After lessons are finished for the day, I go back to the schoolhouse to change before returning to the school grounds. A group of girls kick a football around the oval.
‘Hey, Miss Brown,’ Amy calls out. ‘Are you taking Strider out?’
I fasten the buttons on my jacket before carefully stepping over the low wall to the netball court. ‘I won’t have time tonight.’
‘Can me and Mary look after Jet’s ponies tomorrow?’
‘Freckle and Lollopy would love that. I’ll see you in the morning.’
I unwind my cotton scarf and drape it more loosely around my neck. Closing the gate behind me, I follow the track through the paddock. The clouds are heavy and grey, but there’s no rain forecast for another few weeks at least. I blow against my hands and put them into my pockets, cross the creek and step sideways up the incline, supporting my hip as I climb through the fence. Horseshoe Hill, the final bump in the Horseshoe Range, forms a backdrop to the farmhouse. The corrugated iron roof catches the light and shimmers; a rooster perches bravely on the lopsided weathervane.
I’d lived in Horseshoe for only a week when I first saw the farmhouse. My high school was thirty minutes away and I had to catch a bus there and back. When another student peppered me with questions about why I’d been fostered, I got off the bus early, reasoning I couldn’t get lost if I followed the creek to the river in town. I’m not sure why I looked up, but when I glimpsed the chimney, sandstone gold against the bright blue sky, I changed direction. The twenty hectares of land surrounding the farmhouse was in reasonable shape because a neighbouring farmer leased it to graze sheep. But when I climbed over the gate on the far side of the paddock closest to the house, all I could see was an impenetrable wall of foliage. Only it wasn’t impenetrable, and the further I pushed through it, the more curious I became. First I found the small orchard, almost smothered by vines. Next I found the gardens, a mix of introduced and native plants. It was early spring and the wattle trees were in flower. The daffodils near the water tank, fighting through layers of weeds, were like dabs of yellow paint. The roses at the side of the house had wild thorny branches and tightly furled buds. The lilli pilli fruits were as big and shiny as cherries. I couldn’t see the boronia flowers, but could smell their crisp sweet scent.
By the time I found the steps to the verandah, my arms and legs were scratched and my hair was a tangled mess. My school uniform was torn where the pocket had snagged on a branch. I peered through the windows and tested the latches; I pushed against the doors and rattled the knobs. I couldn’t get in but I knew I’d be back.
I liked the weathered sandstone chimney and the shutters on the windows. I liked the red gum and the flowers and the rippling waves of grass.
The verandah was mostly in shade, but the sun had found a way through the trees near the steps. I faced the house, lifted my hands and combed my fingers through my hair.
I liked the sunshine on my shoulders. I liked the thousand shades of green.
The farmhouse was neglected and friendless, damaged and abandoned. And so, I’d thought, was I.
This could be my home.
The trees in the farmhouse orchard are old and gnarled, but there are apples in autumn if the cockatoos don’t get to them first and, subject to the possums, there are oranges, cumquats and lemons in winter. The fruit on the tree closest to the back verandah is bright against the timbers. I pluck an orange, small but sweet smelling, from the lowest branch. After I’ve fed the horses, I’ll—
‘Sapphire.’
Matts is standing a few metres away, wearing faded blue jeans and a navy blue sweater. His boots are city boots, shiny and brown with matching leather laces.
I raise my chin. ‘You’re early.’
‘I’ll wait.’ I couldn’t see his eyes clearly last night, but in daylight they’re the same shades of grey I remember. His gaze slides from my eyes to my cheek. ‘How do you feel?’
‘A little stiff, but … I’m well, thank you.’ I glance over his shoulder towards the sun, breaking through the clouds but low in the sky. ‘I have things to do before it gets dark.’
I walk past him to the paddock at the side of the house where the horses spend most of their time. When I round the corner, Lollopy, a Shetland cross with a woolly black coat, nickers as he presses his chest against the gate. He belongs to my friend Jet Kincaid, as does Freckle, a grey pony even older than Lollopy. While Jet and Finn are in Scotland on their honeymoon, I’ve drafted the ponies into the equine therapy program.
Unlike a lot of people around here, I didn’t grow up on a horse, but I was more determined to ride than make friends when I came to Horseshoe. Jet’s father was patient and encouraging when he gave me riding lessons, pretending not to notice how unhappy and uncommunicative I was. I’d been riding for over a year before he let me ride Chili Pepper, his late wife’s chestnut warmblood. Tears filled his eyes as he hoisted me onto his back. ‘You’ve got a good seat and gentle hands,’ he said. ‘Annabel wouldn’t mind a bit.’
Sonnet ambles towards me. He’s in his twenties, a slow and placid ex-racehorse, perfect for building confidence in the kids who might be too anxious or aggressive to come into contact with other large horses. Strider, another gelding, and Prima, a mare, are thoroughbreds too. I found Prima at the knackery. She’s bay, with a brown coat and black mane and tail.
When Strider, black with one white sock, trots towards me, stopping only metres away, I hold out my hand. ‘How are you, boy?’ I stroke his neck before picking up his feet to check his hooves. They were split and an abscess had formed in one of them by the time he was rescued, so it’s no wonder he was lame. Even though he doesn’t often go on the roads, I have him shod once a month to get his feet back into shape. I trace the brand on his shoulder. He made money for his owners for a number of years, first on the city tracks and then on the country ones. But when he couldn’t earn his keep any more, he was sold as a pony club horse to a family that didn’t know his background. Within a month, he was sold again. And then again.
He hasn’t thrown me off for a couple of months. ‘We’ll go out to stretch your legs tomorrow,’ I tell him.
I ruffle Lollopy’s fuzzy black forelock as I pass and, holding out a hand, walk towards Prima. Only slightly less skittish than she was when she arrived, she doesn’t distrust only people but other horses—even Lollopy, who only reaches the tops of her legs. If she won’t settle, she’ll never work as a therapy horse. It wouldn’t be fair to Prima or the kids.
‘How are you, girl?’
She takes a couple of steps towards me before shying away. She’s clearly aware of Matts, standing by the fence. He’s a stranger to her.
And also to me.
When I double back and walk to the small timber shed, Matts follows again, watching silently as I load biscuits of hay into a wheelbarrow. If we’d had more rain, there would be plenty of grass for the horses. I spread the hay in a pile for the ponies and in two different piles for the geldings. I take Prima’s share to her and after she’s taken a few mouthfuls out of my hand, I encourage her to follow me to the solitary grey gum, away from the others. As she eats, I latch a lead rope to her halter and stroke her glossy neck.
‘I hope you’re not too chilly at night.’ Being a thoroughbred, she doesn’t have a thick winter coat like the ponies, and she’s too fearful of the other horses to huddle with them for warmth. When I tried to rug her, even though she must have been rugged before, she was terrified, so I hang a rug over the fence near the feed trough to get her used to the look of it and the sounds it makes when it flaps in the wind.
Ignoring Matts doesn’t mean I’m not aware of him. He crosses his arms and leans on a post as I run my hand down Prima’s legs and over her rump. She’s tall for a mare, well over sixteen hands, and is slowly gaining weight. I unclip her lead rope and thread my fingers through her mane. From the corner of my eye, I see Matts straighten.
‘I think he’s had enough of waiting.’ When I lift my hand to stroke Prima’s neck, she shies, skittering out of reach. Her wide brown eyes follow my movements as I slowly back away. ‘Wish me luck.’
Matts leans against the gate as I walk across the paddock. When I throw my leg over the railing, he takes a step back.
I’m the girl who loved you a lifetime ago.