Rules for a Perfect Life Page 11

  ‘About that …’ I call after him.

  ‘I’ll meet you at the stables at two,’ Edward shouts from the gate. Suddenly this guy is desperate to leave. He’s dragging Polly up the path as fast as her little legs can carry her.

  ‘The stables?’ I echo.

  ‘Yes, they’re behind the main house – just follow your nose.’

  What does he mean, follow my nose? Can he mean that the gross horsy odour will be so repulsively pungent that all I’ll have to do is sniff the air to find him? Just like some sort of warped version of the old Bisto ad? He said he operates a livery service – which I found out means he stables horses for other people – but what does that involve exactly? I have no idea.

  But I can’t ask any more: Edward has already strapped Polly into the back seat and jumped into the battered Land Rover. As I watch, he roars away up the lane, Polly’s chubby little hand waving out of the open window as they go.

  Rule Eight: Never work with children or animals

  ‘So, you see, I’m probably not the best person to work with the ponies,’ I explain, ‘but once Claire gets back she can help you out.’

  I’ve just finished telling Edward why I can’t help him in the stables and I’m very happy with how my little speech has gone – he’s let me rabbit on without interrupting so obviously he agrees that me doing anything remotely farmhand-related with his animals is out of the question. The relief I feel is enormous.

  ‘I see.’ Edward smiles as I pause to catch my breath.

  He’s being very understanding, which is pretty decent of him. Maybe he’s not as bad as I thought.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I add, trying to look a lot sorrier than I actually feel. ‘I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he goes on. ‘I know what the issue is.’

  ‘Issue? What issue?’ I frown at him.

  ‘You’re nervous of animals. Some people are cautious around ponies – it’s nothing to be ashamed of, honestly.’

  ‘I’m not nervous.’ I bristle. ‘It’s just that they don’t like me. They don’t react well to me. It’s like I said …’

  ‘They can sense your anxiety, that’s all,’ Edward says, his blue eyes crinkling at the edges. ‘They know you’re afraid – they pick up on it.’

  ‘It’s not that I’m afraid exactly,’ I say. Well, maybe I am, just a little, but I’m not telling him that.

  ‘Animals are very clever – far cleverer than we give them credit for. You need to feel in control when you’re handling them. You can fake it for a while, until the confidence comes more naturally. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll show you what to do.’

  I’ve heard this theory before, from my dad, but I’m not convinced. After all, I tried to be in control with Claire’s maniac poodle and that didn’t get me very far – I’d been lucky not to lose a finger. ‘How can they tell if I’m … you know … nervous?’ I ask. There’s no harm in asking. I’m not admitting anything as such.

  ‘It’s the physiology of the animal kingdom,’ Edward says. ‘Your pupils dilate when you’re afraid, your heart rate increases – animals can sense these things.’

  ‘That’s like when you’re attracted to someone, isn’t it?’ I blurt out, remembering something I read once. ‘You know – your pupils dilate if you fancy someone?’

  ‘Exactly,’ he replies, smiling again. ‘Our bodies never lie – all you have to do is look for the signs.’

  ‘Right.’ I can feel a blush creeping up round my neck. I can’t believe I said something so stupid about fancying people to a complete stranger. He must think I’m a total idiot. ‘So, all I have to do is show the ponies who’s boss?’ I ask, clearing my throat and trying to regain some composure.

  ‘Well, yes, you can be gentle and firm at the same time,’ he replies. ‘Tell you what, we’ll start with one of the quieter ponies, OK? Let’s take Saffy here – she’s Polly’s.’ He gestures to a stable where a grey pony stands watching us over the half-door, a bored expression on her face.

  ‘You should probably change into your boots before we begin,’ he says.

  ‘Which boots would they be?’ I ask. I’m wearing my trainers – it was a toss-up between those and my camel Uggs. I’m glad I went for the trainers, though – they co-ordinate really well with the blue velvet Juicy Couture tracksuit I have on. I’ve nailed the country look, for sure.

  ‘Your wellingtons?’ he says.

  ‘Wellingtons?’

  ‘You didn’t bring any?’

  He looks at my trainers, as if he’s not sure they’re going to suit.

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, those designer trainers you’re wearing are going to get ruined,’ he says. ‘Maybe I could go back to the house – see if I can find something else for you …’

  Damn! Why didn’t I bring my fabulous wellies from Avoca with me? The ones with the diamanté on the side. This would have been the perfect opportunity to wear them. I’ve only ever worn them once before – to a weekend music festival – and loads of people admired them then. They would have worked so well here – I’d have looked so cute pottering about in them, just like something from a country catalogue. Mind you, the stable yard isn’t even that mucky – the ground is dusty but otherwise it’s fine. My trainers are hardly going to be ruined by standing here. It’s not like the festival – that was a mudbath. Anyway, those wellies wouldn’t have matched my Juicy tracksuit half as well as my trainers.

  ‘It looks pretty safe to me,’ I say, trying to sound confident. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  For some reason, I suddenly want to prove to Edward that I’m not the nervous city girl he seems to think I am. I am scared, but he doesn’t need to know that. Besides, I don’t have much choice but to try. If I outright refuse to help out, I might put Claire’s lease in jeopardy. He could ask me to leave so he can get cheap help somewhere else. I don’t want Claire to return from India and find she’s got nowhere to live – I have a responsibility at least to try to uphold the terms of the agreement. If I try, then he can’t evict me, right? Maybe once he sees that the horses don’t like me he’ll let me off the hook scot-free. After all, ponies are valuable commodities and most of these don’t even belong to him – he takes care of them for other people. They’re part of his livelihood. He won’t want me messing with them – maybe spooking them or doing them some sort of injury.

  ‘OK, if you say so.’ Edward looks doubtful. ‘I’ll lead Saffy out for you so you can get started.’ He steps inside the stable, slips what he tells me is a halter over the pony’s neck then leads her out into the yard. So far, so easy. Maybe this is going to be straightforward after all.

  ‘Hi, Saffy,’ he says cheerfully, tying her to the wall and rubbing her nose, ‘you look gorgeous today.’

  I laugh at this – he’s talking to the pony as if she really understands him.

  ‘Saffy likes to be complimented,’ he explains. ‘She’s a pretty girl, aren’t you, Saffy?’

  The pony throws her head and bats her eyes at Edward, as if she’s flirting with him. ‘What’s wrong with her leg?’ I ask.

  ‘Ah, that. Yeah, Drya kicked her out in the meadow and poor Saffy got a nasty cut – she’s just finishing her antibiotics now.’

  Why would one pony kick another so fiercely that they need bandaging all the way up the leg? That doesn’t sound safe. Are they all as vicious? What if one of them kicks me, just like I warned Claire? I’d been exaggerating the farm-injury story to make Claire think twice about moving here and now it turns out that it’s true. Maybe I should take a look at Edward’s insurance policy, after all – I could fax it to a city lawyer, get him to give it the once-over. Not that it will help if I’m killed, of course.

  ‘Don’t worry, we won’t let you near Drya,’ Edward says solemnly, seeing my expression. ‘She’s a difficult horse – no one is to touch her but me.’

  I gulp. I don’t like the sound of this Drya – she must be a monster.


  ‘Now, Saffy,’ he turns back to the grey pony, ‘this is Maggie. Maggie is new so I want you to be nice.’

  The pony shakes her head and rolls her eyes. She doesn’t look too impressed with me. Is it my imagination or is she smirking at my trainers?

  ‘Now, now, she’s not that bad, Saffy.’ Edward laughs as if the pony has just told him she thinks I’m a hopeless case. ‘So behave.’

  I laugh nervously. That pony is definitely making faces at me. Can she tell I’m a disaster around animals? Christ, how did I get myself into this?

  ‘So, Maggie,’ Edward turns back to me, ‘here’s the pitchfork – and you can dump everything in here.’ He points to a rusty wheelbarrow lying against the stone wall.

  ‘What’s that for? Are we cutting her mane or something?’

  ‘Cutting her mane?’ Edward repeats, evidently confused.

  ‘Yes, while we groom her. Are you going to put all the hair we cut from her mane in the wheelbarrow? You probably use it to make things, right?’ I’m sure I heard somewhere that horse hair is used to stuff things – cushions, maybe? They obviously collect it in the wheelbarrow and then bring it somewhere to be used again. It’s quite commendable, really. Eco-friendly and all that. Still, horse-hair cushions must be pretty uncomfortable – not to talk of smelly.

  Edward stifles a laugh. ‘You think we’re grooming Saffy?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ What the hell is so funny?

  Saffy harrumphs, like she’s laughing at me too.

  ‘Maggie, I’m sorry if you misunderstood,’ he says, mouth still twitching. ‘But you’re not trimming Saffy’s mane – you’re mucking out her stable.’

  ‘Mucking out her stable?’ I echo.

  ‘Yes.’ I follow Edward’s gaze to the interior of the stable. I can see large lumps of horse poo all over the straw. And damp patches. There are definite damp patches.

  My stomach lurches. He wants me to pick up that pongy mess. He wants me to use the pitchfork to pick it up and then put it in the wheelbarrow. Oh, God.

  I can feel his eyes on me and I try not to blanch at the thought. I can’t deal with this stinky mess – he can’t expect me to.

  ‘I’m afraid the antibiotics have unsettled her stomach a little …’

  That’s the understatement of the millennium – there’s poo everywhere and the stench is unbearable. I close my eyes briefly and will myself not to hurl. ‘So I see,’ I say.

  ‘Do you think you can manage?’

  I have to try. For Claire’s sake. One little stable won’t hurt me. If I can just get through this, it’ll all be OK. ‘Yes,’ I squeak.

  ‘Great.’ Edward seems pleased. ‘The manure pile is round the back.’

  ‘And that is …?’

  ‘Where you dump everything.’

  ‘Right, of course.’ Like I should be expected to know that.

  ‘So, I think that’s it. I’ll lead them all out while you get started. Once you’re finished with Saffy, you can do Pedlar next door and work your way around the block. Stop when you get to Drya. Like I said, she’s a little … highly strung. I’ll handle her. And that’s how the routine will go every day.’

  ‘Every day?’ I look at him blankly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You mean,’ I splutter, the truth dawning on me, ‘you mean you have to do this every day?’

  ‘Well, of course! We muck out every morning.’

  ‘But isn’t that a little unnecessary?’ I ask. ‘Surely a good clean-out every couple of days would be OK?’

  ‘Maggie, for a horse to be healthy and happy it must be kept clean and dry. That means mucking out every day. No exceptions.’

  ‘No exceptions?’

  ‘No. An unclean stable can lead to infections. We don’t want that, do we?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘That’s why a daily clean is essential – and then, once a week, we strip the stall completely.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I feel dizzy. That can’t be good.

  ‘It means you fill the wheelbarrow until the stall floor is bare. Then you use a shovel to scrape up any remnants of bedding and the broom to sweep it clean. After that, you put down stable disinfectant and let the floor dry before re-bedding.’

  With that, Edward smiles at me and walks away.

  ‘Right,’ I say, to thin air. I’m aghast. He expects me to clean all these stables every day? And then do a complete strip every week? I run my eyes around the block and count six different stalls, excluding that of the dreaded Drya. I’m going to have to muck out every one of these? The idea is mind-boggling. I grip the pitchfork just to stay upright. How has this happened? How have I ended up here, about to do something I wouldn’t even ask my worst enemy to do? It’s impossible.

  But it doesn’t seem I have much choice. If I refuse, what might happen? Claire might lose the lease on the cottage, that’s what. And it would be my fault.

  ‘You’re not going to muck out wearing those things, are you?’ A hard voice interrupts my thoughts and I swing round to see a tall, grey-haired woman staring at my feet, contempt on her lined features.

  Why is everyone so hung up on footwear round here? What is the big issue? ‘Oh, hi,’ I say, deciding to ignore the trainers comment. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Maggie.’

  It’s nice to see another female face, even if this woman isn’t exactly glowing with welcoming warmth. She doesn’t look thrilled to meet me, that’s for sure. ‘I’m June,’ she replies curtly.

  June? This is Edward’s wife? Wow – but she’s so wrinkly. She looks old enough to be his mother. She must be a real-life cougar – isn’t that what they’re called? Older women who marry younger men? I’m a little stunned by this development. I can’t imagine Edward and this woman together – they seem so different. Still, there’s no accounting for taste, or attraction, I suppose.

  ‘You’re Edward’s wife, of course!’ I smile to cover my surprise that Edward is apparently married to a granny. ‘Well, I’m very happy to meet you.’

  The expression on June’s face turns even sourer. ‘What did you just say?’ she barks.

  I blink. Have I insulted her in some way? Maybe they’re not actually married and she hates being called his wife. Why is she looking at me like she wants to kill me? Talk about overreacting. ‘Sorry, do you prefer to be called his life partner?’ I stutter.

  ‘His life partner?’ June hisses. ‘I’m hardly his life partner. Are you blind? I’m far too old to be married to someone Edward’s age. I’m his mother-in-law.’

  Oh. Shit. I’m mortified.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘So you have the same name as your daughter?’

  ‘I had.’ June looks at me coldly.

  ‘Had?’

  Now I’m really confused – what is she talking about? This place is full of lunatics. They are all too closely related – I knew it.

  ‘Yes. I had. That’s what I said. You’re hardly deaf as well as blind, I take it? My daughter June, Edward’s wife, was killed three years ago in a riding accident in Glacken Woods.’

  I see tears prick at her eyes as she says it, although I can tell she’s desperately trying to swallow them back. She doesn’t want me to see her getting upset – that much is clear. ‘Oh, I’m sorry – I didn’t know,’ I manage to say. ‘That’s really terrible.’ I’ve quite obviously brought all the pain flooding back for the poor woman – the reality of the situation is hitting her afresh, all because of my stupidity. How could I have made such a ridiculous mistake? I’d just assumed that when Edward kept referring to June he meant his wife. No one ever said anything about anyone being tragically killed. Now I’ve gone and upset this June no end – the anguish is etched on her face.

  ‘Yes. It was.’ June turns on her heel and walks off abruptly, angrily wiping away a tear.

  I feel absolutely awful. No wonder Edward was so touchy about the insurance thing when I first questioned him about it. When he said something like no amount of money could b
ring back a loved one, this was what he’d meant. He’d been talking about his dead wife. I can’t believe I put my foot in it so badly – now, as well as Matilda, I’ve made a second enemy in June. I’ll be in Guinness World Records yet.

  Stepping into Saffy’s stall, I decide to do a really good job for Edward – it’s the least I can do to make up for what I said. My left foot squelches into something and I look down to see my best trainer embedded in a fresh batch of dung. There are splatters of smelly gunk dripping all over the hems of my precious Juicy tracksuit. Maybe this wasn’t the thing to wear after all – how on earth am I ever going to get that mess out of the blue velvet?

  ‘Thanks for that.’ I sigh and, outside, Saffy farts loudly in reply. Her meaning is clear – she certainly doesn’t think I’m going to last long here and I have a doomed feeling she’s probably right.

  Rule Nine: Remember that he who angers you conquers you

  ‘They all look great, thanks, Maggie,’ Edward says. ‘You’re getting really good – I think you’re a natural at this.’ He closes the last stable door and smiles at me, but I don’t think I could smile back even if I wanted to.

  It’s week two of my stay, and I’m so exhausted I can’t feel my arms. I don’t think that’s a good sign. Either I’ve had some sort of mini-stroke, or spending hours mucking out all those ponies every day has damaged the nerve endings in my upper body. By my calculations, I’ve spent almost three hours today shifting wet and soiled bedding, although I’m not sure if that can be right – it’s as if time stood still while I was desperately trying to breathe without gagging. It’s been like that every morning – I try to work while holding my breath so I don’t retch. I’m never going to get used to the awful stink. Not if I do this a million times, which I quite possibly will before Claire gets back.