There’s a wheelbarrow propped outside one of the open stable doors, and every few seconds, a forkful of soiled woodchips soars out and lands inside with a thud. The air is ripe with the scent of ammonia, but I breathe it in greedily, allowing my senses to drink in the familiar smell that I have missed so much. The office door is shut, but I can hear sounds of a radio playing inside. It is all so reminiscent of Mill House Stables – there is even a ginger tabby cat, which is now rubbing itself luxuriantly against my bare shins. It feels wrong to be wearing a dress in a yard, and now that I’m here, I wish I’d opted for shorts.

Tui has dismounted using the block, and I watch as she carefully leads her chestnut pony into a loose box, closely followed by Allie. Unsure whether or not to head in after them, I notice a broom resting idly against the wall beside the taps, and quell a strong urge to pick it up and begin sweeping. Instead, I follow my nose into a feed room, opening one barrel lid after another and inhaling the sweet smell of pony nuts, sugar beet and chaff, aware that I must look like a weirdo, but not caring enough to stop.

In the tack room next door, I’m greeted by yet more gloriously familiar scents, this time of saddle soap, brass rub and leather, and I can’t resist running a finger over the patterned brow bands and polished reins. It has been more than a year now since I picked up a bridle or slung a saddle over my folded arm, but I know instinctively that my hands would know what to do, and that my body would know to stand beside the horse’s shoulder, facing forwards with the headpiece gripped in my right hand. I would lift the bridle up over the pony’s firm, teardrop ears, slip my finger into that secret place inside their mouth, and then, when they obediently parted their thick, bristly lips, slide the metal bit under their tongue, fastening first the noseband and then the cheek strap, turning two fingers outwards to check that it was not too tight. Perhaps a few strands of the forelock would have become tangled. I would ease those out with care, combing the coarse hair until it fell neatly from poll to lashes.

Suki had such a full, thick forelock. She used to doze as I ran my fingers through it, the lovely weight of her head against my chest, my beating heart so full of uncomplicated love for her, and for the moment we were sharing. I know I should be grateful for every single one of them, but all I feel is anger that there will never be any more.

‘Genie?’