Free Midnight on Lime Street by Ruth Hamilton

scratched his head. He felt like someone eavesdropping during an intimate moment. She was stroking the horse’s nose and whispering softly at the lunatic. This
had been an insane morning; Mad Murdoch had regressed to foalhood, prancing sideways as if practising for
Swan Lake
, and trying to unseat his rider by stopping suddenly and bending to eat
something invisible on the ground.
    ‘Do you work with animals?’ the trainer asked.
    ‘Human ones, yes,’ was her terse reply. ‘But this is the most beautiful thing I ever saw. Can I sit on him?’
    The man frowned. ‘Not dressed like that, you can’t – unless you want broken bones. He bolts sometimes, so you’d need a hard hat, at least.’
    ‘He wants me,’ she said. ‘He wants me as a friend.’ With no hesitation, she climbed higher, while Murdoch parked himself parallel to the paddock’s wooden
boundary.
    Gordy had seen this sort of thing before. Some people were made for horses, and some horses were made for some people. And there she was, lying face down across the back of a crazy,
temperamental, skittish beast, no tack, no saddle, not so much as a bit of rope to hang on to. With her right hand in Murdoch’s mane, Babs clung on and whispered, ‘Walk, matey.
Let’s have a little ta-ta, eh?’
    ‘Well,’ the trainer said to himself, ‘now I’ve seen everything.’ Murdoch walked carefully right round the paddock, returning Babs to her point of origin and
standing motionless while she dismounted untidily.
    She patted the horse’s neck. ‘You are gorgeous, and you know it, don’t you?’ Babs grinned when the animal shook his head. ‘Cheeky.’
    She spoke to the trainer. ‘The world looks different upside down,’ she pronounced. ‘I like this horse,’ she added when she had clambered back over the high fence.
‘He’s a bit tall, though. I felt like I was on a bloody skyscraper.’
    Gordy closed his gaping mouth. ‘Are you Mr Crawford’s Baby Babs?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes. What about it?’
    He shrugged. ‘Will you be living here?’
    ‘Maybe, maybe not. Why?’
    ‘Just asking. Because if the horse likes you, you could help me.’
    She folded her arms. ‘Would I get paid?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’ll think about it.’
    Gordon Hourigan took to the little madam immediately. Although blissfully unaware of the truth, she had been blessed with a gift, and that ability should be put to good use. People like her were
few and far between, while Mad Murdoch was a one-off, a powerful machine who, like this little lady, was unaware of his talent.
    ‘Where do you live?’ she asked.
    ‘In the gatehouse – Dove Cottage,’ he replied. ‘The boss is poetry mad. Murdy’s best friend’s a donkey called Nicholas Nye – that name’s from a
poem, too. Dove Cottage is where Wordsworth lived for a while; it’s up in the Lake District, I think. Mr Crawford reads a lot.’
    ‘Does he?’ Well, there went her chance of living in Dove Cottage, she supposed. ‘How many horses?’ she asked, pointing towards the stable block.
    ‘Just this loony gelding and his mother. She was called Dead Loss, but we changed it to Murma because she’s Murdoch’s mum. The rest are donkeys rescued by Mr Crawford.
He’s a good man, Miss . . . er . . .’
    ‘Just Babs will do. And you are?’
    ‘Gordy. Gordy Hourigan.’
    Babs continued to stare at the horse. ‘It’s like he knows me, isn’t it?’
    ‘Aye. It happens. I’ve seen it before. They can seem to recognize people from the future. Have you really never worked with horses?’
    ‘No. I’ve never even touched one before; look at me, I’m shaking like a leaf in a gale. Where’s Murdoch’s dad?’
    ‘Ireland.’
    ‘Who owns him?’
    Gordy guffawed. ‘Who owns him? Whoever can bloody catch him is who. He’s a great horse, though – an Arab. Murdy’s mother has all the grace of a crippled elephant and the
temperament of a saint. His dad’s a perfect shape, but the devil’s his master. Out of that