by Ella West
On Friday after school I don’t go to the beach with Blue. The rain is heavy. I’m sick of getting wet. I take Blue’s cover off. It’s giving him sores. His coat has bare patches. He runs around his paddock without it, mud flying, the rain soaking his back. And then he rolls around in the mud he’s created like he’s a pig, then trots back up to me and shakes his body all over and I have to step away or get splattered. Not funny, Blue. And no, I’m not going to brush you now.
Jack has been texting me on and off all day. Sam catches me replying at lunchtime and asks who it is, but I lie (why not? I’m getting good at it) and tell her it’s my mum. The body has been formally identified, Jack texts, and it’s definitely not Pete. It’s who they thought it was (whoever that is – I don’t ask). His dad has had to go to Christchurch, maybe for a few days – there’s been a possible break in the investigation. How are you? He texts me that a lot. How am I?
Are you okay? Did you sleep okay? I lie to him as well. I’m fine. Just fine.
But I can’t lie to Blue. If Dad loses his job and we leave and go to live in Christchurch, what will happen to my horse? We won’t be able to take him with us. We can’t sell our house (even if someone does want to buy it with its newly painted hallway) for enough money to buy one in Christchurch with a paddock for a horse. I don’t even know if we’d have enough money to buy a house at all. Houses in Christchurch are a lot more expensive than here. I got Blue because he was going to be sent to the meatworks. Maybe I’ve just delayed his fate by a few years.
On Saturday morning there is basketball. The noise of balls against the court floor and our wet shoes squelching with every move we make gets to me. I’m off my game. I can’t even shoot straight. Liam comes over to talk to me halfway through and we stand on the sideline of the court, watching the others as they run up and down.
‘Annie, I heard they may be laying off some of the train drivers. I just wanted to say to you that I hope your dad will be okay.’
I nod.
‘But whatever happens, you know, life goes on,’ he says. ‘Hey, look at me. I’m still here, I’m still doing what I love. Things will come right eventually. I’ll get another job. The mines will start hiring again one day. So chin up. Be positive.’
I nod again and get back on court. A couple of minutes later Sam is by my side wanting to know what Liam was talking to me about.
‘Nothing,’ I tell her. ‘Just stuff about shooting better.’
‘You are crap today. I saw you miss before.’
After we finish up, Liam gets us all together and talks about the upcoming season. We’ll soon start practising after school as well as on Saturday mornings, and in another couple of weeks games will start. We’ll be travelling to games soon, and those games will be tough. Don’t expect any of them to be easy, he says. He’s talking to us, not at us, and we get it. This is serious. He’s our coach and we are all he has. We can’t let him down.
I cook myself instant noodles for lunch and avoid Mum. Jack has already texted me to meet him on the beach this afternoon, but I’ve texted back saying that I can’t make it. I don’t give a reason. The water boiling for the noodles makes the window by the stove steam up, but it doesn’t stop me staring out of it. When I finally turn back to the pot the noodles have turned to mush. I eat a couple of mouthfuls while flicking through yesterday’s Westport News which has been left on the dining table, but I don’t read anything, just headlines. The rest of the noodles I chuck down the sink, run the tap and push them through the plughole with the fork until they’re all gone. I grab my raincoat and dash out into the rain to throw Blue a slab of hay. He’s grumpy that we’re not going riding. He knows we should be, knows I’ve lied to Jack, that I’ve got nothing to do all afternoon.
‘Well, some days are just bad,’ I tell him. ‘That’s just the way it is.’ Blue nibbles a corner of hay, then leaves it and canters around the paddock. He’s saying if you don’t take me riding I’m going to mess up the paddock.
‘Go for it,’ I tell him. ‘See if I care.’ And I leave him to it. I’m getting wet anyway.
Saturday afternoon, Saturday evening, Sunday morning. Jack texts: Beach today, one? I text again that I can’t make it. He texts back that he wants to see me. I give up and text that I’ll be there. Sometimes giving up, giving in, is easier.
About twelve-thirty, I put my raincoat on and go out and see Blue, brush him with a currycomb. He needs it – without his cover on he has turned into something more like a mud monster than a horse. He even has tangles in his mane. I spend a long time brushing him then get the saddle out. He’s all excited after two days in his paddock, whinnying in my ear, snorting and stamping his feet.
‘Stay still,’ I tell him, doing up the girth. He’s not making any of it easy.
And then I’m in the saddle and he’s heading for the beach without me even telling him, and that feeling of being twisted-up inside is back. The beach is the last place I want to go.
Jack and Tassie are by the driftwood tree. Jack is off Tassie, holding her by the reins, waiting for us in the drizzle.
‘I didn’t think you would come,’ he says.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I mumble.
‘You don’t have to be sorry. It’s no big deal. Tassie and I haven’t got anything else on this afternoon. Apart from a geography assignment which I don’t want to do.’
‘Geography?’
‘I still do schoolwork, and Year Thirteen is no breeze. Anyway, I’m going to teach you how to barrel race.’
‘Do I have to?’ I ask. All I feel like doing is heading home, getting dry, curling up in bed in the dark and staying there. But I can’t tell him that, not when he’s standing waiting for me, hands on hips, ready.
‘Yes. You wanted to learn and today is the day I’m going to teach you.’
‘Tassie will just buck me off again.’
‘No, she won’t. I won’t let her. And since when have you ever been afraid of a horse?’
I get off Blue, my face momentarily against his saddle where Jack can’t see me, and quickly wipe the tears from my eyes. If he notices when I turn to him, he doesn’t say anything and instead just takes Blue’s reins out of my hands. I stand looking up at Tassie’s saddle, put my foot in the stirrup and haul myself up. I wait, ready for her pig jump, half-hoping she will throw me off just like last time so I have an excuse, but Jack is holding her head, both hands on either side of her bridle. He looks up at me.
‘Okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘So just walk her up and down the beach a little, get the feel of her.’
I do what I’m told. She’s like a coiled spring, all energy waiting to be released. Blue is mud fat, I admit it. Tassie is so, so different.
‘Keep the reins looser, use your legs more for cues,’ Jack calls out to me. ‘Try to turn her just by using your legs.’
I press against her with my left leg and, sure enough, she turns and we’re back walking towards Blue and Jack. Blue doesn’t seem the least bit interested in seeing me on another horse. He’s using Jack’s back as a scratching post for his head and Jack’s letting him.
‘Keep centred even more in the saddle,’ he says as we stop next to him. ‘It’s really important in barrel racing. Sit tall but firmly down in the saddle and as still as you can as she goes round. That’s better. You look good. What do you think of her?’
‘She’s different.’
‘Ready to give it a go?’ He nods at the driftwood tree. ‘Just get around it, don’t try to go too fast.’
‘Which way round, left or right?
‘You’ve got to do both on the course so whichever one. Just let Tassie know.’
I decide to give it a go at a trot, but Tassie has other ideas. She launches into a canter straight off, and if it wasn’t for the western saddle horn I’d be on the sand wondering what happened. I panic and grab it with my right hand, my left flung wide and we’ve scooted around the tree before I’ve even realised. I only just manage to get m
yself back into the saddle properly by the time we’re standing by Jack.
‘This time, don’t lean. Okay? Stay centred, let Tassie do the work. Don’t take the turn for her.’
I almost say something about Tassie doing all the work, but keep my mouth shut and start her off again. The trot still doesn’t happen, but this time I think more about my balance and staying centred rather than trying to slow down. And it’s better. I don’t have to grab the saddle horn. Jack nods his approval when we come up to him, so I turn her around and we try it again, this time just a little bit faster. I’m not sure if that’s from me or Tassie. Maybe it was a joint decision.
‘Should I be using both hands with the reins or holding them in one or something?’ I ask as we halt again by Jack. Blue is watching the waves, totally bored.
‘Both hands. You’re doing great. Nice and quiet. Look more at the line you’re going round the tree, not the tree itself. A horse will tend to go to where you’re looking. You don’t want her to crash into the tree.’
‘I don’t think she’s that dumb.’
‘I’m not saying that. It’s about balance. If you’re still and balanced, she can go faster without having to compensate for what you’re doing.’
‘I think we’re going quite fast enough.’
‘You can go a lot faster.’
He sends us off again and again, and he’s right, we do get faster. A lot faster. I try going round the tree the other way and Tassie listens to me and does what I want. We’re working together at last. Now I’ve figured out what is happening and where my arms and legs and body and, yes, eyes should be, I can actually watch what Tassie is doing, feel what she’s doing. She’s so supple and strong it’s unbelievable. It’s like she’s turning on the spot.
‘Okay, that’s enough for your first lesson,’ Jack calls out at last. Tassie’s coat is wet with rain and sweat and I feel exhausted as well. ‘I’d like to see how fast you would go on a proper course – we’re not going to do that here.’
‘How fast do they get up to?’ I ask as I jump off, my legs feeling like jelly.
‘Under seventeen seconds for three barrels. It’s pretty fast in the top competition.’ He takes Tassie’s reins from me and gives me Blue’s.
‘Would I be that fast?’
‘Well, first we’d need to get you a cowboy hat,’ he says, smiling.
‘And a horse. Tassie belongs to Stella,’ I remind him.
‘I think we could find you a horse, maybe not as good as Tassie, not yet, but we have a couple of young horses back home that need work.’
‘Are you being serious?’
‘I’m always serious, especially with you.’
‘Now I know you’re definitely joking.’
Instead of replying he pulls me closer and kisses me, his arms around my waist. My hands go to his neck, under his jacket, and I feel the strapping through his shirt, around his shoulder. It’s thick.
‘Does that still hurt?’ I ask, pulling away, looking at his face. ‘From the accident?’
‘Sometimes. I was seeing a physio a couple of times a week before I came here.’
‘Is it going to come right?’
‘Of course it’s going to come right. I’ll be back in the saddle in no time, ma’am.’
‘You still being serious?’
‘It’s going to come right. I’m going to be Jack Robertson, famous saddle bronc rider again.’
Riding back over Deadmans I feel happy, happier than I have for days. I glance back at Jack, but he’s already turned around and heading to his float. Did he do all this on purpose? Make me concentrate on riding Tassie so I’d forget everything else for a while? Maybe. Probably. I don’t know. It’s worked, anyway. But my legs really ache.
At home I give Blue another good brush (he’s still got mud all over him) and put him back in his paddock, this time with his cover on. He quiet, content too, even though he’s had hardly any exercise. He just stood all afternoon, his reins over Jack’s arm, watching.
Jack texts me about an hour later: Geography is so boring.
Try persuasive English writing.
Been there, done that.
So we’re texting again too.
Watching the news and eating pizza Mum has made (it’s not as if we can ring up Hell Pizza or Domino’s, is it?), there’s something about a bank robbery in Christchurch.
‘That happened Thursday, didn’t it?’ Mum says.
I try to remember back to Thursday night and at the same time try not to let my olives slide off with the melted cheese. The robbery, the news announcer is saying, has been linked to an explosion just over a week ago in Westport.
‘Pete’s house?’ Dad asks.
‘Could be,’ Mum says.
And then Jack’s dad fills the TV screen, telling the whole country the explosives that were going to be used in the bank robbery (the robbery had been stopped by police before an explosion happened) were some of those missing from the Westport storage facility. They checked the serial numbers. Powergel has serial numbers on the packaging. I didn’t know that.
‘Who’s that guy?’ Dad asks.
I take a quick bite of pizza, although he’s not expecting an answer from me. He’s just thinking out loud: what has Jack’s dad got to do with what is happening in Westport? But I do know the answer: everything.
There have been no arrests made, for the bank robbery or the house explosion or related to the body found on the Fairdown Beach, but they’re following lines of inquiry, there are certain people of interest. I realise I’ve seen Jack’s dad before on TV. Many times, for as long as I can remember, he’s been the face for murder. He looks different than he does in real life. In real life he’s taller, thinner. So it’s just not Jack who’s a celebrity, it’s his dad as well. He’s the go-to cop when something bad has happened – murders, explosions, bank robberies. So that’s what he’s doing in Christchurch, but why did he leave his son here for the weekend? Why didn’t Jack go with him?
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
See my dad on TV? Jack must have been watching the news too.
Yep.
I’m still thinking about the bank robbery and the link to the missing explosives from the shed out on the pakihi while I’m getting dropped off to school the next morning by Mum. I don’t know what she makes of my silence. But then again, she’s not doing a lot of talking herself.
And the day steadily gets worse. It’s a Monday, but even Mondays shouldn’t be as bad as this. Mid-morning we’re told we have a speaker to listen to in the hall. Everyone moans and then gets up as slowly as possible to walk to the hall in the rain. None of us want to cram in there, sitting on the uncomfortable forms, listening to someone drone on about their life story. Teachers think that because we are a small high school in the middle of nowhere, we need to be motivated, we need to know that whoever we are and wherever we come from there is still the chance that we too can be great. We’ve had All Blacks, netballers, the odd children’s author, musicians, entrepreneurs, businesspeople. Some of them are faintly interesting, most of them are not. Then again, they might be if the forms in the hall were more comfortable. We have no idea who today’s speaker is. Samantha, sitting beside me, is yawning already and it hasn’t even started.
The principal is doing the usual stuff on the stage. The speaker must be sitting in the front row somewhere. My class is halfway back, so we can’t see who it is, but finally someone stands up and climbs the steps to the stage. He’s putting a black cowboy hat on his head.
‘I can’t believe it! It’s Jack,’ Sam squeals in my ear.
I slump down in the seat, or Sam sits bolt upright, I’m not entirely sure which, but suddenly it seems she’s at least a metre taller than me. Her face is beaming, a ‘look at me, look at me’ glint in her eyes. The principal is still droning on with his introduction as Jack gets to the lectern. He’s wearing a black shirt, the collar open, and blue jeans with a big silver western belt buckle that he must have won as a pr
ize at some rodeo. As he waits patiently by the lectern, his eyes, under the brim of his western hat, are scanning all of us. It takes him a good minute to find me and smile that smile of his.
‘He’s smiling at me,’ Sam leans down to whisper, her eyes never leaving the school stage.
I shake my head slowly at him, making the smallest movement required, aware of teachers’ eyes on us. Jack grins back, then is interrupted by the principal inviting him to step up to the lectern.
‘Um, hi everyone. I’m Jack Robertson. As your principal has just said, I’m a professional saddle bronc rider. I didn’t know I was going to be speaking to you today until a couple of hours ago, so I haven’t really prepared anything. I hope that’s okay. I just thought I’d talk about what I do and why I do it and maybe make some of you think about getting into the sport that I love so dearly.
‘I’m a Year Thirteen – hi guys.’ He gives a wave to those sitting at the very back of the hall. ‘I do school by correspondence, because I’m travelling so much, but if I’m going to be here a while I might come and join you. Looks like a pretty good school. You could help me with the geography assignment I’m struggling with at the moment.’
And then he starts talking about rodeos and bull riding and bareback and all of the rest. He’s a confident speaker, like he’s done it a million times before, and the school is hanging off his every word, gasping at the right moments, laughing at others as he tells stories about what he’s seen, what has happened to him and to other riders. It’s a Jack I don’t know. He’s the professional, the rodeo cowboy. The boy on the beach complaining about the rain is not this boy on the stage, enthralling even the teachers about saddles and the Cowboy’s Prayer and roping and sweat and dust, here and in Australia and Canada and America. His eyes are constantly moving over us all, but they always come back to me, lingering on me, and every time he does it there is a quick smile, a look away, and then back again, curiosity as much as anything else on his face.
