by Cathryn Hein
Arms draped around his shoulders. His mother kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you.’
‘You heard?’
‘Not all of it, but enough.’ She hugged him harder. ‘He always regretted driving you away.’
‘I thought it was what he wanted.’
‘No. He loved you. He wanted to work with you. He just didn’t know how to communicate.’
‘Neither did I.’ He glanced at her, mouth crooked with regret. ‘Except by arguing.’ He looked back at his dad, now asleep in his morphine haze. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. It must have been hard on you.’
‘Doesn’t matter. What matters is you’re here now.’ She straightened and patted his shoulder before kissing the top of his head. ‘Go and have your breakfast. I’ll keep watch.’
But Lachie was too full of emotion to eat. Instead, he wandered outside, Billy tracking alongside, and headed away from the house to the back of the machinery shed. The place he used to escape to as a boy when he was upset or angry. Where he’d yank grass from the dirt and throw stones and think defiant thoughts, unaware that with each moment he spent indulging his moods, his father had taken another unknown step towards death.
Morning sun lit and warmed the corrugated iron and turned the dew-covered, weed-infested area pretty with sparkling colour. He leaned against the shed wall, staring sightlessly across the farm, his mind rolling over his father’s words, the intensity of his expression.
So many years. So much wasted time. And for what? Ego.
He slid downwards until he crouched with his arms draped over his knees, wondering how many more mistakes he was going to make with his life. Sensing his distress, Billy shuffled to his side and scraped a dirty wet paw down his work trousers, before cocking his head and whining.
Lachie stroked his head. ‘Made a bit of a fuck-up of things, didn’t I, Billyboy?’
He smiled indulgently at the dog, grateful for Billy’s unrelenting adoration and innate ability to sense when his master needed comfort. He scooped the dog into his lap and tickled his chin. Excited by the attention, Billy tried to lick his face but Lachie nudged him away until Billy settled down and relaxed under the brush of his palm, and together they watched the sun climb and the dew evaporate and brightness gather over Delamere.
Peace with his father. A long time coming, but made.
Lachie dug his hand into his suit pocket and fingered his phone, a gesture he’d been making all morning. The compulsion to hear Brooke’s voice, her soft words of condolence, made more poignant by her unmistakable concern for him, remained as huge as when he’d first noticed her missed call. Manners dictated he maintain his presence at the wake, and he didn’t want to leave his mother. Any moment, and he feared her facade of quiet stoicism would crack.
He nudged his way to her side and bent to talk quietly in her ear. ‘You okay?’
Her smile of reassurance was heavy with sadness. She gripped his hand and squeezed. ‘I’m fine, Lachie. It’s nice to hear people talk about your father with affection.’
‘If you need a lie-down, just go. Everyone will understand.’
She reached high to touch his cheek. ‘You’re such a good boy.’ She looked over to where Nick had his arm slung proprietorily around his fiancée Gaby’s shoulders. ‘You both are. He looks so happy.’
‘Yes,’ said Lachie, determined to keep his voice neutral. Each time he looked at Nick, jealousy sent his heart plunging. Nick and Gaby had announced their engagement four days ago, only a few hours before Harry died. Neither Nick nor Lachie was sure their dad had heard or understood, but their mum had assured them he had and was thrilled by the news. How she could tell, Lachie couldn’t fathom. Harry’s wakeful moments were rare and brief, his gaze seemingly unfocused, but Lachie supposed thirty-plus years of marriage taught you to read the small signs, and he believed her.
Minette gave his hand another squeeze. ‘Don’t worry. Your turn will come.’
‘Haven’t had much luck so far.’ Kissing his mother’s cheek he stepped out of the way and let another wellwisher pass by.
Delamere’s backyard milled with people, many of whom he recognised, but quite a few he didn’t. He’d been away too long, chasing his own ideals. He grabbed a beer from an ice-filled esky and moved to the side to observe. Ever since his arrival home he’d suffered that same strange sense of unbelonging, as if he was no longer accepted here. Nick, in contrast, fitted perfectly – but so he should. Until he’d gone to uni a year ago he’d never left the place.
Lachie watched Nick with Gaby. He’d been genuinely pleased at their announcement, shaking his brother’s hand with pride, kissing Gaby with delight. That the couple adored each other, no one doubted. The way Nick looked at Gaby with that sort of half dreamy, half I-can’t-believe-my-luck expression said more than any declaration of love. And Gaby wasn’t much better, with her huge smiles and tender touches. But as they’d outlined their wedding plans over a bottle of red wine at Delamere’s kitchen table, Lachie’s insides had turned colder and colder, his despair deeper, and his yearning for Brooke a constant strum on his heartstrings.
He fingered his phone again. Stuff it. He needed to hear her voice.
After glancing quickly over to his mother to check on her well-being, Lachie ducked round the side of the house and headed for the front verandah.
Billy raised his head from his paws, in a deep fug after being tied up in the shade under the house for the day, while delicious barbecue aromas tormented his twitching nostrils. Lachie paused to scratch his head. He should have remembered to bring a sausage, but given the amount of food his mother’s friends had laid on for the wake, Billy wouldn’t be short of leftovers to scoff.
Leaving Billy, he moved to the verandah and sat down on the top step and placed the beer beside him, thinking of how, not so long ago, he’d done the same at Kingston Downs. Only then Brooke had shared his perch, her hands jammed in to her body as though to protect herself from the news of his departure.
He jiggled the phone in his hand, wondering what the hell he was thinking. It was over. Over. His place was here now, managing Delamere, like he’d always wanted.
‘You going to ring her or just sit there moping?’ said Nick from the corner of the house.
Lachie eyed his brother, looking past him for his shadow, Gaby.
‘She’s with Mum,’ said Nick, reading his mind. ‘Thought you and I needed a chat.’
‘Not a great day for chats.’
‘No day’s great for you at the moment.’ He took the space next to Lachie, long legs stretching out, his carefully buffed boots now dusty. ‘Bear with a sore head doesn’t begin to describe you.’
‘Funny, I didn’t realise watching your father die was meant to put you in a party frame of mind.’
‘I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about her.’ He pointed to the phone. ‘So are you going to call her?’
‘Not with you here.’
‘Fair enough.’
Lachie waited, expecting his brother to take the hint and leave. Instead, Nick remained seated, picking at non-existent loose threads in his trousers.
‘Well?’
Nick straightened and angled his body to face him. ‘I’m not going back to uni next year.’
‘Don’t be a dickhead. You only have two years to go.’
‘Two years too long. I’ve had enough.’ He gave Lachie a steady look, one Lachie recognised from childhood. A set-jawed, narrow-eyed expression that dared Lachie to try to change his mind. ‘I never even wanted to go in the first place.’
Lachie swapped his phone for his beer. He had a feeling he was going to need it. A ripple of laughter filtered from the backyard. People enjoying themselves as they celebrated Harry Cambridge’s life. What he and Nick should be doing too.
Lachie took a slug of beer. ‘I buried my father this morning. I’m not in the mood for this.’
‘He was my father too, Lachie, and I knew him a shitload better than you did.’
‘All right,’ he said,
rising and placing his beer next to his phone. ‘Let’s get this over with. I know you’ve never forgiven me for walking out. Do what you have to do and then leave me alone.’
‘Don’t be such a fucking drama queen. I never resented you for walking out. Either time. I was happy you did. At least then Mum and I didn’t have to put up with you and Dad arguing all the time. But you can’t just waltz back in here and expect to take over as though you own the place. You don’t. Mum and I are partners in this too.’ Palms out, he stood and took a pace toward Lachie. ‘Look, I’ve wanted to tell you for months. I’m sorry it has to be now that you hear it, but I’m not going back to uni. That was always your dream for me, not mine. I was happy to stay here being a dumb-fuck farmer like my old man, but you kept at me and then even Dad thought it might be a good idea.’
‘Dad?’ Lachie puffed out air in disbelief. ‘Bullshit.’
‘Yes, Dad. He knew the place was run-down, that he hadn’t done the best, and he knew that if things became really bad it’d be helpful to have another means of bringing in money. And teaching pays well. So I agreed. But I’m not agreeing any more. As soon as Gaby’s organised she’s moving in with me here. Mum says she’s happy to move into Gran’s old place in town to give us some privacy, so that just leaves you to sort out.’
Lachie’s heart pounded. This was all too much. ‘You want me off Delamere.’
‘No, I don’t. I’d love to work with you, bring this place up to scratch. But you need to decide what you want. And I don’t think it’s this. Maybe once it was. Maybe it was what drove you, but it doesn’t any more.’ He pointed towards the step and Lachie’s phone. ‘She does.’
‘Her name’s Brooke. Brooke Kingston, and it’s over.’
Over before it even started. But not in his heart.
‘Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, bro. I’ve seen you. Standing out here looking north-east. Daydreaming about Brooke. You think I don’t know? You think I don’t understand? Course I do. Takes a man in love to recognise another.’
Lachie glared at Nick, brain working over ways to tell him where to shove it, but fuming at the truth was as pointless as the hours he spent longing for Brooke. He did think about her. Sometimes he could go an hour without doing it. Once, over these dragging, painful weeks, when the farm’s ancient tractor gave him grief and his dad had taken a turn, he managed an entire half-day without her name appearing in his head. But she was always there, at the back of his mind, smiling her sweet clear-eyed smile at him.
‘My home’s here,’ he said stubbornly, refusing to give up on the ambition that had ruled his life for so long.
Yet all the while a little voice in the back of his mind kept reminding him of the time when he’d planned to forsake Delamere for Pitcorthie. When he’d decided to take the biggest chance of his life and tell Brooke that his dreams had changed. That he wanted a life with her.
But that was before his father had collapsed, before the world lurched and threw him off balance.
Nick smiled. ‘You sure about that?’ He nodded toward Lachie’s phone. ‘Go make your call. Then have a good think about how you feel when you hear her voice. Might help you realise what you really want.’
But Lachie didn’t need to call. By the time Nick sauntered back around the end of the house, he’d already decided.
Twenty-Two
Brooke slid in behind the wheel of the Land Cruiser and took several deep breaths, focusing on the cognitive techniques her counsellor had provided to combat her anxiety. The hydra swirled, whispering its terrible doubts, but she defeated each hissing head with logic and the well of gut-deep determination she’d discovered within herself. She could do this. She’d done it before. Two horses in the float were no different to one.
Chloe cupped her hand over the window edge, fingernails glittery with metallic pink polish. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine,’ said Brooke, fists closing around the wheel as she ran through her checklist of reassurances. Robert and Sod were safe and calm. The road to the Pony Club grounds easy to navigate, the November day bright, visibility perfect, the Land Cruiser and float in excellent condition. Chloe would follow behind. There was nothing to worry about. ‘I’m fine,’ she repeated, this time with more conviction.
Chloe cocked her head. ‘You sure?’
Tight-lipped, Brooke nodded. Although she’d managed to tow horses around Kingston Downs without a problem, this was only her second trip out on the road alone. The week before, she’d taken Sod to the local dressage club’s unofficial competition day at Muswellbrook showgrounds, and though she’d arrived covered in sweat and exhausted, she’d done it. And to her great pride, so had Sod. The confidence Lachie had instilled in him remained, and together they managed to overcome their fears. If nothing else, she would be forever grateful to Lachie for that.
Lachie. God, she had to stop thinking about him. Life moved on. No point wallowing in regrets and fear. She’d done enough of that to last a lifetime.
She smiled at Chloe. ‘Absolutely positively fine. So let’s get this show on the road.’
Chloe patted her arm and grinned. ‘Attagirl.’
Brooke put on her seatbelt and started the ignition, concentrating on keeping the hydra at bay, but the monster was already settling, as though it recognised an entity tougher than itself. Brooke’s mouth curled as her confidence surged. Yeah, she could do this, all right. She could do anything. Maybe today she and Robert could even put the Chiang-man in his place.
For a moment, worry for her two friends distracted Brooke from her pattering pulse. In the weeks since Chloe’s revelation, Brooke had definitely sensed a certain electricity between Andrew and Chloe. Chloe tried to act her usual cheery self, but Brooke understood the emotional fragility and fear lurking behind her mask. Brooke fretted that, despite her best efforts, their friendship wouldn’t survive another crisis.
She shook her anxiety off, killing it with reasoning. They were mature adults, not children. They’d survive this as they’d survived the last. After all, no matter what their dramas, life just kept moving on.
Life. Moved. On.
If she kept telling herself that enough she’d end up believing it.
She checked her mirror. Chloe waited patiently behind in her Nissan Patrol. Brooke hung her right arm out the window and waved to reassure her, then, with a deep breath, put the car into gear, slowly released the clutch and chugged across the yard towards the drive and the road.
Brooke drove with deliberate care, mind fixed firmly on her task. She couldn’t afford to let it wander. Once a panic attack snatched her, it could be impossible to stop. Knowing the journey would be slow, she’d allowed extra time. No hurry. Just an easy six-kilometre trip to Pitcorthie Pony Club for a showjumping training day. A day among friends with a bit of friendly competition thrown in.
Although when it came to beating Andrew, there’d be nothing friendly about it. His endless brags about Marchment’s incredible progress and talent had ignited her professional fire. Darling Robert might not have Marchment’s imperious breeding and looks, but he possessed more talent in one hoof than Andrew’s sleek black colt would ever own. Come competition time, she’d prove it.
She flicked the indicator and wheeled the float through the wide, white-painted double gates of the Pony Club grounds, sweat-covered hands slipping slightly on the wheel. Only when she straightened and trundled left past the ageing timber-clad clubhouse towards the tree-sheltered parking area did she realise how rapidly her heart was beating. Halting alongside Andrew’s red and gold float, she let out a long breath and pressed her forehead against the steering wheel.
A thump sounded on the window, jerking her up.
Andrew opened the door, handsome as always in a red, designer-logoed polo shirt, a pair of beige breeches, brown short boots and suede half chaps. ‘Cheer up. You made it.’
Brooke grinned as elation burst past the last ragged edges of her tension. ‘So I did!’ She tumbled out of the car, alive and bubblin
g with accomplishment, and stretched her fisted hands skywards. ‘Yes! God, I’m in a mood now.’ She poked a finger at Andrew. ‘You better be on your mark, Chiang-man, because I’m going to whup your butt.’
‘Want a bet?’
She froze as the hydra writhed and slithered painful memories into her mind.
Andrew gripped her shoulder in apology. ‘Shit, Brooke, I’m sorry.’
Brooke forced a smile, determined to maintain her good mood. She’d made it to the grounds, with the horses and herself in one piece. No filth-spouting monster was going to ruin what she’d achieved.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ A bang sounded from the float. Sod reminding her of his presence. He probably thought he was competing, but she’d packed him simply for the ride. Practice, after all, made perfect. For both of them. ‘Come on, help me get this lot sorted.’
Despite her initial rough moment, Brooke settled into the morning. The nerves that had rattled her insides since waking faded as she immersed herself in what she loved best – delighting in the outdoors, riding and chattering about horses and life with friends, threading herself into Pitcorthie’s tight community fabric. She instructed a class of juniors for an hour, running their ponies through training drills over poles and low-set cavaletti, yelling encouragement as they bounced cutely around, little legs and hands pumping, grins huge.
They reminded Brooke of herself at that age, when fortnightly Pony Club rallies were the highlight of her life. She’d scramble out of bed at dawn, waking Nan and Pop with her clatter, and belt out to the paddock to fetch her Connemara pony, Rascal. She’d spend the early morning grooming his dense, unruly coat, trimming the shaggy hairs around his fetlocks that seemed to grow longer and thicker no matter how many times she cut them back, and combing his mane and tail into temporary submission. By the time her grandparents loaded Rascal onto the float, her insides would be fizzing like a shaken-up Coke can.
Brooke smiled to herself as she watched a spectacularly freckled little girl with long blonde plaits coax her fat been-there-done-that pony over the last jump. Funny how the world turned in circles. This morning she’d felt the same as she had as a child, although for different reasons. And just as when she was young, bright sunshine, fun and laughter burned her nerves away and life continued, a little bit hollow without Lachie, but filled with hope and joy.
