Snow Foal--the perfect Christmas book for children Read online

  Addie reached for the bottle of milk Gabe had given her. ‘Want your drink now?’ she said.

  He drank in long gulps, pulling hard on the rubber teat. He was getting stronger. Addie had to hold the bottle with both hands.

  ‘Thirsty as well as hungry? Good boy,’ she said. She leaned forward and brushed some grain from the foal’s left eye with her finger. He jumped away, startled.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ Addie said. ‘It’s OK.’

  The foal shifted from side to side. His thin legs trembled. His eyes were wide, glinting white at the corners. She had gone too far.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Addie said. ‘Finish your breakfast. You’ve got to get strong.’

  She offered the bottle again, spoke gently to the foal. He stared up at her, searched her face for a moment; began to drink again. When he had finished, he sank down on to the straw, his head resting across Addie’s left boot. She stood still, afraid to upset him again. His head became heavier. His breathing slowed. He slept.

  Addie watched his body rise and fall. Every so often he flinched, his legs shifting underneath him. Perhaps he was dreaming: dreaming of his mam, running in his sleep towards her.

  Addie’s foot became numb. Pins and needles crept up her ankle. She would have to move. She slid one foot from under the foal’s chin. He opened one eye, closed it and resettled himself on the straw. Addie slipped down next to him, her back against the wall. She wriggled her toes back to life.

  How long had she been here? It didn’t matter. Someone would have come for her if Penny had arrived.

  Maybe she didn’t even want to see Penny. She clutched at the straw under her hands, gathered a clump of it and tightened her fist round it. Her nails dug into her palm. When she opened her fist, bent strands of straw slowly unfolded like broken insect legs. She brushed them away.

  She hated Penny. Penny and her promises. Penny and her lies about Mam.

  The foal was sound asleep. His soft breaths blew dust from the straw around his nostrils. Addie laid a hand on his neck. His coat was thick and wiry. She wriggled her fingers through his mane and the rope of coarse hair across his back. She felt the knots and dried mud that clung there.

  ‘You’ve got worse tangles than me,’ she whispered.

  What colour would he be, she wondered, under all the dirt? Would he look more like the foals in those photographs when summer came? Addie wouldn’t be here to know. She would ask Ruth to send her a picture. ‘Better get you cleaned up soon,’ she said. ‘Before I go home.’

  The foal opened one eye, then the other. He fixed Addie with his deep gaze. Addie saw her own face, blurred and tiny in each of his black eyes.

  He blew softly down his nose, lifted his head and laid it across her knees. His breaths lengthened again. His warmth seeped into Addie’s limbs. She closed her eyes.

  Addie jumped awake. The foal scrabbled to his feet. His eyes were wide. His ears stiffened; twitched.

  The barn door scraped open. Light flooded in. Icy wind and rain whipped across the floor. Straw lifted, dust spiralled. The foal scrambled to the back of the stall, legs sliding in opposite directions.

  ‘You’re all right,’ Addie said gently. ‘I’m here.’ She stepped in front of him, pressed herself against his flank, shielding him. The thump of his heart vibrated through her body.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ Gabe said. He sighed. ‘Poor little guy.’ He nodded at the empty bucket; the bottle on its side in the straw. He smiled at Addie. ‘Took all his feed, though?’

  ‘Yep,’ Addie said. ‘And he was having a good sleep. Till you got here.’

  ‘Message from Ma,’ Gabe said, ignoring the jibe. He pulled off his beanie hat. Orange today. It clashed horribly with his red hair. ‘Penny’ll be here in forty-five minutes, tops.’

  Addie shrugged. ‘You scared the foal,’ she said.

  Gabe nodded. ‘Maybe it’s the hat he doesn’t like,’ he said. ‘Flo was really freaked by hats when she was a pup. And umbrellas. And pigs.’

  ‘Reasonable,’ Addie said. ‘About the pigs.’

  Sam had shown her the pigs on the farm. Massive, filthy, snuffling, beady-eyed things. ‘And the hats,’ she said. ‘Actually, especially the hats.’ She pointed at the orange beanie, felt a smile pull at her lips.

  Gabe held it out in front of him. He laughed. ‘This is my favourite, though! My nan made it for me.’

  ‘Your nan?’ Addie said. ‘Does she live round here, too?’

  Gabe looked away. ‘She died.’ He folded the hat and pushed it into his pocket.

  ‘Sorry.’ Addie stared down at her boots.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Gabe said. He pulled his phone from the other pocket. ‘It was ages ago. And it was what she wanted anyway.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Addie said. ‘Was she sick, or something?’

  ‘Kind of,’ Gabe said. She died the day after my grandad’s funeral. Just ran herself a nice warm bubble bath and never got out.’ He smiled softly, as if remembering something. ‘Married for sixty years, they were,’ he said. ‘Never apart. Not even for a day.’

  Addie stared at him, unsure what to say.

  ‘Come on, you,’ Gabe said. ‘Time’s ticking on. You’d better get cleaned up. Ma won’t want Penny to find you smelling of horse poo and covered in straw. It looks bad.’

  ‘Dunno,’ Addie said. She scuffed her foot among the straw. ‘When I’m ready, all right?’ She had waited and waited for Penny. Now she wasn’t sure that her legs were going to work properly.

  Gabe swept his hair out of his eyes. ‘Tell Ma that then, shall I?’

  Addie looked up at him. ‘Sorry. It’s just . . .’ She bit her lip.

  ‘I get it,’ Gabe said.

  He didn’t, Addie thought. How could he?

  She picked up the foal’s bottle and stood it in the bucket. The foal stretched forward hopefully.

  ‘Nothing left,’ Addie said. ‘Sorry.’ She scratched him between his ears.

  ‘Amazing, those ears,’ Gabe said.

  Addie looked at them. Short, fuzzy. Funny little ears.

  Gabe squatted down, as close as he dared to the foal. ‘They’re short and they sort of fold inwards with just a really narrow opening. See?’ He pointed. The foal flinched.

  Addie nodded. ‘So?’

  ‘Evolution and all that,’ Gabe said. ‘Ears perfectly shaped for moorland environment: to stop rain and wind, dust and stuff from getting in. One of the reasons these ponies have survived for so long on the moors, so they say. It gets pretty wild out there.’ He raised both eyebrows, smiled. ‘As you know.’

  ‘But how . . .?’

  Gabe stood up. ‘Lesson over for today. Time to go.’

  Addie turned away from him. ‘She keeps lying,’ she said. ‘Penny.’

  Addie’s words were thick and solid in her throat. She buried her face in the foal’s soft fur.

  ‘Give her a chance,’ Gabe said. He put a hand on her shoulder. The foal eyed him warily. ‘See what she says, yeah?’

  ‘Suppose.’ Addie sniffed, stood up and brushed herself off.

  The foal dug at the straw with one foot, nudged her hip.

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ she said. ‘I promise.’ She followed Gabe outside. Wind blew in her face. It threw back the hood of her coat, hurled bullets of hail that pelted her skin and made small craters in the snow.

  ‘Just a minute,’ she said, as Gabe began to close the barn door. She slid back inside. ‘Don’t be scared,’ she whispered to the foal. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’

  ‘Want to borrow my hat?’ Gabe yelled, as they walked back across the yard.

  ‘You’re all right,’ Addie said. She bent her head against the icy blasts, tugged her hood back in place, held on to it with one hand. This was mean weather, she thought. Mean and angry: worse than the glistening stillness that had come before.

  Grey slush had built up near the farmhouse door since Addie had left earlier. Gabe kicked at it, then cleared it away with the snow spade Sam kept under the p
orch.

  ‘What’s the betting your Penny will be wearing her high heels again in this weather?’ Gabe said. He grinned. ‘Better make a way through for her, just in case.’

  ‘She’s not my Penny,’ Addie said. But the image of Penny in her bright red stilettos, tottering and sliding in the slush, loosened the band that had crept round her stomach. Just a little.

  Addie stood on one leg in the hall and struggled to get out of her boots. They seemed frozen to her feet. Her fingers were too stiff with cold to be of any help in pulling them free. It might be raining instead of snowing, but it wasn’t getting any warmer on the farm.

  Gabe pointed to a wooden settle. ‘Sit here,’ he said. He swept a pile of scarves, hats and newspapers to one side.

  Addie sat. Gabe knelt down and tugged at her right boot. It came quickly free.

  Addie looked down at his bowed head, his unruly red hair.

  ‘Did she have red hair? Your nan?’ she asked.

  The second boot came free. Gabe stood it on the mat.

  ‘Nah, hers was grey.’ He straightened up, grinned at her, brushed mud from his jeans.

  ‘Funny,’ Addie said. ‘Only you don’t look much like your mam.’ She thought of Sam, his coal black eyebrows, the dark fuzz on his close-shaved head. ‘Or your dad.’

  ‘I look like my birth dad,’ Gabe said. ‘Far as I can tell from the rubbish photo I’ve got . . .’

  Addie stared at him. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m adopted, Addie. Thought you knew.’ He charged down the hall towards the kitchen. ‘Come on. I’m getting a few scones down my neck before Jude’s social worker gets near them. He’s built like Mountain Man, that Tim. He’ll scoff the lot.’

  Gabe disappeared round the kitchen door. Addie stared after him. Gabe? Adopted? Gabe, who was as much a part of things here as the smell of wood smoke and the big, wide sky. Gabe, who had Ruth’s softness in his eyes and Sam’s easy stride.

  Questions tumbled around in Addie’s head. Her stomach rumbled. Perhaps she’d go and rescue a scone from Gabe; see if he felt like talking some more.

  As she washed her hands in the cloakroom, she heard the clink of the yard gate.

  They were here.

  She wasn’t hungry any more.

  Penny was in the snug, beside the fire. She looked like someone else. Someone smaller than Penny. She had a towel round her shoulders, her hair was flat to her head and there were black mascara stripes on her cheeks. Her jacket was draped over the fireguard to dry. There was no sign of the red stilettos.

  She smiled at Addie through a mouthful of scone. Her smile was different too. More of a straight line. It didn’t reach her eyes.

  ‘Sorry I was late,’ Penny said. ‘It’s a bit wild out there.’ She pushed at her damp hair. ‘Even just getting in from the car.’

  Addie nodded. The wind hurled rain and hail against the window; rattled the panes as if it wanted to get into the room. A red flame jumped in the hearth.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Addie. Are you going to come and sit down?’ Penny moved her briefcase from the cushion next to her and put it on the floor alongside the sofa. Next to a case. A green case with a purple ribbon tied to the zip.

  The wind was inside Addie’s head now. It pounded and whooshed between her ears.

  ‘You’ve got Mam’s case,’ she said. ‘Is she home then?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Addie. Not yet.’ Penny pulled the case forward. ‘I’ve brought some more of your things for now. Like I said on the phone.’ She smiled her new smile again. ‘This was the only proper case I could find.’ Her mouth twisted at one side. ‘I had to put the rest in a bag, I’m afraid.’ She leaned round, lifted something heavy from behind Mam’s case. ‘I apologise.’

  A black bag. A black bin bag, streaked with rain. Addie could see Mam’s pencil box through a hole in the side. She knelt down and pulled it free. A red shirt sleeve came with it, its buttonhole caught in the lid.

  ‘I don’t wear this shirt any more,’ Addie said. ‘I grew out of it ages ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Addie. It was hard to know what to bring,’ Penny said. ‘I couldn’t find very much in your room. But don’t worry. Ruth will get you a few new things. And you’ll have pocket money while you’re here. You can spend that however you like.’

  The wind roared louder, whipped the flames up the chimney. Words wedged in Addie’s throat, hard and dry like the toast at breakfast.

  ‘Addie.’ Penny was standing now; moving closer to her. She smelled of rain. Her perfume hurt Addie’s nose. ‘Come and sit down, sweetheart,’ she said.

  ‘You told me Mam was doing OK.’ Addie’s voice cracked. The fire was behind her eyes now, burning.

  Penny perched on the arm of the sofa. ‘It’s time to be really honest with each other, Addie.’ She scrunched her eyebrows together. ‘Your mam’s not been able to look after you properly for quite a while now, has she?’ She swallowed, like the words were too big for her mouth too. She brushed a strand of hair from Addie’s forehead. Like Mam used to do. ‘I couldn’t let that go on. It’s my job to keep you safe.’

  Addie leaned away. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s not.’

  Penny sat up straight. ‘It’s going to take time for your mum to get well, Addie,’ she said. ‘Quite a bit of time. She needs to go to that special place I told you about: Riverside, remember?’ She peered into Addie’s face. Her pupils moved from left to right, right to left, like she was searching for something. Something she couldn’t find.

  ‘I can look after her,’ Addie said. ‘I do. When people let me.’

  Penny sighed. She scrunched her eyebrows together then lifted them high. ‘I know, Addie, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘But it’s your mam’s job to take care of you, not the other way around. And now there are lots of people trying to help her get better, so that she can. OK?’

  ‘She’ll be missing me so much,’ Addie said. Her heartbeat was in her throat, getting in the way of her words. They came out in a whisper like when she had tonsillitis. Penny’s face seemed to be underwater. ‘Does she even know where I am?’ Addie’s bottom lip trembled. She bit into it. Hard.

  ‘It’s all right to cry, Addie,’ Penny said. ‘It will help.’

  Addie bit down harder; tasted blood, salty and metallic, on her tongue. She wouldn’t cry. Especially not in front of Penny.

  Penny took a pack of tissues from her case and held one out to Addie. ‘Your mum knows you’re here, in foster care, Addie. She signed the papers for you to stay. For now.’

  Addie shook her head. ‘She wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘She didn’t. She needs me.’ Addie tore at the tissue and threw it into the air. It fluttered and flapped; fell to the floor like an injured bird.

  ‘She knew she had to, Addie. For your sake. And for her own. She needs to know you’re safe while she concentrates on getting better. She did the right thing. The only thing she can do. She loves you.’

  Penny’s phone rang in her bag, its loud, happy ringtone an explosion in Addie’s ears.

  ‘Sorry,’ Penny said. She pulled the phone from her bag and pressed at it with her blood-red nails.

  ‘When can I visit her?’ Addie said. ‘When are you taking me?’

  The room fell silent, the windowpanes suddenly still, as if even the wind was holding its breath.

  ‘You know, Addie, your mum needs a bit of time first, before you see her. I realise that’s very hard for you. But I’ll make sure she knows you’re OK. Don’t worry.’

  There it was again. That stupid thing people kept saying. Addie wasn’t OK. How could she be?

  ‘I can ring Mam, then. Give me the phone number.’

  ‘Soon, Addie. When she’s ready. Not just yet.’ Penny glanced at the door, as if hoping it might open. ‘Shall we see if Ruth can join us now?’ she said.

  As if on cue, Ruth’s head appeared round the door.

  ‘Ruth, come on in,’ Penny said. She patted the seat next to her on the sofa, as if this was her home and Ruth the visitor
.

  ‘Are you all right, Addie?’ Ruth said. Her kind eyes connected with Addie’s. Addie bit her lip again and looked away.

  ‘I know this is tough,’ Ruth said. ‘Of course it is. But all of us are here for you, Addie. We’ll help you get through. And you can help that little foal to do the same, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Addie, I hear you’re a horse whisperer in the making,’ Penny said, her voice brighter, as if she was relieved at the change of subject. She folded her hands in her lap; beamed at Addie. ‘Tell me about him. It is a “him”, isn’t it? Have you given him a name yet?’

  Addie stared at her. ‘You said I wasn’t allowed to miss any more school,’ she said. ‘You said it’s the law and Mam was breaking it when she didn’t make me go!’

  ‘Yes,’ Penny said. ‘That’s right, Addie.’ She picked up her cup, realised it was empty, put it back down. ‘We do need to get you back to school. And think it will help you – making new friends, having new things to think about.’ She glanced at Ruth. ‘Any news on this?’ she asked.

  Addie looked from Penny to Ruth and back again. Something cold crawled on her neck.

  ‘I’ve already got friends at school,’ she said.

  She didn’t. Not really. Not since Hattie dumped her. Sophie Ward said she’d be her friend. But she got fed up because Addie was always away and made friends with Darren Oates’ sister instead. She didn’t even talk to Addie now; not even if she saw her in the street.

  ‘The thing is, Addie,’ Penny said. ‘Gas Street School is too far away, isn’t it? So we’re trying to get you into one round here for now.’ Her face brightened. ‘In fact, I’m trying to sort out a place for you at the school where Sunni goes. Might not happen until after Easter, though.’ She looked up at Ruth, her eyebrows raised.

  Ruth nodded. ‘Yes, they’re full for now.’ She smiled at Addie. ‘It’s too popular. No one wants to leave!’

  Penny nodded. ‘So Ruth’s going to give you some lessons at home until there’s a space, fill you in on what you’ve missed. She used to be a teacher, Addie. Did she say? It’ll be fun. And you’ll have Jude for company soon. He needs to catch up too.’