Australian Dreams. Fiona McCallum

few weeks. I got on okay with him but Al and the others didn’t. Nearly ate us out of house and home, too.’

      ‘That would be the one.’ Claire put on a laugh. ‘Any idea where he is now?’ she tried to sound nonchalant.

      ‘I could check the journal. Why do you want to know?’ the girl asked, suspicion creeping into her voice.

      Shit! Claire hadn’t thought this far ahead. She took a deep breath. ‘Well, my father used to train him and he was sold off when he got sick and now…’

      ‘You mean Jack McIntyre? Why didn’t you say? How is he?’

      Claire was so taken aback she couldn’t speak for a few moments. ‘Actually, he woke up from his coma last night.’

      ‘Aw, that’s great – you must be so relieved.’

      It felt weird sharing something so personal with someone she had never met but who seemed to know so much about her father. One big family – and not necessarily happy – that was the racing fraternity. It was perhaps the thing Claire missed most, but also what she missed least. The fierce rivalry in the industry meant that people were often friends one minute and enemies the next and vice versa. She’d seen it so many times.

      ‘Yeah.’ Claire waited in anticipation. Would the girl help her or not? She could hear what sounded like heavy books and folders being moved, and pages being turned. Claire held her breath when the girl finally spoke.

      ‘He went to Todd Newman over at Gawler – a couple of weeks ago now. Al couldn’t be bothered with him after he threw a major hissy fit at Morphettville.’

      Claire cringed. She didn’t want to hear any more. ‘You wouldn’t have Todd’s number by any chance – save me looking it up?’

      ‘It’s right here.’

      Claire took down the number. ‘Well thanks for your help.’

      ‘No worries.’

      ‘Ta.’

      Claire dialled the number, hoping there would be someone at the stables.

      ‘Todd Newman’s stables – Graham speaking.’

      ‘Todd’s not available, is he?’

      ‘Sorry, no, it’s just me – everyone else’s at the races. I’m the stable manager.’

      ‘Oh right. Okay.’

      ‘What can I do for you?’

      ‘Um…’ Claire was thrown by his efficient, professional manner. She’d been hoping for another junior to pull the wool over if she had to. ‘Well it’s a bit of an odd question really, but I understand you got a horse registered under the name Paycheque – a small bay – from Al Jacobs.’

      ‘Did have, little monster. Had all sorts of trouble with him ourselves. We heard about his performance at Morphettville and thought maybe it was just Al being Al. But no, he’s a dud all right. Why the interest?’

      ‘Well my daughter’s looking for a new Pony Club mount. She saw him that day and took a bit of a liking to him. Loves a challenge – you know what kids are like…’

      ‘Oh don’t I just – got two myself. Well that one’s certainly a challenge, but I wouldn’t let my kids near him. Got a real nasty streak. Anyway, he’s gone to the dogs – literally. Truck came three days ago.’

      Part of her wanted to scream at this man who didn’t care, let him know she’d worked with the horse before, that Paycheque didn’t have a nasty bone in his body. The other part of her wanted to curl up and give up. But she couldn’t, she wasn’t doing this for herself. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

      ‘Thanks for the advice.’

      ‘Plenty of other horses around for your daughter. In fact, there’s a couple here if you want to bring her over.’

      ‘Right, thanks. I might just do that. Um, just out of curiosity, whose truck did Paycheque go on?’

      ‘Tom Bailey’s – we don’t use anyone else.’

      Claire hated how real lives were traded like this, how someone could make a living – and a good one, from what she’d heard of Tom Bailey – from unwanted horses. They were often healthy creatures in their prime, got rid of because something better had come along. And in the case of Paycheque, simply because nobody had taken the time to figure out what made him tick.

      Tears prickled behind Claire’s eyes. Her throat was jammed and her stomach a ball of knotted dread.

      ‘Look, I’d better go,’ she croaked. ‘Thanks for your help.’

      ‘No worries, cheers then. And remember, bring your daughter up sometime.’

      Claire hung up without another word, sat down on the couch and pulled a cushion to her. The poor little horse. What he must have gone through. She had one last phone call but didn’t want to make it, didn’t want to know any more. What would she tell Jack? Could bad news send him back into a coma?

      With trembling fingers, Claire thumbed through the phone book. She stared at the entry: ‘Tom Bailey – pick up all unwanted horses anywhere, anytime’. No different from the ads for antique furniture or bric-a-brac.

      Claire pressed each number slowly and waited, holding her breath, while the phone connected and started to ring. She let it ring three times, four times… There, she’d tried. She was about to hang up when it was answered.

      ‘Tom Bailey.’ He sounded almost cheery. Claire felt the anger welling up inside her.

      ‘Yes, hello.’

      ‘Got an unwanted horse for me, luv?’

      ‘Uh, no… Actually I’m looking for one you picked up three days ago from Todd Newman’s.’

      ‘Hey lady, if you sent the wrong horse it’s got nothing to do with me – I only take what’s handed to me.’

      Claire swallowed hard, building up the courage to say the words. ‘You took the right horse – it was someone else’s mistake.’

      ‘Well nothing to do with me,’ he said, sounding relieved. ‘Anyway, we’re way too efficient for people to go changing their minds.’

      ‘Do you remember where he went? Which, uh, facility?’

      ‘There’s only one, love: Packers, just outside Williamstown. But you’d be wasting your time. If he went three days ago he’ll be long gone – in cans on his way to a supermarket by now.’

      ‘Right, okay, thanks for your help.’

      ‘Bloody women,’ he muttered before hanging up.

      Claire fought the urge to call him back and give him a piece of her mind. She looked around her friend’s cluttered home, searching for some other way to vent her anger and frustration. But nothing would bring Paycheque back. She’d have to find a way to come clean to her father.

      Claire buried her head in her hands and began to weep – for Paycheque, for Keith, her mother, her father. But after a few moments, with a force she didn’t know she had, she stopped. She couldn’t drown in self-pity now. No, she had to do something, get her mind off it. But the distraction that had been there all the other times was gone – her job, her never-ending list of emails.

      Maybe Bernadette had been right – maybe she had been using the corporate world as a smokescreen, as one big fat excuse for everything that had gone wrong – and right – in her life. What had she been doing for the past twelve years? What had she achieved, other than a healthier bank balance and an only slightly smaller mortgage? Claire’s tears dried.

      At least Bernadette brought joy to people’s lives – she’d seen customers arrive at the shop, daunted by the work ahead, only to leave brimming with excitement at improving their surroundings. Bernadette genuinely made a difference,