‘Oh will you, dear? That’d be nice,’ said Gramma absently. She picked a grasshopper off what was left of a rose bush, and wandered over to the apple tree. She fingered the apples.
There were a lot of apples this year, thought Sam, but they’d drop off before they were ripe. They always did.
‘Now tell me, Sam,’ said Gramma vaguely. ‘How is school going?’
Sam sighed. Gramma had asked how school was going twice already. He’d told her ‘fine’ before. Suddenly he decided to tell the truth.
‘Lousy,’ said Sam.
Gramma blinked.
‘The kids laugh at me because of my warts,’ said Sam. Dad shifted uncomfortably.
‘They’re all over my hands,’ said Sam. ‘Elspeth Motrell said she wouldn’t share a desk with me last term, in case I touched her with my warts.’
‘The doctor burnt them off but they just grow again,’ said Dad.
Gramma looked confused. ‘Who wouldn’t sit next to you?’ she asked.
‘Elspeth,’ said Sam.
‘You don’t know her, Mother,’ said Dad.
‘No, that’s right,’ said Gramma. ‘Is she a nice girl? She doesn’t sound very nice.’ Gramma paused. ‘I’ll just go and make some lunch.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Sam. ‘Mum’s getting it.’
‘That’s nice of her,’ said Gramma.
Sam grew bored. He wandered into the kitchen after Mum.
‘What’s for lunch?’ he asked.
Mum slammed the fridge door. ‘Slimey lettuce, stale Jatz crackers, a chop that should have been thrown out a week ago. And two thousand eggs.’
‘Guess the chooks are laying well,’ said Sam.
‘What’s for lunch?’ Dad peered through the screen door.
‘Scrambled eggs,’ said Mum, grabbing a saucepan with so much force the cupboard shook. ‘That’s what we’re having for dinner too. That’s all there is in the house. Look, isn’t it time you faced it? Your mother can’t cope out here by herself. You have to do something.’
Dad nodded slowly.
‘Don’t just nod,’ said Mum. ‘I’m sick of it! We come down here for what’s supposed to be a holiday and you spend all your time trying to catch up on a year’s worth of repairs, and half the time at home you’re feeling guilty because she’s down here alone. It’s time we put a stop to it!’
‘We’ll talk about it after dinner,’ said Dad. ‘I think Mother realises now she’s not coping. Look, do you mind scrambled eggs tonight, too? I’ll pop into town tomorrow and stock up.’
‘We’ll manage,’ said Mum.
Sam sneaked off outside.
That was before the unicorn was born.
No one knew the foal was coming, except maybe its mother, the old white mare down by the fence near the creek. Mum and Dad didn’t know, and Sam didn’t know. He didn’t even know Gramma had a horse. She hadn’t had one last Christmas or the one before, much less one that was in foal.
Even Gramma couldn’t have known. She was too confused to remember things like horses giving birth. But somehow she did know, because she was hobbling down to the fence to this big, old, hungry looking horse just lying there in the dust, and suddenly she was yelling.
‘Sam! Sam!’
Sam ran. ‘What is it, Gramma? Is it a snake? Have you hurt yourself?’
‘Look,’ said Gramma. ‘Just look.’
Sam looked.
The foal had skinny legs. All foals had skinny legs, but not like this. These legs were thin like chopsticks. Even without knowing much about horses Sam could see they weren’t made right. The head was too small too with this funny bony thing pointing out of its forehead, and the eyes looked blank and blue, not like proper horse eyes at all. Even the body looked lopsided.
‘It’s a unicorn,’ said Gramma proudly, batting a grasshopper out of her eye.
‘There’s no such thing as unicorns, Gramma,’ said Sam. She’d be telling him about the tooth fairy next. Sometimes Sam thought that Gramma still believed that he was three years old.
The foal tried to stand. Its legs were still too weak. It stumbled and gave a bleating cry, then just lay there, panting.
The mare sniffed it. She whinnied, a funny crazy sound. She struggled to her feet, then walked slowly down the fence line.
‘Where’s she going?’ cried Sam. ‘Why’s she leaving her baby?’
Gramma blinked. ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘Maybe … well, I don’t know.’
‘Is it ’cause it’s different?’ whispered Sam. He reached out and stroked the creature’s head. It felt damp, but very warm.
‘Maybe,’ said Gramma. She sat beside Sam and pulled the whimpering foal onto her lap. It came easily, like it had no bones. Its head drooped onto Gramma’s dress as she stroked its too-long neck.
‘What do we do now, Gramma?’ asked Sam.
Gramma seemed to look into the distance for a while. She didn’t speak. She just stroked and stroked till finally Sam couldn’t wait any more.
‘Gramma?’ he asked again. ‘What are we going to do?’
Gramma blinked, like she’d been a long way off. She looked at Sam like she was surprised to see him there. ‘Sam …’ said Gramma. She looked down at the ugly foal. ‘Well, I reckon we’ll take him back to the house,’ she said slowly. ‘Put him in a box by the stove like the poddy lambs. We used to have lots of poddy lambs …’
‘But what’ll he eat?’ demanded Sam.
Something seemed to seep back into Gramma, something strong and sure. ‘Why, I reckon I’ll have to milk the old girl if she won’t feed her foal,’ said Gramma. ‘I used to milk cows often enough.’
‘But this is a horse, Gramma!’
‘I reckon I can milk a horse,’ said Gramma, even more firmly now.
‘And feed the baby with a bottle?’
‘And feed him with a bottle,’ agreed Gramma. ‘Here, help me to my feet. It’s my knees. They don’t work like they used to. Nothing works much like it did before.’
Gramma settled the limp foal into a big cardboard fruit box by the stove. It could hold its head up now, but still didn’t look like it could ever stand. Its blue blank eyes stared unblinking at the world.
‘It’s a freak. It’s deformed,’ said Mum flatly. ‘It should be put down.’ She turned to Dad. ‘Don’t you think so …’
‘I agree,’ said Dad. ‘Look Mother, I’ll take it out the back and …’
‘It stays here,’ said Gramma firmly.
‘But …’
‘I said no,’ said Gramma. Dad looked rattled and Mum just stared. ‘And while we’re at it,’ said Gramma, ‘there’ll be no more talk about me going to a nursing home. Not while I’ve still got my strength. Now, what’s for dinner?’
‘Scrambled eggs,’ said Mum. ‘Just like for lunch. That’s all there was in the fridge. Just eggs and stuff that should have been thrown out. We’ll go into town tomorrow and buy some …’
Gramma snorted. ‘Scrambled eggs is no fit food for a growing boy. Is that what you feed Sam at home? Sam, you get my axe. It’s down the back of the shed. We’re having roast chook for tea.’
Gramma stuffed the chook with stale bread, and a chopped onion from the back of the cupboard and herbs from the dusty garden out the back. Then she hobbled down to the fence by the creek with a bucket. Sam carried her stool.
Gramma lowered herself down onto the stool slowly. She stretched out her legs. ‘Used to be my knees only ached when it rained,’ she said. ‘Then they ached in winter too. Now they ache all the time. And most of the rest of me.’
‘What’s wrong with them, Gramma?’ asked Sam.
‘Arthritis, the doctor says,’ said Gramma. ‘But I reckon it’s just I’m getting old.’ She reached for the mare’s udder. The mare just stood there, gazing out at the bare paddock, indifferent.
The first squirt of milk battered at the edges of the bucket and ran down the side. It pooled in a small blue puddle at the bottom. ‘Firm but gentle, see?’ said
Gramma, as she alternated strokes from teat to teat.
Sam nodded. ‘Can I have a go?’
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ said Gramma. ‘Or the next day, when she’s used to being milked. You remind me to get some hay in town tomorrow, and a bag of stud mix too. We need to feed her up.’
Sam watched, fascinated. ‘Does it feel different from a cow?’ he asked.
‘Cow or horse, it’s all the same,’ said Gramma, watching the thin blue milk squirt into the bucket. ‘I suppose you could milk an elephant too if you had to. I knew a bloke once who milked an echidna.’
‘Yuk. What did he do with the milk?’
‘Sent it to the uni. Someone was going to analyse it, see what the echidna had been eating. But he drank a bit first, just to see what it tasted like.’
‘What did it taste like?’
‘Ants,’ said Gramma. ‘There we are. I reckon that’s enough for now. Can you carry the bucket as well as the stool, Sam? My hands are shaky. I’d hate to spill it now.’
It took the foal a few minutes to work out how to suck from a bottle. It drank slowly, as though it hurt to swallow. It shivered, even though the kitchen was warm.
‘Hot-water bottle,’ said Gramma. ‘It’s in the drawer under the sink. Yes, that’s the one. Thanks, Sam. Now if you’d just fill the kettle we’ll boil it up …’
Gramma wrapped the hot-water bottle in an old towel and tucked it next to the unicorn, and covered them both with a blanket. The foal rested its head against the side of the box and closed its pale blue blank eyes.
‘Gramma?’
‘Yes, Sam.’
‘Is it going to live?’
‘It’ll live,’ said Gramma.
Dad insisted on driving into town next day, even though Gramma said she was quite capable.
‘I’ve been driving into town for fifty years. It’s still the same way in it’s always been. It hasn’t changed,’ Gramma complained from the front seat beside Dad.
Dad veered around another pothole. ‘The way into town hasn’t changed, but I think you have, Mother,’ he said warily. ‘The back tyre was flat this morning. And the battery was flat too. I bet you haven’t driven the car for months.’
‘It’s been a while since I drove,’ admitted Gramma. ‘I haven’t been feeling the best. But I’m better now.’
‘How have you been getting groceries?’ asked Sam.
‘The postman brings them down,’ said Gramma. ‘You know, Len McIntyre, your father was at school with his brother. He brings my groceries out. When I remember to let him know what to bring.’
‘Look Mother …’ said Dad.
‘No,’ said Gramma. ‘I’m not going into a nursing home. I’m not coming down to the city to live with you either. But thank you anyway. Now stop here … no, to the right. You pop in to the baker’s and get the bread while I pick up some stud mix for the mare.’
The foal was sleeping when they got home, but it lifted its head when they came in.
‘See, it’s getting stronger,’ said Gramma.
‘I still think …’ said Dad, and then he stopped. He sighed and began to put away the groceries instead.
‘Where’s Mum?’ asked Sam.
‘Off in a snit somewhere,’ said Dad. ‘All I ask is a few days down here once a year, but …’
‘Hey, Gramma! The grasshoppers have gone!’
Dad peered out the window. ‘My word, they have too. I reckon they’ve decided they’ve eaten everything they could round here and just moved on.’
‘’Bout time too,’ said Gramma.
Sam and Gramma took a bucket of stud mix down to the mare after lunch. Sam carried the bucket.
Gramma seemed to walk straighter today. ‘Arthritis always gets better in dry weather,’ she said. ‘I reckon this is about as dry as it comes.’
The mare thrust her nose into the stud mix and ate gratefully.
‘I’m sorry old thing,’ said Gramma. ‘I should have been feeding you long before this. You get stuck into it.’
‘Where did she come from, Gramma?’ asked Sam.
‘Sale up at town,’ said Gramma. ‘No one wanted her. She was going to be bought for dog meat when I bought her. Didn’t cost me much. Didn’t know she was in foal till later.’
‘Poor old thing,’ said Sam, stroking her nose. ‘I wish she’d liked her baby though.’
Darkness seemed to sit on the house, squeezing out all sound. It was too quiet, thought Sam, lying in the narrow bed that used to be Dad’s, watching the trees droop against the stars. You kept thinking that a car would go by or a dog would bark or someone yell. But no one did.
Something squeaked, so suddenly the silence almost cracked. Sam sat up. What was it?
The sound came again.
Sam pulled the sheet up around his chest. Should he get up and investigate? But it was probably just a mouse, or Gramma going down to the bathroom or …
… or a rat — a great big rat. Rats attacked baby animals didn’t they? Maybe it would hurt the foal.
Maybe it was the foal crying in its sleep …
The noise stopped. Sam waited for it to start again. But it didn’t. A possum screamed out in the trees, then there was silence.
Sam dozed. Suddenly his eyes opened again. A different noise …
Sam slid out of bed and felt for his slippers. The moonlight washed gently through the room. He was glad there was no need to turn on the light. The light might wake up Mum and Dad.
The passageway was quiet too. His slippers flopped gently on the old linoleum.
Mum sat by the foal’s box. Its head rested tiredly in her lap. She looked up as he came in. For a horrible moment Sam thought the foal was dead, then he realised its eyes were open, pale as old glass in the moonlight. Mum stroked its head.
‘It was whimpering,’ she explained.
‘I know. I heard it.’ Sam squatted down beside them. ‘I thought you didn’t like the foal,’ said Sam.
‘I didn’t like it,’ said Mum. ‘But it looks different tonight. Sort of sweet.’
It looked the same to Sam. Floppy and weak and that strange almost glowing white. Its head lolled back onto the edge of the box. Mum shifted a bit of blanket under it like a pillow.
‘Have you been here long?’ asked Sam.
‘A while,’ said Mum. ‘It’s been peaceful, just sitting here. You forget what silence is like at home.’
The possum shrieked again, nearer this time.
Something ran across the roof. Mum smiled. ‘Not that it’s really silent,’ she said. ‘There’re all sorts of noises if you listen to them. I heard an owl a little while ago. Maybe it’s hunting the possum. And there was a funny bird call, like something running down the scales but not quite getting there. I don’t know what it was.’
‘Dad’d know,’ said Sam.
‘I’ll ask him later,’ said Mum.
They sat quietly for a while. The foal managed to lift its head. It whinnied again, softly, but this time it didn’t sound in pain.
‘Is there any more milk?’ whispered Mum. ‘I’ll heat up a bottle for it.’
‘Gramma left some in the fridge,’ said Sam.
Mum put the kettle on, then tiptoed to the fridge. ‘You pop back to bed,’ she said to Sam. ‘You’re getting cold.’
‘You don’t need a hand?’ asked Sam.
‘No,’ said Mum. ‘I’m fine.’
Gramma made baked-bean jaffles for breakfast. The foal lifted its head and watched for a moment before sinking back into its box. Mum ate her jaffle slowly. Sam knew she didn’t like baked beans.
‘Elva?’ she said to Gramma.
‘Yes?’
‘Is there someone around who does odd jobs? Someone who could grade the road for you, fix the fences, stuff like that?’
Gramma paused with the dish mop in her hand. ‘Willie McRae,’ she said. ‘He’s always after a job of work.’
‘Do you think he’d come down today? Gary and I would pay him of course,’ said Mum quickly. ‘I
know it’s hard to afford help on your pension. But if he could grade the road …’
‘I was going to grade the road,’ said Dad. ‘I’ll stick the blade on the tractor this morning. I’d have done it yesterday but we had to go into town …’
‘I know. But I was thinking …’
‘What?’
‘Maybe we could go for a walk instead. Up to the old hut by the waterfall.’
‘The waterfall’ll be dry,’ warned Gramma.
‘I know. But it’d be interesting anyway. I’ve never been there. You’ve told me about that hut so many times, how you used to go up there and camp when you were a kid. I’d like to see it.’
Dad hesitated.
‘I’ll ring Willie after breakfast,’ said Gramma. ‘You pack up some lunch. It’s a long walk up to the hut.’
Dad grinned. ‘The old hut,’ he said. ‘I haven’t thought about it for years. You coming, Sam?’
‘Sam and I are going to strain the fence down by the creek,’ said Gramma. ‘And we have to feed the mare and give the foal its bottles. Off you go. We’ll expect you when we see you.’
It had been a good holiday, thought Sam, as the car drove down the newly graded track. He turned back for a final look. Gramma was still waving, the ugly foal in her lap. It could hold its head up now, though it still couldn’t stand.
‘And so it’s all sorted out with Willie,’ Mum was saying in the front. ‘He’ll finish re-straining the fences this week, then after that he’ll come every Thursday.’
Dad nodded.
‘And you’ll send him a cheque once a month. I mean, it’s not like we can’t afford it,’ said Mum.
Dad nodded again. ‘And he’s getting Matt Godwin at the hardware store to get someone to paint the house. It’ll be good to see the old place looking good again.’ He glanced back at the house. ‘It’s a long time to Christmas,’ he said to himself.
‘There’s always Easter,’ said Mum offhandedly ‘Why don’t we come down then? It’s a long drive, but we’ve both got some leave up our sleeves …’
‘But we always go to the beach at Easter,’ said Dad. ‘You said it’s not fair to Sam to come back here so soon.’
He looked back at Sam. ‘Do you mind coming down here again, instead of the beach?’ he asked.
The Book of Horses and Unicorns Page 15
