Elation vanished at two am, when a possum jumped on her cottage roof from the one next door, waking her from a deep sleep. There was still a vast reality shock when the nighttime darkness didn’t fade. The River View roofs were made of casuarina shingles, someone had said, as if the fact could possibly interest her.
So she’d spent hours leading a horse around a ring. Big deal. And ridden him around the ring too. She could still feel his warmth, his muscles, the deep connection between horse and rider . . .
It had been incredible. But it only showed her there could be a future for her. It had also shown all too clearly how much she had lost.
Because, yes, there would be a role for her at Joe’s yards. Office work, assuming she did that typing and shorthand course, even helping break horses in. Maybe, because Joe was kind and loved her as his own daughter, even being part of discussions about bloodlines and what to buy or accept to train.
But the true work of a training stable? Watching a horse when it was led out into the ring at an auction and knowing, ‘Yes. That’s a goer,’ or ‘Dud,’ despite what the stud breeder and pedigree promised. Watching the trials, seeing how a horse had the will to win, to fire itself beyond any other horse on the track; judging if a jockey should give the horse its head early or hold it back till near the end.
Racing wasn’t about how fast a horse could go. Most well-bred racehorses were pretty much equal when it came to speed and even stamina. The true skill was knowing them, being able to assess the combination of horse, track, jockey, weather and the other horses to make a winner.
You had to be able to see to do that. And even if you didn’t, how many owners would trust their horse to a blind trainer?
She slept at last, then woke with the breakfast bell, showered, carefully placing her clothes exactly so, gliding her hand down the tiles to reach the soap. Three steps and turn left to find the towel . . .
Once she had shoved all her underwear into a drawer. Now everything was arranged: underpants to the left, bras in the middle, pantyhose over there, all neatly folded so there’d be no tangles.
Her cane snickered its way along the gravel paths. She heard wheelchairs and feet move back for her. Right of way for the blind girl . . .
A small rise, and the cane lost contact with the stone edging of the path. She turned right towards the dining hall, her stick sweeping in front of her.
Boring breakfast. Fruitless day, because Nicholas would be waiting to give her what he thought would be a treat, a ride beyond the yard. And she would take it because she could not bear to miss it, because she needed to get to Mountain Lion again, to do something that meant that for a short while she didn’t need eyes.
The cane told her the door was open. She tapped her way in.
The loosely held stick vanished from her hand.
She stood, thinking. It had vanished up, not from in front of her or sideways . . .
‘George!’ she yelled.
A giggle above her.
‘Have you got my cane?’
‘No. The monkey has it.’
‘Is the monkey named George?’
‘Might be.’
‘George, give that back to Lu at once. How can she get to breakfast without it?’
Lu turned automatically towards Matron, then deliberately tried to make it seem as if she was looking at her, eye to eye.
‘It’s no trouble at all,’ she said coolly, angry at Matron for thinking she knew what was best for all of them, taunting her with a horse like Mountain Lion just to get rid of her; disciplining George, who did know what he wanted to do, at least for now. George wanted to do what no one else here could manage, despite his useless legs. ‘I’m okay without the cane.’
She heard George giggle above her and the scuffle as he swung further away among the rafters. Whoever had designed this place had either made it perfect for a monkey boy, or never dreamed a crippled child might head for the ceiling.
Right. Now she had to manage to get her breakfast stickless. How many steps had she taken already?
She tried to visualise, except of course it was not visual. English needed another word. Visionary visual? Four steps this way, and she could walk down to the buffet. Yes, that was it. Slowly, slowly, to give everyone a chance to get their feet or chairs out of the way. Her ears helped now, the chatter at each table, the squeak of wheelchairs and the thud of callipers at the buffet. She reached out a hand.
Made it. Cereal to the right, trays beyond that. Slowly again, fingers questioning. Tray, cutlery, bowl. Cornflakes, muesli, Weet-Bix always in the same place. She took muesli, found the milk without spilling the whole bottle, reached out to the fruit bowl and took four bananas, turned, walked and hesitated. Which seat was vacant?
A wheelchair pulled out a few metres away. She followed the noise, stopped where she thought it began, stepped forwards till her legs met the table, carefully not spilling her bowl. Right, tray on table, find a chair. Sit. Find bowl, find cutlery, move them onto the table, put bananas at two o’clock, lean the tray next to her chair legs so no one tripped on it, begin to eat.
Spoon down till it meets muesli. Tilt spoon. Fill spoon. Lift spoon. Wait for drips of milk to drop. Lift spoon to mouth. Open just before the spoon arrives. Place spoon in mouth . . .
She felt a slight breeze in front of her. ‘I’m sorry,’ said George, above. ‘Here’s your cane.’
Probably dangling above the table as he hung by his legs. She’d known he’d give it back to her as soon as he’d proved his independence to Matron.
She reached out slowly, found it, closed her fingers over it, waited for it to drop into her hand, for if she pulled it she might unbalance George. She placed it carefully against the table, then grinned up to where she supposed he was. ‘Want a reward?’
‘What?’ The small voice was suspicious.
‘A banana. Monkeys love bananas. Bet you can’t get it.’
‘Bet I can.’
She held the banana as high as she could, waiting for Matron’s voice to say, ‘Don’t encourage him, Lu.’
It didn’t come. Interesting. Either Matron wasn’t there or . . . no, she could smell Matron’s violet perfume . . . She held up the banana.
Something scuffled above. She heard Matron draw in her breath. But she still didn’t protest.
‘Two bananas,’ said George, still from above her.
She held up another one. Hands met hers briefly, then the bananas were gone.
‘Are you sure you’re blind?’ asked George’s voice, close above her, far too close to still be up on the rafters.
‘Pretty sure. Why?’
‘You act like you can see.’
It was as if he had given her a small glowing stone on which she could build a future. The joy of it almost made her weep.
‘You don’t act like you can’t use your legs,’ she managed. She could hear his breathing, above her left cheek. Feel the faint warmth of it too.
‘I can use my legs. I just use them differently.’ Lu heard a rustle vanish upwards.
Lu turned to the violet perfume. ‘How did he do that? He couldn’t have reached my hand hanging from the rafters.’
‘He tied the sleeve of his shirt to a rafter. Tied the other sleeve to his waist and dangled down. He’s just clambered back up,’ said Matron dryly.
‘You didn’t stop him!’
She could almost see the smile. ‘My dear girl, I am far too old to climb up into the rafters. And if I ordered George to come down, he’d have disobeyed. As it is, I only have to reprimand him for one thing this morning — taking your cane.’
There was amusement in the voice now. Lu suddenly realised how fond Matron was of the kid. Possibly of them all. ‘How do you reprimand a boy who climbs out his window when you try to confine him to a dormitory; who would rather climb than watch TV so telling him he can’t watch his favourite TV show won’t stop him; and, when you ask him to write out I must not climb in the dining hall a hundred times, accidentally leaves out the not? Besides,’ Matron lowered her voice, ‘it’s good for him to climb.’
‘Good therapy?’
Matron sounded surprised. ‘I suppose so. No, I meant . . .’ She pulled out a chair, sat. The others at the table must have gone already, for the room was quiet as she said, ‘It’s hard for kids brought up in an institution to be individuals. To work out who they are, what they want. We do our best, but we are all too aware we can guide them in exactly the wrong direction, with only the best of intentions. It’s a joy when there’s a kid who knows what they love.’
‘Like George?’
‘I was actually thinking more of Scarlett Kelly-O’Hara. You’ve met her a few times, haven’t you? She lived here for most of her life. She’s studying medicine at Sydney Uni. She has a true passion for it. As for George,’ there was definitely a smile this time, ‘I think the days of circuses and the flying trapeze may be over, but George knows exactly who he is.’
‘He may invent a new kind of circus. You never know,’ said Lu.
‘No. You never do,’ said Matron. ‘But I suspect that now George knows who he is, and what he loves, he’ll make a way to fit those into whatever he finds in the future. And here’s Nicholas. You need to drink something before you head out,’ she added, matron-like again. ‘Orange juice or pineapple?’
‘Coffee,’ said Lu. Coffee was not offered at River View, though she had smelled it from the kitchen, where she supposed the staff drank it — instant, which Joe would laugh at.
‘White or black?’
‘Black. Thank you.’ She carefully kept the surprise from her voice. Twice today Matron had treated her like a human being and an adult, not a patient and a child.
‘I’ll bring some for Nicholas too.’ Matron’s footsteps clicked towards the kitchen.
Lu grabbed a couple of apples from the fruit bowl before she and Nicholas left the dining hall . . . No, that was what she could have done, a year back. Today she walked slowly, carefully, to the counter, swinging the cane in front of her, found the bowl, located the apples, thrust them in her pockets — because these days she always wore clothes with pockets to leave her hands free to feel the world.
It was easier crossing the ford today; the water was lower than before. It felt warm about her legs, her jeans clinging to her skin, her boots and socks dangling in her free hand. They stopped on the other side while she put them on again. She couldn’t hear Nicholas do the same — she supposed he didn’t bother with shoes and socks these days. Lucky Nicholas . . .
She stopped, startled. Lucky to have lost his legs? But he had functional legs, possibly better than real ones. And he could see. Not normal, of course, but normal was overrated, Joe said. A normal horse would never win the Melbourne Cup.
She heard Mountain Lion stamp as he noticed them, smelled them. Possibly smelled the apples in her pockets too. She held out her hand for the halter. ‘I’ll do it. You stand back.’
A hesitation, then, ‘Okay.’ The halter was pressed into her open palm. She closed her hand about it.
She had become disoriented putting on her boots. Mountain Lion was surely watching her as she crossed the paddock in his general direction, swinging her cane in case of tussocks or horse droppings. She could feel his stillness as she walked to where she’d last heard him snort.
Then, to her delight, there was a low whicker. She heard his hooves swishing through the dry grass as he stepped towards her. He stopped. But by now she could hear his breathing, smell the glorious smell of horse, sunshine and dust, knew that he was standing only a metre away from her.
She stretched out her hand. He blew on her fingers. Her heart pounded with joy and certainty. Her bond with horses was still there. She could still feel them, understand them, know them. And this strong, extraordinary, wonderful horse accepted her as a calm authority figure in his life.
She slipped the halter over his ears and headed to the yard.
She knew the yard was slightly uphill from the river, so took the steepest route, not using the cane now, but letting the horse guide her, as she guided him. Mountain Lion walked beside her, neither reluctant nor impatient. She slowed only when she knew she was near the yard, tripping over two tussocks and squishing through one lot of wombat dung on the way.
He waited at the closed gate. She fumbled as she found the chain and unlatched it — but she knew that if she repeated these actions enough, they would become simple and easy. She led Mountain Lion into the yard and grinned. And kept on grinning.
She could do this! She could walk into a paddock, catch her horse and lead him to the yard. She stretched out her hand again, patted his neck, then tickled his nose, laughed when he butted her jacket and she pulled out an apple. He ate half of it from her hand, then took the rest, crunching it between his strong teeth.
She found herself trembling suddenly, in triumph and anticipation mixed with fear. Because today had to be the day she rode Mountain Lion out into the paddock, the two of them, alone.
She felt along the top rail until her fingers found the brush Nicholas had left on top of the gatepost so she could groom Mountain Lion before he was turned out. Today she wanted to brush him before saddling up. The open, unknown paddock would require a more cautious approach than had been necessary as they walked and trotted around the yard. She would be relying on Mountain Lion; he would be her eyes as well as her steed.
Nicholas had come over before fetching her and had left the saddle on the top rail near the gate with the bridle hanging from a post beside it. She picked up the bridle and reached out with it in her hand, then felt Mountain Lion nudge her again.
‘The other apple is supposed to be a reward,’ she told him.
The horse snorted in contempt.
‘Okay. Eat it now then.’
Once he’d finished, adding the scent of crushed apple to the heady cocktail of horse breath and paddock, she slipped the bridle on, noting how willingly he accepted the bit, dipping his head slightly to make it easier for her to slip the leather straps over his ears.
This horse had been well handled in his short life. She did up the throatlatch and turned to lift the saddle blanket up and smooth it onto his back. She could hear Nicholas breathing on the other side of the yard fence, but so far he hadn’t said a word — no encouragement, advice or offers of assistance. She liked that he was there, but not interfering.
She lifted the saddle from the fence and swung it up onto Mountain Lion’s back. He shifted his feet and blew through his nostrils at the change of routine, but otherwise remained accepting. She ducked her head down, felt under his belly and grabbed the girth that was dangling on the far side.
Everything was odd and yet familiar. How many times had she slipped a bit between a horse’s teeth? How many times had she felt for the dangling girth before tightening it? These were the movements her body knew so well. She might walk slowly and swing her cane tentatively, grope for her food and feel her way along a wall, but faced with a horse, a bridle and a saddle, she was home.
She measured the stirrups beneath her arms and adjusted them to her own length. Breathe, she told herself, you’re almost there. She moved to Mountain Lion’s shoulder, took the stirrup in her hand, inserted her foot and swung up into the saddle. She leaned forwards and rubbed Mountain Lion’s ears as she felt him starting to tense up.
‘Open the gate,’ she instructed Nicholas.
‘Take him around the yard a few times, and we’ll see.’
She sat where she was. ‘Do you know that a horse can canter around a yard, break into a gallop and leap the fence? A good horse,’ she added. ‘A great one, like Mountain Lion.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas.
‘Want to find out?’ She wasn’t at all sure that even Mountain Lion could do that, and certainly not without risk of injury, probably to both of them. She smiled down sweetly to where she thought Nicholas probably was. ‘Open the gate and we will walk sedately down the paddock, then canter back. I promise.’
‘And I should trust you?’
‘Yes.’ She grinned. Once she was back on the ground, life would be grey, but just now she was Lu Borgino once again. ‘But only if I give you my word. I never break my word.’ Mountain Lion was starting to shift from hoof to hoof and swish his tail as he became impatient to leave the yard. Her rising excitement and his amplified each other.
Silence from Nicholas as he evaluated her, Mountain Lion and what Flinty McAlpine would say if he got her horse lamed. Lu also evaluated what Flinty McAlpine would say to Joe if she damaged her horse. Of course it would be nothing compared to the guilt she would feel if she hurt this lovely animal.
She might not obey Nicholas Brewster or Matron. But she would never harm this horse.
‘Describe where we are. I need to know what this paddock is like,’ she ordered.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ She grinned again, imagining Nicholas saluting. ‘Matilda used this paddock as a training run when Drinkwater still bred horses. There’s the remnants of a dirt training track around it. I walked it yesterday afternoon and cleared away any branches and smoothed out some holes. Let him walk down to the track — it’s about a hundred metres down the slope from the yard towards the river. You should be able to hear the river and you’ll definitely feel the change of surface as he walks off the grass onto the dirt track. Turn him to the right and let him start trotting, and gradually build up speed once you’re comfortable. Once you feel he is bowling along smoothly, give him his head and let him canter around it, and he should be okay. You should both be okay.’
‘And you were going to tell me all this when?’
He laughed. ‘When you had plodded around the yard for an hour and calmed him down.’
Mountain Lion was no longer calm. Neither was she. He wasn’t going to canter sedately either. Possibly she couldn’t stop him, even if she wanted to. Certainly she wasn’t going to try. But neither would she push him.
‘Okay, boy,’ she whispered, bending close. ‘Let’s just get down the paddock to the track in one piece and then I’ll take you for a spin.’
He skittered sideways, but then, to her surprise, began to walk almost sedately. Nicholas swung the gate open and stood back as they left the safety and confinement of the yard. Mountain Lion was up on his toes and starting to snort and swish his tail, but he was walking. A gentleman then, making sure she could stay on. She tapped his neck to urge him to a little speed. He responded immediately. She rubbed her hand along his neck as he started to shake his head and she felt him switch his awareness back to her.
She heard the water in the river at the same time as the sound of Mountain Lion’s legs rustling through the dry summer grass disappeared. They must have reached the training track. She gathered the reins in her hand, swung Mountain Lion’s head to the right and leaned forwards as he began to trot — a lovely, long-striding elastic trot — then he changed rhythm and slipped into a rolling canter.
More, she thought, instinctively bending low, and felt him respond at once. He changed his posture again, flattening and reaching his whole frame out in a gallop.
They called it galloping, those who watched. It wasn’t. Nor was it flying. It was the merging of horse and rider, body and wind. It was laughing at the ground that tried to slow them down. It was the entire universe, the thud of hooves, the bellows of breath, the play of muscles. She felt him arc to the right as they rounded the first long bend. She crouched over his neck, closer now, the least possible wind resistance or movement to unbalance his stride. Faster, and faster still . . . she could have laughed aloud. Was laughing, in the way that mattered now, and so was he . . .
Another curve, another straight, and curve again . . .
She pulled him up slowly, but Mountain Lion was already stopping anyway. He stood breathing heavily. She was out of breath as well. And now she realised she wasn’t at all sure where she had pulled up or where the yard and Nicholas were.
Her whole body would ache tonight, tomorrow: she was desperately out of condition. And this wonderful, glorious horse was too. He had a long way to go to be ready to race — but she knew how to teach him. Some of the lessons, at least.
She sat straight in the saddle, turning her head to try to hear where she might be. Then she swung her leg over his rump, slid off and leaned into his hot, damp neck, breathing in long slow breaths of horse. She patted his neck. ‘You’re king. You know that, don’t you?’
The giant horse tossed his head in agreement.
Click, click, click. She turned her head as Nicholas approached.
‘You promised.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I meant it when I said I don’t break my word. But this . . .’ She tried to find the words. ‘He needed to gallop. I’m not even sure I could have stopped him . . .’
‘And didn’t try.’
‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t want to pick a fight I couldn’t win. And it was the right thing to do. Truly.’ Because, somehow, it was more important that Mountain Lion trusted her than that Nicholas did. If Mountain Lion came to Joe’s to be trained, then . . . She stopped.
Flinty McAlpine had never sent any of her horses to Joe. And she was not going to be at Joe’s, even if Mountain Lion was there . . .
It was as if the clouds vanished and a sun blazed through her entire body. She could be there. Because today she had not just ridden a horse, but evaluated every stride, every change of pace and attitude, the potential and what was needed to achieve it.
No, she would never ride as a professional jockey. To ride in a race meant being able to see other horses, other riders, to guide your horse so they need only stare ahead at the winning post. But she could be a work rider, the best work rider in the world, evaluating horses in their training runs. You did not need eyesight to communicate with a horse like this.
She could train a horse. With help.
She leaned against the heaving wet horse, still trying to find her breath. He stood very still, this massive, half-trained animal, letting her rest against him. Oh, yes, they could work together. And he would win for her. She had felt that, not just in the speed but in the sheer joy of beating the wind. King of the mountain, like his great-great-grandsire. King of the racetrack too, not just because he wanted to beat other horses — many horses wanted that — but because he could form a trusting relationship with a rider.
Now all she had to do was convince Flinty McAlpine to send Mountain Lion to Joe’s. Then convince Joe to let her ride him, condition him and help train him.
And, yes, learn braille and all those other things Ms Sampson-Lee had been pressing on her, because training was work, office work as well as horse work. She’d need to know how to dress well without being able to see how to even put on lipstick too, and how to judge exactly the right angle for a hat. Mum always said owners judged a training stable as much by hats as by past form . . .
The days ahead were too full, instead of too empty.
She turned to where she had last heard a click from Nicholas. ‘I need to brush him down. What are you feeding him? He’s going to need some supplements. I need to check his feet too. Do you have —’
Mountain Lion bumped her again, sniffing her pockets, looking for more apples. She stroked him, her questions coming almost as falcon-fast as she had ridden, demanding answers of Nicholas.
The fire was almost content. An inconstant breeze to keep it alive, and spreading slowly each time the wind changed so its fire front grew wider. A patient fire. There was enough fuel to keep it alive now. And soon the real wind would come.