It’s not unusual for Patience to turn up out of the blue, but it’s unusual for her to bring Hugo. Then again, almost two months after the funeral, she’s still not very well, so he might’ve insisted on driving. When a clap of thunder rattles the house, I leave them to finish their lunch—a toasted sandwich for Hugo and crackers and marmalade for Patience—and run down the steps. Merrylegs is already in the open-sided shed, as are Bonny and Juniper. I mix buckets of pellets and chaff for all three horses before taking off Juniper’s waterproof rug, adding another rug and putting the waterproof on again. Juniper nudges my hip as I fasten his chest straps.
‘It’s only the beginning of winter. If you need another rug, I’ll have to extend my overdraft again.’
Hugo and Patience walk hand in hand through the drizzle, Hugo bending low to keep clear of the branches of the peppercorn tree. Patience, at a little over four months pregnant, has a slight bump. The baby is thriving; my sister is far too slender.
‘We’d better get going,’ Patience says, as she and Hugo, careful to keep between Patience and Juniper, walk to Merrylegs. As this is the seventh foal she’s carried in her sixteen years, her belly is particularly low. Patience combs her hand through Merrylegs’ thick, fuzzy forelock. ‘She’s looking really well.’
‘Her feet are finally coming good.’ I hold up her tail and swish it. ‘This is growing too.’
‘Six months before she foals, right?’ Hugo says.
Patience grins. ‘We’ll both have babies for Christmas.’
‘You’re definitely going to Sydney, aren’t you?’
Patience makes a face. ‘I don’t think—’
‘We’ll leave Horseshoe Hill in a couple of weeks,’ Hugo says firmly. ‘I’ve taken the job at the museum.’
‘A job you don’t want,’ Patience says, ‘in a place we don’t want to live.’
‘It’s only five months.’
‘The baby doesn’t need a big city hospital.’
‘You might.’
‘Hugo—’
‘What can I say, Imp?’ He stands behind Patience, links his arms around her and kisses her neck. ‘I love you.’
‘Hugo!’
I shoot Hugo a smile. ‘Phoebe and Sinn agree you should go to Sydney, Patience, so it’s four against one.’
‘Four against two,’ she argues, patting her stomach.
‘Lissa gets a vote,’ Hugo says. ‘That’s five.’
‘Phoebe and Sinn are in Parkes till the end of the year,’ she grumbles. ‘If we’re in Sydney, who’s going to look after Prim?’
‘Are you here today to check up on me? I don’t need looking after.’
Hugo and Patience exchange a glance.
Patience crosses her arms. ‘What’s going on with work?’
‘You were available for lunch every day this week,’ Hugo says.
‘Having time off has been a blessing,’ I lie as I airily wave my hand. ‘I’ve cleaned out the spare room, so Billy can stay … when he’s well enough. The shed … was a mess. It was good to get that sorted out. I’ve restacked the hay, chased up unpaid bills and—’
‘Prim!’ Patience, paler than she was, all but stamps a foot. ‘Tell us!’
Patience is not only a bull at a gate, she also has a photographic memory. And, as she helps with my tax every year, she’ll recall everything about my car repayments, insurances and other living and business expenses. She’ll also remember that even though I worked every day last year except for two days over Christmas, I barely broke even.
‘I can handle it,’ I say. ‘I can pay the rent.’
‘You leased this land so you could keep your own animals. They’re important to you, I know that, but—’
‘I’ve waited a long time for this. I’ll manage.’
‘I’ve got work,’ Hugo says, ‘and Patience has way more than she should. You’ve only got to ask and we’ll help out.’
‘It’s Farquhar, isn’t it?’ Patience says. ‘He’s got a vendetta against you.’
‘I had a week of work at the Farrells until Farquhar offered them a heavily discounted bull. He suggested they use another vet.’
‘And they agreed?’ Patience says. ‘When you’ve been giving them cost-price services for the past two years?’
‘They’re building up their herd. They have young children. They struggle financially.’
‘Yeah,’ Hugo says. ‘So do you.’
‘Not only that,’ Patience says, ‘you’d do a better job than any other vet in the district. You’re independent, Prim, you always have been but—’
‘If I need help, I’ll let you know.’ I’m suddenly teary. ‘I promise.’
Hugo mock punches my arm. ‘We’ll hold you to that.’
The drizzle thickens to rain as Patience and Hugo run across the grass to their four-wheel drive. When Merrylegs snuffles in the pockets of my coat, I wrap an arm around her neck.
‘We’ll be okay, won’t we?’
She looks back at me trustingly.
‘I promised to give you a home and I will.’
I was inspecting a knackery with a panel made up of a primary producer, a government department, a livestock organisation and the RSPCA when I found Merrylegs. To abide by the regulations, the knackery had to give us access so we could make an assessment about whether the horses were suffering to a greater degree than the guidelines allowed. The scent of blood. The confusion and terror. The pain. How could we assess that?
The panel had to acknowledge that knackeries are an unfortunate but necessary end of the road for thousands of horses deemed unsuitable for anything but pet food. Most of the horses had chronic health conditions. Many were old and lame. Others, because of their temperaments or physical condition or previous abuse, couldn’t be ridden or handled safely.
Merrylegs was hemmed into the corner of a dry and dusty yard by other, much larger, horses. She had been bred at a reputable stud but sold to a reclusive owner who kept multiple brood mares and a stallion. Immediately their foals were weaned, the mares were put to the stallion again. Once the mares were too old or broken down to breed from, they were loaded onto a truck for disposal. Merrylegs’ hooves were so badly split and broken she could barely walk, and she had an untreated laceration on her leg. Her ribs were prominent, and her tail was matted. I looked into her eyes and saw …
‘Sell her to me.’
‘That’s not going to happen.’ A worker crossed his arms. ‘She’s in the next batch to go in.’
‘Tell your boss I’ll give him double what he paid.’
Within a few weeks of bringing Merrylegs home, the cut in her leg had healed and I could take out the stitches. She would stand quietly while I groomed and examined her. Soon enough, she trotted to the fence whenever she saw me. She was already pregnant, as I’d suspected, but she can’t be allowed to eat as much as she’d like because her feet are still troublesome.
I put Bonny’s bucket of chaff and pellets too high for Merrylegs to reach, but she pushes in front and snaffles the crumbs. After clipping a lead rope to her halter and kissing her nose, we walk to Juniper, patiently waiting on the far side of the shed. When I hold out my hand, he nuzzles it. ‘Hey, boy.’ He’s favouring his leg and his fetlock is swollen and hot to the touch. ‘You’re due for a cortisone shot next week. That’ll improve things.’ After I pour his bucket of feed into the trough, I check under his rugs to make sure he’s warm enough.
It’s still raining, but I dodge the soggiest patches of ground as I venture down the hill to the paddock that borders the river. The press stud at my throat is broken; drips run inside my collar. Much as the goats would prefer to live on horse feed, they’re doing a reasonable job of eating weeds as well as grass.
I’m stepping gingerly around the soft ground near the gate when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
‘Hello.’ I back against a grey gum for a modicum of shelter.
‘I didn’t think you’d pick up.’
I haven’t heard from Jamie since I was kicked off Farquhar’s stud. In my statement to the inquiry, I said that he had asked me to come to the office to help find the document he’d lost, and it was only once I was there that I’d decided to look up the stud records. Farquhar disputed this, claiming I’d not only trespassed but had gone to the office specifically to make trouble. The inquiry believed Farquhar because Jamie denied that he’d seen me.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘I didn’t want you to get into trouble,’ he says.
‘Your uncle did.’
‘I asked him what’d happened, why you’d say those things if they weren’t true. He said you’d set him up.’
I clench my teeth to still the chattering. ‘Why call now?’
‘Mum said I should say sorry in person. Can I see you? Dubbo would be good.’
I hold both hands over my phone, trying to keep it dry. ‘I thought you weren’t working at the stud any more.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Did your uncle put you up to this?’
‘He’d kill me if he knew.’
I don’t need to refer to my diary to know I have very little work next week. ‘I have an appointment in Dubbo on Friday. I’ll let you know where we can meet.’ My fingers stiff with cold, I pocket my phone.
‘Harry! Darcy!’
The goats, their brown and caramel coats darkened by the rain, bustle past me, pushing me ankle deep into a puddle before galloping away.
‘Eeyore!’ I leave the gate open as I search, finding the donkey sheltering between two banksia trees. He looks mildly surprised when I clip a lead rope to his halter. ‘Didn’t you hear the thunder? A storm is on its way.’
As if on cue, sheets of rain slice through the branches. When Eeyore refuses to move, I go behind him and shove, continuing to push until we reach the gate. My ponytail is bunched up at my neck, so I pull out the band, twist my hair into a coil and bring it over my shoulder. My boots sink so far into the ground that water spills over the tops. The soles are like suction cups, squishing and squelching through the mire.
The goats have disappeared into the shed when Eeyore stops dead for the second time. He backs towards the trunk of the grey gum and the lead rope slips through my fingers.
‘You appreciate we might be struck by lightning?’
He looks at me obstinately, his rain-soaked ears neither upright nor back. Drips form on his lashes. When he blinks, they run down his face. With cold, white fingers, I rub his cheek and scratch under his chin. ‘If only you’d move faster. Come on.’ I tug and shove. ‘Please get out of this rain.’
I trudge through the grass with Eeyore, only looking up as we approach the shed. Harry and Darcy—even combined only a tenth of Bonny’s size—push in front, stand on their hind legs and reach into his bucket. Letting go of the donkey, I run ahead, take their collars and drag them away.
‘Back, you two!’
My coat seems to be as wet inside as outside and the cuffs chafe my wrists, so I peel it off, shake it out and lay it on the hay. The bales, wrapped in tarpaulins to keep them away from the animals, are stacked like seats in a stadium. Climbing to the top level, I throw five biscuits to the ground. One for each of the horses, one for the goats to share and one for Eeyore, who is still standing out in the rain. When he brays a low complaint, I groan.
‘You are such a stubborn don—’
‘Prim!’
Sinclair pushes hair from his face. The rain is no longer torrential, but it blurs his edges. Like a Scotch mist.
When Juniper skitters, I jump from a hay bale and check that his hood and rug are secured. Bonny snorts into his trough and Merrylegs tugs at remnants of hay from this morning’s feed. Sinclair pauses at Eeyore’s side.
‘Do you want him in there?’ he shouts.
‘If he’ll come.’
Sinclair takes Eeyore’s lead rope and, standing at the donkey’s shoulder, tugs on his halter. When Eeyore ignores him, Sinclair gently flicks his flank with the end of the rope. Finally, after heaving a giant breath as if he can’t be bothered arguing any more, Eeyore walks sedately by Sinclair’s side, pulling up as they reach me.
Sinclair looks from Eeyore to me. ‘Why do you have a donkey?’ A half-smile.
‘I found him at a circus.’
‘Your circuses have animals? That’s no longer allowed in Britain.’
‘The donkeys … were there for children to ride, but adults … were riding them too.’
‘And?’
‘A donkey’s high pain threshold leaves it open to abuse. Eeyore had … saddle sores, his temperature … was up, he was limping.’
‘You rescued him?’
‘His owner had other animals too. He … was afraid I’d dob him in and refused to … sell him to me.’
‘How did you acquire him?’
‘I hid him.’
‘What?’
‘The circus moved on the next day. I found him again.’
‘You stole him, didn’t you?’
‘I’d already reported the owner, but I knew it’d take … weeks for the authorities to act. Eeyore didn’t have that time.’
A brief hesitation. ‘Where do you want me to tie him?’
I point to a tethering ring on the far side of the horses. ‘Over there is fine.’
After filling Merrylegs’ hay net and giving the goats their own feed, I run out of things to do. Sinclair, hands in the pockets of his coat, looks around the shed. Leaking gutters. Puddles on the perimeter. A dirt floor. Ragtag, misfit animals.
‘Why are you here?’ Clear words, good diction.
‘I left Billy at the hospital with an overnight bag. He said the other bags should come to you.’
‘Tom told me he’d drive Billy to the hospital.’
‘I had a day off. I offered to meet them halfway.’
‘I could have done that.’
Sinclair walks to Juniper and picks up his foot. He rests a hand against the swelling. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Arthritis.’
He eases Juniper’s hoof to the ground before straightening. He burrows under the thoroughbred’s hood and strokes his neck. ‘What happened to him?’
‘He … was raced as a two year old. He broke down on the track.’
‘Can you ride him?’
‘I used to take him out in … summer, but now he has arthritis all year round.’
‘The Clydesdale?’
‘He … was abandoned in a yard for a year. His feet are permanently damaged.’ I stroke Bonny’s nose. ‘He can’t tolerate the … wet or uneven ground.’
‘You can’t ride any of your horses?’
‘Is that important?’
He considers his words. ‘I’m trying to understand.’
I search for new words. Neutral, non-defensive words. ‘Did you … specialise in anaesthesia because of your medical training?’
‘I knew something of biology, physiology, pathology. As a student, I spent a term in anaesthesia. I fell into it.’
I shouldn’t want to know, but … ‘Why did you quit medicine?’
His eyes are particularly bright. The reflection from the tarp? The darkness of his hair? ‘Family reasons.’
‘What family reasons?’
His gaze goes from me to the house. ‘Do you want to dry off?’
I brush hair from my face, swipe an arm across my forehead. My sweater rides up—
How long have I had this sweater? It’s been washed so often it’s more white than blue and the neck is frayed and stretched. My bra, dark blue like Sinclair’s eyes, is outlined through the fabric. He looks away as I pull the sweater away from my body, but when I let it go, it sticks to my skin again. My cleavage is deep; my nipples stick out. When I turn and secure the tarpaulins, I feel his eyes on my back.
‘Are Billy’s bags on the verandah? I’ll take them inside … when I’m done here.’
‘Did Billy forget to tell you why I wanted to change the schedule?’
I spin around. ‘I told you not to hassle him.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘So … why do you think that?’
‘You wouldn’t want to blame him. Like you wouldn’t use your father’s funeral as an excuse. Or defend yourself at the inquiry.’
‘Please don’t mention it to Billy.’
His mouth firms. ‘I wouldn’t, but—’
When a rumble of thunder shakes the roof of the shed, Juniper shies, shoving Merrylegs against the haybales. The pony pins back her ears.
She kicks out, catching Juniper’s side, and he careens towards us. Sinclair lifts an arm to grasp Juniper’s halter—
‘Fuck!’ He grabs his shoulder.
‘Juniper!’ Taking hold of the horse, I push him back to his trough and stand by his side until he settles.
Sinclair gingerly puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘Fuck.’
‘It was painful at the Holdens’ farm … wasn’t it? How did you hurt it?’
‘An altercation with a giraffe. Months ago.’ He pushes back his shoulder, smothers a wince. ‘Merrylegs? Is that a horse from Black Beauty?’
‘Yes.’ I take a deep breath. ‘S … S …’
He mutters under his breath. One step. Two steps. Three. ‘You must be cold.’
I cross my arms. ‘I’m fine.’
He glances at my feet. ‘You had Wellington boots at the funeral.’
The rain has eased, but darkness gathers. ‘They … were goingout boots.’ Attending my father’s funeral is going out? A nervous smile. His eyes fly to my dimple. And then they slip to my mouth.
‘Your speech,’ he says gruffly. ‘I make it worse, don’t I?’
I look at his mouth. Firm lips, white teeth. No prevarications. I could pretend not to understand. Turn away. Walk away. But if I don’t answer, others might do it for me. Jock or Mandy or Luke. What do you mean, she loses her voice? That happens rarely now.
‘S … Sometimes.’
‘You dislike me.’ He searches my face. ‘You don’t care what I think.’
I shiver, rub my arms. ‘We … see things differently.’
His lashes are inky black. ‘At your father’s funeral, the mourners weren’t there for him. They came for you and your sisters.’
Bonny, tail swishing in time to his steps, walks past us and into the paddock. ‘You know more of my family than I do of yours.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘You … said you quit medicine for family reasons. What… were they?’
‘It’s complex.’
I shrug like he does. ‘You don’t have to tell me.’
He frowns, corrects it. ‘You know of my grandfather’s farm.’
‘Highland sheep and cattle.’
‘My grandfather died unexpectedly. His property was left to my father, but he had no interest in it.’ A shadow crosses his features. ‘I told my father that after I’d finished my exams, I’d take out a loan and buy him out.’
‘Did you?’
Another shadow. ‘It was sold before I could.’
‘Did your father need the money?’
‘No.’
‘If you wanted the land … why did your father sell?’
‘He claimed to do it for me, to save me from debt. I made a higher offer to the purchaser, a neighbour. He refused it.’
Juniper backs up and, careful to stay clear of Merrylegs, leaves the shed to join Bonny in the paddock.
‘Why didn’t your father keep the land until you had an income?’
‘I had another semester of medicine. After that, I was expected to specialise, which would have involved further study. My father saw the land as—’ he smiles without humour, ‘—an unwelcome distraction.’
I glance at Merrylegs, foraging for hay. ‘That night …’ The night I dreamt about my mother. The night I wanted you to hold me. ‘You … said your grandfather liked dogs more than people.’
‘His dogs were devoted to him. They tolerated me.’
‘I didn’t get back in time.’ His voice is clipped. ‘They were destroyed.’
‘Your father did that?’
‘He thought it the only option.’
My throat tightens. ‘That’s … why you quit medicine.’
He takes off his coat and throws it over his shoulder. His good shoulder. ‘I did it to spite my parents.’
‘It … wasn’t only that.’
‘No?’ His mouth softens. ‘What else?’
‘You helped your grandfather … with his animals, you knew how he cared for his stock and land. That’s … why you … wanted to be a vet. You followed your heart.’
A brief hesitation. ‘Do you approve, Primrose Cartwright?’
Does he need my approval? No. Does he deserve it?
As he waits for my answer, he studies my mouth again. The shadows have gone from his eyes, his focus has changed. My heart skitters and flips. Merrylegs stamps a foot.
‘I like to talk to animals more than people.’ The words burst out. ‘Mostly.’
He’s smiling properly now; generous mouth, little lines at the sides of his eyes. ‘What are the exceptions?’
‘My sisters.’
He’s suddenly serious. ‘I never know what you’ll say.’
‘I have a … way with … words.’
When he steps closer, fissions of awareness flare from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
‘Why do I make your speech worse?’
He wasn’t angry with Juniper. He doesn’t finish my sentences. He merely wants to know about my speech.
I take his hand and press his thumb against his bottom lip. His breath is a whisper on my skin. His lips are open, but only a little. In my mind, I justify what I’m doing. This is simply an explanation.
‘When I was small,’ I tell him, ‘I had a mild … stutter. If things had been different at home, I might have found … ways to speak more fluently. My … stutter can get worse for no reason, or come and go. But if I’m anxious, even anxious about getting a … word out, my speech can be affected. It leads to increased anxiety.’
‘I don’t want to make things worse.’ His breaths are short like mine. He leans in even closer. ‘I want your approval.’
Desire, a wild thing, threads through my veins as I press against his mouth. ‘The … words come out of here, you use your lips and tongue, but that’s not really the problem.’
‘No?’
‘Sometimes exercises help you … speak more … smoothly. Speaking exercises.’
‘Tell me more.’
Is he still with someone? If he knows I want to kiss him, I think he would have told me about that by now. But if he doesn’t know …
I drop my hand and take a hurried step back. My fingers are frozen. My nose is cold. I sniff. I look over his shoulder.
‘Please go.’
‘Prim?’ He follows my gaze. ‘What did I do wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘That’s untrue.’
Bonny and Juniper are in the paddock, heads down and grazing near the gate. Merrylegs is snuffling crumbs beneath Bonny’s trough. Eeyore, still tied to the ring on the far side of the shed, is looking straight ahead. Dozing? Bored? He sighs so deeply that his flanks pull up.
I pull down my cuffs, adjust my sweater.
‘Can we go to the house?’ he asks.
‘I have things to do.’ I almost meet his gaze.
He’s confused. And so am I. Yes, I’m attracted to him. But that doesn’t mean I have to act on it.
‘Thanks for bringing Billy’s bags.’ I reach for my coat, bunch it up and hold it between us.
His jaw is tight. ‘I didn’t want to—’
‘I … started it. Forget it.’
‘We could go for a drink.’
‘To talk about Farquhar?’
‘Not if you don’t want to.’
I walk to Eeyore and untie him. ‘C’mon, boy.’ Please, please, please walk quickly. The donkey takes ten steps before he pulls up—right next to Sinclair. I tug. ‘Eeyore!’
After I firmly pat his rump, the donkey does as I ask, increasing his pace as we approach the gate. Sinclair, overtaking us, opens it wide. But once we pass through, he struggles to fasten the latch and I double back.
‘I’ll do it.’ As I twist the hook and it slips into the ring, our hands touch. Awareness burns between us.
‘Prim. Why—’
‘Tell Billy I’ll call tonight.’
One long glance. Then, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, he walks to his four-wheel drive. He reverses efficiently. He doesn’t drive more quickly than he should. He’s in control.
We have the same profession, yet nothing in common. Different pasts. Different futures. I steady my breath as I walk with Eeyore to his shelter. When I lift a corner of the makeshift roof, a cascade of water falls to the ground. I puff out Eeyore’s hay and stroke his shaggy coat.
Sinclair said we could go for a drink. Wine? Beer? Five or six or seven shots? An ache starts out in my chest and works its way up my throat. I remind myself of the rules.
I don’t trust.
I don’t get close.
By the time I’d turned sixteen, Patience had joined the navy, so for much of the time it was only me and Phoebe. I wasn’t freakishly clever like Patience, but I wasn’t a rebel either. I studied hard at school. I worked part time at the vet surgery and cared for our neighbours’ pets. At home, I kept a menagerie of broken birds and other animals.
Other teenage girls had boyfriends. I didn’t.
When Dad’s sister moved into a retirement village, she gave Phoebe, Patience and me a ‘nest egg’ each. Phoebe put hers towards her home in Warrandale. Patience invested hers. I was desperate to be a vet, but afraid of going to the city university I’d chosen because it meant I’d have to leave Phoebe and my other connections, people who knew me well, behind. So I used my aunt’s money to stay in on-campus accommodation—I’d be with other students of a similar age.
I hadn’t thought of myself as having had a sheltered upbringing, but in many ways I had. Which meant that most of the people I came across were far more worldly and confident than I was. Some had come straight from private schools, and their parents continued to pay education and living expenses. Their social lives were vastly different to anything I’d ever encountered: nightclubs, parties, drinking, hook-ups.
I wanted to fit in, but found it difficult to talk to the men I was attracted to. And the harder I stumbled through our conversations, the more humiliating it became. Some nodded politely and gave up. Others were kinder, and a few became friends. Many men worked out, as I did, that I was way more amenable to partying and sex when I was drunk. I didn’t particularly like beer or wine. Shots were cheap and if I threw them back, they didn’t taste too bad.
I welcomed the burn in my throat. It reminded me that, for just a few hours, I could almost forget my speech difficulties. Let the words spill out. Just for a little while.
Some men might have thought I had more to offer than forgettable sex, but they never got a second chance. I’d wake up in a strange bed feeling sick and ashamed, and then I’d walk out. Until a day, a week, a month later when the memories would fade and it’d be time to fit in all over again.
I loved staying in the bunkhouse at Billy Holden’s property. I’d spend holidays in Dubbo with Phoebe, who’d moved into an apartment after I’d finished school. Sometimes I’d get sucked in by old school friends: ‘C’mon, Prim! Let’s party!’
I didn’t drink in Dubbo. I’d go to other towns to make it less likely I’d bump into whoever it might be I’d had sex with. One night, when I was twenty-one and at yet another twenty-first celebration, Luke found me all but passed out at a bar. He told the man I was with that I was too drunk to decide whether I wanted to go home with him or not. I don’t exactly remember the details, just enough to know that Luke got a split lip and a fractured arm for his trouble. Phoebe was working at the hospital when the ambulance brought us in. And, as I threw up into a kidney-shaped dish in the waiting room, she and Luke orchestrated an impromptu intervention. A good man will wait while you get your words out. A good man won’t care that you lose them.
Since that night, I’ve raised a glass to toast my friends. Engagements, weddings, New Year celebrations, birthdays, anniversaries. One or two sips. No more.
No shots.
No men.
No sex.