Australian Dreams. Fiona McCallum

“straw” and “champagne” ring any bells?’

      ‘Um, actually, yes, you can stop right there.’ Bernadette grinned sheepishly.

      The next morning, Claire was restless and couldn’t focus on the work she had to do. Bernie’s cottage felt cold and too quiet without its effervescent owner banging about. She took a walk around the garden that was a perfect compromise between rambling and tailored, stopping to pat one of Bernie’s cats – the big sleek black male – who was curled up under the lemon tree, snoozing in the sun.

      Something didn’t feel right inside. But what? She’d spent heaps of weekends like this – alone at the house while Bernadette was at the shop.

      More than being just bored or restless, Claire realised she felt compelled to go to the farm. And she had to do it alone, without Bernadette’s deliberate good-natured chatter keeping her from thoughts too morose.

      Claire’s heart pounded heavily as she turned into the driveway and the car vibrated over the cattle grid. As she made her way up the corrugated rubble track, she felt an odd sensation that everything had changed yet nothing had changed.

      The wild oats wavered in the stiff breeze just like they always did this time of year. Cream–coloured dust rose in a cloud behind her car. The gum trees stood in the same solemn rows, neither bluer nor browner nor even any taller. The only changes were the empty roadside paddocks: the absence of colts and fillies frolicking about, their owner’s hopes resting on their withers. A crow scrounged about on the ground, picking through old piles of dung for something edible.

      Claire’s throat tightened. It was too hard. She should have waited for Bernie after all. She stopped the car, turned in her seat to see how far she’d come, then turned back to look up the track. She was over halfway.

      Claire closed her eyes and conjured how it used to be: Jack out there in his trademark Akubra, Yakka work pants, long sleeves, and oilskin coat when it was cold; long-reining a youngster along the fence, teaching it all about the bit, changing direction, and balance. It was what he’d been doing when he’d had his accident. Bill and Daphne had found him on the ground and the horse grazing nearby, the long reins trailing behind him. God knew how they’d managed to catch the damn animal and get all the gear off safely – that one had been a snarly beast at the best of times. They’d followed the ambulance to the city and called Claire from the hospital.

      Claire opened her eyes and studied the area around her. Thankfully there was no sign of what had happened. She closed her eyes and forced herself to think again about the good times.

      When she was younger, Claire had always arrived in jodhpurs and boots, with helmet and gloves in the car. Often when she’d rolled down the window to wave he’d stop and call out, ‘Love, would you mind just hopping on him for me?’

      Ninety percent of the horses he’d trained had had her on their backs first. She’d loved being included, even after choosing a career outside racing. She still liked the idea of it, just liked the regular income more. She’d seen how much her mother had gone without. But she’d also seen how much she’d loved her husband. Grace McIntyre would have lived in a caravan without complaint if she’d had to. There was no way Claire could have done it.

      Claire was glad her father hadn’t just given up on life after her mother had died suddenly of a heart attack five years ago. Though she had noticed much of the enthusiasm had left him. It was like he was just going through the motions. No longer could he run in the kitchen door, clutching his stopwatch to show his latest protégé’s time, face beaming like a little boy’s. They’d been the perfect team: Jack the passionate one, prone to getting carried away; Grace the steadying rational force, keeping things real, and keeping the bank manager at bay.

      Claire swallowed hard. She looked behind her then back up the driveway to the mass of trees that hid the shabby, basic weatherboard home she’d grown up in. Bernadette was the only friend she’d not been too embarrassed to invite out to the rundown, untidy farm.

      It was time Jack got real, ended this nonsense. He’d been slowly winding down anyway, hadn’t he? Thirty years was long enough for chasing rainbows and the elusive pot of gold. At least he’d be able to say it hadn’t been his decision, and could bow out with his dignity intact. He’d thank her for that, wouldn’t he?

      So what was she so afraid of? Was it the guilt of being the one to end his dreams after all these years? Even her mother hadn’t done that.

      When he came out of the coma he was likely to be incapacitated. Surely he wouldn’t want the constant reminder of what he could no longer do. The place really wasn’t the same without the horses. But she hadn’t had a choice, had she?

      Her grip was as tight on the steering wheel as sweaty palms allowed. Her knuckles were beginning to ache. Claire took a deep breath, put the car in gear and slowly edged forward. Outside the car, the fence posts and dry paddocks began to blur as she picked up speed. She kept her eyes fixed on her destination, forcing herself not to think about what was missing, or exactly what had become of the horses that had once provided so much atmosphere.

      Claire pulled into the carport behind the old white rust-stained ute, just like she had so many times before. When she turned the key and got out it felt like nothing had changed; she could have been going in to share a lunch of steak, chips and eggs with her father before he put her to work cleaning stables or mixing feeds. But when she reached the back door, reality hit. She’d had a new lock fitted a couple of days after her father had been rushed to hospital. The key was in her glove box.

      Claire left it where it was, deciding instead to look around outside and enjoy the soothing sun on her back. She walked around the side, past her mother’s shade-house that was now empty except for a few skeletons of plants scratching at each other in the gusty breeze. The unusual orange and chocolate leopard-spotted rock, once a childhood treasure and proud feature of the corner fernery, was now covered in spiders’ webs and dead leaves. Claire moved on, swallowing thoughts of how devastated her mother would be if she could see it.

      The gates of the day yards in front of each of the four stables stood open, and the piles of manure dotted around bore evidence of the hasty evacuation. Each water trough had an unhealthy layer of green slime covering its surface. Claire leapt back in fright as a sudden gust caused a loose sheet of roof iron to flap and then settle with a piercing squeal. She was halfway through a mental note to have someone out to fix it when she realised how ridiculous she was being. She could fix the damn thing herself – she’d helped her dad build them in the first place. Anyway, he’d be disappointed if she paid someone for something so simple. ‘More money than sense,’ he’d say. ‘That’s the city life for you.’ And of course he’d be right. An only child, she’d been raised a tomboy, and had been more capable with cars and DIY than most boys her age. But since she’d left the farm she’d adopted the ‘pay someone else to do it, my time is too important’ attitude.

      First, she’d stopped doing the minor services on her car. And then the new one was computerised and so complicated it made sense not to touch it. It was funny how quickly you lost touch and confidence if you didn’t keep your hand in. There was no way she could ever tell her father she’d called the RAA out to change a tyre. But she was in her work suit and it was beginning to rain – and get dark – as she made the call. For the whole forty minutes they took to arrive she scolded herself for becoming a helpless woman. She was almost at the point of doing it herself when the yellow van turned up. In a matter of minutes the cheery man was done and beaming while she signed the form.

      Claire smiled when she slid the shed door back to find the ladder leaning nearby, with an old paint tin half full of roofing nails and a claw hammer sticking out underneath it. She grabbed the wire handle and tucked the long but relatively light ladder under her arm, relieved that she hadn’t had to rummage through the untidy, echoing space.