by Cathryn Hein
Cathryn Hein
Promises
MICHAEL JOSEPH
an imprint of
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Acknowledgements
Letter from Cathryn
Promises
Cathryn Hein was born in South Australia’s rural south-east. With three generations of jockeys in the family it was little wonder she grew up horse-mad, obtaining her first horse at age ten. So began years of pony club, eventing, dressage and showjumping. After finishing university, she worked in the agricultural and turf seeds industry. A posting to France took her overseas for three years, where she finally gave in to her lifelong desire to write. Her short fiction has been recognised in numerous contests, and published in Woman’s Day. Now living in Newcastle, Cathryn writes full-time.
For Jim
One
The air vibrated. The ground trembled. Hoofs collided with sodden turf in a rhythmic thump. Excitement pounded Sophie’s chest, her heart racing with the horses. She narrowed her eyes at the oncoming rush of colour, a kaleidoscope of silk, horsehair, steaming breath and flying turf. As the field hit the straight, the small crowd – a mix of dedicated punters, horsey hangers-on and bored old-timers on a day out – began the gambler’s chant.
Come on, come on, come on.
Sophie leaned across the rail trying to pick out Costa Motza. He was easy to identify, and not because of the broad white blaze streaking down his nose or his four muddy white socks. The horse was coming last.
The field passed, throwing up wedges of dirt and grass. The track rating was changing rapidly from ‘Dead’ to ‘Heavy’. More rain and it’d be a quagmire. And dangerous.
Sophie shuddered and pulled her jacket tighter around her. It was freezing, a typical April day in South Australia’s south-eastern corner. A day for sitting in front of a fire reading a book, not strapping at a country race meeting and, worse, working for nothing.
Hoof beats drowned her muttered ‘Come on’. Costa Motza’s jockey pulled out his whip and beat it against his mount’s shoulder. Thwack, two strides. Thwack, one stride. Thwack, thwack, thwack. Sophie frowned. The jockey needed to be careful or he would end up in front of the stewards. The horse was clearly out of contention. Overzealous use of the whip on a horse that was coming last was unacceptable, even at the Harrington races.
That didn’t stop Sophie barracking, but her so-called hot tip looked more like a pantomime pony than a thoroughbred. He lolloped past the post with his neck flattened and his tail up, as though exhausted from the sprint. Last by three lengths; twenty bucks wasted on a donkey.
She screwed up her betting slip and tossed it in a nearby bin. Bloody Danny Carlyle and his sure things. She weaved through the dispersing crowd toward the mounting ring to wait for Danny and his donkey.
‘You sold me a bag of glue,’ she said, grabbing Costa Motza’s reins. The horse was blowing hard. Too hard. She frowned and checked his nostrils. They were blood-free, but running. The horse had a cold. Poor thing.
Unrepentant, Danny grinned at her. ‘Nah, this one’s Pal Meaty-bites for sure.’
Sophie stroked the horse’s nose. It wasn’t his fault he ran last. No one felt like running when they had a cold. She walked him back to the stalls, wishing she’d had the foresight to bring a rug to throw over his back.
‘Hold up.’ Aaron Laidlaw, the horse’s trainer, jogged to catch up with her, a wool rug draped over his arm. Concern crinkled his blue eyes, the colour deepened by the ominous sky and the navy rain jacket he wore over the top of a dark grey suit shiny with wear. His sandy hair, normally golden with sun streaks, lay dark and flat with rain against his skull. He tossed the rug over Costa Motza’s rump and then moved to inspect the animal’s nostrils as Sophie had done. ‘Cold, poor bugger. I didn’t want to run him, but the owner insisted.’ He glanced at Sophie, as though checking to see if she believed him.
She nodded, one hand on Costa Motza’s damp neck. That was the trouble with racing. Any idiot could own a horse.
‘What will they do with him now?’
‘Knackers, I suspect,’ he said, walking long-legged and tall beside her. ‘It’s a shame, because he’s not a bad horse. He’d probably make some kid a nice showjumper.’
‘Don’t look at me. There’s only one horse I want to buy today.’
‘You’ve got room for two.’
‘No, I don’t.’ Sophie had two horses in training already, and if today worked out, she’d have three. Four was getting ridiculous.
‘You know it’s the knackers otherwise.’
‘Don’t try and sway me with that, Aaron Laidlaw. Racehorses go to the knackers every day. It’s a sad fact of life.’
‘Lovely temperament,’ said Aaron, playing with the horse’s ears. ‘And he has a good sire.’
‘I don’t care if his sire’s Octagonal and his dam’s Makybe Diva, the answer’s still no.’
‘Nice paces.’
‘No.’
‘I’ve seen him jump. He’d make a great eventer.’
‘Give it a rest.' Sophie ducked her head to hide her smile. She liked Aaron when he was like this, blue eyes sparkling, humour turning up the corners of his mouth. His rangy but muscled physique and slightly weathered looks gave him a certain rural ruggedness she found alluring. Then there was the added spice of the forbidden. According to her family, they didn’t come much more forbidden than Aaron Laidlaw. Although no one would satisfactorily explain why. ‘Can he jump over a five-foot fence from a standing start like Rogue Explorer? No? I didn’t think so. You keep him if you think he’s so good. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.’
They reached the stalls. Sophie walked Costa Motza inside and turned him around to face the quiet action of the race yard. She pulled his lightweight plastic bridle off and replaced it with a halter, keeping a gentle hold of a cheek strap until Aaron clipped the holding chains to the rings of the halter. Not that there was any chance of Costa Motza going anywhere. He was too exhausted to do much more than push against Sophie, hunting for a head rub.
Aaron let out a slow breath at the approach of Costa Motza’s displeased owner, a local small businessman who owned one of Harrington’s two electrical appliance stores and who appeared even unhappier than his horse. ‘Time to face the music. See if you can’t make him comfortabl’. Aaron shook his head and gave Costa Motza’s nose a light rub. ‘Poor bugger.’
Sophie stroked Costa Motza’s cheek, pity for the animal and shame at the fate that awaited him a rock in her chest. She touched his soft nose and the velvety hairs that grew there. His breathing had eased, but mucus ran from his nostrils in a watery stream. If this were her own horse, she would have called the vet out for a look. Just to be safe. But Costa Motza wasn’t her horse, or Aaron’s, and the owner wasn’t going to fork out for a vet when the horse was destined for the glue pot. A fact driven home as scraps of the owner’s conversation drifted toward her, heavy with words like ‘useless’ and ‘waste of money.’ In a futile attempt to soothe her conscience, she took her time rubbing the horse down, trying to provide some comfort to the doomed animal.
When Costa Motza was dry, watered and rugged up in a double layer of blankets, she turned her attention to the real reason she was at the track. Her reward for spending a miserable Saturday at Harrington Racecourse strapping for Aaron Laidlaw was a chance to buy a racehorse. But not just any galloper. A horse she saw jump clean out of Aaron’s lunging ring from a standing start. Her jaw had dropped so wide at the sight she’d felt like one of those open-mouthed clowns in a sideshow alley.
Rogue Explorer had bent back on his hocks, the muscles of his glossy rump bulging like those of an oiled, steroid-enhanced Mr Universe, and launched himself over the lunging ring fence. He hung suspended like a carousel horse before landing lightly and galloping off with the lunge rope still attached to his bridle, whinnying hysterically and creating havoc throughout the stable. Aaron had released a torrent of foul language that taught even broadminded Sophie a few new words.
That was her horse. Rogue Explorer. At least, he would be if the afternoon panned out the way she hoped. All he had to do was run last in the Harrington Hardware Open Steeplechase and she’d be taking him home to start a new life as a cosseted performance horse, destined, she hoped, for a long career on the eventing circuit. That was the deal she’d struck with Aaron two weeks ago. If the horse didn’t perform, she’d hand over five grand and Aaron would sign the papers. But if he did run well, she’d miss out. It was as simple as that.
Three stalls up, her prize neighed loudly. She smiled and headed over to him. Aaron said he was a rowdy sod, forever calling out across the yards like an attention-seeking four-year-old. Which, in fact, he was, but she considered four the perfect age to take a racehorse from the track and mould it into an eventer. The horse was mature and had been around a bit, but not so long that its bad habits were unalterable.
Eventers had to be more than just talented jumpers. They had to possess the temperament to go from the tightly controlled discipline of the dressage and showjumping rings to the galloping aggression and quick thinking of a cross-country jumps course. All in one day, or, in the case of a three-day event, over three days. The sport required fitness, intelligence, bravery, trust and obedience, some of which was innate, but most of which came through intense training.
Sophie knew Rogue Explorer could jump. Whether he was trainable remained to be seen.
‘I’m going to rename you Rowdy Explorer,’ she said, shaking the horse’s halter. He bobbed his head up and down as if in agreement, but Sophie knew it was just a sign of frustration. He’d been tied up for three hours and wanted out.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll get your chance. Just as long as you remember to go slow. No showing off, okay?’ She rubbed his head with her palm, and the horse responded in ecstasy, pressing against her hand with his eyes closed.
Pushing Rowdy – as she now decided to call him – gently away, she stooped to lift his foot, pulled a pick from the back pocket of her jeans and started cleaning the muck from his offside front hoof. The horse bent his head and brushed rubbery lips over her bum as though assessing it for bite-worthiness.
‘Lucky horse,’ said Danny.
Though out of his silks and smoking a cigarette, the jockey still had rides to complete and should have been confined to the jockeys’ room. But Danny, it appeared, was a law unto himself.
He ducked under the chain and leaned against the stall’s support post, blowing smoke rings toward the warm-up area. ‘Can I do that too?’
She dropped Rowdy’s hoof and swapped to his offside hind one. ‘Bugger off, Danny’
‘Come on, you know you want me.’
‘Only in your dreams.’ After a moment, Sophie let go Rowdy’s hind hoof and patted his rump. Heading back to the front of the stall she tried to brush past Danny, but the jockey blocked her way.
‘I could help you get the horse.’
‘Don’t even think about it, Danny. You pull him, and you’ll be hauled up. That wouldn’t look good for Aaron, would it?’
‘Oh, I get it. You’ve got a thing for the boss.’ He leaned forward to stub out his cigarette and Sophie caught a whiff of smoke and something sour and foul, like teeth turning rotten. She stepped backwards, but Danny thrust out his other arm and she was trapped at Rowdy’s shoulder. Instinctively, she leaned into the horse’s warm body for protection.
Danny pointed a nicotine-stained finger at her. ‘Believe me, the boss isn’t interested in little girls like you.’
‘Well, I’m lucky then, aren’t I?’
‘I’ve seen the way you look at him.’ He sniffed, then tapped his finger against the side of his nose. ‘Old Danny-boy doesn’t miss much.’
‘You’ll be missing your pay if you don’t let her get on with it.’ Aaron stood behind Danny with his hands on his hips and his feet apart. He stepped forward, shooting a look at Sophie before settling his gaze back on the jockey. Behind him, Costa Motza’s owner stomped off without so much as a farewell pat for his horse.
Danny slowly dropped his arms. ‘I was just helping.’
‘Yeah, well, bugger off and help somewhere else,’ said Aaron, his eyes narrowed.
Giving Sophie a smile that made her skin crawl, Danny pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and a lighter from his pocket, and lit up before sauntering off.
Without looking at Aaron, she bent down and tapped Rowdy’s nearside fetlock. Obediently, he lifted his foot.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. You don’t have to worry. I’m a big girl. I can look after myself.’
He was silent for a moment, and she cocked her head to see if he was still there. He was staring intently at her. She returned to Rowdy’s hoof, carefully scraping debris from around the rubbery wedge-shaped frog.
‘Be careful with him. He’s bad news.’
Which was exactly what her father had said about Aaron on more than one occasion. ‘Dodgy, like his old man,’ he claimed. Rodger ‘the Dodger’ Laidlaw had been warned off the track for life. The son, people whispered, was no different, but Sophie wasn’t so sure. After all, Aaron had his trainer’s licence and not a black mark appeared against his name. Or maybe it was like her father insisted and he just hadn’t been caught yet. Somehow, though, she doubted it. Aaron didn’t seem the horse-doping type.
She dropped the hoof and moved on to the nearside hind one. ‘So why do you employ him, then?’
‘He’s a good jockey.’
Sophie straightened. ‘He gives terrible tips.’
Aaron didn’t smile. ‘Just be careful,’ he said, before walking away.
Sophie shook Rowdy’s halter and whispered to the horse. ‘Do I look like a delicate little flower to you, huh? Do I? You wait til I get you over to Vanaheim, then you’ll find out how tough I am.’
Rowdy snorted and blew a splodge of snot into her hair.
‘Gee, thanks. Just what a girl needs to look good. Snot gel.’ She wiped her hair with the sleeve of her jumper, and then pressed her cheek against Rowdy’s, stroking the horse’s silky neck. ‘You and me, buddy, are going to be champions.’ She pulled back so she could look into his face. Rowdy stared back at her with deep brown eyes and a slight, horsey frown.
‘All you’ve got to do is run last and not get hurt in the process.’ She kissed his nose and began sorting through Aaron’s bag of racing tack, thinking about the forthcoming race and the danger that Rowdy faced.
Steeplechasing could be perilous, especially when the track was slippery. A horse could easily suffer any number of career-ending injuries. In recent years, the sport had been cleaned up dramatically, but jumps racing, like any other racing, still held risks. She glanced at Rowdy. The way the horse proudly held his head, the tight muscles of his body under that sleek dark coat, the solidity and strength of his conformation, made him appear indestructible. He’d be fine. Of course he would.
Sophie lined the racing tack up on the stall rail, organising the saddle, bridle and breastplate, smiling as Rowdy nudged her in the back and whickered, as if he’d already claimed h
er as his new mistress.
‘Don’t count your chickens, Rowdy. You’ve got to make it through today in one piece first.’
The horse jigged as she saddled him, nervous and anxious to be out of confinement. She talked to him as she worked, muttering nonsense, telling him about Vanaheim, his new home and the pleasures that awaited him there. Her yard and its modern stabling, special tack and feed rooms, and covered wash bay, complete with hot and cold water, made her chest puff with pride. It screamed success, and a successful eventer was what she wanted to be. Her father had spent a small fortune making her equestrian set-up perfect, but then, money was nothing when it came to his little girl.
Guilt money, Sophie called it. Money to make up for never being there. Money to make up for Sophie’s mother dying. Meaningless money. All she had ever wanted was for her father to tell her he was proud of her, but he never seemed to have the time or inclination. It seemed that politicians were kept far too busy running the country to worry about their own families. Sophie told herself it didn’t matter. Ever since she could remember, her dream was to run Vanaheim, the family farm, and ride and train event horses. Now she was living it. But her father’s indifference still hurt.
‘Come on, Rowdy,’ she muttered as the horse blew out his belly when she tried to tighten his girth. Not wanting to get their relationship off to a bad start, she resisted the urge to knee him in the stomach, instead waiting until he became bored with the game and relaxed.
‘He’s a sod for doing that,’ said Aaron, walking up and tugging the horse’s forelock. ‘A kick in the guts usually sorts him out.’
Sophie fastened the last buckle and patted Rowdy on the neck. ‘I wanted to, but I didn’t want to make him grumpy before his big race. He might do something stupid.’
‘Nah, not this fella.’
Aaron removed Rowdy’s halter, then grabbed a blue plastic bridle from the hook where Sophie had hung it, fed the bit into Rowdy’s mouth and then slipped it over his ears. The horse chewed the snaffle and tossed his head in agitation. Sophie could feel the tension in his muscles. Rowdy knew what was coming, and it excited him.
