“She was wearing her black jeans and a neat, black bomber jacket with a huge red butterfly painted on the back. She waved up at Michael, but his hands were too full of reins to wave back. She helped him. She came and held Oliver while he put away the grey mare, then insisted on leading him across the yard to the narrow shed where he was billeted. Michael showed her how to do it properly; to walk at the horse’s left shoulder instead of in front of him. ‘Save your good boots,’ he said. ‘And the go...od feet inside them.’ She took the tack off as well, following Michael’s instructions deftly; learning quickly. There was an eagerness about her; a delight in the simplest and most mundane of equine things. It surprised him. Perhaps she needed the funereal clothes and all that ironmongery to hold her down. As though, beneath it, she was as light and as translucent as a spirit. She followed him to the dairy and pounced on the grooming box. ‘Can I brush him?’ she said. ‘Or Bandit?MoreLessRead More Read Less
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