make me choose.”

 “Come away, then. We’ll talk to the guy in the morning, okay? Have a look at his horse in daylight.”

 “He’ll be gone,” Dora said. “Isn’t this funfair for one night only?” Already she was heading for the front of the stall.

 “Dora. Wait, girl.”

 “Can’t.”

 Steve grimaced, made a fist and punched the cart. The horse snorted again, and Steve’s hand smarted in pain. Cursing himself for a fool, he saw Dora’s coat swing into the light.

 The magic of the night was gone. They weren’t two young people courting after all. It was another of Dora’s rescue missions. The lights were tawdry now, not enchanting. Laughter floating across the air was mocking, the screams taunting. The rides that whirled and twirled belonged to another life, one where people had innocent fun on a Saturday night.

 She hadn’t come back. Steve thought of his threat, to leave her there. It was cruel, it was wrong, but he was angry. Giving the horse a pat – its coat felt clean and healthy – he slipped into the darkness and away.

 He sat in the LandRover, unwilling to take the final step of starting it up and driving off. His breath fogged the windows, turning them opaque. Steve rested his arms on the steering wheel and his head on his arms. Dora. Oh, Dora. Why? Your loving heart goes out to those who need it, but what happens when I need it too?

 The car wasn’t much warmer than the night outside, the seats cold and hard. Five more minutes, Steve told himself, then I’ll go.

 He jumped as the passenger door opened, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Dora pulled herself into the car.

 “Well?” he said harshly. “Do I have to go back to Follyfoot and get the trailer so you can do your rescue act?”

 “No,” said Dora in a small voice. “Steve, I’m sorry.”

 She could see in the faint light that his face was set in anger.  “What’s the story?” he said. “You were wrong, weren’t you?”

 Dora hung her head. “Yes. The horse…he’s retired. He’s a family pet. He used to pull the cart but hasn’t for years. The man just used him tonight because his van had broken down. He only lives five miles away.” She pulled at a loose button on her coat, making it looser. “Steve?”

 “What?”

 She looked up, her eyes glistening. “Steve, I’m sorry I spoiled things tonight. Can we go back to the fair?”

 “It’s too late for that.”

 A tear trickled down Dora’s left cheek and she brushed it away with shaking fingers. The silence seemed to last a very long time; she could hear her own heart thumping. “What do you mean?” she whispered. Had she blown it with Steve? Just like that? She held her breath.

 Steve gestured impatiently. “Look. Everyone’s going. The funfair’s over.” It was true. Couples and groups of people were heading for their cars or walking back into Tockwith.

 “But…you and I…are we still…?” Dora bit her lip.

 “Still what?”

 “Fighting?”

 “Dora, we always fight. We probably always will.” Steve sighed.

 A loud thump on the side of the car made Dora shriek and Steve start. “Wotcher!” shouted a familiar voice. “Oy, why’s it all foggy in there? You two up to no good?”

 Steve wound down his window and Ron’s grinning face looked in. “Me and Hazel was just heading back to the farm. Guess you’ve got better things to do, eh?” Then he squinted at Dora and her brimming eyes. “Dear, dear, dear, a lover’s tiff already?”

 “Shut it, Ron,” Steve said shortly. “On your bike.” He wound the window back up again, aware of Ron’s cackling laugh.

 “Steve?” Dora whispered.

 “We should go. It’s getting late.”  Steve willed the car to start, turning the ignition several times before the engine caught in the cold air. The LandRover hiccoughed and roared into life.

 Dora looked regretfully at the fair behind her, as lights switched off one by one. It could have been perfect. The pink plush pony lay at her feet, mocking her for her impulsiveness. “Thanks for the pony,” she said timidly.

 Steve’s mouth twitched in a smile. “I wish it was the only bloody horse you’d met tonight.” He changed gear, then lifted his hand from the gear lever and squeezed Dora’s thigh.

 It was going to be alright, Dora thought. Wasn’t it? The headlights picked out the road in a weak yellow glow, and Steve’s hand stayed on her thigh for a long time.

 The end

 © 2007 Sabrina Ferguson