Promises

by Cathryn Hein

  ‘As if I needed to explain.’ He pushed his hands into his pockets and stared at his feet. Then, as if realising his rudeness, he straightened. ‘Look, Sophie, I don’t need you any more. Pony club or not, it’ll still be a long day tomorrow. I can sort this lot out.’

  She swallowed, feeling wretched and confused. Why did he assume she knew all about him? She knew nothing except the malicious gossip her father spouted on the rare occasions he let his politician’s mask slip.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘I know. You don’t have to apologise. It’s me. Screwed-up childhood. Kinda messes with your mind.’

  ‘Oh.’ She grinned at him, trying to ease him his discomfort. ‘Well, I suppose that makes two of us then.’

  ‘Shit, I can’t believe —’ He stopped and swallowed, his eyes full of the pity Sophie had long grown used to seeing in people’s faces when they remembered that her mother had died when Sophie was only twelve. ‘Christ, Sophie. I’m so sorry.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s okay.’

  He eyed her for a moment, his mouth tight, as though to keep himself from speaking until he’d carefully weighed his words. ‘I remember her, you know.’

  Sophie’s heart pulsed with longing. She loved hearing about her mother. It’d been ten years since Fiona Dixon’s suicide, and though Sophie tried to keep her memories vivid, time had turned them dull and fragmented. She chased any solid recollections she had through her mind, wanting to tattoo them to her brain for fear they’d be lost forever.

  She tried to keep the hunger out of her voice. ‘What do you remember? Did you like her?’

  ‘Yes. She was sweet and very pretty. I didn’t see her often, just sometimes in town or when we bumped into each other out riding. She always stopped to talk, though, and ask how I was. Your mum was kind and caring.’ He stopped, swallowed and then continued. ‘When I was young, I used to wish she was my mum.’

  Sophie turned away, blinking, and fondled Rowdy’s delicate muzzle. It was comforting to know someone else had been drawn to her, had wanted her for his own. Sophie always knew her mother was special.

  ‘Your mum’s suicide. Your old man keeps it quiet, doesn’t he?’

  Sophie felt a flutter of panic. ‘You won’t spread it around, will you? I think Dad worries people will blame him for it.’

  ‘It wasn’t all his fault.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He stepped away from the post and scuffed a foot in the dirt, not looking at her. ‘Forget it.’

  Aaron —’

  Without warning, Rowdy sank his teeth into her hand.

  ‘Oh, you shit!’ She yanked her hand away and inspected it for damage. A neat line of teeth marks dented the ball of her thumb. Rowdy tossed his head up and down in the equivalent of an equine ‘gotcha’.

  She grabbed his halter, pulling his head down until she could look him in the eye. ‘That’s one bad habit you’re going to unlearn, mister. I don’t care how bored you are, my horses don’t bite. Full stop. You understand?’

  Rowdy stared at her dumbly.

  ‘Listen, Soph, about Rowdy,’ said Aaron.

  Sophie glanced at him. There was something in his tone. ‘What?’

  He made as if to speak, but then shook his head. ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Look, there’s not much point you hanging around. Why don’t you head off?’

  Sophie hesitated and then nodded. It was getting late. She’d see Rowdy again soon enough and if all went as planned, the next time it would be as his proud new owner.

  Six kilometres north-east from the centre of Harrington, a line of thick-trunked London plane trees marked Vanaheim’s southern boundary. Past branches decorated amber and russet with autumn leaves stretched two hundred and forty undulating hectares of varying shades of green, divided by well-maintained fences and newly established windbreaks of native trees and shrubs. In the paddocks near the road, red and white Poll Hereford cows and heifers with March drop calves at their feet chomped contentedly on pasture made rich by early autumn rains and good management. Though she’d seen it countless times, it was a sight that rarely failed to lift Sophie’s spirits.

  At a break in the tree line, a burgundy-painted mail drum with Vanaheim stencilled on the side in white letters signalled the entrance. Sophie indicated and turned her Range Rover into the crushed-limestone lane, smiling when Chuck’s dark-brown head and then Buck’s lighter bay one sprang up at the sound of an approaching vehicle. She wound down the window to wave to them.

  Chuck’s nostrils flared as he released a welcome-home whinny. The two horses trotted toward the post-and-rail fence, heads and tails up, rugs flapping. Sophie gave them a quick once-over, checking for any lameness or change in attitude that might indicate they weren’t feeling well. Both moved easily through the long ryegrass and clover of the front paddock – the smallest on the property and which, except for when she occasionally allowed a few cattle in for weed control, Sophie maintained exclusively for the horses.

  Grinning at their joyous welcome, she blew them a kiss, and watched them cavort and snap playfully at one another as they followed the car down the lane.

  Even bereft of leaves, the tree-lined lane was one of the things she loved most about Vanaheim. It reminded her of happy times, when she could still feel the all-encompassing love of her mother. Fiona Dixon had adored the drive as much as Sophie. In the summer, when the trees celebrated life with a spectacular display of verdancy, new growth stretched across the lane until it touched and tangled in the centre, like lovers reunited after a long, cold winter. The lane grew shadowed and cool against the hot sun and Sophie would run around the trunks playing hide and seek with her mother, laughing in the dappled light.

  Sometimes, when Sophie had been good, Fiona would turn into the driveway, stop the car and look at her grinning daughter. Are you ready? she’d say, and Sophie would giggle and strain against her seatbelt, trying to reach the play button on the car’s stereo.

  The distinctive opening bars of Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Tunnel of Love’ would fill Sophie’s head and heart. It was a romantic song, not really one for mother and daughter, but back then, Sophie was too young to draw much from the lyrics other than their literal meaning. Fiona would drive at ambling pace, prolonging their special time together. They’d sing to the music with smiles on their faces, Sophie convinced she had the best mother in the world.

  At the lane’s end, they’d emerge blinking into the bright sunshine, and Fiona would lean across to Sophie, kiss her forehead and say, ‘The tunnel of love’s over now, my precious.’

  Sophie smiled sadly at the memory. Her mother had been right, although Sophie didn’t understand that for a long time. The Tunnel of Love was over for Fiona Dixon, because at the end of that enchanted drive lay Vanaheim, and an existence consumed by a secret illness that eroded her happiness like acid until there was nothing left but a hollow, dismal shell and no hope for the future.

  Vanaheim’s majestic lane opened to a wide, flat expanse of crushed limestone. To the right, following the line of the lane, stood a burgundy Colorbond multi-bay equipment shed housing the farm’s aging tractor and other assorted machinery Sophie’s horse float, the battered farm ute – when her aunt Tess remembered to replace it – and the farm’s latest acquisition, a state of the art pasture seed drill. Beyond the shed, on a stretch of laser-levelled ground and surrounded by a white timber fence, was Sophie’s all-weather riding arena. Next to it was a flat, grassy area containing a brightly coloured selection of showjumps, and a series of white, thirty-centimetre-high cavaletti, over which her mother had first taught Sophie and her stubborn pony Toby to jump.

  Left of the drive, where the crushed limestone gave way to neat brick paving, stood Vanaheim’s pink dolomite and limestone bungalow, fronted by the pretty cottage garden Fiona Dixon had once expertly tended and Sophie less expertly tried to maintain. Opposite stood a simple stable complex, in the same steel as the equipmen
t shed, with the three stables and concrete wash bay set back so the burgundy-painted timber half doors were sheltered by a verandah. From the eaves hung empty flower baskets. Summer would see these spilling over with pink and white impatiens, brightening the yard with happy colour.

  A squat limestone building, once an exterior laundry and toilet block, took up the far side of the paved square, its wide door and two small window frames painted burgundy to match the stables and house. A heavy lock secured the door, while metal grilles covered the windows protecting the thousands of dollars worth of equestrian equipment, veterinary supplies and feed kept inside.

  As Sophie drove in, her two incurably lazy Australian cattle dogs, Samson and Delilah, raised their heads for a moment before returning their chins to their paws, too comfortable on the back porch to move. A stranger wouldn’t fare so well. One step toward any of the buildings and the dogs would be standing to attention. Sammy and Del might be lazy, but they were fiercely protective of their mistress and home.

  Sophie reversed the Range Rover toward the float and left the engine running as she hitched it and checked the brake and taillights worked. Satisfied, she towed it into the main yard ready for loading and went to bring the horses in for the night.

  Chuck and Buck were waiting for her by the gate, jostling with one another to be the first to greet her, their heavy body and neck rugs making them look like cartoon medieval chargers. She unlatched the gate and kissed Chuck’s dark-brown nose, laughing as Buck bunted her back in annoyance at being ignored. Unlike Chuck, who was the sweetest-natured horse Sophie had ever encountered, Buck’s temper changed like the wind. At least he seemed in a good mood.

  She led them both to their stables, Chuck, as always, rubbing his muzzle against her sleeve in welcome. He was such a gentleman. Sophie didn’t know what she’d do when she finally retired him. She’d miss his steady politeness and unwavering affection at events. Even when Buck was throwing one of his tantrums, Chuck always managed to cheer her, but perhaps in the future it would be Rowdy who gave her comfort.

  Once the horses were settled, she loaded the float and Range Rover with all that she’d need for the following day. The process didn’t take long. Most of her competition gear was already packed in sturdy, lockable trunks. It was simply a matter of lifting them into the rear of the four-wheel drive. She would place the saddles – each costing almost as much as what Rowdy was worth – in the tack compartment of the float in the morning. Even with the dogs on guard, Sophie didn’t take chances with her saddles.

  Although twilight was falling, she grabbed a thick coat and whistled for the dogs, and marched across the yard to the machinery shed and quad bike. With Sammy and Del perched on the back of the bike, she rode east into the dull sunset, past the old redgum stockyards, now silver with age, and her aunt Tess’s limestone cottage with its constantly drawn curtains and overgrown garden, to where the cows and heifers grazed. Calving was mostly complete but a few late-joined heifers had yet to drop, and though Tess had promised to inspect the cows regularly, Sophie liked to double check.

  Another heifer had given birth that afternoon. The white-faced calf hung close, eyeing Sophie from beneath its mother’s belly and letting out a nervous cry. Both mother and baby looked fine, as did the remainder of the herd. She sighed and sat for a while, admiring them. Come the following January, the steers and those heifers she chose not to retain would be sent to Harrington’s annual weaner sales, where Sophie was trying to build a reputation for producing quality animals. Over the last couple of years Vanaheim’s weaners had brought home solid prices, but with a change to yard weaning she could earn more by producing feedlot-ready cattle. Without improvements to the old yards, however, like many ideas she had for Vanahaim, yard weaning remained something for the future.

  Leaving the cattle, she motored back to the house, grinning at Sammy and Del as they leaned around her, ears pinned back, eyes squinting and jowls wobbling, enjoying the rush of wind as only dogs can.

  After a last check and chat with the horses Sophie headed inside. She pulled her boots and jacket off in the laundry and placed them neatly away before padding down the bungalow’s tiled hall, grimacing at the cold seeping through her socks. Out of sheer habit, she paused at the entrance to the kitchen and glanced left toward the end of the hall, where the door to the main bedroom stood open. The room appeared as it always did, with the bed made up and well-dusted photos of Fiona Dixon arranged just so on the bedside table. No overnight bag rested on the floor and no coat had been tossed on the plain white spread. Ian Dixon hadn’t blessed her with one of his lightning visits – given their relationship these days that was hardly unusual.

  Sophie looked quickly away, but the memories still crowded in. When she was in her early teens, he’d turn up once a fortnight and stay for a few days, sometimes even for the weekend. He’d always be busy – attending meetings, visiting businesses, talking to his constituents, dealing with those things on the farm her aunt Tess couldn’t. Leaving the house early in the morning and returning late at night, after she’d gone to bed. Sometimes, she’d wake in the night with her skin prickling and the sense he was in her room, but when she probed the darkness he was never there. Checking his room in the mornings, she’d find the bed hardly slept in, as though he’d laid rigid all night on the surface, staring at the ceiling.

  Sophie hardly saw him, but he made a point of sharing breakfast with her, and while their conversations were often interrupted or centred on banal topics such as the weather, at least she had a sense of him trying to be a father. Now, bar a visit every few months, an occasional brief phone call or abbreviated email, he didn’t bother.

  But she still kept the bedroom prepared. Just in case.

  Her mobile phone sat on the hall table beside the house phone where she’d left it that morning. Sophie used it so rarely, most of the time she forgot its existence. As usual no one had called or texted, and the empty screen left her feeling hollow. She’d shot an email to her father’s personal account last week advising him of Sunday’s competition, but it seemed he’d forgotten to wish her luck again. Sometimes he called, mostly he didn’t bother, and though she was unsurprised, it still hurt.

  Dumping the phone, Sophie padded into the kitchen looking for something to eat. Though the house was almost a hundred years old, Fiona Dixon had set about spending a small fortune modernising it once her father-in-law’s deteriorating health finally forced him into a nursing home. Where darkness once dominated, light and colour had taken over. Red and white tiles extended from the entrance to a glossy off-white kitchen with red granite benchtops and expensive stainless-steel appliances. She’d removed the wall separating the kitchen from the dining room, and divided the opened-up space with a breakfast bar. Past it, the red and white tiles gave way to lush cream carpet on which sat an oak eight-seat table with comfortable chairs upholstered in matching red fabric, and an oak sideboard filled with now rarely used white china.

  Through a door on the left was the lounge, Sophie’s favourite room, and where she spent most nights snuggling in her mother’s old leather recliner next to a glowing gas log fire, reading horse magazines or agricultural journals, or watching television. Like every other room in the house, photographs featuring Fiona Dixon took pride of place, but the five arranged on the built-in shelves above the television were the ones Sophie loved the most. Each showed the Dixons as a family, grinning at the camera. Happy.

  Sophie picked up a note from the bench. Aunt Tess wanted her to call when she came in. Given the stock and horses were fine, it could only be about her day with Aaron. She chewed at her nail, considering whether to call or not. This time of night Tess could be in any state, but avoiding her might make her angry, and Sophie was too tired to deal with that. With a sigh she put on the kettle and picked up the phone.

  ‘Well, did you get him?’ asked Tess, sounding surprisingly sober.

  ‘Pending a vet check, yes.’

  ‘Good. And how was your day with Aaron
Laidlaw?’

  Sophie thought before answering. Aaron blew so hot and cold, she wasn’t sure. ‘It was interesting.’

  ‘I’d say it’d be interesting, with him. I don’t suppose you caught him sticking speedballs up his horses’ bums, did you?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s like that, Tess.’

  Her aunt sniffed. ‘You ask your father about the Laidlaws.’

  ‘What is it about Dad and the Laidlaws, anyway? Aaron looks at me like I’m the devil’s daughter sometimes.’

  ‘A long story and one I’m definitely not prepared to tell. Like I said, you’ll have to ask your father.’

  Sophie picked at a loose thread on her jumper. More secrets. What was it about her family and bloody secrets? Even Aunt Tess had them. She hated Vanaheim, yet here she stayed, year after year in misery, drinking herself to death. And the excuse that she was there to look after Sophie no longer washed. Sophie was twenty-two, not twelve. Besides, these days Tess was barely capable of looking after herself.

  Worried her aunt would snap if she sounded too desperate, Sophie took a moment to choose her next words.

  ‘Tess, do you know if Aaron would know anything about Mum’s death?’

  ‘Why? What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing, I was just wondering, that’s all. He mentioned in passing that he knew her.’

  ‘Don’t you listen to anything Aaron Laidlaw has to say about this family, and especially about your mother. He doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘But he knew her, Tess.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Your mother wouldn’t give a Laidlaw the time of day.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Oh, don’t start, Sophie. If you’ve got issues, go and see that shrink of yours, or become an alcoholic or drug addict like a normal person. Just don’t bother me with them.’

  Tears pricked Sophie’s eyes. She could never accustom herself to Tess’s dismissive nature, so different from her mother’s sensitivity. After years of counselling, she’d reconciled herself to the fact her mother committed suicide because of acute clinical depression. But she could rationalise all she liked – the niggling doubt that she was somehow to blame could never be talked away.