Читать книгу For The Love Of Sara - Christopher Lee - Страница 7

CHAPTER 2

In Yorkshire the sun was peeping above Boulsworth Hill, 1700ft up in the Pennines. Sara blinked as her mother pulled the curtains apart, flooding the room with light. The walls were covered in posters. James Dean looked down on her. How often had she imagined his strong arms around her. How often had he whisked her away from the village on the back of his Harley-Davidson. How many times had she wished there were boys in the village like James Dean, not just the spotty yobs who hung around her.

She had only had one boyfriend, Jeff, who worked at the stables where she kept her pony. Sara was crazy about horses and rode as often as she could. Jeff and his family were new to the village. They had moved from Hong Kong where his father had been in banking. Jeff told fascinating stories about life in the former colony. He was like a breath of fresh air from Wadsworth Moor in an environment in which Sara was becoming increasingly bored. None of the village lads had been further than Bradford, let alone Beijing. The other thing Sara liked about Jeff was that he never tried anything on with her when they were alone. The village boys were always trying to grope her. She had once been foolish enough to let Adam Cochrane, the local gang leader, kiss her. The next day it was all around the village that she was “easy”.

She visited the stables every day, mucking out in exchange for free board and keep for the pony her father had brought her – the day he had died.

It was to have been the happiest day of her life. She had nagged her parents to buy her the 14-year-old black and tan pony. The riding school no longer wanted it. She was convinced they were going to sell it to the slaughter house over at Harrowgate. It wouldn’t have been the first time that old horses from the stables had been picked up by the knacker’s van. Sara couldn’t bear the thought of Scout sharing the same fate. With love and attention he would be good for a few years yet, besides, Sara had been riding him for six years. Her mother had said she couldn’t have her own horse, but she had managed to sweet-talk her father. She could always get around him. When he dropped her off at the stables on the morning of her fifteenth birthday and told her Scout was officially hers, she thought he was the most marvellous man in the world.

She had stayed at the stables to groom him. On the drive home, her father’s car was struck by an articulated lorry. He was dead on arrival at Bradford General Hospital. Multiple head injuries they said. Just as well he had been killed outright. If he had survived the crash he would have been a vegetable.

Far from being in a dream-like haze, Sara could remember every detail of that dreadful day. She remembered getting a lift home from Susie, one of the stable hands. She remembered the police cars outside the home and the look on the face of Mrs Jenkins their next door neighbour, how she looked away as Sara got out of the car. At first she thought they might have been burgled. There had been several break-ins around the village. Many people thought Adam Cochrane was behind them.

“You stay away from that lad,” her father had told her.

It was not until she saw the look on the policewoman’s face as she entered the hall. Then she heard her mother’s sobs coming from the front room. Then everything went into slow motion. Her mother looked up. Her voice seemed slurred.

“Sara, its Daddy, he’s dead.” It was five words that collapsed her world. Then everything speeded up. She rushed at her mother, fists clenched and pounded at her.

“He’s not dead, he’s not,” she screamed, sobbing, angry, frustrated. It was her uncle Alan who moved in to grip her arms and pull her away.

“Get off me,” she hissed. “Don’t touch me. Don’t ever touch me.” And with that she turned and with tears staining her face ran upstairs to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Alan put a comforting arm around his sister-in-law. “She’ll come round, Liz. She’s in shock. I guess we all are.”

In her room, Sara sat huddled up in a ball. Through eyes blurred with tears, she looked at the small photograph she kept on her bedside table, a picture of her father as a child. People always said how much alike they looked. If it hadn’t been for Scout, he would still be alive. It was only because he had taken her to see that stupid pony he was dead. It was Scout’s fault. I hate him, I hate him. She sobbed again. It wasn’t the pony’s fault, it was her fault. If she hadn’t kept nagging him to buy Scout, he would be alive now. If only she hadn’t gone to the stables. It was her fault. Then the sobs came again.

It was some time later that she fell asleep, curled in a ball, her long blonde hair matted to her tear-soaked cheek. She was on the back of Adam Cochrane’s motor bike outside the phone box on the village green. Jeff was standing nearby eating Chinese take-away out of an aluminium carton using chopsticks. Adam was grinning.

“Hold on tight,” Adam told her.

She gripped him tightly around his waist. He revved the bike. Now it was her father standing there eating Chinese.

“You stay away from that lad,” he warned her again, but it was too late. Adam throttled the accelerator and let out the clutch. The powerful bike reared up and Sara had to cling on as they roared away. She tried to look round Adam’s shoulder, but the wind in her face was too strong so she snuggled close to his back and watched the hedgerows speed past. A mixture of fear and excitement made her stomach tingle. The bike showed no sign of slowing. Adam ignored the give way sign at the crossroads and made a mad whoop as they sped across. Then the bike slowed enough for Sara to look over Adam’s shoulder. They were in Featherbed Lane leading to the stables. In the middle of the road ahead, Sara saw her father sitting astride Scout. Adam accelerated towards them. She could see the look of terror in the pony’s eye as the machine bore down on them.

“No, stop,” she screamed.

She was shaken awake by her mother.

“Sara, Sara, it’s all right. You are having a bad dream. Wake up.” Her mother cradled her in her arms.

“Everything will be all right, I promise.”

She heard the words, but didn’t believe them. Nothing would ever be right again.

She remembered every detail of the funeral. Her mother wore a black crocheted dress which Sara thought was too short. Crocus and daffodils decorated the lush green carpet of the cemetery lawn. Yellow roses adorned the coffin. She remembered how pale the mourners looked – many of them strangers to her. She remembered how cold it seemed inside the church as the congregation sang All Things Bright and Beautiful. A shaft of sunlight came through the stained glass windows and shone directly onto the coffin. She remembered the whispered words of the relatives back at the house for the wake, the egg and cress bridge rolls, the candlesticks and condolences.

When everyone had left, Sara went to her bedroom and sobbed. She wanted her mother to come and comfort her, to share in this terrible grief, but she didn’t come and Sara cried alone.

It had been six months since the accident. Accident, what bloody accident? It was no accident. God had made it happen. It was his fault.

The insurance money on the life assurance had come through and her mother had decided they needed a holiday and that they should go to Spain.

“It will be nice, just the two of us,” Sara had told her mother.

“Well there won’t just be two of us, Sara, “said her mother, “your uncle Alan will be joining us.”

Alan was her father’s older brother. A thick set man in his late forties, he had been a frequent visitor to the house both before and after her father’s death. He was a sombre man, unlike his late brother. Sara could not remember seeing him smile or hearing him laugh.

“He’s taking care of things for us,” her mother said. “He’s only thinking of us. He’s very fond of you, Sara.” And Sara knew just how fond of her he was.

She stretched and pulled down the duvet using her feet, scrunching up her toes, working the cover down until it was a bundle at the bottom of her bed. She lay there in her Marks and Sparks pyjamas before swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She looked at herself in the pine framed mirror opposite the bed. Her hair had grown again. She had it cut short after the funeral because she couldn’t bear the thought of her father not brushing it for her the way he had done every night before she went to bed. She ran her hands over her bosom and felt her nipples stiffen slightly. A picture of Jeff flashed into her mind. Her hands settled on her waist and she closed her eyes imaging they were Jeff’s hands.

“Come on Dolly Daydream.”

She opened her eyes with a start as her mother brushed past to make the bed.

“Alan’s picking us up in an hour, and you’re nowhere near packed.”

Alan? Alan? Whatever happened to Uncle Alan?