Brumby's Run

by Jennifer Scoullar

  ‘Apologies, m’lady.’ Drew bowed low. ‘Your neighbour, Andrew Douglas Chandler, at your service.’ She scowled, but there was the hint of a smile behind it. ‘And you may call me Drew.’

  She played along, and offered her hand. ‘It’s a pleasure, sir.’ Drew kissed it instead of shaking it, noticing the manicured nails and smooth fingers. This was no Charlie. They turned at the sound of a piercing neigh. A bay horse with a white face cantered down the hill towards them.

  ‘Tambo!’ said Sam with a delighted smile. Drew looked at her quizzically. ‘I recognise him from a photo Charlie showed me.’ The horse skidded to a halt at the gate. ‘He’s so thin,’ she gasped. It was true. His neck was skinny, like a snake. Each rib stood out in stark relief, and his rump was hollow and bony. ‘The poor thing.’ Sam unlooped her belt, put it round the horse’s neck and undid the gate. ‘Come on, Tambo.’ He snatched hungrily at the fresh grass outside the fence. Sam put her nose to him, breathing in his warm equine smell like it was an expensive perfume. Then with some urging, she persuaded Tambo to follow them back down to the house.

  Sam turned him into the overgrown garden, rubbed his ears fondly, then fossicked around in the tumbledown hayshed. Drew trailed after her. Nothing but a few spoilt bales of coarse grass hay. She squealed as two big rats scuttled off, then kicked the mouldy hay and fixed Drew with those liquid amber eyes. ‘Where can I find some fodder?’

  ‘No worries,’ said Drew. He whistled to Bess, and lifted her into the tray of the ute. ‘I’ll rustle you up a few bales from home.’

  ‘Are those oats?’ asked Sam, spying the sacks in the back.

  Drew nodded. ‘Consider it a Christmas present.’ He turfed a bag to the ground and lugged it towards the cavernous shed.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but the rats will get it there.’ Sam used a broken broom to dust off a row of steel feed bins along the wall. ‘What about these?’ Drew heaved the heavy sack onto his broad shoulders and deposited it into the nearest container. Drew could feel her eyes upon him as his muscles strained with the load. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘That’s generous of you.’ He was a sucker for flattery, especially from a beautiful girl. ‘I’ll need some chaff too,’ she said, ‘… and maybe linseed?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ It gave him an excuse to come back, after all. ‘You staying on for a bit, then?’

  She nodded. ‘For several weeks. I’ll be running the farm.’ He looked down at his boots, in an attempt to hide his amusement. She was too damned cute. ‘Did I say something funny?’ He shook his head. ‘Is Brumby’s Run not a farm? Or is the joke that I will be in charge?’

  It was a bit of both, really. Why, for fuck’s sake, couldn’t he stop smiling? Maybe better to change the subject. ‘There’s never much in Mary’s fridge at the best of times. How about I bring back some steaks, along with the hay?’ She considered the matter for the longest time. It annoyed him, how he was hanging on her decision.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said at last, her eyes meeting his. He took off down the track, feeling like he’d won the lottery, and wondering why.

  Sam watched Drew’s utility spin its wheels, take off down the drive and disappear. She’d never met someone like Drew Chandler before. He was good-looking, no doubt about it. Tall and broad-shouldered with smiling green eyes and a square, determined jaw. There was a suggestion of lean muscle through his torso where it met his narrow hips. But it was more than that. His body would be the envy of any fake-tanned Toorak gym junkie, yet he carried himself without a hint of vanity. Drew moved with natural animal grace, like a splendid wild colt, unconscious of his own beauty.

  Sam turned back to face the house. No beauty there. It was nothing like she’d imagined. No pretty portico, no shuttered timber casements, no bullnose verandah. According to Charlie, the original homestead had burnt to the ground in the 1960s, but Sam’s imagination hadn’t allowed for that. Its replacement was an ugly L-shaped brick veneer with concrete tiles on the roof and cheap aluminium window frames. It could have been transported intact from any rundown suburban street. A torn flyscreen flapped desultorily against drab venetian blinds, thick with dust. Piles of junk lay strewn on the drive: wheel rims, rusty tools, cardboard boxes. Tambo picked his way around old fencing coils, snatching at tall grass growing through the wires. It was a depressing sight.

  She went back inside and explored the house, still thinking of Drew. A tiny entrance hall, lined with chipboard shelves overflowing with books. A tiny kitchen with a peeling linoleum floor, grimy walls, an ancient stove without a range hood. The filthy fireplace in the lounge room was clogged with ash. Sam opened the window wide, and screamed when a large black crow appeared from nowhere and landed on the sill. It only flapped off with the greatest reluctance when she shoved it with a worn-out broom.

  She opened the fridge and gagged. It had been turned off but left closed. The interior, together with a few items of unidentifiable food, was a mass of stinking green mould. Quickly she slammed the door shut, feeling the tingle of tears. What a dump. Her bags still lay in the corner of the room. She could still leave, if she wanted to. But maybe the bedrooms would be better.

  She moved gingerly down the hall. The first room on the left must have been Charlie’s. A single iron bed beneath the window. Bare mattress. A shabby wardrobe. A low timber-patterned laminate dressing table with a cracked mirror and gold plastic handles. Sam thought of her own bedroom back in Melbourne, furnished in French provincial style to remind her of Mamie. Sheets of fine Irish linen and goose-down pillows in French lace slips graced the gorgeous lime-washed bed, with its ornately decorated head and foot. Her lovely oaken armoire, carved with roses and boasting hammered brass handles. Her burnt-oak commode, of graceful serpentine design. On her walls, prints of roosters. She liked roosters.

  Not as much as Charlie liked frogs, though. Her dusty bedroom was full of frogs: figurines, toys, pictures. And cowboys. Posters of nameless cowboys, brooding at the camera or riding bucking horses. She took a closer look. One image was particularly arresting: an Ashton Kutcher look-alike, astride an enormous bull in what looked like mid-flight. In the corner was an autograph. To Chaz. Forever Spike x. The cowboy seemed to be, unaccountably, looking straight at the camera – posing for the shot instead of concentrating on his perilous ride. He seemed to be looking straight into her eyes.

  Sam reread the dedication. Was this rodeo rider Charlie’s boyfriend? She hadn’t mentioned him, or Drew either. The only local Charlie had mentioned was an awful man named Bill, who owned Kilmarnock Station, the property next door. Apparently he’d bribed Mary to lease him most of Brumby’s Run. Charlie was still furious about it. Said her mother didn’t have a clue. Said it didn’t leave them enough land for their own stock. The lease was due to expire, though, and Charlie hoped that with Mary off in Melbourne, distracted, out of contact, they’d get their land back. It was Sam’s job to inform this Bill character that the current arrangement would not be renewed, and he’d need to muster his cattle off Brumby’s Run by the new year. Maybe Drew could give her some advice.

  Sam dumped her bags in the next room along the corridor, clearly Mary’s room, on the only bed that was made up, and went off to investigate the bathroom. It wasn’t too bad, in comparison to the rest of the house. The toilet, however, was unusable. Wasn’t there an outside loo? There was, in an alcove off the back porch. Spiderwebs festooned the ceiling, and squares of newspaper hanging from a nail made a sorry excuse for toilet paper, but it was cleaner than the one inside.

  She sat down, wary of creepy-crawlies. When she pressed the flush button, nothing happened. Sam groaned. The toilet could wait. Her first priority was to clean that kitchen.

  Heading back inside, she turned on the sink taps. Nothing. Great. Grabbing two large pots, she went outside and filled one from the galvanised-iron rainwater tank behind the house. The water teemed with mosquito larvae. Sam made a face and went back inside. She flicked a light switch. No electricity. She tried calling Charlie.
No reception. What was she going to do? Sam thought for a moment, then rummaged around in the kitchen cupboards until she found a strainer. She took it outside and tried pouring the water through its fine wire mesh into an empty pot beneath. It worked. The strained water was free of wrigglers, a small victory. Back in the kitchen, she put the pots on the stove and turned it on. It took a minute to confirm that nothing was happening. Of course not. The stove was electric. Determined to remain positive, she found a plug, emptied the pot into the sink, dusted off a bottle of detergent, and started washing dishes in cold water.

  Through the cobwebbed window, the sun was sinking below the timbered ridge line. It burnished the forest a dramatic red and gold. There was a special quality to the light up here in the mountains. The beauty and serenity of the scene buoyed Sam’s spirits. It didn’t matter that she’d forgone the comforts of her old life. In this untamed place she’d gained much more than she’d lost; she’d gained her freedom.

  The crunch of wheels on gravel. Drew? She ran outside to see a twin-cab four-wheel drive. A substantial middle-aged man with square shoulders got out and started towards her, holding a document wallet. ‘Where’s your mother?’ he asked in a terse voice. Sam remained silent. ‘Never mind. Just make sure she signs these.’ He handed her the wallet. Sam took it, still staring. This must be Bill. She should have said who she was, but this man was so stern, and her story so unlikely. She dreaded going through the absurd spiel all over again, so instead she just nodded. Bill seemed satisfied. ‘Saw Bushy today. He’s got a yarding of brumbies. Wants you to turn up eight o’clock sharp, Monday. Otherwise he’ll get somebody else.’ With that, he left.

  Sam opened the envelope inside the wallet. A lease for land, signed by William Chandler. Chandler. Drew’s last name was Chandler. There was such a lot she didn’t know about this place.

  Sam and Drew sat out the back on kitchen chairs. It was almost dark, and a welcome breeze had chased away the oppressive heat of the day. Steaks sizzled on the barbecue. Drew cut slabs of white bread and spread them thickly with butter. Faith didn’t allow real butter in the house. Said it hardened your arteries and made you fat. Sam tried a piece of the bread. It was delicious. Drew turned the steaks, his sleeves rolled up over muscled forearms, and handed Sam a can from the esky in the back of the ute. Beer.

  ‘I’m not a huge fan of beer,’ she said, handing it back. ‘Do you have anything else?’

  He cracked the can himself and gave her an amused look, his white teeth bright in the dusk. ‘Sorry, m’lady. Nothing else.’ Then he lit the kerosene lamp and hung it from the clothesline. The white-hot mantle burned with unexpected brilliance.

  ‘Thanks for all this,’ she said.

  He flashed that smile again. ‘Keep the barbie til you’ve sorted out your power problems.’

  ‘Won’t your father mind?’

  Drew shot her a curious look. She pulled out the lease documents from her bag and handed them over. He glanced at them, gave them back, and slipped the steaks onto odd plates she’d found in the kitchen – not her mother’s fashionably mismatched antiques, but cheap ceramic, cracked and chipped.

  ‘Mary won’t sign the lease,’ said Sam. ‘Not this time.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He slapped the meat between slices of buttered bread. ‘Sauce?’

  ‘Who’s Bushy?’ Sam cut the fat off her steak and gave it to Bess.

  ‘Horse breaker,’ he said, between mouthfuls. ‘Works at the race-course. Top bloke.’

  Drew certainly didn’t waste words. ‘Your dad told me to be there eight o’clock sharp, Monday morning.’

  ‘Dad thought you were Charlie?’ She nodded. Drew whistled. ‘Probably no point denying it. He’d have thought you were pulling some sort of scam.’ Drew flashed her a smile, and absent-mindedly traced two fingers along the steel frame of his chair. Sam suddenly imagined how they would feel on her skin instead. ‘Shame, though. Your sister’s been aching to get that job. It’ll kill her to miss out.’ He threw Bess some gristle. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll ride over in the morning, give you a tour of Brumby’s. You do ride, don’t you?’

  She nodded and told him about Pharoah. Drew sat quietly as she spoke, his dark eyes gleaming in the kerosene light. She liked how he listened – really listened, nodding encouragement every now and then. ‘He was sold by mistake,’ she finished.

  ‘Tough break,’ he said, and put a consoling hand on her arm. Every nerve on her skin felt exposed where he touched her. When he pulled his hand away, she wished he hadn’t.

  ‘Think I’ll take you up on that beer after all,’ she said.

  After dinner, he helped pack up the few dishes, and handed her the lamp. ‘Good night, Sam,’ he said, drawing close. ‘Will you be okay here, on your own? It’s a tough way to spend Christmas Eve.’

  She bit her lip, tempted to say, ‘No, stay here with me.’ But she barely knew him – and surely he had family to spend the evening with. Instead she just said, ‘Goodnight, Drew. Merry Christmas,’ and watched his tail-lights retreat down the hill, growing smaller and smaller until they disappeared.

  There was no moon, but stars shone large in the night sky, in a way they never did in Melbourne. Sam made her way through the dark house to Mary’s room. She lay down and turned out the lamp. How odd, to curl up in the bed of her birth mother for the very first time. The pillow still smelt of rosemary and thyme. Frogs croaked a loud chorus outside. For how many years had Charlie drifted off to this frog-song lullaby? Sam’s heart ached with the shapeless loss of what she’d never known, and despite the beer buzz it took a long time for sleep to come. When she finally closed her eyes, Drew’s face and the sound of his voice stayed with her. This was going to be a most unusual Christmas.

  Chapter Twelve

  Drew chained Bess up by the back door. ‘Bit far for you, girl,’ he said, fondling her ears and offering her a lamb shank. The dog whined and gave the bone a half-hearted lick. Poor compensation for missing a day on the range.

  They’d made a perfunctory exchange of gifts that morning – him, Mai and Dad. It was a dismal scene. Mai had escaped afterwards to spend the day with relatives in Wodonga. Bill was off to Christmas lunch at neighbouring Brigalow Station. He’d expected Drew to tag along. ‘It’s a fine thing,’ Bill grumbled after Drew told him, ‘when your own children can’t be bothered with you on Christmas.’ Drew had excused himself from the breakfast table, his appetite suddenly gone.

  Sam was towelling her hair dry by the water tank when he arrived, Tambo by her side. Singlet top, denim shorts showing off long, shapely legs. Pale legs. Her complexion was like alabaster, her arms, her graceful neck. All white. Drew tried to recall Charlie’s nut-brown tan, and failed. Even Sam’s voice didn’t sound so different this morning. He was getting used to this gorgeous new Charlie. ‘Merry Christmas,’ said Drew, swinging from the saddle. Well, well, well. Very nice. She’d lit right up at the sight of him.

  ‘Merry Christmas!’ called Sam, and came running. But she hurried straight past him. It seemed his horse was the attraction. ‘What’s her name?’ she asked, stroking the mare’s nose.

  ‘Chiquita.’

  Sam ran her hand appreciatively down her shoulder. ‘Quarter horse?’

  Drew nodded. ‘Dad’s a fan.’ He combed a burr from Chiquita’s mane with his fingers. ‘I don’t go along with him there. Give me a stock horse every time.’ The mare stamped her foot, as if she disagreed with him. ‘Charlie used to back me up on that one. To hear her tell it, quarter horses were tantamount to treason. Un-Australian, she used to say they were.’

  Sam gave him a strange look. ‘Charlie’s not dead.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could stop referring to her in the past tense.’

  ‘Did I?’ He tied Chiquita to the fence. ‘Have you had breakfast?’

  ‘I didn’t feel like stale Froot Loops without milk,’ she said. ‘You?’

  ‘I had a dingo’s breakfast.’

  ‘W
hat’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘A yawn, a piss and a good look around.’ Sam made a face at him as an impatient Tambo shoved her in the back with his nose. ‘He’s keen to get going,’ said Drew. ‘Been shut up in that dust bowl of a paddock for too long.’

  Sam looked doubtfully at the gelding’s scrawny frame. ‘Do you think he’s up to it?’

  ‘My oath,’ said Drew. ‘A brumby like him’ll run all day on a sniff of feed.’

  ‘He’s not shod.’

  ‘His feet are neat and hard, he won’t be needing shoes – not out here in the bush.’

  Sam looked doubtful. ‘If you say so,’ she said. ‘Give me a minute to change.’

  ‘Righto.’

  Ten minutes later she emerged looking like a magazine model, wearing jodhpurs, an ivory shirt and gleaming boots, and carrying a stock saddle. Drew whistled in admiration. She sure was something to see.

  Beneath the hint of a blush she looked a little lost. ‘I found this inside,’ she said, heaving the saddle onto a rail. ‘Is it Tambo’s? Will it do, Drew, do you think?’

  He nodded, liking the way his name sounded on her tongue. ‘Want some help?’ She had the surcingle back to front, and the breastplate upside down. ‘Thought you knew about horses,’ he teased. ‘Or do you just dress the part?’

  Sam put her hands on her hips. ‘I’ve never used this kind of saddle. I use a straight-flapped dressage one back home.’ She frowned. ‘Or at least I used to, when I still had a horse to ride.’

  Drew came over, deftly fitted the surcingle and breastplate, then slapped the pommel. ‘This here’s a handmade Tony Gifford Jubilee Poley,’ he said. ‘Specially made for campdrafting. The flap’s shorter than usual, cut a little more forward. You can shorten up your stirrups and get your leg right on the horse.’ He pointed to the kneepad. ‘See this angle? Your thigh fits snugly, but you can still get up out of the saddle. Charlie won this little beauty at the King of the Mountains festival last year. It’s the town’s annual big bash.’