Snow Foal. Susanna Bailey
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the foal left the shelter of the old oaks, and drifted across the open moor. He nuzzled the newly white earth, seeking green blades of grass, or the prickly yellow gorse he had been learning to eat alongside his mother’s milk.
He moved slowly, his body tensed for flight. He listened out for the black monster, with its glaring eyes and thunderous roar.
And for the humans who had forced his mother into its terrible jaws.
As darkness fell, and the moon spilled silver light across the moorland, instinct pulled the foal towards the protection of the hedgerow. He pushed his soft muzzle beneath frozen branches, twisted his tongue around the bitter, brittle leaves that nestled beneath. He shook snow from his nostrils and stretched forward, searching for more food.
Then he was sliding, falling: thin legs flailing amidst a tangle of sharp twigs. Snow slid with him, pressing him into the ditch behind the hedge.
When he opened his eyes, the foal could no longer find the moon.
Addie couldn’t see much at all now that they’d left the town, with its pale streetlamps, and vivid neon signs. Just glimpses of flat fields and shadowy forests; of spiked hedges and trees edged with white, wavering like ghosts in the beam from the car headlights.
‘Not much further,’ Penny said. She glanced over her shoulder at Addie. ‘We should see the farmhouse soon.’ She squinted out through the windscreen again, adjusted her round glasses. ‘This weather’s slowed us up a bit. You must be so tired.’
Addie shrugged, watched the wipers whip back and forth through the sleet and snow. Penny’s car struggled on, taking her further and further away from her brown brick home.
Further away from Mam.
They hadn’t let Addie go in the ambulance with Mam. They’d made tea with too much sugar; made Addie sit down in the wrong chair in the lounge. Addie hated them. Hated their radios that crackled and hissed, their silver buttons that flashed in the light. Their eyes that swept the room and decided things.
‘Penny, can we ring Mam when we get there?’ Addie asked. ‘Tell her I’ll be back in the morning?’
‘It’s late, Addie. Your mum needs to rest, sweetheart. I’ll check on her first thing. And then I’ll come and talk to you. I promise.’ Penny slowed the car, turned it to the left. Her long nails flashed red on the steering wheel.
‘I can’t stay here tomorrow,’ Addie said. ‘Mam’ll worry.’
Penny sighed. A soft, sad sound. Was she even listening?
The car bumped along a rough track. Addie’s stomach lurched. She chewed at the skin around her thumb nail. Where were they?
A white light cut through the darkness, revealed a wooden sign on a tall pole. Penny leaned forward, slowed the car down. ‘There we are,’ she said. ‘They’ve left the gate open for us. We’re here.’
The farmhouse was huge: the biggest house Addie had ever seen. Wide windows threw yellow light on to a snow-covered courtyard. Smoke curled from tall chimneys into the night.
The door opened as Addie and Penny approached, and a small woman in Wellington boots hurried across the yard to meet them. She was holding a jacket round her shoulders. Addie saw that she was wearing pyjamas underneath
‘You made it,’ she said. ‘I was worried. The weather’s really closed in since this morning.’
‘Hi, Ruth,’ said Penny. ‘Sorry it’s got so late. These roads . . .’
‘Not to worry. You’re here now, that’s the main thing.’ Ruth smiled at Addie. ‘Let’s get you both inside.’ She hurried them through the door into a long, bright hallway full of jackets, boots and bags. ‘Come on into the kitchen. And let me have your coats,’ she said, ‘I’ll put them by the fire to dry.’
The fire in the kitchen was a real one inside a huge, brick hearth. ‘Get it going a bit more, shall we, Addie?’ Ruth said, smiling again. She pointed to a wooden rocking chair by the hearth. ‘Sit here, when you’re done, love. Warm yourself. But pop those trainers off first, I would. They look soaked.’ She bent down and poked at the fire with some kind of stick. Small red flames licked up around the logs inside.
Addie watched them for a moment. She could smell smoke. It made her throat tickle.
She stayed where she was, folded her arms across her chest.
‘When you’re ready then,’ Ruth said. ‘You take your time.’ She moved across to the table and lifted foil from a large plate ‘I’ve made some sandwiches for you both.’ She turned back to Addie, smiled again. ‘And there’s hot chocolate too. I expect you’d like some of that, Addie? Penny, how about you?’
‘Perfect,’ Penny said. She put her briefcase on the table. Addie stared at it. She knew all about that briefcase, with its files full of secrets and lies.
She looked away.
She was freezing cold, even in Ruth’s warm kitchen. Her toes felt as if something was biting them. And she was thirsty. ‘Yes,’ she said to Ruth. ‘Hot chocolate. Please.’
Ruth smiled still more broadly. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Won’t be a mo.’ She moved a shiny copper pan from the bench on to the stove and began to stir it.
Addie stared down at her feet. Snow slid from her shoes on to the tiled floor and quickly melted there. She glanced up. Had Ruth noticed?
She hadn’t. She was deep in conversation with Penny, over by the stove.
Addie pulled at her wet laces, took off her trainers. She held them up for a moment. Where was she supposed to put them? Nobody had said. She pushed them out of sight, under her chair, clutched her damp coat collar closer round her neck. She looked around.
It was the kind of kitchen you see in films, or in magazines at the doctor’s surgery. Big tiles on the floor, big wooden furniture, big dark beams across the ceiling. There was an enormous fridge covered in stickers, scribbled notes and photographs of children. Addie wondered who the children were and whether they all lived here, with Ruth and Sam.
Whatever Penny and Ruth were planning, Addie’s photo was never going on that fridge.
She strained to hear what Penny was saying to Ruth. Penny had her serious face on, which was worrying. Ruth was nodding. She glanced over at Addie, her eyes soft and watery. Like the police officer’s eyes, just before she made Addie let go of Mam’s hand.
‘Almost done, Addie,’ she said, smiling. She turned back to the stove, stirred her pan of milk, as if everything was normal. As if everything was fine.
Ruth didn’t look like a foster carer. Not like Dawn anyway. Dawn, with her pink hair and high heels, her endless phone calls, her high-pitched laugh. Dawn, who hardly spoke to Addie for the whole weekend she spent there in the summer. Dawn, who never smiled.
Ruth’s face looked as if it was used to smiling. Her brown hair was scooped into a kind of nest on the top of her head. It bobbed from side to side as she moved around the kitchen, quick as bird. And she still had her boots on. Dawn would bust a gut. It was shoes off at the door in her house.
Ruth