The Kelpie (Part Three)

Part one is here

Part two is here

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Part Three - The Baby

Every waking moment that I wasn't at school, I would tell my parents I was looking for Apollo. I would find a bin to dump the posters in and then run down to the beach to visit Guinevere.

I always went to our favoured spot - the place where we had first met. If there were people around, I would jog away. When I found a deserted stretch, I would slow to a walk and call to her. Just in my mind. I fancied she heard me. If it was quiet enough, she always came.

The moment I saw her, that heavy feeling would lift and it was like the sun coming out. I chattered to her constantly. I am sure, to this day, that she understood me. Not the words, but what I meant by them. I always brought food. She would eat most things, but she preferred meat. I was careful to keep my hands away from her jaws. The cut on my hand from where her tooth had nicked me was still sore. It wasn't healing well - it was puffy and red and kept oozing. I kept my sleeve pulled down over it to avoid awkward questions from grownups.

I could never bring myself to leave her. Always, she pulled away when she had had enough, or when someone was coming. I was hollow afterwards. Blank. The world felt grey. Almost as soon as she had gone, I was aching to be with her again. Listless and dull, the minutes without her yawning and empty. At first, the early morning rush to get to school somehow carried me forward through the morning, but by the third day I had lost any interest in making it to the bus. After all, if I missed it, I could go back to Guinevere.

Mum put her foot down and forbid me from going out "to look for Apollo" before school. I am not proud of my reaction, but at the time, I welcomed my own rage. It was like eating a very hot curry when you have a very bad cold. So there is still flavour. I can still taste. I can still feel.

When I returned home that day, there was more bad news. Mum sat me down and told me, with tear-bright eyes, that I had to stop going out looking for Apollo at all. That maybe I had been right at the start, maybe he really had gone this time. Surely, if he could be found, I'd have found him. I'd been out at all hours, hadn't I? All those posters, and not a single phone call. This wasn't healthy, she told me. I had to let go. Move on.

The bottom dropped out of my world. Out of my stomach. I hadn't even thought of Apollo in days. Hello, Guilt, my old friend. Hot on its heels, Despair. Here I was, about to lose something really important to me. Anger. She, my mum, was taking that from me. Loneliness. She didn't understand.

She was still talking. About there being more reports of missing pets along that stretch of beach. People, too. We had to be more careful. Healthy respect for the ocean. Somehow, I couldn't take it in. It was like she was talking to me while I was underwater. The onslaught of emotions was fierce and threatened to drown me.

I stood up to run right out of the house and straight to Guinevere, but Mum reached out her hand to catch my arm and stop me. My injured hand throbbed where she touched it, and I snatched it away. My blood churned and pounded angrily in my ears. I tore away from her grip and headed to the door. She tried to bar the way, but I pushed past her. I ran full tilt to where I knew Guinevere would be waiting, calling to her all the time. Not even with words - just a mish mash of fury and hurt, resentment at my mum, and a terrible weighty need.

Guinevere was waiting for me. For the first time ever, she was waiting for me. My heart leapt. I was so sure that she liked me, we were friends, she could hear it when I called to her. This was proof. I ran all the way up to her, head on, like you would never do to a horse. I reached for her and she reached for me. I rested my forehead against hers, and the world sighed. I closed my eyes.

I don't know how long we stayed like that. Guinevere worked her magic on me, and time turned inside out. It could have been a few minutes, or it could have been an hour. Mum's voice pulled me out of the blissful half-doze I was in. I shook myself, like I had the very first time I'd met the creature, because it felt like I was dreaming. Guinevere hadn't run when she heard mum coming. She had stayed. Mum was looking at her in a kind of wonder. So I'm definitely not mad. Mum can see her.

"So this is where you've been going."

All the lies dried up in my mouth and I didn't say anything.

"What a beautiful animal. Surely she must belong to someone. We should ask around."

In that moment, I saw all of Guinevere's oddities - her broad, flattish hooves, her kelp-like mane. The fangs I couldn't see, but knew were sharp and carried some kind of bacteria or poison. Her legs. It was like I was seeing them for the first time. Her legs look weird.

Mum was patting Guinevere's neck, and Guinevere was giving her her full attention. I felt a bizarre mix of emotions - repulsed and yet wildly jealous. Guinevere was dropping her head and nosing at Mum as if she'd just met her best friend in the whole world. I crossed my arms angrily, feeling cold and bored. How long was she going to stand there talking gibberish at a stupid ugly horse? I wanted to go home.

"Oh, I would love to," Mum was saying, "but I really mustn't you know, not just at the moment."

It was like listening to one half of a conversation. I wonder what she is talking about? What does she mean, she mustn't? What mustn't she do? It was horrible feeling shut out. Ugh. It's a horse! It can't talk! Does she know how silly she looks?

Guinevere arched her neck possessively over Mum's shoulder, and let her put her arms round her neck. Mum half-closed her eyes and sighed. This is kind of weird.

"Come on, Mum. Please! It's freezing!"

She gave herself a little shake.

"Yes. Of course. We have to get home. Come on." Guinevere pulled back sharply, and for a second I thought I recognised that hard glint in her eyes that meant she was displeased. Mum looked sorrowful as Guinevere cantered away from us down the beach.

We walked side by side. I felt clear headed for the first time in a long time. I was thinking about Apollo, and how callously I had forgotten him lately. He had probably been swept out to sea, and it had been my fault. I'd gone to the beach when the tide was too high. I'd let him loose. I'd lost sight of him. Me. And then instead of feeling sorry, and looking for him, and asking people to look out for him... I'd moved straight on to another animal. Like Apollo was nothing. Like he wasn't the last living bit of Grandad. Like he wasn't important to Mum, or any of us. I remembered, with a jolt, my awful behaviour earlier. I wondered what the consequences might be. I'd never been grounded before.

Mum seemed sort of flat. Like a bouncy castle with all the air let out. When we reached our road, she spoke at last.

"I was going to ask you," she said, "why the Headteacher called me today to tell me that all our Lost Dog posters are being thrown away behind the bike sheds."

Oh dear.

"But I think I know why," she added.

Guinevere.

"Because you know he's really lost and won't come home. He got washed away."

I glanced at her quizzically for a moment, wondering why she didn't mention the sea-horse in the room.

I hesitated, then tested the waters carefully.

"Mum... you know that horse on the beach?"

"Hmm? What? What horse on the beach?"

My heart sank. There is definitely something weird going on here. What have I got myself into?

"You know, Mum. That horse we just saw. You know."

Mum stopped, turned to face me, and swayed on the spot. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. All the colour was gone from her face. She crumpled to the ground.

"Mum? Mum! What's wrong? Are you OK?"

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A kind neighbour had coming running out to help us, and I'd stayed with them while mum was taken to hospital to be checked over. Dad brought her home later that evening and then came to collect me. He thanked the neighbour, his voice grave, and then gave me a fish and chip supper. I ate it in our kitchen out of the wrapper. He ate nothing at all. His face looked tight.

"Dad? Where's Mum? What's wrong with her?"

"She's in bed. She'll be OK. Had a bit of a turn, that's all. Let her rest for now."

That night, I woke up and could hear her crying. Dad tried to comfort her. He seemed pretty upset as well.

Mum was devastated that I'd lost Apollo. She'd hidden it from me pretty well, but I was thinking more clearly now. He was a link to Grandad. It must have been like him dying all over again. And then I'd behaved so badly. Too much stress. That's what it was.

I lay in my bed, and thought about Apollo, and mum, and Guinevere. I thought a lot about Guinevere. I still couldn't quite articulate it, but I felt uneasy. I loved her. At least, at the time, I thought I did. I look back across the years, and I realise that I loved how I felt when I was with her. I know now, that is not the same thing. It was hard to be apart from her. But I remembered how foggy-headed I'd been feeling since I started visiting her, and how strangely my mum had acted.

All the same, when my alarm went off at 5am, I silenced it quickly, and got out of bed. I dressed silently, and crept downstairs. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table. He looked at me with a heavy expression, and shook his head. I hesitated for only a moment and then started wildly for the door. He planted himself in the doorway and refused to budge.

"No, Jenny. Enough."

I remembered shoving Mum the day before, although the memory was blurry - almost as if I was to ashamed to remember it clearly. I was flooded with guilt. Yet, at the same time, I was plagued by a hunger. I had to see her. I had to.

It was useless trying to fight my way past a fully grown man. He wrapped his arms around me and held me tight.

"I said no, Jen. We are not doing this. You have to stop."

I dissolved in his hug and realised I was crying hopelessly.

"Why, Jen? Why are you doing this? Tell me what's going on."

I couldn't find the words.

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At school that day, I was sent to see the nurse about my hand, which was still not getting any better. She wrote me a note for my parents suggesting I might need to see a doctor for a course of antibiotics.

When I came home from school that day, Mum was on the sofa with a hot water bottle, looking pale and tired.

"I need to talk to you," she said.

I swallowed hard, and perched abruptly on the armchair across from her. I couldn't meet her eyes. What is this about? Why do people say that? It makes me feel so anxious!

"I was pregnant."

This news hit me like a brick wall, as you might expect. Twice.

The first word I absorbed was, "pregnant".

The second word that sunk in: "was".

My mouth went dry. What do I say now?

"I was about three months," she told me, her voice gentle, as if it was me that would find this hard. "Lots of people start telling everyone at three months. But I - " a pause to wipe the corner of her eye swiftly, "I've miscarried before. So I wanted to wait a bit longer. To be sure everything was OK."

Everything was not OK.

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You can read Part Four here 👇