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Fallen leaves crunch underfoot as Audrey steps through the open church door and out into the fresh air, veering off the path and slipping away from the rest of the congregation that’s filing out behind her. Mindful of the uneven ground, she picks her way between the neat rows of graves, her fingers reaching out to fleetingly brush the top of Evelyn Farnon’s gravestone as she passes.
She keeps going until she’s almost on the path again, but halfway between the church and the surrounding wall — people are passing her by, some nodding a polite hello. Here, just beyond the shade of a beech tree, she’s well-positioned to watch people exit the church without being too in the way. Audrey was sat next to Mr Farnon for the service, but she’s lost him on the journey from their pew to the door — no doubt, he’s been intercepted by Mr Dobson about the TB testing again.
But she’s content to wait here for him to catch up with her, today’s sunshine a welcome change after six days of dull, grey skies and persistent, disheartening rainfall. She inhales, a deep breath, filling her lungs as she takes in the beauty of the churchyard — the colours of nature seem to be even more vibrant than usual today, leaves that are still clinging to trees appearing to glow golden in the midday sun.
She hears a familiar voice rise in volume over the others, turns just in time to witness Tristan deliver his final punchline to a bewildered Tom, who takes a moment, but chuckles genuinely once he’s worked it out.
Tristan has been doing so much better since VJ Day — she’s been careful, watching him closely. He’s not all the way there yet, but with each day that passes, she grows ever more confident that he will be. He’s a strong boy — man, now, she corrects herself, and Tom’s a good man, too, his new job at Heston Grange having given him his purpose back. She’s proud of the pair of them.
Behind Tristan and Tom, James, Helen, Jimmy and Rosie emerge from the church, little Rosie holding onto James’s hand — she missed her daddy when she were in London, bless her.
Charlotte makes her way over to Audrey. “A little bird informed me that I should wish you many happy returns,” she says.
Audrey nods, smiles wryly. “Jimmy.”
“Yes, Jimmy. He was very excited to tell me that it was Auntie Audrey’s birthday today.” She squints up at the sky, shielding her eyes with her hand. “It is a glorious day. Any plans for this afternoon?”
Audrey shakes her head. “Oh, no, nothing special. Helen insisted on laying out the lunch, but beyond that — maybe I’ll get at me book.”
“Peace and quiet. Just right. Well, I shan’t keep you from your birthday lunch.”
Audrey is genuinely surprised. “You aren’t coming?” she blurts.
Charlotte shakes her head gently, polite as ever. “I couldn’t possibly —”
“‘Course you can,” Audrey talks over her, eager to make the girl feel welcome. “I’d like you to come.”
“Alright, then. If you’re sure.” She holds her hand out for an oddly formal handshake, which Audrey accepts. “Thank you.”
There’s commotion under a horse chestnut tree, drawing their attention — Tristan, Jimmy, and a handful of other children are picking up conkers, two little ones arguing over who gets to keep the biggest conker. “I’d better go and make sure they don’t have somebody’s eye out,” Charlotte says, dramatically long-suffering. “See you at Skeldale.”
She’s been eyeing Mr Farnon over Charlotte’s shoulder as he wanders closer, having managed to extract himself from Mr Dobson’s questioning. He looks so handsome in his Sunday best, well put-together, his pocket square just so. Audrey can’t help but be proud — of his well-pressed suit, of course.
He doesn’t comment on finding Audrey in the middle of the gravestones, just holds his arm out for her. “Shall we?”
They share a private little smile as she hooks her arm with his, the rest of the congregation fading into the background, his eyes twinkling in that way she’s noticed they do when she catches his gaze lingering on her.
They walk down the path arm in arm, only separating so he can open the Tapsel gate for her to pass through first — once their arms are linked again, she tries to go right, towards home, but he pulls to the left.
She looks over at him, raising an eyebrow.
“I thought it would be nice to go for a little walk,” he says.
“You did, did you?” She sweeps her free hand up and down, indicating for him her current attire. “In me Sunday best?”
His self-confidence wanes for but a moment, before he rallies himself. “Er. Yes.”
She jostles his arm, chuckles at his expression, letting him know she was only teasing. “Go on, then.”
He leads her between two buildings, behind the church, past the pond with the two swans, where there’s a common — Audrey has walked Dash and Jess here many times. Her thoughts can’t help but drift to before the war, when Gerald and Rock joined them as well — she wishes him the best, lets herself lean more into Mr Farnon and the present as the surface under their feet changes from cobbles to grass.
She expects him to let go of her at some point — but he doesn’t, and Audrey could never find it in her heart to protest.
They talk some, remarking on the service, on the reported imminent arrival of the SS Corfu from Asia and its precious cargo, the first of the freed prisoners of war from that part of the world. Audrey makes a note to herself to check on Maggie when she next gets a chance — maybe she’ll make her something. She loses track of a few minutes, picturing the contents of her pantry — she has a bit of sugar left in the bag, some whole flour, plenty of raisins.
Audrey realises they’ve been walking for a while, now that she thinks on it — they’re following a tree line, a forest beyond. If she were here walking the dogs, she’d have turned back by now.
“Just how ‘little’ is this walk?” she asks.
“Not far to go now,” Mr Farnon assures her — which implies that he has a destination in mind, after all.
She purses her lips, casting his profile an assessing glance. He is studious in his task of putting one foot in front of the other, not meeting her gaze. She’s willing to play along for now, their church’s current vicar having the gift of brevity, unusual for a man of his calling.
True to Mr Farnon’s word, a few minutes later he stops, gently extracting her arm from his own. Their destination is more of the same — grass, lush from the recent rainfall, with the same forest to their right, leaves in various shades of orange and brown.
Mr Farnon meets her eye for the first time in a while, and she can tell that he’s been avoiding her for a reason — his excitement about whatever he has planned is plain as day. “It’s all arranged. Just wait here, if you please,” he says.
“Don’t we need to get back for Helen’s lunch?” Audrey asks, picturing poor Helen, standing alone with a set table, but she’s addressing Mr Farnon’s retreating back, unheard. He has already turned away from her, striding with purpose into the trees, kicking up leaves with every step.
With no other option, Audrey does as he requested — she waits. It’s not long before the sound of his returning footsteps has her looking up from peeling a damp leaf off her shoe — he’s carrying the picnic hamper, looking very pleased with himself.
His good mood is contagious — one corner of her mouth ticks up despite herself. “What’s this now?”
“Your birthday lunch, of course,” he replies, stopping in front of her and giving the wicker hamper a pat. He turns on the spot, exclaims, “Ah-ha!” when he notices a suitable place to eat — it’s as dry as anywhere else in the field, out of the shade in order to take full advantage of the heat of the day. He opens the hamper, shaking out the tartan blanket with a snap of his wrists. Mr Farnon straightens the corners, then steps back. “After you,” he says to her, gesturing grandly with a dignified sweep of his arm.
She sits, watches with undisguised curiosity as he begins to lay everything out. There’s the expected — bread that’s better sliced than Tristan’s efforts, but worse than Helen’s, leftover slivers of baked ham, a jar of her own pickle from home, apples; but then there’s more — mini pork pies, fine cheeses the likes of Tricki Woo would enjoy, and a glass bottle of homemade lemonade.
Audrey realises she’s staring, eyebrows drawn together in a frown — it’s too much, there’s still rationing, the war’s not long over. She shakes her head, wondering just how much trouble Mr Farnon went to on her account. He distracts her when he sits on the blanket next to her with an audible ‘oof’ that has her ducking her head to hide an amused huff of a laugh.
She fiddles with the strap of her handbag, suddenly nervous, as she casts her gaze over the entirety of the picnic that he’s laid out. “You did all this for me?”
Mr Farnon’s got a small plate out, and he’s arranging a couple of the mini pork pies on one side. “I know you don’t like to make a fuss, but I reserve the right to make one on your behalf. Cheddar?”
Moved by his kindness, so freely and honestly given, Audrey takes too long to answer him. Siegfried looks up at her questioningly, the knife hovering over a little block of mature cheddar. He must see something that unsettles him in her eyes. “Mrs Hall?” he asks, soft.
She clears her throat. “Yes, please.” He blinks at her, still frozen in place. “You asked me about the cheese.”
“Oh. Right, yes — of course.”
He’s in motion again, cutting her one chunky, uneven slice and then another. It’s remarkable how precise he is when he’s sewing up an incision after a life-saving operation, compared to — well, almost anything else he attempts. As soon as she’s had the thought, she feels unkind. He blushes as he hands the plate over to her — she wishes to reassure him that he has no need to be embarrassed by his slicing skills, but rather than drawing further attention to this minor shortcoming, she settles for thanking him sincerely as she takes the plate.
They work their way through the picnic steadily, the food tasting all the better for its rarity, the company she shares, and the thought behind it. The pork pies taste so like the ones she had before the war, it takes her right back. She doesn’t ask, but she has a feeling that Mrs Pumphrey had a hand in getting this picnic together.
The Blue Wensleydale has Siegfried making little mumbles and groans of pleasure with every bite, interrupting the otherwise easy flow of conversation between them. Audrey keeps her eyes averted, each moan that escapes him well-earned, for cheese like this has been hard to get a hold of in recent years. And yet her cheeks feel unnaturally warm, listening to him — to distract herself, Audrey inquires after Helen and the fictional birthday lunch that she now remembers she invited poor Charlotte to. How mortifying — she’ll have to make it up to the girl somehow.
“Helen may have helped with the hamper — just a few small details,” he hurries to reassure, never one to denounce credit where it is due. Siegfried pops the last of the Wensleydale into his mouth, mercifully too preoccupied with digging in the hamper to vocalise his pleasure this time. He finds what he’s looking for, an oval-shaped tin with an old-fashioned painting of a brown cow on the lid. He holds it out in the space between them. “Little things, such as…” He trails off meaningfully, opening the tin — inside are two slices of loaf cake, layered with raspberry jam and dusted with precious icing sugar.
“Happy birthday, Audrey,” Siegfried says, smiling at her, eyes warm.
She can’t help but smile back, helps herself to a slice of cake. Helen must’ve made it up at Heston, to hide it from Audrey. It’s delicious, admittedly better than she expected — Helen’s baking has come on leaps and bounds, Audrey’s proud to say.
There’s hardly any lemonade left in the bottle — Siegfried suggests a toast to use the last of it up. He holds up his half-empty glass tumbler, says with a cheeky grin, “To the robustness of your good health.”
She snorts at his choice of words, unladylike. “Thank you. I think,” she adds with a mutter, lifting the rim of her tumbler to her lips.
“To the remarkable Mrs Hall,” he tacks on before she can take a sip, almost as if to himself, low and sincere. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” she repeats, clinking their tumblers together.
Siegfried starts to pack the hamper, wrapping up leftover food into little wax paper parcels. Having been gently told off already for trying to help, Audrey simply watches him.
“Thank you,” she says, breaking the easy silence that had fallen while he worked.
“Of course,” he replies, flippant, like it was nothing at all. He’s on his knees, stacking the few plates they have with them, securing them in their proper place within the hamper using the straps and buckles. He’s not looking at her, and suddenly that’s the worst thing in the world — she stills his busy hands by putting her own on top.
She remembers this day last year, missing him. The years before that, still looking for him on the streets of Sunderland, expecting him to walk around the corner any moment — the empty feeling in her heart when he didn’t.
She takes a deep breath to steady herself, looks into his eyes, his soul. “I — I can’t tell you what it means to me, to — to be spending my birthday here — in Darrowby — with you.”
He doesn’t say anything, just swallows thickly. Not looking away from her face, he turns his hand under hers so he can intertwine their fingers. He balances one hand on the picnic hamper, leaning towards her — she feels herself drawn to him, lets herself move closer.
“Mrs Hall,” he says softly, then corrects himself, “Audrey, I — oh, damn and blast!”
The picnic hamper tilts sharply to one side as Siegfried puts too much of his weight on it, causing him to overbalance. His grip on her hand instinctually tightens as he falls forward. He lands on his side in front of her knees, still valiantly clinging onto her hand.
Siegfried lies there as if in a daze for a few seconds, his hat askew, hair obscuring his eye. Audrey carefully doesn’t laugh at the sad sight. He tries, but he realises he has to let go of her hand in order to right himself. She reaches forward, grabbing his elbow to help him up to his knees again.
Plates that weren’t yet strapped down have toppled out onto the blanket, various items of cutlery loose and scattered. “Bloody thing,” he mutters as he starts to gather spoons.
Audrey hides her mouth behind her hand, trying desperately not to laugh at the combination of his grumpy expression and his ruffled appearance. But her silence becomes noticeably long — he looks up from his task, and as soon as he catches her eye, she’s a goner. Muffled chuckles become heartier peals of laughter as she gives up on any notion of keeping her amusement to herself.
Siegfried scoffs, holding onto his spoons, as he watches her laugh, like she’s one of his patients and he can’t quite figure out what the matter is. “Mrs Hall —” is all he manages, aiming for scandalised and falling well short. He starts laughing too, throwing his head back.
He’s so beautiful when he laughs like that, she thinks, blushing — the thought sobers her, has her looking away to wipe bittersweet tears from her eyes. Her chest aches.
Her vision now cleared, she notices someone running towards them — it’s Mr Kirkland’s boy. He looks serious. She nudges Siegfried with her elbow. “Mr Farnon,” she says, and something in her tone has him sobering too. He sees the boy, collects his composure with enviable speed.
“What is it, Jack?” Siegfried asks, getting to his feet and taking a few steps forward to greet the boy.
Audrey senses the urgency in the air, feels uncomfortable with the idea of just sitting there while man and boy talk. She stands too.
Jack’s still in his best suit from church, mud on his shoes, spots on his trousers. He takes a moment to catch his breath before he can relay his message. “I were on my way to a phone box to call for you, Mr Farnon. It’s the horse — she’s stuck, sir, stuck fast. She’s fell into the ditch and we can’t get her out. We need your help.” He glances between the two of them. “Please.”
“Of course, of course,” Siegfried mutters, hurriedly wrapping loose plates and cutlery up within the blanket, attempting to shove the whole thing into the hamper without folding it. “Bloody —”
“I’ll do that,” she tells him, tone firm enough to cut through his fluster. She makes a shooing motion with her hands. “Go on.”
“Right.” He takes a few steps in Jack’s direction, only to whirl back around. “I am terribly sorry about this, Mrs Hall.”
Feeling bold, even though Jack is there, Audrey closes the distance between them, reaches out to squeeze his hand. He looks at her, and she can only hope that he’s actually seeing her, rather than whatever horrible image of a trapped horse he’s already conjuring in his mind. “It’s alright. You’re needed. Go.”
He squeezes her hand back, only a brief thing, one cheek twitching with a half smile of gratitude that’s gone just as quick. He turns back to Jack, tells him to lead the way, both of them taking off at a jog.
Audrey finishes packing the hamper properly, stands there holding it and her handbag — Siegfried and Jack have disappeared from view since she last looked up. She hesitates, debating with herself, leaning her weight on one leg and then the other, worrying at her lower lip. “Sod it,” she mutters to herself, and takes off after them, the picnic hamper making her steps clumsy, bumping against her leg with every step.
She hasn’t gone far before a dry stone wall emerges from amongst the tree trunks, and she has to set everything down to open a wooden farm gate, which she’s mindful to close behind her. The stone wall continues beyond the gate, marking a boundary between farmland and forest. On the field side of the wall is a drainage ditch, overgrown with long, weedy grasses, but thanks to the recent rainfall, it’s almost full to the brim with water, a few orange and yellow leaves floating on the surface.
Jack said the horse was in a ditch, and it must be close, or he wouldn’t have run into herself and Siegfried like he did. She starts walking, parallel to the ditch, the wall and forest beyond. The wall curves around, out of sight, following the natural pattern of tree growth — as she approaches the turn, she hears voices ahead, and sure enough, a group of people have gathered some ten years away.
The field is kidney bean-shaped — straight ahead of Audrey as she makes the turn is another wooden gate, a twin of the gate she’s just come through, this one sitting wide open. The road outside the gate, running alongside the field, is one Audrey remembers cycling down when she was an ARP Warden, on her way to check the handful of houses that she can just see the roofs of in the distance, obscured as they are by an unseasonably green hedge.
People have gathered round, most of them in their Sunday best — while she and Siegfried were delaying with their picnic, others must’ve been making their way home from the church service and come across the scene, leaving a tell-tale trail of flattened grass between the trapped horse and the gate. A couple of women and a man, unwilling to get their good shoes dirty, are standing on the road, watching from a distance, the man leaning forward with his elbows on the wall.
Everyone who has braved the field is standing in a rough semicircle, facing the horse — it isn’t as big as she’d imagined it would be, probably more of a pony, really, but it’s big enough. It’s piebald, stocky, the black areas of its coat sun-faded to a dark brown from hours spent outside over the summer. It has a long, messy mane and forelock, too, and its tail is half floating in the water, a few loose leaves and twigs tangled in the strands.
With the ditch full of water, she didn’t realise just how deep it was — she can’t see the horse’s legs, the poor thing standing shoulder deep, the surrounding water churned into thick, sticky mud by its struggles. Mud has splashed up, matting the hair of the horse’s chin and neck.
Siegfried doesn’t notice Audrey’s arrival as he approaches the horse, his focus fully on the animal, talking quietly all the while.
She’s the only woman here — she exchanges friendly nods with young Jack and a few of the men, most vaguely familiar to her, even if she can’t match names to faces with much confidence. She’s sure most of them will have been to Skeldale at some point, and she’s probably talked to all of them on the phone at one time or other.
All eyes are on the horse — it looks tired, like it’s given up, and Audrey’s heart goes out to it. There’s a faint, persistent tremble in its hips and shoulders, its neck, from the cold or tiredness or both, Audrey couldn’t say. A dazzling white blaze on its face is marred with splatters of damp and drying mud.
Siegfried carefully steps over a pair of deep, parallel gouges at the ditch’s edge, where the horse must have slipped and fell in.
He gets too close, within a yard — where before the horse looked defeated, now it panics, thrashing wildly. Audrey jumps, not expecting it. It can’t move its legs more than an inch in any direction, but its head is free — they all hear the dull thud as it accidentally slams its eye against the stone wall, grimace at the rust-red smear it leaves behind.
Siegfried backs up, the horse settles.
“Who owns this horse?” he demands, turning on the gathered crowd — the question comes out sounding harsh, accusatory, but Audrey can see the fear in his eyes, the genuine concern for his patient.
People exchange looks between each other, mumbled conversations — Siegfried sweeps his gaze over them all, finally notices her. His only reaction is a single blink of surprise, but Audrey could swear he seems steadier now that he knows she’s on hand.
“So no one,” he answers for them all, dry.
“She could’ve broke out from somewhere,” someone pipes up, an older man, clutching his lapels. “Maybes a field with nowt for shelter.”
“Or the rain could’ve done for her wall,” another one says. “She’s got them twigs in her tail.” At this, he points.
“Yes. She sought shelter to foal. It’s possible,” Siegfried mutters, his hand covering his mouth in thought, having turned back around to face the horse again.
Foal? Audrey thinks. She takes a moment, really looks around. She can’t believe she didn’t see it before — if she looks past the large man who’s talking about a field with ‘nowt for shelter’, another man has a length of rope tied around a young foal’s neck, holding on tight.
It’s a golden foal — he has patches of white like his mother, but where she is black, the foal is a warm gold. He’s pulling forward, the rope digging in, trying to get closer to his mother. Audrey finds herself approaching before she makes the conscious decision to do so — he looks very young indeed, his gangly legs and knobbly knees appearing too big for his body.
Audrey has her hand outstretched, some motherly instinct drawing her to the young foal. She’s almost touching him when, out of the corner of her eye, she sees Siegfried attempt to approach the mare again. Once he’s too close for her comfort, she thrashes, the side of her head slamming against the unforgiving stone wall.
He doesn’t back away this time like she expects him to — he simply shrugs off his jacket, tugging impatiently when his arm doesn’t emerge from the sleeve fast enough, and manages to throw his jacket over the horse’s head. She calms instantly.
Siegfried steps back, squares his tense shoulders — he has the air of a man taking charge. Audrey feels her spine straightening before he even says a word. A ripple of anticipation travels through the crowd as he turns, seeking someone out, eyes landing on her.
“Mrs Hall, go to old Mrs Simpson’s — she has a telephone — and call Skeldale. Tell James to come as quickly as he can, and that he must bring with him all the ropes he can find. Tell him not to tell Tristan.”
Audrey nods, keen to be of any use at all, but she doesn’t know where Mrs Simpson lives. Not exactly.
“I could go,” says one of the younger men as if he’s read her mind. “She knows me. I trim her hedges.”
Siegfried’s attention snaps to him. “Very well. Hurry, man.”
Bending to the intensity of Siegfried’s will, he takes off running.
Still holding onto the picnic hamper and feeling somewhat foolish for doing so, Audrey sets it down at the foot of a nearby tree, stashing her handbag safely inside. When she turns around, Siegfried has two men keeping watch over the mare while he examines the foal, his touch gentle but sure as he runs a palm along the foal’s back, down each leg in turn. The foal is distressed, but too young to really understand what’s happening. He tries half-heartedly to step away from Siegfried, but the rope holds firm — he just wants to be with his mother, bless his little heart.
He’s got one blue eye, Audrey notices when his head turns in such a way, the pale blue of that one iris catching the light. Siegfried finishes his examination by having a closer look at his umbilical cord — it’s red and raw, staining surrounding fur on his belly.
“The umbilical cord’s still flexible, although the feet have hardened,” Siegfried says, straightening up, addressing no one in particular. His hand lingers, fingers splayed on the foal’s back. “I’d say he’s a day old at the very most, but more likely this foal was born at some point last night.”
The rain didn’t stop until the early hours of this morning — Audrey knows for certain because the gale was blowing the raindrops up against her bedroom window, rattling the panes. It would’ve been no leap of the imagination to picture the glass shattering under the bombardment, razor-sharp shards littering her bedroom floor. As it was, she lay there in her bed, unable to sleep for the din during those few hours when the storm was at its worst — to know this little foal was born out here during such a deluge, it breaks Audrey’s heart, for him and his poor mother.
She reaches out, places her palm across his withers, feels the dampness lingering there — but the warmth, too, from the sun shining on his back. Her thumb snags in the longer, coarser hair at the base of his short mane.
“He’s a little dehydrated,” Siegfried says, and Audrey can’t explain it, but this time she knows he’s only talking to her, “but nothing his mother’s milk won’t fix.”
The foal nickers, an endearing little sound, but his mother either doesn’t hear him from under Siegfried’s jacket, or is simply too tired to respond.
“You’re alright, now, sweetheart,” Audrey tells him, a poor substitute. She speaks quietly enough that she’s surprised when Siegfried responds, just as soft.
“Quite right.”
Their pinkie fingers brush as he withdraws his hand from where it had been resting on the foal’s back.
He returns to the ditch to check on the mare. A few people announce that they’re leaving, those who live nearby promising that they’ll return once they’ve changed out of their Sunday best. The crowd thins out to only four, not including Audrey and Siegfried.
It’s a waiting game now, for James to arrive with the ropes.
“You don’t have to stay here,” Siegfried whispers next to her ear.
Audrey was not expecting him to be so close — last she looked, he was talking with one of the men watching over the mare at the ditch. She’s maybe been daydreaming a bit, running her fingers through the foal’s beautiful coat, losing herself to the sensation of the short hairs parting under her touch.
“It’s all hands on deck, in’t it?” She matches Siegfried’s volume, aware that the man who is holding the end of the foal’s rope is very near.
“It’s your birthday.”
“I’m well aware, thank you,” she tells him, letting some steel into her voice.
“If you’re sure —”
“I’ll help with the foal.”
“Alright.”
He doesn’t sound best pleased for reasons only known to himself — still, she hurries to reassure, “I’m not going into battle, Mr Farnon, it’s just a baby.”
Someone calls Siegfried over. Audrey makes a point of introducing herself to the man on the other end of the rope, reaching over the foal’s head to offer her hand — his name is Mr Belshaw, and he’s one of the few people here that isn’t in his Sunday best. The rope, she realises, is a cow halter, a loop tied in the end.
Mr Belshaw doesn’t comment as Audrey runs her hand through the soft golden and white fur on the foal’s neck. “It’s alright,” she tells him, soothing. “Mr Farnon’s here now — he’ll have your mummy out o’ there in a jiffy.” The foal turns his head to sniff at her wrist, mouthing at her watch, whiskers dancing across her skin. “Sweet boy.”
Meanwhile, Siegfried paces, watching the mare. The jacket covering her eyes is doing its job — she’s staying relatively calm, even if Siegfried or someone else gets close, but the exhausted tremor of her muscles is becoming more pronounced. Siegfried’s growing agitation at the horse’s helpless situation has Audrey worried, but there’s nothing she can do — the best she can hope for is to at least keep the foal distracted.
The volunteer who offered to go to Mrs Simpson’s appears on the road, dodging the three bystanders who’ve stayed on the roadside as he jogs through the open gate.
“Well?” Siegfried barks as soon as he’s within shouting distance.
“Mr Farnon — er, the other one — says he’s on his way.”
“Damn it, man — did I or did I not say to keep Tristan out of this?” Audrey is sure he’s five seconds away from stamping his foot like a child having a tantrum — she understands his concern, she cares for Tristan’s wellbeing too, but they need all the help they can get.
“Mr Farnon,” she warns. He doesn’t acknowledge her with words — but he takes a couple of deeper breaths, visibly collects himself.
“Where’s James?” On the young man’s blank look, Siegfried clarifies, “Herriot.”
He shrugs. “I dunno. It were Mr Farnon who answered the telephone, sir.”
“Of course it bloody was,” he mutters, resuming his pacing, casting worried looks at the mare every time he reaches the end of his path and turns, hands fidgeting at his sides. He walks back and forth enough times that he starts to squelch, mud seeping up between the blades of grass and sticking to the bottom of his shoes.
The foal lets out a big sigh and Audrey changes tack, rubs her hand across his chest — she finds a sweet spot, digs the heel of her hand into the groove between his shoulder and chest muscles. He bends his neck as far as he can, lips wobbling, attempting to ‘groom’ her arm in return but unable to bend just the right way. He ends up mouthing at her shoulder instead.
One of the people who left to change at home returns — Mr Thornley has a head collar and lead rope in his hand as he comes over. He marches right up to Siegfried, well-used to his bedside manner from repeated visits to Skeldale House. He gets in the way of his pacing, forcing Siegfried to stop or bump into him.
“It’s for me Punch, so it’s big, but I thought it could be useful.”
Siegfried nods. “Good thinking.”
The foal shifts under Audrey’s hand, and, to her surprise, he settles himself on the ground. She’s going to just leave him — if he’s lying down, he’s staying out of Siegfried’s way, but after a minute or two finds she misses the contact with him. She nips over to the picnic hamper to pull out the crushed, creased picnic blanket.
The foal’s head is drooping, his eyes tired behind beautiful white lashes. Under Mr Belshaw’s watchful eye, Audrey lays the blanket out on the grass next to the foal, careful to move slowly and surely, not wanting to spook him.
Audrey settles down on the ground beside the foal, resumes her gentle stroking and nonsense kind words. His breathing slows, posture relaxing further. She’s humbled when the foal lists to one side, his head coming to rest on her thigh. It’s not long before he’s fast asleep, breathing deeply. His ear twitches when a buzzing insect flies by, and she holds her breath, but he doesn’t wake.
It almost doesn’t feel real — she has to look up, to make sure she’s still in an ordinary field in Darrowby and not one of Jimmy and Rosie’s fairytale storybooks. Siegfried has stopped his worried pacing, is observing her with an expression of such warmth on his face that she can’t help but smile back at him, her eyes stinging.
She has to look away before she embarrasses herself by letting a tear fall, and notices a car approaching on the road — Siegfried’s Rover. It rolls to a stop just past the gate and Tristan climbs out, a determined frown drawing his brows together. He grabs his vet bag from the backseat, and he’s found the coil of rope in the store cupboard. He must’ve changed his clothes before he came as well — he’s wearing a tatty pair of burgundy corduroy trousers Audrey doesn’t recognise, a sturdy set of fisherman’s waders over the top.
Audrey hasn’t been looking at her watch, but it can’t be much more than fifteen minutes since he was called.
“Took you long enough,” Siegfried snaps, almost as if he’s doing what’s expected of him — but his shoulders slump as soon as he’s finished speaking, and Audrey can see the regret in his eyes.
Tristan, for his part, doesn’t dignify Siegfried with a response, just marches past him to get a closer look at what he can see of the trapped horse.
“I noticed on my way over that the water trough by the gate has dried up in this field,” he says, poking at one of the muddy, hoof-sized skid marks with the toe of his boot. “She must’ve wandered in, looking for water, and slipped.”
“She foaled last night.”
“So lactation would’ve added to her thirst, too.”
“Probably.” Siegfried folds his arms. “Where’s James?”
“Left for Heston Grange already,” Tristan replies, dismissive. He falls silent for several moments, running his gaze along the length of the animal, lingering on Siegfried’s jacket covering her head. His shoulders are tense, his posture an almost perfect mirror of his brother’s.
Tristan inhales a fortifying breath. “What’s the plan, then?” he asks Siegfried.
“Rope, and plenty of it. She’s been belly deep in that cold water for who knows how many hours. She’s too weak to climb out by now — and the ditch is too steep, besides. If we attach a rope around her chest, fashion —”
“— Some kind of harness.”
“Yes, that’s my thinking. There are plenty of people here, we should be able to shift her. Pull her out sideways.”
“I’m not sure,” Tristan muses, shaking his head slightly. He twists on his heel to run his gaze over the gathered crowd, deep in thought — no doubt noting that a majority are over the age of fifty.
“I’ll get me tractor,” Mr Cains pipes up. “My farm’s less than a mile away.”
“Good idea,” Audrey says with an encouraging smile and a nod that Mr Cains takes as intended. Both brothers have returned to their observation of the horse — she’s not sure if they even heard him make his offer, and they certainly don’t notice him leave.
“It’ll hurt her,” Tristan says, quiet, almost too low for Audrey to hear.
Siegfried steps closer, reaches out to give Tristan’s shoulder the briefest of squeezes. “Yes,” he says, solemn, patient. “But we have to.”
Tristan nods sharply, sniffs. “I know.”
“First things first,” Siegfried says, louder, like a ringmaster performing for his audience. “We need to get a rope around her — over the withers, behind the elbow.”
Tristan kneels at the edge of the ditch, arm outstretched to touch the horse — despite the jacket covering her head, she startles violently, although she narrowly avoids hitting the side of her head again. Tristan withdraws, sits back on his haunches. “We need her to calm down, or she’s going to make things worse.”
Siegfried bites his lower lip, then seems to come to a decision. He holds his hand out, snaps his fingers in Mr Thornley’s direction. “Head collar,” is all he says without looking at the man.
Mr Thornley huffs at the attitude — but, to Audrey’s relief, he comes forward, places the head collar into Siegfried’s waiting hand.
Before anyone can protest, Siegfried slides down into the muddy ditch by the horse’s head. He gasps when his legs are submerged, the cold water immediately soaking into his good wool trousers. The horse startles, but, unable to see or move away, she can do little to hinder him. He moves quickly, buckling the oversized head collar around her neck. She wrestles weakly, tossing her head — Siegfried grits his teeth as his hands work blindly under his jacket to slip the head collar over her nose.
“It’s loose, but it’s on. Tristan.”
Tristan steps forward, throws a length of the rope over the mare’s withers. She flinches — Siegfried grips her head, holding her steady, murmuring calming nonsense words.
Tristan works fast, ends up joining Siegfried and the horse in the ditch — but, unlike Siegfried, at least he’s dressed appropriately for the job. Sitting on the ground, stroking the sleeping foal’s cheek, Audrey has an excellent, unobstructed view of the brothers at work. Tristan’s waders are keeping his clothes dry — Siegfried’s trousers are saturated, and the lower half of his waistcoat too. He’s cold and miserable, but he’s doing a decent job of hiding it.
Mr Norris sacrifices his walking stick so that Tristan can use the hooked sheep’s horn handle to pull the rope through the water, under the horse’s belly.
Audrey can hear the sound of an engine, getting closer, accompanied by a distant, ringing bell. “Tristan!” she calls out, eyes on the commotion over at the gate. “Where’s Charlotte?”
Tristan doesn’t look up, hands busy tightening knots in their rudimentary harness. “I sent her on. No use in us both missing lunch with her father.”
Audrey grins. “Is that right?”
He must hear the grin in her voice — he turns to her at last, a confused frown on his face. Then he notices what she’s referring to.
Charlotte is still wearing the same dress she was earlier, but she’s partially covered it with one of the men’s tan vet coats, and borrowed Audrey’s wellingtons. She’s striding across the field towards them, and, behind her, is Darrowby’s very own NFS van, turning off the road and into the field to come cross-country, emergency bell ringing.
Tristan gapes at the sight — Audrey hides a chuckle by ducking her head.
“Tristan,” Siegfried says, seemingly not moved by this turn of events. “Try getting a second rope around her, further back — but not too far. Try around her flank, mind her mammary glands.”
Tristan has to tear his wide-eyed gaze away from Charlotte — it takes him visible effort.
“Hello, Audrey,” Charlotte says as she reaches them. She looks down with a gentle smile at Audrey and the foal, who’s sleeping on, oblivious — even through the persistent ringing of the van’s bell.
The black van stops a few yards back, ‘NFS’ neatly painted on the side in utilitarian block letters. Even with the war over, Darrowby’s fire brigade consists of mostly female volunteers — young men who were away fighting on the Continent have returned to find their appetite for being near smoke and flame diminished. They’re all younger than her, but Audrey recognises some of the girls, can place a few faces from the WI, and one of them is the butcher’s daughter, Phyllis.
“Turn that bloody thing off!” Siegfried shouts, and the bell is silenced.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Charlotte says, smoothly moving past the outburst, “but I took the liberty of borrowing your wellington boots.”
“Not at all,” Audrey says, shaking her head. “I think they suit you.”
Charlotte flicks a glance in Tristan’s direction, seems satisfied that he has his back to them and is too preoccupied to listen. Even so, she covers her mouth with her hand, whispering, “They’re a bit big for me, unfortunately. I’ve had to steal a pair of Tristan’s thick winter socks.”
“I can only hope they’re clean ones,” Audrey says, raising a wry eyebrow.
Phyllis stands off to one side, motioning for the driver of the NFS van to reverse closer. When the back wheels are a few feet away from the ditch, she lifts her hand, palm up — the van stops, sitting idle for a few minutes while Tristan ties the final knots in the rope ‘harness’. There are two ends that need to be attached to the van — Tristan hands them off to the NFS girls one at a time, waiting as each rope is tied to the back bumper. Audrey isn’t sure about this arrangement, but she hasn’t a better idea to offer, so she holds her tongue and hopes she’s wrong.
Siegfried is still in the ditch, keeping the horse’s head at arm’s length, but not letting go.
Tristan holds the ropes steady as the van slowly creeps forward, the driver under careful direction from Phyllis. After taking up the slack, Tristan lets go of the now-suspended ropes and steps away, gives the order.
Audrey and everyone else gathered watches with bated breath as the driver puts her foot down. The van’s engine revs, the ropes tighten around the horse — Tristan’s knots hold, but it’s no good, she doesn’t move an inch, the van’s thin road tyres spinning uselessly in the damp grass.
“Whoa!” Tristan and Siegfried shout at the same time — Phyllis hurriedly echoes their sentiment to the driver.
“It’s no bloody use,” Tristan says, shoulders slumped in defeat, expression grim.
“You’re alright,” Siegfried murmurs to the horse — Audrey notices a slight tremor in his hand as he strokes her neck.
Tristan is at the centre of a discussion, including Phyllis and the NFS girls, Jack and another man, trying to come up with an alternative plan, when Mr Cains arrives with the tractor he promised. It’s painted a dull grey, engine, wheels and all, sticking out in the landscape for its lack of colour.
Mr Cains stays in the driver’s seat as Tristan outlines the new plan for him — once he’s up to speed, Mr Cains turns the tractor around, reversing into position next to the NFS van. The rope that goes across the mare’s withers and behind her elbows, and therefore the most crucial, is tied to the tow hitch on the back of the tractor. Both vehicles now sharing the burden, they carefully take up the slack. Chunky wheels dig into the earth, and with a puff of dark smoke from the exhaust, Mr Cains drives forwards. In the following instant, on Phyllis’s nod, the van driver does the same.
Siegfried and Tristan both have to scramble out of the way as the mare is pulled with little dignity out of the ditch, her legs flailing and kicking up more mud and water as she tries to get her bearings.
During the mad scramble, Siegfried’s jacket falls off her head, landing with one sleeve in the water, his pipe loose of the breast pocket and floating away. Siegfried doesn’t notice, too focused on his patient who now, at least, is on solid ground. The mare’s eyes are bulging in fear — she gets her legs under her, manages to stand, shaken from her ordeal but strong, muddy water sluicing down her legs, pooling in her feathers.
Without anyone asking him to, Mr Thornley nips forward to catch the end of the lead rope, Siegfried having been forced to let it go — he’d held on throughout her rescue, but she’s too far away from him now that she’s standing, and he’s still waist deep in a ditch.
There’s some swelling around one of the horse’s eyes from bashing her head against the wall, the flesh puffy and red, and she’s clearly exhausted, but to Audrey’s untrained eye she looks remarkably well off.
Roused by the noisy tractor’s engine during the pull, the foal clambers to his feet, calling to his mother. He’s young and ungainly, but he can see his mother now — he pulls on the rope that Mr Belshaw is still holding, not understanding why he can’t move any closer.
A bit more stiffly than she expected, Audrey stands too, bending over to brush a few of the creases out of her skirt — the foal has left a damp patch of dribble on her thigh and a myriad of tiny gold and white hairs.
Both horses now safe, they need to rescue the vet — he’s well and truly stuck in the ditch, the side too steep and slippery for him to have a hope of climbing out himself. Tristan goes over to help pull him free of the mire, but to Siegfried’s disgruntlement, Tristan announces him to be too heavy. Audrey suspects that his wool trousers and waistcoat have absorbed a not inconsiderable amount of additional water — although he did have a lunch consisting of fine cheeses and cake, and she has, she admits to herself, been trying to feed him up after years of scraping by on tinned sardines.
Tristan takes one arm, Charlotte comes over to grab onto the other. Together they pull, Siegfried groaning under the strain on his shoulder joints — with a sudden wet squelch, the mud releases him, and Tristan manages to grab a fistful of Siegfried’s waistcoat before he overbalances and falls right back into the ditch again.
Siegfried is on his hands and knees, panting — Tristan offers his hand. Siegfried gives him a look but accepts the help. They’re both filthy from time spent in the ditch, but Tristan’s waders have saved him. Siegfried hasn’t been so fortunate — his torso and lower half is caked in mud, what can be seen of the wool fabric several shades darker.
Audrey collects Siegfried’s jacket, wrings out the damp sleeve as best she can, and borrows Mr Norris’s walking stick in order to encourage Siegfried’s pipe to float within reach. As she’s completing this task, a discussion is being had. No one is sure where the horse should be cared for, since no one is sure who owns her — the farmers, money tight enough as it is, are unwilling to risk a vet bill in the case of the horses remaining unclaimed. Mr Cains hasn’t the room for another horse, Mr Thornley hasn’t the time.
“I could ask Mrs Donovan, she might know something,” Jack suggests. His face lights up with a realisation. “Or — her son, he has horses like this.”
“No time,” Siegfried says, hands on his damp hips, squinting up at the mare’s injured eye socket. “She needs sorting now.”
“We’ll take her,” Phyllis announces, the other NFS girls nodding in agreement. “The fire station has a row of old stalls from the horse-drawn days. We can clear one of those out, park the van outside for a day or two.”
It’s decided — the NFS girls will return to their station and clear out the biggest stall they have. Tristan and Siegfried will see to the wound in the field before leading the mare the short distance to the fire station.
I will remind Siegfried to clean out this pipe before he uses it again, Audrey thinks, shaking clumps of damp tobacco from the bowl.
It becomes clear, once the NFS van departs, and Mr Cains drives off with his tractor, that the most dramatic part of the rescue is over. People start to wander off — Mr Norris gets his walking stick back, dripping wet as it is, and hobbles away. The trio who’d watched from the road leave too, apparently satisfied that they’ve seen enough — if Audrey were one of them, she thinks she’d at least stay long enough to see the foal close-up.
The dwindling crowd of onlookers is unnoticed by the vets — Siegfried is standing by the horse’s head, holding her steady and continuing his soothing chatter. Tristan is on her other side, vet bag open at his feet, dabbing alcohol on the broken skin. Charlotte’s next to him, ready to hold the square of gauze in position — she even manages to reach up and keep the mare’s long forelock out of Tristan’s way as he ducks under the horse’s head to secure the bandage.
The knots in Tristan’s ‘harness’ cannot be undone, having tightened as the horse was pulled from the ditch — he takes to the rope with his pen knife, sawing it apart piece by piece.
The foal is getting increasingly restless, giving Mr Belshaw more of a job to keep him back. Standing as she is now, on solid ground, the mare looks like she’s been dipped halfway into a very large pot of dull brown paint. Audrey fetches the tartan picnic blanket from where it’s been abandoned on the grass, bunches it up in her arms, and then loosens out a corner. With this, she carefully wipes away the worst of the mud around the mare’s teats — the skin is taut, the veins pronounced, full of milk, surely uncomfortable. When the area is clean to her satisfaction, she motions for Mr Belshaw to bring the hungry foal forward.
The foal latches on with enthusiasm, little white tail wagging from side to side as he suckles. The mare watches him with her unbandaged eye. After the foal’s been feeding for a few minutes, Siegfried allows her to turn her head back — she sniffs at the foal’s rump, nudging him gently with her muzzle.
“There’s a good lass,” Audrey says to the mare, eliciting a hum of agreement from Siegfried. She’s been a witness to many beautiful things during her time at Skeldale House, but, for her, nothing compares to the love a mother has for her child. Mud-splattered and exhausted, the mare still stands with the utmost patience until the foal has had his fill. He pulls away with milk foam clinging to the corner of his mouth. Some motherly instinct, undeniable, has Audrey reaching for a separate corner of the picnic blanket to wipe it away.
With the mare’s injured eye safely bandaged, and the foal’s hunger satisfied, arrangements are made for the procession to the fire station.
Tristan packs up his vet bag. Charlotte collects the shorter pieces of rope that are knotted or too short to be of use, leaving Jack and Tristan to coil up the remainder. Audrey approaches Siegfried — he’s still with the mare, holding the lead rope, rubbing soothing circles on her neck, but he’s miles away, gaze unfocused. He doesn’t notice Audrey coming, eyes somewhere around the horse’s shoulder.
“Here,” she says, keeping her voice low. She’s holding out his jacket. “The one sleeve’s a bit damp, but it’s better than nothing.”
She watches his face, worrying her lower lip when he doesn’t respond as quickly as he should. He needs a cup of tea and a warm bath at home, dry clothes — but there’s no use trying to persuade him to leave a patient before the job’s all the way done, so as much as it pains her to see him in discomfort, she doesn’t push. “Thank you, Mrs Hall,” he says, at last, but still he doesn’t move. After a moment’s hesitation, she drapes the jacket over his shoulders — he flinches, just a little, when the weight of the garment settles. She hopes it’s enough to see him through until they get the mare and foal left at the fire station — there’s nowt else she can do for him here.
It’s not just Siegfried — Tristan’s quiet, too, as he bundles up the last of the rope. Audrey and Charlotte exchange worried looks.
Siegfried’s legs are stiff as he leads the mare across the field, following the trail of flattened grass, his every step accompanied by a wet squelching sound. The foal, held on a loose rope by Mr Belshaw, walks beside his mother, occasionally bumping the side of his head off her belly.
Once they reach the road, Tristan hands the keys of the Rover to Charlotte — Siegfried is himself enough to raise an eyebrow at this, but he doesn’t comment, just leads the mare on. Charlotte’s a very capable lass, after all. Audrey takes the opportunity to put the picnic hamper in the back seat, the tartan blanket already rolled up inside.
Charlotte overtakes them all in the car a few minutes later, taking care to go slow as she passes. Audrey isn’t sure who’s setting the pace, the mare or Siegfried, but it appears that it’s too slow for the foal — now that he’s got a belly full of warm milk, he’s got a spring in his step, and he tries several times to take off running. Audrey ends up taking hold of the rope to help Mr Belshaw after one particularly big pounce takes him by surprise — his grip on the rope slips, and he winds up with a rope burn across his palm. It feels unfair to deny the foal some play after all he’s been through, but it must be done, so Audrey holds on tight with both hands.
Despite their slow pace, the fire station isn’t far, and it’s not long before they’re walking under the archway and into the station building itself. The NFS van and the Rover are both parked outside. Inside, the girls have been busy — of the bank of stalls on the right-hand side of the building, two have been cleared out. Hoses, buckets, ladders — all piled up by the opposite wall. Audrey’s never been inside this building before, and she’s impressed by the size of it, bigger than it appears from the outside.
Phyllis greets them, points to the larger of the two cleared stalls. It’s old-fashioned, with an uneven tiled floor, but it has a drainage channel, ideal for washing the mud off the mare. Siegfried leads the mare into the stall — she goes willingly enough, exhausted by her ordeal.
Two of the NFS girls appear, carrying a small, child-sized bathtub between them. It’s old, maybe as old as this station, pale green, the enamel paint chipped along the rim, but it’s still watertight. Steam rises from the water within as the girls set the tub down at the horse’s feet.
To Audrey’s surprise, it’s cooler inside the fire station than out, and without the sun warming her back, the mare’s shivering starts up again. Tristan, Charlotte, and a few of the NFS girls are already hard at work, wiping her down with dampened rags, steam rising. Audrey and Mr Belshaw linger with the foal just outside the stall, the foal trying to eat the buttons off her jacket.
She looks up from gently pushing his nose away for the fifth time when she realises that Siegfried is shaking worse than the mare — everyone else is so focused on the horse, they haven’t noticed him.
Passing the foal’s rope over to Mr Belshaw, Audrey makes a decision — one that she probably should’ve made before now. “Tris, could you take over for your brother?”
He stops what he’s doing, hot water running between his fingers from the rag that’s crumpled in his hand. He looks over at her, frowning, like he had forgotten she was even there — as long as he remembers that he’s here, she’s not going to take it personally.
“Siegfried,” Audrey dares, putting her hand on his wrist — he’s cold to the touch. His jacket is still draped over his shoulders like a cape, but it’s of little use to him. “It’s time to go.”
Tristan is standing on Siegfried’s other side, ready.
“I’m quite alright,” Siegfried tries to snap, but his teeth are chattering — it’s enough for even the world’s most stubborn man to admit defeat. He glances between Tristan and Audrey, then nods. With a weary sigh, he steps back, hands the lead rope over to Tristan — even that takes more effort than it should, his hand stiff.
“We can take it from here, brother,” Tristan assures him, more present than Audrey’s seen him since he arrived in the field. He gives Siegfried’s shoulder a brief squeeze. They share a long, loaded look, a communication passing between them that Audrey is unable to interpret for herself.
She takes Siegfried by the arm, a reversal of their earlier arrangement as they’d left the churchyard — that morning service feels so long ago.
Now that he’s relinquished responsibility for his patient, it’s like his body has decided that it’s had enough. He begins to shake, quickly escalating to full-body shivers. She steers them around various obstacles as best she can, ignoring him when he grumbles between unsteady gasps of air, accusing her of ‘manhandling’. His focus drifts — he trips over his own feet, almost taking them both down. He tries to pull away, but she holds firm. Where she’s taking him, she doesn’t know, but she knows he can’t stay here — far too many people.
“You don’t have to drag me!” he shouts, too loud, after she saves him from another fall, this time when his foot gets caught up with a mop.
“There’s nowt else for you,” she replies, firm but not unkind, leading him away from people and out into the sunlight where it’s quiet. The Rover is parked a few yards away — she stops when they’re in the narrow space between the car and the sun-warmed brick wall.
Siegfried’s out of it enough to lean against the warm bricks of the wall and stay there, continuing to shiver, while she turns away to pull the tartan blanket out of the picnic hamper once more. She debates with herself — whether to put the blanket over his shoulders or to wrap it around his waist. What he really needs is to be out of these wet clothes altogether, but she’s hardly going to start undressing him right here, right now, in front of the fire station. It’s more straightforward to drape the blanket over his shoulders, so she decides to do just that. Audrey speaks to him, tells him exactly what she’s doing as she does it, when she’ll be touching his arm, his shoulder — she can’t be sure, but she thinks he accidentally calls her ‘corporal’ at one point.
“You’re a block of ice,” she tells him, once the blanket is wrapped around him, not really expecting him to be absorbing her words, but hoping he finds comfort in the tone of her voice. His shaking isn’t as violent as it was, the autumn sun doing its work. “You need a cup of tea and a hot bath before you catch your death.” She pats the fabric smooth over his shoulders, lets her hands linger there.
He’s shaking his head, looking anywhere but at her. “The animal always comes first. I can still be of use here. I can do — do something.” She’s seen that same haunted look recently, on Tristan’s face, and now more than ever, she’s convinced that his shaking is not all from the cold. She’s helped Siegfried before, only a handful of times, when his memories of the Great War come to be too much for him to bear alone — she can only hope she’s doing the right thing this time.
Audrey lets her hands slide down his arms until she’s encircled his wrists, his hands — squeezes hard to get his eyes to focus on hers.
“Siegfried Farnon,” she says, putting every ounce of conviction, of honest belief, into her words. “You’ve done enough — more than, even. That horse is going to live — and her foal too, we can’t forget. You got her out. She’s safe. You did it.” She’s getting through to him, she knows it. “Tristan can finish here, you know better than anyone that he’s a good lad. He’s more than capable.”
He comes back to her by degrees. “You’re right,” he says, “as always.” He feels sturdier, the shivers having subsided, and so, with reluctance, she lets go of his hands and takes a single step back, giving him some space. He starts patting his pockets — seeking his pipe and unable to find it. Siegfried gives up his search with a sigh. “My apologies.”
“Nonsense,” Audrey says, dismissive. “We need to see about getting you home — unless you’d like to stay here with the horse to be scrubbed down by those NFS girls.”
He makes a show of thinking about it, the effect ruined when she reaches up to flake away a few splatters of drying mud off his cheek and beard with her thumb. It has her cupping his cheek before she realises — he leans into her touch before she can think to pull her hand away. His eyes crinkle with a warm smile that’s just for her, and the rest of the world fades away as he leans forward —
“Audrey! And Mr Farnon!”
The sound of Phyllis’s cheery voice has the pair of them springing apart. Audrey didn’t realise their faces had been so close. Her cheeks grow warm, and it’s obvious to Audrey that Siegfried is doing his very best not to tell the girl to just go away.
Phyllis pours out her bucket of dirty water. “You’re still here,” she says, and it’s not an accusation.
“We’ll be out of your way in a minute,” Audrey says.
Phyllis looks Siegfried up and down, takes in his muddied appearance. “I’ll give you a lift.”
“There’s no need —” Siegfried starts.
“I insist. Hop in the van,” Phyllis says, already disappearing back inside with her empty bucket. “I’ll be out in a tick.”
Audrey and Siegfried exchange a look.
“I’m afraid I would only get mud on my seats in this state,” he says.
“It would be one less thing to clean tomorrow,” Audrey admits.
“Tristan and Charlotte can bring her home,” he says, giving the Rover’s door a fond pat.
Audrey collects her handbag, unwilling to leave it behind, and while she has the hamper open, she hands Siegfried his hat.
Together, they cross the yard — Audrey slows her stride to catch a glimpse of the mare through the door. She can’t see her lower half over the stable wall, but steam is rising from the rags the girls are using to scrub her down. There’s happy chatter between the girls, splashing noises as rags are dipped into water and wrung out. She can’t make out what he’s saying, but Tristan is standing by the mare’s head, talking and holding the lead rope, just as Siegfried had done. Maybe Audrey is being fanciful, but it looks to her like there’s more life in the mare’s eye already. Audrey’s pleased to see that the foal isn’t giving Mr Belshaw too much trouble, either, now that he’s so close to his mother.
It makes the leaving easier — for all that she had said to Siegfried in order to finally convince him to leave, it was as much for her own benefit.
She catches up to Siegfried just as he’s reaching the rear doors of the NFS van. They open one door each, the hinge on Audrey’s door creaking noisily, revealing a brace of wooden benches bolted to either side — and, almost immediately, they are hit with the smell of smoke.
Audrey is willing to walk home, is already working out a route that she could take, but Siegfried’s gesturing grandly, just like he did earlier when he laid out the picnic blanket for her.
“After you,” he says, holding his hand out for her to take, effortlessly charming, even if he is wrapped up in a bright red tartan blanket and sodden from the waist down. There’s mud in the creases of his palms, his knuckles.
“Our chariot awaits,” she mutters with an amused huff, taking his hand and stepping into the van.
He grins. “Exactly,” he says, following her.
By unspoken agreement, they choose to sit on the same side. Siegfried makes a face when he sits down on the bench, uncomfortable in his damp trousers.
Phyllis climbs into the driver’s seat, checks that her passengers are safely on board, and starts the engine. Perhaps used to driving at high speed towards emergencies, she takes the first corner too fast — Audrey slides along the bench until she’s pressed up against Siegfried. Their eyes meet in the half-dark, both of them chuckling quietly at the absurdity of their current situation. But she doesn’t move away, and he doesn’t ask her to, and when Phyllis takes another turn that has her taking his hand in order not to slide away again, she doesn’t let go.
It’s not a long journey to Skeldale House — less than four minutes, in fact. After she’s settled against Siegfried’s side, her legs tilted away so she doesn’t get her skirt damp from his trousers, Audrey makes the decision to start polite small talk with Phyllis, maybe ask her about her adventures with the NFS, but they’re already pulling up outside their front door.
She practically herds Siegfried up the stairs, staying a step or two behind him the whole way, ready to catch him should he happen to fall.
Rather than enduring the unpleasant sensation of sitting in his damp clothes again, he chooses to stand as Audrey runs him a hot bath. He keeps out of her way by pressing himself against the wall, a sorry sight, hair falling in front of his face, huddled up in his blanket — he’s starting to smell, as well, the scent of stagnant ditch water and damp tweed permeating the air in the small room.
The bathtub takes time to fill, the water always stone-cold from the tap at first — she busies herself with going downstairs to put the kettle on the stove and let the dogs out, coming back up to pick out clean clothes for Siegfried to wear after his bath.
Clean clothes in a neatly folded pile on the closed toilet seat, Audrey closes the bathroom door and leaves him to it. In the hall, she looks down at herself, aware now that she should change her clothes too — she’s avoided the worst of the mud, it’s true, but she’s still spent a good portion of the afternoon in a field, and she’s also covered in horse hair. She hears water sloshing, what must be Siegfried lowering himself into the bath. Blushing, she escapes to her room.
She picks out a clean skirt and a smart cardigan, not quite on a par with her Sunday best, but still befitting the Lord’s Day. As she’s standing next to her bed, getting dressed, she’s very conscious of the fact that Siegfried is in the bath, just a few doors away.
She’s doing up the last of the cardigan’s buttons when there’s a knock on the front door. She passes the bathroom on her way to the stairs, intends to tell Siegfried that there’s someone at the door, but not to worry, she’ll see to them — but she can hear him humming a merry tune to himself, so she leaves him be.
Whoever it is grows impatient, knocks on the door again when Audrey is halfway down the stairs. “Just a moment!” she calls, just to get them to stop banging their fist against the wood. On reaching the door, she shoos Jess and Dash out of the way, smooths out her cardigan.
She opens the door, the man on the other side vaguely familiar to her, but not enough that she knows his name. He’s frazzled, wringing his flat cap between his hands. She glances at his feet, at the street behind him to check, but he’s got no animals with him as far as she can tell. “Hello,” she says, cautious but friendly, keeping one hand on the door.
“Afternoon, madam,” he greets her, “I ‘eard from old Mrs Simpson that some fella were callin’ ‘ere, about an ‘orse.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is she alright? I been lookin’ for ‘er all day, so I ‘ave. She’s mine, see. A tree came down in the storm last night, knocked the wall clean down, and off she must’ve went.”
His accent is a bizarre combination of Irish and Dales, the voice of someone who’s been settled in the area for decades, and Audrey realises who she’s talking to. He’s Mrs Donovan’s son, Pádraig — although if he comes up in conversation, he’s usually referred to as simply ‘Pod’.
Audrey smiles kindly at him. “No one here can take the credit, but she was found, Mr Donovan. She’s safe and well now. You’ll find her up at the fire station.” Audrey decides to keep the news of the little golden foal to herself, a pleasant surprise for the man when he gets there.
His shoulders slump with relief. “Thank Christ.” He places his now crumpled flat cap back on his head, turns to leave.
Pod hasn’t gone far before Audrey calls after him, “Your horse — what’s her name?”
“Fionnuala,” he replies, turning back briefly to oblige her. “Means ‘white shoulder’, so it does, on account o’ her white shoulder. I were well chuffed when I came up with that one.” He tips his cap, keen to be on his way. “Thank you, Mrs Farnon.”
“Oh, I —” Audrey attempts to correct him, but he has already turned away from her. Rather than call him back yet again, she lingers at the door, watching as he crosses the square and disappears around the corner of a building, out of sight. She smiles to herself, picturing Pod’s delight when he arrives at the fire station to find the foal along with his beloved Fionnuala. “Fionnuala,” she tells Dash, who wags his tail, “what a pretty name.”
She closes the front door, hears footsteps upstairs — Siegfried will be down soon. She returns to the kitchen to start the tea brewing, Jess and Dash happily trotting after her.
Audrey has the tea ready when Siegfried comes into the kitchen a few minutes later. He looks better, in his clean suit with his hair slicked back, cheeks rosy from his warm bath. He sits down at the table, fussing over the dogs when they both try to place their heads in his lap. Audrey pours him a cup of tea, puts a teaspoonful of honey in it to fortify him in case he’s managed to catch something.
“Thank you,” he says, sliding the cup and saucer across the table towards himself.
Audrey pours herself a cup — ends up putting honey in her own, too, since it is her birthday, after all. “We had a visitor while you were in the bath,” she says, lifting the teacup to her lips and taking a sip. She can’t help closing her eyes, or the little noise that she makes as the taste hits her tongue, the sweetness and warmth just the ticket after their eventful afternoon.
Siegfried is slow to reply. Audrey opens her eyes to find him staring at her, teacup paused halfway to his mouth — when he realises he’s been caught, he hurriedly clears his throat and asks, “And — uh, and who was that?”
“I didn’t know him at first, I don’t think we’ve met properly before — but it were Mrs Donovan’s son.”
“Oh, yes — ‘Pat’ or ‘Pea’ or something.”
“Pod.”
“That’s it. What was he after?”
“His horse,” she tells him. “He says she escaped last night. I sent him on to the fire station, hopefully Tris will still be there. But I didn’t tell him about the foal — I thought that would be a pleasant little surprise.”
Siegfried nods, pleased, a satisfied little smile for a job well done on his face that mirrors her own. “Jolly good for him.”
An easy silence falls as they finish their sweet cups of tea. The sun is still shining outside, getting lower in the sky, a warmer tint to the light already. Siegfried’s muddy, sodden shoes are drying out by the AGA. The dogs are settled in their basket, having given up hope of table scraps for now, Dash happy with however much room Jess allows him. The hand-drawn birthday card from Jimmy has pride of place on her desk — she’ll be able to tell him all about the horse with an eye patch like a pirate and the golden foal when they get to Heston Grange for her birthday dinner, provided Tristan and Charlotte get back with the car in time.
It’s peaceful — as far as Audrey’s concerned, at this moment, all is right with her world.
Siegfried sets his teacup down with a clatter that seems unnaturally loud. “Mrs Hall. I feel I owe you an apology, for how your birthday turned out.”
“You already apologised,” Audrey reminds him with a frown.
“I was in a rush.”
“You don’t have to apologise at all, I promise you,” she says, holding onto her cup, if only to stop herself from reaching across the table for his hand. “A birthday picnic — it were a sweet idea.”
“Sweet?” Rather than the reassurance she was aiming for, he sounds incredulous — she blinks at him, taken aback. “I thought it would be romantic —”
“Romantic?” she splutters.
His eyes widen — it takes him a few seconds to form words again. “I — er, yes. Yes.” He straightens in his chair, doubling down with a defiant little nod. “Romantic.”
Audrey pushes her chair back and stands, legs scraping along the tiles, the sudden noise loud enough to wake the dogs from their doze. She presses a palm to her stomach — maybe some of that cheese she had earlier was bad, the cup of tea suddenly sitting heavily.
It’s one thing to feel it, to live it through actions, this unspoken thing between them, but to acknowledge it like this, in words, leaving no room for interpretation, is quite another.
Audrey’s flustered, does her best to mask the depth of feeling by clearing away the tea things. She carefully doesn’t look at Siegfried as she does it, avoiding his hand when he tries to reach for hers.
“I’ve overstepped,” he says, his voice even, as she places the last saucer in the sink. She stays there with her back to him, bracing herself over the porcelain, her hands gripping the edge, knuckles white. “Mrs Hall, I can only apologise. You mean a great deal to me, and the very last thing I’d ever wish to do is make you feel uncomfortable. You’re under my roof, in my care, you should never have to think that —”
He sounds horrified with himself, so earnest, and it’s difficult to listen to — she squeezes her eyes shut, lets out a steadying breath. She turns to him at last — relief at being able to see her is warring with shame, and something resembling heartbreak, on his face.
She can’t have that.
“You called me something. Earlier.”
“I did?” he asks, frowning. “I dread to think.”
“No,” she hurries to reassure, allowing herself a little half smile at his assumption. “No, it were a nice thing.”
“Oh. What did I call you?
“Audrey.”
“Audrey?” He blinks at her for a few moments before he catches her meaning. “And — and that’s alright, is it — Audrey?”
He stands up as he speaks, his legs stiff despite the warm bath.
Audrey crosses her arms at the sight, the reminder that he’s not getting any younger — and neither is she. “You are a ridiculous man, Siegfried Farnon. I’m sure I’ve told you that before.”
If he’s confused by the turn the conversation seems to be taking, he keeps it to himself. “It has been brought to my attention, yes.”
She tries not to sound angry, and doesn’t quite succeed. “It were a foolish thing to do, getting into that ditch like you did, at your age —” she ignores his indignant spluttering at that, “— and with Tristan standing right there, in fisherman’s waders, and you in your Sunday best. It’ll take a miracle for me to get that suit right again.”
It’s obvious to her in his stunned moment of silence, before he even opens his mouth, that not one of these things occurred to him at the time. “What else would you have me do?”
He saw an animal that needed help, and so, he helped. “Nothing,” she says, and it’s as simple as that.
“I’m afraid I’m not following.”
“It were foolish, but it were brave, too.” She can be brave — uncrossing her arms, she looks him in the eye, willing him to understand. “Selfless, and kind. I love you for it.”
Siegfried has been creeping nearer during their exchange — he’s on her side of the table now. Audrey closes the little distance that remains between them, presses her lips to his. But she’s taken him by surprise — he doesn’t move. Bravery spent, she tries to pull away, her heart racing, a hollow excuse on the tip of her tongue — but he moves with her, their lips meeting for a second time. Audrey lets her actions speak for her, and he does the same, the kiss deepening — the peaceful kitchen fades away, and there is only Siegfried, the taste of him, sweetened with honey.
She runs her fingers through his beard, and the soft hair at the nape of his neck, still slightly damp from his bath. His hands journey up from her hips to settle at her waist. He rubs her side through the wool of her cardigan, too slow to tickle, but she can still feel it as if she weren’t wearing anything at all.
Eventually, they have to part, both breathing heavily — they don’t go far, resting their foreheads together. He cups her face with his hands, calloused from years of hard work, yet so gentle. He smiles at her, and she’s relieved that she’s not the only one who’s close to tears. Audrey’s smile begins to fade, thinking of all those wasted years spent, longing for exactly this.
He rubs their noses together — it’s unexpected enough to shake the unhappy thought loose, and they both start giggling like schoolchildren.
She’s almost sorry that they’ll probably be leaving for Heston Grange soon — she’d like to stay here, in the kitchen with Siegfried, for some considerable time. But thoughts of Heston inevitably lead to little Jimmy and Rosie, and the great story Audrey has for them this time. “You saved Fionnuala and her golden foal today,” Audrey reminds him, pride in her voice.
“I rather think that was a team effort,” he replies, nonetheless preening under her praise. “Although, judging by its muzzle, that foal will grey out as it gets older, the gold will fade. Genetically speaking —”
He’s winding up to a full-blown scientific lecture on horse coat colours. Audrey rolls her eyes, silences him with a little kiss, a simple peck on the lips — she can do that now, she realises with a tiny thrill.
“Thank you for staying,” he says, referring to this afternoon, or so she thinks — but even if he isn’t, her answer remains the same.
Audrey cups his dear face with her hands, his own hands coming up to encircle her wrists, holding her in place. She did leave him once — and as hard as it was, her boy needed her, and she stands by it — but never again. “I weren’t going to leave you,” she tells him, and a single tear finally escapes, runs down his cheek — she rubs it away with her thumb.
“Either of you,” she adds, to the sound of the Rover pulling into the yard outside. Siegfried hears it a moment after she does — with reluctance, they pull apart as if the world hasn’t tilted on its axis in the last five minutes. He sniffles, getting his emotions in check — she must look a state, hardly fairing much better herself.
They listen in silence as whoever’s driving switches the Rover’s engine off — this is followed by doors opening and closing, indistinct chatter. Footsteps. Jess lifts her head, eyes on the door.
“Audrey.”
“Hmm?”
“I love you, too.”