hadn’t sat down to a meal together once since they arrived in Scotland. They were a dealer’s yard, not a family.
5
H E DREAMED ABOUT THE girl, or about a girl; a face, in a shop like a blacksmiths. A large strong man, whose back was always turned, punched steel rivets and rings into the girl’s skin, using a hammer and a massive stapler. The girl’s features stretched grotesquely. She didn’t seem to feel any pain.
When his mother woke him, he was rigid with fear.
6
M ICHAEL WAS USED TO getting up in the dark. He was used to the pre-dawn struggle out into the yard, the hot tea slopping on to the ground, burning his hands on the way. He was used to tacking up sleepy horses in dimly lit boxes. Sometimes he was on automatic pilot, and found himself riding out of the yard with no idea at all of how he had got there.
The three of them were out on the roads at first light, with flashing red bicycle lamps strapped to their arms. Each of his parents rode one horse and led two others. Michael could ride whatever he wanted. He didn’t enjoy going out on Bandit, but had chosen him for safety’s sake, and he was leading the grey mare. She liked being led. She was quite relaxed when there was no one on top of her.
He had no problems with either of them, but his heart was in his mouth all the same. Both his parents seemed to take a perverse kind of pride in managing the unmanageable. Their horses were all over the road, pulling in different directions, turning the wrong way round, plunging and rearing and dancing, centimetres away from the bumpers of passing lorries. They were like some kind of crazy rodeo act, clattering down the main road, sparks flying from the horses’ shoes. Michael swore to himself, over and over and over, as though his anger, his profanities, could protect him from anxiety.
The dream images kept reminding him of the girl, but he had forgotten about the river and the song. His mother hadn’t. On the way back, when the horses had finally relaxed and were walking along like a troop of seaside donkeys, she rode up beside him.
‘ Woe betide you, Annan Water, By night you are a gloomy river. ’
He remembered the tune as she sang it; remembered his grandmother’s voice.
‘ And over you I’ll build a bridge, That … that … Mmm. I can’t remember how it goes.’
‘It’ll come to you,’ said Michael. ‘It doesn’t really matter, anyway. I was just curious.’
‘You’d better go to school,’ said Jean. ‘They’ll come looking for you if you don’t make an appearance.’
‘I don’t like that school.’
‘You don’t have to stay there much longer. Just until the end of the year.’
Michael wished he did like school. His older sister, Fiona, had been an awful lot smarter than he was. She had been an absolutely brilliant rider; better than any of them, his father sometimes said, but she had insisted on going to school; refused to take time off, no matter what was going on in the yard. Michael used to think she was mad, until she got her A levels and left home. Then he realized what it had all been for. Study had been her passport out of the yard. He had left it too late. He didn’t have a way out. On the occasions when he allowed himself to think about it, he could see no future for himself beyond home and the horses. He didn’t know what he wanted, but he knew he didn’t want that.
Woe betide you, Annan Water.
Now that the tune was in his head, other little snatches began to appear.
Annan Water’s wondrous deep, And my love Annie is wondrous bonny.
Dum, dum de dum.
Go saddle for me the bonny grey mare …
What was it that Annie’s mother had said? About a young man on a grey mare?
Frank noticed the time and swore. He put his horses into a steady trot and Michael fell in to the string.
‘Come to court our Annie, perhaps.’ That was what she had said.
7
H E SAT AT THE back of the class, on his own, near the window. The teacher, a Mr Burns, made several attempts to
5
H E DREAMED ABOUT THE girl, or about a girl; a face, in a shop like a blacksmiths. A large strong man, whose back was always turned, punched steel rivets and rings into the girl’s skin, using a hammer and a massive stapler. The girl’s features stretched grotesquely. She didn’t seem to feel any pain.
When his mother woke him, he was rigid with fear.
6
M ICHAEL WAS USED TO getting up in the dark. He was used to the pre-dawn struggle out into the yard, the hot tea slopping on to the ground, burning his hands on the way. He was used to tacking up sleepy horses in dimly lit boxes. Sometimes he was on automatic pilot, and found himself riding out of the yard with no idea at all of how he had got there.
The three of them were out on the roads at first light, with flashing red bicycle lamps strapped to their arms. Each of his parents rode one horse and led two others. Michael could ride whatever he wanted. He didn’t enjoy going out on Bandit, but had chosen him for safety’s sake, and he was leading the grey mare. She liked being led. She was quite relaxed when there was no one on top of her.
He had no problems with either of them, but his heart was in his mouth all the same. Both his parents seemed to take a perverse kind of pride in managing the unmanageable. Their horses were all over the road, pulling in different directions, turning the wrong way round, plunging and rearing and dancing, centimetres away from the bumpers of passing lorries. They were like some kind of crazy rodeo act, clattering down the main road, sparks flying from the horses’ shoes. Michael swore to himself, over and over and over, as though his anger, his profanities, could protect him from anxiety.
The dream images kept reminding him of the girl, but he had forgotten about the river and the song. His mother hadn’t. On the way back, when the horses had finally relaxed and were walking along like a troop of seaside donkeys, she rode up beside him.
‘ Woe betide you, Annan Water, By night you are a gloomy river. ’
He remembered the tune as she sang it; remembered his grandmother’s voice.
‘ And over you I’ll build a bridge, That … that … Mmm. I can’t remember how it goes.’
‘It’ll come to you,’ said Michael. ‘It doesn’t really matter, anyway. I was just curious.’
‘You’d better go to school,’ said Jean. ‘They’ll come looking for you if you don’t make an appearance.’
‘I don’t like that school.’
‘You don’t have to stay there much longer. Just until the end of the year.’
Michael wished he did like school. His older sister, Fiona, had been an awful lot smarter than he was. She had been an absolutely brilliant rider; better than any of them, his father sometimes said, but she had insisted on going to school; refused to take time off, no matter what was going on in the yard. Michael used to think she was mad, until she got her A levels and left home. Then he realized what it had all been for. Study had been her passport out of the yard. He had left it too late. He didn’t have a way out. On the occasions when he allowed himself to think about it, he could see no future for himself beyond home and the horses. He didn’t know what he wanted, but he knew he didn’t want that.
Woe betide you, Annan Water.
Now that the tune was in his head, other little snatches began to appear.
Annan Water’s wondrous deep, And my love Annie is wondrous bonny.
Dum, dum de dum.
Go saddle for me the bonny grey mare …
What was it that Annie’s mother had said? About a young man on a grey mare?
Frank noticed the time and swore. He put his horses into a steady trot and Michael fell in to the string.
‘Come to court our Annie, perhaps.’ That was what she had said.
7
H E SAT AT THE back of the class, on his own, near the window. The teacher, a Mr Burns, made several attempts to
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