by Kate Lattey
Dad’s still giving me a running commentary about whose farm that is and what each road is called, but the jetlag is stopping my brain from working too well and I just want to hurry up and get to my new home. A tilting signpost informs me that we’re heading up Valley Road, and Dad downshifts and slows significantly as we approach a tight bend. Up ahead I see solid stone walls with wrought iron gates, and large letters identifying it as Clearwater Estate, and I can’t control the sudden surge of hope that maybe my father was joking when he said his place was small. Maybe he has a strange sense of humour, and he’s going to turn in at these gates and drive us up the tree-lined driveway to the immense house I can just make out as we approach. And it looks like there are looseboxes out the back, and an outdoor school…
“Bit pretentious, isn’t it?”
My hopes plummet at his scathing tone. As we drive past, I can’t help asking. “Who lives there?”
“No-one really. An old chap who used to be Mayor of Ratanui built it years ago. The family that owns it now got divorced a few years ago. I forget the fella’s name, he works in Auckland, doesn’t come down much. His daughter’s at Uni in Otago. Mackenzies bought most of his land years ago, so it’s not even really an estate anymore, just a big empty house.”
“Oh.”
We drive on along the unsealed road, littered with potholes, and I grit my teeth as the truck’s suspension struggles to cope. Dad avoids as many dips and potholes as he can, but it’s not a pleasant drive. Finally, after almost a mile of bumping and lurching along the dusty road, we turn a corner and I see buildings up ahead. As we approach, I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I’ve never seen a more derelict farm in my life. Three piles of rust that might once have been cars sit between two big shambling outbuildings, next to a tractor with no tyres. The fields are sparsely scattered with raggedy sheep behind sagging wire fences, and further along, a dilapidated barn perches above wooden sheep pens. The farmhouse is worst of all, sagging on all corners like it’s about to fall in on itself, with tattered curtains hanging in dirt-smeared windows. If that’s where my father lives, I’m getting on the next plane back to England.
Without realising it, Dad reassures me. “That’s the Harrisons’ place,” he mentions offhandedly.
I nod slowly, able to breathe again, and staring to understand why he didn’t think much of the boy who almost drove into us. Aside from the near death experience, obviously. As we pass the farm, I see a group of ponies standing under a tree, and one catches my eye immediately. A piebald pony with the same solid build and thick tail that Jigsaw had. This pony is as unkempt as his surroundings, but the very sight of him sends a pang of homesickness coursing through me. I miss my pony.
Of course, he’d not really been mine, but it had almost felt like he was. For years, I’d lived for my weekly lessons at the local riding school. My best friend Becky and I used to hang around the yard whenever we could, trying to make ourselves useful, grooming and tacking up the ponies before the rides. It wasn’t much, but it was all we had – until Becky got her own pony for her birthday. A dark bay gelding named Rio, not fancy or particularly well-bred, but hers and hers alone. She’d promised at first that we would share him, but her original generosity had soon worn off, and she left me behind to ride with the other girls who had their own ponies, only giving me the occasional turn on Rio when she was bored or if he was misbehaving.
My lucky break had come when her parents decided to move her pony from the riding school to a private yard. I’d gone along to visit Rio in his new home and found a cute skewbald pony with a broad blaze peering out at me from the neighbouring box. Jigsaw had been outgrown by his owner, but she’d refused to let her parents sell him, so he was just standing around, looking for someone to love him and exercise him, and that person became me. He was sweet-natured and willing, and I’d thought I was the luckiest girl in the world. Everything had come up roses for a while, but then Mum got sick. Over the following months, Jigsaw was the one thing that had remained constant and good. He was always there and always pleased to see me. He never asked any awkward questions or gave me pitying looks. He wasn’t the most beautiful or athletic of ponies, but he was solid and dependable, and I loved him so much. I would go and see him every day after school, groom him and ride him or just sit in his stable and talk to him. He was always interested in what I was doing, blowing in my hair and nuzzling me for Polo mints. He became my best friend in the world. I’d held onto him so tightly, especially during those last dark days as I’d watched my mother waste away to nothing, leaving me all alone. Suddenly all that was left from my former happy life was the warm furry bulk of a pony, who was always there for me, warm and waiting in his stable.
Saying goodbye to Jigsaw had been the hardest part of leaving. After the funeral, I’d had to move to live with my grandparents in Newton Abbot, which was much too far from Wimbledon to go riding every day. They’d sent me for a couple of lessons at a riding school near them, but after I’d seen the head instructor beating a pony around the head for nipping at her, I’d refused to go back. My grandparents hadn’t known what to do with me, and I’d been miserable and sulky, undoubtedly no fun to have around. So they’d called my father, absent from my life since I was four years old, and he’d offered to take me in. I’d agreed, thinking that maybe a brand new start wasn’t such a bad idea, desperate to escape from the memories and the constant commiserations – and so here I am.
We drive on up the hill a bit further before the road dips down slightly. Through a gap in the trees I catch a glimpse of the sea before Dad veers off to the right and drives up a narrow overgrown track, stopping the truck outside the strangest house I’ve ever seen.
It’s small and solid, not sagging and run-down like the place down the road, but it’s rough. It looks like it was built by a sawmill worker who got the rough cut lumber cheaply, as it’s basically a log cabin, except without any of the rustic charm associated with actual log cabins. It’s a rectangle shape with a second storey perched on one end, a big stone chimney on the other, and a porch that runs two-thirds of the way along the front of the house and then abruptly stops, as though the builder ran out of lumber or simply couldn’t be bothered to finish. It screams work in progress, but from the way the yard is overgrown, I don’t think that my father has any intention of bringing it to completion.
I try to control my expression, but I think this time even my clueless parent can tell what I’m thinking. He gets out of the car and his dog scrambles across me, digging its claws into my legs before diving to the ground and running off into the long grass. I reluctantly step out of the truck and stare at the strange house. Small, it turns out, was an understatement. This place makes the two-bed bungalow that Mum and I had lived in seem like a mansion. That was a proper house, at least, with a tidy garden and indoor plumbing, which I’ll almost be surprised to find in this place. Dad has already dragged my bags out of the truck and is hauling them towards the house. I follow him slowly, trying to avoid getting snared by in the rambling blackberries that hang across the dirt path leading to the half-built verandah.
Inside the house it’s dim. The front door opens into an outdated kitchen, with a bright yellow benchtop and mildewed orange curtains surrounding a large window that looks out onto the overgrown backyard. The appliances probably date back to the 1980s, the refrigerator possibly even earlier, and there’s no dishwasher. I feel as though I’ve stepped back in time as I walk around the circular wooden table with its three mismatched chairs, and pass through the double-doors into the sitting room. A big green couch with stuffing leaking out of it sits against the far wall and an ancient brown armchair faces the TV in the corner. The fireplace is made from the same grey stone as the chimney, and empty bookshelves frame the window that looks into the front garden. The ceilings throughout are supported by heavy wooden beams that run straight across the rooms, low enough so that a taller man than my father would be constantly ducking his head, and I stumble over an uneven floorbo
ard as I turn back around. I take a deep breath, fighting back tears. I can’t imagine living here.
“Your room’s up there,” Dad says from behind me, pointing to a narrow staircase in the corner next to a mildewed bathroom. I glance back at him and I think he sees my watery eyes, because he suddenly looks really guilty. I walk to the base of the stairs and look up.
“Go on,” Dad urges me.
It’s so steep that it’s more like a ladder than a staircase. I climb awkwardly up, and find myself on a tiny landing at the top. The roof slants down sharply on the right and the door has been cut in an odd shape to fit into the slope. It creaks in complaint as I push it open to reveal my new bedroom. It’s much like the rest of the house, with exposed beams on the ceiling and bare wooden floors. There’s a bed pushed up against the far wall under the eaves, with a shabby desk jammed in next to it under the window. The room’s not spacious – I can cross its length in six strides and its width in less than four – and the ceiling slopes almost to the floor on either side. It’s like being inside a child’s drawing of a house, all roof and very little wall. I’m reasonably short, but I’m already feeling slightly claustrophobic, and not unlike the mad wife in Jane Eyre. No wonder she went crazy.
“Sorry to shove you in the attic,” Dad apologises, unknowingly reading my mind as he steps into the room behind me. “Hope the bed’s okay. I got it from a guy at work, his daughter was using it when she was flatting. It’s pretty comfortable,” he insists. “Go ahead, try it.”
I stare dubiously at the second-hand bed, before turning my head to take in the dresser with drawers that don’t close all the way and the bookcase with crooked shelves, and I remind myself that I’m doing this for a reason. You’re going to have a pony. A pony of your own. The words run through my head on a constant loop as dad keeps talking.
“It’s a work in progress,” he says, trying to sound cheerful. “You can paint it or decorate it any way you like, it’s entirely up to you.” A pause. “So what do you think?”
I shrug. “It’s fine.” He seems relieved by my response, and I try to smile as he stands my suitcase on the floor behind me and heads downstairs to bring up the rest of my luggage. I wander across to look out the window, and drag it open to let the fresh air in. I can smell the sea from here. It’s a clear day and I can just make out the beach and a stretch of yellow sand beyond the treetops. There are strange-sounding birds warbling away in the trees behind the house, and it’s peaceful and sunny and yet disturbingly unfamiliar.
I turn around as Dad’s heavy tread comes back up the stairs, each step creaking loudly under his feet. One advantage of this room then – he’ll never be able to sneak up on me. He ducks slightly through the low doorway and drops my bag onto the floor.
“You’re probably used to having more space, but feel free to spread out downstairs. Make yourself at home.”
I nod, and he stands there for a moment, hands hanging awkwardly by his sides. The look on his face makes me feel bad for not being nicer to him. None of this is really his fault, but he seems to be putting a lot of pressure on himself. Don’t worry, I feel like telling him. No-one expects you to be Father of the Year. Just buy me a pony and we’ll get along fine.
“I’m really tired,” I tell him. “I think I’m going to get some sleep.”
He nods. “Fine. Okay. Good. Well, let me know if you need anything.” And he finally leaves me in peace.
I have no intention of going to sleep, that’ll only make the jetlag worse. If I can stay awake until dark it will be a good start. I start unpacking before burying myself in a book until my rumbling stomach eventually forces me downstairs. There’s no food in the house so Dad drives us into town for fish and chips, and we sit on the beach eating them from the paper with our fingers. I watch as he squirts a huge glob of tomato sauce onto the paper, tears a chunk off his fish, dips it in the sauce and shoves it in his mouth. I eat slowly, without much of an appetite.
When we get back home, I ring Gran and tell her that I’ve arrived safely. She talks to me briefly, assuring herself that I’m in one piece, then asks to speak with Dad. I pass the phone over and listen to him answering her questions. He finally hangs up the phone and grins ruefully at me.
“She’s a tough woman,” he says. “Still don’t think she likes me very much.”
I make no answer, and watch his smile slowly fade away.
Sleep doesn’t come easily, and I lie awake for a long time, staring at the picture of Jigsaw that I’ve propped beside my bed. Telling myself the same thing over and over. Once I get my own pony, all of this will be okay.
CHAPTER TWO
I wake up early the next morning when the sun comes streaming through a gap in the curtains and straight into my eyes. I muzzily attempt to pull them properly, but after several attempts I am forced to admit defeat and resign myself to being awake. I fumble around for my iPod and plug it into my ears, and staring up at the peaked ceiling I play my favourite music, but none of it can take me away from the reality of where I am. After half an hour of flicking through songs, unable to find the right one to match my mood, I give up and go downstairs for a shower.
The house is empty. Or it would be if Dad had taken the dog with him, but he’s left it lying on a rug in the kitchen glaring at me. I dig around for a while before I find towels in a cupboard above the washing machine. There’s no clothes dryer in the house, which means that piece of cord strung between two trees in the front yard must be the washing line, and I cringe at the thought of hanging my underwear out in plain view as I step into the bathroom and look around, my stomach sinking.
The surfaces are fairly clean, so I figure that Dad at least attempted to scrub the place up a bit, but there’s still mould growing on the ceiling and cobwebs hanging in the corners of the room. It’s disgusting, but I don’t have a choice, so I decide to make it quick. The water pressure is pretty bad, but the shower runs hot enough. I stick my head under the flow of water and close my eyes, pretending I’m back home in my real shower, about to step out onto the deep cream mat. In my head I wrap a thick, soft towel around myself and walk through the warm living room. Mum will be making dinner, singing to herself, and I can almost smell roast chicken and gravy. I follow my thoughts, walking in my mind back through our house, into the bedroom I’d grown up in with its comfortable bed and walk-in wardrobe. I’m snuggling into my bed, warm and happy, watching TV with a mug of hot chocolate in my hand, when I get blasted back to reality as the water gushing from the showerhead abruptly turns freezing cold. I turn it off quickly and grab my towel, shivering. It’s sheer luck that I’d decided not to wash my hair today, or I’d be stuck with a head full of shampoo. I scrub myself down with the coarse towel, then pull my pyjamas back on in an attempt to get warm. Wrapping the towel around my wet hair, I scuttle back upstairs to my room and dress properly.
When I go back down to console my rumbling stomach, I find the note Dad has left me on the kitchen table.
Got called into work. Be home for lunch. Help yourself to food if you can find any.
That doesn’t sound promising. I rummage around the kitchen and find half a loaf of wholegrain bread in the freezer so I make some toast, then find there’s only Vegemite to go on it. The milk smells weird, so I drink my tea black with plenty of sugar. The dog perks up when he sees me making food, hoping I’ll share.
“Not bloody likely.”
He drops his head onto his front paws and sulks at me. I ignore him as I sit at the table, slowly chewing the stale toast and wondering how I’m going to get through the next two years, living like this. If my mother could see me now. She’d be furious, and have a right go at Dad for not looking after me properly. But there’s no use thinking that way. She’s gone, and he obviously lives like this and thinks nothing of it. So much for him looking after me, looks more like I’m going to end up looking after him.
I take another bite of toast, and try not to think about that too much.
I’ve already unpack
ed everything I brought with me, so to kill time I decide to go for a wander down the road. I ignore the dog’s pleas to join me, and trudge along the dirt road on my own. As I pass the Harrisons’ farm I look for the piebald pony, but there is no sign of him this morning. A grubby dun mare is grazing near the fence but doesn’t as much as look up when I chirrup to her. I walk on, wondering what Jigsaw is doing now, back home. I hope the new girl riding him loves him as much as I did.
I reach Clearwater Estate and stand at the gates for a moment, looking up the long gravel driveway. The fields on either side of the driveway are lush and green, and if I crane my neck I can definitely make out the riding arena and stables. If only Dad could’ve lived there instead of his shabby little log cabin. I walk on in a daydream, turning left at the bottom of the hill and following the road towards the beach. I’m effortlessly jumping an imaginary pony over high painted poles in my head when I hear hoofbeats coming up on the road behind me. At first I put it down to my overactive imagination, but then I turn to see a palomino pony cantering towards me, reins and stirrups flying. The pony slows to a trot when it sees me, and I move into its path, holding up a hand and speaking to it in a reassuring voice. It starts to swing left, into the middle of the road, so I move in that direction to block its path. Changing its mind quickly, the pony ducks to the right, but I’m ready for it and manage to grab the reins. I assume that it’s one of the twins’ ponies, the palomino I saw yesterday, but then I realise that this pony has a blaze instead of a star on its face. My suspicions are confirmed when I see his monogrammed white numnah under the saddle. So now I just have to figure out who Brooke Westcott is and where she lives.
I go to run up the offside stirrup and discover that the pony’s name is Brookfields Ezekiel. Fancy schmancy. I start leading him back along the road in the direction he’d come from. I’d walked past a driveway not too far back but when I retrace my steps I notice that it has a large cattle grid across the gateway. There’s a side gate but it’s padlocked, so I figure he couldn’t have come from there, and keep walking. The pony nudges me with his nose, and I can’t help smiling at him. He’s about thirteen hands high, a bit smaller than Jigsaw but still easily up to my weight. I look up the road, wondering how far I’m going to have to walk to find his home. I’m getting tired already and a blister is starting on my heel.
