Grounded Read online

  Grounded

  About the author

  Sheena Wilkinson’s first novel, Taking Flight, was the winner of two Bisto Children’s Book of the Year Awards: the Children’s Choice Award and the Honour Award for Fiction, as well as a White Raven Award from the International Youth Library and a place on the iBbY Honour List 2012.

  Sheena teaches English in Belfast and lives in County Down.

  Grounded

  Sheena Wilkinson

  GROUNDED

  Published 2012

  by Little Island

  7 Kenilworth Park

  Dublin 6W

  Ireland

  www.littleisland.ie

  Copyright © Sheena Wilkinson 2012

  The author has asserted her moral rights.

  ISBN 978-1-908195-17-3

  All rights reserved. The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means; adapted; rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owner.

  British Library Cataloguing Data. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Cover design by Pony and Trap

  Typeset by Someday

  Printed in Poland by Drukarnia Skleniarz

  Little Island received financial assistance from

  The Arts Council (An Chomhairle Ealaíon), Dublin, Ireland.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my sister Rhona, who wanted to know what happened next, and made me find out.

  Acknowledgements

  More than ever, I have been grateful for the practical and literary support which made the writing of this novel possible.

  I am indebted to the Arts Council of Northern Ireland for their generous ACES award, which has given me fantastic opportunities. In 2011 I was lucky enough to make two visits to the Tyrone Guthrie Centre, Annaghmakerrig, where a month’s work seems to get done in a day. Lee Weatherly’s mentoring support was invaluable as always – she has taught me more than she’ll ever know. Other readers also commented on the first draft with honesty and insight – thank you, Susanne, Elaine, Rhona and Julie. Thanks to everyone at Lighthouse Ireland for their openness and generosity.

  Talking to readers, especially teen readers, about Taking Flight has been one of the greatest joys of becoming a ‘real’ writer: thanks to everybody who took the story and characters to heart – it’s safe to say that without their enthusiasm, Grounded would never even have been thought of. Special thanks to the reading groups at St Dominic’s High School, Belfast and Trinity Comprehensive School, Ballymun, for sharing their ideas about the characters’ futures. Now you can find out what really happened!

  A year ago I knew perhaps two or three people in the Irish children’s literature world. Now that world, CBI and beyond, has welcomed me and made me feel part of something very friendly and important: thank you all. Similarly, the UK chapter of SCBWI has introduced me to wonderful writers and enthusiasts; a huge thanks to Keren David for her championing of Taking Flight in corners of the internet far too cool for me.

  Anne and Patrick Dornan and my wonderful parents Poppy and John Kerr freed me from much domestic drudgery. Having a novel to finish is a great excuse never to clean, garden, cook or iron again. The staff at Bilbo’s Bistro in Castlewellan are very patient about me sitting in the corner scribbling, and have always made me and my notebooks welcome. (I do buy copious amounts of tea. And food.) Scott Naismith, my principal at Methodist College, has been unfailingly supportive of my ‘other’ career, and without his generous attitude I would not have been able to say yes to half the fun things I’ve been invited to take part in. The generous hospitality of Tony and Jennifer Williams and Juliet Bressan on my Dublin trips makes being away from home a pleasure. It’s only possible for me to go off and do those things knowing that the staff of Mount Pleasant Trekking Centre are there to look after my pony Songbird in my absence, and I’m extremely grateful, especially to Sharon and Nicole.

  A huge thanks to Siobhán Parkinson and Elaina O’Neill for commissioning Grounded and being so great to work with, once again; and, last but never least, to my lovely agent Faith O’Grady, without whose ‘yes’ back in 2009 Declan and Seaneen would never have found so many friends.

  I. Flying

  1.

  At first it looks like a ghost, lurching towards us out of the early-morning grey mist that’s hanging over the main road above the estate. Or maybe I just see it that way it because I’m nervous anyway, thinking of what a big day this is.

  Seaneen’s hand tightens in mine. ‘What the –?’

  It’s not a ghost. It’s a kid, off his head. He staggers into the road and nearly falls. Seaneen breaks away from me.

  ‘Seaneen! Leave it!’

  She ignores me. Goes after the kid and steadies him with her arm. I sigh and set my bag down on the footpath. It’s got all my posh riding clothes in it and it’s heavy. ‘Seaneen, we’ll miss the bus!’

  Seaneen comes back, half-dragging the kid with her. He’s about fourteen, eyes huge and bleary in a thin face, his hoody wet and rumpled. There’s puke on his trainers. ‘Where do you live?’ Seaneen asks him, keeping hold of his arm. He can hardly stand.

  He makes a visible effort to focus. ‘T’con Pade,’ he slurs.

  Seaneen turns to me. ‘Did he say Tirconnell Parade?’

  ‘Dunno.’ I live in Tirconnell Parade. I’ve never seen this kid before but then I don’t know half the wee hoods on the estate.

  ‘We’d better take him home,’ Seaneen says. ‘If he falls into the road again he could get knocked down.’

  ‘Seaneen! We haven’t got time.’ And this kid’s got nothing to do with us. Not my fault he’s staggering around off his head at seven o’clock in the morning.

  She stares at me. ‘Declan, it’s only a horse show. Some things are more important.’

  ‘Point him in the right direction. He’ll be OK when he’s off the main road.’ I check the time on my phone. ‘Look, we have four minutes to get the bus!’

  Seaneen shakes her head. ‘You go ahead,’ she says. The kid’s body jackknifes and he pukes. I step back. Seaneen doesn’t flinch. ‘Come on,’ she says to him. ‘Let’s get you home.’

  I turn away and start running towards the bus stop.

  2.

  ‘Last to jump, Declan Kelly on Flight of Fancy.’

  The gate into the arena swings open and we enter at a trot. Flight feels bold and ready for anything, pulling and snorting already, keen to be off round the jumps again. I lean down and run my hand over his sweaty shoulder. ‘Steady,’ I whisper. His red ears flick back at my voice.

  The bell rings and we’re off. I love jumping against the clock. It’s not just galloping; it’s all control and split-second timing and courage – mine and Flight’s. Only Patrick Scott has been clear so far and he played it fast but safe, going the long way round from number 5 to number 6. We have to cut the corner and take the risk.

  Flight knows what I want. The slightest shift of my weight is all it takes. He turns for me in mid-air so that we hit the ground just right for the short cut.

  ‘Come on, boy.’ The jump flies at us sooner than I expect, and he gathers himself before launching with a grunt from his powerful back legs. We seem to hover for ages over red and white poles. Like flying.

  Seaneen’s face materialises in the crowd, eyes wide. My focus wobbles. A pole rattles.

  The crowd gasps; I hold my breath, waiting for the thud. Silence. I lean forward and give Flight his head and he stretches out his neck and gallops through the finish so fast that the few people hanging around the gate draw back in alarm. I have to circle to get him back i
n control, just as the announcer says, ‘And that’s clear in 39.17 seconds for Declan Kelly on Flight of Fancy. And that’s the winner here today.’

  ‘Yes!’ I pat Flight’s neck.

  Everybody I know seems to be waiting outside the gate. Because it’s not just another horse show. This is Balmoral, the biggest show Flight and I have ever done. ‘Fair play to you, Kelly,’ Patrick Scott says, holding out his hand. ‘I’ll get you next time.’

  Everybody from the stables is here: Cam and her girlfriend, Pippa; my cousin Vicky who owns Flight, all jumping up and down and hugging each other. They press forwards. Vicky flings her arms round Flight’s neck. ‘Clever horse.’ She looks up at me. ‘I could never have done that.’

  ‘I know.’ I lean forward to stroke Flight’s neck and to hide my ridiculous ear-splitting grin. I look round for Seaneen.

  ‘Declan!’ She appears at Flight’s shoulder, conspicuous among the horsey crowd in her denim shorts and black tights. ‘I made it.’ She grins, her green eyes sparkling. I want to reach down and hug her but Flight’s too skittery. He tries to rub his sweaty head on Seaneen’s chest and she steps sideways in alarm. He shakes flecks of foamy slobber over her and she grimaces but then stretches out her hand to pet his neck, which is so wet the chestnut hairs are dark brown.

  ‘I was scared you’d get wrecked,’ she says. ‘Those jumps were the size of houses.’

  I laugh. I feel like I could do anything. Jump a house. Fly.

  There’s a lot of standing around getting our prizes – a trophy and a fancy rug for Flight – and then posing for photos which makes me feel weird. Me in the Ulster Tatler!

  Then the lap of honour, Flight leading, the red winner’s sash clashing with his coat, his hooves pounding the turf even though he must be knackered. As we pass the gate for the second time I see Vicky and Cam talking to a tall, grey-haired man in a faded Barbour over white breeches. It’s Fintan Brady, one of the best jumpers in Ireland. And he’s looking at me. I wonder what they’re saying.

  When we ride out of the ring for the last time I dismount. Flight shakes himself like a dog and biffs me with his nose. ‘Come on,’ I say, pulling the reins over his head. It’s the first thing Cam ever taught me – you look after your horse first. And anyway, I want to be on my own with Flight for a bit. I walk him round to the car park. It’s full of trailers and lorries with registrations from all over the country. I dismount and tie him to Cam’s lorry. Nobody’s around. I go through the usual routine: untacking, washing, rubbing down, all the time thrilling inside.

  We won.

  We’re the champions.

  We belong.

  Because I’ve always felt like an outsider in this world. Starting late, coming from a dodgy estate, having the wrong accent, not having my own horse. Even getting my National Diploma in horse care at college hasn’t made me feel I belonged as much as winning at Balmoral.

  I pour cool water over Flight’s hot body and start to walk him round in the sun. ‘You are mine, really,’ I tell him, scratching behind his ear in the place he likes. Vicky hasn’t ridden him for months. She broke her leg last summer and never got her nerve back. In my mind, in my dreams, in every way that counts, Flight’s mine. And when Vicky goes to university maybe he’ll be even more mine. I buckle on his cooler rug and lead him up the ramp into the cool quiet lorry. He blows down through his nostrils and noses at his hay net. ‘You’re the best horse in the world,’ I tell him.

  Flight stretches his head round and bites at an itch on his belly through the fine fleece of his rug, then settles down to pulling strands of hay from the net. I pull his long red ears and he twitches them away.

  Around us the show is still going on. An ice-cream van jingles. I should go and talk to people but I want to stay here with Flight. I climb through into the tiny living area in front of the horses’ bit of the lorry, open the wee fridge and take out a cold can of Coke. I press it against my burning cheek.

  ‘Dec? Hiya.’

  I swing round. Seaneen stands outside peering up through the small door, the sun glinting on her honey-coloured curls. She has her hands dug into the pockets of her tight shorts and her black top shows off her lovely tits and her freckly white cleavage. She swings herself up the steep steps. I reach out for her hand and pull her in. The door slams behind her.

  Seaneen takes the Coke from my hand and takes a slug. She grins and looks round the tiny space. ‘Cosy,’ she says. ‘Like a wee caravan.’

  The air in the lorry fizzes. Flight shifts and sighs behind the barrier. Further away the sounds of the show drift by – announcements, horses neighing and, beyond that, the traffic rumbling past on the Lisburn Road.

  Seaneen sets down the Coke and puts her hand on my leg. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ she says. She leans over and nuzzles at me with her lips. Her curls tickle my face. She runs her hand up inside my white shirt. My flesh tingles at her touch. ‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘Those clothes.’

  ‘I’m all sweaty.’

  ‘I know, it’s dead sexy.’ She giggles and moves across on top of me, straddling me, her leg brushing against my crotch.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ I say. ‘You brought me luck.’

  ‘I nearly didn’t make it,’ she says. She blows a stray curl off her face. ‘That boy, he’s called Cian, and guess what? He lives in Gran’s old house. His –’

  ‘Don’t talk about him.’ I pull her towards me, and kiss her properly. Her warm body against me is nearly as lovely as the feeling of winning.

  Until the knock on the lorry door.

  Seaneen pulls away.

  ‘Coming!’ I yell. I jump up, pull my clothes into some kind of order, and flick the door open. It’s probably Cam, wanting to get on the road back to the stables.

  But it’s Vicky and Fintan Brady. Oh my God. Fintan Brady has a big yard in Wexford. Sometimes he takes on a talented young rider to work for him, help bring on his novice horses. As soon as I see him I know what he’s here for. He’s going to offer me a job. Behind me I can feel Seaneen, all warm and laughing. I love her, but I know I’d leave her to go to Wexford.

  ‘Declan,’ Vicky says. ‘This is Fintan Brady.’

  ‘I know.’ I give Brady a quick smile. I hope I don’t look too dishevelled.

  ‘He wants to buy Flight.’

  II. Leaving

  1.

  Flight hasn’t got a clue. Vicky leads him out of his stable and up the ramp into the white lorry and he swings up, all bizz, ears pricked, big eyes shining as he looks round the yard. He doesn’t know it’s for the last time. He probably thinks he’s going to a show.

  I stand at the door of the barn and pick at a loose thread on some random headcollar I’m holding.

  Vicky doesn’t come out for ages. I suppose she’s taking her time saying goodbye, probably crying into his neck. Or not. Cause she’s the one selling him.

  ‘Declan.’ Cam stops beside me, leading one of her young Welsh ponies, who sniffs hopefully at my pocket. ‘It’s a good home. You’ll probably see him jumping in Dublin someday.’

  I shrug like I’m not bothered.

  But Cam knows me too well. ‘She couldn’t keep him, Declan. You know that.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I rub the pony’s tiny black velvet nose.

  I do kind of know. The part of me that’s eighteen, finished college, that’s ridden and worked with dozens of horses over the last two years knows. It’s just that inside there’s this other me, jumping up and down and screaming not fair.

  Cam scratches the black pony’s neck and he stretches out his head and neighs. From inside the lorry comes an answering call.

  ‘There’ll be other horses,’ Cam says. ‘There’s always other horses.’

  Vicky comes out of the groom’s door, landing carefully on her bad leg, and then she and Brady go round the back and start closing up the ramp.

  I don’t want to see the lorry driving away, its Wexford number plates reminding me how far away he’s going, and I don’t want to talk to Vicky or any
of the Saturday pupils hanging around gawking, so I say, ‘Right, I’d better get on with some work,’ and turn and walk into the barn, dumping the headcollar over a hook on the back of the door.

  It’s dark and cool in here, empty like it always is in summer when the horses are mostly out in the fields. Only bad-tempered Willow, a fourteen-two palomino grade A showjumper is standing in, because Lara, his owner, is jumping him tonight and doesn’t want him all blown up with grass. He puts his ears back as usual as I pass his door.

  The door of Flight’s stable is open. His bed’s dirty, even though he was only standing in for a couple of hours waiting for the lorry. Might as well muck it out. In fact, I might as well clear the bed out completely. Then I can wash it down and it’ll all be ready for whatever horse uses it next.

  I take a fork and the biggest wheelbarrow and get stuck in. It’s a hard job, but years of working with horses have made me quick and strong. Other lads round the estate take the piss and say horses are gay, but they shut up when they feel the strength in my arms. Not that I’ve had to hit anybody for a long time. I yank the fork hard into the bottom of the bed and it breaks open into a damp dark blur. The ammonia smell of old piss catches my eyes. I fill two wheelbarrows, getting into a rhythm that stops me thinking. Spick and Span, the Jack Russell pups Pippa bought Cam for her thirtieth birthday, dash in and out, fighting over clumps of dried-out dung.

  A shadow falls across the doorway.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re doing that already,’ Vicky’s voice says.

  I straighten up, wipe my hand across my sweaty face and look at her. She’s playing with her car keys. ‘It needs done,’ I say and brush some shavings into a pile.

  Vicky leans against the door and sighs. Why’s she still hanging around? Flight’s gone. She’s got her own car parked outside, eighteenth birthday present from Darling Daddy, so it’s not like she has to hang around waiting for a lift. She picks at the brass nameplate – Flight of Fancy. ‘I should unscrew this and take it home,’ she says.