Heartland

by Cathryn Hein

  Triumphant honks filled the air. Callie stared at the sky, gulping as she tried to refill the vacuum in her chest. For a moment, a horrible churning panic threatened to overwhelm her as breath refused to come, then her lungs inflated, the ache subsided and with each grateful, shaky breath, her composure slowly returned. Delight began to buzz her insides. Callie rolled her head to the side, a broad grin stretching across her face as she watched the goose strut across the lawn with his beak in the air and his chest puffed out like a squat feathered Napoleon.

  Honky-Tonk, Glenmore’s little emperor. How the hell could she have forgotten about him?

  ‘Why aren’t you dead?’ she asked the goose, but Honk’s only reply was to release another nasal trumpet before smugly waddling off to pick at grass.

  She studied the bird, still astonished and delighted to see him. Honk had been at Glenmore ever since she could remember, and given Callie was now twenty-six, that made him at least twenty, probably much older. For a bird of that great age he appeared remarkably fit – white feathers well preened, his feet and beak a healthy orange, body fat from good pick. But perhaps it wasn’t a surprise at all. Nanna had always doted on Honk, and she’d only been gone five weeks.

  Nanna. Callie refocused on the house. The paint peel was even worse on this side, savaged by winter weather originating straight off the Southern Ocean, less than a few kilometres away. At the far corner, where the rainwater tank sat separated from the house by a concrete path, the green Colorbond gutter drooped, its connecting downpipe bent out of shape. A loose scrap of iron curled where the other end of the pipe had pulled from the rainwater tank. The windows were dust filmed, the hinges of the rear screen door rusting. Desiccated plants – geraniums by the shape of the leaves and withered flower stalks – flopped sad and brown over the rims of the pots either side of the back door. Only the welcome mat seemed bright with newness.

  Poppy would never have let things go like this. But Poppy passed away only months after Hope, condemning Nanna to lonely suffering, an accidental victim of the Reynolds’ all-consuming grief. What would Callie know of her grandparents’ care for Glenmore? Love hadn’t stopped her abandoning them like her parents had done. Anger at herself threatened to bubble through her joy at seeing Honk. She smacked it down. That was unchangeable history; it was the future that mattered.

  She raised her foot and waggled the broken thong, the split in the rubber telling her it was unsalvageable.

  ‘Look what you did,’ she said, waving her leg at Honk. ‘They were only new a couple of weeks ago.’

  Honk merely honked and continued grazing.

  She shook her head. Flat on her back and talking to a goose. Not quite how she imagined her visit would pan out, but it would make a fun story for Anna and Rowan.

  Callie sighed. Flopping about goose chatting wasn’t getting any work done and she had a house to sort. She hoisted herself up, dusted off her bum and, unwilling to risk her feet on the hot concrete, half hopped, half tripped on her broken thong to the rear steps. Feet safely on the mat, she pulled the keys from her pocket, struck again by the strangeness of it. That hollow sense of loss.

  The screen door opened with a rusty squeal that set Honk off again.

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Callie, peeling off her broken thong and frisbeeing it, then its partner, in his direction and laughing as Honk raised his snaky neck to the sky and let Callie know exactly what he thought of that impertinence.

  Sobering and ignoring the goosy clamour, she turned back to the timber door. With a fortifying breath she unlocked it and pushed it open, hovering on the threshold as the years dissolved and she became an excited child once more. Except on this visit, there’d be no comforting Nanna hugs or Poppy whiskery kisses. All she had now were ghosts.

  The kitchen had barely changed since the last time she sat in its homely warmth. Though the fridge and microwave seemed newish, and the faux slate vinyl flooring a vast improvement on the faded red and white lino of Callie’s memory, the kitchen still looked as it always had, like something out of a seventies film set. A walnut-veneered built-in kitchen occupied the eastern side of the room and anodised pink canisters sat in rows on the shelves above the cupboards. Along the western wall, to the left of the back door, stood a walnut and etched glass dresser, the mirrored back reflecting the good china and crystal stacked neatly inside. Crocheted doilies decorated the top and protected the surface from the scratchy bases of Nanna’s most treasured knick-knacks – a yellow and black toreador, his scarlet cape elegantly draped at his side, and the impossibly bright red bull that was his foe.

  As if placed there by Nanna only that morning, folded tea towels hung neatly over the door handle of an upright cooker that for years had baked hundreds of cakes, biscuits, pavlovas, roasts and casseroles. And still in pride of place above the kitchen sink window, its surface now confettied with fluff, hung Nanna’s beloved velvet picture of Elvis, her favourite singer.

  Callie smiled as images flooded her mind. Nanna washing dishes, humming ‘Suspicious Minds’ to herself. Nanna fussing with chocolate crackles, briefly silencing Callie’s obsessive horse chatter with a chocolate-crusted spoon to lick. Poppy with his ear to the radio, listening to the race day call of the card, scribbling notes on his form guide. Hope in the corner near the stove, playing with Mitzi the bitza’s ears, bright and pretty, the way she used to be before teenage rebellion made her unfathomable.

  A blowfly buzzed Callie’s ear, forcing her inside. She shut the screen door but kept the timber one open to let in air. The kitchen had a musty edge, the atmosphere almost cloying, and for a fanciful moment she wondered if death still clung to the dust motes. This was where her dad said they’d found Nanna, slumped at the scratched Formica table.

  Callie closed her eyes. How cruel that she should die alone like that. Even crueller that her sole surviving granddaughter had received the news too late to make the funeral. Another rejection of a loving woman who was owed so much more.

  Clean up, put the farm on the market and get the hell out, the faster the better, leaving all these memories and mistakes for good. Easy.

  Except it wasn’t.

  Because no matter how she hardened herself, each time Callie thought of letting Glenmore go, a part of her inner self cried out at the injustice, and her heart bled a bit more with loss.

  She breathed in a shuddery breath, tears threatening. Nanna always knew this was where she’d been happiest. ‘You’re one of us,’ she’d say, usually with a ruffle of Callie’s hair. Even as a child Callie recognised Maggie Reynolds’s subtle rebuke to her daughter-in-law, who had always found rural life alien and trying. To be fair, Jacqueline did enjoy the local equestrian fraternity, which suited Callie perfectly. All that had mattered to her back then was unfettered access to her adored second home and the love of her life, Phantom.

  Callie rubbed her hand over her face. Wallowing wouldn’t get the job done and hours of work lay ahead. And tears. There’d be plenty of those. Happy, nostalgic ones, she hoped.

  Recalling her promise to Anna, she punched out a quick text message.

  Arrived safe. Bit sad but OK. Lots 2 do. Will be in touch. x

  Anna, the text message queen, shot back an almost immediate reply.

  *hugs* Call if u need shoulder 2 cry on. Remember we’re here 4 u. Always.

  Three hours later, her nose sore from blowing on Nanna’s cheap tissues and the skin of her cheeks salted and itchy from dried tears, but with the main bedroom cleared out, Callie returned to the kitchen for a rest and a cuppa. Plastic bin liners full of clothes were propped along the hall ready to be hauled to the ute and driven to the Salvos’ collection bin in Dargate. On the kitchen table sat a box of belongings she couldn’t bear to part with: Nanna’s silver brush set; a string of pearls Callie discovered slipped down the back of the dressing table; a cameo locket with Love Tom engraved on the back and youthful photos of her smiling grandparents inside; a silver frame containing a black-and-white photograph of Callie’s
great-grandparents, staring starched and sour-faced at the camera.

  And on top, the item that had finally melted every ounce of stoicism she possessed – Callie’s first blue ribbon.

  She’d found it folded inside a envelope in Nanna’s hanky and stockings drawer. Despite the years, the felt retained its cobalt blueness. Even the yellow screen-printed letters remained, cracked but vibrant, spelling out their special message: Dargate Pony Club Gymkhana. First Place.

  Setting her cup of instant black coffee aside, Callie picked the ribbon up again. She remembered what it was for now – quietest mount, 14–15 hands. No surprises given Phantom’s bombproofness. You could let a cracker off and he’d barely shudder. But take his feed bucket away and the stout grey gelding turned into an eye-rolling, lunging lunatic. A Honk, but with bigger teeth.

  Damn, Callie had been proud. She’d even slept with the ribbon clutched tight against her undeveloped chest, wracked by the childish panic that a jealous stranger would come in the night and snatch it away. It had taken days for the novelty to wear off, but by the end of those school holidays she’d earned two more and that first ribbon seemed to lose some of its specialness. Yet Hope understood what it meant. She’d placed it in the envelope when Callie’s interest had faded. Nanna must have found it and, understanding too, kept it safe.

  She let the ribbon slide back to the table and stared at her right wrist. Her tattoo seemed brighter today, as though the colour responded to some unknown force in the atmosphere. Perhaps, like Nanna, an essence of Hope lingered, floating from the walls and into Callie’s skin. Conveying the message that Callie’s choice was the right one.

  The noise of a car slowing and changing gears broke her contemplation. She listened closer, frowning as the crunch of tyres on gravel battled with the rising noise of a diesel engine. Wondering who the hell her visitor could be when no one apart from the solicitor, Anna and Rowan knew she was here, Callie walked to the sink and peered through the window. A battered and rusty white LandCruiser towing an equally battered aluminium horse float pulled up in the potholed space that stretched between the house and Glenmore’s decaying machinery shed.

  The engine cut and a short elderly man alighted.

  ‘Damn,’ said Callie, recognising Wal Graney. Like Honk, she’d assumed Nanna’s nearest neighbour had passed away long ago. Wal had seemed ancient even when she was a child, yet there he was, a bit stiffer and bow-legged, and a lot balder and wrinklier, but well and truly alive.

  Without so much as a glance at the house, Wal jammed a faded Carlton Football Club baseball cap on his head, stalked to the rear of the float, lowered the tailgate and disappeared inside.

  She glanced at the ribbon. She had Wal to thank for that. And for all the others that followed. He’d taught her to ride.

  Her heart skipping with pleasure at the sight of her old mentor, Callie ducked out the door, wincing as her feet struck hot concrete and cursing her rashness in tossing her thongs at Honk. She hopped and ouched her way to the front of the house and her ute, pausing to dig into the tray for her boots and pulling out her fishing sandshoes instead. Not ideal but they’d do. Callie hooked them on as she continued her ungainly hop back round the house to the float.

  ‘Where are you, Wal? Don’t tell me you’ve grown shy in your old age.’

  A grunt emanated from the float, making her grin. Wal may have grown older but from the sound of it he hadn’t changed. Good. She liked his surface grumpiness. It made him a perfect target for teasing.

  ‘I hope you’re not here to flog me one of your dud racehorses. I’m broke enough as it is.’

  Shoes fixed, she peered inside, jerking back as a bay gelding wearing a blue webbing headcollar with the lead dangling, clattered down the ramp, eyes huge and worried as it stared around. Callie’s fingers shot to her mouth as she caught sight of the horse’s face, pity thickening her throat and stinging her eyes.

  Greyish lumps of varying diameter spattered his skin, extending like a hideous pox from his muzzle to the edge of his jowl. The infestation was worse around his mouth and eyes, making his skin appear as though it swarmed with small pale flies. Despite the lumps, the horse seemed in good health, with a bright inquisitive expression, pricked ears and a coat that, while needing a good brush, seemed glossy enough. Callie glanced at his feet, noting that they’d been recently trimmed and that the hoof walls appeared smooth and without cracks.

  She ran a critical eye over his build, impressed by the straightness of his hocks, the curve of his shoulder and width of his chest. Longing tugged at her insides the way it always did when she saw a horse. The feeling never faded, no matter how hard she suppressed it. Her love for this most magnificent of creatures was part of her DNA, with her for eternity.

  Wal picked his way down the float ramp, caught the lead and rubbed the animal’s cheek before turning to consider Callie with rheumy brown eyes. He gave her a long look up and down, mouth working as he took in her straggly blonde hair, her low-waisted, high-cut shorts and loose tank top, the tangle of friendship bracelets around her left wrist and, finally, the tattoo around her right.

  ‘Hmph,’ he said, as though he hadn’t expected much different.

  ‘Nice to see you, too,’ replied Callie, grinning and moving forward to kiss him affectionately on the cheek. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  She pulled back to inspect him more closely. He seemed sturdy enough, though his face had sunk from what she remembered, as if it’d seen enough of the world and caved in on itself in protest.

  ‘You’ve grown.’ The words came out like an accusation but Wal always acted as though he disapproved of everyone and everything. Callie didn’t mind. She knew from experience that gruff exterior hid a heart full of kindness.

  ‘It’s what happens, Wal. Natural human biology.’ She turned her attention to the horse, drawn by her yearning and compassion. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Warts.’

  She made a face, earning a sour look from Wal.

  ‘Look at you, turning up your nose. Grown up into your mother, you have.’

  Callie threw an equally sour look back. ‘Hardly.’

  The accusation rankled. Even before Hope died, Callie’s relationship with her mother was difficult. For most of their childhood, Hope was as happy at Glenmore as her sister, but she was also very much Jacqueline Reynolds’ daughter, and Callie felt their connection acutely. The way they talked fashion and make-up and celebrity gossip, and liked to go shopping together, dressed with the same sleek care. The way they’d tease Callie for her lack of fashion sense and tell her how, if she wasn’t careful, she might turn into a rustic, as if that was some sort of terrible fault. Her dad used to hug her close in sympathy but it never alleviated Callie’s feelings of alienation, of lacking something that Hope so obviously possessed.

  Plus, no matter how adult she tried to be about it, the role her mother played in Phantom being sold still hurt.

  ‘Acting like her.’ Wal gave the horse another cheek rub as though in apology for Callie’s rudeness. ‘They’re only grass warts. They’ll be gone in a month or so.’

  Determined not to let her annoyance show any further, Callie reached out to the horse, letting him sniff her fingers before tracing her hand up his nose and stroking the perfect white star in the centre of his forehead. The delicious heady scent of horse filled her nostrils. Damn, how she’d missed that smell. Nothing existed like it in the world.

  ‘He’s lovely,’ she said, meaning it despite the warts.

  ‘Glad you think so.’ Wal grabbed her hand and slapped the lead rope onto her palm and closed her fingers around it. ‘Cos he’s all yours.’

  For an unreal moment, Callie’s heart surged with joy. The animal took a step forward and nudged her shoulder, hunting for more pats. She stroked his neck, feeling eight years old again, drawn to that unforgettable day when Poppy had taken her hand and led her to the paddock where her new not quite pony, not quite horse, Phantom, waited.

 
‘Right. I’ll be off then,’ said Wal, bending to raise the float ramp.

  With a blink and a whump, Callie landed back in the present. Her gaze flicked from Wal to the rope to the horse and back again. Still uncomprehending, she held up the lead.

  ‘What about this?’

  ‘Told you. He’s yours.’

  She threw the lead at Wal’s chest as though it were on fire and took a rapid step back, palms held up as she vigorously shook her head.

  ‘Oh, no, no, no. This is not my horse. Nanna’s will mentioned nothing about a horse.’ She ticked items off her fingers. ‘House, land, furnishings, term deposit. No horse.’

  ‘Well, there wouldn’t be, would there? Maggie only bought him a few months ago. Name’s Phantom.’

  Phantom. She breathed in hard, wanting to cry. Damn you, Nanna.

  With intense effort she brought herself under control. ‘I don’t care what his name is. I don’t want him.’

  Wal merely stared stubbornly back with his arms crossed, making no move to take the lead. She eyed Wal and then the animal, who blinked long-lashed eyes at her like a horsey come-on. A young thoroughbred, she guessed. Around sixteen hands. Probably straight off the track and as mad as a cut snake. Although he didn’t look crazy, just warty, perplexed and, with his lead dangling, unfazed by the prospect of freedom. Dumb then. Too stupid to be good for anything.

  When Wal still made no move, Callie snatched the lead rope and held it out like a peace offering. ‘Look, Wal, you have to understand, I’m only here for a few days. Just long enough to clear out the house and put the farm on the market. Then I’m off.’