At the fence, Oliver’s mother had her hands pressed over her mouth. His father put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side.
? ? ?
Thebreak room at Brookridge had been carved out of the original tack room and still smelled faintly of leather beneath the instant coffee and the biscuit tin that someone refilled from the Tesco Metro in Leatherhead every Friday. The kettle was a temperamental Russell Hobbs that Barnaby had been meaning to replace for two years and hadn’t, because it worked, mostly, and because there was always something more urgent to spend the budget on.
He filled it from the tap and switched it on. The element rattled and then settled into its familiar rumble. As he waited, Barnaby leaned against the counter. Oliver had completed three full circuits of the school at walk. On the second circuit, he’d let go of the pommel with one hand. On the third, he’d reached forward and touched Treacle’s mane, and the sound he’d made, a small, fierce gasp of triumph, had been worth every hour Barnaby had spent setting up for that day’s sessions.
His joints ached. His knees were stiff from crouching beside the wheelchair and walking the school floor for the better part of an hour. The base of his spine had developed the familiar low throb that came from standing in one position too long. His body had no business feeling this way after a morning of solid work.He blamed the two days in bed at Chester Square, which had done the structural damage of a fortnight without riding.
The kettle clicked off. He poured water into two mugs and was reaching for the biscuit tin when the door opened.
Greg Finchley filled the door frame. He was six foot and broad across the chest, built up through endless days of manual labour. His hair was dark and cut short, already threaded with grey at the temples despite only being thirty-four, and his face was wind-weathered. He wore the same uniform as he did every other day: a navy Brookridge polo, cargo trousers with hay dust on the knees, and a pair of Blundstones that had seen better decades.
Greg had been the first person Barnaby had hired. Not because he’d been the best qualified candidate on paper, but because Greg had walked into the empty yard on the first day of interviews, looked at the derelict stables and the waterlogged ménage, and said, “Right. Where do you want to start?” He’d shown no deference to the young Marquess. He was just a man who saw work that needed doing.
Five years later, Greg was the centre manager, and he was the reason Brookridge ran as well as it did. Barnaby handled the board, the donor relations, and the occasional shuttle run. Greg took care of everything else.
Greg crossed the break room and dropped into the plastic chair opposite Barnaby’s. Barnaby pushed the second mug across to him.
“Saw you with the new lad,” Greg said. “Oliver.”
“He touched Treacle’s mane.”
Greg’s face creased into a slow, broad grin. He’d watched hundreds of children touch horses for the first time and still hadn’t tired of it. “Gill reckons he’ll be trotting by the end of the month.”
“Gill reckons everyone will be trotting by the end of the month. She’s an optimist.”
“She’s usually right, though.”
Barnaby took a mouthful of tea and let it settle. The break room was quiet. Through the partition wall, he could hear one of the yard volunteers filling hay nets, the rustle and thud of it rhythmic and steady.
“This is the sort of thing I dreamed of when we got things started, Greg.” He looked down at his mug. “Five years ago, standing in that empty yard. I couldn’t have told you what it would look like back then. But it was this. Exactly this.”
“Well, I’m glad to see the smile back on your face.” Greg set his mug down and leaned forward. “I’ve got something that’ll make your day even better.”
Barnaby raised an eyebrow to urge him on.
“We’ve had a donation come through. Landed in the account this morning. I was on the phone with the bank for twenty minutes because I thought there’d been a clerical error.” Greg paused, and Barnaby’s stomach tightened, because Greg Finchley did not usually do dramatic pauses. “Someone handed over four million pounds, Barnaby.”
“Four million?”
“Four million, three hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds, to be exact. It was an anonymous donation. The bank confirmed the transfer’s cleared. The donor’s requested no contact.” Greg leaned back in his chair. “Though I’m assuming it’s one of your lot. One of your friends in high places.”
Barnaby set his mug down carefully, because his hand had gone numb around the handle and he didn’t trust himself not to drop it. Four million, three hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds. The number was so far outside the scale of anything Brookridge had received before that his brain kept trying to deduct a decimal point, to correct it into somethingmore plausible. Their largest single donation to date had been forty thousand, from a retired hedge fund manager whose granddaughter rode with them on Tuesdays.
This was a hundred times that.
He pressed his palms flat on the table and stared at the wood grain between his thumbs. The grain blurred slightly, and he blinked until it sharpened.
Four million pounds would transform Brookridge. Not incrementally, not in the cautious, grant-by-grant way they’d been building for five years, but fundamentally. They could have a proper indoor school to replace the prefab. It could be heated, and made even more accessible. They could add a hydrotherapy pool; he’d been researching equine and rider hydrotherapy for two years, pricing contractors, sketching layouts on the backs of feed invoices during quiet afternoons. They could take on two more full-time instructors. Establish bursaries so the families who couldn’t afford the session fees didn’t have to choose between their child’s riding lesson and their electricity bill.
He could extend the veterans’ programme from one day a week to three. He could hire a dedicated occupational therapist. He could resurface the outdoor ménage so it didn’t turn into a lake every November…
“Barnaby.” Greg was watching him, his mouth twitching. “You all right?”
“I’m making plans,” Barnaby said to him. “Don’t interrupt me.”
Greg laughed, reached for the biscuit tin, and began to map out the next two years with Barnaby.
