Cath Phelan, the vet who had snubbed Paterson on his first trip from Australia, was at the party after the remount depot show. She stood out with her white dress and red broad-brimmed hat, belt and shoes. Paterson had offered her a job at the depot and she was there to discuss it with him. He fussed about her, making sure she was supplied with selective introductions to VIPs and endless champagne. Phelan still treated him with barely contained disdain, but he endured her attitude in the hope that she would accept his work offer.
While she and the other VIP guests were feted with drinks and food, Michael Shanahan sought out Mullagh at the stables.
‘I want you with my squadron.’
‘Better speak with Banjo,’ Mullagh said, rubbing a bruise on his arm after his earlier encounter with Bill.
Paterson was supervising a clean-up when Shanahan strolled over to him. ‘Major, could I have a little session with Bill?’ he asked.
Paterson was unsure. ‘He’s had a rough day. All that bucking and jumping takes a lot out of him.’
‘I don’t want to ride him, just get acquainted again.’
Paterson was bemused. ‘I won’t give him to you as a permanent mount, Lieutenant, for your own sake. You saw him today.’
‘He was in good form.’
‘Think you can break him, do you?’
‘I don’t want to break him.’
‘He won’t bend to anyone’s will.’
‘I know.’
Paterson considered the lieutenant. ‘Like him, do you?’
‘Most interesting horse I’ve ever met.’
‘Why so?’
‘He has a wonderful spirit. There’s an unusual intelligent streak in him.’
‘He’s very angry about something!’
‘Aren’t we all, Major?’
They both smiled.
‘But you can have any number of the wild ones …’ Paterson said.
‘I saw them today—raw, spirited and unruly. Good stallions and mares among them. But Bill is only a bastard when he chooses. He usually lets riders up on him. Then he decides when they come down.’
‘Right enough,’ Paterson agreed. He signalled to a trainer for Bill to be brought to them. ‘You’ve got an hour. After that it’s bedtime for him and the rest of them.’
Bill was irritable at this extra session with a human. It seemed he had had enough excitement for one day. But he remembered Shanahan so well, it appeared, that he also recalled the left pocket of his trousers where the licorice sweets once were. He nudged it. Shanahan laughed. He had none on his person. He heel-roped Bill, who kicked a little. It was late. He was hungry and thirsty, and tired.
Shanahan had his Australian flag on a pole. He tapped Bill with it. Bill flinched at first, clearly expecting the kind of whip that had been used by one of his would-be ‘conquerors’ an hour earlier. Soon he was accustomed to the feather slap of the flag. Shanahan manoeuvred him this way and that, using the flag to waft around him or onto his tail-end to ensure movement in a certain direction. Bill snorted in protest but when Shanahan pulled gently on the reins, the horse responded and stopped jerking his head. Shanahan had him doing a left, right, stepping action, like the beginning of dressage training. Bill didn’t object. He played the game. He was worked back and forth, then around the yard. The next move was backwards. Bill took several minutes to get used to it, but again he obliged.
Most of the guests at the party, along with about 200 depot employees, had filtered outside to the arena to watch this exhibition in training. Paterson was displeased that the Shanahan–Bill ‘show’ had disrupted the convivial flow of the celebration. The chatter had given way to almost silent fascination. Paterson looked at his watch.
‘He’s been at it forty-five minutes,’ he said to Sutherland, ‘another fifteen and that’s it.’
‘I’ve never seen any of the trainers work like this,’ Sutherland said. ‘He’s got Bill almost doing tricks.’
‘Pity he’ll kick him off anyway.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
A quarter of an hour passed.
‘Better wrap it up,’ Paterson said, ‘it’s almost dark.’
Sutherland moved towards the fence.
‘Wait,’ Paterson said. They both paused.
Shanahan was patting the horse’s side. He put his arm around Bill’s neck and left it there for several seconds. He put his left foot in the stirrup and lifted himself up parallel with the horse without throwing his right leg over.
‘We’re going to do this,’ Shanahan said matter-of-factly, ‘Okay, mate?’
Bill stood stock still, as if in a trance. Shanahan mounted him. He patted Bill’s neck. Bill pawed the ground, but not aggressively. It was almost like a caress. Neither Paterson nor Sutherland had seen the horse do this. Shanahan nudged him with his heel. Bill moved forward. He was walked around the inside of the fence, ever so slowly building to a trot. Next Shanahan began to manoeuvre him, left, then right. Finally he edged him backwards.
‘Amazing!’ Sutherland exclaimed.
‘Just tricks,’ Paterson said. ‘The real “trick” would be at a full gallop.’
‘You’re right. But I’ve never seen anyone work him like that.’
Shanahan finished his training and dismounted in near darkness to spontaneous applause from the hundreds of intrigued depot staff and guests who had watched most of the session. He tethered Bill, walked to his bag and pulled out some licorice sweets.
‘Not a reward,’ Shanahan said as he let the horse gobble two pieces from his hand, ‘just a thank you.’
He was walking out of the camp to be driven to Cairo for a few days’ leave when Phelan hurried past military guards towards him.
‘Michael,’ she said, ‘I watched you with that mighty stallion. Quite a miracle!’
They shook hands. In high heels, she was just taller than Shanahan. He continued walking. Phelan, and her strong perfume, kept pace with him.
‘Here for the show?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Banjo invited me. He wants me to work as a vet here.’
‘And will you?’
‘No. It’s too isolated for me. Cairo is lively. If I have to be in Egypt, that’ll do. My fiancé is based there. He’s a diplomat liaising with the British High Command.’
They stopped walking. Shanahan waved to his mates, sergeants Mulherin and Legg, who were sitting in a small truck.
‘That’s my ride,’ he said, hoisting his kit on his shoulder.
‘I’ve got my car. Would you like a lift?’
‘I …’ Shanahan began hesitantly.
‘I’d love the company,’ she said, touching his arm. She glanced at the truck. ‘I’m staying at the Savoy,’ she said. ‘Your friends can meet you there.’
‘Why not?’ Shanahan said. He sauntered over to the truck.
‘My, you’re working well,’ Mulherin said.
‘Jeez!’ Legg remarked, ‘I saw her in the crowd. What a looker! And what a body!’
‘Settle down, fellas. She’s engaged. She has offered me a lift to Cairo. We can meet at the Greek cafe.’
Mulherin and Legg looked at each other and laughed.
‘We’ll see you for breakfast tomorrow at our hotel,’ Mulherin said.
‘Better make it coffee in the cafe, late tomorrow morning,’ Legg remarked with a knowing grin.
‘I’ll meet you jokers at the Greek place tonight as planned,’ Shanahan said.
Shanahan joined Cath Phelan and they walked to her car, a sable-coloured Rolls Royce.
‘Nice car,’ he remarked. ‘How do you get this?’
‘Oh Bob—my fiancé—is well connected. There are plenty of officers running around in them. It’s on loan from the British army.’
‘Nice loan.’
‘I told him I’d move to London or Paris for the rest of the war. Bob got it for me to keep me from getting bored.’ She laughed. ‘But I am still bored.’
Shanahan noticed three dolls sitting in the back seat like silent children.
‘Oh, he got me them too,’ she said when she saw him looking at them.
‘He bought you dolls?’
‘I collect them. He knows I love them.’
They drove on in silence for a few kilometres. A goat herder slowed them to a stop as he shepherded his animals across the dirt road.
‘You used to box,’ Phelan said.
‘Amateur. How did you know?’
‘You won some championship or other?’ she asked, ignoring his question.
‘A couple.’
‘My father used to box. Said you were the best in the state. You didn’t ever lose, if I recall.’
Shanahan didn’t respond. Phelan was finding it heavy going. She persisted: ‘What made you volunteer?’
‘I’d been in the infantry and Light Horse for nearly thirty years. So many of my mates were going in …’
‘But you’re not that young.’
‘No,’ he said, smiling genuinely for the first time. ‘I’ll be forty-six soon.’
‘When?’
‘March thirty.’
‘That’s tomorrow! Is that why you’re going into Cairo? To celebrate?’
Shanahan shrugged. ‘My cobbers talked me into it.’
‘You should have fun—you don’t know when …’
‘Shouldn’t have said that,’ she said. ‘You were lucky to survive Gallipoli.’
‘Plenty didn’t,’ he said softly.
She was distracted by an army truck rumbling behind them. It flashed its lights.
‘Let ’em by,’ Shanahan said, looking back.
‘No, bugger them!’ Phelan built up speed. Dust enveloped the car, making visibility poor, but she continued to accelerate. They were soon well clear. Phelan kept up the speed.
‘Might as well get there in time for dinner … and champagne!’
Shanahan didn’t react.
‘C’mon, you’ve got to celebrate with champagne,’ she urged. ‘Cairo’s swimming in it!’
‘Don’t drink.’
‘What, never? Even on your birthday?’
Shanahan didn’t respond. Phelan went to say something but checked herself. There was another long lull as the Rolls purred on its way. Shanahan slumped in his seat and pushed his slouch hat over his face. He was soon snoring. After an hour he sat up, blinked and said: ‘Sorry. Been a long day. Needed a catnap.’
She pointed to the left. ‘See those dark shapes?’
‘Pyramids,’ Shanahan said, suddenly animated. ‘Love them, fascinating.’
‘How were they built and who built them, do you think? Were they astronomic observatories? Places of cult worship?’
‘Visitors from outer space built them.’
‘You believe that?’
‘More fun if they did.’
She laughed. Perhaps there was humour embedded somewhere, she thought. Or maybe his every utterance was serious.
‘You didn’t really say why you volunteered,’ she prompted.
He remained silent so long she wondered if she was being ignored.
‘It wasn’t one thing,’ he said finally. ‘A few issues flowed together. I wasn’t getting any younger. I’m a carpenter, among other things. Never going to earn enough to travel.’ He brightened, adding, ‘Not to see the pyramids and all this beautiful sand.’
Phelan laughed. ‘So, travel …’ she pressed.
‘It was a part of it. Like I said, some mates were going. I had all that training, and it wasn’t going to be a pissy little show.’
‘Like the Boer War?’
‘Right.’
‘You wanted to help save the Empire?’
He shrugged and replied: ‘I believe in what Brigadier Monash said. He is the most brilliant commander in our entire Anzac force. He gave a lecture at Anzac Cove. His parents were German Jews. He’s been to Germany. He reckoned it boiled down to the world accepting military dictatorship or democracy. If the Germans win, they will destroy democracy everywhere. Monash says British dominions will become German colonies. They will want our mineral wealth. That’s why we must be here, must contribute, must fight.’
This loquacious outburst was even more encouraging for Cath Phelan. There was something working very well inside that handsome head, she thought. After watching him handle Bill so patiently, skilfully and thoughtfully, she felt he also had to have something different in his make-up, something admirable; perhaps, at least, something compassionate.
They arrived at the Savoy at 9.30 pm. A military policeman parked the car. Phelan asked Shanahan to join her for dinner.
‘No, thank you,’ he said.
‘Going to meet your friends?’
‘I did promise them.’
‘Will you be in Cairo again soon?’
‘In a week. Got more leave. Going to have another crack at Bill at Moascar and then come here for two nights.’
‘Could we have dinner then?’
He considered her, making rare eye contact, and said: ‘Yeah, why not? It would be good.’
They shook hands. Phelan kissed him on the cheek. Shanahan moved off into the humid Cairo night.