Diamonds in the snow
By
Sabrina
Follows “…Never
Runs Smooth” (Or Season 4, Episode 3)
Just when they thought winter couldn’t get colder, it did.
The workmen putting up the new stables couldn’t do their job when it was snowing; the stableyard was white with a slippery, crunchy covering, and horses were doubled up in looseboxes as even the most hardened Exmoor pony didn’t deserve to be stuck out in the field in this weather. The better bred and elderly horses were festooned in rugs and blankets – Ladybird’s coat was so fine she was loaded up with three blankets on her back, and Slugger had cut ear and eye holes in an old Army blanket she was wearing as a hood.
In the mornings, the horses blew visible steam from their nostrils as they whickered for breakfast.
“We’re all getting too old for this bloomin’ cold,” Slugger grumbled as he poked the kitchen fire into life and set the kettle on it. His hands were frozen despite fingerless gloves.
Steve, shivering, opened the kitchen door as little as necessary and slipped inside to the comparative warmth.
“Mornin’, lad,” Slugger greeted him. He peered, eyes half closed. “You look like an iceberg. What you doin’ still sleepin’ in that loft? Come and sleep in the ‘ouse.”
“Where, Slugs?” Steve ran a hand through his thick hair and knelt beside the fire, feeling the shivers gradually leave him. “There’s no spare room now Hazel’s here. Besides, I’ve got a hot water bottle and that little heater.” He didn’t tell Slugger how thick the ice was on his window every morning this week, or that he went to bed fully clothed but still couldn’t sleep because he was cold, frozen to the very marrow in his bones, and that he couldn’t feel his fingers and toes when he awoke.
“I thought you and Dora – you know…”
Steve grinned. “Yeah, it’s a nice thought. Dora wouldn’t kick me out. Dunno what the Colonel would say, though.”
“Doesn’t have to know, does he?”
“He’d know, Slugs. He knows everything. ‘Spose with Dora and me being an item he’d be okay about it. I’m still not sure I feel comfortable about it though. Follyfoot might be Dora’s but he’s still her uncle.” Steve warmed his hands near the side of the kettle, wincing as his numb fingers came to life. There was still a part of Steve that felt a twinge of guilt about courting Dora in the presence of the Colonel. Steve took a deep breath which turned into a fit of hacking coughs, each one racking his sinewy body.
“That’s it, you’re sleepin’ in the ‘ouse.” Slugger glared at Steve. “Cough like that could turn to harmonia.”
“It’s just the cold, Slugs,” Steve said weakly. He’d started to cough four days ago, but dismissed it as the tail end of the cold he’d had the week before. That, and the air that had so suddenly turned even icier. He’d dragged himself out of bed each morning, what little sleep he had having been disturbed by coughing fits. Steve was stoic and stubborn, and never admitted to illness.
Dora, swaddled tightly in her overcoat and a scarf, thundered downstairs and into the kitchen. “Oh Slugs, it’s like an iceberg up there! And the pipes are frozen.”
“Pipes are frozen, she says.
Tell me somethin’ I don’t know. I’ve already been into the barn and
filled the kettle.”
But Dora wasn’t listening. Her peripheral vision caught Steve huddled on the floor beside the stove, in the throes of a shiver.
“Steve! You’re sick!” She knelt beside him, the faint soft, spring scent of her perfume warming his nostrils and his heart. He shivered again, as much from her presence as his own thawing out.
“Don’t fuss, girl,” he said roughly. “’S’winter. Course I’m cold. You’re cold. We’re all cold.”
“Steve, this isn’t just cold,” Dora said firmly. She touched his face; it was burning, and not just from being next to the stove. “You’ve got a fever, I think.”
“Nurse Dora. Do you wear a pretty uniform, and will you take my pulse?” He grinned.
“I’ll give you an enema,” she retorted crossly. “Steve, it’s not funny. You’re sick. You are.”
“I was sick last week. I had a cold. I’m over it.” He pulled himself to his feet, fighting another bout of coughing. “I can’t afford to be sick, Dora. Ron won’t be coming in this morning with all the snow. The roads’ll be closed. It’s just you, me and Hazel and more horses than we can handle.”
As the kettle began to whistle, Slugger gave the fire another poke and the front page of last week’s Tockwith Examiner, with its dire headline of “Another Ice Age?” disappeared with a crackle of orange flame. This week’s newspaper sat on the kitchen table, the front page a mix of photos of an icy Tockwith town and warnings about people dying without electricity and warmth in the three-day week the government was introducing.
Hazel shivered her way into the kitchen as Slugger poured tea into four mugs. “Where’s Ron?”
“Probably still asleep, and half his luck.” Dora rubbed a clear patch on one of the window panes and peered through the icicles hanging from the gutters at the menacing sky. Somewhere above those brutally heavy clouds the sun was shining. Even as she watched, condensation started to re-form on the glass. “It’s started to snow again.”
Slurping her tea, Hazel rubbed her own pane of glass. “It’s gorgeous! Let’s build a snowman!”
“If you’ve got the energy after doing the horses, be my guest.” Steve sipped his tea, feeling weak at the thought of pitchforking pounds of muck with arms that felt a bit trembly.
“I can’t wait! Last one out’s a rotten egg!” Hazel grabbed her coat and opened the kitchen door. “I do LOVE winter.” Then she was gone, skipping recklessly over the snow to the stables.
“Loves winter, she says. She won’t by the time she gets to my age. ‘Ere, Steve, Dora. Wivvout Ron ere you could do wiv my ‘elp this mornin’, couldn’t you?”
“Thanks, Slugs. The more people we have working, the sooner we can stop for breakfast,” Dora agreed.
“Yeah, well, you know what I fink of them flippin’ great brutes. I’ll do the small ones.” Slugger shrugged on his Army greatcoat, a remarkable garment that had lost most of its shape and all its buttons. He tied it around his waist with twine and pulled his knitted hat further down his forehead. He turned at the door. “You two stayin’ there or wot?”
Steve gulped the last of his tea, feeling its warmth slowly heating him through. He felt better now, more able, and followed Dora into the light snowfall.
Dora and Hazel measured feeds for the horses while Steve and Slugger mucked out the stables. Slugger kept up a grumble (and everyone heard the word ‘brute’ regularly) but was as able-bodied as a younger man. Faster than Ron, Steve said, but that wouldn’t be hard. Steve was working slowly, fighting back coughing bouts and fits of dizziness, leaning against the horses and the stable walls when he had to.
“Poor Kalinka, I’m sure she’s completely blind now,” Dora said sadly, stroking the bay mare’s neck. The mare nuzzled awkwardly towards the bucket of nourishing oats and chaff, relying on her sense of smell rather than her eyes. “Steve,” she called, as he was mucking out three stalls down, “have you noticed Kalinka is much worse?”
The only answer was a groan and a thump. Dora threw Kalinka’s food into her manger, making the mare snort in fright, and rushed out, fumbling the bolt behind her, tossing the bucket to the ground with a clank.
“Steve!”
He lay at Ladybird’s feet, his face chalk pale in the darkness of the stable. The old mare, comical in her home-made hood, licked his face thoughtfully but Steve didn’t stir.
“Oh, Ladybird – move!” Dora pushed the mare’s inquisitive nose away and knelt beside Steve. He was breathing, but in ragged, laboured gulps. “Slugger!” she screamed. “SLUGGER!”
Slugger had been cleaning out the donkeys and he fairly ran up the yard and into the oldest part of the stables. “Wot the ‘ell…?”
“He collapsed, Slugs.” Dora’s eyes were glistening. “I can’t wake him up.”
“Let’s ‘ave a look, then. Move, you daft great cow.” This to Ladybird, whom Slugger casually cuffed aside. Dora, even with her knuckles nervously to her mouth, registered that Slugger wasn’t nearly as scared of the big horses as he made out.
Slugger dragged Steve back along the fresh straw and propped him against the wall. His breath became more even, less rasping, and he groaned. “Come on, lad, you’re frightenin’ the ‘orses. And Dora.” Slugger had seen people injured in the war, in the boxing ring and on the racecourse. Instinctively he felt for a pulse at Steve’s neck and was reassured it was beating strongly, if a little too fast.
“We’ve got to get him inside, Slugs, it’s too cold in here.” Dora knelt beside Steve, brushing the thick dark hair from his forehead and laying her hand against it. He felt as if he were on fire.
Steve opened his eyes, took a deep breath and immediately began to cough, his whole body racking with the effort. Dora turned horrified eyes to Slugger.
“Brown chitis,” said Slugger, giving the illness its country
“It could be pneumonia,” Dora worried.
“Chest cold,” gasped Steve in between coughs, but his ribs felt like there was a piercing band of steel around them.
“Or pleurisy.” Dora bit her lip.
“’T’s only a cold,” Steve snapped, and tried to stand up. Lack of oxygen had made him dizzy, and Slugger and Dora propped him against the wall.
“C’mon girl, get yer arm around ‘im, put ‘is arm over yer shoulder, that’s it. Now, let’s get ‘im inside.” Together they dragged Steve out of the stable, his legs moving feebly.
Hazel met them with shocked eyes at the door to the stables. “Steve’s sick,” Dora said shortly. “Sorry, Hazel, but can you take over? Lock Ladybird up and finish feeding. I’ve got to get a doctor for Steve.”
“Don’t FUSS,” Steve grumbled, but when he saw the welcoming sofa in the office and the even more welcoming fire he sank onto the old cracked leather with relief, not noticing when Slugger pulled his boots off or when Dora slipped a cushion under his head and covered him with the duvet from her own bed.
Dora spent the next fifteen minutes arguing with the doctor’s receptionist, demanding that the doctor visit Steve on his rounds this morning. “He’s too sick to move,” Dora stated at the suggestion they bring Steve into the surgery. “Please.” Snowy roads weren’t an issue; Slugger could meet the doctor with the Land Rover (Slugger’s eyebrows raised at this – he typically refused to drive in snow). Cost wasn’t an issue; Dora was Colonel Maddocks’s niece. One by one Dora ground down the arguments until the receptionist tiredly agreed the doctor would be there in an hour.
Dora didn’t notice when Hazel came in wearily from the stables, thoughts of snowmen forgotten, or when Slugger stuck his head around the door telling her breakfast was ready. She stayed by Steve’s side, gently pressing a cool, damp flannel against his burning forehead.
Really warm for the first time in days Steve was able to sleep by the fire; an awkward, twitching feverish sleep from which he’d half wake, and cough helplessly, before sinking back into twirling, uncomfortable dreams. Horses bolted and dragged him along the ground by one leg, his mother called to him before laughing and running away with a fistful of pounds fluttering in her fingers, Dora cried and tugged at his arm, begging him not to go after his mother, and fire threatened to engulf him, making him shout in his sleep.
Slugger fossicked through the bathroom cabinet and unearthed a jar of Friar’s Balsam. The pungent, aromatic herbs steamed under Steve’s nose in an enamel bowl while the minutes, and finally hours, ticked by.
Dora didn’t leave Steve’s side, listening anxiously to his ragged breathing. From time to time she piled logs onto the fire until the room was like a hothouse and she had to take her coat and then her sweater off.
Steve fell in and out of wakefulness, aware of Dora’s presence, of her gentle hands that pushed his sweaty hair off his face, and the cool cloth she dabbed on his skin. How could he be so hot and so cold all at once, he wondered briefly, before Dora’s soothing hands stroked his hair, lifted the heaviness of it off the back of his damp neck, and caressed him into sleep. He reflected as he drifted away that she was as good with humans as she was with horses…if only she’d show it more often.
In his uneasy sleep he didn’t feel the soft kisses against his cheek, and once on his lips, but he dreamed of spring meadows and the scent that Dora wore. He didn’t feel her sweep his thick hair back and trace the shape of his ear with a careful finger, in an exploration she only had the confidence to do when he wasn’t aware of it. In love they might be, but she could still be shy with him, shyer even than when they’d been just friends.
Hazel tiptoed in and knelt beside Dora. “Slugger says Steve’s got Brown Chitis. What’s that?” she whispered. “Is he going to die?”
“Of course not!” Dora hissed back, strongly enough to reassure herself as much as Hazel. “Slugger means bronchitis. I had it a few years ago but I was never as sick as this.”
Dora was so focussed on Steve she didn’t notice when Hazel left the room to finish the morning mucking out.
It was almost lunchtime when the Land Rover jerked to a grumpy halt at the farmhouse gate. Sadly it was only a locum, not the doctor they knew and trusted who was a friend of the Colonel’s. He was young, dark-haired and brusque, in a hurry to be onto his next case.
Steve woke into a coughing fit as Dr James flicked his black bag open with a loud click. “Foul weather,” the doctor grumbled. “Three motor accidents and a broken leg so far this morning. You’re lucky I’m here.”
While Steve coughed his thanks Dr James went into action with a thermometer and stethoscope, humming and hahing and expressing horror at Steve’s description of his cosy eyrie over the stables.
“But I’ve lived there for ages,” Steve protested. “I’ve had two winters in there. I’ve got a heater and a hot water bottle.”
“If you spend this winter in some hellhole over the stables, I can’t guarantee you’ll see spring,” Dr James retorted. “You’ve got acute bronchitis, as nasty as I’ve ever seen it. You need a warm room, antibiotics and at least two weeks’ rest.”
“Told ‘im he should’ve moved into the ‘ouse before this,” Slugger said to nobody.
Dora and Slugger left the room while Dr James prepared a shot of penicillin and told Steve to drop his trousers.
“He can sleep in my bed,” Dora said firmly.
“Sleep in my bed, she says. Where will you sleep then, girl?”
“In my bed too.”
Slugger knew better than to argue with her. Dora’s face was set in stubborn determination. “We could always send Hazel back to the social,” he suggested carefully. “Steve could have ‘er room. You might be a bit cramped in that little bed of yours.”
“We NEED Hazel, Slugs, if Steve’s going to be resting for a while. You and I can’t do it, and if the snow keeps up Ron won’t come in half the time. And besides, it’s not fair on Hazel. She has a home here, like we all do. No, Steve can stay upstairs with me. My bed isn’t tiny, and it’s not as if either of us is podgy. But I might ask Uncle Geoffrey if he’s got a spare bed we can have, a bigger one.”
“Blimey, you’re game,” Slugger muttered. He suddenly sniffed and gave a squawk of horror. “Me stew! It’s burnin’!”
Hazel sat in the shadows on the stairs, unseen and unheard. She’d had a life with foster parents, the final family lasting longer than any. They’d treated her like their own daughter until she’d done something stupid, unforgivable in their eyes, and had summarily thrown her out. Ever since then she’d been looking over her shoulder, unsure of her welcome. She was unsure again now of how she fitted in at Follyfoot. Too many people and not enough rooms…just like the stables themselves with their equine occupants doubled up. She sighed, and chewed the ends of her hair, huddling in the dark recesses and choosing not to hear Slugger calling her for lunch.
* * *
That afternoon Dora decided that Steve needed nourishing food – a good vegetable soup, something light and full of fresh goodness. Slugger’s plans were the regular ones he had for every Tuesday evening – bangers and mash, which meant burnt sausages, a glutinous pile of potato with too little butter and milk, and vegetables boiled to a uniform greyness. Steve had refused lunch, and he was so ill he couldn’t afford not to eat that evening.
So Dora set about making soup. She’d never made soup before. Her specialty, when she wasn’t nervous about burning her hands on the fiery hob, was making a pot of tea and a round of toast to go with it. Despite a finishing school that boasted how its pupils could whip up a plate of Angels on Horseback at nearly no notice (providing oysters and fresh bacon were in the larder and what decent house didn’t have a stock of oysters to hand?), Dora’s culinary skills were almost nil.
Slugger and Hazel had volunteered to do evening stables while Dora tended to Steve and prepared her soup. Surrounded by potatoes sprouting cream stalagmites, home-grown carrots of interesting shapes, parsnips with long rats’ tails and the ticking bomb of a brown onion which needed to be skinned, Dora was bemused. Slugger didn’t make soup very often so there was nothing to go by; in fact most of the soup Dora had eaten in her life had been pureed and of gourmet distinction, prepared by chefs and served by waiters. Simple vegetable soup was a mystery. She found some stock cubes gathering dust on the shelf and thrust the entire lot into a vast quantity of water which she set to heat on the hob. Peeling the vegetables (and occasionally her fingers in the process), she tossed them whole into the pot one by one as they were done. She felt very accomplished and virtuous, and could almost hear the appraising tones of the French chef who’d taught her class at finishing school. “Soup is a staple of the art of the kitchen,” he used to say, but that’s all Dora could remember about his soup teachings. Something must have rubbed off, though; she thought she was a natural and as she waited for the soup to boil imagined taking over from Slugger and creating cordon bleu meals every night with a mere sweep of her whisk. If she had one. If she knew what one was.
Meanwhile Steve slept, feverish and anxious, waking with an ever-present cough seeking to be released.
Dora spent her afternoon alternating between stirring her soup (just how long WOULD it take before the vegetables softened?) and sitting at Steve’s side, offering him sips of water or tea.
“Don’t fuss, girl,” he grumbled.
“I’m not fussing. You’re sick. I’m making you soup.”
“You?” His laugh turned into a barking cough. “Couldn’t be worse than Slugger’s.”
“Thank YOU.” She punched his pillows into shape with unnecessary force. “Are you feeling well enough to go upstairs yet?”
“Upstairs?”
“You’re sleeping in my bed until you’re better,” Dora told him happily. The thin end of the wedge; once he was in her bed there was no need for him to ever leave.
“Where are you sleeping then?”
“In my bed too.”
“Dora. No. It’s not right.” Steve propped himself up on one elbow. “The Colonel –“
“Oh, Steve! The Colonel WHAT!? I’m an adult, I own this farm, for heaven’s sake. We’ve both slept in stables together nursing sick horses. What’s the difference?” But she knew very well what the difference was.
Steve slumped back on his pillows, the cracked leather chesterfield creaking under him. “Oh girl,” he said softly, “There’s a right time for everything and I don’t think this is it.”
“The time will never be right, will it, Steve?” Dora turned away so he couldn’t see the brightness in her eyes, and watched the snow fall in soft swathes across the yard. “There’ll always be some excuse, some reason. Why can’t you just accept that you’re sick and you need my bed?”
“Only if you’re not in it.”
“STEVE!”
“Dora. If I share your bed, it comes with all the consequences. At the moment, I’m not well enough to make a cup of tea let alone make love.”
“I just want to get you better, Steve. That’s all.” She swung back, knelt on the worn carpet beside the sofa, looked pleadingly into his face. “If you feel sick in the night, at least I’m there. You need a bed, warm blankets and a soft pillow.”
“You make me sound like Ladybird,” he said wryly. “I’ll do you a deal. I’ll sleep in your bed if you sleep in that little trundle bed thing Cleo used when she stayed in your room.”
Dora pulled a face. The bed in question was a very narrow single, with a suspiciously lumpy mattress.
“Take it or leave it, girl.”
She sighed. “Come on, I’ll help you upstairs. The soup should be ready soon, it’s been on for two hours.”
Slugger had loaned Steve a pair of clean pyjamas with blue stripes so faded they were almost white, and they hung on his lean frame comically. Dora, when she carefully carried the tray of soup upstairs, almost burst into laughter.
Steve gaped at the soup when she placed the tray on his knees. The steaming bowl featured one whole potato, boiled until it had split, a limp carrot which disintegrated when he prodded it with his spoon, unidentifiable translucent bits he thought may have been onion once several hours ago and dissipated rats’ tails of parsnip. The pride on Dora’s face dared him to comment that she should have chopped the vegetables first, and he weakly took a sip.
“Delicious,” he said, shuddering at the amount of salt she’d put into it.
“See, I said it would be better than Slugger’s stew.”
To his horror she sat on the spare bed and watched him eat it. At least, he told himself, it was hot, which was the best that could be said for it.
“I’ve made a whole pot full,” Dora smiled. “So you can have some more for supper.”
“To be honest, Dora, I’m not that hungry. I’m sure Slugger and Hazel will enjoy some though.” With an effort he ate the last mouthful and put his spoon down. “Now girl, go and feed the horses and let me have some sleep, eh?”
Dora felt snubbed, but noticed Steve looked abysmally tired, with lines at the side of his mouth that shouldn’t be there. “Sweet dreams,” she said gently, caressing his cheek with one hand, dropping a light kiss on his too-hot cheek, and when she’d closed the door softly behind her he swore softly.
How many men would turn down the opportunity to share a bed with Dora, even if it was only to sleep? How often lately had he longed for her arms around him, holding him as the nights became colder and colder? “Idiot.” He thumped the pillow, Dora’s pillow with her scent on it, and it was the perfume of spring flowers which comforted him and finally sent him into a fitful slumber.
* * *
“This soup is horrible,” Hazel commented. “Slugger, you should stick to stew.”
“Horrible, she says. I didn’t make the soup. Dora did.”
Hazel gaped. “I didn’t know you could cook,” she said to Dora.
Dora took her first sip of her soup. “I can’t, obviously,” she admitted, putting her spoon down. “Ugh. Poor Steve, I can’t believe he ate a whole bowl of it.” She stared miserably at her potato sticking like a steaming iceberg out of its soupy sea.
“There, there, luv.” Slugger patted her shoulder. “I can whip up some bangers an’ mash in no time if you ‘aven’t nicked all me spuds.”
Dora thought she’d never be glad to hear those words. She was also extremely relieved Ron was snowed in – how he’d laugh at her soup!
Slugger busied himself peeling and chopping potatoes – chopping, Dora noticed – and heating the griddle for the sausages, humming to himself.
Hazel slid a sideways look at Dora. “So Steve’s in your bed?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you sleeping then?”
Dora hesitated, then sighed. “In a trundle bed next to my bed. My bed…er…isn’t big enough for two.” No way was she admitting to pretty Hazel that Steve had spurned her.
Hazel started playing with the cruet set, remembering the conversation she’d overhead that morning about there not being enough bedrooms. She was aware too of the strange relationship between Dora and Steve; in love but not lovers, warily circling each other, afraid to give in and just enjoy it, waiting for some unspecified time when it would be ‘right’ and the world would shift on its axis. One week holding hands, the next holding back. Would it help them if she moved out of her room, she wondered. Or even out of Follyfoot – that would take away any competition for Dora, who was totally insecure when it came to Steve. The solution came to her as Slugger presented her plate with a flourish. She hardly registered that the bangers were burnt and the mash lumpy as she thought through her idea.
* * *
Steve was snoring lightly as Dora crept into her bedroom. He’d wrapped the blankets and duvet around him so only his head was out of the covers. Silently Dora undressed and pulled a nightgown over her head, shivering as the chill air forced its way through the closed window and curtains.
The single spare bed, smothered in blankets and pillows and with a hot water bottle stuffed somewhere in the middle, Dora ignored, aside from pulling out the hot water bottle and slipping it into her own bed then carefully edging herself in after it.
Steve, sleeping the best sleep he’d had in days, didn’t stir as Dora snuggled against his back and wrapped an arm around him. He dreamed about her, galloping Copper in the summer sun, laughing as he, pushing Alex hard, caught up. In his dreams, he swung her from her horse and held her tight, her arms warm around him, her lips against his hair, his neck. A vivid dream… he wanted it to go on and never end as he sank deeper in warm, blissful oblivion.
Dora lay awake most of the night savouring the closeness of Steve as he slept and twitched like a puppy. She drank in the way the moonlight threw shanks of neon blue on his dark hair, and her hands explored the strong muscles of his upper body. His cheeks were dark with stubble, but the eyelashes that rested on the top of his cheekbones were infinitely darker, long as a girl’s; Dora gazed so long at his sleeping face she was afraid she’d wake him. From time to time she dropped a kiss on him, unable to stop herself but scared he’d surface and discover her there. Finally, at six, she slipped silently out of the gloriously warm bed and into her chilly jeans and sweater and padded downstairs, her hands still warm from Steve.
When Steve woke a little later he was puzzled as to why he’d acquired a second hot water bottle in the night. Dora presumably was already down at the stables – her nightgown was thrown on top of the trundle bed. He took a deep breath unthinkingly and began to cough, his lungs aching with the effort.
Almost on cue, the door opened and Dora came in with a cup of tea and three clean handkerchiefs. Steve took them both gratefully, drank from one and used the other while Dora looked at him and thought that only an hour ago she’d been in bed with him, cuddling him and feeling his chest rise and fall with each shallow breath.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better for a good night’s sleep.” He propped himself up on the pillows. “How did you sleep on that thing?”
“I was warm and comfortable, if a bit squashed,” Dora said truthfully. “You don’t look nearly so tired. You should see the yard this morning! We’ll have to shovel snow away from the doors to open the stables.”
Steve felt guilty about lying in bed, and said so. Dora told him not to be stupid and to stay put. “We can manage. As long as we can feed and muck out, we’ll be fine. Slugger and Hazel are down there now, and I’m just about to join them. I’ll bring breakfast up later,” she promised. “Oh, and Steve…I’m sorry about the soup. I didn’t realise what it tasted like.”
“It was delicious.”
“Liar.”
He grinned. “Okay, it was pretty awful. But you’d worked so hard, and your heart was in the right place. Thanks anyway.”
For a very long moment they stared at each other. Steve was remembering his dream, so much more delicious than any food, soup or not, and Dora was thinking how much she’d love to slip back under the covers and nestle against Steve’s back again.
“I’d better go,” she said finally, afraid he could read her mind and discover where she’d slept the night before. Light as thistledown, she leaned over and kissed him swiftly on the lips.
When she’d gone her perfume lingered in the air, a mix of flowery soap, light scent, shampoo. It had only been the last few months that Dora dabbed on a drop of two or scent every day, and Steve knew it wasn’t for the horses’ benefit. He smiled and snuggled back into bed, stifling another cough, feeling the warmth of her lips still on his own cracked, dry ones.
* * *
“Slugger, I’ve been thinking.”
“Thinkin’, she says. Dangerous thing, thinkin’. Can lead to thoughts and you don’t want those, young Hazel.”
“Seriously, Slugger. Dora and Steve. And me. Why don’t I move into Steve’s old room over the stables? That way Steve could have a bedroom in the house.”
Slugger slammed down the saucepan. “No, girl. Them stables is too cold. Look what they done to Steve. And you’re only a lass, you’re not strong enough to sleep out there.”
“But…but Steve and Dora don’t seem happy about sharing a room. It seems obvious. Me moving out I mean. I’m – I’m sort of a stranger still.”
“We’re all strangers here, girl. Haven’t you noticed? Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about them two. Give it a few days an’ I reckon Steve’ll be moving ‘is clothes in upstairs.” Slugger scrubbed the saucepan under the tap with unnecessary force. Hazel decided he didn’t approve of living together. “Mind you it’ll only last till the first argument. Daft young devils. Always fightin’ over nothin’, them two.” So the scrubbing and huffing, Hazel deduced, was over Steve and Dora NOT getting on rather than them getting on too well. “No luv, you stay put where you are. They got some growin’ up to do. Sometimes I fink you’re more grown up than the pair of ‘em.”
“What do you mean, Slugger?”
He put down the scourer, wiped his hands on the rough towel hanging from the cupboard below the sink. “Dora an’ Steve ‘ave both gotta learn that bein’ grown up means you take the rough wiv the smoove. No gettin shirty because Steve put Ladybird’s rug on inside out or Dora gets upset over a norse. Life’s bigger than that. At the moment, they can both run to their own boltholes, can’t they? Steve over the stables, Dora to her room. Leave ‘em togevver in there, they’ll realise most of their fights are over nothin’, ‘cos there’s no room TO fight. Geddit?” It was the longest speech Hazel – or anyone else – had heard Slugger make.
“Goddit.” Hazel took the tea towel and began to dry the mugs. “So if the Colonel drops in and finds Steve in his niece’s bedroom, Steve’s actually doing Dora a favour?” She grinned.
“Er…yeah. Too flippin’ smart for yer own good, aren’t yer? You gonna dry that mug or let it drip on me nice clean floor? Go on, girl, go outside and make that snowman you was talkin’ about. Be a kid…before you have to grow up too.”
Hazel gave Slugger a quick hug and shrugged her coat on so quickly her arms were a blur. The cold hit her as she walked across to the yard, her breath steaming like cigarette smoke. She must have been mad to think she could live out here, she thought as she crunched through the snow and up to Steve’s room. It was horridly cold, dank and damp. Even the sheets on the bed felt like ice, and the little one-bar heater Steve had plugged in would hardly take the edge off it. The room felt strange without him, as if she were trespassing on someone else’s land.
How stubborn Steve could be! Anyone else would have begged for a room in the house, the chance to sleep in the study – anything! Hazel wandered around the room, picking up Steve’s possessions and putting them down again. She felt a pang of guilt when she saw the photo of his mother in the picture frame that had been repaired. It seemed only last week that she’d deliberately broken it, taking out her anger on the world and on Steve for caring about Dora, but that had been months ago and it seemed like another life now.
“There’s no room TO fight,” Hazel said in Slugger’s tones. And in Follyfoot, there wasn’t. Whether you were angry at someone or in love with them, the horses still had to be looked after, exercised, fed. They didn’t care if you were fighting; they had their expectations. This was why Follyfoot’s disparate human inhabitants stayed here, Hazel thought. The horses drew them together, transcended everything else. Love, hate, jealousy – it all had to be put aside for the horses. Who’d have thought horses could rule people like that? Hazel grinned, imagining Copper with a crown on his head and a sceptre held proudly (somehow!) with one hoof.
She put the frame down carefully, noting that Steve had tucked into the back of it the card from Dora that had originally accompanied it. “Love Dora” in Dora’s strong blue hand stood out in the murky greyness of the little room.
Oh, Steve was attractive! And he had the same background as herself – orphanages, non-existent parents. It was useless to consider him as anything but a big brother, though; that “Love Dora” wasn’t just a card, it was an instruction to him, which he obviously – and willingly - obeyed. Hazel sighed. Steve thought she was still just a kid; compared to Dora, she was.
So she’d do something childish. Hazel pulled her mittens back on and galloped down the stairs to make the biggest snowman she could.
It was only when she’d finished him - stuck two stones in for eyes, decided carrots were better used on horses than a snowman’s nose and fed hers to Folly, made a nose of wood instead, furnished a smiling mouth from pebbles and hands from straw - that she noticed a horse in the field on the other side of the fence. It was nosing the ground, pawing at the snow to get at the grass hidden below.
Hazel frowned. It wasn’t a Follyfoot horse; all the horses were inside, warming their old bones and feeding on bought hay and grains. This one had clearly been in the field for hours, his back was spattered in patches of snow. How could they have not seen him earlier? She knew; their minds were on Steve.
Hazel, grinning at her own braininess, collected a handful of oats from the barn before carefully opening the gate into the field.
Up close, he was cob-sized and stocky. Bigger than a pony, with the build of a draught horse but not the height. He gratefully nuzzled the oats from her palm and she grabbed the halter he was wearing, an old leather halter than had been mended several times. If more oats were forthcoming, he seemed to say, she could lead him anywhere. Under the heavy coat his ribs were angular, and he had hipbones you could hang a coathanger from. Under the snow he was dark brown with a star on his forehead that narrowed to a snip down his nose, and under the heavy forelock were bright eyes which told her that despite his condition and the cold weather, he was far from giving up on life.
“Poor old thing!” Hazel stroked his hairy cheek and fondly tugged one furry ear. Even through her mittens she could feel how cold he was. She began to lead him back to the stables and mentally worked out where she could put him.
The only place left was with the donkeys. Every stall was full, some looseboxes had two inhabitants standing nose to tail to warm each other up. Bubble and Squeak glared at her and gave hostile honks, then retreated into their shelter, but Hazel was relentless. There was nowhere else for him to go.
While the donkeys stared balefully at the intruder Hazel made a feed up. She had no idea when the horse had last had grains to eat, so made a mash up with bran and treacle and chaff. In her head she could hear Dora telling her that if a horse was undernourished grains like oats could give him colic. She could barely get the bucket into the enclosure before the horse dove into it, snorting happily, eating great mouthfuls with steam rising from his face.
Satisfied he wasn’t going to fight with the donkeys, Hazel headed for the cottage. Standing watching the new arrival made her realise how cold it was.
“There’s a new horse!” she said to Slugger through her shivers.
“Naw, Dora hasn’t taken one in for weeks.”
“There is! He was in the field. Abandoned. Unwanted. Dumped on us.”
“Oh flippin’ ‘eck.” Slugger put down the socks he was mending. “You for real?”
“Real real. I’d better tell Dora, hadn’t I?” Hazel hung her cold, wet mittens over the chair nearest the stove.
“One more mouth to feed,” she could hear Slugger grumble as she headed for the office.
Dora was doing the accounts. Either her arithmetic was more screwy than usual or, with the young horses they were training, there was a bit more money in the bank this month. With all the horses inside on hard food, she had to work out how many weeks Follyfoot would be safely in the black. Given that they couldn’t work the young horses while the ground was snowy, she could perhaps keep them on for a couple of extra weeks to ensure they were fully trained, in which case by March they would have how many pounds -? Dora chewed her pencil, and was grateful when Hazel burst in.
“Dora, someone’s left a horse here!”
Dora’s first thought was how annoyed Steve would be, with the stables full to overflowing. She was almost thankful he was upstairs, presumably catching up on all the sleep he’d missed over the last week. “Where have you put him?”
“In with the donkeys. I’m not sure who’s more scared of whom.”
Dora shrugged her coat on and together they shivered their way into the yard. “Poor old boy,” Dora said softly. “I think he’s a working horse. If you look carefully, you can see his coat is rubbed a little where the traces go.” She stroked the horse’s shoulder, showing Hazel.
“Who’d work a horse into the ground like this?” Dora heard echoes of her own fury against the brutality of people in Hazel’s shrill voice.
“I don’t know. But I’ll find out. Someone must know whose horse this is. There aren’t too many working horses left around here.” Dora hugged the horse’s neck. There were strong muscles under her hands, and despite his ribby appearance the animal had a proud crest on his neck. “Are you sure you didn’t see anyone hanging around after breakfast?”
“Certain.” Hazel nodded. “I think the horse must have been dumped here last night. He’s got snow on his back… and it hasn’t snowed yet today.”
“I didn’t hear anyone come,” Dora said thoughtfully. “But then with all the snow, it would muffle hoofbeats. I’m surprised the horse could get here, he’d have balls of snow in his feet and be slipping all over the place.” She picked up one of the horse’s forelegs and he grunted in surprise.
“Well, it would have melted by now anyway here in the donkey’s pen. We’d better find him a blanket.” But she knew there were none left. Every horse blanket in the place had been put on a grateful back. Finally she took the extra blanket she’d given Kalinka out of sympathy; the mare was warm enough in her inside stall with only one.
It was cold enough outdoors for Slugger’s stew to smell tempting. Dora sniffed appreciatively as she stamped the snow off her boots on the kitchen step. She was hungry. With only Hazel and Slugger to help, and the stables chockfull, they had had to do the mucking out before and after breakfast.
“Eat yours first,” Slugger ordered, “an’ then take Steve’s up. I think he’s still asleep.” He dished out a generous steaming serve, and maybe because she was so hungry Dora thought that for once it tasted wonderful, and said so.
Slugger looked bashful. His eyes slid swiftly to the dresser and back again, and Dora noticed a cookbook open on top of the dresser. Smiling, she said nothing. Maybe her awful soup had done them all a good deed!
Carefully she carried a tray up to Steve, who was sitting up in her bed, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Sorry, girl, to be so useless.”
“Steve, you’re never useless. Honestly. You’re sick.” She plumped down beside him and rested the tray on his legs. “You must try this stew. I think it almost ranks as a casserole. I have a hunch Slugger has been using a recipe book.”
Steve grinned, looking much healthier. “Slugger? Never!” He carefully selected a forkful of stew and examined it. “Well… it looks a bit nicer than usual.” Tasting it, he commented, “I think Slugger has discovered garlic. There’ll be no holding him now.” He tucked into the rest of it, glad his appetite was returning. When the plate was empty, wiped clean with a chunky slice of bread, he said: “You must get Ron up here, Dora. You can’t look after all those horses with only three people. Especially as they’re stabled around the clock. He can sleep in my room.”
Dora grinned. “I can just see that. Ron, slumming it over the stables when he’s got a nice warm room at his dad’s place with central heating?”
“It’s too dangerous for him to ride up here each day, and Slugger hates driving on snowy roads. One trip to bring him up here, and he can stay until the roads are clear.”
“Oh, Steve. Why didn’t I think of that?”
Steve was too busy coughing to reply. He gasped for breath, and just as Dora was about to call for Slugger, he managed to get himself under control and breath normally again. “I’m getting better. Really.” He smiled at her worried eyes. “Just get Ron up here, girl. I’ll recover quicker if I know you’re not stretching yourself to the limit.”
Kissing his forehead and promising she’d ring Ron, Dora took the tray back downstairs. She was glad he’d been preoccupied with Ron, because she was afraid she’d somehow blab that they’d gained an extra horse overnight, and that would only worry him more and stop him concentrating on getting well.
* * *
Ron had just got to the exciting part in a comic book Western when the phone rang. His mind was still on the hero riding to the rescue of the pretty girl being held by bandits, and it took his father almost a minute to get his attention. “Work, Ron! It’s Dora wants you!”
“’Ello Dora, wot a shame about the snow on the roads. Dear dear dear, me bike’s no good in snow and me Dad won’t take me in his car ‘cos it’s too posh and might get damaged. Sorry I can’t make it in – wot? …But Slugger don’t like driving in snow…. Steve’s room?... Where’s Steve then?... Ooh, does your Uncle know? … Oh. Sorry to ‘ear that. ‘Ope he gets better quick. ‘Ow long you fink I’ll have to stay in Steve’s room? … But it could snow for days!...Oh, all right. I’ll pack me bag.”
Ron sighed, and looked regretfully at his book. He’d been planning to walk down to the pub tonight and chat up that bird with the wild blonde hair and pink miniskirt. Fat chance now. Instead of the bird keeping him warm tonight he’d only have his book and a pathetic blanket or two. The first things Ron packed were all the blankets on his bed. He wondered whether his bike would fit in the back of the Land Rover - the earlier he could escape back to the blonde bird the better.
* * *
With Ron at the farm, albeit unwillingly, they got through evening stables a lot quicker. Complaining about the cold, as he hadn’t left his dad’s warm living room in two days, Ron discovered that the quicker he worked the warmer he stayed. Dora had never seen him muck stables out so quickly, and he positively ran with the wheelbarrow up to the muck heap, its front wheel skidding all over the icy ground.
Dora was thankful the barn was full of hay and feed, enough to last a few weeks. The loft was full of hay and straw bales, and the downstairs area had more bales piled high. She broke open two of them for Ron to wheelbarrow back down to the horses, loving the fresh smell of them and the sweetness of the chaff and grains. Her back ached as she dove into the feed bins, ladling out lucerne chaff and oaten chaff, bran and oats. Hazel and Slugger took them down to the horses, leaving Copper and Alex for Dora to do at her own request.
She checked Copper’s rugs, promising him a good run when the snow had melted. He was too busy nosing through his food for oats to pay attention. Dora had cut his oats as he was stuck inside, and liable to hot up too much if fed hard feed without exercise. Already he was twitchy, longing for a good gallop, his eyes darting about like a child who’s had too much red cordial. He couldn’t understand why he was being kept in his stable, and pawed impatiently at the door when she finally left him, feed dropping from the corners of his mouth.
Now darkness was falling, and the clouds were purple and ominous. Slugger had gone to the farmhouse already, and Dora, Ron and Hazel ran shrieking like children to the cottage, chasing each other, sliding on the slippery earth. In the kitchen window the oil lamp burned with a soft glow, and Slugger had the kettle on.
“Them clouds mean snow,” he said apparently to the teapot.
“Another snowman,” sighed Hazel happily, because Ron, still annoyed at missing his hot date, had punched the head off the one she’d built that morning when she wasn’t looking.
“You’d better make it with a skirt,” suggested Dora. “For Ron.”
“Garn,” grumbled Ron into his tea. “She’s a smasher, too. Hope Lewis doesn’t chat ‘er up before the snow melts.”
By the time bangers and mash were ready – Slugger’s cookbook was nowhere to be seen – the stableyard was black as pitch and condensation had almost completely frosted over the kitchen windows. It seemed much later than it really was.
Dora took Steve’s tray up and told him about Hazel’s headless snowman, and how energetically Ron had worked.
“I knew he could,” Steve said. “He just needed something to make him do it. Like responsibility.”
“More likely he was running around to keep warm,” Dora smiled. “I can’t imagine Ron ever being responsible, except for things that go wrong.”
They grinned at each other. In the dim lighting of Dora’s room it was only too easy for Steve to lift a hand to caress Dora’s soft pink cheeks. The empty tray was thrust aside as Dora nestled next to him on top of the covers, her arms happily around his shoulders.
Steve rested his cheek on her head; she could feel the bristles on her scalp through her hair. “I wish I could help you, girl. It’s not fair on you in this weather.”
She could hear him breathing, almost hear the air drag uncertainly into his lungs. “You stay in bed, Steve,” she ordered, her voice muffled as her lips were on his throat. “We’ll manage, now Ron’s here.”
He held her tightly, as if he were drawing strength and health from her. The only sounds were the branches of the tree outside the window gently caressing the glass, and Steve’s heavy, harsh breath. Finally his hold on her loosened, and Dora realised he was asleep. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or insulted, and smiled at herself.
“Sweet dreams,” she whispered, and took the tray carefully downstairs.
Ron was teaching Hazel to play poker, and his pile of matchsticks was three times the size of hers.
“So your three sevens beats a …what did you call it? A flush?” Hazel pondered. She laid her cards on the table, all lovely kind hearts, and Ron mercilessly swept the kitty of matchsticks into his own.
“Ron,” Slugger warned. “You’re cheatin’. Teach ‘er proper.”
“She might beat me then, “ Ron grumbled.
“Ron!” Hazel flared. “You mean I won that?”
“You won the last three ‘ands, luv,” Slugger said from the fireside. “I was wonderin’ ‘ow far ‘e’d go not to lose.”
Dora sat on a cushion at Slugger’s feet, her back warmed by the fire, enjoying the cheerful argument between Ron and Hazel and filled with happiness because Steve was on the road to recovery. Life was good, snow or no snow. “Oh, Slugger,” she sighed.
“Wot?”
“Nothing. Just ‘Slugger’.” She smiled up at him and he ruffled her hair, making her feel like a child again.
Finally Ron stated that he’d better make a move into Steve’s room. He waited for the suggestion that he stay on the sofa in the office, but nobody made it. It simply didn’t occur to them; Steve’s room was vacant. Sighing, Ron picked up his bag and blankets and pulled a martyred face. “If you don’t see me in the mornin’ it’s ‘cos I died of cold. I mean, look at Steve.”
“You’ve got your own blankets,” Dora pointed out. “And there’s a heater.”
“And the horses will keep you warm,” Hazel added. “Hot air rises. We learned that at school.”
Ron said something that might have been “Hot air comes out of your mouth,” and lugged his baggage out into the cold.
“It IS cold, Slugger,” Dora said worriedly. “I hope he’ll be okay.”
“Do ‘im good,” Slugger said, pouring himself a final cup of tea. “Seein’ how Steve’s been copin’ these last couple of years. Go to bed, girl, and you too, Hazel.”
Dora filled hot water bottles from the kettle and took them to her room. Steve had nestled down into the bedding, sleeping peacefully. Once again she carefully slipped both hot water bottles beside him, and kicked off her shoes. She was about to pull her sweater over her head when she heard a yell from the stable yard.
Hastily she put her shoes back on and ran downstairs.
Ron burst into the kitchen: “There’s some geezer in Steve’s room!”
Slugger had been dozing, his feet in socks near the fire, and he jumped so hard he almost fell out of his chair. “Wha? Who?”
“There’s some bloke in Steve’s room,” Ron said. “I go up there, and there’s this bloke lyin’ in Steve’s bed, and I dunno who’s more startled, ‘im or me. ‘E gives me a look, jumps out of the bed, grabs ‘is boots and runs downstairs and outside before I can even dump me bags.”
“Well, did you follow him?” Dora ran a finger inside the heel of one shoe and flicked it up around her foot.
“Dunno where ‘e went, do I? An’ I dropped me torch, I got such a fright.”
“Oh, Ron! There’s a strange man in Follyfoot. He could be up to anything. We have to find him in case he hurts the horses.”
“More likely some tramp lookin’ for somewhere to sleep,” Ron grumbled, not liking the idea of going back into the cold.
“Come ON, Ron!” Dora grabbed his hand. She looked around for another torch, but Ron had effectively broken Follyfoot’s only one, so she took the oil lamp instead, and dragged Ron outside.
They inspected the area around the doorway to Steve’s room, but there had been so many sets of footprints in the yard that afternoon it was hopeless.
“We’ll check all the stables,” Dora whispered, and one by one the horses snorted and whickered sleepily as she lifted the lantern and looked into every dark corner. Some of the horses didn’t even get up, but blinked sleepily as they lay on their sides in loose boxes or on their chests in the stalls.
“The barn,” she hissed to Ron, and they crept to the top of the stable yard. Piles of hay bales provided the perfect place to hide, and Dora was careful with the lantern, dreading how easily the whole place could catch fire. There was a rustling noise, and she caught Ron’s arm.
“Rats,” he whispered.
“No.” She headed towards the noise on tiptoes, and at the last minute rounded a wooden pillar at a run. With a startled wail, a tabby cat flew across in front of her, his paws a blur and his tail up like a flagpole. She was so taken aback she almost dropped the lantern, and Ron grinned.
“Some intruder.”
“Ssh.”
Above them, in the loft, there was a sense of movement, almost silent, but palpable. They met each others’ eyes and crept to the ladder. Ron wordlessly took the lantern and scrambled up, Dora following in the shadowy light.
The man was at the very back, tucked in between the warmth of two piles of hay bales. They only found him because the lantern lit up the very tip of one shoe. They had him cornered as he sat hunched tightly, and he knew it; his eyes were frightened as they stood in front of him, blocking escape.
“What are you doing here?” Dora said crossly. “And who are you? Did you bring us that horse?”
“Whoa, lady, I can explain.” He held up his hands, then slowly got to his feet. The lantern showed a young man around Steve’s age, maybe even younger, with dark, wildly curly Frank Zappa hair, dressed in a dirty overcoat. He didn’t have the air of sleeping rough, but there was something shifty about him that made Dora suspicious.
“Did you steal that horse?” she wondered aloud.
He started, and looked even shiftier. “Not exactly.”
“Ha,” said Ron. “A horse thief, no less.” He put on a voice which made him sound like one of the community’s most upstanding members. Dora trod on his foot and he yelped.
“What does ‘not exactly’ mean?” Dora said icily.
In spite of the overcoat, the man was shivering. “Can we go somewhere warmer, and I’ll tell you?”
Wordlessly they took him back to the farmhouse, where Slugger was wide awake and the kettle was shrieking on the hob. Slugger merely raised his eyebrows and got an extra mug from the dresser.
Cradling the mug of tea in his hands, the man began to talk. “Look, I’ve not done nothing wrong, right? The horse – Harry – belongs to my dad. He’s had a scrap merchant business since I were a kid, and I been working for him since I left school. He’s had Harry for years. Harry’s getting on, and last week Dad bought a van ‘cos Harry can’t make the hills too good any more. My Dad, he’s not the sentimental type, right? And he’s always got his eye on the pennies. He was going to send Harry to the knackers for horsemeat.”
Dora gasped.
“Well, I couldn’t let that happen, could I? He wouldn’t have it any other way, said he’d get good money for Harry which would keep the van going a couple of weeks at least.” His face twisted in anger and his green eyes flashed. “Harry’s been a good horse, I’ve known him since I were a kid. He’s a friend, like. So I took him, and brought him here.”
“Why didn’t you knock on the door and talk to us about it?” Dora said, more gently.
“I walked him here last night, pitch black it was. Took me
hours to find you, and I reckon you’d all gone to bed. So I let Harry out in
the field. I had a look around your stables, and I saw they were all full. I
was a bit worried, like, that you wouldn’t take him if I asked you so I reckoned
I’d hide away and see if you took him in. If you didn’t, I’d plead his case.”
He sipped his tea. “I were goin’ to head off to
“You could have talked to us this morning,” Dora said gently. “Instead of hiding away. We don’t bite.”
“Only sometimes,” muttered Ron.
“I was still worried you’d tell me to take him away. If I wasn’t there, you couldn’t ask me to take him, could you? He’s got nowhere else to go.” For a moment he met Dora’s eyes pleadingly.
Dora bit her lip. “What’s your name?”
“Peter. Peter…Smith.” Dora decided the Peter was genuine and the Smith a lie, but it didn’t matter. “Peter, I’m Dora Maddocks, and I own Follyfoot. We’ll take Harry.”
Ron rolled his eyes and Slugger grinned. They could see it coming.
“On one condition. That you stay here and work for us for a bit. We’re short handed at the moment, and we could really do with help for a week or two.”
A huge relieved grin spread over Peter’s face. “I’d be right happy, Dora. Anything to keep out of factory work for as long as I can.” He drained his mug. “Um… last night… I slept in that loft room.”
“You can sleep there for as long as you’re here,” Dora agreed, thinking it would keep Steve in her bed a while longer.
“’Ere,” grumbled Ron, “Where am I gonna doss then?”
“What about the sofa in the office?” Dora suggested. “It mightn’t be very big, but you’ll probably be comfortable enough.”
Ron thought of the log fire, and the decanters of sherry, whisky and brandy that were always left full in case the Colonel or a visitor dropped in, and grinned beatifically. “I’m sure I’ll manage,” he said.
Peter and Ron headed out of the kitchen, and Slugger rinsed his mug. “Think he’s on the level?”
“I think so, Slugs. Did you see his face when he was talking about the knacker’s? He loves that horse. It’ll work out. You’ll see.” She put her mug besides his in the sink, and kissed his cheek. “Night, Slugs.”
Steve was still sleeping soundly when she slipped under the covers beside him. She fretted for a little while, wondering what he’d say when she told him about Peter and Harry, but then exhaustion overcame her. It had been a long day. Her arms around Steve’s muscly torso, she slept contentedly.
* * *
Steve woke the next morning to find Dora curled up beside him. The sun was peering blearily through clouds, so it must be at least seven. At first he was annoyed that she’d ignored his wishes and slept in the same bed; but Dora’s willfulness was one of the things that attracted him to her. He stifled a cough as he watched her sleep, her eye makeup smudged and smoky, her hair tousled, her beautiful face like a renaissance painting; unlined, pale, exquisite. Steve’s body responded in a way that surprised him given his illness, and that, of course, was the real reason he didn’t want to share a bed. Not until he felt comfortable with the idea that the Colonel knew Steve was making love to his only, beloved niece would he take Dora and make her his own. Merely slumbering in the same bed was too much temptation.
But how lovely it was to wake up beside her, Steve thought. He knew then that she’d slept in the bed the night before, too, when he’d had the marvellous dreams.
Part of him wanted to tell her she had broken her promise, and perhaps move downstairs to the office. The other wanted to pretend he didn’t know, to let her go on sneaking into the bed when he was safely asleep – and if temptation finally overcame reason, well, he knew Dora would embrace him with open arms. It was a far nicer option.
But for the moment, he felt too weak to deal with temptation. He sighed, stifled another cough and turned over, pretending to be asleep. As he expected, the movement woke Dora and he tried not to smile as he felt her creep out of bed and heard her curse quietly as she hopped around the room pulling on her clothing as silently as she could.
It was later, over a breakfast of too-cooked eggs, that Dora
told him about Harry and Peter.
“So Peter can do your share of the work until you’re fit again,” she finished.
“And what about Harry?” Steve said practically. “He can’t live in the donkey enclosure forever.”
“We’ll find space. I was thinking…maybe we could send him to
Chadwick’s when the snow melts a bit. Peter said he’ll send money for his keep
when he gets a job in
“How often have we heard someone say that?” Steve forked up the last bit of rubbery egg and pulled a face as he ate it.
“He’s NICE, Steve. I’m sure he’ll help out when he can. He loves that old horse.”
“And as long as someone loves old horses they’ll be a nice person and keep their word?”
Dora glared. “Yes, Steve. Yes. I believe that, you know I do.” She snatched the tray from him and stood up, cutlery clanging. “We need the help, Steve. It’s going to snow again, and with the horses inside all time the stables get so dirty.” She stalked out, saying over her shoulder, “Slugger will bring you a cup of tea. I have to keep working.”
Steve smiled wryly. Dora and her kind impulses! He hoped she hadn’t misjudged this Peter and wished he were well enough to meet the guy. At the moment though it was all he could do to drag himself to the bathroom and back, having a hot but tiny bath filled with water from Slugger’s kettle, and curl under the blankets again.
Peter proved to be a swift and efficient worker, helping Ron muck out while Dora and Hazel fed the horses and filled up their water. After that he started to groom some of them, peeling back their rugs and grooming them in sections so they didn’t get cold. Dora was impressed. Unlike Ron he bothered to pick the muck out of their hooves with a hoofpick. Old Hercules leaned against the brush, eyes closed in ecstasy. Ron usually gave him a quick lick with the dandy brush, or used the curry comb on his bonier areas; Peter did it properly with the body brush, cleaning the scurf out every few brushes.
By the time Dora and Hazel had done the young horses and Copper, light snow was falling in a soft, quiet curtain.
“A good thing,” Peter said to Dora. “At least the police can’t get up here looking for Harry.”
Dora’s eyes widened. “Would your father tell the police you took him?”
“If he were angry enough. We’ve always fought, Dad and me.
That’s another reason I want to move to
Dora bit her lip; the Colonel had driven home the need for honesty and it was against her nature to lie to people in authority. But the horse -! “Of course I won’t,” she said. “But you should write to your father and send him the money he would have got for Harry, when you earn it. That way he can’t be angry with you for taking the horse.”
Peter grinned. “Good idea. I’d better find two jobs instead of just one then!” He put Hercules’ brushes away and dusted himself down.
Hazel ran up, sliding on the icy yard. “Come on, let’s build another snowman.” Her green eyes darted merrily at Dora and Peter. Impulsively she grabbed Peter’s hand and dragged him, sliding and laughing, down the yard and into the field, where the snow hadn’t melted behind the wall and was still deep and virginally white.
“Well, well, well.” Ron sauntered over to Dora, rubbing his hands and watching Hazel and Peter have a snowball fight. “The young at play. Ain’t it lovely to watch? ‘Is name’s not Smith, y’know Dora.”
“I’d rather guessed that.”
“’E left ‘is wallet in Steve’s room. Know who ‘e is? ‘E’s Barry Bolton’s son.”
Dora frowned, trying to place the name.
“You mightn’t know
“He’s a thief?” Dora looked around her as if she expected Barry Bolton to materialize out of snowy air and steal Copper.
“Nah, not a feef. He’s a fence, innie? A receiver.”
“What about Peter?” Dora wondered aloud. “What if he decides
Copper or one of the young horses is worth taking, and he disappears in
“Nah, Pete’s okay. I never met ‘im before this but I ‘eard abaht him. Word gets around we young men abaht town. Barry bashes ‘im up, doesn’ ‘e? Probably bashed Pete AN’ the ‘orse up once too often and Pete took off. He’s younger than you, Dora. Left school last year my sources tell me –“ he tapped his nose solemnly “ – and forced by ‘is dad to work in the yard. On the level, in ‘is case.”
Dora bit her lip. “That’s awful. No wonder he wants to go to
“You’d better ‘ope Barry don’t come callin’,” Ron said. “Won’t be best pleased to find Pete or Harry all happy and well cared for.”
“If he comes, Ron, you help.” Dora met his eyes. “You don’t give Peter away. Or Harry. Promise?”
Ron grinned, shifted the straw in his mouth from one side to the other. “Might do.”
“Ron!”
“Oh, okay. I’ll keep shtumm, keep your ‘air on.” He threw the straw to the ground. “C’mon girl, tea’s up. I can ‘ear the rattle of stale cake from ‘ere.” Ron sauntered down to the farmhouse, whistling. Even now Dora was never sure how far she could trust him – his love of a good tease, and watching other people get into trouble, was as strong as ever.
Dora took Steve’s mug of tea upstairs and sipped her own beside him, kicking her shoes off and sitting cross-legged on the pillow.
“How’s the new worker coming along?” Steve said neutrally.
“Very well. He can actually groom the horses properly.” She hesitated, and wondered whether to tell Steve who Pete’s father was. He saw her hesitation and pounced.
“Out with it.”
So Dora told him, finishing with, “I just hope Barry Bolton doesn’t come here looking for him.”
Steve groaned, and it turned to a cough. When he’d finished, doubled over and sweating, he managed, “You can’t help it, can you, Dora? There must be some cloud of good karma hanging over this place, so people in trouble can find their way here.”
“It’s the rainbow I planted,” Dora returned drily, gently pushing Steve’s hair from his damp forehead. “It’ll work out, Steve. Pete will pay his dad for the horse and he won’t trouble us.”
“And they all lived happily ever after. I hope you’re right, Dora.” He slurped his tea, watching the last of the snow fall and the clouds move in a heavy grey mass to the west. He reached out a hand and put it over hers. Stolen horses, violent fathers on the wrong side of the law – Dora’s good heart could never say no.
Downstairs Hazel and Peter had stamped the snow from their boots and shaken it from their coats and were huddled down the far end of the table, giggling together. The lines of worry that had creased Peter’s face last night had faded and he looked much nearer Hazel’s age than Ron’s, a boy rather than a man. Ron suddenly felt old; the kind of bloke who chased blowsy blondes who wore too much makeup and heels that could break your leg if you fell off them. Hazel, he thought, was really pretty. He hadn’t noticed it before, she’d simply been just Hazel, a kid, but as she flirted with Peter he wondered how long she’d stay once she started to grow up.
Slugger said: “I heard on the wireless the snow’s abaht finished. Once this lot thaws you can get them ‘orses out in the field a bit, let ‘em kick up their ‘eels.”
“Yeah, the cold might kill one of ‘em off and then we’ll ‘ave room for ‘Arry,” Ron said cheerfully.
“Ron!” protested Hazel. “That’s cruel!”
“We’ll have room for Harry anyway,” Dora said, bringing her tea mug back to the kitchen, “We’ll put him up at Chadwick’s once the road’s clear.”
“Pete’s dad will never find him there,” Hazel said joyfully. Obviously Peter had put her in the picture.
“Yeah, young ‘Azel, you reckon a fence won’t fink to look at Chadwick’s? ‘Im with a prison record?” Slugger snorted. “Sooner that ‘orse gets paid for the better.”
Peter said, “I WILL pay, you know. I’ll pay my dad and pay you for his keep. I’m – I’m not like my dad.” His cheeks were red with embarrassment.
There was an awkward silence as Barry Bolton was contemplated by five thoughtful faces, “I think it’s time for lunch,” Slugger said finally, stirring the pot that was simmering on the hob. “Stew – just right for a day like this.”
Ron groaned. If he was at home he’d be sitting down to a delicious plate of chips and baked beans right now.
“I could always make you some soup, Ron,” Dora said sweetly, and Ron and Peter wondered why Slugger and Hazel couldn’t stop laughing.
* * *
Steve was lying in bed with a book of poetry he’d found on Dora’s bookshelf. It was Betjeman, and Steve was grinning over tennis with Miss Joan Hunter-Dunn when Dora dragged herself wearily up the stairs.
“Oh,” she exclaimed. “You’re still awake.” Grudgingly she shoved a hot water bottle into the spare bed and gave Steve his own to tuck in. She’d been looking forward to snuggling up against him once more.
“I’m feeling a lot better,” Steve said, “Despite Slugger’s best attempts to kill me off. What was supper supposed to be?”
“Chicken.”
“More charcoal than chicken.” He put the book on the bedside table and watched with amusement as Dora gathered her night things with a huff and prepared to head for the bathroom. He could tease her a bit longer, wait until she’d got into that narrow little bed, pretend to be asleep and then wait to see if she changed beds.
She returned in a rather scary full-length nightdress with ruffles he imagined her mother had bought for her. If anything was designed to kill passion, he thought, it was a nylon granny nightie.
She fussed over him, refilling his water glass in case he needed it in the night, putting off the moment until she had to head to her little bed. She kissed his lips, tasting of peppermint toothpaste, her skin smelling fresh and lovely and enchanting.
Dammit! Steve untangled his arms from the blankets, wrapped them around her and pulled her close, holding her tight. Awkwardly he pushed back the blankets beside him with an arm and a leg, and just as awkwardly pulled them up over her, his lips never leaving hers.
Finally he let her lips go, studying her huge hazel eyes with their wide, excited pupils. Her face was flushed, her cheeks pink as peonies.
“Two nights you’ve stowed away in my bed,” he said softly. “I think tonight I’d like to know you’re here BEFORE I go to sleep.”
“Steve, I –“
He put a finger on her lips. “Shush. You got your way, you always do. I don’t want explanations, girl. And I’m not up for anything more energetic than sleeping, before you get ideas. But I seem to sleep better with your arms around me than without them. God only knows how I’m going to go back to the stables after this.”
The unspoken words “You don’t have to” hung in the air, but that was a discussion for another night, they were both too tired to think about what the Colonel and anyone else might say. Dora kissed the finger that still touched her lips. “Goodnight, Steve.”
He kissed her nose. “Goodnight, Dora.”
And he switched off the light before she saw the contented smile that spread across his face.
* * *
Morning brought clearer roads and the police to Follyfoot’s door before lunch.
Dora saw the Land Rover come to a careful halt on the slippery, snowy mud, and gave Copper a pat on the neck before bolting his stable. She gave a quick glance at the donkey’s stable, but Harry was locked away in the little shelter, much to Bubble and Squeak’s disgust. Peter was nowhere to be seen – nor was anyone else for that matter. The wretches have all gone in for tea and haven’t told me, Dora thought as she met the sergeant at the gate.
“Hello sergeant, can I help you?”
“Not sure, Dora.” He was the friendly one, the Colonel’s mate who occasionally boarded lost horses with them and arranged for payment for their feed and keep. “Barry Bolton’s lost a horse and I’m wondering if it’s turned up here.”
“We haven’t had a new horse for ages,” Dora said steadily. “As you can see, we’re full to bursting anyway. What does the horse look like, in case I see it wandering?”
“It’s quite valuable evidently,” the sergeant said drily. He knew Barry Bolton quite well. “Dark brown, star and stripe on its face, about 15.2 hands, in very good condition, apparently half thoroughbred and half Welsh cob, well trained to harness. Last seen wearing a leather halter. Answers to Harry.”
Dora shook her head convincingly. “Not that I’ve been out at all since the snow started but it doesn’t ring any bells. If I see him I’ll tell you.”
He sighed. “And you were my last hope. I’ve done all the
horse places; Bill Chadwick’s yard is looking good you might like to know, he’s
turned it around really well. Any road, suppose I’ll start on the farms next. Keep
your eye out for
“Good heavens,” Dora made herself exclaim. “Are you sure he hasn’t just run away?”
“Wouldn’t put it past him,
Dora watched until the car was well out of sight, and headed off in search of Peter. He was hiding in Steve’s loft, tucked in behind the far side of the bed, invisible unless you went right into the room.
“He’s gone.”
“Good.”
“He’s after you as well as Harry. But mainly Harry. Your father has reported you missing.”
“As if he’d care!” Peter snorted. “Mum might, but she died last year. No, I’m cheap labour for him. And if he gets me done for horse stealing he’ll have me over a barrel, see. Who’ll employ a chap with a criminal record?”
“You’d be surprised,” Dora said drily, thinking of Steve. “Let’s go and sort some horses out. The young ones can have a romp in the field and we’ll put Harry in a loosebox for a bit.”
Harry left the donkey’s enclosure with an almost palpable sigh of relief. Dora led him up the yard while Peter put Cezanne into the field, hanging tightly to the colt who was excited about being let loose.
Harry’s halter almost came off in her hands as she was leading him. What an awful old thing! She’d have a hunt around for a slightly better halter in a minute to replace it. It had been mended so many times the stitching was holding it together better than the leather itself. She took it off the horse, noticing it had rubbed away some of the hair near his ears. It didn’t even fit properly! How she’d love to give Barry Bolton a piece of her mind!
“Peter, do you mind if we throw this away? It’s an ancient halter, and it’s rubbing him.”
“Not at all.” Peter was making for the adjacent stable to take another colt to the field. “Dad’s mended it so often…dunno why he never bought a new one. He’s a cheap bugger I s’pose.”
Dora examined the clumsy stitching where the halter had rubbed the most. It was all bumpy and horrible. She picked at one of the stitches, and the ground at her feet suddenly sparkled with little crystals that caught the weak sunlight with flashes of fire.
“Peter!”
He came running. “What?”
“This halter. Did you know what was in it?” She scrabbled at her feet, picking up the little diamonds carefully, peering this way and that for a sparkle that wasn’t a last vestige of snow.
“Nothing in it, far as I know. Dora! What’s that?”
“Your father didn’t want the horse back, Peter. He wanted the halter. It’s full of….of…loot.” She held out her hand and his mouth dropped at the sight of the muddy diamonds. “What are we going to do?”
Ron’s ears were famous for having stalks. He sauntered over, aware that Dora was excited about something. She was so stunned that she didn’t think to close her hand and Ron’s face split in a watermelon grin.
“Dear, dear, dear, looks like Dora’s in possession of stolen goods. Ones that don’t have four legs for a change.”
“Oh shut up, Ron, unless you can think of something sensible. These were in the headcollar.”
“So
“Not much,” Pete said flatly. Under his clothes his arms and ribs were still bruised from the last thumping his Dad had given him.
“Then leave it to ole Ron, eh? I know how we can get him in trouble and you off the hook. Providin’ Dora can do a bit of clever sewin’ and get them sparklers back in the ‘alter.”
“There’s a rug mending kit in the tack room,” Dora said slowly.
“Well, wot you waitin’ for?” Ron gave her a friendly shove, rubbed his hands and cackled happily. Oh, he loved trouble! As long as it was someone else’s.
* * *
Dora knew better than to ask Ron what he was up to. The least you knew about the plans of Ronald Stryker, Esquire, the better as she’d discovered in the past. All she knew was that he’d hefted his bike out of the Land Rover and headed out with the mended halter, saying he’d be back the next day and riding carefully down the muddy ruts either side of the snow.
It only took a couple of phone calls after he’d hidden the halter
in Harry’s empty stable at
His first call was to the Police, disguising his voice with
a handkerchief as they knew Ron a bit too well for his liking. He said that if
they went to
He waited ten minutes before calling Barry Bolton, who’d never encountered Ron and didn’t know his voice. A short conversation left them both with the agreement that the diamonds were the important thing and Peter and the horse could go to hell – or London - as far as Bolton was concerned, the Yorkshireman’s distaste for the south dripping from every syllable. Ron told him where to find his pretty stones and hung up.
Laughing, Ron left the phonebox and kicked his Tiger Cub
into noisy life. He left it a block away from
Better than telly it was.
Assured that Bolton was well and truly stitched up – just like the headcollar – Ron ran back to his bike on tiptoe and rode away into the darkness, back to his Dad’s and a hot roast for supper. The icy winter night was fresh and exciting, the roads in Tockwith were mercifully free of snow and ice, and after dinner he’d head down the pub and see if the blonde bird was there and still available.
* * *
Steve felt well enough the next day to make his way shakily downstairs and sit swaddled in blankets in front of the kitchen fire. He’d slept well, his arms around Dora and her body nestled close to his. It was as if the years of fighting his attraction for her hadn’t existed, and he’d been a fool to think they were too far apart to ever be close. Even just holding her in her arms and watching her sleep was a revelation, and he was sure it was Dora’s presence that helped his strength start to return. He still felt weak but much better than two days before.
“Where’s Ron?” he said, sipping his first cup for the day.
“Late as usual,” Dora said, but she was looking out the window anxiously for him. “I hope he’s okay.”
“What’s up? Why shouldn’t he be? He’s usually late.”
“The roads are probably still slippery.”
But the first vehicle that pulled up in front of the farmhouse wasn’t Ron’s bike, it was the sergeant again, this time skidding to a halt in a police car. Dora bit her lip. Oh please, she begged silently, don’t let Ron be in trouble!
On trembling legs she ran to the door and let him in.
“Mornin’ all. Eh, Slugger, is that tea you’ve got going there?” He took his hat off and sat comfortably on the armchair, warming his hands by the fire, and gratefully accepted a mug from Slugger.
“We had an interesting night last night. Caught Barry Bolton with a stash of diamonds we think are from the Hillman job last month. Got a tipoff from a chap. Bolton’s swearing black and blue that the same chap phoned him and told him where the diamonds were in return for him agreeing not to look for his horse. Says he’s been stitched up. Mean anything to you?”
Steve, Hazel and Slugger knew absolutely nothing about it. Dora
and Peter had agreed to keep it totally secret. Dora, hoping she wasn’t
blushing, said, “What if it was really all about the diamonds, and not the
horse at all? Maybe the horse was stolen because it was wearing the halter.
Perhaps one of Bolton’s criminal friends planned it all to get
“Aye, it’s likely. Any road, if you come across the horse –
or the boy, they might be sleeping rough – let the boy know they’re off the
hook.
Dora closed the door behind him with a heartfelt sigh and the others all spoke at once.
“Where’s Peter? “E’s not run off again ‘as ‘e? Only I’ve got bacon an’ eggs for ‘im.”
“So that’s what Ron was up to last night!”
“Diamonds! Dora, did you see them? Were they huge?”
Dora sat down. “I think we’ll have to wait for Ron. Is there any tea left, Slugger?”
Peter crept in through the back door, shivering a little with the cold. “I didn’t want to see the copper,” he explained, a worried frown back on his face
“It’s okay,” Dora told him. “The police are charging your father and he doesn’t want Harry back. Or you,” she added lightly.
Peter’s face lightened and Hazel leapt up and hugged him. Dora and Steve exchanged a glance.
“Just what’s been going on since I’ve been ill?” Steve said, and in the flurry of introductions and explanations Ron’s bike thundered with a terrifying skid through the gate and sputtered to a halt near Copper’s stable, throwing up mud.
Ron sauntered in wearing a very smug smile. “Either you’ve
had
“Both. Any tea, Slugger?” He rubbed his hands by the fire, still grinning.
“Ron! Tell us about
Chuckling, Ron did. “Fell for it, ‘e did. So keen to get ‘is hands back on them sparklers ‘e didn’t look over ‘is shoulder. More fool ‘im. So you’re free as a bird, young Peter.”
“And Harry can go to Chadwick’s and the donkeys can have
their shelter back,” Hazel said. Her face fell momentarily. “Are you really
going to go to
“That’s where the work is, Haze. I can catch a bus back though, to see Harry. And you.” Peter tried to cut Slugger’s crisp bacon but it shot across the table.
“Ah, young love,” sighed Ron. “Seems we’re all lucky Slugs except you.”
“Get away wiv you!” Slugger shadow boxed Ron’s ears and Ron aimed a harmless punch at him.
“Where’s me bacon then? Or is Peter your new favourite?”
Ron groaned as Slugger carefully placed a plate laden with blackened bacon and two well-done eggs in front of him.
* * *
Ron and Peter took Harry to Chadwick’s later that morning, and when Peter jumped down from the Land Rover he whooped for joy.
“Hazel! Hazel! Chadwick got me a job! I don’t have to go to
Hazel shrieked. “You’re going to work for Chadwick?”
“No, but one of his trainer friends. I’ll be looking after racehorses. It’s only about ten miles from here. No factories – just horses. I can board at the stables so I’ll be able to pay Chadwick a bit to look after Harry. I’ll start when Steve’s better.”
“Ten miles,” Hazel mused. “I suppose it’s not far.” She twisted a lock of hair around her index finger and bit her lip. “But right now…it’s thawing out…do you want to go for a ride?”
From the kitchen window Steve watched and shook his head, smiling. “Why does it feel like spring when it’s the middle of winter?” He stifled a cough.
“That’s very poetic,” Dora smiled. “My books must be having an effect on you.”
“Not just the books.” He met her eyes. “I think my bronchitis will have to last a long time. I hope the Colonel understands.”
“Bronchitis can last for ages, can’t it?” Dora couldn’t stop the smile spreading across her face and making her eyes sparkle even more brightly than Barry Bolton’s loot.
“Ages and ages. Especially the recovery period. And after that.” He grinned wickedly and put an arm around her, drawing her close.
In the yard, Hazel and Peter rode down towards the gate, laughing and teasing each other. Ron sat in the sun with his guitar, tuning it, and Slugger leaned over the fence with a mug of tea waving in one hand, saying something that made Ron pull a face and then laugh.
Dora leaned her head on Steve’s shoulder, slipped an arm around him, and saw the sun winking on the snow still banked against the fence: little crystals, water diamonds. Everything was going to be fine – was fine. Right here, right now.
The end
© 2008 Sabrina Ferguson