Eight o’clock, Monday morning. ‘So you’re Charlie.’ Sam nodded uncertainly, as if she didn’t believe it herself. Don’t say a word. Her voice would give her away more than anything. She’d been practising talking like Charlie – trying to speak from the back of her tongue, and limiting lip movement a little. And she needed to speed up her speech, and run the words together a bit more. It was like giving herself elocution lessons in reverse. Thank goodness Bushy didn’t seem to expect her to talk.
Sam had never met an Aboriginal person before. Bushy wore a funny, old-fashioned hat – an iron-grey fedora, like Indiana Jones might wear – along with moleskin trousers, an ancient tweed jacket and a black tie. Quite an eccentric look.
He extended his hand, and she shook it, limp-wristed, willing her own hand not to shake. His grasp was firm, and Sam wished she’d applied more pressure. Bushy scrutinised her, hawk eyes peering from a weathered, leather-skinned face. Like with an old saddle, it was impossible to guess his age; fifty? seventy?
‘You’re a bit pasty for a country girl,’ he said. There was no answer to that. This was never going to work. Why on earth had she thought she might pass for her sister? ‘You’ve a way with horses, though,’ he said. ‘That’s what they say.’ Bushy gestured for her to follow him. ‘We’ll soon see if it’s true.’
In the corner of the showgrounds stood a stockyard, and in the corner of the stockyard stood a frightened palomino colt with a flame-shaped star. His eyes were wary, his head held high, forefeet balanced in readiness to flee left or right, as circumstance demanded.
‘There’s a little brumby for you,’ said Bushy. ‘Straight off the mountain. Passive trapped, so he’s not been hurt.’ He picked up a rope, and they climbed through the rails into the yard. ‘That colt is as frightened as you’d be, if you were stuck in a room with some fella from outer space. That fella might be friendly, or he might want to have you for supper.’
Sam jumped as a noose snaked out from Bushy’s hands and landed neatly over the horse’s head. The colt screamed and reared, battling the pull on his neck. ‘Leave it loose to start with. Prove you don’t want to hurt him.’ Bushy handed Sam the rope. ‘I want you to halter-break that brumby.’ He took a pouch of tobacco and papers from his pocket, and proceeded to roll a smoke. ‘You’ve got half an hour. Do that, and the job’s yours – and you get to name the colt.’
Sam felt sick. She’d be exposed for the fraud she was. But before she gave up, she considered her task. Hadn’t she broken in Pharoah herself? However, there’d been a team of trainers on call, and he’d arrived at the stables as a well-behaved youngster with perfect ground manners. A far cry from this wild, fearful creature. Still, the basic principles were the same, and she was wearing Charlie’s lucky hat to boot. How difficult could it be? Sam cautiously shortened the rope. She’d never used a rope on a horse before, but the stiff noose held its shape, and the large leather eye seemed designed to prevent choking. The palomino fought against the slightest pressure. Sam kept up a firm, light contact, letting the stout rails do the work of containment for her. Dust choked her throat and her pulse was racing. The line lightly slipped and slid along the horse’s flanks and over his rump as he twisted and turned. After a minute or two, he seized upon a new way to escape his captor, plunging round and round the yard with wide, rolling eyes, searching the rails for any weakness. But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t evade Sam’s quiet touch. His first terror gone, the colt lowered his head and turned to face her.
‘Good,’ called Bushy from outside the yard. ‘You’re halfway there.’
Sam spat the dirt from her mouth and checked her watch. She’d better be. Only fifteen minutes left. Sam controlled her anxiety, allowing the golden colt to settle down, to appreciate that the rope around his neck was no threat. What now? She played it by ear, swinging the rope softly, slow and rhythmic, so it brushed his muzzle, his cheek, then up to his ear. He flinched, but didn’t move, watching her. She crooned a sing-song stream of reassuring words. There’s a boy, stand up, I just want to pat you.
‘Pat him?’ yelled Bushy from the side. He roared with laughter. ‘That’s a new one.’
Sam ignored him. She forgot about the time. Each nerve tingled in tempo with the palomino’s racing heart. She steadied her breathing. The colt steadied his. Then he relaxed his jaw and yawned. Sam smiled and moved right up to his shoulder, crooning all the while, unable to believe her luck. He examined her with his velvet muzzle, taking her in, the taste and smell of her. She looped the rope into a rough halter and slipped it over his nose, stroking his shivering neck all the while.
‘You still gotta lead him,’ called Bushy.
Sam backed up, in line with the colt’s forefeet, and flicked the rope end. He moved smartly around the yard at a trot. Sam relaxed her body and the brumby dropped back to a walk. With infinite patience Sam approached his shoulder, coiling the rope as she went, keeping pace with him. Soon she had the colt following her around the perimeter of the yard, just as calm as could be.
She glanced up at Bushy, heart banging with pride. He nodded. ‘You’ll do. Turn him loose.’
Sam punched the air, letting out a whoop of excitement. The brumby reared, causing the halter to tighten on his nose. He thrashed violently from side to side. Sam dropped the rope and ran for the rails. Bushy slipped into the yard, picked up the line and urged the horse into a canter. When he slackened the rope, the colt turned to face him, and Bushy released him with one expert flick of his wrist.
‘It’s wise not to get ahead of yourself with any horse,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Especially a wild brumby.’
‘Do I still get the job?’ asked Sam, breathless.
Bushy took an extra-long look at her, as if he was contemplating a difficult question. ‘You do,’ he said at last. ‘Come back after lunch.’ The palomino pranced and neighed. ‘You got a name for him?’
‘Phoenix,’ she said without hesitation. ‘I’ll call him Phoenix.’
Sam climbed up on the rails and watched the young brumby buck his way around the yard. ‘It’s a new start for us both,’ she whispered.
Sam sat in her car and tried calling Charlie again. Her phone had been dropping out badly ever since she’d arrived. Maybe there’d be better reception out here at the showgrounds. Even when she did manage to get through, all calls went through the hospital switchboard. A conspiracy of nurses seemed determined to thwart any attempt to talk to Charlie. Her sister was either asleep, or having tests, or having showers or having lunch. Didn’t they realise these calls were important? Charlie must be going insane, wondering how things were going. ‘One moment please,’ said a voice, and then, miracle of miracles, she was through.
‘Sam?’ Charlie sounded excited, and much stronger than Sam remembered. ‘Tell me absolutely everything.’
Sam launched into a report of her four days so far at Brumby’s Run, guided by Charlie’s enthusiastic inquisition. But an odd thing was happening. As she told her story, she found herself editing the account in little ways. Or maybe they weren’t so little. Bill, for instance. He’d mistaken her for Charlie, and she’d let the impression stand. How could she explain that? How could she convey, on a shaky phone line, how difficult it was to swear that you weren’t who somebody assumed you were? She hadn’t deliberately misled Bill – not like she’d done with Bushy. When Sam got to that part, she told Charlie that she’d taken the job with Bushy in order to hold it for her when she came home. This was true, after all. Totally true … and Charlie had been thrilled to hear it. Any misunderstandings could be cleared up later. And then there was Drew. She mentioned how helpful he’d been – but not the toe-curling kiss they’d shared. She tried to talk casually about him, sure Charlie would be able to see through her nonchalance. But her sister was caught up in her own problems.
‘Remember, don’t tell anybody I’m sick,’ said Charlie. ‘They feel sorry enough for me around Currajong already. You should hear them. Poor little Charlie, having a mother like that. A drunk. A druggie. Running around with all those men. No wonder she turned out like she did. Sanctimonious pricks. I couldn’t stand any more pity! And anyway, Bushy might think I won’t be up for the job.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Sam, feeling faint. ‘Nobody knows.’
‘What about Drew? What have you told him?’
‘That you’re away on confidential business,’ said Sam. Charlie must have thought that was funny. She laughed, loud and strong. There was something about the laugh that Sam hadn’t heard before, a disturbing quality. It took her a while to pick it. Charlie’s laugh was sounding too much like her own.
‘He must be mad with curiosity,’ said Charlie finally, a note of immense satisfaction in her voice.
Now it was Sam’s turn to ask questions. Apparently, her sister’s recovery was proceeding beautifully. She’d be home in a couple of months, touch wood. ‘You’ve saved my life, you know that?’ said Charlie, just before the line dropped out for good. Sam went over the conversation in her head. Her gaze wandered to the imposing blue peaks of the Balleroo Range, to the clear azure sky, to the beautiful brumby dancing in the stockyard. A satin bowerbird, in splendid blue-black plumage, swooped on spilled oats outside Bushy’s feed shed. Its odd creaking cry sounded like the opening of a long locked door. ‘No, Charlie,’ said Sam, as she started the car. ‘I think it’s you who’s saved mine.’