have you been up to this afternoon, Anna?’
She’s been out in the shed playing with that old rocking-horse.
‘I’m not playing with him. I’m trying to clear the ice from him, but it keeps coming back.’
‘You’ll need to wait till this big freeze comes to an end,’ said Grandfather.
‘They said on the radio it won’t get warmer till next week.’
Her grandfather smiled. ‘And you can’t wait till then?’
Anna dipped her spoon into the bowl and took a mouthful of soup. It was too hot and she could feel the roof of her mouth burning as she tried to hold the liquid there to cool before she swallowed. She knew that later the skin would come off and leave a ragged feeling in her mouth.
In her dream the horse was silver, his ice-coat shot through with a million stars. Anna swept a cloth across his side and the shell melted in an instant. She climbed on his back and lay there, felt the surface beneath start to prick like pins and needles in the rising warmth. His carved mane was transformed into soft strands, which she gripped as the horse began to move. He picked up speed and they galloped across a huge expanse of sand, ghost-white under a clouded moon. Anna clung to his back. She could hear his harsh breath, see steam issue from his nostrils. Suddenly he stopped dead and she shot over his neck, the mane wrenched from her fingers, damp sand burning her limbs as she slid along the beach; then she woke, sitting up in bed, soaked with sweat.
For a moment she could not move because of the pain, a sharpness stabbing her chest, then it grew less intense, shifting to lower down, in her belly. The edges blurred till it was an ache, dull and heavy, leaving a sick aftertaste. She pulled her pale blue dressing gown from the edge of the bed, hugging herself with it. The roof of the shed was visible through the window, patched with snow. She crept downstairs, holding her breath as she passed her mother’s room, pulled on her coat and shoes, then lifted the heavy latch which secured the door. Cold air chafed her skin as she stepped outside, hurried the few steps to the shed, and opened the door.
The horse faced away from her and she waited apprehensively, expecting him to move, to speak even. But he radiated stillness, like an actor who knows that he will move, not now, but when his part requires. Anna stepped closer to look at his face, but his eyes were veiled by blinkers of ice. She put her arm round his neck, touching the side of his cheek and her fingertips stuck to its surface. She tried to pull them away but the ice clutched her tightly, then she blew hard till reluctantly it released its grip. Anna spread her hands out, examining them. Each person’s fingerprints were unique. Could ice burn them off?
‘Anna, what on earth? Anna. …’ Her mother’s arms were round her, holding her tightly, almost dragging her up the path to the house. She pushed her down on the rug in front of the fireplace, rattling the poker in the embers, trying to raise them to life.
‘You’ll catch pneumonia. What on earth were you doing?’
She held Anna’s hands in hers, rubbing them hard.
‘I don’t know, I had to see him.’
‘Why, what’s so important about this horse?’
‘You tell me. Why can’t he come in the house?’
Her mother stopped, released Anna’s hands.
‘What are you talking about? The horse is just a toy, a dirty old toy.’
In the morning Anna’s mother drew her aside.
‘I don’t want you to play with the horse today’
‘But I’m not playing, I …’
‘Whatever. I want you to spend some time with your grandfather. He likes you to help him around the place and you’ve hardly spoken to him the past few days. Will you do that?’
Anna looked at the ground.
‘Will you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, without looking up.
‘That’s my good girl.’
Grandfather was preparing the doors in the hall for repainting; burning off old gloss paint, sanding the wood with fine paper, and putting on undercoat. Anna’s mother had told him there was no need, as modern paints were designed to go on over the old stuff, but he maintained that his way gave a better finish.
‘Anyway,’ he smiled, ‘too late to teach an old dog new tricks. Keeps me out of mischief. And you.’ He turned to Anna, ruffling her hair with his hand. Anna squirmed.
Her job was to sand down the wood prepared by her grandfather. She sat on the floor working her way slowly along the bottom edge. The sandpaper rasped against the door, forming a fine coating of dust on her fingers.
Her mother came into the hall. ‘I’m just going into town for some shopping. See you later.’
‘Bye,’ said Anna, without looking up.
‘Don’t forget the chocolate biscuits. I think we may be running low on supplies,’ said Grandfather.
‘I wonder why?’ replied her mother.
Grandfather put down his scraper and stretched, linking his fingers above his head.
‘I think it’s time for a break, Anna. Let’s put the kettle on.’
In the kitchen he made tea for himself and hot chocolate for Anna while she laid biscuits on a plate. Grandfather sat back in his chair in front of the fire and she leaned forward on a low stool at the other side of the hearth.
‘D’you think we can start painting this afternoon?’
He poured his tea into a saucer, blew on it, then sipped. Anna’s mother hated when he did that.
‘Maybe. If we get the sanding done in time. But we have to do it properly. The preparation is the important part, Anna. If you do the preparation, the rest will follow, but if you skimp it, the job’ll never be done properly, no matter how long you spend on it.’
Anna stared into the fire. Grandfather, worn out, began to doze in the heat, his head to one side, mouth slightly open. When she was sure he was asleep, Anna placed her mug on the stone hearth, crept into the hall where he had left his blowtorch, then out to the shed.
Cold air entered freely through the broken window, draughts blasted from the roof and filled gaps between the walls and stone floor. In the clear daylight the horse looked dingy and sad, ice forming a protective husk round his body. Anna crouched in front of him, holding the blowtorch in her hand. The metal felt cold even through thick gloves. She placed one finger on the rocker of the horse and it started to tap rhythmically on the floor. The rockers were made of wood, their dark varnish scuffed and scraped. Anna pressed the starter button and the flame hissed out and licked the edge of the rocker. She let it play, teasing the wood, staining it with faint scorch marks. Then she held the torch against the centre of the rocker, pressed her fingers firmly on the control till the fire took hold, flickering blue at first, then flaring orange and red. Methodically, she set fire to each end of the rocker, then repeated the process on the other side. Anna lifted a scraper and stabbed it into the horse’s back, smashing
