by Cathryn Hein
‘Better make the most of it while you can.’
She shot him a look. What was he on about? … Shirley’s Pride is looking good coming up to the twelve hundred, Tiny Torpedo a half length behind followed by Bossybritches and Mangaman. Then it’s Dalliance to Our Boy Peter …
Mark’s eyes slid to Jason and then behind to check no one was listening. ‘I just got off the phone to Dad. McCurdie had to be scratched from the Bletchingly.’
Brooke’s eyes widened. ‘Poor Dad. He must be disappointed.’ The Bletchingly Stakes had kicked off the Melbourne Spring Racing Carnival since the early nineties. It was an important race, and not only because of its Group 3 status and $125 000 in prize money. As a good opener to the season, it attracted a quality field and was considered an important performance indicator for the later, more prestigious and lucrative races. With McCurdie’s excellent bloodline and solid performance as a two-and three-year-old, he was considered a future race winner. ‘I hope it’s nothing serious.’
‘Tendon.’
‘Shit,’ said Brooke, feeling ill.
Coming up to the eight hundred and it’s still Shirley’s Pride, with Bossybritches on the inside alongside Tiny Torpedo, Mangaman, Our Boy Peter and Dalliance …
‘Yeah, shit. And you better start praying Dalliance comes home.’ Mark leaned in even closer, his breath hot on her ear. Alarm shot down her back. This wasn’t intimate, it was menacing. Her mouth dried. ‘You wouldn’t realise being stuck up there in your little sanctuary but times are tough, Brooke. We had a lean autumn carnival, and those two horses Dad spent over a million on at the Inglis sales? Still unsyndicated.’
She looked at him, her anxiety skyrocketing. In the stands, the crowd began to rise but Brooke’s legs felt so jellified she didn’t have a hope of standing. ‘But you’ve attracted new owners, new horses. Like that Cunning Cavalier.’
‘Been through half a dozen stables already,’ said Mark, grabbing her elbow and bringing her to her feet, fingers squeezing tight when she wobbled. ‘We’re the connections’ last resort.’
‘Come on, Dally,’ yelled Jason, on his feet and banging his race book.
Coming up to the turn now and it’s Bossybritches in the lead followed by Tiny Torpedo, a half length to Shirley’s Pride and Dalliance who’s moving onto the rail …
‘If we don’t syndicate those horses or start producing some decent results, things are going to have to change.’
An avalanche of ice fell through Brooke. She snatched at her wrist, pressing hard and counting. Desperate for control. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, it’s about time you took your head out of the clouds and realised this is a business we’re running, not some fucking pony club.’ His voice roughened with the effort of keeping his anger and their conversation close. ‘It’s all right for you – the only person you have to worry about is yourself, but the rest of us have lives and responsibilities. If the yard goes under it’s not just you who loses out. It’s all of us, and I, for one, am not prepared to let that happen. Not now that —’ His jaw clenched, then he took a steadying breath. ‘Remember that buyer I told you about? His solicitor called again yesterday. That’s how keen he is.’
Two hundred metres to go and it’s still Bossybritches but Tiny Torpedo has hit her straps and she’s coming home, Shirley’s Pride’s still hanging in with Dalliance, followed by Mangaman who’s fading fast …
‘I know you don’t want to face it, Brooke, but you need to. Kingston Downs is on the line.’
Jason leaned forward, hands clenched, his face red. ‘Come on, Dalliance!’
Tiny Torpedo has her neck in front …
‘No.’ Brooke shook her head. He couldn’t be serious, but Mark’s face revealed his determination. ‘You can’t. Nan and Angus and I won’t let you.’
‘Unless things pick up, we won’t have the choice.’
And it’s Tiny Torpedo a length to Bossybritches and Shirley’s Pride, a neck to Dalliance …
As Tiny Torpedo streaked past the finishing post the Chiangs and their guests erupted, rushing the air with loud whoops, cheers and whistles.
The Camerons muttered words of disappointment, shooting accusing glances at Brooke, Mark and Ariel. To Brooke, every look was like a knife cut. Her anxiety rocketed, each breath shallower and faster than the last, threatening to plunge her into a full-blown panic attack.
She pressed harder and harder on her wrist, fingernails cutting into her flesh. One, two, three. One, two, three. She closed her eyes, using every ounce of strength to force calm, thinking of Lachlan, his strong arms holding her, his tender hands stroking her head, whispering that he had her. That it would be all right.
Mark leaned in closer. ‘Start praying, Brooke.’
But Brooke already was.
Twelve
‘Brooke?’ Lachie took another step towards Poddy’s yard, the aches and small agonies of his rugby-battered body forgotten. Though he’d ordered Billy to stay on his bed, the little dog had followed from the cottage, drawn, as he was, to the hunched figure in the yard. Harbouring none of Lachie’s wariness, Billy sat by Brooke’s feet, looking up, right paw rising and falling as if he wanted to touch her but couldn’t summon the bravery to do so.
She kept her head buried in Poddy’s mane, the horse standing quiet and solid, as though he sensed his mistress’s need for strength. Except for the Blundstone boots on her feet, she appeared to be still dressed in her racewear. The white houndstooth checks of her jacket glowed almost phosphorescent in the moonlight, the bottom of her knee-length black dress like a shadow.
The door of the Land Cruiser hung open, the interior light emitting a soft orange bloom across the yards. The other horses watched, ears held forward, breaths steamy in the cold night air. Hesitant to intrude, Lachie studied her posture. Her arms were around Poddy’s neck, one hand fisted in his mane. She held her head tilted and bowed as she pressed the side of her face into his coat. Her shoulders curved inwards, hunched, as though against the cold, yet some innate sensitivity told him it wasn’t the cold she fought. He took another step closer, focusing hard. And then he heard it. A choked sob so quiet and cut off it could have been a trick of the night.
His indecision evaporated. He ducked under the rail and turned her towards him, arms wrapping around her trembling shoulders. ‘Hey, it’s okay. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay.’
She shook her head into his chest but didn’t reply. Not knowing what else to say, he held and comforted her as best he could, keeping her warm with his body.
Finally, she pulled away, wiping at her averted eyes. ‘God, you must think I’m pathetic.’
‘No.’ Pathetic was the last word he’d use to describe Brooke. Clever, gorgeous, brave and vulnerable, but never pathetic.
She shook her head, not believing him. ‘I’m so sick of crying on your shoulder.’
‘They’re big shoulders. They can take it.’ His hand curled with the urge to tuck his fingers under her chin and turn her face to him. ‘You want to talk?’
‘No point. Anyway, I feel a bit better now I’ve had a good cry.’ She reached out to stroke Poddy’s nose. In the moonlight, the horse’s sunken eye socket appeared dark and ghoulish, but Brooke didn’t seem to notice. All Lachie sensed was her profound love for the animal. ‘Thanks for looking after the horses.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He lowered his head to meet her eyes. Mascara smudged sooty circles under her lashes and tears made her eyes limpid, yet through the sadness he glimpsed an inner strength no sorrow could diminish. He smiled, trying to cheer her up. ‘Would you like to hear some good news?’
‘Please. After today I could do with it.’
‘The Panthers won again. Beat the Ellerston Eagles for the first time ever. It’s a wonder we can’t hear them celebrating in the pub from here.’
Her head jerked up. ‘You’re joking.’
‘Nope.’
A moonlit grin of unvarnished delight spread across her face. ‘But that’s
fantastic! And all thanks to you, no doubt.’
‘No, not my doing. The boys played their hearts out. I think last week fired them up. Nate didn’t drop the ball once and Patrick’s passes were like lightning.’
Her fingers stilled on Poddy’s nose. ‘Did Chloe turn up to watch?’
‘Yeah.’ Chloe had been there in full colour, screaming from the sidelines, running up to him at the end of the game and attempting to kiss his muddy mouth. He’d turned away, embarrassed by her brazenness. The Panthers laughed and teased him for being shy, but shyness had nothing to do with it. He simply didn’t trust Chloe. Unlike Brooke’s spontaneous reaction, with her lit-up, happy smile and wide honest expression, Chloe’s attentions felt calculated and overblown, as though he were a prize instead of a person. A trophy to be paraded around and shown off. ‘I didn’t see Andrew, though.’
‘He was at Rosehill. His mother’s horse, Tiny Torpedo, won the Farnlee Handicap. Dad’s horse came fourth.’
‘Oh.’ Lachie looked away, annoyed at the flare of resentment he felt on hearing Andrew had been with Brooke. A thought hit him. He looked sharply back at her. ‘It’s not him, is it? Why you’re upset?’
‘No. It’s …’ She stilled, a glaze of worry setting her face, before a false smile cracked it away. ‘It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. I was just being stupid.’
He didn’t believe her, but if she didn’t want to talk about it then he wasn’t going to push. Given she’d been in Sydney, it was probably a family thing – and that was something he’d best stay well out of.
‘I have other good news,’ he said. ‘Something you’ll like even more than the Panthers winning.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘I managed to get Sod here,’ he nodded towards the horse, ‘to walk to the top of the float ramp.’
She looked from him to Sod and back again. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘Nope.’
If he’d thought her delight at the Panthers’ win was amazing, it had nothing on the way she looked now. Her entire face was transformed, glowing with happiness and admiration, making him feel absurdly proud.
She clapped her hands together. ‘But that’s brilliant! How did you do it?’
‘With a lot of patience. I just kept talking to him, trying to reassure him it was okay.’ He grinned. ‘And I had carrots.’
She laughed, the sound rich and warm in the night. ‘You bribed him!’
‘Only a bit. Anyway, it works with Billy.’
‘And there I was thinking Billy only behaved because he loved you.’
‘He does. I feed him, he loves me. Simple.’
She ran her hand down Poddy’s neck. ‘I wish humans were as easy.’
Lachie tilted his head at the sky, thinking of Tamsyn, how he missed the signs completely. The mistakes he never wanted to make again. ‘So do I.’
An awkward silence fell, interrupted by Billy’s snuffling and Sod’s restless movements. He wanted to carry on the conversation, to keep her smiling, but a hint of frost hung in the air. Cold seeped under his jumper and crept icy fingers along his flesh. For Brooke, in her flimsy racewear, it had to be worse. She’d only just recovered from the flu. He didn’t want her getting sick again.
He pointed towards the cottage. ‘Do you want to come in for a cup of tea or something? There’s a bottle of red wine open.’
She shook her head. ‘No. I need to go home and get changed out of this stupid outfit.’ She looked down at herself and waggled a booted foot. ‘Blunnies. Now that’s more me.’
He couldn’t agree more. Casual suited her, not that stiff, tailored artifice. And she looked good in jodhpurs. Really good. ‘Okay, but I’ll be up for a bit if you change your mind.’
‘Thanks. And thanks for …’ She waved a hand at herself. ‘You know.’
‘Any time.’ He cupped her upper arm and regarded her earnestly. ‘You sure you’re all right?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, holding his gaze in a way that made his stomach somersault. ‘Thanks to you.’
Words that kept Lachie smiling all the way back to the cottage.
Though Lachie tried to focus it elsewhere, his mind kept drifting back to Brooke. That was the trouble with driving – too much time to think. The trip to Delamere for his mother’s birthday gave him plenty. What he should be concentrating on was his father and how to keep his temper with the obstinate fool, but all he could think of was how good Brooke made him feel. Heroic, almost. Like he could do anything.
Christ, he admired her. Her bravery and determination. He even appreciated her stubbornness. Each time she tried to drive the float he could see the terror as it took her over, yet in the five days since she’d been back from Sydney she’d tried again and again. Brooke said she felt safe with him watching her, but as proud as that made him feel, her distress left him floored, to the point where he was beginning to dread the sessions as much as he suspected she did.
They’d made small progress. She could sit in the car with the engine running without issue now. He’d even managed to get her to hold her foot on the clutch and put the car in gear and hold it there, and while her breath would become ragged and sweat would break out over her face, her hands would shake and her legs would tremble, she could do it. Anything more, though, ended in a full-blown panic attack that turned his insides out and left Brooke a gasping mess.
She needed proper help, professional help. Convincing her of that fact, however, was going to be a challenge.
He glanced at Billy, paws up on the passenger-side window frame, tail wagging at the passing landscape. On this side of the Great Divide, the land stretched in wide plains to the horizon. Winter crops, healthy after solid rains, turned the country into a patchwork quilt of green. Any day now the paddocks would transform into a blaze of yellow as vast plantings of canola came into flower. Through the windscreen the sky draped the world in an endless cloth of blue, cloud-free and magnificent. He leant his arm against the window and let the sun warm his skin as his iPod siphoned music through the car.
He drove through Parkes and continued on the Newell Highway towards Forbes, thinking how different it was here to the Valley. This was the land of his childhood. The sweeping Central West where flood followed drought, and the highs and lows of farming provided joy and agony in equal measure. He had family here, and memories. So many memories.
Typically, when he reached this close to home excitement would flood his veins, but today resignation and a twinge of annoyance at having to leave Kingston Downs flattened his mood. Perhaps the bad times – the arguments, the hardships, his shattered heart – had finally overwhelmed his memories of the good he’d once experienced here. But as his mind drifted back to Brooke once more, he wondered if it wasn’t something else, something he needed to shut down fast.
From Forbes he cut off the highway and headed west. The country looked good, slowly repairing after years of devastating drought, of the drying, dying river and no water allocations, of heartbreaking days when wind blew up whirly-whirlies of dust where lush crops and pastures once thrived. They had been harsh years, savage times now burnt into the local psyche. Lachie knew of one farmer who’d committed suicide, unable to stand another day of hopelessness. Harry Cambridge, with no more livestock to sell, sold parcels of precious Delamere land to survive – an act that had nearly sent Lachie walking again. But he had Tamsyn to think of then, a future, dreams, and he’d stayed.
He turned into Delamere’s tree-lined driveway, his heart finally lifting as he spotted Nick’s battered Holden ute parked in the shade cast by the farm’s four-bedroom, pale-green weatherboard house.
Unlike the rest of Delamere, the house and garden – his mother’s territory – were immaculate. A wide verandah, upon whose swept timbered floor a six-year-old Lachie once raced laps on his bike, protected the house from the elements on all sides. Winter flowers – like those in the perfectly pruned orchard nearby, evidence of Minette Cambridge’s green thumb – cascaded in vibrant colour from terra-c
otta pots placed on either side of the verandah posts. Four cane chairs with well-stuffed, bright-yellow cushions sat against the western wall, the perfect perch for Lachie and Nick to enjoy a beer and talk while the sun went down.
A giant form shadowed the front screen door as Lachie pulled up behind Nick’s ute. Convinced the figure was his dad, he braced himself for his old man’s disapproving gaze and hard-set mouth. Instead, the door swung open to reveal his grinning brother. Lachie’s stomach and shoulders relaxed at the sight. He returned the grin and then laughed as his mother bullied past Nick, her smile full of welcoming warmth, her eyes glistening with happy, love-filled tears.
Lachie alighted quickly, taking the stairs two at a time, and grabbed Minette in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground to swing her around as he always did, while Billy yapped and ran circles in delight. The Cambridge boys inherited their size from the paternal side and while their mother wasn’t tiny, she was diminutive enough to appear doll-like alongside her boys, who took great pleasure in picking her up for hugs.
Her joyous giggles were one of the best things about coming home.
‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ said Lachie, noisily kissing her cheek before placing her down to admire a country-girl prettiness that never seemed to fade, no matter the creeping of years. A few more lines creased her eyes, mouth and neck, and grey peeked through the roots of her dark-brown hair where the colour had grown out, but her hazel eyes, so like his and Nick’s, retained their loving sparkle, her mouth its adoring smile. ‘You don’t look a day over thirty.’
‘You’re such a liar,’ she said, swatting playfully at him. ‘But it’s so good to see you.’
‘Great to see you, too, Mum.’ And it was. He adored his mother. He turned to Nick. At twenty-two his brother’s face still held a trace of boyish innocence but his body was that of a full-grown man. He stood a centimetre shorter than Lachie – a fact the brothers double-checked at least once a year – his frame showing all the strength and bulk of a typical Cambridge. Lachie thrust out his hand. ‘Hey, shortarse.’
