I dusted in my sleep and my clothes smelled of spilled vinegar. The only respite from loneliness was stolen minutes in the yard, feeding apple cores or lettuce scraps to Mr. Bobbin. The yard was situated at the side of the house away from the sea, but I could hear the crash of the surf, while coarse marram grass sprouted at the edges of the cobbles. Each night I lay in bed listening to the water rush and smash on the rocks below, promising myself that in the morning I would walk down to the sea. Yet, when dawn came, I was always too tired, and wriggled under my blankets, desperate for another few minutes of sleep. I had no free time. In the five minutes before dinner, when I was supposed to be washing my hands and face, I wandered into the yard. I fed the horse from my palm, feeling his warm breath upon my skin, and listened to the rhythmic grind of his large yellow teeth. He never made any noise but huffed out of his nostrils and bumped his stable door with his nose whenever he saw me.
