Horse Girl
by Suki Hollywood
image courtesy of Tánička Pojntlesová
At last, the island. The sky was bright, so the sea was too: Máiréad had to shield her eyes to see the green hills and the dock. Standing at the deck’s railing, her hand clenched around the cold metal, she leaned over as if it would bring her closer.
Sarah was waiting on the dock. Black hair, blue eyes, looking unbelievably hot even in a sensible anorak and from a distance. Máiréad couldn’t see her face yet, but she could tell from the way she was standing that she was smiling.
When Máiréad clambered down the passenger galley, Sarah reached out a hand to take her bag.
‘Alright, love?’ Her freckles stood out against her pink cheeks. She looked so alive in a way she could never be on screen. ‘Were you seasick, then?
Sarah didn’t drive in the city, so, it was strangely disconcerting to be in the passenger’s seat beside her in the family car she’d cheerfully warned her was a ‘customised tin can’. Máiréad could feel every bump of the country road beneath her and she fought the urge to lean forward as they drove up a hill. The car only played cassettes or the radio. They’d both had enough of news, so they listened to Rumours.
The fields were quiet, the air damp. The two-story farmhouse was freshly painted. Brave chickens roamed in the front yard, drifting towards Máiréad to peck her legs. Their beaks were sharp.
‘Help,’ she said.
Sarah laughed as she shut the boot. She’d already hefted Máiréad’s backpack onto her shoulders and she held a bulging bag of shopping in each hand. Embarrassed, Máiréad reached to take one, but before she could grab it Sarah had swung it out of her grasp.
‘I can carry things!’ Máiréad said.
‘Me too,’ Sarah said over her shoulder.
Máiréad followed her into the house. The front door was unlocked. Over the threshold was a hand painted wooden sign. Today I choose joy, and a yellow sun smiling.
‘You’ve had a long trip. Besides, you just want in at the biscuits. Cuppa?’
Sarah hadn’t been born on Mull. Her parents had bought the place in the nineties, moved up from Birmingham or Newcastle or somewhere like that. The kitchen confirmed Máiréad’s long held suspicion that Sarah came from a proudline of English Hippies: rainbow knitted tea cosies, stacks of records, drying flowers and a well-used weed pipe in the cutlery drawer. But Máiréad could see Sarah’s kitchen here too, in the pesto jar ashtray, half-empty tinned tomatoes covered in cellophane, a jar of used coffee grounds. Sarah had lived here for three months, Máiréad reminded herself. In some ways, this was her home now. She’d changed, too. There were some things they would have to relearn about each other. They would do it together.
The kitchen window was open. Washing her hands, Máiréad looked up. She let the lukewarm water run over them. Grazing in the middle of the field was a horse.
#
The horse had arrived when Máiréad was seven. She had not been informed. One day, it was just there in Granny and Granda’s field, brown and shiny as a new penny.
They’d all looked at her expectantly. After going through the Christmas motions of joy and surprise, she hadn’t been sure how to react. Truthfully, she wasn’t much sure what to do with a horse.
In Granny’s sitting room, above the glass ornaments, were the family photos: men with strong noses, weak jaws and pale eyes, standing beside horses proudly unsmiling. It ran in the family, horses. They were horse people. Granda sold them and Uncle Jim used to, until he had moved on to cars.
Dad had been the one who raced: he’d been the only one light enough. Máiréad’s favourite pictures were the black and white photographs of a man on a horse, human body screwed on to horse body, face obscured by a helmet. His winners: Sly Star, Lizzie Borden, Son of Mary.
The name was the question. She’d had horses before, in the bath. Ones with polyester rainbow tails, stumpy feet, bodies made of powdery plastic. They were filled with air. If you pinched their bellies between your fingers, they’d swell again like they were alive and breathing. But these horses had all come with names, easily deduced by the peeling symbols stamped on the flank. Twinkle Toes, Rainbow Heart, Friendship Dash.
She’d seen horses get names in movies. Her favourite movie horse was Rain, a girl horse with a blonde mane and blue eyes, running in animated freedom with her stallion boyfriend in the American Heartland (wherever that was). The Native American boy in the movie must have named her, or she must have told him her name. They had a special bond.
This horse would be more than a horse: it would be a friend.
At first, she named it Brown Beauty. Like Black Beauty, but a girl. Maybe Black Beauty’s girlfriend. But was brown a boy colour?
The horse was renamed Sprinkles. But even for Máiréad, this name was sickly, sticking between her teeth.
A final concession: the horse would be called ‘BB’. A nickname. Sometimes, this was the name her dad used. But mostly, the horse was nameless.
Looking back, she doubted that the horse minded. As dad explained to her, horses were dull creatures. They only understand one thing: who’s in charge and who isn’t.
#
Neither of them could be bothered cooking. They grazed: hummus, ready salted crisps, Schloer, slabs of Dairy Milk. In Glasgow, Sarah ate vegan like Máiréad did. On the island, compromises were apparently made. Máiréad didn’t comment. She didn’t care.
They lay together in the bedroom Sarah had grown up in and filled each other in. There was little to discuss. The rain pounded against the window.
The sound of the rain became hooves.
She woke alone. Sarah was whisking bum-fresh eggs in the kitchen: an irregular treat.
Sarah held her hand as she took her on a tour. Despite the abundance of animals, this was not a farm. Sarah’s parents collected strays, like the big three-legged dog, half plucked battery hens and farm cats, rolling in the grass with their bellies up. The animals here didn’t work.
The horse and its small stable was left for last. It was chestnut, with thick fur and a dusty beige mane. It stood with one hoof propped up. Strained tendons, Máiréad thought.
Sarah pressed a lump of sugar into Máiréad’s palm.
‘Don’t worry, city girl.’ She grinned, stroking the horse’s neck. The horse hadn’t moved when Sarah came towards it, but it hadn’t come towards them either. ‘Rhiannon won’t bite. Will you, girl?’
Máiréad dutifully held her palm out in front of the horse’s muzzle. Nostril-hot breath. Soft, wet inner lip. Blunt teeth.
‘Do you ride her?’ Máiréad asked.
‘No, no,’ Sarah said. ‘Her last owners messed her up. But I’m working on it, slowly. It’s called natural horsemanship. It’s all about trust.’ She smiled into Rhiannon’s eyes. ‘Last summer, she let me sit on top of her.’
Too late, Máiréad realised she was meant to have a reaction. ‘Cool.’
The horse looking at her. Her eyes were liquid black, lashes long like a doll. Máiréad ran a hand lightly down her neck, fingertips barely touching her. She felt a thrill as Rhiannon’s ears twitched.
‘Whoa, girl,’ she said. ‘Good girl.’
#
They didn’t gallop. Dad said it was important to build trust before going too fast. On Saturdays, Máiréad would sit on top of BB as they circled the house at a steady trot, like fish in a bowl.
She peered into the windows of the house as she passed. She was much taller from up here and could see the top of Granda’s baldy head at the back of his chair. If Granny or Uncle Jim saw her passing, they would wave. Oisín just kept looking his Game Boy. She’d understood by now that her eleven-year-old brother was exempt from certain social graces. Horses are gay, he’d informed her. Gay meant boring.
Dad followed the horse at a walking pace, close enough to steady her and say, whoa, girl, easy.
Sometimes Máiréad would look down between her legs and try to find wonder. The horse was big and alive, but also felt pretty similar to riding a merry-go-round.
Maybe it was because of the saddle. In the movie, the boy had ridden Rain with just a blanket on her back. It seemed nicer somehow, more casual. Two friends just hanging out. The saddle was so particular. This strap had to go here and this one here and this tightly or else, Dad would tell her. Or else what? she’d ask. Doesn’t matter what.
After a ride, they’d lead the horse back to the barn. It was important to lead her, Dad explained, because of the blinds she wore: small squares of leather fixed over her eyes. She couldn’t see left or right, only forward. Máiréad was her eyes. No, her brain.
Máiréad enjoyed cleaning the horse more than riding her. Buckets of soapy water thrown over her first – room temperature, so she wouldn’t catch a chill. They’d clean her coat with a tool like a window wiper. It left symmetrical streaks of wet brown hair on her coat, and mounds of yellowish foam, stray drops of which would land on Máiréad’s Pokémon T-Shirt and give Pikachu freckles. Whether the horse enjoyed it was hard to say, but she stood still.
Oisín sometimes came out to watch. Sick of being in the house with Granny, who was scared of him, and Granda, who hated him. Instead of Oisín, Granda called him son. It came out warped between coughs. The S twisting into a J, so it sounded like John. Oisín only had time for Uncle Jim, because Uncle Jim let him bet his pocket money on greyhounds and burnt him Eminem CDs.
Máiréad had already gotten out the buckets and wiper to wash down BB, when Uncle Jim and Oisín appeared. Uncle Jim put a hand on her and said, what’s the point of having a horse if she’s not going to run?
Unsure, Máiréad looked to Dad. He was still and contained. It was the same way he looked when Granda said, I just pray the boy gets better.
Máiréad’s legs nestled either side of BB’s belly, but Uncle Jim’s fell beyond into the space underneath. He leaned over her neck. Yah. BB began to trot.
Jim, Dad called. For a moment, Máiréad thought Dad might make this stop. But Uncle Jim was the older brother. You can use the reins.
Uncle Jim slapped her lightly.
Galloping, Brown Beauty’s body became elongated, powerful. At times, her hooves hardly seemed to touch the ground, like she was flying.
Máiréad stood on the lowest rung of the wooden fence that looked over the small field, hanging on to the top so she didn’t slip in her wellies. Oisín stood beside her. He was quiet. Then he burst: yells that could have been whoops or screams.
Dad stood beside them, watching. His arms were folded, his face bland.
Behind the blinds, the horse’s eyes were wide. Her nostrils were flared. The sweat was like seafoam, the air around her smelt of tangy salt. But she kept going faster.
#
Máiréad dreamt about horses every night that week, but she didn’t mention Rhiannon or ask to see her again. Sarah seemed surprised at her lack of interest. Maybe a little sad. I was never a horse girl.
Once, when Sarah was still sleeping, Máiréad went outside to look for phone signal. She’d been meaning to call her Dad. She’d put off the call for days. The chickens pecked at her leg, out of habit now more than desire. Rhiannon was still in the stable. Máiréad could go visit her, but in the dark she might scare her. There had been problems with foxes last year: breaking into the hen house at night, crouching in the horses’ hay and waiting.
What would she say? Hey, dad, how are you and do you still remember how to hurt horses?
Sarah had lain on top of her the night before, still naked, tracing her mouth with her fingers, still wet.
‘What are you thinking, Máiréad?’ she’d asked. Sarah had always pronounced her name differently. Mahre Raid. The ‘a’s nice and rosy and round.
I’m thinking about horses, she wanted to say. Icelandic horses. Bred so they still have wildness in them. The people who raced Rhiannon. Did they make her get in the horse box by lifting her hooves one by one, like Dad, or, did they use a light whip, like Uncle Jim? The races she’d won. What Brown Beauty was thinking of when she died. About tendons. Do you really think the power of friendship will be what it takes for Rhiannon to let you ride her?
They’d shared the dark together, on Sarah’s tiny Glasgow kitchen floor. Sarah was more than family: god knows, she knew her better than her family ever had.
‘Máiréad?’ Sarah said again. ‘What are you thinking?’
She didn’t pronounce her name differently: she pronounced it wrong.
#
Oisín started screaming regularly. His face would flush, pupils so huge that his pale blue iris disappeared. In these moods, he loved to destroy; shredding leaves or paper, smashing dinner plates, pinching Máiréad’s arm.
Uncle Jim didn’t ride the horse again. When Dad would suggest taking her for a ride, Máiréad would say, I said I’d help Granny clean or later or I don’t feel well. Brown Beauty had begun to eat compulsively, gorging herself on grass if left alone in the field. So,Máiréad didn’t go into the field anymore.
Oisín threw his Game Boy at the sitting room wall in November. The dent would never be fixed. In the years that followed, Granny, Granda and Uncle Jim’s bodies would all be displayed in that room for visitors, and the dent would still be there, hidden behind a framed photograph, but there.
Uncle Jim and Dad were confident, they knew how to react. They put their large hands on the back of Oisín’s neck, gave calm commands.
Later that day, dinner was served hot.
Eat up, someone said to Oisín.
No! Oisín cried.
Underneath the table, he tapped his leg rhythmically. Máiréad could feel it against her own, though they were not touching. It was the steam that was the problem, but she knew this would not be easy for the adults to understand. Máiréad kept eating, hoping that her enthusiasm would cover for Oisín’s badness. The heat made the roof of her mouth swell.
Eat. Granda pushed the plate towards him.
Oisín took the plate and threw it. The noise of the plate smashing startled him. He put his hands over his ears. He began to laugh and scream and knock his feet against the chair. Dad’s face was tense. Uncle Jim looked like he wanted to laugh. Granny was quiet, staring sadly at the chicken cooling on the kitchen tiles. Granda didn’t say anything except stop that noise.
Brown Beauty lived in the barn now and ate rationed hay, to keep the weight off her. Máiréad asked Dad, is she happy?
He kept his eyes on the road. She’s a horse, he answered.
#
The buzzing of her phone on the bedside table woke her. It wasn’t dark anymore, but she could tell by the dizzy stiffness of her body that it was morning, but barely. Sarah rolled over, her sleeping face pouting, as Máiréad slipped out of bed. She didn’t want to wake her, but she had to get this. Oisín never rang just to say hello.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, closing the bedroom door behind her.
Last she heard, he was in some houseshare with his grotty gamer pals. Your brother has decided to spend lockdown in Belfast, Dad had said. They hadn’t spoken since last Christmas; some shitty comment about her new dietary restrictions. Sometimes he said things, and it wasn’t his fault. But he still said them.
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Oisín said. The reception was so bad, it sounded like he was in a tunnel. She could hear him breathing down the phone. She waited.
‘Máiréad,’ he said. ‘Do you ever dream about horses?’
about Suki (she/her)
Born on Valentine’s Day in Belfast, Suki Hollywood is a writer of prose and poetry. A graduate of The University of Glasgow, she has contributed editorially to From Glasgow to Saturn and Knight Errant Press, and had her work published in Meet Cute Zine and Blue House Journal. She is a regular reviewer of Speculative Fiction with Shoreline of Infinity. Currently, she is working on her first novel, a homoerotic retelling of the Bible.
instagram:@miz.possible
website: sukihollywood.com