So it was that when I’d finished my work in the house and kitchen I went to the stables, where I swept, shovelled and scrubbed the filthy old stalls. Once I had cleaned them I brought two bales of clean hay, spread them on the floor with a pitchfork, and filled the trough with clean water. On our trip into Roanoke that weekend I gave Roy money from the Red Cross lady which I knew I ought to save, and he bought a bag of grain for the horses from the Feed and Seed. We heaved it into the back of the truck while his dad was eating pie in the diner, talking weather and machinery with the other old farmers on their weekly jaunts to town, and his ma was at the five and dime. We covered it with the tarp and I sat on it during the ride home. Riding in the back of their truck was cold but there were blankets you could wrap yourself in, blankets which smelled of hay and mice. I didn’t mind sitting there, wind whipping my hair across my face, watching the curves and corners of the road disappear behind us.

That afternoon we waited until Mr Jackson was having his Saturday nap, then we carried the feed between us to the stable. Him ’n Her followed us into their stall, and when I’d filled their food trough they gobbled as quickly as they could, as though if they didn’t eat fast enough it would disappear. Afterwards I brushed their coats with an old brush I’d found, and with a pair of scissors cut the worst of the knots out of their manes and tails. They were gentle, strong creatures, more tetchy than cows but smarter too; if you did them a kindness they would not forget it, and the same if you did them a cruelty.

I found liniment for sores and rashes in the bathroom cupboard and rubbed it into the scabbed parts of their hides, the places where flies had laid their eggs and maggots had eaten away at the skin. I sat on the fence in the early spring sun, watching them pace the edges of their enclosure, imagining how they felt—trapped, longing for the days when they had known meaningful work. Still, I was happiest spending my time with them. They stopped me feeling sorry for myself. How sorry can you feel when a horse blows his warm, soft breath into your palm? When his ears prick up at the sound of your voice? Talking to the horses was a relief, because they would not comment on my strange accent or correct me, saying, ‘We call them sweaters round here.’