of fold-out books, every now and then revealing long valleys of bush or—through long clefts, scars or erosion—bright turquoise triangular views of the sea. The group was able to spread out. Dora and Philippa trotted away once more, pleased to have the slow descent over and done with. Jake hung back and felt the pressure of David's curious stare. Bond gave her a gentle smile then rode on ahead with Lewis trailing along behind.
Jake looked after them, contemplating something which had been happening since yesterday but which she had only just recognized. She was no longer alone. She was part of a group which had Bond as its focus. The family, which had seemed at first to consist of David, Philippa and her children, with Jake clumsily attached like the tail pinned to a party donkey, had shifted and divided into those who knew about Bond and those who didn't. Adults on one side and children on the other. Children might believe, as Jake now believed, that Bond was a boy from outer space who was being pursued by enemies. Adults could not believe such a thing. If they did, the world would be changed too much for them to bear. And if they were forced to believe it they would then become interested, not in Bond himself, but in what he might know. How did he come to be here, and why? She herself was suddenly anxious to know the strange things that Bond must know—she was burning to be told what sort of world he belonged to and what his purpose was in her world.
David, also hanging back, had fixed Jake with his glittering eye like the ancient mariner, not wanting to tell her a story, but to hear the one she had to tell. She tried not to look at him but he drew alongside anyway, Enchanter snorting at Cooney as if even the horses had secrets to exchange:
"If you watch me," her father said, "you'll see that you don't have to hold the reins as if you were Hercules strangling snakes. Hold them like this." Jake looked sideways at his hands. "You can't ride," he said. "I watched when you nearly fell off, but over and above that—you just can't ride."
Jake looked up defiantly. "No," she said. "Mum's horses were all sold and she didn't bother to get any more. They take a lot of looking after, horses."
"In your letters..." David began.
"I was telling lies," Jake broke in stiffly.
"Why?"
Jake sighed deeply. "Why?" David asked again, but still she would not answer. "Are you unhappy at home? Is something wrong with Pet or your grandparents?" David persisted, looking more and more dismayed, while Jake glanced from side to side out beyond the hills as if searching for a way to escape. Her face expressed the impossibility of discussing such great and complicated imperfections whilst sitting astride a horse.
Just then the others appeared, trotting back to meet them, laughing, having obviously enjoyed their small excursion.
"You sounded so happy in your letters," said David, perplexed. "All the riding..." he drifted off. "Oh Jacqueline," he said and shook his head.
"Mum reads my letters," said Jake, dropping her gaze to the reins lying limply in her hands. "She likes me to sound happy. I wanted you to think I was happy. I am sort of happy most of the time." She glanced fleetingly up at David as if she was frightened of his reaction to what she was telling him. "Nothing's ever perfect, is it?"
"Jake?" called Dora across the clearing. "We're going to stop soon and have a rest," she said, her voice loaded with hidden meaning.
"All right, off you go!" David said to Jake. "I'll catch up with you later. How is Pet, by the way?" he said suddenly, which wasn't quite fair. He was looking at Jake with his sad-monkey expression, as if she was the cause of his unhappiness—but after all, she thought, he was the one who had told her to go and live in a land of wonderful horses and had then gone off and got married without even asking her to the wedding.
"She likes to be looked after," she said cautiously, and David sighed.
"She always has," he
Jake looked after them, contemplating something which had been happening since yesterday but which she had only just recognized. She was no longer alone. She was part of a group which had Bond as its focus. The family, which had seemed at first to consist of David, Philippa and her children, with Jake clumsily attached like the tail pinned to a party donkey, had shifted and divided into those who knew about Bond and those who didn't. Adults on one side and children on the other. Children might believe, as Jake now believed, that Bond was a boy from outer space who was being pursued by enemies. Adults could not believe such a thing. If they did, the world would be changed too much for them to bear. And if they were forced to believe it they would then become interested, not in Bond himself, but in what he might know. How did he come to be here, and why? She herself was suddenly anxious to know the strange things that Bond must know—she was burning to be told what sort of world he belonged to and what his purpose was in her world.
David, also hanging back, had fixed Jake with his glittering eye like the ancient mariner, not wanting to tell her a story, but to hear the one she had to tell. She tried not to look at him but he drew alongside anyway, Enchanter snorting at Cooney as if even the horses had secrets to exchange:
"If you watch me," her father said, "you'll see that you don't have to hold the reins as if you were Hercules strangling snakes. Hold them like this." Jake looked sideways at his hands. "You can't ride," he said. "I watched when you nearly fell off, but over and above that—you just can't ride."
Jake looked up defiantly. "No," she said. "Mum's horses were all sold and she didn't bother to get any more. They take a lot of looking after, horses."
"In your letters..." David began.
"I was telling lies," Jake broke in stiffly.
"Why?"
Jake sighed deeply. "Why?" David asked again, but still she would not answer. "Are you unhappy at home? Is something wrong with Pet or your grandparents?" David persisted, looking more and more dismayed, while Jake glanced from side to side out beyond the hills as if searching for a way to escape. Her face expressed the impossibility of discussing such great and complicated imperfections whilst sitting astride a horse.
Just then the others appeared, trotting back to meet them, laughing, having obviously enjoyed their small excursion.
"You sounded so happy in your letters," said David, perplexed. "All the riding..." he drifted off. "Oh Jacqueline," he said and shook his head.
"Mum reads my letters," said Jake, dropping her gaze to the reins lying limply in her hands. "She likes me to sound happy. I wanted you to think I was happy. I am sort of happy most of the time." She glanced fleetingly up at David as if she was frightened of his reaction to what she was telling him. "Nothing's ever perfect, is it?"
"Jake?" called Dora across the clearing. "We're going to stop soon and have a rest," she said, her voice loaded with hidden meaning.
"All right, off you go!" David said to Jake. "I'll catch up with you later. How is Pet, by the way?" he said suddenly, which wasn't quite fair. He was looking at Jake with his sad-monkey expression, as if she was the cause of his unhappiness—but after all, she thought, he was the one who had told her to go and live in a land of wonderful horses and had then gone off and got married without even asking her to the wedding.
"She likes to be looked after," she said cautiously, and David sighed.
"She always has," he
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