I drop my eyes.
‘The reason I asked if you like horses is that I know a very talented horse trainer. He doesn’t normally give riding lessons to children, but he might agree to give you a lesson a week, provided you help him with mucking out boxes and such. Are you interested?’
I can’t look up. ‘Yes.’ I’m still mad at her for telling me off.
‘Right. I’ll call him. His name’s Reynaldo. But I want you to understand that we are asking a big favour from someone who is a master of his craft. Ray won’t tolerate any rudeness or laziness on your part, and neither will I.’
Daddy used to tell me off if I was lazy or rude. I can’t stand being told off by a woman. All Daddy’s girlfriends were stupid. I look up. I don’t know what to say to Miss Dunn or how to say it.
Miss Dunn looks at the clock. ‘Our time is up. Maybe you could talk to Lyyssa about your father’s horses.’
I have to form the words in my head and push them through my mouth. ‘I don’t want to talk to Lyyssa about my father. Please don’t tell her what I said. I want to help with your friend’s horses. I won’t be rude or lazy.’ I shove my books into my backpack. ‘Thanks,’ I say, then walk out of Miss Dunn’s office, tripping over my own feet.
Chapter 34
Reynaldo looks sort of Asian, but not entirely. You can’t tell where he comes from by the way he talks. His skin is a golden colour. He has black, almond-shaped eyes and would have black hair if he didn’t shave his head. He has a scar running across his left cheekbone, a deep gouge. Miss Dunn said he used to live in Los Angeles and worked in the film industry.
So what’s he doing in Sydney, mucking out boxes for rich people who can’t be arsed looking after their own horses? I don’t even know how or why Miss Dunn knows him. To ask Reynaldo where he comes from or how he got his scar or why he’s doing menial work or how Miss Dunn knows him would be rude, but that’s not why I don’t ask. Reynaldo is a quiet person. To ask him these questions would be breaking the quiet.
Breaking the quiet is an idea I thought up. I only think that idea around Reynaldo. Most people are full of pointless noise. Even if they’re not noisy, it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing to ask them something. But with Reynaldo, you just know that if it’s not about horses, you shouldn’t ask him.
I talked about him to Lyyssa without telling her who I meant. Maybe she figured out who I meant but didn’t let on. Anyway, Lyyssa said it was good that I understood that with certain people, some topics were off-limits.
Off-limits isn’t the same thing as breaking the quiet. But it’s close enough.
Reynaldo never asks me where I come from, or how I like the Refuge, or anything except what I’m doing with the horses. He knows not to break the quiet with me, either.
Reynaldo shows me how to muck out a box, wash down a horse, pick out its hooves, curry its coat and brush the mane and tail, clean the tack, put on the saddle and bridle. He tells me how to tell if a horse is angry or annoyed, what it means when they swish their tail or pin their ears back. After a few weeks, he tells me I can start learning how to ride.
I’d almost forgotten that’s what I was there for.
I liked looking after the horses so much that I didn’t particularly care about riding them. I like it when Dolly leans down and sniffs my back when I’m drying her feet so she doesn’t get greasy heel. I like it when Buster closes his eyes and leans into the sponge when I’m washing his face.
‘Len, would you like to have your first lesson today?’ Reynaldo repeats. I’m standing there with a head stall and lead rope in my hand. I was off in a daydream. Reynaldo speaking to me makes me forget which horse I’m attending to.
‘Um, yes. Which horse was I supposed to shampoo?’
‘You can shampoo Buster after our lesson. You’re riding Dex.’
On the bus on the way home, I decide I’m not going to talk to anyone about Dex. No one who doesn’t know horses would understand. Anybody who does know horses doesn’t need to be told about him. Another variation of not breaking the quiet.
Chapter 35
Progress Report
Patient: Len Russell/Samantha Patterson
Caseworker: Lyyssa Morgan
An enormous improvement has occurred in Len’s conduct during psychotherapy sessions. She is now actively participating rather than displaying passive-aggression through monosyllabic responses or silence. Len still claims not to remember events prior to her accident, and continues to parry any question or remark that she perceives as an intrusion on her privacy or autonomy. Nevertheless, Len is now willing to share certain observations and feelings. This transformation seemed to coincide with Len’s work experience with horses under the supervision of Reynaldo Klaas, a renowned horse trainer. Although Reynaldo Klaas has no tertiary qualifications in psychotherapy or social work, he has successfully worked with young offenders in the juvenile justice system on a volunteer basis.
Len enjoys talking about the horses she is being trained to care for, ascribing distinct personalities to each animal. She also enjoys giving detailed, almost technical descriptions of how to saddle, bridle, bathe and ride horses. Unsurprisingly, in view of her intelligence and her lack of interest in books and entertainment aimed at younger teenagers, Len has requested an expensive colouring book intended for students of equine anatomy. The book is a series of line drawings mapping out the various bones, tendons and ligaments of the horse. Funding for this book cannot be requested through the Department, as it falls outside the guidelines for required educational materials, but the Salvation Army has agreed to purchase the book and accompanying text.
Although Len has mentioned that she would like to become a horse trainer, it is to be hoped that she will choose another career path, one that offers greater security and is more in keeping with her academic potential. I have requested that Renate Dunn, Len’s tutor, introduce her to the idea of a career in veterinary medicine.
Perhaps the greatest observable improvement in Len since the start of her work experience with Reynaldo Klaas has been the improvement in her conduct toward others. She is less critical of her peers and less suspicious of those in positions of authority, myself included. I am optimistic that Len will continue to transfer the concepts of mutual respect that she has learnt to situations outside of the stables and in her future life.
Chapter 36
Tonight’s episode of Clarissa Hobbs is about how Clarissa deals with Hamish, a lawyer at the firm who’s having an affair with Susannah, who’s still in law school and working for the summer as a clerk. Everybody knows what they’re up to, but nobody says anything. It’s an open secret.
‘It’s disgusting, the way Hamish is using that young girl,’ Clarissa fumes to her friend Barbara as they lunch at a pricey restaurant.
‘Oh, Clarissa, don’t be naive.’ Barbara takes a drag of her cigarette and looks amused. ‘Office romances are nothing new.’
Clarissa and Barbara argue about whether it’s immoral or unethical for a boss to have an affair with his secretary or clerk. After the commercials, the scene has changed to the law offices. Clarissa is walking purposefully down the hall. She’s got that half-smile on her face, the one she gets when she’s figured out the solution to a particularly difficult problem.
‘Nooo!’ screams Lyyssa from her office, as all the lights go out, Cinnamon’s stereo goes quiet, the TV goes dark, Shane starts to scream and Karen starts to howl.
‘What happened?’ Cinnamon stomps down the stairs in her bathrobe with wet hair, then whirls around and yells back up the staircase at Shane and Karen. ‘SHUT UP, both of you!’ And they do. Like someone flicked an OFF switch. Cinnamon goes straight to Lyyssa’s office. ‘What did you do?’
‘I just switched on the air conditioner.’
‘Look at how many things you’ve got turned on in here! EVERYBODY knows you don’t use that many appliances at once! You’ll overload the switchboard! Where’s the fuse box?’
‘Cinnamon, I can’t allow you to
try to fix this. I’ll call the handyman. Electricity is dangerous.’
‘It’s only dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing,’ Cinnamon says coldly. ‘My step-dad’s an electrician. Now where’s the fuse box?’
The show’s over by the time Cinnamon does what she needs to, the power comes back on and the TV comes back to life. As the credits roll, I glimpse the title of tonight’s episode: ‘An Open Secret’.
The rest of this week is going to be like having an itch that you can’t scratch.
I get myself a Gatorade from the refrigerator and take it upstairs. I lie on my bed, trying to work out what happened after Clarissa and Barbara’s lunch. I stare at the moulding around the light fixture. A spider has started building a web. I’ll have to get a broom tomorrow and get rid of it.
Open Secrets.
Riggs Crossing was full of open secrets. Lots of people were cropping or dealing. People were sleeping with each other’s wives or girlfriends. Women had babies that came from men who weren’t their husbands or boyfriends.
One day when he was in town, Daddy saw a girl from the commune wheeling around a baby that everyone knew didn’t come from her boyfriend. I heard him tell Ernie about it. But since the girl’s boyfriend was an arsehole, Daddy thought it was funny. And what made it even funnier was that the real father of that baby was the husband of Vera the postmistress, who knew about the baby and was furious about it. So to get even, Vera had it off with the girl’s boyfriend, even though she didn’t like him any more than anyone else did.
Another open secret was how real croppers and dealers dealt with wannabe croppers and dealers. Kids wearing Doc Martens blew in from Sydney on motorcycles, or in big hotted-up V8 Coke-bottle Fords. They camped at the commune, or in some rented shack. They’d be mouthing off in the bottom pub, bragging about ‘contacts’ and ‘drops’ and ‘elbows’ and ‘short croppers’ and ‘hydro’ and other stuff you’re not supposed to talk about in public. Someone would hear. He’d catch the eye of someone else who heard, then look around to see who else was listening. Four or five men would simply look at each other, then go back to their beers. Nothing was ever said. A few days later, Wonder Boy just up from Sydney would disappear. In a rainforest, there are lots of places you can disappear.
You can’t have some brash young kid mouthing off and attracting attention, bringing the heat in. Nobody felt good about these young boys disappearing. But nobody felt bad about it, either. They brought it on themselves.
There was one open secret that everybody did feel bad about.
A man lived further down the road, in a little shack Daddy never took me to. A man they called the Scoutmaster. In his shack, there were phrases in Thai on pieces of paper tacked up all over the walls. What time does the boat leave? Which way to the station? May I have some tea?
‘How much for that little boy?’ Ernie says sarcastically, crunching an empty beer can in his fist. He’s just come from the Scoutmaster’s place. He opens another can of beer. It’s summer, and I’m on the back verandah, pretending to be asleep. ‘Mate, it was all I could do not to knock his teeth out, the dirty bastard. I know what he gets up to in Thailand, rock spider that he is.’ Ernie’s shoulders are tight. He’s drinking a lot of beer. I know he’s not getting along with his missus. She’d better have the sense to keep out of his way tonight, otherwise she’ll cop the hiding Ernie wanted to give the Scoutmaster.
‘Save yourself the trouble,’ Daddy says in a low voice.
The Scoutmaster did get a hiding, but not for having sex with little boys in Thailand. He shot at a police helicopter that was hovering over his crop in the thick forest. The helicopter didn’t crash, but it flew away. The Scoutmaster thought he was pretty clever, shooting from underneath bracken where the police in the helicopter couldn’t see him. But some other croppers heard where the shots were coming from and showed up at his place an hour and a half later. They felt his rifle. It was still warm. They beat the crap out of him for doing something stupid that might bring the heat in.
The Scoutmaster got his nose and several of his ribs broken. But it didn’t matter. He recovered, sold his crop, and went to Thailand after Easter.
Chapter 37
I’m not so much into Clarissa Hobbs anymore, but I still watch it. Recently, the episodes seem to focus more on Clarissa’s personal life and gloss over her work. Maybe they’ve changed the writers, or maybe the producers have told the writers to do something different. They don’t show her much in court anymore, they just show her leaving her law office for the day, going off to do something glamorous and exciting. In the last episode, Clarissa was shopping in an exclusive boutique, trying to choose a dress for the Charity Ball. Her friend Barbara helps her choose a Vera Wang dress.
Do they even sell Vera Wang dresses in Sydney?
After my lesson with Miss Dunn, I usually go back to the Refuge after walking down University Road. But today, I take a bus into the city. I don’t know why I’ve never done this before. It’s not that far away.
The bus follows City Road, turns right onto Broadway, and trundles up the hill past the old Brewery on the right, then UTS on the left. Further up the hill, we go through the very edge of Chinatown, with neon signs in Chinese lighting the entrances to jewellery stores and noodle shops. Then comes Town Hall: cinemas, game parlours, Baskin Robbins, KFC. When the bus stops in front of the Queen Victoria Building, I know we’re getting close. I get off at the next stop, walk up half a block and turn right, walking toward Hyde Park. When I come to Llewellyn’s, I stop to study the window display. It’s summer and boiling hot, but the mannequins are dressed in wool skirts and jumpers. ‘Autumn Attractions’, the sign says. I pull open one of the heavy doors and go in.
A blast of air conditioning makes me shiver in my T-shirt. I can feel the sweat under my arms congealing – I hope I don’t smell bad to the clerks who’ve been working inside where it’s cool all day.
I try not to worry – after all, the other shoppers have been out in the heat, just like me. I walk past the rows of scarves and the display cases of watches, past the hosiery section, to the cosmetics department, then ride the escalator up to Designer Collections, on the third floor.
I walk around the floor. Simona. Trent Nathan. Moschino. Akira Isogawa. Covers. Dolce & Gabbana. Aquascutum. Max Mara. Colette Dinnigan. Carla Zampatti.
Floral prints seem to be in this season. I stop to look at a dress that has a pretty pattern of lilies all over it.
‘It looks like a muu-muu.’
The voice comes from behind me. It’s a young guy who looks like he paints houses for a living. He’s got paint splatters over his shorts and he’s wearing thongs. His girlfriend, skinny, blonde, and wearing heavy black eyeliner, is holding up a different floral dress against herself to show him what it will look like on.
‘Kev!’
‘Yeah, that’s what it looks like, a muu-muu!’ the painter guy says. He seems a nice guy, but he’s talking a bit too loud and his accent is full-on Westie. ‘A really fat lady lived across the street from us in St Mary’s and she used to wear ’em all summer. You know how you do this with your T-shirt to cool yourself down when it’s really hot?’ He flaps the hem of his T-shirt to demonstrate. ‘Well, that’s what this lady would do with her muu-muu.’ The blonde girl groans and puts the dress back on the rack. I move on.
I get bored looking at dresses and ride the lift to Level 7. The door opens onto an expanse of quiet. No one’s talking about muu-muus up here. The only noise is the whir of hair dryers and muted conversations from the hair salon on the opposite side of the floor.
I see a few names up here that I didn’t downstairs – Donna Karan, Valentino, Norma Kamali, Calvin Klein, Vivienne Westwood, Yves Saint Laurent, Ralph Lauren – but they don’t seem to have very much stuff by any one designer. I see one dress that I think is pretty, but they only have just the one in a size 10. Also, a lot of the clothes look like they’ve been tried on a million times. They’re a bit grubby around the ed
ges and don’t stay on the hangers properly. I find one blue dress that wasn’t anything special to begin with, has a loose button and a lipstick smear on the neck, but still costs nine hundred dollars.
It’s a good thing there aren’t any clerks around. I’d be embarrassed if anyone heard me laughing because I imagined that blue dress showing up at the Refuge in a box of donated clothes.
There’s some exhibition going on – ballet costumes done by Australian fashion designers. I decide to forget about the clothes and have a look at the tutus. One is a tutu made out of lots of ballet shoes. Each shoe has a ballet dancer’s name written on it. Intelligent and imaginative, but not wearable, Clarissa Hobbs would say. She was one of the judges of a fashion design contest in one episode. She would have said the same thing about the one that had all these wires with discs hanging off them. Imagine dancing ballet in that. You’d impale yourself if you did a jump and landed wrong.
The Akira Isogawa one isn’t pretty like his dresses and skirts downstairs, but his tutu costume definitely has an attitude about it that I like.
It’s the Collette Dinnigan tutu that makes the ride up to the seventh floor worthwhile. It has a bodice with lots of black beadwork and sequins, and a long, lacy skirt. I mentally squeeze my thick waist and chunky thighs into the tutu. I will my legs to grow longer and slimmer. Is it too late for me to start learning ballet? Bouquets of roses are thrown onto the stage, cries of ‘Encore!’ and ‘Bravo!’ echo through the Opera House as I bow, having performed for an audience of thousands wearing the famous Colette Dinnigan tutu . . .
Riggs Crossing Page 14
