Snow Foal

For my precious mum, Jean,

who really could paint light

on water.

First published in Great Britain in 2019

by Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2020 Susanna Bailey

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

First e-book edition 2019

ISBN 978 1 4052 94935

Ebook ISBN 978 1 4052 94942

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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CONTENTS

Cover

Dedication

Title Page

Copyright

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

HELP AND SUPPORT FOR CHILDREN AFFECTED BY ANY OF THE ISSUES FEATURED IN THIS BOOK

Everything around him was changed: white, shifting, silent. The wind had form now: it swirled around him, like feathers from the forest floor, hiding the sky. Hiding his mother.

The foal sniffed the ground. That had changed, too. It clung to his muzzle. It stung.

He smelled the air, seeking his mother’s warm, milky scent. He called. Listened. Called again. He thought he heard his mother’s voice lifting through the trees.

His mother was gone.

Driven by hunger, 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 would have rules, too, Addie thought – rules for children like her, who didn’t really belong in this house. She would tell Addie what they were when Penny had gone. Like Dawn did.

Ruth reached over Addie’s shoulder; put a tray of drinks and a plate of thick, brown sandwiches on the table. ‘Help yourself, love,’ she said. ‘Just say if you want more.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ Addie said. She watched as Penny took a sandwich, bit into it, chewed. A piece of tomato dropped on to her chest and rested on her multicoloured beads.

‘What time are you coming back, Penny? In the morning?’ Addie asked.

Penny looked over at Ruth, swallowed her mouthful of food. ‘As early as I can, Addie,’ she said. ‘Once I’ve had a chance to find out what the plan is with your mum.’ She took another bite of sandwich, held the remainder in the air. There was pink lipstick on the edge of the bread.

‘She’ll be fine tomorrow,’ Addie said. She looked at Ruth. ‘She just needed more sleep, that’s all.’

‘Why don’t we let you get some sleep as well,’ said Ruth said. ‘If you’re sure you don’t need to eat. I was hoping you might be able to meet the boys before bed, but they’re still out checking the fields. This weather closed in really quickly and we have to bring the sheep in closer to the farm. There’re a few stragglers still out there. She pointed to the sandwiches, laughed again. ‘They’ll make short work of your leftovers when they do get back, Addie.’

Addie stared at her. She didn’t care about sheep and she didn’t care about Ruth’s family. All she cared about was making the morning come as quickly as possible. ‘Come and see your room then,’ Ruth said. She sat down, pulled off her boots. ‘Bring your drink if you like.’ She gave Addie another of her smiles. ‘There’s someone rather special waiting to meet you upstairs.’

‘I just want to go to sleep,’ Addie said. She gulped down her hot drink, wiped her hand across her mouth, got to her feet.

‘Best thing,’ said Penny. ‘Try not to worry, love. Your mum’s in the right place just now.’

Addie bit her lip. Why did adults always say that when they knew it wasn’t true? She turned her back on Penny and followed Ruth to the door.

‘Goodnight, Addie,’ Penny called. ‘See you very soon.’

Addie looked over her shoulder. Penny was taking papers from her bag: papers about Addie. Papers for deciding things.

Papers for keeping her away from Mam.

‘It’s all my fault,’ she said. ‘Just stupid, stupid me. Write that on your stupid papers.’

Addie peered out through splinters of frost on the hall window. Early light now. No one about except Mrs Donovan, shuffling up her drive with her bags.

Perhaps they weren’t coming, after all.

Could Addie risk going out? Was that a stupid idea?

She had to go. She was starving. And Mam would need something when she woke.

She stood on the doorstep, pulled up her hood. Her breath floated on the air for a moment, then disappeared. She counted the coins again: just enough, with the fifty pence from under the fridge. She checked up and down the grey street. Nobody at all now. Just cracked puddles and litter drifting in the gutter; the still, orange light from the corner shop.

Addie hurried past the squashed row of brown brick houses with their faded doors and broken fences. She stayed close to the kerb, kept her head down. The baby at number six was screaming again. A dog started to bark.

Addie pushed open the shop door. The bell clanged. She peered round the shelves. Please let it be Mr Borovski today, she thought. Not Mrs Crabtree, with her thin nose poking into everyone’s business. Mrs Crabtree who noticed things.

No such luck. Mrs Crabtree came out from behind the counter and folded her arms across her bony chest. She watched Addie’s every move, looked her up and down; hovered like a hungry crow.

Addie thumped the brown loaf and milk down by the till. ‘One pound, ten pence,’ she said. ‘The bread’s reduced.’ She pointed to the yellow sticker and counted the coins into Mrs Crabtree’s hand.

The shopkeeper poked at them with a thin finger, pulled a piece of dark fluff from among them. ‘I’ve not seen your mam in a while,’ she said. ‘Under the weather again, is she?’

Addie grabbed her shopping. ‘She’s busy, that’s all,’ she said. ‘With her painting.’ She turned away, felt the burn of Mrs Crabtree’s eyes as she hurried from the shop.

Sunni did look quite special. She had hair like dark glass and black lines painted around her eyes. And she was tiny. Even though Ruth said she was only a year younger than Addie.

‘Your bed’s that one,’ Sunni said, pointing to a wooden bed in the corner. Addie’s purple duvet from home was on it and her best pyjamas were laid out ready. They didn’t look right in this room. Someone had put a blue dressing gown there too. It wasn’t hers.

‘I know everything’s strange for you, sweetheart,’ Ruth said, ‘but you must be so tired after today. You and Sunni get to know one another a bit. I’ll pop down for hot-water bottles. Then we’ll get you girls settled. OK?’

It wasn’t OK. Nothing was. But Addie nodded.

‘You can put your things on the bottom shelf,’ Sunni said. ‘The top one’s mine. But don’t touch my stuff unless you ask me first, OK?’ She cocked her head to one side and Addie saw the sparkle of a gold earring under her hair.

‘I’m going home soon,’ Addie said. ‘I don’t need a shelf.’

‘Ruth and Sam only foster kids who have to stay a long time,’ Sunni said. ‘Like me.’

‘Well, I’m not staying for long. Mam won’t let me.’

Sunni shrugged her shoulders. ‘My mum wants me to come home too, only she couldn’t learn how to look after me properly, so I’m staying here.’

‘Forever?’ Addie said.

‘Expect so.’

‘Don’t you mind?’

Sunni was searching through a collection of bright ornaments on her shelf. ‘Sort of, but I like it here. They’ve got chickens and pigs and I get to feed them. It’s cool. And there’s this really grumpy goat called Jelly. He got his name cos his favourite thing in the whole world is Jelly Babies. What do you think of that?’

Addie had never known anyone who kept pigs, chickens or goats. And she’d never heard of a goat eating Jelly Babies. She thought of the night-time foxes that raided the bins in her street. She’d seen one of them devouring a bag of popcorn, warning others to keep away with a slant-eyed stare. She didn’t say so. She didn’t think Sunni would be impressed.

Sunni held up a sequinned elephant. ‘This is my mum’s. She gave me it the last time I saw her.’

‘I’ve got this,’ Addie said. She brought a curled pink and white shell from her pocket, held it in the palm of her hand. ‘Mam’s lucky shell. It’s from Whitby, near where she grew up.’

Sunni picked it up and held it up to one eye. ‘Something used to live in here,’ she said. ‘It must be dead now.’ She tossed the shell back to Addie. Like it was nothing. ‘What’s happened to your mum, then?

‘Nothing’s happened to her. She’s not feeling very well, that’s all.’

‘What kind of “not very well”?’ Sunni inspected Addie’s pyjamas. ‘Is she dying?’

‘No, she’s not! And don’t touch my things either.’ Addie snatched her pyjama jacket back from Sunni.

‘I don’t like pyjamas,’ Sunni said. ‘I like nightdresses. This is my favourite.’ She twirled round twice to show if off. It was blue and green, like peacock feathers.

‘Mam and me like pyjamas,’ Addie said. ‘We don’t wear dresses.’

Sunni pulled a face and flung herself down on her bed. ‘Where’s your dad, then?’ she said.

‘Haven’t got one.’

‘Everyone’s got one. Didn’t your mum tell you who yours is?’

‘Course she did,’ Addie said.

‘Right, Sunni,’ Ruth said, bustling back into the room. ‘Time to let Addie get some sleep.’ She gave Addie a purple hot-water bottle with a furry cover.

‘Do you think you can settle off to sleep, Addie?’ asked Ruth. ‘Or would you like to read for a bit?’

Addie shook her head. At home she liked to read in bed; liked to disappear for a while among the pages. Sometimes, she became small again, curled next to Mam, following her finger across the strange black shapes that held the stories. Sometimes, she became someone brave and strong. Someone who knew how to fix things.

Sometimes, reading helped.

It wouldn’t help tonight. Nothing would.

Addie just wanted Ruth to go away.

By the time Addie had undressed and cleaned her teeth in the bathroom, Sunni was in bed. She didn’t look up from her book when Addie came into the room. Addie was glad. She crawled under her duvet, pulling it right up over her head. It smelled of home. She pressed her eyes shut and pretended she was back there in her own bed. She was small. Really small. The door was open and Mam was asleep in the next room.

The dream woke Addie, as it always did.

For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. Her heart hammered in her ears; her hair was sticky on her forehead. She felt sick.

She took a deep breath, like her mam had told her. It only helped a bit.

The bedroom was so dark. The deepest dark Addie had ever seen. It was full of silence. Full of nothing.

At home there was a streetlamp outside Addie’s bedroom window. It shone through her curtains like a small yellow sun. It kept her company when she couldn’t sleep. At home, it was never quiet. Even at night. There was always the hum of traffic, the slamming of doors, the call of cats.

At home, there was always Mam.

Mam didn’t like the night. She wandered around the house until morning. She needed her loud music and her drinks to get her through the dark space in between. She needed Addie.

Who was looking after Mam tonight?

Addie curled up under her duvet, wrapped her arms tightly round herself. She tried to make out Sunni’s bed on the opposite side of the room. She listened for her breathing, could just make out its soft rhythm; the occasional gentle snore.

Her eyes became heavy as she lay listening. If she went to sleep again, she wouldn’t have the bad feeling in her stomach. But the dream might come again. She needed to stay awake.