by Kate Lattey
CLEARWATER BAY
#1
“Flying Changes”
Kate Lattey
2nd Edition
Copyright 2014 © by Kate Lattey
ISBN: 978-1-4653-0545-9
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
This book is dedicated to the girls at Road’s End Farm,
who convinced me that my stories were worthy of publication.
CHAPTER ONE
Anywhere but here.
Has that phrase ever been more fitting, or more true? As I sit shotgun next to a stranger in a crappy old truck, rattling across the empty countryside with a mangy dog breathing down my neck, I can’t stop wishing that I was anywhere else. I know I agreed to come here, but even in my wildest nightmares, I didn’t imagine it would be quite like this. There are spider webs in the rusty vehicle’s air conditioning vents and the seats are covered in dirt and dog hair, which is surely sticking to my clothes. The dog itself has been relegated to the back seat, and it’s not happy about it, punctuating the truck’s heavy rumbling with intermittent whines. That’s when it’s not panting right next to my ear, or launching itself at the window and barking manically whenever it sees another dog. It also stinks to high heaven, and in combination with all the filth and petrol fumes, I’m starting to feel ill.
Coming to New Zealand to live with my father was never part of the plan. Before today, I hadn’t even seen him since I was four, and our contact has always been intermittent at best. But I’ve never known him well enough to miss him, because I never really needed him. I always had Mum, and she was enough… I feel tears coming to my eyes and I push those thoughts out of my head, forcing myself to concentrate on the view outside as we drive through the New Zealand countryside.
Countryside. Back home in England, that conjures up an image of a neat patchwork of green fields, bordered by hedges or stone walls, and narrow roads winding through endless tiny villages. I’ve always loved the country, and wished we could live there, but New Zealand is different. The landscape is rugged and rolling, with mountainous horizons looming in every direction, and everything is so green – from the bright green of lush grass to the darker tones of the native trees. Countless forms of unfamiliar vegetation are growing with mad enthusiasm over every inch of this land. And somehow it feels raw and untamed, as though people have only just begun to make their mark on the place. You could walk for miles and see no other living soul except sheep - and that’s assuming sheep even have souls. The occasional farmhouse or barn is visible, but mostly around us are huge fields, and many of them are completely empty. There are a few herds of cattle, row upon row of baled hay, and true to stereotype, there are sheep almost everywhere. We rattle past a decrepit farmhouse, leaning inwards slightly on its corners. A thin layer of white paint is peeling away from the weatherboards, the corrugated iron roof is brown with rust, and a water tank perches unevenly on a wooden frame nearby. It looks sad and depressed, battling against the ravages of the elements. Across the road, a small group of horses are munching grass and swishing away occasional flies as the sun beats down on their backs. We turn the corner and not far ahead of us, the road we’re on disappears into the forest at the base of the mountains.
“Not far now,” my father says. “We’re just through the bush, over the other side of these hills.”
Those aren’t hills, I want to tell him. They’re mountains. I slump back against the dirty seat, trying to ignore the prickling in the corners of my eyes. Must. Not. Cry. My father mumbles on, still attempting to make conversation. I’ve barely spoken to him since I landed in Auckland almost four hours ago, and our reunion had been about as awkward as I’d expected.
“Hello.” He’d looked nervous, staring at my bags instead of my face.
“Hi.” What more do you say to someone you haven’t seen in ten years?
Deep down, I’d expected to feel something when we met, a connection between the two of us. We might not know each other very well yet, but he was my father. I hadn’t expected him to seem so totally unfamiliar. I’d recognised him from photos, of course, and we have the same straight nose and bright blue eyes, but there was nothing else there. No frisson of instant communication had passed between us as we met, and when he had started to reach out for an awkward hug, I’d looked away and pretended not to notice. I don’t like being hugged much anyway, and never by people I don’t know. Dad had covered for the awkward moment by grabbing my suitcase instead, and I saw his face flush the way I knew mine was too. Mutely, we’d followed the arrows to the nearest exit. The airport was small for an international terminal, but had the same sterile smell as every other airport I’ve been to. Around us, people were talking and laughing and cheerfully greeting their families as I struggled along behind my estranged father, dragging the dead weight of my duffle bag and wondering if I’d made a terrible mistake.
“How was your flight?” he had asked me as we’d headed across the car park.
“Fine,” I’d muttered, still struggling with my bag but unwilling to ask for help. For his part, he’d seemed oblivious to my plight, blithely leading the way across acres of tarmac before stopping in front of the dirtiest truck I’d ever seen. You couldn’t even tell what colour it was supposed to be underneath all the mud. He’d flung my suitcase into the open tray without any regard for its expensive (and formerly clean) exterior, let alone for its contents. I’d dropped my duffel at his feet, leaving him to lift it onto the flatbed, and walked around to the passenger door.
“It’s not locked,” he’d called.
Perhaps I should have wondered why, but I was tired and jetlagged and just assumed that it was unnecessary to lock such a hunk of junk - who would want to steal it? I’d opened the car door only to be accosted by a large, hairy, slobbering mess of a dog. It had immediately started barking its ugly head off at me, and not being used to large dogs, I’d jumped back as it leapt out of the vehicle, still growling. Dad was yelling something and finally the blasted thing backed off.
“Geddinthecar!” he’d growled and for a wonder the horrible dog had obeyed, leaping up onto the front seat. From there it was unprepared to move into the back seat, despite my father’s commands, and he’d eventually had to grab the creature by the collar and literally throw it into the back before I could get in.
“Jump on up Jilly. Sorry about that. He’s harmless, really. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
I hadn’t believed him then, and I still don’t. The dog hates me already, I can tell. It’s shooting silent little hate daggers at me from its eyes as it sits behind me now, probably plotting how to murder me in my sleep. Meanwhile I had quickly corrected my father on my name.
“It’s Jay. No-one has called me Jilly since I was small.” Unless you count my grandparents, but I think they’ll be treating me like I’m four when I’m grown and married. My father had apologised quickly and repeated my name to himself several times, as if committing it to memory. One syllable, I’d wanted to tell him. It’s not that hard.
We drove in silence for a while, until I eventually plugged my iPod into my ears to drown out the clattering engine and the panting dog. As we wove slowly through heavy traffic, I’d dozed off for a while, until he woke me after an hour or so.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“You sure? Not many places to stop now
until we get home.” Your home, not mine, I’d thought before I could stop myself. “Thought I’d drive us in on the back road, along by the old logging trails. It’s not the fastest way, but the scenery’s great.” He’d glanced at me, jet-lagged and slumped in my seat. “Unless you want to go straight home.”
That word again. He seemed to be expecting some kind of response, but I wasn’t in the mood for conversation and I just shrugged.
“Whatever you like.”
Sleep eluded me after that, and once my iPod ran out of battery, I’ve been left with little choice but to stare out the window. I’ve left my headphones plugged in though. I’m not ready to talk about my feelings or anything, especially not with him. Lucky for me, he’s not much of a talker anyway. That much I do remember. Of course, that’s also part of the reason we fell out of touch so easily all those years ago, and why my own father is a total stranger to me.
There’s only one reason I agreed to come here, really. When I’d spoken to Dad about it, only a few days after Mum’s funeral, I’d never planned to actually do it. Nobody thought I would. My grandparents had fully expected to take me in, and the phone call to my father was a mere formality. I’d listened politely as he told me about the small beachside village where he lived, and his small house up in the valley, waiting for him to finish so that I could say Thanks but definitely not – until he’d said something that completely changed my mind, taking all of us by surprise. I don’t think he realised what it was that had brought me here, but I knew exactly why I had just flown to the other side of the world. His words seared themselves into my consciousness, and if I close my eyes I can still hear them, as clear as yesterday.
“I hear you’ve done a bit of riding. There’s plenty of land around here, so you could have your own pony, if you like.”
So casually offered, as though having my own pony hasn’t always been my single greatest ambition. A potent but, I well knew, totally unattainable dream…until now. I was going to have my own pony. The way he’d phrased the offer had stunned me, speaking off-handedly about it, as though riding horses is just one of those things I might like to do, a hobby I might have. Not realising that riding is the thing that I love more than anything else in existence. Of course, he’s probably never ridden a horse in his life. He’s likely never experienced that moment of euphoria when you and an animal move completely as one, the indescribable sensation of grace and power running through your bones and settling forever in your heart. He probably won’t have felt a pony’s warm breath on his neck on a cold winter’s morning, or have run his hand proudly across the soft sheen of a well-groomed coat. And he’s surely never rested his head against a pony’s warm neck, wrapped his arms around it and closed his eyes, and held on tightly to the one thing in his life that would stay solid and constant and true. So he couldn’t understand, not really, but I did.
“Yes,” I’d told him. “I’ve done a bit of riding, and I would love to have a pony of my own.”
After that, the dream lodged itself firmly in my heart, no longer just a dream but soon to be a reality. I willingly gave up everything else I had – my childhood friends, the remnants of my family, everything I’d ever known – to fulfil this life-long ambition. To be able to ride whenever I want to, out on a hack or jumping at a show, to have a pony who knows that he is mine, and that I’m the only one who gets to ride him. No sharers, no owners, no yard managers bossing me around and telling me to do things their way. I’ve clung onto that dream like a lifeline, the only thing worth keeping going for. That was why I had agreed to come to here. I’ve always said that I would sell my soul for a pony of my own.
But deep down, now that I’m here, I’m scared. Scared that it’s not real, or that he didn’t really mean it. That he dangled a pony as bait to get me to agree to come to New Zealand, but that it will never really happen. What if he’s one of those people who never keep their promises? Gran had warned me of that before I left.
“Don’t get your hopes up too much, love. If I know your father, he’ll be all full of grand plans and ideas, and not manage to follow through with anything.”
“But I’m going to have a pony,” I told her. “He said so. He promised.”
She’d sighed and patted my shoulder. “Well, let’s hope so, dear.”
Her words roll through my head, again and again, as the truck heaves us up the steep hill. The road is narrow and winding, with a precipitous drop on the left that is bordered only by a flimsy wooden guardrail that would hardly be strong enough to stop a bicycle, let alone a truck like this one. I roll the window down as the vehicle slows, and am immediately hit with the dank, deep smell of the native forest, accompanied by a chorus of birds and buzzing insects.
“You can smell the sea from here,” Dad says, inhaling deeply.
I can’t smell anything other than dampness and dirt, but I don’t bother to contradict him. We drive on in silence until we finally reach the summit and Dad stops the truck, letting me take in the view. I have to admit that it’s impressive. The ocean is a brilliant, sun-flecked blue, reflecting the sweeping open sky. A long stretch of golden sand, unfettered by buildings or piers, runs from one end of the secluded bay to the other. A row of shops and several small houses are scattered near the shore, but most of the area is given over to pasture. Houses and farms are dotted sparingly along the wide plateau to the base of the lower, gentler hills below us. The mountains to our left are densely clad in wild forest, or bush as Dad keeps calling it, but not far to our right the land has been cultivated, the wilderness giving way to row upon row of pine trees, marching in straight lines down the steep slopes. Far to the right, at the northernmost end of the bay, there appears to be is some sort of industrial area, and Dad confirms my suspicions when he points it out as the sawmill.
“Main industry of Clearwater Bay, the town’s reason for existence really. Not much else going on here, but that’s the way we all like it. There’s a few shops along closer to the beach, just selling the basics really. Not much there, but we’re only about fifteen minutes’ drive from Ratanui and they’ve got everything. Bit different to what you’re used to though, I bet.” He pauses for a response, doesn’t get one so continues. “Down in front of us where those tall hedges are, that’s the McLeods’ kiwifruit orchard. They do pretty well out of it. Bill has twin girls about your age, you’ll like them. And down there in the valley between these ranges and the lower hills, that’s where I…well, where we live.”
I peer down through the bush, but I can’t make out any houses in that area.
“So what do you think? Not bad, eh?”
I shrug, biting my lip to keep from crying at the thought of living here. Granted it’s pretty, but it’s the middle of nowhere, and it will be two years before I can get my driver’s licence. If I don’t have a pony within walking distance, I’m going to go stark staring mad.
Dad takes the handbrake off and the truck starts on the steep descent. His dog has woken up and is climbing into my lap, trying to stick its big hairy head out the window. I push him back hesitantly. Mum and I never had any pets (with the exception of two very dull goldfish) and her friend’s wee poodle hasn’t prepared me for this giant beast. I don’t want my arm taken off, and I don’t know if he’s going to turn vicious if I’m too rough with him. Dad sees my hesitation and grabs the dog’s collar, shoving him backwards.
“Oi, Chewy, gedoff her.” The mutt tumbles reluctantly back to the floor between our seats, and I can’t help asking.
“Chewy?”
“Chewbacca,” Dad explains. “Like the big hairy guy from Star Wars, you know. See the resemblance?”
“Oh.” Great. My dad’s a Star Wars geek. He glances at me.
“You have seen Star Wars, right?”
A horrifying vision of him forcing me to sit through old science-fiction movies is mercifully cut short as a banged-up old car, once light blue but now mostly rust, comes careening around the corner towards us. Dad brakes hard and swerves towards the precar
ious edge, and I grab the handle above my door, sure that we’re about to plummet to our deaths. Somehow the cars find room on the narrow road to pass each other, and although Dad blasts his horn at the other car, its driver just waves in response, grinning at us as he rattles on up the road.
“Bloody kids,” Dad mutters. “That was the Harrison boy. Family lives just down the road from me – uh, from us,” Dad corrects himself again. “Bit mad, that lot.”
No joke. We creep down the hill cautiously and safely reach the bottom. I let out a breath of relief that I didn’t realise I was holding, and Dad chuckles.
“Bit narrow, eh?” Despite his questioning tone, he doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer, so I just nod mutely as we come down a much gentler slope onto the plateau. The road widens out in front of us, and I see a few houses, set well back from the road and surrounded by rolling green fields. Despite my determination not to get my hopes up, I start wondering how much land my father lives on, and imagine a field behind the house where my pony can graze under my watchful eye.
“Ah, there’s the twins,” Dad comments, bringing me back to myself. Up ahead of us on the road are two ponies cantering along the wide grass verge. A slender, well-bred dapple grey leads the way, with a pretty palomino right behind her. The girls ride well, sitting quietly in their saddles with their hands gentle and low. The girl on the palomino waves as we drive past and Dad lifts his fingers from the steering wheel in response.
“Bill said they’d be keen for you to go and ride with them any time. He reckons they’ve got more ponies than they have time to look after, and would love a bit of help.”
Lucky them, I think to myself as we drive on. I sit back as the ponies disappear from view and mull over his words, hoping he’s not expecting me to be satisfied with begging rides off other people instead of having my own pony. I know from experience that it’s not the same thing at all.
