his hands were becoming sweaty with the exertion, and the tuft was becoming slippery. He lost his grip.
It became desperate. Quenelda reared up high and whinnied, beating the air with her front hoofs. Arthur snatched at the mane, held on and righted himself just in time, as much to save messing up his best Sunday clothes as to avoid hurting himself more.
‘You won’t get the better of me,’ he rasped determinedly. ‘Enough of your vile behaviour.’
The mare spun round and round on her hind legs and Arthur caught sight of their conjoined shadow spinning beneath him. But he had no time to study the aesthetics of shadow dancing, for his legs had become tired and weak, aching inexorably from perpetually pressing into Quenelda’s sides for grip. He lost hold and, as he became unseated, he felt his body twist around violently while the mare bucked and pranced with all the vigour of a whirlwind. In frantic desperation he reached out and grabbed what he thought was the patchy mane to save himself from falling to the ground and hurting himself. In that same instant, the mare was under the impression that she had at last thrown her rider and returned all four feet to the ground. Arthur quickly realised that his position on the horse was quite unorthodox as he clutched its tail. Then he beheld his mother emerging from the scullery wiping her hands on a towel.
‘Th’oss’ll think yo’m saft, sitting the wrong road round.’
‘I don’t care much what it thinks.’
‘What yer doing with her?’
Arthur sighed with impatience at having to explain. ‘I’m trying to teach her the gentle art of wrestling, Mother,’ he answered with measured sarcasm. His collar was agape from the tussle and his waistcoat had parted company with his trousers, leaving his shirt half hanging out.
‘Couldn’t you find ne’er a saddle?’
‘I thought I hadn’t got time to look.’
‘Hold on …’ Dinah went into the stable and came back lugging an old mildewed saddle. ‘Get down.’
He got down.
‘Put this hoss back in the stable and fetch out the other un.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause this’n’s took umbrage at thee, that’s why. Yo’ll do no good with this’n today.’
‘Oh.’ Arthur did as he was told and emerged from the stable leading Roxanne, an equally tatty mount.
‘Now fasten this saddle on her,’ Dinah said. ‘Roxanne won’t mind you trying to ride her. I’ll help you, shall I?’
‘I’d be obliged.’
Together, they saddled up Roxanne and Arthur mounted the mare, but gingerly. To his immense relief, this mare made no fuss and actually responded to his signal to go. He rode out of the yard and was on his way.
They did the journey to Pensnett at a steady trot that shook Arthur’s dinner and his beer about somewhat. He contemplated the tussle with Quenelda. He had stuck doggedly to the task of making the mare see who was master. Horses were like women. If only he could apply the same resolve to women. If only he could apply it to Lucy.
Lucy Piddock waited and waited for Arthur Goodrich to show up. She reckoned she’d been waiting a good quarter of an hour before she realised it was futile to wait any longer. Evidently she’d put him off with her indifference when he walked her home on Wednesday. Well, who would have thought it? Yet who could blame him? If she returned home now and had to tell her folks that King Arthur – as her father had started calling him – had not turned up she would be a laughing stock. Jane would say that it served her right for being dissatisfied with him just because he didn’t have the looks of a god. So would her mother. Her father would think it the funniest thing out and would guffaw for the rest of the afternoon and possibly into the night as well.
It was a dirty trick, not turning up when you’d arranged to meet somebody. All morning she’d worked hard, getting her domestic chores done while her mother was at the Baptist chapel, so that she could spend the afternoon with him. Well, he obviously didn’t deserve it, the charlatan. All the time this Arthur must have been stringing her along …
But she remembered his words on Wednesday night, that he believed he’d found his perfect mate in her. It was a gloriously tender moment and, if she was honest with herself, it had registered in her heart. She’d thought about those words a lot, his sincerity, his reserve. Of course, after what she’d said to everybody, it would be hard to say now that she’d changed her mind about Arthur, but he had definitely gone up in her estimation. It was a pity he was not going to show up now to reap the benefit.
So she waited a little longer, hurt and disappointed. Yet the longer she waited, the more the hurt and disappointment diminished and were replaced by agitation. If he had the gall to turn up now after keeping her waiting so long, all he would get would be her scorn. She adjusted her shawl ready to cross the road back to Bull Street, determined to wait no longer.
As she looked up the hill towards the church she spied a mangy horse going at a tidy canter, the rider waving his hat like a lunatic. She could hear him calling something, warning everybody that the animal had taken fright and he had lost control, she supposed. But, as he got closer, she could see that the madman was none other than Arthur Goodrich. Torn between her pique at having been kept waiting for so long and a natural curiosity that must be satisfied as to what the hell he was up to, she stood waiting for him to reach her, unsure quite how she should behave towards him now.
‘Whoa!’ he yelled and there was a clatter of hoofs on the cobbles as the forlorn mare scraped to a halt. Arthur was out of breath. ‘Sorry I’m late, Lucy.’
‘It’s too late to be sorry,’ she replied, deciding to manifest her scornful side. ‘I’m going back home.’
‘Oh, wait, Lucy.’ He sounded irritated and impatient at what he deemed unreasonableness. ‘If you knew the trouble I’ve had you’d be very understanding. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. I’ve gone through hell and high water to get here on time.’
‘You didn’t get here on time.’
‘I know that. But I still went through hell and high water.’ He dismounted and stood before her. ‘I had to run an errand for my old man. He’s bad abed.’
‘What’s up with him?’ she asked indifferently.
‘God knows. With any luck it’ll be terminal.’
‘I thought you didn’t like riding horses,’ she said, softening.
‘I don’t. I loathe and detest the bloody things. Damned stupid animals. But if I’d walked I’d never have got here.’
‘What’ve you done to your eyebrow? It’s cut and bleeding.’
‘I know.’ He put his fingers to it gingerly.
‘Let me have a look at it.’
Obediently he bent his head forward and she inspected
