A Three Day Event by Barbara Kay

thought might calm his jangled nerves was some hard physical work. At the corner of the jumper arena beside the stadium stood a huge mound of sand. The sand was to be the final layer on the re–worked foundation of the arena in preparation for the June show. It was time to re–do it in any case, that was what Polo had explained to him. An outdoor jumper arena needed continual updating or the footing grew uneven. No professional rider would jeopardize his horse’s fragile feet and legs in a bad arena, so the good competition barns invested heavily in arenas with a deep base of layered gravel, earth and sand which drained evenly and quickly after rainstorms, and cushioned the horse’s expensive hooves with just the right degree of ‘give’. Too little, sore feet and ankles, too much, strained tendons. Too little was an irritant, too much could mean a long–term, even permanently debilitating injury.
    The wheelbarrows and shovels were kept in a utility cell in the wing connecting the round barn to the indoor arena. Access could be gained from the interior corridor or from an outside door. He could pick up the gear without entering the barn and maybe waking Liam up. He didn’t want to see him yet. And he wouldn’t wait for coffee. He had already drunk too much trying to stay up all night.
    He drove right up to the access door and slipped inside. Fleur had heard the truck and was upon him immediately, whining softly for affection. Gilles felt sorry for the dog. She was supposed to be Jocelyne’s, but the girl never paid any attention to her. She got fed and she had as much exercise as she wanted, often following clients out on their hacks, but nobody except Gilles really cared about her, or petted her, or even talked to her. Lonely himself, never having owned a pet before, Gilles had taken the dog over.
    Now the truck was loaded with what he needed. It was dawn. The dog pleaded to come with him. Why not ? She hopped gaily into the front seat beside Gilles. He drove the long way down on the asphalt road. There was a short cut, a rough track between the paddocks, but it cut too close in front of the Jacobsons’ house. He didn’t want anyone asking what he was doing at that hour, unlikely as it was that someone from the house would be up and about. And there was an unfamiliar car in the driveway, a Lexus. Typical. All the Jews had nice cars. Must have come last night, because it wasn’t there yesterday. Better to go around.
    He parked on the far side of the mounded sand, where the truck would be invisible to passers–by and the stable people. What he thought he would do was to time how long it took to fill a wheelbarrow and assess how much ground each barrow–load covered. That way he could tell Polo how long it would take the two government grant workers who were supposed to come on Monday–it was Friday today–to finish the job. Uncle Roch might appreciate this initiative and lighten up on his criticisms.
    He began to dig and very soon fell into a rhythm that began to soothe away some of the tension. He didn’t know why his uncle was so short–tempered these days. In Gilles’ youth Uncle Roch had always been his favourite of all his mother’s many brothers and sisters. He was a joker. He loved parties. He gave great parties–his New Year’s réveillons brought the combined relatives of their side and Tante Ghislaine’s together every year, over one hundred people at their small, cozy home a mile from the Centre. Everyone pitched in with cooking and baking. The kids swarmed over the house, the bedrooms, the rec room, everywhere. Uncle Roch hugged and kissed everybody, pressed food and wine and beer and Pepsi on them. Or he’d have his father’s big work horses hitched up, pile all the kids in the sleigh and personally drive them through the woods, singing, laughing, shrieking as they plunged downhill and around the corner. But lately…
    Fleur was suddenly barking frantically and digging madly in the sand