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The filly wasn’t what Leilah expected. Since her arrival, it seemed Hector had put work into her and she’d settled. Leilah spent time in the narrow race with her, using a small fork to dig up weeds and letting the horse get used to her presence. Bored and fed up of her own company, brown eyes turned to Leilah’s activity and she took tentative steps nearer to look.
Leilah rose and threw a handful of weeds over the fence, aware of the filly’s proximity. The flecked brown head jerked upwards at every unexpected movement of human hands, but still Leilah ignored her. She’d dug up an irritating patch of clover roots before the filly got near enough to scent her, the pale muzzle sniffing and nibbling at her tee shirt sleeve. “Good girl,” Leilah soothed, attacking a clump of chamomile and feeling a flash of irritation as the fronds detached in her fingers and left the root behind in the hard earth. The filly started and backed away, reading Leilah’s changed body language as a threat. Forcing herself into calmness, Leilah concentrated on the ground and hummed a soothing tune under her breath while gathering the weeds into a nearby pile.
The horse watched her for a while and then bent her head to nibble on fresh shoots of grass, the thin blades encouraged by the rains around the time of Malcolm’s death. When Leilah rose with deliberate slowness and gathered her organic pile into her arms, the horse stopped grazing to watch. Hector stood at the fence, one arm resting on the rail. His gaze faced downward and he used his work boot to scrape the weeds into a neater pile. Leilah dropped her haul onto the top. “She’s steadier than I expected.” She kept her back turned towards the filly. “I thought you’d left her wild.”
Hector shrugged and a smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth as the horse stole nearer. Her unshod feet clopped closer on slow, tentative footsteps. “She’s sweet.” His features relaxed and Leilah caught a flash of the handsome man in the black and white wedding photographs on the sideboard. “I figured she might help you get over yourself.”
Leilah swallowed, aware of the nearness of the filly and keeping the rage inside her breast. She lowered her voice, keeping her tone neutral. “What happened before doesn’t matter,” she replied, jutting her chin higher. “I don’t want to do this for the rest of my life.”
Hector inhaled as though she’d slashed his dreams and his brow knitted. She saw that he wanted to protest. The words seemed to stick in his throat and unexpected guilt surged into her chest as he turned and walked away on slow steps. “Dinner’s in the oven,” he said, throwing the words over his shoulder almost as an afterthought.
Leilah rolled her eyes, surprised at her own ingratitude. “Yeah, beef stew. I know.”
Hector stopped and turned to face her, his gaze drawn to the filly who ventured near enough to nibble Leilah’s shirt hem. “Shepherd’s pie,” he retorted. Then left.
Leilah watched her father’s retreating spine and allowed the sadness to fill her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. The only emotion Hector Dereham ever showed came from a place of deep dissatisfaction and irritation with his lot. Yet his hurt expression channelled something different of late. Sadness mingled with disappointment and perhaps a trace of resignation. Leilah shook her head and sighed, feeling the rough lips tugging at the back of her shirt. “I can’t stay,” she breathed. “It’s not my destiny to let this land trap me like it did him.”
The filly snuffed out a warm breath and Leilah turned and offered a flat palm. Wiry whiskers tickled the skin and her body tensed in a giggle. “Clara,” Leilah said as the name popped into her mind. “I’m calling you Clara. Your new owner can change it if they don’t like it.”
The filly tolerated a light pat on the neck although she grew head shy when Leilah attempted to stroke the white blaze on her forehead. She refilled the water bucket and doled out a decent slice of hay, standing to watch as the filly ate without fear. With a nod of satisfaction, Leilah returned to the house for her dinner. Mari arrived as she dished up a bowl for herself and ate alone at the kitchen counter.
“Yer pa not eating his kai?” Mari asked, peering through the cloudy oven door and wrinkling her brow.
Leilah shrugged. “Dunno where he is.” Listening, she heard the airing cupboard door click and furrowed her brow. Hector’s mattress squeaked as he peeled the sheets from it. She lowered her voice, forcing Mari to come closer. “I think he’s having an affair,” she whispered.
Mari jerked back as though shot, a mix of confusing emotions marching across her olive face and destroying the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. Her ready smile showed no trace of ever existing. “What?” she breathed.
Leilah nodded, closing her eyes and savouring the whipped potato and soft mince which melted in her mouth. “This is gorgeous, Mari. Will you serve it at the cafe?” Receiving no reply, she opened her eyes and saw Mari half turned and staring at the connecting door through to the hallway. Remembering her bomb shell, she continued creating damage. “Yeah, he went to bed in the middle of the day. And he’s acting odd.” Leilah licked her lips. “I need to find out who he’s sold the filly to. Maybe there’s a clue there.” Her mind turned to the blonde woman in the car in search of an explanation. The faster she trained the filly, the quicker the problem might disappear.
Mari ran a hand over her mouth and kept it there, her eyes widening to accusing orbs over the top of her fingers. “Emma Hadley.” The name emerged as a muffled sound, uncharacteristic hatred in the spoken words.
Leilah turned with a jerk of surprise, her fork half way to her mouth. “She wouldn’t come here for a shag!” The sentence sounded harsh and jarring and Mari winced. Attempting to qualify it, Leilah continued to make it worse. “She’s a hotel kinda girl. And married to the vicar.” She shovelled another forkful into her mouth and sighed with pleasure. “I think it was the woman with the flash car. His bed looked messed up and the house smelled of perfume.”
Mari shook her head and backed away. “Na,” she whispered. “He loved yer mam. He’s not picked up with anyone else all these years because of her.”
Leilah shrugged. “I don’t care. I’m leaving at the start of next year, anyway.” She shovelled another lump of creamy mash into her mouth, aware of the shake of Mari’s head in her peripheral vision.
“You should work hard on the filly.” Mari picked her way around the furniture to the ranch slider. “Times are hard and getting harder, Lei.”
Leilah turned on her stool, hearing the plop of mince as it fell from her fork. “Aren’t you staying a while?” she asked.
“Stuff to do,” Mari replied and waved a hand over her shoulder. She slid the door open and left.
Hector closed the door to the hallway and scratched the thick mop of hair at his brow. He sniffed the air, mimicking the way Red scented mares. “Can you ask Mari to hang the washing on the line when she comes?” he asked, steering a course for the oven. “I’ve set the white things going. Tell her I’ll be in the barn after I’ve eaten my dinner and then we’ll do her books.”
“She’s been and gone.” Leilah scraped her fork across the chipped china and eyed the casserole dish as Hector reached for a plate. “That pie tasted good.”
Hector whipped around in surprise. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
“Gone, left, driven off.” Leilah stared at her empty bowl. “I don’t know how I can explain it any other way.”
“But I agreed to help with her tax return.” Hector’s features crumpled into an expression of open confusion. He released an exasperated snort and replaced his plate, grabbing a jacket from the hook on the back of the lounge door. “I’ll drive to town. She’s already missed the deadline. The tax man doesn’t care if she knows her numbers or not.”
Leilah looked up, taking in her father’s ragged appearance. The chequered shirt was older than her and a dark line of sweat stained the armpits. She shook her head. “Change your shirt first. It’s covered in hay and horse snot.” She poked an index finger in his general direction. “It stinks.”
Hector dropped his head to see and captured a strand of hay. He almost released it from his calloused fingers, but noticed the look of disgust on Leilah’s face. Responsible for most of the housework apart from the bits Mari helped with, she moaned and grumbled on a regular basis about the crap on the floor. He strode to the sink and dropped the hay in the plug hole. With a huff of annoyance, he padded to his bedroom and Leilah heard him clattering around. The scent of aerosol deodorant made her cough as he reappeared wearing an old white tee shirt with moth holes in the creases of the sleeves. She sighed and shook her head, raising her hand to cover her mouth. “Can I have your dinner?” she asked and Hector nodded.
“Yeah. But hang that washing out and if you get time, put another load on to wash. I need my favourite shirt.”
“It won’t dry overnight.” Leilah bounced towards the oven and hauled out Mari’s casserole dish.
“Then I’ll wear it damp, won’t I?” Hector bit, striding to the ranch slider and pushing his feet into his weathered cowboy boots. “It’s my lucky shirt. Your mother made it for me on her sewing machine.” He bent to yank the hem of his jeans over the boots and eyed Leilah with a mixture of hope and doubt. “Her sewing machine is still in the hall cupboard. She made it from a pattern. You could make me another one.”
Leilah snorted. “I failed home economics and earned myself a detention for stitching my sleeve to a cushion cover, remember?”
The hope faded from Hector’s eyes and she experienced a frisson of regret. She wished her mother’s creative genetics carried more weight in her abilities, but the simple fact was they didn’t. Better at horse training and language based subjects, Leilah failed at anything with the label of home making. She gave her father a lame smile and thought about the money she’d saved up from waiting tables at Mari’s cafe. Her escape fund. As Hector gave her a quick wave and closed the ranch slider behind him, she resolved to buy him a new chequered shirt from the general store in town. Unless she discovered he’d slept with the blonde woman. Then she’d let him wear the wet one forever.
Leilah enjoyed Hector’s portion of the Shepherd’s pie and then cleared up the kitchen. Remembering the washing, she hung the ratty bedsheets and underwear on the line beneath the car port. A gentle breeze ruffled the material and she wondered if Hector might get his clean shirt by the morning. She changed into shorts and loaded her tartan school skirt in with the rest of the coloureds, seeking and finding Hector’s shirt on the floor of his bedroom. Clean sheets sat in a pile on the mattress and she relented and made up his bed, expecting him to return late and frustrated with Mari and the tax office. Born with the natural ability to toss numbers and formulae around in his head, he proved awful at explaining his knowledge or workings out. Leilah patted the pretty comforter, noting the faded pattern on the side nearest the window. It made her sad to see another handmade legacy of her mother’s deteriorating. Hauling the corners, she spun it around so that the sun faded it at the same rate. She’d argued many times for Hector to store it out of harm’s way, but his staunch refusal caused arguments. The shirt fabric felt tired and worn beneath her touch and she resolved again to replace it.
Something in the breast pocket felt hard and she tugged out a business card. Shari Barrett’s name stood out in bold italics beneath the company title. ‘Denver Holdings, Mining Company Inc.’ Leilah shifted her finger to reveal Shari’s job title as a procurement agent. Her father wasn’t sleeping with the woman. She’d visited on business. The thought sent a peculiar sensation through her bones at the thought of Hector selling. She hated the idea and yet, it painted a picture of a man with a possible future after she left. He could make some easy cash and lessen his burden. Everything might work out after all.
The net curtains at the window hung open, hauled aside by a man who loved the warmth of the evening sunshine pouring through his window. Leilah peered through the dirty glass, dropping her gaze to watch the washing sway beneath the car port to her left.
A movement against the bush line claimed her attention and she watched a black and white cow graze near the fence, the noble head bowed in silent worship of thicker shade grass near the canopy. Leilah watched its peaceful plodding as it tore and ate on the move. Her mind disconnected and turned to thoughts of Malcolm. She’d assumed he stole her underwear. He’d been in the bush at the back of her father’s property and that’s where Moss found her bra. In her whole life, she’d met no one else on that side of the mountain. Only accessible from the road via the gully or their property, it proved hazardous from any other direction. She only went up there to explore and Hector never did. He’d applied to clear it once and create more paddocks, but government officials appeared like genies and threatened him with court action if he destroyed native bush. Hector grumbled for weeks and wished his grandfather had just done it before saving the planet became a thing.
So Malcolm entered the bush somehow and got close enough to their house to steal her underwear. Leilah sighed. It sounded crazy and fantastical. Yet the truth of it resonated in her soul. He told her he liked her at the high school dance two years earlier. His attentions frightened her, forceful and insistent. When he’d bailed her up against the wall outside and tried to kiss her, she’d screamed and Dante appeared and laid him out flat on his back. She remembered the look of darkness in Dante’s eyes that night and shivered. Perhaps he’d killed him. But why wait two years? As Malcolm stumbled away that night she’d cried, base music vibrating through the walls of the school hall. Dante held her tight, kissing her hair and promising it would be okay. His lips had strayed to hers and he’d kissed her properly then, her tears mingling between them and making it slippery and awkward.
Leilah took the shirt into the laundry and added it to the tub. She pressed a few faded buttons and left as the machine filled with water. Faulty for months, it swished the washing around the dolly before missing a stage and hammering out its spin cycle too early. It shook the house and mimicked a landslide, resonating with the speed at which her life seemed to propel out of control.
Leilah padded to her bedroom and inspected the view from her window. The realisation popped into her mind as though an unseen hand fitted jigsaw pieces into place to assist her. Nausea rose into her chest and drove her into a cowed position on her bed. Malcolm’s words returned like an echo. “She’s a slut. She’s doin’ all of youse at the same time. Or just one in particular!”
He knew. Malcolm Donnelly knew. He’d been watching her, perhaps for the last two years.