Her rocking-horse had been called Primrose.
Her twin brother’s was Thunderbolt, and they would play at knights jousting, each rocking forward and trying to poke the other off with a plastic cricket-bat.
They’d been five then. They were thirty today. She’d given him a book on sculpture, his great love, as his present, and now he led her outside, eyes closed, to hers. She shrieked when she saw it and raced to climb on. There was no saddle carved onto it but she had always dreamt of riding bareback, and in the dress she was wearing she very nearly was.
She snuggled her head against its mane, then made a mental note never to try that again.
She turned to her brother, eyes bright with joy, love and the glisten of tears. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He smiled. “I’m only sorry,” he said, “that it doesn’t rock.”
She hugged its neck. “Oh believe me,” she said, “this horse rocks.”