Horse head portrait on upper arm

The rain came over the top of the cattle market at half eleven and never once let up, so the whole row of stalls smelled of wet wool and diesel by dinner. I am writing this from the back of Ferris's horsebox with the door propped open, because the grey mare will not settle while the generator thumps and I have nothing else to do with my hands.

You asked what became of Marrow, the grey with the mane like smoke. Dad sold her at the Thursday sale to a woman from near Shrewsbury who had a limp, a cheque book and no patience for the gelding who kept leaning on her. She paid well. She did not look at the mane once. I watched her walk Marrow out under the lamps, the wet strands lifting off the neck every time the wind came sideways through the car park, and I thought a horse like that ought to be looked at properly.

The woman's lorry pulled out at quarter past three. Through the back window I saw Marrow turn her head into the wind, the whole mane streaming behind her like something poured, and for a second she looked out past the car park, past the wet roofs and the lorries, at something none of us could see. Then the ramp went up and she was gone.

I have the lead rope on the seat beside me. It is still damp and smells of her. Dad says I should let it go, that a horse is a horse and a rope is a rope, but I keep turning it in my fingers the way you would worry a stone. Tell Mum the tea is in the flask and I will be home before the rain stops, which will not be tonight.

Love, Tom