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OCTOBER ROARED OUT like a lion. Howling winds felled trees that had stood for hundreds of years. Fractured branches stopped traffic on country lanes, and rain sliced horizontally across the landscape, finding every weakness in weatherboard walls, soaking clean bedding in the stables and spoiling bales of hay. It leaked through the tiles on the roof of the bungalow. The lean-to flooded. Horses turned out for an hour in the field stood glum at the gate, up to their fetlocks in mud, bottoms to the wind. Turnout rugs drooped heavy with rain and dripped from drying racks. The gutters spluttered a relentless tune, out-sung by the roar of the wind.
Hettie trudged out in the murky, predawn light. Her hood was up, her head bowed, her hands in her pockets. She was soaked through before the day’s work had even started. Pig and Doris watched her from the relative shelter of the lean-to. The grotty weather had finally driven Fiona away. She’d enrolled on a business-marketing course and volunteered at the day-care centre Oscar went to. Hettie wondered wryly if the day-care centre was pleased about that.
She’d also taken the ginger kitten, and the tabby one had moved in to the pool house with Tiff, which just left the little tortoiseshell, who had hardly left the bungalow since this rain had started.
Hettie was on automatic pilot, methodically dishing out each horse’s breakfast before mucking out the boxes and filling fresh nets of hay to hang in the stables. Sloshing the broom through water on the concrete standing, her mind circled back to Simon’s email. She’d known, really; but all the same, seeing it in black and white was tough. She leant on her broom.
She wasn’t done yet, but a plan was elusive; random ideas jumped into her head and were quickly discounted. Could she do bar work to top up the cash? Teaching paid better. Take on some working pupils? Not until she had time to actually teach them. Sell Lockie and send Snoop back? No! Absolutely not! She would rather go under, although that would mean she would have to sell Lockie and send Snoop back.
She bent over her broom and swept harder. Lockie banged on the stable door. ‘Don’t worry, Lockstar, you’re not going anywhere yet.’
Could she try to find a partner? The idea made her smile as she imagined the sales pitch: ‘Come! Join my failing business! Work all day and half the night for next-to-bloody nothing!’ She peered at the heavy sky. ‘In all sorts of god-awful weather.’ Someone might be daft enough; she was, after all. It was barely a plan, but it was the only idea she’d had that might be worth exploring.
Twenty-three degrees in Johannesburg. She knew because Cynthia had sent a gloating text. Cynthia did that a lot. She hung her broom back on the wall. They had rain in Johannesburg too. And anyway, she had a yard to run here. A new niece or nephew to welcome, and Lockie, and the heating was finally on in the bungalow.
She left the horses munching their hay and nipped back for dry clothes and hot coffee. The kitchen was snug, almost homely. She leafed through Horse and Hound, unable to resist looking at the classified ads, then she put on her riding boots, an extra mac and waterproof over-trousers. She would ride Lockie first today. He had more of a need to get out of his stable.
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THE RATTLE OF WIND and the sleety rain drilling across the arena made Lockie uptight. She could feel the tension in his stride. It transmitted through her body, and his edginess carried from the reins to her hands. She willed him to calm, softening her legs and back, regulating her breathing, keeping her fingers gentle on the reins. She wouldn’t ask much of him today. To trust her in this weather was question enough. They trotted slow, rhythmical circles, steadying serpentine loops the length of the arena, ending the ride with a relaxed, loping canter that thrilled her heart. Sensitive and willing, Lockie’s stride and its easy power spoke of untapped potential she couldn’t wait to take further.
Patting the black horse on his rain-soaked neck she eased him back to walk and smiled at the thought that Gregor’s roof was useless when the rain was travelling sideways. She looked at the murky fields and the rain-blurred stables, then swung to the ground. Her yard, built with her own hard work. She was buggered if she was going to let it fail. Come on inner tiger, now’s the time to show yourself.
As she came out of Lockie’s stable, Bert turned up, trussed to the eyeballs in waterproofs. He made her laugh. ‘Are you sure you want to ride today?’
‘Bit of rain never hurt anyone. You riding that young ’un with no one about again?’
‘Don’t fret, Bert. He’s as good as gold these days.’
‘So you keep tellin’ me. But all the same, I’d rather someone were here to call the ambulance.’
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HETTIE THOUGHT IT ONLY fair to tell her little band of supporters she was going to have to look for a partner. The new liveries didn’t need to know yet, but she owed a lot to Gregor and Tiff, to Bert, and to Bill and Fiona. As she thought about it, she realised she hadn’t really done this on her own after all.
She asked Tiff to help her draft an advert for the local papers: ‘Joint venture, new business, experience needed...’ She added in a couple of sweeteners: ‘Room for own horse, accommodation available’, although she didn’t relish the idea of sharing the bungalow. Nor, in truth, did she want to share her business. Needs must.
She doodled curlicues around the edge of the advert and reminded herself to think about the time off she would get and the possibility of a lie-in every now and then. She chewed on the end of her biro.
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THE OFFER FROM GREGOR and Tiff was incredible, ridiculous, and she’d had the cheek to respond by telling them she’d think about it! Hettie raged at her own contrariness. Think about what exactly? A salary and a profit share; staff, investment in the yard. And yet, it felt dangerously like a hand-out. A profit share of what? How would Gregor ever get his investment back? And apparently Tiff had spoken to Bill before they made their offer, and there was talk of more building; another arena, indoor; and additional stables. She had a sensation of things spiralling off in a whole new direction. Out of her direction. She was having a control-freak-out. Commitment and obligation; she wouldn’t be doing this just for herself anymore. But of course she would have to accept. She should be jumping in the air and clicking her heels together.
Alexander had offered to help her right from the very start. That had felt like a hand-out too, and she’d turned him down. She rolled a cigarette. Why did he still keep jumping into her head at random moments?
The rain had stopped, or paused at least. She leant on the fence.
Tiff had said this was the first yard she’d ever felt comfortable in, that for once she hadn’t been made to feel like a misfit. That was nice. The stream at the bottom of Hardacre paddock was running so full she could hear its song, rushing and pitching over roots in the river bend. Tiff had also told her she should snatch Gregor’s arm off, and she would, of course.
Redfern Livery was going into partnership with Gregor Francis.