Page 17 of The Black Trilogy

“Why don’t you have a vote?” I asked. They looked at me like I’d grown another head, so I elaborated. “How about we put all the ideas on a list, and each one that gets six or more votes goes on the schedule?”

There were murmurs of assent from around the table.

“About time someone came up with a sensible idea,” a man wearing a tweed cap muttered. He looked as if he’d be more at home on a tractor.

We soon had the number of classes down to thirty-five, which everyone agreed was reasonable, and I looked at my watch. Eleven thirty. I just had time for another slice of cake before we went back to Carol’s. And yes, it was really good cake.

I was trying to balance my teacup and plate in one hand while I pulled out a chair with the other when the tweed-cap man sidled up to me.

“George,” he said, sticking his hand out.

I gave up and put everything down on the table. “Ashlyn.” I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“I was wondering if you’re going to be a permanent member of the committee? We could do with some younger people, especially ones who’ve got their heads screwed on straight and don’t try to include a class for the potato that looks most like Elvis.”

A genuine suggestion, and one that had garnered three votes.

“Afraid not. I’m staying with Carol at the moment, but I’m not sure how long for. I need to look for a job, and I doubt I’ll find anything suitable near here.”

“What kind of job?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Maybe waitressing or bar work. Or cleaning. Something casual.”

“Do you know anything about horses?”

Horses? As a matter of fact, I did. I had one back home in Virginia—just one more thing I was missing.

When I acquired him, I hadn’t been planning to buy a horse. I’d been planning to buy a cold drink and a plane ticket to the Arctic, seeing as I was driving back to the airport from a meeting in southern Spain in heat so oppressive I thought my brain was going to melt out through my ears.

Traffic had slowed to a crawl as I drove past a livestock market, and when I slowly edged to the front of the queue, I saw what was causing the hold-up. A black horse going crazy in the middle of the road. Nostrils flaring, it stood up on its back legs, and the guy on the ground was struggling to hold onto the rope. The horse leapt sideways as two more swarthy men whacked it with plastic piping then it lashed out with its hooves. That drew forth a string of swear words and another beating.

Now, I may not have been shy with my fists, but I couldn’t stand cruelty to animals. Nothing gave a man the right to take his frustrations out on an innocent creature like that.

The heat forgotten, I leapt out of my car and strode towards the little scene. As I got closer, I realised the horse was covered in scabs and scars, and that made my blood boil. No wonder the poor thing was sweating and showing the whites of its eyes.

The temptation to put all three men on the ground, or better still, six feet under it, was immense, but while there was no doubt in my mind I could have done it, that wouldn’t have helped the horse. Getting myself arrested was never going to be constructive.

No, I used my wallet instead. After five minutes of “negotiation” and a liberal application of Euros, I was left at the side of the road holding a snapping horse on a rope as the men trundled off in their decrepit lorry.

A dozen phone calls later, I’d managed to find a sympathetic vet, and with the help of some tranquillisers and a lot of swearing, we got my new purchase onto a horse transporter. He lived at a rehabilitation yard in Spain for a few months, and when he’d healed up well enough, I took him home. The staff at the rehab place held a party when he left. I know this because I saw the photos on Facebook. There was a good reason I’d christened my darling pony Satan.

In the first three months of ownership, I went through six grooms, and I’d begun to lose hope when I found an old cowboy called Dustin who understood him. Although my horse still had his moments, he mostly behaved himself. Right now, he lived in luxury at my place in Virginia with Dustin’s mare to keep him company, and we’d shortened his name to Stan.

But that wasn’t a story I could tell George.

“I know a little about horses. I took riding lessons when I was a kid and helped out at the local stables.”

“Well, if you’re interested, I’m looking for a groom to work at my stable yard. The last girl ran off with a bloke she met at the travelling fair without giving any notice, so I’m a person short.”

“How much does it pay?”

“Only minimum wage, I’m afraid. Cash every Friday.”

Sounded perfect. At least horses wouldn’t ask questions about my state of mind or try to drag me along to the needlepoint club. I was sick of pasting on a fake smile from dawn to dusk.

“Can I come and take a look round?” I asked.

“I’m in all day tomorrow.”

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