Finding Home

By Alastair Smurthwaite

A teenage runaway, a refugee, a rescued horse and a lost dog all find that their paths cross as they search for the elusive place that they can call home. Essentially a story about the bonds that develop between people and animals, Finding Home is beautifully written with a light touch that is both sensitive and humorous. The fresh setting, in one of the few rural areas that still cling on to life beyond the grit and grime of Johannesburg, is blessed with nature and steeped in human history.

“This incredibly talented author has penned one of the most well-written books I have edited in a long time and it was interesting to boot! His masterful use of the English language has produced an entertaining, heart-warming story that I thoroughly enjoyed reading and would highly recommend.” Editor’s comment

About the author
Alastair Smurthwaite is a teacher, lecturer and writer who lives in Johannesburg with his extended family of people and animals. In addition to histories of companies and schools, he has also previously published non-fiction books for younger readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alastair Smurthwaite
• Release date: Nov 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370886289

Book preview

Chapter 01

There were five of them. Huddled together, their heads hanging almost motionless, they did not even bother to shake off the flies, as even a nod of the head or a flick of the tail seemed too much effort under the baking sun.

The water trough was empty. There was not even a blade of grass in the enclosure, just hard red earth that cracked and curled a little more each day.

At night, they could hear the ragged men shouting as they sat around their fires. These were strangers, not the men they knew. Those men brought food and water and opened the gate to let them out onto the hillside. At dusk, they would come down the path carrying halters and whistling, calling them back to their soft piles of hay and occasional buckets of feed. Those men never came. No one came. The ragged men took no interest in horses. Chickens, pigs and sheep had been dragged off screaming towards the camp behind the house, the smell of their burning flesh later lingering on the night air, but the horses were of no use to their cooking pots. They were of no use to these men at all.

Night brought their only respite as the air cooled and thin dew slowly settled along the rails of the fences, and those that could licked them slowly like children savouring an ice cream, capturing what little moisture there was. By now, though, the big grey took little part in this. Too ill and reluctant to move, his legs would crumble as he sank to the ground and only the memory of the men bringing food and water got him staggering to his feet in the morning.

Whether out of habit or by design, every night, the little dark bay gelding worked the wires holding the gate that led to the open fields. Once a racehorse, fast and nimble, he had never rested easy when confined and his former stable hands had known to put extra fasteners on his stable door for fear that, yet again, he would loosen the bolts or even the hinges and escape. It did not look deliberate: just a slow mouthing and an occasional tug, but nights of working had loosened the clumsy ties and, had the truck not arrived, it would not have been much longer before the five of them were free.

The truck, such as it was, pulled in shortly after dawn one morning. Patched with rust, its bent bonnet bouncing as it bumped over the rutted track into the yard, it was soon surrounded by an enraged group of men armed with sticks, clubs, picks and spades. A tall, scarred man in a faded greatcoat, his head covered in a dirty red bandanna, seemed to be the leader. Menacingly cradling an axe, he ordered the two men out of the cab. They did not oblige. The shouting grew louder. Weapons were raised. Some of the men started to beat the sides of the truck with whatever was in their hands. Then the driver waved some banknotes out of the window and gestured in the direction of the horses. The crowd quietened as the leader went over to the driver’s door, took the money and started to count it. When he had finished, he spat into the dust, waved dismissively towards the horses and headed back to camp. Most of his followers went after him, silently glaring at the men in the truck, one or two of them threatening with their weapons, disappointed at having been deprived of some excitement. A handful stood around and watched as the two men climbed down from the cab, ropes in hand. The passenger threw a packet of cigarettes to the watchers, who eagerly fell upon them and were, for a while, distracted.

After letting down the back of the old cattle truck, the two men headed for the horses’ enclosure. Quickly assessing the situation, the one man ran back to the truck while the other gently coaxed one of the bay mares to accept the rope halter. He was leading her towards the truck when the first man came back with a small suitcase and a big plastic container of water and began to attend to the big grey.

The two bay mares were loaded fairly easily. Even the little dark bay gelding was persuaded to co-operate eventually, after some spirited resistance. The chestnut proved much more of a challenge, however. Finding some hidden strength, he ran from the man with the rope, finally galloping headlong into the gate, which, weakened by the little gelding’s chewing, gave way and propelled him out towards the distant hills. The old grey, now somewhat revived by injections and water, lifted his head, gave a loud neigh and unsteadily trotted out of the broken gate after him.

The ragged men on watch had finished the cigarettes and were growing restless. They started shouting at the men with the truck to close up and get on out. There was no going back for the remaining two horses. It would take too long and there was no guarantee that they could catch them. They would have to take their chances out there. There was no telling whether the other three in the truck would fare any better.

The truck wheezed and clattered to life. The horses in the back wobbled and fell against each other as the driver eased out onto the farm track. Hold on! he shouted, which they managed to do until they reached the remains of the tar road that led towards the town, and the drive, though still jarring at times, was nevertheless a good deal less bone-shaking.

They pulled into a decaying and crowded stable yard on the outskirts of Harare at about three o’clock that afternoon. The white-painted brick stable block spoke of more genteel days, but the paddocks and arenas were now full of horses only a few good meals away from despair, while the proud wrought iron sign pronouncing that this was once ‘Glenshiel Stables’ had been covered by a piece of sheeting on which were unevenly painted the words ‘Horse Rescue Centre’. A few battered trucks and horseboxes huddled together in the old parking lot while a tired-looking security guard dressed in an oversized uniform sat slumped on a broken kitchen chair by the gate.

A thin, greying man in a pair of worn jeans greeted the men in the truck. Any trouble? he asked.

The usual threats, replied the driver, pulling up the brake, but they let us take the horses.

All three went around to the rear of the truck to offload.

Only three? the greying man asked.

There were five, replied the driver, but two of them got away.

The older man nodded. Put them in the lunge ring for the night, he said as they carefully lowered the ramp. We’ve got a load leaving for South Africa in the morning, so we’ll work out something then.

Chapter 02

Everyone in the house was asleep when Iné left. She hadn’t really given much thought to how she was going to survive on her own; her planning hadn’t extended much further than piling some jeans, tops, sneakers and underwear into a backpack. All she knew was that she had had enough. She was grounded. The bicycle had been taken away and locked up – and this was just because she had gone exploring somewhere beyond the end of the road. She had tried to argue it out with her mother. She had pointed out how she had only been out for less than two hours and had asked what was wrong with exercise and fresh air, but her mother had just slapped her across the face and told her to stop being cheeky.

You need to find things to do at home like your brother, Grace Parker had replied. You’ll just get into trouble if someone doesn’t keep an eye on you. You’re just like your father.

Iné had wanted to point out that her brother was also just like his father, but, of course, he didn’t have the same father and her mother didn’t seem to hate her brother’s father in quite the same way.

She grabbed a couple of apples on her way through the kitchen and stuffed them into her backpack. Then she unlatched the door and quietly slipped out into the night.

She was stunned by the darkness. The night seemed somehow thicker outside than it did from her window and she had to stand up against the wall of the house for a while, trying to adjust her eyesight. Then she began to make out shapes through the gloom – familiar bushes, now grey and eerie; tall telephone poles, a silent army, on guard, watching her.

She hesitated, her resolve dissipating in the blackened silence. She almost turned back, but then took hold and headed for the gate.

Her feet crunched on the gravel road, a small sound that seemed to tower over the night. She wished they could be silent, tried walking on tiptoe, but it strained her calf muscles and slowed her down. She tried taking off her sneakers and walking barefoot. That worked better, but then she thought of the night adders and hastily put them on again. By that time, she was out of sight of the house, with only a distant flicker of light through the trees to remind her that it was even there at all.

As she went on, her footsteps became almost comforting