Paycheque

by Fiona McCallum

  ‘…on a couple of horses I’m having some issues with. I know you’ve got a good eye and thought if you saw them actually racing you’d have more of an idea. I’m heading off to a couple of race meetings in country Victoria.’

  It wasn’t the sort of flattery Claire was hoping for, but it would do, she decided. Though of course, it was totally out of the question.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Derek, but I can’t. I’ve got mountains of work,’ she lied, casting her arm across an almost empty pile of document trays. She wasn’t about to admit it to her boss, but she was spending an awful lot of time trying to sort out her corporate box invite for the Melbourne Cup. Apart from that, it would be totally disloyal. Derek was a rival owner to Jack. Even if he did have his own trainer, there was no way she was about to impart her or her father’s secrets.

  ‘Please, Claire. You need a break and I need some expert advice.’

  ‘Expert!’ Claire snorted. ‘I’m a bloody Client Relationship Manager – I deal with people, remember. What about that hotshot team you’re always on about?’ Claire couldn’t resist the dig – she’d put up with his subtle rivalry for long enough.

  ‘They’re not naturals like you. They don’t understand what goes on in a horse’s head the way you do.’

  ‘Look Derek, I’m flattered. I really am. But not only do I have a lot of work here, but I have Dad to think of.’ There was no way she could leave him for a week, especially now she could see some progress. According to Dr Burrows, persistence was the key.

  Derek sighed deeply, clearly exasperated. ‘Come on, Claire. You and I both know he won’t miss you – he’s in a coma.’

  Claire was so struck by the callousness that she could only stare back with an open mouth.

  ‘Shit, I’m so sorry,’ Derek stammered. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just I…’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t,’ Claire snapped. ‘Now please go, I’ve got work to do,’ she growled, and willed herself to stay angry. Her mood only had to waver just a little and the tears began to show – usually at the most inappropriate of moments. The last thing she needed was a ‘there, there’ and the offer of a shoulder and a handkerchief.

  And there she was thinking the sod had a soft side. ‘Pah, bastard,’ she scoffed, as she returned to her to do list.

  But her attention kept going back to Derek. Something didn’t feel right. Of course he was just trying to get her in the sack. But why couldn’t he just ask her out for dinner? Or better still, a movie, so they wouldn’t have to talk.

  And what was he doing going on leave at such short notice, anyway? He’d said she knew, but unless she’d had a complete lapse at some point – which was entirely possible given the shitty year she was having – she hadn’t heard a thing about it. Not unheard of, but very unusual.

  Had Derek really wanted her opinion on his horses? She wanted to believe it – she needed something positive in her life right now, but the odds weren’t really stacked in her favour. Last year, yes. Next year, maybe. So just why was he trying to get her to take time off?

  Chapter Five

  During the following week, Claire spent her spare time trying to rouse Jack from his slumber: with kind words, harsh words, and the news of her life in all its dreary black, white and grey detail. One night she’d even tried singing when she’d run out of things to say, but when the nurse came in – perhaps to look for the cat that was apparently being strangled – she took to humming.

  Claire just didn’t want her father forgetting the sounds of everyday life. She’d have been quite happy if he woke just to say, ‘Would you just bloody shut up?’ Just as long as he woke up.

  But she wished he’d get on with it; all the back and forth between work, home and hospital was very draining. A small part of her wondered whether Derek was right – if maybe she needed a break. Possibly. But an even bigger part was afraid that if she stopped, even paused for just a moment, she might never get going again.

  On Thursday afternoon, Claire pulled into the hospital car park and turned the engine off. She laid her head on her arm across the steering wheel to try and gather the strength she needed to chatter to Jack for the next hour or so. She wondered if Bill and Daphne were inside. She hoped so.

  A few weeks ago she’d started encouraging them to stay when she arrived, instead of scurrying off as had been their habit. It wasn’t fair for them to drive all that way and leave again if Claire happened to be visiting. And they weren’t expected to know when that was – Claire just came and went when she had the time.

  Often now, the three of them would sit there together as if they were family. They sort of were – Claire had known them her whole life. Bill would sit beside Jack’s bed reading the paper to him and Claire would sit beside Daphne as she chattered about the goings-on at the CWA or the Hospital Auxiliary while knitting. Claire was amazed that Daphne could knit a jumper without a pattern. It wasn’t just plain either – it had all sorts of fancy stitches and twisted cables going down the front and back.

  ‘Only the sleeves to go now,’ Daphne had said the other day upon Claire’s enquiry. Claire had expected the constant click, click of knitting needles to be irritating – part of the reason she hadn’t insisted they stay early on. But instead, she found the sound strangely soothing.

  Claire was startled to find a doctor, stethoscope strung around his shoulders, nose pressed against the window, peering at her full of concern. She must have dozed off in the fading sun. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, mouthed that she was okay, removed the keys and got out.

  Her steps were leaden as she made her way across the car park. As she stared vaguely at the asphalt passing beneath her, she remembered the images that had flashed into her head while she’d dozed.

  Paycheque had been screaming, rearing, lashing out, and was eventually manhandled to the ground by a small crowd of men. The images of the panic-stricken young horse – eyes alight with fear and hatred – refused to leave her.

  Claire sat down in the visitors’ area for a few moments. Her heart was working overtime and her legs were having trouble carrying her. I’ll finish the week and then take the next two off, she decided. Almost instantly she was rewarded with enough strength to get up and make her way down the long, dark hall to Jack’s room. It was empty other than Jack in his bed.

  Fifteen minutes later, Claire had run out of topics for conversation. Every time she’d drawn breath or changed tack, thoughts of Paycheque would start taunting her. If only Jack would wake up, she’d confess. He’d know what to do. Claire closed her eyes for a few moments to ponder how she would spend her time off – other than at the hospital. She’d sleep most of the first two days and then she’d visit Bernadette. And look for Paycheque? Maybe. Just to satisfy her curiosity and no more. It was really none of her business. Someone else owned him now.

  ‘Dad, I’ve decided to take a couple of weeks off. Just hang around, visit Bernie, catch up on some reading. I’ll be able to visit you during the day – you won’t be so tired then.’ Tired! What was she saying? He’s asleep, I’m the one who’s tired.

  ‘Actually Dad, my boss asked me to take a look at a couple of his horses. Derek Anderson – I think you’ll remember the name – he’s an owner, not a trainer. Anyway, he wanted me to go interstate with him to see them race. Of course I couldn’t go while you’re here like this. Not that I’d be much help anyhow – probably been out of the game too long. But I thought maybe I’d go to a couple of race meetings while I’m on leave – see if I’ve still got any sort of eye. Might be fun.’

  Claire had her hand over Jack’s and was studying his face, as she usually did, for the slightest sign he was waking up. Even though she wasn’t really expecting him to – she’d been doing this too long to still be getting her hopes up at the end of every sentence – it had become a habit to stare at him while she spoke. And part of Claire thought that if anything would get him over the line it was talk of horses.

  ‘Apparently his youngsters are giving his tra
iner grief. Speaking of which, Paycheque was at Morphettville the other week. He was in a bit of trouble. Apparently Al Jacobs was really piss –’

  Claire shut her mouth suddenly. She had become so used to rambling about her bland life that hadn’t realised what she was saying. Shit! Jack would take the news even worse than she had.

  Claire bit her lip and looked away. And as she did she noticed the slightest ripple under her hand. She looked back. Were his fingers more bent than two seconds before? Despite looking at her father’s hand the whole time, Claire had no idea how it had been lying. Damn it, she should remember.

  She rubbed a hand across her face. Why now, of all times, was her memory failing her? She again picked up her father’s weather-beaten hand and slid her smooth, soft one underneath.

  And then there it was, the slightest contraction and scrape of his thick dry fingertips on the top of hers. Claire’s mouth dropped open and she stared. He had actually moved! She was not mistaken. She wanted to shout for joy, grab his shoulders, shake him fully awake. She knew it might just be the muscles readjusting themselves with no consciousness involved. The doctors and nurses had told her over and over.

  Claire’s gaze travelled up Jack’s arm to his face. It was a little contorted, as though he were trying to change the position of his mouth. Was she imagining it? She leant forward and put a hand on his chest.

  ‘It’s okay, Dad, take your time.’ His eyeballs rolled under his closed lids, and it was then that Claire noticed two tears making their way from the inside corner of his eyes. They became a glistening line, caught in his lashes.

  Claire’s heart leapt. Tears filled her own eyes and before she could reach for a tissue, there was a hot wet line streaking down her face.

  ‘Oh Dad,’ she croaked, and clutched his hand tightly. A couple of tears had sprung through his lashes and were slowly running down his cheeks as well. Her heart lurched again. Claire had never seen her father cry before and didn’t know how to react. Part of her wanted to be happy he was coming around, but another part didn’t want him to be anguished, didn’t want to be the cause of it either. She watched the two rows of tears in a slow motion race down his face, trying to will her own to stop, and for the lump to dissolve and let her speak. Though what was there to say?

  Should she get a nurse? Probably. But she couldn’t leave him, she might miss something. And without her there, he might give up, slip back to sleep. If she pressed the buzzer they’d all rush in for an emergency, shatter the peace, maybe give him a fright and halt his progress.

  Claire could hear the metallic twang of the electric clock above the door. The seconds seemed to pass as slowly as minutes. Should she get a doctor? What if he couldn’t breathe, choked, and then died? No, she was being ridiculous, paranoid. Get a grip, she told herself. He’s fine. He’s just been asleep and is waking up.

  She squeezed his hand harder. Shit, was it too hard? His face was contorting. Was it pain? Claire watched, transfixed, as her father’s lips pursed and then turned in on themselves. He was trying to speak. She found her own mouth copying him. What was he trying to say? Claire wished she could do it for him. What?! She wanted to shout. Just spit it out! She rocked forward in her chair, urging him on, holding her breath. God, she was so frustrated. She wanted to slam her fist into a wall or something – do anything but watch this man who so recently was strong, smart, full of dry wit, and now couldn’t even get his tongue around one word. If only she knew what that word was. She checked his lips that now seemed fused in their pursed position, and tried to work through the possibilities in her head.

  Suddenly his lips parted and there was a little pop as some air escaped. ‘P,’ he’d said. ‘P’. Claire frantically searched her memory, her mind whirling like the spinning wheels of a car bogged to the axles. Her mother’s name had been Grace, so that hadn’t been it. Claire couldn’t bear it if he’d lost his memory as well, especially having to break the news again that his wife was dead. It was going to be bad enough confessing what had happened to his horses.

  The anguish showed in her father’s face. Claire wanted to tell him not to bother, to try again later, not to strain himself. That it didn’t matter. But it did matter. What the hell was he trying to say?

  And then he was sinking deeper into his pillows, as if giving up. Claire sank right along with him. She wanted to grab him, drag him up, do anything to stop him going back to that state.

  Suddenly his eyes opened and he leaned forward ever so slightly. He was staring straight ahead, eyes vacant. Claire barely had a chance to react before his mouth opened and the word ‘Paycheque’ escaped with a cough. He slumped back, eyes closed again. His lips and face relaxed. To Claire it happened in slow motion. He looked just as he had ten minutes before, before she’d mentioned the horse. She frantically patted his arm.

  ‘No, wake up,’ she whispered. Her heart began racing as she tried to process what had gone on. Her head whirled. ‘Jesus, no!’ Her shaking hand reached for the red knob on the wall and she pressed, then pressed a few more times for good measure.

  A dishevelled nurse arrived panting in the doorway, paused briefly to assess the situation before striding over to Jack’s bed where she reset the button.

  ‘Has something happened?’ she asked.

  Claire wanted to slap her, yell at her to do something. Do something to stop her father dying.

  But now she was the one who couldn’t form her words. ‘I, um. He…’ But it didn’t matter; the nurse was busy checking Jack’s pulse, his eyes. And then she was looking from Jack to Claire and back again.

  ‘Is he…?’

  ‘Sorry, no. There’s no change.’

  No, you don’t understand. Finally Claire’s mouth was working. There was a change, he woke up, spoke. But Claire didn’t say any of it. She was now wondering if she’d imagined it.

  The nurse was looking a little exasperated.

  ‘He woke up. He spoke,’ Claire said.

  The nurse smiled at her with sympathy, patted Claire’s arm and said, ‘Maybe you should go home, get some rest. There’s nothing you can do here – we’re taking good care of your father.’

  But you’re not, Claire wanted to yell. You just check him every so often. She stared at the nurse, frowning.

  ‘It’s all right, sometimes when we want something so badly…’

  ‘I didn’t make it up.’ This time she had spoken. It was obviously a fraction of what he would have experienced, but Claire now thought she could understand the frustration Dr Burrows had felt.

  ‘Please keep your voice down,’ the young nurse pleaded quietly.

  What would she know anyway? She looked like just a kid, was probably barely out of university. Claire felt like slapping some life experience into her.

  ‘I think you really should go. Visiting hours are ending soon anyway.’

  Claire took a deep breath, gave Jack’s limp hand another squeeze, leant forward to kiss his forehead and got up. She flashed the nurse an icy glare and stalked out.

  Still fuming as she marched across the car park, she thought of what might have happened if he’d woken to see what all the commotion was about. That would have shut the smarmy kid up. Except there would have been nothing more humiliating than her father coming out of his coma to tell his thirty-something daughter off.

  Claire sat for a few moments, collecting her thoughts and letting her emotions subside. Had she really dreamed he woke up, the tears? No, she hadn’t been asleep. Imagined it, then? Anything was possible in the state she was in. Claire sighed wearily. She was beginning to lose all perspective.

  Chapter Six

  The next morning Claire bounded into work full of purpose and energy, her leave form already filled out and awaiting Derek’s signature. If she got all her work done, she might even take the last few hours off – get an early start to her break.

  After dumping her handbag and laptop, Claire made her way down the corridor to Derek’s plush corner office. He had his back to the door, and
was hunched over something on his desk. Something about his tight, uneasy posture – one hand holding the side of his head in contemplation – stopped Claire at the open door. Her eyes darted across his desk, which was scattered with papers. To his left was a takeaway cardboard coffee cup, the remains of cappuccino froth lining its upper edge, and a half-eaten toasted sandwich lying on a white paper bag. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Claire shook the uneasy feeling free, she was just being paranoid. She knocked tentatively on the frosted glass sliding door.

  Derek looked up and turned in his chair, startled. His face was clouded in confusion for a split second before reddening. It was as though he’d been caught stuffing company stationery into his briefcase.

  He glanced down at a small pile of business-sized envelopes in front of him before roughly shoving them out of sight under some papers. Definitely caught doing personal business on company time, Claire thought smugly.

  ‘Claire, please,’ he said, sweeping an arm toward a vacant chair.

  ‘Thanks.’ Claire went in and sat down at the small round low table, part of the new ‘touchy feely’ concept in working environments at Rockford.

  ‘Did you enjoy your time off? Successful week away with the gee-gees?’

  ‘Um, yes, not bad. Something I can help you with, Claire? I’m rather snowed under…’

  Claire was annoyed. It was all right for him to stand at her desk fiddling with her bits and pieces, but now when the tables were turned she was getting the royal hurry on. Bloody typical.

  But she wasn’t going to let it get to her – she was on the cusp of two glorious weeks away. Nothing could ruin that now, not even Derek and his double standards. Claire smiled sweetly at him, got up, flapped her leave form theatrically and laid it on the desk in front of him.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Leave form, Derek.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that, but you said…’ He ran a hand through his hair.