The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte

by Lesley Truffle

  When we were out riding Tim told me, ‘Don’t force physical control. Make sure the horse makes its own decisions about whether or not to cooperate. Never ever bully or beat a horse the way Torte did. To be sure, you can gain a compliant, obedient horse that way but the horse will never trust you.’ Tim leant over and loosened my white-knuckle grip on the reins. ‘Never hurt the horse’s mouth with a grip like that. Take your time, build trust and forge a partnership.’

  The upshot of all my hard work was that Satan no longer resisted me and if I fell off it was only because I’d been too ambitious and had taken a jump too fast. Even though I still knew bugger all about equestrian riding, I realised I might just have a chance at becoming a skilled Kane horsewoman.

  The equestrian prize was my goal, namely because Grandpa had put my name down for all the young riders’ events at the annual Wolfftown Grande Fete. There was to be a sprint race, high jump and a barrel obstacle course. Tim set up the mounting yard with barrels and wooden jumps. Satan and I practised for hours under Tim’s discerning eye and I eagerly sought his advice as to how to win the judges’ approval.

  Grandpa’s faith in Satan was being proved correct. Satan could predict what I wanted to do without any need for the reins or my heels. By shifting my weight slightly in the saddle he’d move in the required direction. It was like being led by a brilliant ballroom dancer. Satan made me look accomplished.

  We headed off early to the Wolfftown Grande Fete even though it was only a few miles into town. I rode with Grandpa on one side and Tim and Jacko on the other. I felt nervous but excited at the day’s prospects. The morning was alive with the deafening cacophony of cockatoos, kookaburras, magpies, rosellas, warblers and their noisy competitors. Homesick Europeans living in Wolfftown often complained about noisy Tasmanian birds.

  The Cockney barman at The House of Blazes had whined, ‘Blimey, I can’t stand these fucking birds. They can’t hold a note like British birds and just caw, cackle and shriek. Probably because they’re mostly nectar eaters and they’re busy giving each other stick over the sweet stuff.’

  The orange sun was still low on the horizon and the air smoky from the previous day’s bushfires. The searing heat of the day was on its way and the sky would soon peel back to become an immense scalding blue. When we got to the mountain rise I looked back at Appletorte Homestead. The paddocks around the house looked tame and trim but it seemed as if the estate was barely holding out against the encroaching wilderness.

  The road was a dirt track and our carriages were mercilessly pitched around by the deep potholes. Grandpa had organised four open carriages to convey all the servants, Cook, Nanny, and Agnes to the fete. I’d hoped for less of an audience but the Wolfftown Grande Fete was a highlight in our social calendar. Every man, woman, child and mongrel was keen to attend.

  Tim’s stableboys were mounted on our best horses. I couldn’t help but feel proud of our turnout. Our maids were in their Sunday best: bright ribbons aflutter, hair curled, singed or crimped. Because my late father had chosen them, our female staff tended to conform to a certain physical type. They could have passed for sisters: long luxuriant hair, olive skin and buxom chests being the order of the day. My father’s desires made flesh. Not one redhead amongst them.

  I was wearing my first riding habit. It had a full skirt and a short bolero jacket with black velvet trim. My riding boots smelt of new leather and wax. Grandpa was wearing his best brocade waistcoat, a wide-brimmed hat and shining gold fob watch. He was mounted on his black thoroughbred, Geronimo. Each of our horses had been groomed to within an inch of their lives and their coats glistened in the harsh morning light. It cheered me to think that even though I was now an orphan, I was having a bloody good time.

  Tim looked tricky in a tailored black hacking jacket and fedora. The kitchen boy had sworn on his mother’s grave that Tim’s outfit was a gift from his wealthy mistress. Despite Tim’s gentlemanly discretion, it was an open secret that our horse master took special care of the sensual needs of Wolfftown’s deprived wives and reckless young spinsters. But I’d already worked out that Tim wasn’t a predator – it was actually the ladies who did the hunting.

  I remember the day I rode into town with Tim to visit the bank. Tim soon found himself pinned to the teller’s cage by Miss Eva Floros. Her pigeon chest nudged him backwards until he was pressed right up against the counter. ‘I have a bone to pick with you, Mr O’Flaherty. Why didn’t you attend mother’s poker night last Thursday? I was so looking forward to having you.’

  Tim flinched. He wasn’t a man that anyone had. ‘I’m sorry, Eva,

  I couldn’t leave a sick horse unattended.’

  Eva Floros raised one perfect eyebrow. She was feted for her superb complexion, unbridled libido and cutting wit. ‘Really? Pray tell me, Mr O’Flaherty, was that before or after you had to go and see a man about a dog?’

  She then moved in so close to him that their noses were almost touching and smiled silkily.

  Tim looked decidedly alarmed. The only way he could have escaped the overpowering scent of Eva’s wild rose perfume, would have been to climb up onto the counter and vault the teller’s cage. Miss Floros only backed off when the bank teller coughed politely, subtly reminding her that she was holding up the queue.

  We created quite a stir as we rode up the main street. There was a lot of rapid eyeball movement and simpering among the ladies as Tim and Grandpa rode past. Tim was waylaid by flirtatious females and he acknowledged every single one of them with a doffing of his hat or a gentlemanly nod. Courtesans and whores lounging on brothel balconies blew kisses at Grandpa and he smiled and nodded, occasionally reining in his horse to address a few polite words. He stopped to greet a robust blonde and swooping down to kiss her hand he murmured, ‘Ah, the lovely Mrs Adelaide Brown. Still the town’s belle I see.’

  ‘Still the sly silver fox, aren’t you Mr Kane?’

  He gave her a slow wink. ‘But of course, my dear. Now, please allow me to introduce the apple of my eye. This is my only grandchild, Sasha Torte.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Sasha. That’s an impressive horse you have. Are you competing today?’

  ‘Yes, Madam.’

  A frown creased her heavily powdered face. ‘Brendan, don’t you think the animal is too damned big for your girl?’

  ‘Not at all, Adelaide. Better to entrust her to an educated thoroughbred than a witless pony.’

  She threw him a quizzical look and turned to me. ‘Sasha, do you know my daughter, Thomasina Brown?’

  ‘No, Madam.’

  ‘You’ll be competing against her today. Thomasina’s been riding since she was four and she always wins. Every event, every year, without fail. It has been said, by those who are qualified to judge, that my daughter is an equestrian prodigy.’

  Mrs Adelaide Brown smiled, revealing white pearly teeth set off by two excessively sharp eye teeth; the type of teeth common to crazed feral cats and hostile tigers. The impression was startling but gone in a flash. I then remembered she’d been my mother’s rival.

  Mrs Brown poked Satan authoritatively on his flank with her parasol. Satan’s head jerked up and he sidled closer to her, flattened his ears and bared his tombstone teeth. Mrs Brown leapt backwards revealing her fear. Grandpa smiled benignly and Tim gave me a conspiratorial grin. I got the distinct impression that neither of them liked her.

  The young riders events were held mid-morning. We drew lots from a hat and I wound up riding last in events two and three. My first competition was the sprint race. While lining up with the other young competitors I became aware that Satan and I stuck out like dogs’ balls. Most of the children rode ponies, apart from two brothers who rode bareback on draught horses.

  I smiled at three of the older girls but was pointedly ignored or sniggered at. I really wanted to make friends but they were all dead set against me. One of the sneering girls was Thomasina Brown who appeared to be a few years older than me. I recognised her immediately because sh
e was a scaled-down version of her mother. She’d already transitioned into a pretty young lady with perky breasts and flirtatious eyes, and I was well aware that by comparison I still looked like a child. Thomasina had the same strange feline features as Mrs Brown and she was the only girl armed with a whip. While the farm boys carried light switches, Thomasina stood out because she was gripping a leather stock whip. When I looked at her and smiled, she pointedly turned her back on me. I was mortified but I made a big show of carefully checking my stirrups so nobody could read my embarrassed face.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and a small, blonde girl with freckles and a sunburnt nose grinned at me. She clutched the reins of an exceedingly plump pony. ‘Hello, I’ve heard all about you. I’m Viola Taylor and this is Muffin.’

  ‘I’ve seen you around. You live at the vicarage, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, my father is the Anglican vicar.’

  ‘This is Satan.’

  ‘Gosh, I’d be too scared to ride him. Muffin and I never win of course, he’s too lazy. We only enter because I like fooling around and having a bit of fun.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  Actually I didn’t see at all. It had never occurred to me to do anything for pleasure. I’d been embroiled in adult business my whole life. The world was a treacherous place. People and pets were snatched away for no reason at all and parents could turn on you on a whim. If you didn’t stay very alert bad things could happen before you’d even seen them coming. My bedtime prayers were a form of insurance but I didn’t really know how you were supposed to go about praying. Basically my prayers were lengthy appeals to a god I didn’t fully believe in, begging him not to bring the whole weight of his punishment down on me. He was the god of the hellfire preacher on Main Street and I was hoping to square things up with him.

  Viola shyly contemplated the toe of her riding boot and smiled. I liked her. But it also seemed to me that she’d never experienced the savagery that could be randomly unleashed on the unwary. Just as well we didn’t know what the future had in store for us.

  We mounted and lined up for the sprint race. It was an easy dash to the end of the paddock. I sensed Satan was holding back until the last few yards when he put a spurt on. Satan was well in front of Thomasina’s pony at the finishing line but the two judges, Mayor Horace Wolff and the Chief Prison Governor, vacillated. We waited impatiently and eventually Thomasina was declared the winner. Initially the crowd was stunned but led by Mrs Adelaide Brown’s loud clapping they politely followed suit. Thomasina smirked at me, ‘I always win. So get used to it little Miss Toffy Tits.’

  I couldn’t understand why she was being so mean, nor could I comprehend how she’d managed to win. But when I joined the other contestants, Viola filled me in. ‘Mrs Adelaide Brown was widowed quite young when Joe Brown was lost at sea. She’s been Mayor Wolff’s mistress on the sly for years but everyone reckons his wife knows. My mother says Adelaide and the mayor are like two slippery peas in a pod.’

  My imagination promptly created a compelling picture – Mrs Brown stark naked and baring her incisors, as she rubbed up against Horace Wolff’s jelly belly like a cat in heat. The image tickled me and I had trouble wiping the smile off my face.

  The high jump was pretty damn funny at first. Viola’s pony trundled at the jumps and made little effort to get over them. When Muffin baulked and refused to budge Viola just laughed it off and gave up. The good-willed crowd gave her a special round of applause. Other horses made mad dashes at the jumps and kicked them to pieces. The two draught horses seemed astonished that they were expected to scramble over the rods but everyone clapped and cheered their clumsy efforts. The farm boys grinned and waved at the spectators because like Viola they didn’t give a rat’s arse about the outcome. For them it was just time off the farm and a great day out.

  Thomasina’s pony easily managed the first five jumps but he clipped the last pole and it dropped. He received a thoroughly brutal whipping. Mrs Brown swiftly intervened and seized Thomasina’s whip but it was too late, the pony’s tender young hide was bloody. The crowd fell silent and all joy was obliterated. I found it so distressing that I couldn’t concentrate on the announcements. The heat bore down on the back of my neck and Satan’s coat was slick with sweat.

  It was all too much and I decided I wanted nothing more to do with the stupid event. I slid off Satan and led him towards the paddock gate just as my name was being called for the last and final time. I kept my head down until I heard Grandpa yelling, ‘Come on, Sasha Kane! We Kanes don’t give up this easily – we go the whole hog!’

  It was the first time he’d called me a Kane and I was chuffed. Appletorte’s staff were all yelling and egging me on but I didn’t know how the fuck I could get back up onto Satan. To make matters worse I could see Thomasina smirking and whispering behind her hand to another competitor. I stood there mortified, sweating like an anxious piglet, until Tim vaulted the fence and legged it across the paddock. The folk in the spectator stands perked up and I had no doubt he was being admired by every woman in Wolfftown under the age of seventy.

  Tim grinned as he gave me a leg up. He dropped his voice low as he pretended to tighten my saddle girth and adjust the bridle. ‘Just do your best, eh Sasha? It’s only a game and I reckon you’ve got a real chance. But if you do lose – do so graciously. For fuck’s sake don’t turn into Thomasina Brown. Remember, you and Satan are partners in the noble crime of making off with the winning cup.’

  He pinched my cheek and ran back to the stands.

  I understood what Tim meant but expectations were high. I was representing Appletorte and our reputation was on the line. Reluctantly I turned Satan back towards the starting line but I made damn sure I wore a cheeky grin on my chops. I remembered the advice I’d been given by Nanny after being bullied by my father, Pretend until you mend, poppet.

  Satan handled the jumps with hardly any direction from me. He glided smoothly over, leaving several inches to spare. I could feel the long muscles of his forelegs stretching out and sensed the pounding of his wild blood; a potent fusion of superior muscle power and acute intelligence. Effortlessly we flew with his hooves barely clipping the earth between each soaring leap. It was over way too quickly. I wanted to fly into the future. Satan wanted more action and I thought he was going to leap the judges’ table. I hauled on his reins but we finished way too close to Horace Wolff’s sweating face. Like most people he seemed to be afraid of Satan. The whole crowd erupted with cheers even before I was declared the winner.

  Thomasina edged her pony closer to me and hissed through her bright smile, ‘Don’t get too pleased with yourself. Your father was a pisspot, your mother’s a murderess and the whole of Wolfftown knows it. They’re all sniggering at you behind your dirty back.’

  Thomasina Brown was not a nice girl.

  I whispered through my fake smile. ‘Sticks and stones will break my bones but words can never hurt me.’

  She looked at me down her nose. ‘Ha, that’s what you think, you stupid tart.’

  ‘You’re just a sore loser, Thomasina. But from now on you’re going to be seeing a lot of my dirty back, so get used to it.’

  The barrel obstacle course was the decisive event and Thomasina’s pony gave a highly credible performance. I thought the snaky little bitch probably had it in the bag. Viola’s pony managed to go the wrong way and the draught horses kept on ploughing straight ahead. Muffin loudly passed wind and dumped a huge pile of steaming shit right in front of the judges’ table. Several wags in the crowd applauded and Mayor Wolff looked distinctly peeved. I got the impression that he didn’t have much of a sense of humour.

  Then Satan and I danced. He effortlessly weaved his way around the obstacles as though waltzing. We dipped right and left without losing a single beat. I realised he was enjoying himself and all I had to do was stay focused and follow his lead.

  Such magic I felt that hot morning. The crowd watched in spellbound silence as my horse sash
ayed in a thoroughly elegant fashion around the obstacles. He held his head high and seemed to gauge rather than watch for the barrels below. We finished at the judges’ desk and the silence was deafening. Satan bowed his head modestly.

  Then someone started clapping and everyone else joined in. The defiant clapping went on for so long that Mayor Wolff had no choice but to insist we do an honour lap of the paddock. I couldn’t believe Satan and I had wrestled the coveted silver cup out of Thomasina’s greedy paws. It would be ours for the whole goddamn year. The sheer preposterousness of this forced me into a cone of silence.

  Everyone in the stands got to their feet and applauded madly. I could see the local lads stamping their feet. They looked to be cheering and hollering but I was still in a trance and couldn’t hear them. My mind had shut down and even though I could see many hands clapping, the sound had been turned off. Thomasina Brown was smiling a little too brightly through her sharp little teeth but I knew damn well that she was trying not to cry over her first public defeat.

  Satan was unfazed by the clamour and calmly high-stepped his way round the paddock. Success was obviously his natural habitat.

  The sound only came back on when Viola Taylor stuck two fingers into her mouth and gave an ear-splitting dog whistle. She yelled, ‘Great work, good on you Sasha!’

  I turned to smile at her and she gave me the two thumbs-up signal. She seemed happier at my win than could have been decently expected from a fellow competitor. And so Viola Taylor became my first real childhood friend.

  That sweltering morning I sensed dark curtains parting and briefly glimpsed a better world. For the first time in my life I savoured the sweet taste of public approval.

  Grandpa was beside himself with pride. He lifted me down off Satan and said quietly, ‘Those bastards cheated you in the short sprint. Every man and his dog saw you win. But don’t fret, possum, your Grandpa will take the wheels off those fuckers when they least expect it. I know all about Mayor Wolff’s weaknesses of the flesh. And he’s heading for a cropper.’