The Star of Kazan

She found Zed in the paddock, schooling Rocco – except that ‘schooling’ did not seem to be the right word because Rocco was so obviously enjoying himself. Zed rode with a saddle but without stirrups as he took Rocco through his paces: the extended trot, the half-turn, the square halt . . . When he paused, the horse turned his head as if to say, ‘Come on, what’s next?’

‘What you’re doing, that’s dressage, isn’t it?’ she asked.

‘I suppose so. It’s just making sure he understands me exactly – and I understand him.’

‘Do you make him go over jumps?’

‘No. I could do – he’d do anything you asked – but horses have talents, just like people . . . and his is for this . . . for becoming part of another person. But I don’t teach him tricks.’

‘Don’t the Lipizzaners do tricks?’

Zed shook his head. ‘Everything they do comes from their natural movements. If you watch colts loose in a field they rear up and show off to each other or fight. All those statues in which horses do the levade and the riders look as though they’re going to slide off – in the stud at Zverno I saw them do that again and again. Rearing up is easy enough, but holding the position needs a terrible lot of strength in the back and the legs, and Rocco’s only just stopped growing.’

After this came the daily grooming, which Zed never left out. Annika could have done it on her own by now. Zed trusted her to sponge Rocco’s eyes and nose, to oil his hoofs . . . to comb his mane and tail. She washed the brushes and the cloths; she brought fresh drinking water and plaited new wisps of straw to burnish his bright coat.

Caring for the horse did not depend, for Annika, on being allowed to ride. It was a thing in itself.

Today, when they had finished, Zed went to fetch Hector from his kennel.

‘He’s still missing Bertha,’ he said. ‘We’ll take him for a walk. There’s a bittern’s nest in the reeds near that clump of oaks.’

‘He doesn’t seem exactly heartbroken,’ said Annika as Hector panted and yelped ecstatically along the shore of the lake, disappearing into the reeds and emerging again, soaking wet and covered in mud. This time of year, when the river took its share of meltwater, more and more objects were washed ashore. Hector found egg-boxes and driftwood, torn-off trouser legs, a mouse trap . . .

They had reached the clump of oaks, but the bittern’s nest was empty. The shore at this point curved into a little cove, where the mud was mixed with pebbles and coarse sand. Objects that came up from the lake were stranded here; it was one of Hector’s favourite places. A headless pike interested him – he picked it up in his mouth, but rejected it in favour of a derelict handbag with a strap. The strap pleased him very much; he chewed it, growled at it, and attacked it suddenly without warning.

Now, though, came the awful moment of choice.

He was an intelligent dog. At the beginning he had tried to carry several things in his mouth and take them home, but this had ended badly. Now you could see him thinking, deciding . . .

‘It might be worse,’ said Zed. He had made it clear to Hector that the headless pike was not in the running, and it looked as though the handbag would be the chosen object. ‘It doesn’t smell too bad.’

But Hector had not finished. He dropped the handbag, put his head down and, with his stump vibrating, made his way once more round the edge of the bay. He found a dead freshwater crab, but he did not trust crabs, even dead ones, and a muslin nappy, which he tried out but did not care for. There was no challenge in nappies.

Then, with a yelp of fulfilment, he pounced.

‘That will be it,’ said Zed. ‘Thank goodness it’s not too big.’

They made their way to the water’s edge. Hector had found a smooth leather box about the size of a postcard. It didn’t look as though it had been in the water very long; the embossed edges could still be made out, and a few faded letters in gilt. The box was old, but it was not disgusting, and Hector now swivelled his good eye in their direction, ready to defend his treasure.

‘It’s all right,’ Zed said to the dog, ‘you can keep it. Come on, we’re going home.’

But as he set off with the dog at his heels he saw that Annika was standing absolutely still. The colour had drained from her face.

‘Please, Zed, can you get the box from him. Please.’

‘I’ll try. But he won’t like it.’

But Annika could only repeat the one word, ‘Please.’

‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

Zed looked at her. Then he turned to do battle with the dog.

Annika sat on the bench in the stork house, looking down at the photograph in her hand. She had known straight away, really, only it seemed so impossible. The catch was rusty and stiff, the leather case was swollen with water and the photograph, when she took it from its wrapping, was curled with damp.

But there she was, smiling out of the picture as she stood beside her artist in the doorway of her yellow house with its wisteria-covered balcony and the weathervane shaped like a crowing cockerel.