Kitty’s War

I shrugged. The wine had loosened my tongue or I would never have said, ‘Perhaps. I miss my family, even though they don’t miss me.’ Then I cleared my throat, hurrying on before she could press me any further. ‘Slow down—station ahead on the left.’

‘I know. I was born here!’ But instead of turning in, she urged Pippin on with a flick of the reins. ‘I want to show you something first.’

As we passed out of the village my gaze was drawn down to our right, where the fields fell away to meet the stone wall that housed the massive and notorious Dartmoor Prison. Although since the prisoners had all been freed for service, they called it the Princetown Work Centre. Small figures still worked in the fields just outside the wall—a party of conscientious objectors. I thought, with a twist of sorrow, about Oliver in his London prison, with none of this stark but beautiful landscape to take some of the grim loneliness away from his days.

But Bel wasn’t interested in the prison. She drew to a stop, instead, just beyond the sawmill on the outskirts of the village. ‘Look, what do you see there?’ She pointed into the field that lay immediately behind the smaller one by the road, and I squinted.

‘A horse.’

‘Not just a horse! Look again.’

I did so, and realised I was looking at something altogether more special than a lumber-lugging workhorse. The animal grazed, calmly unaware of his audience, and the smooth, clean legs shifted slightly in the grass as he moved to a fresh clump. It was hard to look away again.

‘I come here all the time to look at the horses,’ Belinda said, and her voice had dropped. ‘But now most of them have been called up there’re usually just workhorses left. I saw this one when I dropped Jane back home last week.’

‘Where did he come from then?’ I realised my voice had taken on the same hushed tones, as if we stood right next to the animal and didn’t want to startle him.

‘According to Jane it’s on loan from the ARS.’

‘The what?’

‘The Army Remount Service. It’s a stud.’ She paused, and her expression altered subtly, but tellingly. ‘I used to ride Mrs Adams’s horses, you know, before they were called up. I miss it.’

I looked at her with dawning suspicion. ‘You’re not suggesting you try and ride that thoroughbred. Are you completely mad?’

In answer, Belinda threw Pippin’s reins to me, and climbed into the trap to start rummaging under the seat. She pulled out the rope we’d brought with us to tie down Jessie’s bags, around twenty feet of it, and shoved a few sacks out of the way to make a space on the floor of the trap. She looked at it for a moment, considering, and swiftly tied two simple knots around a foot apart along its length; I could feel my eyes narrow, recognising the technique but hoping I was wrong. Then she knelt down, and, with her tongue firmly locked between her teeth, she laid the rope out, and began tying a series of further, more intricate knots.

I resigned myself to the fact that I’d been right, and sighed. ‘You’re making a halter.’

Belinda looked up briefly, and grinned. ‘Come on, Kitty! I said we should have some fun!’

‘But that horse is huge!’ I looked over at the field again and tried to guess just how huge. ‘Probably at least seventeen hands.’

‘Ah, you know about horses.’

‘I used to ride. I didn’t have my own horse, like Evie did, but some friends of my parents used to let Oli and me ride theirs.’ I couldn’t bring myself to mention that Archie had been my more frequent companion, and that he was the most natural horseman I had ever seen—it had been a joy, even before I’d acknowledged my more mature feelings for him, to watch him on horseback. ‘I’ve never ridden anything bigger than fifteen hands though,’ I said, ‘and never bareback.’

‘Then it’s high time you did.’ Belinda looked critically at the mess of rope in front of her, then she picked up an end, threaded it over and under one of the bigger knots in the middle, and the tangled rope seemed to melt into the right shape. ‘There!’ She took Pippin’s reins out of my hands and hooked them securely over the fence post. Her voice turned wistful. ‘Embrace life, Kitty. Find the fun where you can. God knows it’s grim enough the rest of the time.’

She was right. I looked from her to the field, and felt the wine doing its dangerous work again. Suddenly I didn’t care. ‘Come on then!’

Chapter Seven (#ulink_62b16f32-7a22-59f1-af1b-31b34f46b79e)

Belinda and I ran, crouched low and laughing, across the field that lay alongside the yard of the sawmill, and, hugging the hedgerow, we followed it to the wall at the top. Belinda went up first, finding handholds easily in the stones, and dropping down the other side. My head was still buzzing a little, but rather than hindering me, it seemed to take away my hesitation and tension, and before I realised it I was thudding to the ground beside her.

The stallion raised his head and sniffed the air, but did not appear likely to bolt. I took a moment to appreciate the splendour of him; his chestnut coat gave off waves of light that changed from minute to minute, flashes of deep red against the brown, and I imagined how it would feel to be up there on his back, feeling him respond to my movements…

‘Watch the house,’ Belinda whispered.

My blood thrumming, I glanced behind us but there was no movement from the yard of the timber mill. When I looked back Belinda was carefully walking towards the horse, letting him see her but keeping the halter down at her side; she was clearly an expert, and I relaxed as she ran a practised hand down the stallion’s long nose, then stepped up to stand alongside him, patting his neck. He stamped and snorted, and I turned to check the yard again, but no-one came out of any of the large sheds to investigate. Somewhere in my clouded thoughts I wondered what the time was, and how long we had been here, but I was distracted by the little thrill of shared triumph as Belinda slipped the halter beneath the stallion’s head, and, in one quick movement, drew it over his nose and cheek.

To our surprise, he stood stock-still as soon as he felt the touch of the rope, and Belinda turned to me with a grin of delight and gestured me over. ‘Slow,’ she cautioned, but she hadn’t needed to warn me. I was used to far more skittish horses. Standing this close to the thoroughbred made me realise just how huge he really was; straddling his back seemed an impossibility, and I didn’t know how Belinda would manage, but when I glanced to the side I saw her stooping to make a stirrup with her hands.

‘Me? I’m not going first!’

‘Yes, you are, come on.’

I didn’t give myself time to think. I just slipped my foot into her linked hands, and she boosted me up until I was able to throw my right leg over the stallion’s back. He shifted again, and his head dropped, but he didn’t sidestep, or make a sound, and the memories came sweeping back as I picked up the makeshift rein, feeling my fingers move to let the rough rope slide into place.

Belinda’s face, turned up to me, was shining. She looked like a child at that moment, and her excitement found its echo in me… I was nineteen, not ninety; I’d missed out on so much fun, and the war showed no signs of ending; this might be my last chance for a long time. Maybe ever.

Belinda must have seen something of this in my face, because she nodded and stepped back. ‘I’ll keep watch. Go on; just don’t let him jump the gate into the road.’

‘We have to name him,’ I said, ‘just for today.’

She thought for a moment, then glanced at the timber yard and smiled. ‘Woody?’

‘Perfect!’ I sat up straight, missing the solid feel of a stirrup beneath my feet, and gently pressed with my knees. Nothing happened. I pressed harder, still nothing, then I brought my heels in, and Woody took off.

The field flew by beneath us, and before I had time to realise what had happened, we had reached the top corner, and I could feel Woody’s strides shortening, and the muscles beneath my legs bunching. At least it wasn’t the gate at the bottom of the field, but this wall was no small thing either and, panicked, I gripped tighter with my knees, wondering why on earth I’d thought I could do this without a saddle. My fingers let go of the rope and instead twisted into Woody’s mane, and I fought the urge to lie down over his neck and wrap my arms around him, and then we were up, and over. As we landed I felt my grip slipping, and my breath stopped until I settled into the rhythm again. I slowly sat up straight and let go of Woody’s mane, relaxing and letting myself once more enjoy the sensation of grace and power afforded me by this unexpected and thrilling experience.

This field currently housed a few sheep, who raised their heads and stared at us thundering towards them, before slowly bunching together and shuffling off out of the way. I laughed aloud at their casual, almost resigned acceptance of the intrusion, and I liked the way that laughter sounded, combined with the thudding of hooves on summer-thick grass. I couldn’t pretend I had any real control over Woody’s flight, but I could tell both of us were enjoying it. I’d once been carried off by a frightened pony, and that sensation had been completely different; the pony had faltered and jerked, its head was down, and I’d had the feeling that at any moment it might have stopped dead, sending me sailing over its head. Woody, however, was stretching his long legs out, and his canter was smooth and easy, loping over the grass, rounding the field at the top and following the wall along to the far corner.

The last remnants of a strong wine drunk too quickly had faded as soon as we’d begun moving, and everything was pushed to the back of my mind: worry about being seen, worry that we’d be late picking up the new girl, even the ache of missing Archie—such a constant companion now, that I barely noticed it—all fled beneath the appreciation of sharing this all-too-brief moment of utter freedom with this glorious, highly trained animal.

The merest touch with my left hand brought him around to face back down the field, and this time, when he took the wall, I was ready and leaned into his neck as he gathered himself and sailed over. Landing in his own field, with Belinda standing such a short distance away, it felt as if playtime was over. We had only been a few minutes, and I felt a shaft of resentment at having to stop so soon—what could she do if we just went around again, after all? I could pretend he’d just taken off. She’d never know…

But with great reluctance I eased Woody’s canter gently back into a trot. We stopped in exactly the same place we’d started, and I made myself slide down, resenting the feel of solid ground under my boots again. Belinda was gazing at me with a deep admiration that only made it worse; I wanted to keep that look fixed on me, but it would soon fade now I was just Kitty again—frightened of everything, unable to face going back to Flanders, and not even particularly good at farmwork.

For now though, she was smiling. ‘My turn. Boost me up—hurry, before someone comes!’

I tried to curb the lance of jealousy as I saw her settle into place on Woody’s back, and gave him a last pat before I stood back. My heart was still pounding with exhilaration, but now it was mixed with trepidation as I heard a door slam in the distance. A moment later, an outraged yell cut across the still air, and Belinda and I both jerked in shock; she must have pulled back on the rope halter, and Woody’s head came back, colliding with hers as she leaned forward to grip his mane just as I had done. She screamed in pain, and as I reached out to grasp the halter, Woody’s hoof scraped down my shin and my shout startled him further. He backed up, unseating Belinda, who toppled off to land on the ground on his other side.

It all happened within seconds, and both the fear of discovery, and the burning pain in my shin, faded into unimportance as Woody trotted away, allowing me to see Belinda properly. Her face was covered with blood, and the tiny bits of skin that showed through the grisly mask were absolutely white. A glance at her foot showed why; it was still turned awkwardly beneath her where she’d landed, and from its position it must surely be broken.

‘Bel,’ I breathed in horror. ‘Don’t move!’

‘Not likely,’ she said through gritted teeth. I limped over to her, relieved to note that Woody was now pulling up grass once more, as if nothing had happened. Only the halter he wore gave away our activity, and I wondered if I could get to it and take it off before the sawmill owner reached us.

Belinda guessed what I was thinking. ‘Leave it,’ she mumbled. ‘They know anyway.’

‘We need to get help for you,’ I said. ‘Does your face hurt?’

‘Not much. It’s numb.’ She looked up at me and, to my astonishment, actually smiled. With the blood in her teeth it was a gruesome sight, but the smile was genuine. ‘Just my luck, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘A nice-looking bloke comes to stay, and here’s me with a flattened nose.’

‘And probably a broken ankle,’ I pointed out, and she swallowed, the smile fading. She looked as if she might be sick.

‘I don’t want to move,’ she said. ‘Never again. Can I just stay here? Will you bring me food?’