On the Right Track

by Penelope Janu

  Sam was two and a half the first time I saw him. Other than crying when his mother left, he barely made a sound. Now he’s almost four. He suffers from anxiety and a speech delay, but I encourage him to communicate, to tell people what he wants and what, even without sight, he can see and experience. When he lifts his arms I bend down so he can hold my face in his hands. He comes so close our noses touch and his face goes out of focus.

  ‘I want Shelly and Pepper,’ he says. ‘I want running with Gold. Fast running. I want carrots. Dig up carrots in the garden.’

  ‘They’re great ideas,’ I say. ‘We’ll do all of that this morning.’

  Angelina squats on the floor next to Sam. She takes his hands from my face and squeezes them.

  ‘Hello, mate. It’s Angie again, Golden’s sister. C’mon. Let’s go find Seashell.’ She takes Sam’s hand and they walk towards my office. Seashell is my cat. He likes to stretch out on the floorboards, and catch the morning sun.

  Tor addresses Sam’s mother. ‘Your son will have a busy morning.’

  It’s the first time Sam’s mother will have seen anyone at my house who looks, dresses and speaks like Tor. She wipes her hands on her work tunic and shyly smiles.

  ‘He is very busy boy. Very happy boy with Golden.’ She takes my arm. ‘Very good clever girl.’

  My client’s speech difficulties are different to the ones I had when I fell from a horse as a teenager, smashing my leg and jaw, but I’ll never forget how hard it was, being unable to express how I felt.

  I smile at Mrs Lin. ‘It makes me happy to hear Sam’s voice, all my children’s voices. I love my job.’

  She nods rapidly, looking from me to Tor.

  ‘Tor came with Angelina, Mrs Lin. They’ll be leaving very soon.’

  There’s an awkward silence as she nods to each of us again, then joins Sam and Angelina. I hear their voices and Sam’s squeals, and then Tor hands me his card.

  ‘I’ll speak to my stepfather,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t care whether you speak to him or not. I need to see you before Friday. That’s when I leave for Switzerland.’

  ‘I have appointments with clients all week.’

  Angelina makes a meowing sound. Sam meows in response. Then they both laugh. My eyes meet Tor’s. His are hard, critical.

  ‘If you’d responded to my requests for an interview earlier, you wouldn’t have to cancel your clients.’ He doesn’t raise his voice but he speaks through his teeth. ‘Call me.’

  He doesn’t say, ‘Or else,’ but it’s clear that’s what he means.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Seashell is purring so loudly that I hear her across my office. Sam is lying on the floor with his head on her tummy. He has spiky black hair; Seashell’s fur is thick and white.

  Sam makes growling noises.

  ‘Purr,’ I say. ‘That’s the sound Seashell is making.’ I sit with my legs to the side on the floor next to him. ‘He’s a cat, Sam. He’s purring. Purr. That means he’s happy.’

  Sam sits up and purses his lips. His hands find my knees and then move up my thighs to my arms. He puts his curious fingers either side of my face.

  ‘Purr,’ I say, exaggerating the R. ‘Seashell is purring. You tell me about it. Tell me everything you know about Seashell.’

  Sam reaches for the cat. ‘Shelly is soft.’

  ‘Yes!’

  Sam strokes my hair. ‘Long fur.’

  ‘I have hair, Sam, like you. I agree my hair is long. That’s very good. But what about Seashell? Tell me more about her.’

  He returns to examining the cat and catalogues her whiskers, claws and tail. Then his hands are on me again and he realises I’m wearing jodhpurs.

  ‘Pepper!’ he says, jumping to his feet and tugging my hand. ‘Pepper!’

  ‘Tell me what you want to do.’

  ‘I want to go to Pepper.’

  ‘Good! Let’s go to the stables together.’

  I encourage Sam to talk about our journey down the weathered steps from the verandah, across the uneven gravel path which crunches under our feet, and over the lawn. We don’t bother with the gate but feel our way on our stomachs under the railings. Pepper is too high-spirited to be suitable for most children, which is why they interact with my palomino pony, Fudge. He’s thirteen hands high, generally placid and almost eighteen. But Sam prefers Pepper. She whinnies softly when she sees us. She’s finished her breakfast and is keen to be let out of the stable and into the paddock.

  ‘Pepper tall! Pepper hard feet. Up!’

  ‘Yes! Pepper is tall and she has hard feet. They’re called hooves.’

  ‘Careful!’

  I laugh. ‘I’ll be very careful. Thank you for reminding me about Pepper’s hooves.’ I lift Sam onto my hip. Pepper is gentle, dipping her head so Sam can rub his hands over her muzzle and neck. When she snorts he jumps, but then he smiles. His feet hang down to my knees now. ‘You’re growing so tall, Sam, and heavy. My leg’s stiff today.’

  He pats my leg. ‘It’s got lines,’ he says.

  Sam refused to get up off the floor when he first came to me. He held onto my ankles and cried for his mother. After a while he realised that one ankle felt different from the other one. He’s never forgotten it.

  ‘That’s right. The lines are scars. Come with me. I’ll find you a bucket to stand on so you can brush Pepper.’

  I let his feet slide to the ground and walk with him to the mounting block. Then I lift him up. He feels the circumference of the timber with his hands, then sits cross-legged in the middle.

  ‘Tell me what you hear,’ I say.

  His brow crinkles. ‘Birds.’

  As if on cue, the flock of cockatoos that startled Pepper earlier reappear. Even though they’re a hundred metres away, their screeches drown out the sounds of the bellbirds and parakeets, and even the kookaburras that we usually listen out for. When Sam puts his hands over his ears, I wrap an arm around his shoulders.

  ‘The cockatoos are troublesome today,’ I say. ‘When we go back to the house, we’ll make a cockatoo out of cardboard. The birds have gone now. I’ll get the bucket, and then we’ll visit Pepper again. We’ll tell her there’s nothing to be frightened of. Sit still, Sam. Wait for me here.’

  By the time Sam’s mother picks him up I’ve had five missed calls from my sister. I’ve felt guilty every time my phone has vibrated and her name has come up. But her number isn’t the first one I dial.

  My stepfather rarely picks up his mobile phone during office hours. Usually he gets one of his staff to do it, which is why I’m surprised when, after only one ring, it’s his voice I hear.

  ‘Golden. About time. Get over here now.’

  CHAPTER

  4

  My stepfather’s chief of staff greets me in an anteroom.

  ‘Hello, Miss Saunders,’ he says. ‘Your stepfather will be pleased to see you.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

  He sighs. ‘Follow me.’

  Eric Latimer has his back to me and is looking out of the window. When my name is announced he stiffens, then looks at his watch. I had four more clients after Sam, so I only left home at five. It took me two hours to get here in the traffic.

  Eric’s office is at the back of Parliament House and overlooks a park. Even though it’s only a short walk to the Botanical Gardens, I doubt he’s ever strolled around the lake, admired the plant specimens or sat on one of the benches that overlook the harbour. He rarely went into the gardens or paddocks at Grasmere, either. Grasmere is Eric’s property in the Southern Highlands, a few hours out of Sydney, and I was sent there after my fall. As soon as I was mobile I went outside to admire everything that Eric didn’t care about. Paperbark trees with flaky, creamy trunks lined the riverbank. Soaring blue gums climbed the rise beyond the dam and valley. To the east, where the cattle on agistment grazed, there were grey gums. Their branches were white in the midday sun. Under a full moon they shone platinum; in the wet, a soft dove gr
ey.

  Eric turns to me eventually. His hair is thick, and salt-andpepper brown. He frowns as I ease myself into a chair. He still feels responsible for my accident, even though it wasn’t his fault. He clears his throat and speaks.

  ‘I’ve apologised to Tor Amundsen. Profusely. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

  ‘I was busy. Ask Angelina.’

  ‘I already have. She covered for you, like she always does. This is my last year in parliament. I don’t want to finish on a sour note because of your obstinacy. Tor wanted half an hour to brief you—you could have spared him that.’

  It’s tempting to tell Eric that Tor and I did spend half an hour together, that he caught me when I fell off my horse and carried me across the stable yard as if I weighed nothing. But my heart thumps when I think about it and I’m afraid I might blush like a schoolgirl.

  ‘Why did you tell him I owe you money?’

  Eric purses his lips. ‘You do owe me money, and it was pertinent to our discussions.’

  ‘I can’t see how it would be. I think you wanted to get back at me because I didn’t turn up to your birthday party.’

  ‘Both of my daughters ought to have been there. The guests expected it.’

  ‘I’m your stepdaughter, not your daughter.’

  ‘Do you think I need to be reminded of that?’

  On the day I was conceived, Mum and Eric had an argument. It was Melbourne Cup day, and he’d wanted his charming fiancée to accompany him to a charity lunch. Mum was twenty-two, ten years younger than Eric, and preferred to join her friends in a sponsor’s marquee. My father, James Saunders, arrived at the marquee late in the afternoon. His horse had come third in the Cup, and he was still dressed in his silks. After he’d given Mum a behind the scenes tour of Flemington, they hooked up in one of the jockeys changing rooms. Mum must have known it was a mistake as soon as it was over because she went back to Eric that night.

  ‘How is Mum?’ I ask.

  ‘Perhaps you should come to Clovelly more often, and ask her that question yourself.’

  ‘I’ll try to see her soon.’

  By the time Mum acknowledged she could be pregnant, it was too late to do anything about it. To make matters worse, when she told Eric she was expecting a baby he was delighted, so she put off telling him he might not be the father until three months before I was born.

  Eric’s PA appears with a coffee tray, puts it on a sideboard and leaves.

  ‘Coffee?’ Eric says.

  ‘No, thanks. I won’t sleep if I do.’

  ‘You won’t sleep anyway, the way you’re favouring your leg. You’ve been riding again, haven’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He slowly shakes his head. ‘How many times do your mother and I have to tell you not to do it?’

  Eric was gutted when he found out Mum had been unfaithful, but he was still in love with her, and told her he would stand by her no matter who my father was. Even so, when the paternity tests showed that James was my father, Mum was distraught. She was already suffering from depression, which led to a breakdown. She refused to have anything to do with me in the hospital, was adamant she couldn’t take care of me and was talking about adoption. My father was living in Hong Kong by then, and I doubt he would have known what to do anyway, but Grandpa, my paternal grandfather, stepped in. I can imagine how he would have handled things, calmly telling Mum he would take responsibility for me, and that she shouldn’t make herself sick with worry, because everything would be as right as rain in the end.

  ‘You can’t tell me what to do, Eric. Neither can Mum.’

  ‘Emily cares about you a great deal.’

  ‘So why does she delegate to you?’

  Mum didn’t bond with me in utero, and handing me over meant it never happened afterwards either. I was four days old when Grandpa took me home to Lilydale. After that, particularly in the early years, I only saw Mum occasionally. She loves me in the way I imagine a distant aunt might. We have a connection, but it’s never been strong. I’m not only a reminder of my father, but of a traumatic time in her life. And it’s not like I needed or craved her affection when I was growing up. I always had Grandpa.

  Eric straightens the piles of paper sitting on his desk. On the wall near the window there’s a picture of the Queen, smiling graciously at me. My gaze moves from hers to Eric.

  ‘It was bratty not to come to your birthday party. I apologise.’

  He nods. ‘Accepted.’

  ‘What does Tor Amundsen want?’

  Eric puffs out his cheeks and then expels the air. ‘You know very well from my messages that he wants information pertaining to your father and grandfather. I’ve agreed to assist him in getting it.’

  My eyes go back to the Queen. She has an expression that suggests she knows everything about everybody. It makes me think.

  ‘Is Tor a spy?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘Are you sure? He’s handsome, athletic and a linguist, like James Bond.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘He even looks a bit dangerous. He could be a Norwegian spy on secondment to the UN.’

  ‘That’s quite enough.’

  ‘My father was a jockey, Grandpa was a horse trainer. What could either of them possibly have to do with …’ I pull Tor’s card from my pocket, ‘The United Nations General Assembly Disarmament and Security Committee?’

  ‘Tor is an undersecretary of the committee, which has launched an investigation into transnational money laundering.’

  ‘Good for him, but like I told you weeks ago, I’m staying out of this.’

  ‘If you refuse to assist him, he’ll believe you have something to hide. Even worse, he’ll believe I have something to hide.’

  ‘I don’t care what he thinks. You and I didn’t do anything wrong. Neither did Grandpa or my father.’

  Eric flushes as he gets up from his chair. He paces to the window and looks over the park. Smiling stiffly, he sits at his desk again.

  ‘Golden,’ he says, ‘you’re not a child anymore. I wish you’d face the facts.’

  My father was a well-known jockey, with hundreds of wins both here and overseas. But shortly before he died he was accused of taking bribes. If he hadn’t been so worried, he mightn’t have ridden his horse so hard. Perhaps it wouldn’t have fallen and killed him in the final turn of the Hong Kong Cup.

  The authorities couldn’t conduct a proper investigation without my father’s evidence, or prosecute someone who’d died, but his reputation was ruined anyway. Ten years later, Grandpa was accused of a cover-up. One Sunday, he and I sat side by side on the wicker sofa on the verandah at home. There was a break in the rain and the kookaburras were laughing. Grandpa carefully folded the newspapers and put them under the sofa. He wheezed as he spoke because he was having difficulty breathing by then. ‘Don’t cry, Golden,’ he said. ‘You have to see the funny side. They say I took hush money, even though I’m such a chatterbox.’

  I lean forward and rest my hands on Eric’s desk. ‘I have accepted the facts. Grandpa insisted my father would never hold back a horse, or fix a race. He also thought the money paid into his account was money owed to my father. That’s why he took it.’

  Eric clunks his coffee cup into a saucer. ‘You’re impossible to reason with.’

  ‘You said Tor wants information on my father and Grandpa. What kind of information?’

  ‘This is confidential, you have to keep it to yourself.’

  ‘I want nothing to do with it, so I’m not going to talk.’

  ‘Payments made to your father and grandfather are somehow linked to the crime syndicates Tor is interested in. He requires introductions, informal ones, to people you know in the industry. More specifically, to people your family knew.’

  ‘Even though I haven’t seen any of those people for the past five years?’

  ‘Apparently, yes.’

  ‘And what do you get out of this?’

  He huffs. ‘M
y anti-gambling stance is very well known.’

  ‘But you’re leaving parliament at the end of the year.’

  ‘Irrespective of that, I’d like to know where the money given to your grandfather came from, and whether your father was involved in organised crime. I’d also like to do my part in assisting the UN. Could that advantage me in my career? Certainly. There are a number of positions I’d like to be considered for once I leave parliament.’

  ‘I won’t do it.’

  ‘Golden!’

  ‘Grandpa’s reputation, and my father’s, will be dragged through the mud all over again. And Tor can’t force me to help him. Neither can you. So do whatever you like, just leave me out of it.’

  He picks up his cup and saucer and returns it to the tray. He’s behind me when he speaks.

  ‘I demand that you do this.’

  I stand too, and face him. ‘No, Eric.’

  He puts his hands behind his back and juts out his chin. ‘I could sell the land at Lilydale.’

  Whatever it is that’s been stiffening my spine deserts me. I’m suddenly weak and my leg aches. There’s a sick feeling in my stomach.

  ‘Sell my home? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘It’s in my name.’

  The police classified money Grandpa had drawn from his account to pay the mortgage as proceeds of crime, and that meant he had to pay it back. He didn’t have the cash and Eric wanted to avoid controversy, so they came to an arrangement. Grandpa would give Eric his land as security, and Eric would pay Grandpa’s debts. Eric promised to give the land back when the money was repaid.

  ‘You’re behind with your payments,’ Eric says, ‘capital and interest.’

  ‘But it’s my home.’ My voice wavers.

  ‘Then you only have one option. Do as I say and assist Tor Amundsen. That way, you’ll get to stay at Lilydale, I’ll get my questions answered, and the UN will be satisfied.’

  Eric follows me to the lifts, and watches silently as I jab at the button. Finally the globe above the lift door lights up. When the lift clunks to a stop, I step in and hold the doors open.