Ride the Winds

RIDE THE WINDS

by

S & R Riley

* * * * *

Published by McCall Millar at Smashwords

e-mail: [email protected]

This book is available in print at www.unibook.com

Ride the Winds

Copyright © McCall Millar 2010

All Rights Reserved

This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

* * * * *

To My Sister

The wind beneath my wings

* * * * *

Author’s Note

Every person has a story to tell. Mine is a mixture of joy, laughter, anger and deep sorrow, and in that I reckon we are all much alike. You see deep down inside we share the same fears and insecurities, and in many cases we have undergone the same experiences and suffered the same emotional hang-ups that result from neglecting to face, and consequently deal with, bad experiences.

To write about the most intimate secrets of your soul is one thing, to allow it to be published is quite another, yet I never doubted my decision to do so for I knew that in understanding what makes me tick I could make my past work for me instead of against me. So with help and constant support from my sister Sherri, that is exactly what I did. I turned my life the right way up and in the process so did Sherri.

It is my sincere wish that in reading my story, you will learn to understand yourself and those around you a little better, simply by recognizing the parts of you that are in me. This in turn may give you hope and encouragement to overcome your fear or guilt or grief, for no matter who you are, no matter what you have done, you are not alone.

* * * * *

Prologue

As my eyes slowly focused on the chandelier above my bed, the pounding in my head threatened to destroy any remaining brain cells. I lifted a hand to my chin and gingerly moved it from side to side. Either I’d been grinding my teeth for hours or rigor mortis had set in during my nightmare silent scream mode, because it ached something awful. Oh God, I’m never going to drink again, groaned my aching jaw. A remnant of the recurring nightmare slashed its way through my pain, and far from being surreal, it had all the clarity of a genuine memory. The storyline never differed but the creatures and locations sometimes did, a snake in a Burmese jungle or a crocodile at the bottom of a concrete jetty leading into the sea. Strange I know, but isn’t that the nature of nightmares?

Either the crocodile swallows my parents, two brothers and sister, or they die instantly from the snakebite. They don’t try to run away, just line up and patiently wait their turn. Terrified, I beg them not to leave me but no one ever takes any notice and then the silent screams start – the ones that sound like a banshee in your head, but come out as a pathetic little whimper.

With a sickening lurch of my stomach a blurry mental picture made me squirm with embarrassment as I remembered my husband doubled over with laughter in the middle of the driveway, tears of merriment wetting his face after four hours of watching me cause mayhem amongst our dinner guests.

It all started with my impersonation of an overzealous New Age preacher. Using a well practised American accent and warble I fully expected a round of applause (at the very least a snicker), but an unpromising silence settled upon the room. I should have sensed the warning signs but after four glasses of wine I simply turned up the volume, unaware of our guests’ religious inclinations.

What a bunch of losers, I thought. No sense of humour, that’s their problem. Still, one cannot give up so early in the evening. Give them a few more drinks and they’ll soon warm up a bit.

Could have sworn that was full a minute ago, I muttered, looking at my empty wine glass. Oi, I yelled, at the pompous little man on my right. How come my wine glass is empty and yours is still full?

He tried to splutter his innocence, reminding me of a suffocating fish, but I couldn’t let him escape that easily and returned to preacher mode. LORD! I warbled. I said, I said, Lord, we have a sinner amongst us.

A stifled snort of amusement from the opposite end of the table caught my attention. Darling, more wine? asked my husband Jamie, removing the bottle from the ice bucket.

Good idea, I cheered, raising my glass. For a second I couldn’t remember who or what I’d been about to toast, so I took another slurp of wine and bellowed, CRAFT! Can’t remember a fucking thing, I explained with a raucous chuckle. Oh well, no matter. Hallelujah praise the Lord, who’s for pud?

Four sombre faces stared back at me in pious silence until the rotund busty woman finally shook her head in refusal. Oh come on, I laughed, with a conspiratorial wink. It’s no good trying to go on diet now believe me. Besides it’s Tiramisu. Blissfully unaware that my comments were insulting, I waltzed into the kitchen to fetch the next course.

Jamie tried to steer the conversation away from weighty issues and religion, his eyes sparkling with good humour, but for some perverse reason every subject he chose reminded me of yet another religious joke. The flinty looks and awkward silences had little effect on me as I blundered on, telling the joke about the vicar who pricked his finger on a thorn in the garden of one of his parishioners. The punchline came when his host enquired if his prick was still throbbing, and when I saw the plump woman’s husband rubbing his finger, I couldn’t resist asking him the same question. And so the abysmal evening ended with a smile on only one face, Jamie’s.

Lying in the cocooned comfort of my bed, trying not to move more than an eyelid, I glanced down at my three-year-old daughter who lay sleeping beside me. She must have slipped in during the night as she often did, and I gingerly pulled the cover over her tiny shoulder before settling back with a sigh. I looked around my bedroom, a beautiful room by any standard, it seemed especially so with the early morning light glinting through the cottage pane windows, giving a warm glow to the polished oak and shiny brass handles of the antique military chest that Jamie had inherited. Two rattan chairs and a rosewood table stood in one corner of the room displaying a photograph of Kamed, an Arab stallion and one of my all-time favourites. Looking into his large brown eyes, a mixture of joy and grief flitted through my heart even though he’d been dead almost fourteen years.

Out of the corner of my eye I could just see a pair of dusty black riding boots through the partially open wardrobe door. If the door opened fully it would reveal a multitude of riding jackets, all designed and colour coded for a variety of different equestrian events. I wondered if the buttons on the small faded blue one were still encircled by hairs from the mane of my first pony.

I listened carefully to the sounds around me, hoping that by some miracle I would hear the gentle snort of Mokkasin coming from the stables, or the sound of Honey kicking over her bucket. But only a ticking clock and the soft pattering of rain on leaves disturbed the morning quiet. Or was it the fountain outside? I was never sure.

The horses and farm were long gone; the paddocks and arenas I had so lovingly cared for now belonged to someone else. A long shuddering breath rattled the tightness in my smoker’s chest as sadness threatened to overwhelm me.

The farm, like all possessions, could be replaced and although I missed the open fields and the smell of hay and molasses, it was the horses I grieved for. They had salvaged my sanity more times than I cared to remember, and I refused to contemplate life without their soothing presence. I snuggled under the duvet hoping to draw some solace from its cosiness, but a thousand images filled my head – images I had no wish to look at. Switch off! said a cold voice inside my head. Think of something else, blank it out. So I did.

As a child I became an expert in the art of switching off and it had served me well over the years. Unfortunately, I abused it until it became an integral part of my character, and now I lived in limbo. Having locked away all memories of the past, both good and bad, I felt incapable of embracing the future because I had such limited knowledge of the person I wished to be.

A small photograph stood on the bedside table. Sod, I muttered, looking at a much younger me. Not a bloody wrinkle in sight. The last fifteen years had not been kind to my face or figure – inevitable I suppose. What’s that stuff called that your body produces to make your skin elastic? Damn, can’t remember. Well whatever it is, I don’t have any. The usual negative effects of time would have aged me sufficiently, but determined to help the process I doggedly smoked my way through thousands of cigarettes, moved to South Africa, worked outdoors in blistering heat, and developed a liking for wine.

In the photograph I am sitting astride Mokkasin, a small but exceptionally beautiful bay mare. The trust between us is obvious from the loosely held reins, despite the fact that a little boy with sandy coloured hair and a wide smile is sitting in front of me. Standing surprisingly close to Mokkasin’s hooves, her arm resting on the saddle is my sister Sherri. I smiled at the familiar faces and sighed. Bad luck and dumb choices had played their part in my story, but when it came to my son and sister, I knew that I was truly blessed.

I recognised the sound of Mum’s old Ford Granada coming down the road and climbed out of bed. A tall narrow window gave me a good view of the driveway and electronic gates, and although I knew what to expect when Mum drove in, I wanted to see it anyway. Mum is not particularly small at five foot five, but in the big old car with its low set seats, only her bobbing carrot top showed above the steering wheel.

Oh, good timing Mum! I thought, pulling on a pair of jeans. A bit of jolliness is just what the doctor ordered.

With mischievous amusement I watched her fingers wriggling in an effort to reach the intercom buzzer on the wall outside the gate. Standing within arm’s length of the gate button I could easily have pressed it, putting an end to her misery. Could have, should have, didn’t. Instead, I took a step back to view the proceedings with greater ease, anticipation sending the corners of my mouth on a mission to find my ear lobes. By my reckoning, only thirty seconds passed before the wriggling fingers drew back in irritation. I sniggered gleefully.

The sudden slump of her shoulders told me that her usual smile had drooped toward her nether regions, and as the level of cursing and moaning increased in the car, I felt rumbles of satisfied laughter bubble to the surface. Her head began to bob around like a toy dog on a dashboard, and just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, she hit the horn with unprecedented vengeance.

I opened the gate, and knowing it would take her an age to get out of the car and around to the back door, I made a dash for the bathroom. A frantic search for headache powders only increased my pain as I stared longingly into the empty box. As usual, our cleaning lady had been there before me, and cursing her addiction to medication, I slid down the passage in my own version of moonwalking. When dealing with a debilitating hangover, the main thing is to keep your head still. I opened the door for Mum and smiled in welcome.

Is that a smile or a grimace? she asked.

Both.

With the deportment of a finishing school graduate I turned slowly to switch on the kettle and make a tentative stretch for mugs in the cupboard.

Are you all right, my darling? Concern softened the tone of Mum’s voice as she walked towards me.

Who me?

Well I’m not talking to the dog, you mickey dripping? A warm smile spread across her face.

No, I’m fine. I glanced up as I stirred the coffee. Oh all right, so I’m lying. I’m hung-over and I’m bloody miserable if you really want to know.

Walking out to the freshly washed front lawn in companionable silence, Mum settled into a chair under the gazebo. The garden’s looking wonderful, she said, as her gaze took in the profusion of yellow and pink roses.

Mmm.

Whoever would have thought that Rosalind Mary Riley, from the Brackens Hotel would have ended up living in a home like this?

I looked at the garden with pride. It is lovely isn’t it? Sometimes I can hardly believe my luck.

We were quiet for a while, each lost in thought. I conjured up a picture of the Brackens Hotel in England where I’d spent the first twelve years of my life. A pub more than a hotel, it resembled a Tudor manor house, with three large bars on the ground floor and an apartment above for our family of six.

Mum’s voice brought me back to the present with a jolt. A penny for your thoughts?

Oh sorry, I was miles away.

You know darling I do think you should cut down on the amount of wine you drink. I read in an article somewhere that drinking destroys brains cells. Perhaps if you stopped your memory would improve. I mean you’ve never had a good memory but I’m sure it’s getting worse.

I stopped listening and contemplated the strange contradictions in my personality. Loving and often generous to a fault, I could also be aggressive and used my sharp tongue to cut the people I loved most. Described as a strong woman by kinder souls, bossy and confrontational by others, my entertaining side always put me at the top of the party list, until severe mood swings began to disrupt my usually even keel personality. It was especially noticeable after a few drinks. From the affable, fun loving person Jamie had fallen in love with, I became a cruel and spiteful harridan. Alcohol loosened my tongue and there were times when I unleashed a torrent of abuse at him. I didn’t know where the anger came from, but I knew it was ruining my marriage and I sensed that my ability to switch off had something to do with it.

* * * * *

Chapter One

Do we learn or inherit certain traits from our parents? Hard to tell sometimes, but if I’d learned to switch off from Mum then I wish she’d taught me how to switch back on again. Or did fear prevent me from doing so? Did I really want to re-live the grief, guilt and shame of my early life? No, I damn well didn’t! But even so, I had to admit that it influenced every thought and decision that I made, warped my emotions and feelings, and encouraged negativity.

As for Mum, I can’t say why she switches off because she rarely talks about her life and when confronted with personal questions, pretends they have not been asked. At age twenty she married Dad, a no-nonsense man of thirty-four who picked his bride on sight. A mismatched pair from totally different backgrounds they stayed together, like many couples, because of the children. Dad rarely mentioned his family in my hearing; in fact he didn’t do much in the way of talking to me about anything. No one’s fault, just a combination of circumstances, but it caused dreadful resentment on my part and distress to Dad in the latter part of his life. Although he loved me, we were still strangers when he died and he took his feelings of regret to the grave.

In contrast I knew Mum’s parents well,