by Cathryn Hein
The idea that this could be Glenmore’s fate made Callie’s insides drop and turn cold, as though she’d suddenly stepped close to the edge of an eroding glacier. She tried to swallow at the dryness in her mouth, brought on by the fear she was committing a terrible wrong – not to herself or even her grandparents, but to the land.
She shook the feeling away. She wasn’t some sort of rural crusader. Towns grew. Progress happened. Glenmore was a few hundred hectares in a land of millions. Yet as she drove on, the bad taste remained.
Closer to Dargate a few cars began to appear, although fewer than yesterday, when she’d ventured into town to see Wal and grab a few groceries. Even the supermarket carpark seemed devoid of shoppers. Unsurprising, given the heat shimmer rising off the asphalt. Patterson Street, Dargate’s main thoroughfare, was just as sleepy and Callie slipped into a park only a short walk from the newsagent’s. Grabbing her purse and her computer memory stick she headed up the footpath, grateful for the shops’ shady awnings and occasional blast of air-conditioning.
Fifteen minutes later she was out again, this time carrying a copy of that week’s issue of The Weekly Times, half-a-dozen copies of her CV and two A4-sized ‘For Sale’ posters, each bearing a colour photo of a strangely wart-free Morton. It wasn’t a bad image considering she’d snapped it on her phone, but the real magic was done on her laptop using its photo manipulation software. A half-hour’s painstaking work and Warty-Morty had been airbrushed to handsome perfection, and his picture inserted into a jazzy poster. So what if she’d manipulated his looks a little? Morton was a sweet horse, the warts would drop off, and for the measly sum of $500 someone would score themselves a good animal, leaving Callie one less thing to worry about.
She hurried back to the car and placed the posters on the passenger seat before quickly starting the engine. The air-con blasted into life, drying the sweat on her arms and causing her to shiver. Reaching out to put the car into gear, Callie caught another sight of Morton and froze.
His innocent chocolate eyes seemed to bore into her. Her hand fell off the shift. She picked up the poster and held it in her lap, tracing a finger over Morton’s long nose as something huge and prickly and sore lodged in her throat.
A man in board shorts cruised past, eyeing her. Several cars drove by. The Jumbuk’s interior cooled and yet still Callie remained anchored by sadness and confusion, and an almost searing want. She tossed the poster aside and rubbed a hand over her face, squeezing at the outer corners of her eyes, unable to recall when she’d last felt so screwed up. Or so isolated.
Never letting anyone get close had been her way since leaving home, her protection against hurt, and she’d survived fine. Yet here, in Dargate, it felt worse somehow. She needed someone to talk to. Someone to reassure her that what she was doing was right, when her heart kept saying the opposite.
She dug her mobile out of the glove box and dialled Anna. If anyone could cheer Callie up it was her.
‘Well, if it isn’t our long-lost housemate.’
‘Rowan?’
‘The one and only. Saw your name flashing and thought I’d pick up. How’s things? You freezing your bum off down there?’
‘It’s boiling, would you believe. Where’s Anna?’
‘Showering off Bruce. Oversexed buggers didn’t get out of bed until lunch time. That’s twice this week.’
Callie leaned back, pleased that Anna had come to her senses. He might not be the crocodile wrestler of Anna’s fantasies, but Bruce was hugely likable, attractive in his own way, and most of all would love her like she deserved.
‘Are we talking love here?’
‘If the racket they make’s anything to go by, I’d have to say yes. And I swear Anna called him “Bubby” last night.’
‘Pet names. Always a sure sign.’
‘Yeah, although surely she could come up with something better than “Bubby”? Makes Bruce sound like a complete wuss.’ Rowan paused for a moment and when he spoke his voice was careful. ‘You sound a bit down. Everything okay?’
Callie picked at a loose thread on the hem of her shorts. ‘I’m all right. Things just aren’t going as smoothly as I’d hoped.’
‘It was always going to be hard, going back. You’re braver than me. I still haven’t visited where Des was killed. Mum and Dad and Ross go all the time, for his birthday and at Christmas. They put flowers by the tree and talk to him like he’s still alive, but I’ve never been able to do it. I don’t want to remember him there, all mangled up. You’re probably the same with Hope and your gran’s farm, not wanting to remember.’
‘My sister didn’t die at Glenmore, Rowan. She died in a nightclub.’ On the filthy, drink-stained floor, with Callie beside her screaming for help, and no one able to hear over the whump-whump of dance music and their collective indifference.
‘Oh.’ Rowan’s discomfort rattled through the phone’s speaker. ‘The shower’s stopped. Do you want me to pass you on to Anna?’
‘No, it’s okay.’ Calling Anna was a mistake. Her housemate was happy, in love. She didn’t need Callie spoiling her mood as she had Rowan’s. ‘Just tell her I called and that I might catch her on Skype later.’
‘Will do.’ He waited a couple of heartbeats. ‘I know you don’t like to talk much about your life, but if you need us, either of us, we’re here, okay?’
‘Sure,’ she replied quickly, desperate to escape the hot prickle that Rowan’s kind words set behind her eyes. ‘Thanks.’
‘Sometimes even the strongest people need someone to lean on, Callie.’
Except Callie never had before, and she wasn’t about to start. She’d get through this like she made it through everything else – by concreting on her stoic mask and pretending she was strong. With a last thanks to Rowan she hung up, fixed her seatbelt, and put the Jumbuk into gear.
As it had when she was a girl, a giant white plastic horse adorned the roof of Taylor’s Saddlery. She smiled at its decoration – a hat with cork bobbles, the horse’s white ears threaded through holes in the brim, and an Australian flag hanging limply from a thin plastic stick implanted in the hat’s crown. Thanks to Peter Taylor’s penchant for decorating the horse, no one in Dargate had any excuse for not knowing which national or local celebration approached. In this case, it was Australia Day, only a few days away.
A brass bell hanging from the door signalled Callie’s arrival, earning her a yelled ‘Be with you in a mo’ from the rear workshop. The shop wasn’t air-conditioned, only a solitary fan near the back of the display area circulated the fuggy, leather-scented air. Callie paused to take a deep breath and wallow in the smell, immediately thinking of Wal and his tack room, a place that had seemed like a treasure trove when she was young. Not that he’d allowed her to play in it much. She and Phantom were at Amberton to learn, not mess up Wal’s belongings. Plus once Jacqueline Reynolds decided she rather enjoyed the pony club crowd, Callie had soon accumulated her own room full of tack to scrub with saddle soap and rub with oil.
A sewing machine started up, the whirr causing another flashback of Nanna wheeling out her ancient Singer and instructing Callie on how to mend Phantom’s canvas rug. No matter how barbed-wire free they made his paddock, the horse always managed to find something to snag his rug on. Nanna refused to allow smelly horse gear near her beloved Pfaff, so rug repairs were relegated to the beautifully decorated black and gold Singer. Although a little temperamental, it was built so tough it could sew anything. In the days before Phantom took over her world, Callie and Hope were even taught to sew doll’s clothes on the Singer. Another skill she’d long lost and, given her life, one unlikely ever to be regained.
As Callie had hoped, a large cork noticeboard still hung on the right-hand wall beside the saddlery’s back counter. Trailing her fingers over a suede-seated western saddle as she passed, she made her way to the board and took a moment to study the advertisements already pinned to the surface. Her eyebrows shot up as she took in the prices: three thousand dollars for a
second-hand dressage saddle. Six and a half thousand for a scratched and dented aluminium float. Fifteen thousand for an arrogant-looking black eventer, who, from the sales spiel, appeared not to have progressed beyond pre-novice status.
‘Things have gone up since your day.’
Too distracted to have noticed the machine stopping, Callie spun around at the sudden words, hand on her thumping chest. Peter Taylor leaned against the workshop’s door jamb, inspecting her up and down in much the same way Wal had on first meeting, albeit with a much more appreciative expression. Although older and more weathered, with his mop of curly hair now grey, Peter still possessed the same lean rider’s body and hawkish good looks that had once made him very popular with Dargate’s women. Callie could even recall her own mother giggling inanely on the rare occasion Peter directed his charm her way.
‘Hey, Peter.’
‘Callie.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘You’ve grown up.’
‘Yes. I tried not to but . . .’ She gave a ‘what can you do’ shrug, which earned her a very white, very straight-toothed grin.
‘I bet I’m not the only bloke who’s glad you did.’ Peter left the door and walked behind the counter. ‘You still riding?’
‘No. But I do have a horse to sell.’ She handed him Morton’s poster, her stomach sinking as Peter’s smiling expression turned serious.
He stuck a finger on Morton’s nose. ‘This is Lyndall Soriano’s old horse.’
Callie said nothing. She wasn’t sure she could. Wal had refused to tell her anything about Morton’s history. According to him, it didn’t matter. Whatever the horse’s background, Morton was her responsibility now. That’s all that counted.
Frowning, Peter looked at Callie. ‘Thought his name was Phantom.’
‘He’s had an identity change.’
‘So how did you end up with him?’
‘Inheritance.’
‘From Maggie, I take it. I was sorry to hear she’d passed away. Your gran was a lovely woman. Anyway, Glenmore’s better for him than that pissy paddock he had at the Sorianos’. Horse kept getting colic from ingesting sand. Lyndall was mad about him though.’ He threw Callie a puzzled look. ‘Why get rid of him? He’s a nice horse. Plenty of potential. Probably do all right with an experienced rider.’
She responded with a shrug. ‘No room in my life for a horse.’
‘No room? Rubbish. You’ve got plenty.’ He stopped, expression turning grim. ‘Oh, I see. You’re getting rid of Glenmore too. We’ve all been wondering what would happen to it.’
‘As a matter of fact, I am.’ Callie kept her voice neutral, her mask of indifference fixed against his disapproval. What she did with Glenmore or Morton was no one’s business but her own.
‘I guess with property prices the way they are it’s hard to say no to that sort of money,’ said Peter, passing her the poster and tilting his head at the corkboard. ‘Pin it up. I’m sure someone will take him off your hands. Might even be me.’
Digging out a thumbtack, Callie chose the bottom corner of the corkboard and attached her poster, then just as quickly untacked it. She flicked the corner of the paper, curling its edge, gaze not quite meeting Peter’s.
‘This girl, Lyndall, Morton’s previous owner. Who is she?’
‘Young girl. Twelve or thirteen maybe, something around that. You would have passed her place on the way into town. Big white double-storey house that looks like it belongs on a slave plantation. They’re new to town. A couple of years, anyway. Father’s a regional bank manager. The girl was horse mad so they bought Phantom from that shyster Maurie Cavendish, thinking the pair would grow up together.’ He raised his eyes and shook his head.
‘Common mistake for people who don’t know any better.’
‘Yeah. Poor girl was nervous enough, but one day she had a really bad fall at pony club and that was the end of her. Not the horse’s fault, he just tripped. Lyndall came down hard, the horse on top. Hit her head and suffered a seizure.’ His mouth turned tight. ‘Frightened the bejesus out of all of us so it must have been even worse for her. Lost her nerve after that. Couldn’t even enter his paddock. Parents decided the best thing was to sell the horse. Lyndall was devastated. Still comes in now and then just to look at stuff. Sad, really.’
Callie lowered her gaze as her own memories roused. She’d done the same thing in the days when her longing for Phan became too much. She’d sneak out to Ringwood on the train, to the big saddlery on Whitehorse Road, and spend an hour fingering saddles and bridles, running lead ropes through her hands, admiring jumping boots, sometimes trying on riding coats, imagining herself back in the ring with Phantom, overflowing with pride as a judge wrapped a blue ribbon around his thick grey neck. She glanced at Morton’s photo and thought of another young girl losing the love of her life. The shame of abandonment that no reasoning could ease.
She folded the poster in half and then into quarters before regarding Peter once more. ‘I might sit on this for a bit.’
‘Good idea.’ He smiled and winked. ‘We could do with a few more pretty girls on the local show scene. And if you’re worried about being rusty I can always give you lessons.’
Like the previous day, Wal was in a cranky mood when Callie called into the hospital with a fresh bag of grapes and The Weekly Times. Thanks came in the form of a grunt, but he kept sharp eyes on her when she dragged up a chair and sat down.
‘Hope you’re looking after Phantom properly.’
‘I am.’
‘And Honk.’
‘Him too.’
Wal worked his mouth for a moment and Callie had to clench her teeth to stop from smiling. She’d known a lot of men like Wal from all the bars and clubs where she’d worked. Nine times out of ten the crankiness hid a kind soul. The saddest were the old men still coping with the loss of their wives. The pain was so acute they wanted to take their anger out on someone, especially the young who had so much in front of them, but scratch a little and they were simply lonely men, fearful for the future.
What Wal was scared of Callie couldn’t fathom, but she planned to find out.
‘So what have you been up to?’ he finally asked.
She picked up the paper and scanned the lead article – a furious condemnation of the big supermarket chains squeezing agricultural industries to death with price cuts. ‘I had your grandson Tony out to look at Glenmore.’
Wal’s mouth sank like a collapsed soufflé.
She flicked a page, feigning nonchalance. ‘Apparently it’s worth a fortune.’
‘Should’ve known all you’d care about was money. Maggie was wrong. You’re nothing like Tom. You’ve turned out exactly like your mother.’
Callie kept reading, using the newspaper’s words to soothe herself, aware Wal only threw that line at her because he’d learned that it hurt. The noise of the hospital floated through the ward’s open door. Callie glanced up as the elderly patient in the bed opposite let out a bugled fart in his sleep. Wal appeared too riled to notice.
‘So Glenmore’ll go to ruin like all the others.’ He rolled his head to glare hard at her. ‘You tell me, missy, what’re we going to eat when all the land’s gone? Dust? Weeds?’
‘Australia’s a big country.’
‘With bugger all arable land.’ He jutted a wrinkled finger at the paper, causing it to snap loudly. ‘City people like you don’t understand. You can’t grow cattle and sheep and crops in the desert. Most of the dirt in this country’s infertile rubbish. Meanwhile, every day another bloody housing estate gets built on prime farmland and lost forever. Land left to rot, full of weeds and vermin. It’s a bloody disgrace. And people like you make it worse.’
‘I’m entitled to sell the land, Wal. I can’t be held responsible for what happens to it afterwards.’
‘You could bloody well do the right thing and farm it like it’s meant to be.’
‘Right.’ Temper flaring she slapped the paper into her lap. ‘Like I know anything about farming.’
�
�Tom taught you some.’
‘“Some” being the operative word.’
Wal’s lips pumped back and forth while Callie tried to calm herself. She wasn’t here to argue – there was nothing to argue about.
‘I could teach you,’ he said.
Callie smiled wryly and shook her head. ‘Bit tricky when you’re in here.’
‘Then the lad could.’
Callie sighed. This conversation was pointless. She knew Wal was right and the thought of Glenmore going to waste like those hobby farms made her heart ache, but what was she to do?
She placed the newspaper back on Wal’s cabinet. ‘Do you want me to bring you the Stock & Land tomorrow?’
‘You leaving?’
‘Yes. I have people I need to see.’
‘More bloody real estate agents I suppose.’
‘Actually, no. I need to organise a job and once I’ve done that I’m going to call in to see Morton’s previous owner.’
For a moment Wal looked completely flummoxed. ‘Who’s Morton?’
‘Phantom. I renamed him.’
Wal’s lip curled. ‘Don’t like the reminder, huh?’
A nurse padded into the ward, smiling hello as she made her way to the farting patient, and giving Callie an excuse to escape. It was probably Wal’s wash time. Or his bedpan, and she wasn’t about to stick around for that.
‘No, I don’t. I don’t know what game Nanna thought she was playing with me but there’ll only ever be one Phantom.’ Even though he didn’t deserve it, she leaned in to kiss Wal’s cheek. ‘You be good. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘She won’t take him back you know.’
‘Are you talking about Lyndall?’
Wal gave a smug nod, as if he already knew Callie’s attempt to rid herself of Morton would prove futile. ‘Too scared.’
