Have you been hurt?
When Blake asked me that question weeks ago, I said no. And that was mostly true, because I was always too drunk to be conscious of much after sex. Blake doesn’t want to spook me. But even if I did learn to trust him, how long could we commit?
A few local farmers and clients are my friends. Luke Martin is a friend, as are a number of the vets I trained with. I could count my brothers-in-law, Sinn and Hugo. Could Blake be a friend? No.
When he called two days ago, the morning after we kissed, I was holding a drenching gun over the tongue of a prize-winning ram. I’d intended to call back in a midmorning break but the Singhs, a couple in their mid-fifties who are new to life on the land, had brewed a pot of tea and were peppering me with questions. Explaining to them how and why I drenched the sheep as I did will cost me work, but if they go out of business paying bills for procedures they can handle by themselves, I’ll get no work at all.
When Blake called again yesterday, the sound of his voice made me jittery.
‘I … was going to call back.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Not far out of Ballimore. Where are you?’
‘At the zoo, anaesthetising a wombat.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘A broken leg. He was hit by a car.’ When someone calls out, Blake tells them he’s nearly done. Then, ‘I’ll be here until late. Can I see you tomorrow?’
‘I have another early start.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Mandy Flanagan wants a second opinion on her stallion.’
Mandy lives in Warrandale, only fifteen minutes from where Phoebe and Sinn have their property. If Phoebe were at home, I’d visit. Would I tell her about Blake? I wouldn’t want to worry her. I wouldn’t want her to know I was afraid. Beatrice Oldfield’s recollections of me as a child hit a nerve. I repressed my fears. I see it much more clearly now.
Mandy’s white timber house with a bright blue door is at the end of a poplar-lined driveway. I’m leaning into the back of my four-wheel drive, sorting through supplies, when she walks purposively over the gravel. She must be in her early sixties, but besides grey streaks in her thick brown hair and a few extra lines, she looks much the same as she did when she was a psychologist at my high school. I haven’t seen her often since then, but she’s friendly with Phoebe and Patience.
‘Dr Cartwright.’
‘If you call me that, I’ll have to call you Ms Flanagan.’
When Mandy takes my hand, her smile is strained. ‘Knightley needs your professional opinion. After that, we’ll have a cup of coffee.’ Her second attempt at a smile is even worse than the first. ‘I made scones.’
Five days ago, Knightley had an obstruction in his intestine, a life-threatening event. Dr Latimer, an equine specialist, was ready to schedule emergency surgery when, with medication and luck, the obstruction cleared.
‘Dr Latimer told me the blockage resolved.’
‘I’m grateful for all he did, but I don’t agree that Knightley has fully recovered.’
‘He’s still off his food? That’s not unusual after … what he’s been through.’
She blinks back tears. ‘My ponies are my family, Prim. I couldn’t bear to lose Knightley.’
Shouldering a backpack, I follow Mandy along a hedge-lined concrete path to a building fifty metres away. The stable block incorporates ten stables, including looseboxes with separate yards for the two stallions, Captain Wentworth and Mr Knightley, and a delivery stable for broodmares. At the far end of the block is a giant eat-in kitchen—broad recycled floorboards, an enormous granite benchtop and oversized pendant lights. The scones smell delicious.
When Mandy opens his stable door, Knightley, a small but stocky pony with a dappled grey coat and a tail that trails on the straw, is standing against the back wall. Mandy clips a lead rope to his halter.
‘His nostrils are dilated,’ I say as I examine him. ‘Is he usually … so anxious?’
‘This isn’t like him at all.’
Knightley’s bowel is now doing everything it should. There’s nothing to suggest he’s suffering any aftereffects of the blockage. I join Mandy at Knightley’s head and place my hand above his eye.
‘This muscle is contracting, and his gaze is fixed. His heart and respiratory rates are raised, which can also indicate pain.’
‘I was there when he was born,’ Mandy says. ‘I know my own horse.’
‘Is he lying down at night?’
‘Late at night, yes, but never during the day. That’s unusual too.’
When I stand at his shoulder, Knightly puts back his ears and swishes his tail. His lips are pressed together, his chin is flattened. I place a hand against his neck and—
Knightley nips my forearm.
‘Shit!’ As I rub my arm, Mandy tightens the rope.
‘I wasn’t paying attention. I’m so sorry, Prim.’
‘Does he usually bite?’
‘Never.’ Mandy wipes tears from her cheeks. ‘This is so out of character.’
‘Have you noticed a change in his gait? Is he lame?’
‘I’ve been keeping him quiet in the stable and yard, as Dr Latimer suggested. He couldn’t have injured himself without me knowing about it.’
‘He … would have been on pain meds immediately after the blockage. How did he seem then?’
‘For the first two days, he was more placid than usual, but Dr Latimer said that was perfectly normal given the sedatives. On day three, he was restless.’
‘The analgesics would have worn off.’ When I lift a hand to his neck again, Knightley steps away and pins back his ears. ‘Stay on his other side, Mandy, keep him … still.’
‘You poor boy,’ Mandy says.
I stroke under Knightley’s thick grey mane, flipping it to the other side as I visualise the brachiocephalicus muscle that runs from behind a horse’s ears to the lower side of the neck and then to the shoulder.
‘Can we take him outside? I want to check his movement.’
‘The arena would be best.’
At a walk, Knightley doesn’t appear to favour one front leg over the other, but when Mandy leads him into a trot, his stride shortens.
‘There’s something going on, isn’t there, Prim?’ Mandy says.
I run my hand down his neck and Knightley tenses. ‘It’s okay. I won’t do it again.’
‘What?’
‘Pressure on the nerves passing through openings in the vertebrae can cause pain in the brachiocephalicus muscle.’ I trace a curve in the air to illustrate. ‘When Knightly trots, it pulls the muscle, which hurts, so his … stride shortens. Knightley isn’t strictly lame, but the longer he trotted, the shorter his … stride became.’
Her eyes brighten. ‘The pain isn’t attributable to the blockage, is it?’
‘I don’t think … so. Something is going on between his shoulder and front leg.’
She runs her hand down his front legs. ‘There’s no pain here.’
‘The problem is muscular, not orthopaedic, or in the hoof. That’s why it can be hard to spot. It’s like … when you’ve slept badly and cricked your neck. With care, you can move it from side to side, but it’s painful.’
‘It’s treatable though, isn’t it?’
‘I’d recommend a vet who does physio, or a … specialist equine physio. Acupuncture might give relief too. Short term, I can try analgesia. If he’s less sensitive in the neck area after that, we’ll have a better idea of … what’s going on.’
‘I was rugging and handling him as usual a few days ago.’
‘When he came off the painkillers, he was confined to his stable, not always appropriate for a muscle injury. The pain … would explain his reluctance to lie down. It … would make him irritable.’ I rub the bruise on my arm. ‘It’s how he manifests pain.’
Mandy addresses her pony. ‘How did this happen, Mr Knightley? When you haven’t been out of your stable?’
‘Was he in the stable … when he had colic?’
‘There was no sign of him when I came to the stables.’ She shudders. ‘I opened the door and there he was—on the ground and lathered in sweat. I got him up and tied him to the ring, but he pulled back. Even anchored, he dropped to the ground.’
‘Was he rolling? Thrashing around? While he was … still tied up?’
Mandy blinks. ‘That was when he hurt himself, wasn’t it?’
‘If he was a riding pony, or a racehorse, he’d have been under … saddle within a few days. This might’ve been picked up earlier, but …’ I smile encouragingly. ‘Book him in for an MRI to pinpoint the damage, then find a physio to work out a program. In the meantime, I can give him … something to make him comfortable.’
‘I was cloistering him in the stable and treating him for something he no longer had.’
‘You knew he was in pain. You didn’t give up.’
She smiles gratefully. ‘You will have that coffee now, won’t you?’
‘Cappuccino, espresso, latte, macchiato? What would you like?’
The coffee machine in Mandy’s stable block kitchen is remarkably large, with rows of sparkling levers and knobs. Although the table is timber and weathered, the chairs, like the stools at the granite bench, are contemporary and sleek.
‘Can I have tea?’ I smile apologetically. ‘I have a teabag if you don’t—’
‘I can do better than that.’ Mandy opens a cupboard, pushing aside packets of coffee beans to reveal a canister of tea and a teapot. Opening the canister, she peers at the contents. ‘You only drink tea and Phoebe only drinks hot chocolate. I worry about you Cartwright girls.’
I laugh. ‘Patience likes coffee.’
‘I’ve seen quite a bit of your sisters in the past few years, but little of you.’ She rinses dust from the teapot. ‘It’s past time we remedied that. Thank you for your help today.’
‘It was good of Dr Latimer to brief me so thoroughly.’
‘He was happy to do so.’ She holds up the canister. ‘How many scoops?’
‘Two, please.’
‘How are your sisters?’
‘Phoebe’s enjoying her part-time job at the hospital in Parkes, and Patience is hating Sydney. On the bright side, Hugo assures me that she’s not as sick as she … was.’
‘Unlike Patience, you were never a problem at school. Or out of it, for that matter.’
‘I mostly kept my mouth shut. That would’ve helped.’
‘You’ve barely stuttered today.’
‘I can’t control it, but I’m not anxious or tired or upset. That helps.’
As the coffee machine grinds beans and hisses steam into her cup, Mandy places a basket of scones between us.
‘Help yourself.’
‘They smell wonderful.’
‘Are you busy at work?’
‘I … suspect you know that I’m not.’
She scoops jam into a bowl. ‘Douglas Farquhar made such a fuss, it was impossible not to be aware of your allegations.’
I nod stiffly. ‘I’m not supposed to talk about the … settlement.’
‘It’s no secret he’s made things difficult. It’s outrageous.’
‘I’m not renting from him any more.’
‘You’ve taken the Oldfields’ cottage in Ballimore. Beatrice told me.’
‘She’s been very kind.’ Mandy places the teapot and a mug in front of me. ‘Thank you.’
‘You never stumble over “thank you” or “please”.’
I split a scone. ‘Thank goodness for that.’
‘For a person as reluctant to upset the applecart as you, it’s undoubtedly a blessing.’ She frowns. ‘Do you know why you were sent to me at high school?’
Selecting one of the scones, I place it on my plate. ‘A family tradition?’
She barks a laugh. ‘What else?’
‘You’d seen Phoebe because of her fear of the dark, and Patience because she rebelled. Back then, I didn’t see how closely my anxiety … was linked to the issues I had with … speech.’
‘Notwithstanding your challenging home life, you were admired by your teachers in high school. They thought you not only clever, but kind and gentle. They did their best not to upset you in the classroom. Why were you unhappy in that environment?’
I lift the lid of the teapot, consider the brew. ‘I thought I was here for tea and … scones.’
‘You don’t have to answer. But, until you quit therapy, I recall we got on well.’
‘I liked talking about my birds and reptiles, and your ponies. Anything beyond that, I couldn’t get a … word out. That … would’ve been instructive for you, but at the time …’
‘You thought I was making things worse.’
‘I put my head in the … sand.’
‘Phoebe could see the deterioration in your speech but didn’t know the cause.’
My hand isn’t quite steady as I pour the tea. ‘Did you?’
‘You were bullied by your father at home. At school, I suspect, you were bullied by your peers. You didn’t get the assistance you desperately needed.’
‘You gave me things to think about that helped. They still do. You taught me about different types of pain.’
‘Physical pain was relevant to the care of your animals—you listened intently when I talked about that. We’d barely started on emotional pain when you left.’
‘I learnt enough.’
She sits back in her chair. ‘Tell me.’
I look at her suspiciously. ‘I can’t afford not to send you an invoice for looking at Knightley today. You’re not going to charge me for this, are you?’
Her scone is halfway to her mouth but she puts it back on her plate. ‘Charge as much as you like, Prim. As a matter of fact, my consultation with you will be a salve to my conscience. I couldn’t force you to come to therapy, but I’ve always feared I let you down.’
‘I don’t agree.’ I sip the tea. ‘But I do have … something I could ask you about. Would you mind? You … wouldn’t tell anyone, would you?’
She licks jam from her fingers. ‘Certainly not.’
‘In my late teens, my … speech improved. In the early years of uni, it was terrible. The last few years it’s been okay but now it’s gone to shit again.’
‘Patience and Phoebe had concerns a few years ago.’
‘Back then, I was … worried about setting up a practice and finding somewhere to live, but this time it’s different. In addition to the … stuttering, I’ve had vivid flashbacks about Mum, dreams and things like that. Why do I … swing like a pendulum?’
‘You know about types of pain caused medically, through illness or injury. You’re aware of the purpose pain serves.’
‘Nerve fibres send signals to the brain, which triggers a pain response. Perception of pain varies from person to person.’
‘Acute pain is generally temporary, chronic pain can be constant or intermittent.’
I top up my tea. ‘Knightley’s injury is acute and Juniper’s arthritis is chronic.’
‘Emotional distress, emotional pain and suffering, is equally complex.’
I take another scone, spread it with jam. ‘Psychological pain can be caused by loss, grief, regret and disappointment.’
‘Which can lead to negative emotions—sadness, depression, anxiety and loneliness. Sufferers might feel shame or consider themselves worthless. They might become angry. There are impacts on both physical and mental health.’
‘I hadn’t had a flashback in years.’
‘Tell me about them.’
‘The first time it happened, another vet challenged me about … something, and we argued.’ I blow out a breath. ‘He didn’t mean to upset me, but I … was a mess.’
‘What vet are we talking about? Do I know him?’
‘Blake … Sinclair.’
‘We met at the Ballimore Hotel. He’s renting the Coach House, isn’t he?’ Her brows lift. ‘Beatrice described him as “devilishly handsome” and I must concede I agree.’
‘It’s a consensus view.’
Mandy laughs. ‘You see him regularly at the zoo?’
‘Mostly at the Coach House. I’m keeping Eeyore and my horses there until I find … somewhere else.’ When I pour more tea into the mug, a scattering of leaves shoots through the spout and onto the bench. ‘I’m … sorry.’
Mandy takes a cloth and wipes the bench. ‘The first flashback, what was it about?’
‘I was at the school gate with Mum.’ I brave a wonky smile. ‘My library books fell into the gutter. I used to have that dream all the time.’
‘Intense psychological pain can interfere with one’s ability to function in a regular way.’ After refilling the kettle with water and switching it on, she returns to the bench. ‘Is that what’s happening here? Is this a relationship problem?’
‘I have my family, my friends, my work. I don’t need a commitment to be happy.’
‘When was your last relationship?’
‘Do one-night stands count?’
‘With a friend, perhaps, otherwise no.’
I blow on my hands. ‘I’ve never had a relationship.’
Mandy maintains a neutral face. ‘You suffered a tragedy early. Your father was abusive. All things considered, you’ve done remarkably well.’
‘So … why the flashbacks? And the … speech problems. Why are they getting … worse?’
‘Do you mind if I talk about pain again? Give you a little theory I have?’
‘Go for it.’
‘Pain, kept inside, can be diverted elsewhere.’ Mandy pushes her empty cup aside. ‘You had a natural affinity with animals and channelled your grief into caring for them. You were soothed by this, soothed in a way your parents were unable to soothe you.’
‘I had my sisters.’
‘Am I correct in thinking current research suggests stutters are wired from birth?’
‘Yes, but with treatment, a person who … stutters can often find ways around it. They can adopt strategies to communicate effectively. Mum took me to a … speech pathologist a couple of times, and she taught Mum how to encourage me to … speak … smoothly. But Phoebe and Patience, my aunts, everyone agrees it … wasn’t a big deal until Mum had the stroke, until I had to deal … with it on my own.’
‘Without adequate support.’
‘I always had my … sisters.’
Mandy pushes the scones across the bench. ‘I believe your pain was partly manifested in your language difficulties, but from what I remember, from what I know now, your sisters genuinely believed they’d protected you. They thought you were coping better than you were.’
‘I didn’t … want to worry them. And most of the time, I … was okay.’
‘This isn’t a criticism,’ she says. ‘But I believe your sisters were, if not oblivious, at least largely ignorant of your trauma. You hid your pain, as you’ve acknowledged, and hiding your pain had consequences—it robbed you of the chance to share it. As a child, as an adolescent, as I would have told you years ago, you held your pain inside.’
‘I told my animals about it.’
‘Your family wasn’t equipped to provide the care that you needed. You regulated an emotional state, your pain, by caring for whatever creatures you could lay your hands on.’
‘That was another flashback. It … was my birthday, and I … was looking after a blue-tongue lizard.’
‘I hope it survived.’
‘Nope.’
‘Bloody hell. You didn’t make things easy for yourself.’
‘Most of the animals I ended up with … weren’t expected to live. Occasionally they did.’
‘How old were you when you quit therapy?’
‘Around fourteen. I wrote you a letter.’
Frowning a little, Mandy slips off her stool. ‘You did, didn’t you?’ A cabinet partitions the kitchen from the dining area. She kneels as she flips through folders. ‘Aha!’ She unfolds a creased sheet of paper and reads.
‘You … still have it?’
She places it in front of me. ‘You were remarkably resilient.’
The page is from a graph book. Fine blue lines. Thick red margins. Well-defined paragraphs. Neat writing. Chatty, respectful tone.
Dear Miss Flanagan,
You talk about pain A LOT. And that’s how I know that Phoebe gets through what has hurt her (Mum’s stroke, putting up with Dad) by taking care of Patience and me. Patience hurts too, but she copes by fighting (I wish I was that brave!).
You’ve taught me that I keep pain inside because I don’t want to be different or stand out. And that makes sense, because if a wild animal shows pain and falls behind the herd, they’re in BIG trouble. Who wants to be eaten by a predator? Not me! I’ve learnt heaps from you already, and I’ll try to remember it all. I love my sisters (we’re the three Musketeers!) and I’m trying to trust other people too.
I’m working hard because I need to get good marks to get into veterinary science (only four years of school to go!) and I’m still volunteering at the animal shelter.
I hope your Welsh Mountain ponies are winning A LOT of ribbons!
From Primrose Cartwright (form group 8C)
The letter prompts another flashback, just as clear as the others I’ve had. I was afraid of going to Mandy’s office without an appointment. What if a teacher caught me in the corridor and asked questions? Would I have to show them the letter? Mandy didn’t answer the door when I knocked but I didn’t want to come back. I folded the letter again and again and again and stuffed it under the door.
‘I … was proud of myself …’ My voice breaks. ‘Proud I kept the pain inside. W … why haven’t I questioned that since?’
Mandy leans over the bench and lightly touches my hand. ‘I’ve upset you.’
Head down, blinking furiously, I refold the letter again and again and again. I press down hard but the page won’t lie flat.
‘Leave it, Prim.’
‘I didn’t have an envelope.’ My voice cracks and splits. ‘I thought I … was … wasting your time because you couldn’t fix my … speech.’
‘The issues went deeper.’
‘I never resolved them.’
The letter, slowly unravelling, lies lightly in my hand.
A bird with broken wings.
I jump when my phone pings: a message from Blake.
I took the horses out of the rain. Eeyore refused to move.
‘Is everything all right?’ Mandy asks.
‘It’s raining in Ballimore, but Blake brought the horses in.’
‘In that case …’ Mandy says brightly as she hops off her stool. ‘More tea? I could do with a chaser myself.’
As I collect crumbs from the bench with a finger, Mandy grinds beans and scoops tea into the pot. She purses her lips.
‘Are you up for a few more questions.’
I puff out a breath. ‘Go for it.’
‘As an adult, have you had help? A psychologist? Anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘You mightn’t have needed one.’ She lightens her tone.
‘At uni, I … wanted to date like my friends.’
‘You’re intelligent and extremely attractive—’
‘I … was mute.’
‘That doesn’t take away from—’
‘I … self-medicated … with alcohol. I had sex with … strangers. Afterwards, I … was ashamed.’
‘You sought to diffuse the dysphoria induced by emotional pain,’ she says, matter of fact. ‘There’s no shame in that.’
‘It … worsened the need for … secrecy, and I haven’t done it in years, but it adds to my confusion about relationships.’
‘Blake Sinclair,’ Mandy says. ‘Tell me about him.’
I glance at my phone. ‘He’s had a lot of girlfriends. He’s only here until the end of the year.’
‘What is he like?’
‘He’s … smart. I like him more than I’ve liked anybody else. He does thoughtful things. I don’t know … why.’
‘You don’t trust his motivations? Can you talk to him?’
‘Not a … strength.’ A wobbly smile. ‘But I’m trying.’
Mandy pushes the scones across the bench. ‘If you can trust him, you could take a chance.’