Australian Dreams

Fiona McCallum

www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author

Fiona McCallum spent her childhood years on the family cereal and wool farm outside a small town on South Australia’s Eyre Peninsula. An avid reader and writer, she decided at the age of nine that she wanted to be the next Enid Blyton! She completed her final years of schooling at a private boarding school in Adelaide.

Having returned to her home town to work in the local council office, Fiona maintained her literary interests by writing poetry and short stories, and studying at TAFE via correspondence. Her ability to put into words her observations of country life saw a number of her feature articles published in the now defunct newspaper SA Statewide.

When her marriage ended, Fiona moved to Adelaide, eventually found romance, and followed it to Melbourne. She returned to full-time study at the age of twenty-six, and graduated with a Bachelor of Arts (Professional Writing) from Deakin University. While studying, she found herself drawn to writing fiction where her keen observation of the human condition and everyday situations could be combined with her love of storytelling.

After brief stints in administration, marketing and recruitment, Fiona started Content Solutions, a consultancy providing professional writing and editing services to the corporate sector. Living with a sales and marketing executive and working on high-level business proposals and tenders has given Fiona great insight into vastly different ways of life.

Fiona continued to develop her creative writing skills by reading widely and voraciously, and attending short courses. In 2001 she realised her true passion lay in writing full-length fiction, and in 2002 completed her first manuscript.

In early 2004 Fiona made the difficult decision to return to Adelaide alone in order to achieve a balanced lifestyle and develop a career as a novelist. She successfully re-established her consultancy, and now enjoys the sharp contrast between her corporate work and creative writing.

Australian Dreams is Fiona’s first novel.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to family, friends and acquaintances that have provided encouragement – you’ve all played a part in inspiring me.

I am blessed to have a handful of very dear and true friends who have supported me through the many ups and downs of my life, and the pursuit of my dream. Thank you to Calvin McHobbes, Carole and Ken Wetherby, Mel Sabeeney, Arlene Somerville, and the Chiuchiolo family – you all mean the world to me.

Thanks to Andrew Holmes of the Victorian Racing Club and Marilyn Smith of TAFE SA for clarifying some of the technical details of horseracing. Special thanks to Dr Douglas Wilson of the Holistic Veterinary Clinic for being so very generous with his time in providing detailed information around the injury and recovery of my fictitious racehorse. Please go to www.holisticvetonline.com to learn more about Dr Wilson’s fantastic work. Any errors or inaccuracies are my own or due to taking creative liberties.

I was privileged to have the assistance of a fantastic editor – the very talented Lachlan Jobbins. Thank you for your dedication, attention to detail, and for being so easy to work with.

Thanks to Haylee Kerans for seeing the potential in my manuscript and for making my dream a reality, and to everyone else at Harlequin that I haven’t met but who had a hand in turning my loose pages into such a lovely book.

In memory of my father, Tony McCallum, to whom I owe my courage and tenacity.

Prologue

Claire woke with a jolt and noticed blue and red lights flickering behind the curtains. She checked the time and realised it was after one o’clock. Keith’s side of the bed was still empty.

The doorbell chimed. Alarm gripped her as she dragged her pink towelling dressing gown over her pyjamas. She pounded down the hall, heart racing as scenarios filled her head. It had to be urgent to warrant flashing lights – a break-in, an accident, perhaps a missing child. The poor people; she’d help any way she could.

Claire’s heart ached for those who had to deliver the bad news. Beginnings of conversations ran through her mind as she unlocked the main door.

The female half of the uniformed couple spoke.

‘Claire Louise McIntyre?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m Senior Constable Penny Irving. This is Constable Jason Braxton. Can we come in please?’

Claire swallowed and felt the blood drain from her face as she nodded, unlocked the screen door and stepped aside. She was dazed, rooted to the floor.

The trio stood awkwardly in the passage, its checked black and white tiles suddenly harsh and busy. The young constable gently closed the heavy wooden door, sending a loud echo reverberating through the hall. Claire pulled the collar of her robe tighter. She knew she should ask what they wanted, why they were there, but also knew she didn’t want to know.

The fog of Claire’s mind lifted a little as the policewoman suggested they sit. Her arm moved as if unconnected to her and she motioned toward the lounge. The trio walked single file with Claire in between. If they were trying to offer comfort, it wasn’t working. Instead she felt like a criminal being prevented from escaping.

Seated, the spacious loungeroom felt a third the size. The policewoman sat next to her, gently wringing her hands in her lap. The male officer remained standing, slightly off to the side, shifting his weight.

‘Jason, perhaps you could make us some tea, with plenty of sugar,’ the policewoman whispered. Silently, the uniformed man moved away. Claire might have laughed if they weren’t here doing this in her house. Didn’t that only happen on The Bill?

After a few moments the policewoman took a slightly deeper breath, looked up at Claire and said, ‘I’m afraid I have some terrible news. There’s been an accident – a car accident. I’m afraid there was nothing the paramedics could do. Keith...’

Claire frowned, not comprehending when she heard his name. Unable to focus, she suddenly wished she was a child who could go to her room and let the adults deal with this. Whatever this was, it was bad.

Her head was fuzzy again. She couldn’t grasp exactly what was happening. There had been an accident. Someone had run a red light. Well it wouldn’t have been Keith, that’s for sure. He’s such a careful driver.

‘I’m really sorry. They did everything they could.’

Claire nodded, and looked up as a mug of steaming tea appeared in front of her. She accepted it with two shaking hands and drew it close to her chest. Her bottom lip quivered and tears began to spill down her cheeks.

Looking down into the milky liquid she realised that nothing would be the same again – her life had changed forever.

Chapter One

Claire rolled onto her stomach and peered at the clock radio on what had been Keith’s bedside table. She’d woken early, before dawn, and had managed to doze off again. Now she was surprised to find it was after ten. Anyway, it was Sunday: she’d laze about till lunchtime if she wanted.

Even after four months she still found herself aching for Keith’s embrace, his sweet musky scent and…

Snippets of dreams came back to her. In one they’d showered together and then made love in the lounge, on the plush rug in front of the gas log fire. It had been beautiful: him tender, giving; she responding, clinging to him.

She’d woken hot and sweating, despite it being chilly outside, instantly feeling embarrassed at her arousal. But it hadn’t been Keith’s face at all, had it? No, the face had been blank. Who had it been? She shook her head, trying hard to remember. After a few moments she gave up.

In another dream he’d been lying beside her saying he loved her, that it was okay to move on, that it wouldn’t mean she loved him any less. ‘I know you have needs,’ he’d said with a wink, before drifting from her slumbering memory.

That had definitely been Keith. His face now came to her clearly: the slightly crooked, cheeky grin; the fringe he insisted on keeping too long to cover the scar above his left eye – apparently the result of a silly, drunken escapade at university. She’d never heard the full story – he’d always managed to sidestep her question with a well-timed hug. Now she’d never know. And she’d never have another of his comforting, bear-like hugs.

A tear escaped and her throat caught on the forming lump. She’d give her life for just one more hug with Keith. Would she ever find anything so comfortable again? Did she even want to look?

‘Oh Keith,’ she whispered. If only she’d shown him more affection and not taken their contentment so much for granted.

Claire roughly wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, pushed aside her mop of unruly hair, and sat up.

Claire had a quick shower and stood – towel wrapped around her – studying her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Did her hairstyle make her features appear hard? For years she’d been talking about getting her hair cut like Jennifer Aniston’s – chipped into so that it wasn’t so full down the back and sides – but had never been brave enough to go through with it. She’d always kept it plain, practical – straight across the bottom and in a ponytail to keep it away from her face. It was the way Keith had liked it. She’d never dyed it either – always stuck with her natural medium-brown shade. Bernadette and her hairdresser had both given up trying to talk her around years ago.

Claire held her hair away from her face and turned left and right, examining the effect in the mirror. Did she dare? Keith was no longer there to complain. She let it down again. Bernie was right: short didn’t suit her. Anyway, she’d feel too self-conscious. But she could definitely do with less bulk around her face. She dragged her brush through her hair a couple of times and put it into a ponytail.

She ran her electric toothbrush around her mouth while roaming the bedroom – pulling up the quilt and straightening the pillows. She had her underwear drawer open, about to pull out socks, knickers and bra when her toothbrush buzzed, signalling her two minutes was up. She turned it off, stood it on the edge of the vanity beside Keith’s, and rinsed her mouth. Then she added a thin layer of foundation to her face and neck with her fingers, swept the mascara brush once across each set of lashes, added two layers of deep rose pink ‘Goddess’ lipstick, blotted with toilet paper and returned to the bedroom to get dressed.

Claire McIntyre was conservative through and through. Her uniform rarely varied: navy or grey skirt suit cut just below the knee for work; jeans or tailored pants and shirt or knit for weekends. Evening wear was a lolly pink wrap over a little black dress – if size twelve was still considered little. It ended four inches above the knee and showed just the right amount of décolletage to straddle the fine line between tarty and prudish. Despite the current trend for bare, bottle-tanned legs and towering stilettos, Claire insisted on sheer, smoky-coloured pantyhose and sensible plain black shoes with ample room for her toes.

Even her career was conservative. Yes, she’d had different roles, but she’d been with the same company for twelve years when the done thing was to move on every few. But she was happy enough; why go through the stress of looking for something else, just so your CV would show you were progressive? Anyway, there were leave entitlements to think of. Claire wasn’t exactly thrilled with her job but enjoyed the security of a regular paycheque.

She’d joined the national advertising firm Rockford and Associates as a marketing graduate. Hard work and long hours had seen her move into a senior role in account management. Three years ago she’d been promoted to Client Relationship Manager for one of the firm’s largest clients, AHG Recruitment.

Since losing Keith, she had been all the more grateful for the familiarity of her open-plan cubicle and routine tasks: a welcome – if mundane – source of stability in her life.

But now Claire felt something within her stirring: a strange kind of yearning, but for what? It wasn’t Keith, it wasn’t a dull sad ache, this was different – more a restlessness.

She focussed on her hair again. Knowing her luck, the Aniston look was now as fashionable as the mullet. Maybe her hairdresser had better ideas – could she offer free rein? Claire felt excited at the prospect, even a little empowered. Yes, she’d definitely phone for an appointment.

Bernadette was right: if grief was like a brick wall, each step towards recovery was the removal of a brick, then a layer. Eventually she’d be able to step over the top and be free. Then she’d look back at the good times without tears, and remember the not-so-good times with detachment. But it took time. The trick was to allow the bricks to come away when the mortar loosened – and not to stop their progress with a slap of concrete.

Of course, she wouldn’t cut her hair without a second opinion from her best friend. She’d mention it when they next spoke.

Claire and Bernie had known each other since Pony Club and primary school. They’d even studied the same course at university and then started their first jobs at the same company – but in different departments. Twelve months in, Bernadette had been fired for rejecting her boss’s advances with a swift slap across his face. Claire had considered protesting by leaving with her, but only for a second; she didn’t have the courage to quit without the security of another job to go to. Thankfully Bernie had understood.

The episode had sent Claire into a spin of worrying about what her friend would do, but Bernadette had seen it as a sign she was ready to pursue her dream: opening a nursery specialising in old-fashioned plants, design and accessories. Apparently the Adelaide Hills area was full of people wanting old English-style gardens – God only knew why with the water restrictions.

Regardless, and despite only being in her early twenties, Bernadette had built a successful business on box hedges, white gravel and distressed wrought-iron outdoor furniture.

Claire regularly shook her head in wonder and sometimes felt a twinge – but of what she wasn’t sure. Not jealousy; she would never wish her friend anything but all the very best. Seeing Bernadette chasing her dream made her wonder about her own choices. Still, Claire was no different to about ninety-five percent of the population.

Besides, there was no way she’d want to deal with the public every day. She’d spent a lot of time at the nursery, occasionally even manning the till. One virtue Claire McIntyre did not possess was patience, and tolerance with other people’s indecision was in pretty short supply as well. She would have strangled someone by now if she was Bernadette, and couldn’t believe Bernie hadn’t.

Bernadette had always been the quintessential redhead. Her uncontrollable curls stood out like a warning, something Claire realised – too late – on the day they met.

It was their first Pony Club rally and they were both eleven. Bernie was on a small cranky grey pony, Claire on a larger bay. Claire had accidently got too close to Bernie’s pony and it had darted sideways in fright, almost causing Bernie to fall off. Bernie shouted so loudly that Claire’s mother heard the commotion. Grace McIntyre stormed across the arena to tell her daughter off. Mortified, Claire turned her tomato-red face – first to the instructor and then to Bernie – and said she was sorry.

Bernie had smirked, tossing her head in the air before moving her pony away. Claire decided she didn’t like this Bernadette girl very much. But later, Bernie had come up to her at the tap while she was filling her water bucket and said it wasn’t fair how much Claire’s mother had overreacted. They’d been firm friends ever since.

Bernie used to fly off the handle with the slightest provocation. Once she got started, she wouldn’t unclamp her teeth from an argument, even if she knew she was wrong. It was probably the reason she was still single and most definitely why corporate life hadn’t been for her. You just couldn’t scream at your boss that he was a dickhead one day and ask for a raise the next. And slapping him was a definite no no.

But she had mellowed since finding her ‘place in the cosmos’, as she called it. Now her fire was being fuelled with passion, and she was a lot calmer.

Claire bit her bottom lip. No, when it came to Bernadette, if she was envious, it was of her state of mind. Bernie glowed with contentment and enthusiasm whenever she spoke – and not just about the business. Even late deliveries weren’t enough to unsettle her. She’d just shrug and say that they’d turn up when they were ready. According to Bernie, everything would work out in the end. And for her it usually did.

For the thousandth time, Claire wondered at the reasoning behind Keith being taken from her, and then dismissed the thoughts as ridiculous. There was no reason. He’d had a tragic accident and she just had to get over it. And what about her father’s accident, why had that happened?

Whatever the reasons, nothing could alter the fact that she was having the worst year possible. Things always happened in threes: she and Bernadette had pointed out so many instances before. Since Keith’s death and Jack’s accident, it had become a taboo subject. Claire wondered what else she was to be faced with. The doctors had assured her Jack’s injuries weren’t life-threatening – he’d come out of his coma when he was ready. It was just a matter of time. But how much time? It had already been a month.

Claire was relieved she hadn’t been the one to find Jack crumpled in a silent heap on the ground. Thank goodness neighbours Bill and Daphne Markson had thought to invite him over for an early dinner – luckier still they had thought to drop in on their way back from town instead of phoning. She knew she should spend more time with her father. She had visited a lot in the months after her mother’s death five years ago, but gradually the pace of work and social life in the city had engulfed her again. In the last year, she was lucky to see him every three weeks.

Until the accident, of course. She was now spending a couple of hours each day after work sitting with him – time she didn’t really have to spare. She felt guilty every time she turned up because invariably Bill and Daphne were already there – Bill reading the paper and Daphne knitting. It was a jumper for Jack, made from chunky homespun natural grey lamb’s wool.

Claire tried to tell herself it was different for them because they were retired, but felt guilty all over again when she remembered that they’d driven nearly forty minutes to be there, not ten like she had. But they didn’t have an inbox full of six hundred emails waiting to be read and responded to. Claire had tried to sit and do nothing, but on the third day had given up and started bringing her laptop to make better use of the time. She didn’t think you were allowed to use electronic equipment in hospitals, but no one had told her off yet.

Claire checked her watch – visiting hours at the hospital were starting soon. She ran down the stairs, grabbed her laptop bag from the kitchen bench and her keys from the bowl on the hall table. Having punched the code into the security system, she deadlocked the door and pulled it shut behind her.

Claire sat in the vinyl chair beside her father’s hospital bed, looking up from her laptop to study his features. Thank God he hadn’t needed to be hooked up to a ventilator. She couldn’t imagine the agony of deciding when and if to turn it off.

Lying there under the pale blue cotton blanket, he looked peaceful, as though he was just sleeping. Maybe the nurses were right: his body needed the rest and time to heal. When it was ready he’d just wake up.

A week or so ago, one of the nurses had said she thought he needed to be given a reason to wake up. But Claire had nothing to offer. She couldn’t chatter with excitement about her life with Keith. There was now no chance of her bringing news she was pregnant with his first grandchild. And the only other important thing in her life – her job – had never interested him much anyway. And it wasn’t like she could tell him what she’d done with the horses.

She hadn’t really had a choice. Bill and Daphne had offered to look after them rather than see them got rid of. But they weren’t horse people, and there was a lot more to it than just chucking a bale of hay over the fence every few days. Bernie had offered, but Jack McIntyre hated the idea of being a burden as much as Claire did. And she sure as hell couldn’t be driving up there every day.

It really had been the only thing to do. She was certain her father would have agreed. So why did she feel so guilty? And why couldn’t she get it off her chest, even if she wasn’t totally convinced he could hear her?

She felt like a complete idiot – and totally self-conscious doing it – but the nurses were adamant that he could hear everything she said, so while she tapped away on her keyboard she would chatter about the mundane details of her weekend, and about Bernie if she’d caught up with her. Jack McIntyre had had a soft spot for her friend since she’d first visited the farm when they were teenagers. Back then Jack had loved a good debate, no matter what the topic, and didn’t care if he lost, which he usually did when it came to the stubborn Bernadette. They’d both mellowed since then, but Bernie and Jack still enjoyed the occasional good-natured verbal tussle.

Sometimes Claire felt her friend was more the kind of daughter he wanted – laid back and earthy. Bernadette at least had a job he understood, even if he didn’t see why people would pay so much for old junk to stick in their gardens. In fact, Bernadette had done very well from the bits of ‘old junk’ he’d given her.

Claire put her hand over her father’s limp, weathered one and squeezed. She was disappointed, but not surprised, to receive no reaction. She took a deep breath. It was so hard to hold a one-way conversation about nothing in particular.

Feeling rejuvenated at home after a Radox bath and quick bowl of pasta, Claire got out her laptop again. She’d been putting it off for a few weeks, but now put ‘coma’ into the search engine.

She’d heard lots of amazing stories relating to coma patients. Apparently there was a guy in the United States who had woken up after twenty years with no idea there was such a thing as email or the internet. Having never been in the shoes of a desperate loved one, she’d always been a little sceptical. Now she was beginning to understand the lengths people went to.

She read about Dr Fred Burrows’ controversial Stimulation Therapy, where family members undertook a routine of controlled auditory, visual and physical stimulation to encourage the patient to wake up. Apparently some read the newspaper aloud every day, some sang, some had a positive mantra they said over and over. It was fascinating, and it made sense, but there was no way she had the time that was needed – up to six hours a day.

Claire felt as though she’d done nothing constructive so far except talk to Jack. She’d paid the odd bill and made sure the house was secure. Of course, she’d got rid of the horses, but that didn’t really count, did it? She was beginning to think she’d been too hasty – maybe she should have at least waited a few weeks to prove to everyone it was the only workable solution. She vowed to make more of an effort trying to get Jack better.

The doctor couldn’t tell her whether the kick from the horse had caused the stroke or if the stroke had made him fall under the horse’s hooves. Though it didn’t actually matter. From what she read, what mattered was getting him awake and out of bed. Apparently four weeks was okay, but much longer and the patient risked contracting pneumonia – the biggest killer of non-vegetative coma patients. It had already been a month. Lucky he was a tough old nut and there was so far no sign of any other problems.

Claire shut down the computer. She needed something Jack would see as worth summoning every ounce of strength to wake up for. But what? There were no home fires burning, no warm bed and wife to return to. His beloved horses had been sold off and he’d recently lost his son-in-law – and with him the chance of grandchildren.

He’d adored Keith – had often referred to him as the son he’d never had. But the loss of the prospect of grandchildren had hurt almost as much as the loss of his ‘son’ and best mate. Claire tried not to let herself think about the fact that she’d as good as forgotten to have children.

Chapter Two

The next day Claire was pleased to be back at her desk where she could focus on her projects and paperwork and the upcoming Melbourne Cup. It was a struggle to get out of bed and into the shower in the mornings, but she always felt better when she’d escaped the house and its silent, haunting memories of Keith.

Obsessively organised and habitual, Claire started every day with a list. Her job at Rockford was to deliver advertising projects. Some of her larger clients had campaigns covering all media – television, radio and print – so she had a lot to keep track of: ensuring tight deadlines were met, pre-empting any delays, and managing everyone’s expectations. It was a juggling act that saw much of her time on the phone with creative and graphics staff, and clients’ personal assistants. It was a sign of a very, very bad day when the CEO of a client actually called her. The only way she could keep track of everything was with several lists.

Luckily, a lot of projects had been completed in the last few weeks. There was always a short lull while the campaigns were running, then afterwards when their success was being analysed. And then the chaos would start all over. Before that she would make the most of the peace and quiet.

This morning, while she waited for her computer to boot up, she wrote ‘Client Phone Calls’ and twice underlined the heading at the top of her company-issued A4 pad. Below she added the names of her top five clients. It was no coincidence that they all occupied corporate boxes at the Melbourne Cup. She’d already received a couple of invites, but she wanted to make sure she’d exhausted all options before making her decision.

Years ago, Keith had teased her for only staying in her job for the Cup. She’d taken offence at the suggestion she would be so shallow and calculating, and had taken a long time to realise he’d meant it not as a criticism but mere observation.

Anyway, there had to be perks – other than lots of pay that attracted lots of tax.

It wasn’t that Claire didn’t enjoy her job – aspects of it, anyway – but she certainly liked the personal recognition such invites implied.

The first time Keith had accompanied her he’d been blown away by the opulence, finally admitting through a mouthful of lobster that he could see why she spent a whole year waiting for this day.

Rather than being insecure, he’d enjoyed being her handbag for the day – especially being free to ogle all the beautiful tanned, touched-up and terrific women strutting about like the fillies out on the track. Later that night, when they were tucked up in their hotel’s five-star sheets, Claire had teased him that it was lucky he wasn’t expected to make intelligent conversation and represent a business.

Claire smiled sadly at the memory – this would be her first Cup without him in eight years. This time, when the horses thundered past the mirrored finish line and the nation finally let its breath go, the tears that escaped her eyes would be different. Nothing was the same any more. That was what she was having so much trouble with – the little things. She even missed his habit of leaving his shoes in the lounge room, having kicked them off while settling into the couch.

But Keith would want her to go, wouldn’t he?

She felt guilty even thinking about leaving Jack – even if he was recovering at home by then. But what if he was still in hospital? How could she get all dressed up, sip free champagne, be merry? What would he want her to do? That was an easy one. Jack McIntyre was one of the most humble, gracious men on the planet. Not only would he urge her to go, he’d drive her to the airport himself if he could, and offer tips the whole way.

Claire was still lost in her thoughts when Derek Anderson – her boss – appeared beside her.

‘Morning Claire. I like the new haircut – it suits you.’

‘Hi Derek. Thanks,’ she said, blushing slightly and putting a hand to her head. She’d completely forgotten that no one had seen her new look. Now she felt self-conscious. He looked like he’d had a recent haircut as well, but she wasn’t about to say anything. His full head of thick, mid-brown hair, dusted with grey, was shorter on the sides and standing up a little more on top than usual.

‘Good weekend?’

‘Yes, thank you, and you?’

‘Good, thanks. My young colt had his first run at Morphettville. Thought we might have to cull him there for a while, difficult sod. My trainer thinks he’s not worth the trouble, but something tells me he might do all right once we iron out the kinks. He’d better – he’s cost me an arm and a leg.’

‘Hmm.’ Claire was a little unsettled by the warmth in his blue-grey eyes.

‘Owning racehorses outright is an expensive hobby, but a man’s gotta have one, right? Maybe I should sell some shares, set up a syndicate to spread the load. What do you think?’

‘Sounds good, Derek.’ The last thing Claire wanted to hear about was racing, especially Derek’s success – he was, after all, a rival to Jack. ‘Was there something you wanted?’

‘How’s your dad doing?’

‘Same, but thanks for asking.’

Derek seemed uneasy perched on the corner of her desk. He hadn’t casually picked up any of her items and wasn’t swinging his leg like he usually did.

‘Was there something else, Derek? I have a heap of calls to make and a report due at twelve.’

‘Well, um, I…’ Derek fumbled with the thick knot of his red and gold striped tie.

‘Yes?’

‘I was thinking it might be a good time to take some of that leave you’re sitting on, since all those campaigns have been wrapped up. You know, spend a bit more time with Jack. Get your head around everything.’

‘Thanks, but I’m fine, Derek.’

‘Just thought a month or so would be good for you.’

Claire’s hackles rose. She eyed Derek coldly, wondering if it was her imagination, or if he really was having trouble looking her in the eye.

‘Are you implying my work is not up to scratch? If so, don’t be so gutless as to come in here suggesting time off…’

Derek held up his hands in surrender. ‘Your work’s fine, Claire, as always. I just don’t want you regretting your choices later. Family is important; don’t use work as an excuse not to face certain things.’

Claire was almost touched by his words, but couldn’t shake the feeling there was something else going on. He was definitely avoiding looking at her.

‘I appreciate your concern, Derek, but I’ve got everything under control.’

‘All right, I can’t force you to do anything. Just remember, Claire, no one is indispensable. If any one of us got hit by a bus, this place would maybe skip a beat, but the powers that be wouldn’t waste any time filling the role and getting things back on track.’

‘Jeez, thanks, Derek. Nice to know how valued we are. Now if there is nothing else…’

‘Well, there was just one other thing – sort of more of a personal nature.’

Claire’s breath caught.

‘That colt, the one Jack registered as Paycheque…’

‘Yes?’ Her ears pricked up. She straightened in her chair.

‘Well, I’m not sure how to tell you this…’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve got him,’ Claire groaned.

‘No. Personally I don’t think much of him – too small. But that doesn’t excuse what I saw.’

‘What? What did you see?’

‘I probably shouldn’t say anything.’

‘So why are you?’

‘I honestly don’t know – it’s really none of my business.’

‘Derek, just tell me. I don’t have time for games.’

‘Al Jacobs had him at the…’

‘What? Bill Parsons took him. Dad hates how Al treats his horses. Was he all right? Not that there’s anything I can do.’

‘Skinny, scared shitless.’

‘He wasn’t racing, was he?’

‘Afraid so. Well, they tried.’

‘But he’s not ready – Dad said he needed another six months at least.’ Claire didn’t want to ask the obvious, but had gone too far not to. ‘So I guess he didn’t do so well?’

‘No, wouldn’t have a bar of the barriers, poor little thing.’

‘Oh God. After all the work Dad put in.’

‘I know, sorry to have to tell you.’ Derek shrugged. ‘Just thought you should know. I must be going soft.’

‘Anything else I should know?’

‘Al did mention getting rid of him, but I’m sure it was just his temper talking. You know how hot under the collar he gets.’

‘Well, it’s a pity, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘You could take that time off – get him back. I’ve heard you could have been a half-decent trainer if you’d stuck to it.’

‘Jeez Derek, you are going soft. But seriously, I don’t think Dad would want me interfering.’ Claire’s desk phone started ringing.

‘Well if you change your mind,’ Derek said, and left with a wave of his hand.

Claire stared after him for a second before picking up the phone.

Thoughts of Paycheque niggled at Claire all day. She saw his face in her mind every time she picked up the phone, every time she put it down, while she checked her emails, dealt with her in-tray, and added or scrubbed something from her to do list.

She’d sold all four of Jack’s horses. So why was only Paycheque plaguing her? Storm had much more going for him than Paycheque did – he was the right size for a start. God, she really shouldn’t have sold them. How would Jack react? He’d be angry, sad and disappointed. Of course he would. She’d known that and gone ahead anyway. Why? Because I didn’t have a choice, she told herself forcefully and got up to make a cup of tea. It was three o’clock and she was sick of the distraction.

But Paycheque was there again while she filled the kettle, turned it on, and put a tea bag in her mug. The small bay colt with the unusual enquiring tilt to his head, large expressive eyes, and level-headed willingness beyond his age. She thought about what Derek had said. Horses refusing to go into barriers was just part of racing. If they cracked under the pressure, their career was over. Just like any other elite athlete. Only the best horses were worth investing in. And the others… She hated to think about it. But it really was a part of life.

Paycheque was still on her mind when she got back to her desk. Jack had said over and over that he wasn’t ready to race. He shouldn’t even have been there, shouldn’t have been given the chance to fail. But Jack had also said he’d showed the most promise of any of his horses over the years. They were just words, weren’t they? Jack had always thought big – bigger than he should, if Claire was being honest. But now that she thought about it, Claire didn’t remember him being so vehement about a horse’s potential, or so attached to one. Paycheque hadn’t been just one of many, he’d held a really special place in Jack’s heart. Shit, what had she done? She rubbed a hand across her face.

Maybe it was part of some sick plan of Derek’s, some sort of reverse psychology. It could be anything with Derek, you just never knew. Or maybe it was even worse than he’d let on – he hadn’t wanted to completely lose his tough guy, racehorses-are-just-a-means-for-making-money attitude and was really concerned. If that was true, after what he’d seen in his time at the track and behind the scenes, it meant things were looking really bad for the little horse. But there was nothing she could do now, was there?

No, she’d kept things together through losing Keith and Jack’s illness; now was definitely not the time to go all soft. She had to keep focussed. It was certainly not the time to go gallivanting off on some ridiculous crusade to rescue a racehorse who, for all she knew, had spat the dummy, turned dangerous and was no longer any good. Hell, he’d probably be a dud anyway – Jack had had enough of them over the years. She really had to put Paycheque out of her mind.

Chapter Three

Four days later, Bernadette and Claire were curled up on Bernadette’s three-seater lounge with glasses of wine and an uncorked bottle on the coffee table in front of them.

‘So,’ Bernie said. ‘Anything in particular you want to do this weekend?’

‘Well I do have a bit of work I need to get done.’

‘All work and no play – you know what they say.’

‘You’ll be at the shop all morning tomorrow.’

‘Ah yes, but that’s hardly work – I love it.’

‘Well I could say the same, I…’

‘Really?’ Bernadette demanded, staring hard at her.

‘Actually, no.’ Claire sighed wearily. ‘But it’s something I need to get done.’

‘I rest my case.’ Bernadette downed the rest of her wine and reached for the bottle.

‘So that’s tomorrow morning covered. What about afterwards?’

‘Well…’ Claire fidgeted with the stem of her glass.

‘Yes?’

‘I think it’s time I faced going out to the farm.’

‘If you’re sure you’re ready.’

‘I don’t even understand what I’m so afraid of.’

‘That’s the thing about fear – it isn’t always rational. So what’s the latest with Jack?’

‘No change. Stubborn old bugger.’ Claire smiled weakly.

‘Well I think he’ll be happy you’re going out to the farm.’

‘Bernadette?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you think people in a coma can hear what’s going on around them?’

‘Yes, I do. Why?’

‘I’d hate him feeling he’s a burden.’

‘Well I don’t think he’d want you beating yourself up on his account.’

‘I just feel so helpless. There’s nothing I can do to help him.’

‘Except get on with life – make the best of things.’

‘I am getting on with life.’

‘You think so, huh?’

‘What? I’ve got a good job, roof over my head – I’m not exactly a burden on society.’

‘But Claire, are you happy all alone in that big house?’

‘Uh-oh, I can feel a lecture coming on. Or worse – a blind date.’

‘Damn, why didn’t I think of that? Seriously though, Claire, you do need to get out more. What about that guy Derek – from the office?’

‘Derek? Bernie, he’s my boss!’

‘I thought he was nice at that party you invited me to.’

‘Well you’re welcome to him. Anyway, what would you know, you were pissed, you had your beer goggles on girly.’

‘I wasn’t that bad.’

‘Ah, how quickly we forget. Do the words “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.

After banging in the last of the nails, Claire sat back with a sense of pride that she’d been able to do something practical for her father. She’d tell him tomorrow evening. She put her chin on her bent knees and scanned the property stretching out before her.

It seemed a million miles from the responsibilities of a mortgage, a stressful job, and her grief. She’d done this often as a child: hidden herself away from it all in her own style of meditation. Now she felt so at peace she was annoyed she’d let herself grow up and get caught up in the web of city life. But everything was a compromise; a quiet farm meant being at the mercy of the seasons and other uncontrollable forces. No, there was no way she could ever live this way again.

Sitting back at Bernadette’s kitchen table, Claire looked up from her laptop as her friend made a loud bustling entrance, laden with over-flowing calico shopping bags.

‘So sorry I’m late. Old Mrs Jericho couldn’t make up her mind between the Edwardian or Victorian settings.’

‘No worries.’

‘I’m starving. Let’s eat, then get you over to the farm before you chicken out.’ Bernadette tipped a pile of butcher’s paper-wrapped parcels and large loaf of crusty bread onto the table.

‘I’ve already been,’ Claire said quietly.

Bernadette stopped with the calico bag still aloft. ‘Oh,’ she said.

Claire shrugged. ‘Yeah, it just felt right.’

Bernadette got out plates and cutlery and brought them to the table.

‘Was it okay?’ Bernadette asked. They’d spent so many hours this year with arms wrapped around each other, Claire sobbing, Bernadette fighting back tears of sympathy. She’d really hoped those clouds were behind them.

‘No. Depressing.’ Claire laughed, trying to play her mood down.

‘I knew it would be – that’s why I didn’t want you going alone.’ Bernadette thought Claire had been a little hasty in getting rid of the horses, like she’d been waiting for the opportunity. She’d tried to talk her out of it, had even offered to feed them and keep an eye on them herself. But Claire had been adamant.

‘It was like those ghost towns you read about – void of life. There was even iron flapping in the wind.’

‘Oh Claire.’ Bernadette moved to put her arms around her best friend, but Claire waved her away.

‘Don’t. I’ll become a basket case.’ Claire laughed tightly.

‘Focus on the positives – he’s going to pull through. Remember, where there’s life there’s hope.’

Unlike with Keith, who was gone forever. The unspoken words hung between them. Bernadette really felt for Claire – the poor thing had had one hell of a year.

Even though Bernadette had no evidence, she wondered if the universe was conspiring to get Claire back up into the Adelaide Hills. Maybe it was just selfishness, wishful thinking on her part. Claire’s husband had been cruelly taken – that certainly wouldn’t do anything to bring her back. Instead, it had made her focus more on her career in order to outrun the memories. And Jack’s accident and confinement to hospital just served to drive her further into the safety of the city’s hustle and bustle.

She looked up suddenly at hearing Claire’s voice, and wondered how long she’d been lost in her musing.

‘Sorry?’

‘You were miles away. I was just saying I put a couple of nails in some loose iron on the stables.’

‘Bit dangerous to do on your own, don’t you think?’

‘Probably, but it felt good. You know, actually doing something for Dad. For the briefest moment everything was back to normal – before…’

‘Did you check inside the house?’

‘No. I know I should have, but I just couldn’t.’

‘There’s nothing you should or shouldn’t do, Claire. You do it when it feels right and don’t when it doesn’t. There are no rules.’

‘God I wish I could be like you – not a worry in the world.’

‘Hey, I’ve got plenty I could worry about. I just choose to change what I can and ignore what I can’t. And it’s taken a lot of practice. Remember, I wasn’t always like this.’

Claire remembered all right. Remembered Bernadette worrying constantly about exam results and subject choices for the best career, while she’d just gone along following the subjects and teachers she liked without giving the future much thought. She’d almost forgotten what a stress-head her best friend had been: the time the ambulance had been called when she’d had a panic attack during the year eleven maths exam; the masses of hives that erupted before opening her HSC results.

Now she thought about it, Claire realised it was bizarre how things had changed – not that she could be called a worrywart, she decided firmly.

Chapter Four

At work, Claire got herself into a routine blur where she managed to wade through her mass of emails and remove a number of items from her long to do list. She was feeling a little better – less snowed under and more optimistic regarding Jack’s recovery.

She’d been pinching him hard on the arm every so often in the days since reading about Dr Burrows’ Stimulation Therapy. She hated doing it and felt terribly guilty afterwards, but on Sunday night she’d got a reaction. It was only a slight change of expression, but it showed a response to pain nonetheless. She was ecstatic and a little reluctant to leave when the nurse told her visiting hours were over.

The next morning Claire went to the office with a slightly lighter step. At her desk, she checked her watch. Derek would be in any second. She looked forward to their ritual Monday morning chats, and especially enjoyed the news from inside the racing fraternity.

She smiled as Derek assumed his customary perch on the edge of her desk.

‘How was Murray Bridge?’ she asked.

‘A couple of winners, couple of losers, you know how it is.’

‘Yeah.’

There was an awkward moment when no one spoke. Claire added a note to the bottom of her list.

‘Any change with Jack?’

‘Actually, there was a little,’ she said, beaming up at him.

‘I take it by your good mood it was a change for the good.’

Claire gave Derek a brief rundown of Dr Burrows’ theory before telling him how she’d pinched her father and got a small reaction.

‘That’s great. Want to reconsider taking some leave to spend more time with Jack?’

‘No thanks, I’m fine – told you that last week.’

‘But if what this Dr Burrows says…’

She gave a tight laugh and waggled a finger at him. ‘Anyone would think you were trying to get rid of me.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Claire thought he looked embarrassed, caught out, but what she heard next nearly caused her to topple off her chair.

‘As you know, I’m off from this Wednesday to next Thursday. I’d like you to come with me – just for a few days,’ he blurted.

‘What?!’ she cried, blushing furiously. But Derek was holding up a silencing hand, an unreadable expression on his face.

‘Purely platonic, Claire – separate rooms and all that.’

She was slightly miffed at his apparent lack of interest. Not that she was interested in him. But a little flattery never went astray. Responding to her perplexed expression, Derek began to explain.

‘It’s just that I really would value your expertise…’

Oh God, Claire thought, he wants me to give him womanly advice, cast an eye over a potential lady friend or something. Well no way.

‘…on a couple of horses I’m having some issues with. I know you’ve got a good eye and thought if you saw them actually racing you’d have more of an idea. I’m heading off to a couple of race meetings in country Victoria.’

It wasn’t the sort of flattery Claire was hoping for, but it would do, she decided. Though of course, it was totally out of the question.

‘I’m really sorry, Derek, but I can’t. I’ve got mountains of work,’ she lied, casting her arm across an almost empty pile of document trays. She wasn’t about to admit it to her boss, but she was spending an awful lot of time trying to sort out her corporate box invite for the Melbourne Cup. Apart from that, it would be totally disloyal. Derek was a rival owner to Jack. Even if he did have his own trainer, there was no way she was about to impart her or her father’s secrets.

‘Please, Claire. You need a break and I need some expert advice.’

‘Expert!’ Claire snorted. ‘I’m a bloody Client Relationship Manager – I deal with people, remember. What about that hotshot team you’re always on about?’ Claire couldn’t resist the dig – she’d put up with his subtle rivalry for long enough.

‘They’re not naturals like you. They don’t understand what goes on in a horse’s head the way you do.’

‘Look Derek, I’m flattered. I really am. But not only do I have a lot of work here, but I have Dad to think of.’ There was no way she could leave him for a week, especially now she could see some progress. According to Dr Burrows, persistence was the key.

Derek sighed deeply, clearly exasperated. ‘Come on, Claire. You and I both know he won’t miss you – he’s in a coma.’

Claire was so struck by the callousness that she could only stare back with an open mouth.

‘Shit, I’m so sorry,’ Derek stammered. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just I…’

‘No, you shouldn’t,’ Claire snapped. ‘Now please go, I’ve got work to do,’ she growled, and willed herself to stay angry. Her mood only had to waver just a little and the tears began to show – usually at the most inappropriate of moments. The last thing she needed was a ‘there, there’ and the offer of a shoulder and a handkerchief.

And there she was thinking the sod had a soft side. ‘Pah, bastard,’ she scoffed, as she returned to her to do list.

But her attention kept going back to Derek. Something didn’t feel right. Of course he was just trying to get her in the sack. But why couldn’t he just ask her out for dinner? Or better still, a movie, so they wouldn’t have to talk.

And what was he doing going on leave at such short notice, anyway? He’d said she knew, but unless she’d had a complete lapse at some point – which was entirely possible given the shitty year she was having – she hadn’t heard a thing about it. Not unheard of, but very unusual.

Had Derek really wanted her opinion on his horses? She wanted to believe it – she needed something positive in her life right now, but the odds weren’t really stacked in her favour. Last year, yes. Next year, maybe. So just why was he trying to get her to take time off?

Chapter Five

During the following week, Claire spent her spare time trying to rouse Jack from his slumber: with kind words, harsh words, and the news of her life in all its dreary black, white and grey detail. One night she’d even tried singing when she’d run out of things to say, but when the nurse came in – perhaps to look for the cat that was apparently being strangled – she took to humming.

Claire just didn’t want her father forgetting the sounds of everyday life. She’d have been quite happy if he woke just to say, ‘Would you just bloody shut up?’ Just as long as he woke up.

But she wished he’d get on with it; all the back and forth between work, home and hospital was very draining. A small part of her wondered whether Derek was right – if maybe she needed a break. Possibly. But an even bigger part was afraid that if she stopped, even paused for just a moment, she might never get going again.

On Thursday afternoon, Claire pulled into the hospital car park and turned the engine off. She laid her head on her arm across the steering wheel to try and gather the strength she needed to chatter to Jack for the next hour or so. She wondered if Bill and Daphne were inside. She hoped so.

A few weeks ago she’d started encouraging them to stay when she arrived, instead of scurrying off as had been their habit. It wasn’t fair for them to drive all that way and leave again if Claire happened to be visiting. And they weren’t expected to know when that was – Claire just came and went when she had the time.

Often now, the three of them would sit there together as if they were family. They sort of were – Claire had known them her whole life. Bill would sit beside Jack’s bed reading the paper to him and Claire would sit beside Daphne as she chattered about the goings-on at the CWA or the Hospital Auxiliary while knitting. Claire was amazed that Daphne could knit a jumper without a pattern. It wasn’t just plain either – it had all sorts of fancy stitches and twisted cables going down the front and back.

‘Only the sleeves to go now,’ Daphne had said the other day upon Claire’s enquiry. Claire had expected the constant click, click of knitting needles to be irritating – part of the reason she hadn’t insisted they stay early on. But instead, she found the sound strangely soothing.

Claire was startled to find a doctor, stethoscope strung around his shoulders, nose pressed against the window, peering at her full of concern. She must have dozed off in the fading sun. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, mouthed that she was okay, removed the keys and got out.

Her steps were leaden as she made her way across the car park. As she stared vaguely at the asphalt passing beneath her, she remembered the images that had flashed into her head while she’d dozed.

Paycheque had been screaming, rearing, lashing out, and was eventually manhandled to the ground by a small crowd of men. The images of the panic-stricken young horse – eyes alight with fear and hatred – refused to leave her.

Claire sat down in the visitors’ area for a few moments. Her heart was working overtime and her legs were having trouble carrying her. I’ll finish the week and then take the next two off, she decided. Almost instantly she was rewarded with enough strength to get up and make her way down the long, dark hall to Jack’s room. It was empty other than Jack in his bed.

Fifteen minutes later, Claire had run out of topics for conversation. Every time she’d drawn breath or changed tack, thoughts of Paycheque would start taunting her. If only Jack would wake up, she’d confess. He’d know what to do. Claire closed her eyes for a few moments to ponder how she would spend her time off – other than at the hospital. She’d sleep most of the first two days and then she’d visit Bernadette. And look for Paycheque? Maybe. Just to satisfy her curiosity and no more. It was really none of her business. Someone else owned him now.

‘Dad, I’ve decided to take a couple of weeks off. Just hang around, visit Bernie, catch up on some reading. I’ll be able to visit you during the day – you won’t be so tired then.’ Tired! What was she saying? He’s asleep, I’m the one who’s tired.

‘Actually Dad, my boss asked me to take a look at a couple of his horses. Derek Anderson – I think you’ll remember the name – he’s an owner, not a trainer. Anyway, he wanted me to go interstate with him to see them race. Of course I couldn’t go while you’re here like this. Not that I’d be much help anyhow – probably been out of the game too long. But I thought maybe I’d go to a couple of race meetings while I’m on leave – see if I’ve still got any sort of eye. Might be fun.’

Claire had her hand over Jack’s and was studying his face, as she usually did, for the slightest sign he was waking up. Even though she wasn’t really expecting him to – she’d been doing this too long to still be getting her hopes up at the end of every sentence – it had become a habit to stare at him while she spoke. And part of Claire thought that if anything would get him over the line it was talk of horses.

‘Apparently his youngsters are giving his trainer grief. Speaking of which, Paycheque was at Morphettville the other week. He was in a bit of trouble. Apparently Al Jacobs was really piss –’

Claire shut her mouth suddenly. She had become so used to rambling about her bland life that hadn’t realised what she was saying. Shit! Jack would take the news even worse than she had.

Claire bit her lip and looked away. And as she did she noticed the slightest ripple under her hand. She looked back. Were his fingers more bent than two seconds before? Despite looking at her father’s hand the whole time, Claire had no idea how it had been lying. Damn it, she should remember.

She rubbed a hand across her face. Why now, of all times, was her memory failing her? She again picked up her father’s weather-beaten hand and slid her smooth, soft one underneath.

And then there it was, the slightest contraction and scrape of his thick dry fingertips on the top of hers. Claire’s mouth dropped open and she stared. He had actually moved! She was not mistaken. She wanted to shout for joy, grab his shoulders, shake him fully awake. She knew it might just be the muscles readjusting themselves with no consciousness involved. The doctors and nurses had told her over and over.

Claire’s gaze travelled up Jack’s arm to his face. It was a little contorted, as though he were trying to change the position of his mouth. Was she imagining it? She leant forward and put a hand on his chest.

‘It’s okay, Dad, take your time.’ His eyeballs rolled under his closed lids, and it was then that Claire noticed two tears making their way from the inside corner of his eyes. They became a glistening line, caught in his lashes.

Claire’s heart leapt. Tears filled her own eyes and before she could reach for a tissue, there was a hot wet line streaking down her face.

‘Oh Dad,’ she croaked, and clutched his hand tightly. A couple of tears had sprung through his lashes and were slowly running down his cheeks as well. Her heart lurched again. Claire had never seen her father cry before and didn’t know how to react. Part of her wanted to be happy he was coming around, but another part didn’t want him to be anguished, didn’t want to be the cause of it either. She watched the two rows of tears in a slow motion race down his face, trying to will her own to stop, and for the lump to dissolve and let her speak. Though what was there to say?

Should she get a nurse? Probably. But she couldn’t leave him, she might miss something. And without her there, he might give up, slip back to sleep. If she pressed the buzzer they’d all rush in for an emergency, shatter the peace, maybe give him a fright and halt his progress.

Claire could hear the metallic twang of the electric clock above the door. The seconds seemed to pass as slowly as minutes. Should she get a doctor? What if he couldn’t breathe, choked, and then died? No, she was being ridiculous, paranoid. Get a grip, she told herself. He’s fine. He’s just been asleep and is waking up.

She squeezed his hand harder. Shit, was it too hard? His face was contorting. Was it pain? Claire watched, transfixed, as her father’s lips pursed and then turned in on themselves. He was trying to speak. She found her own mouth copying him. What was he trying to say? Claire wished she could do it for him. What?! She wanted to shout. Just spit it out! She rocked forward in her chair, urging him on, holding her breath. God, she was so frustrated. She wanted to slam her fist into a wall or something – do anything but watch this man who so recently was strong, smart, full of dry wit, and now couldn’t even get his tongue around one word. If only she knew what that word was. She checked his lips that now seemed fused in their pursed position, and tried to work through the possibilities in her head.

Suddenly his lips parted and there was a little pop as some air escaped. ‘P,’ he’d said. ‘P’. Claire frantically searched her memory, her mind whirling like the spinning wheels of a car bogged to the axles. Her mother’s name had been Grace, so that hadn’t been it. Claire couldn’t bear it if he’d lost his memory as well, especially having to break the news again that his wife was dead. It was going to be bad enough confessing what had happened to his horses.

The anguish showed in her father’s face. Claire wanted to tell him not to bother, to try again later, not to strain himself. That it didn’t matter. But it did matter. What the hell was he trying to say?

And then he was sinking deeper into his pillows, as if giving up. Claire sank right along with him. She wanted to grab him, drag him up, do anything to stop him going back to that state.

Suddenly his eyes opened and he leaned forward ever so slightly. He was staring straight ahead, eyes vacant. Claire barely had a chance to react before his mouth opened and the word ‘Paycheque’ escaped with a cough. He slumped back, eyes closed again. His lips and face relaxed. To Claire it happened in slow motion. He looked just as he had ten minutes before, before she’d mentioned the horse. She frantically patted his arm.

‘No, wake up,’ she whispered. Her heart began racing as she tried to process what had gone on. Her head whirled. ‘Jesus, no!’ Her shaking hand reached for the red knob on the wall and she pressed, then pressed a few more times for good measure.

A dishevelled nurse arrived panting in the doorway, paused briefly to assess the situation before striding over to Jack’s bed where she reset the button.

‘Has something happened?’ she asked.

Claire wanted to slap her, yell at her to do something. Do something to stop her father dying.

But now she was the one who couldn’t form her words. ‘I, um. He…’ But it didn’t matter; the nurse was busy checking Jack’s pulse, his eyes. And then she was looking from Jack to Claire and back again.

‘Is he…?’

‘Sorry, no. There’s no change.’

No, you don’t understand. Finally Claire’s mouth was working. There was a change, he woke up, spoke. But Claire didn’t say any of it. She was now wondering if she’d imagined it.

The nurse was looking a little exasperated.

‘He woke up. He spoke,’ Claire said.

The nurse smiled at her with sympathy, patted Claire’s arm and said, ‘Maybe you should go home, get some rest. There’s nothing you can do here – we’re taking good care of your father.’

But you’re not, Claire wanted to yell. You just check him every so often. She stared at the nurse, frowning.

‘It’s all right, sometimes when we want something so badly…’

‘I didn’t make it up.’ This time she had spoken. It was obviously a fraction of what he would have experienced, but Claire now thought she could understand the frustration Dr Burrows had felt.

‘Please keep your voice down,’ the young nurse pleaded quietly.

What would she know anyway? She looked like just a kid, was probably barely out of university. Claire felt like slapping some life experience into her.

‘I think you really should go. Visiting hours are ending soon anyway.’

Claire took a deep breath, gave Jack’s limp hand another squeeze, leant forward to kiss his forehead and got up. She flashed the nurse an icy glare and stalked out.

Still fuming as she marched across the car park, she thought of what might have happened if he’d woken to see what all the commotion was about. That would have shut the smarmy kid up. Except there would have been nothing more humiliating than her father coming out of his coma to tell his thirty-something daughter off.

Claire sat for a few moments, collecting her thoughts and letting her emotions subside. Had she really dreamed he woke up, the tears? No, she hadn’t been asleep. Imagined it, then? Anything was possible in the state she was in. Claire sighed wearily. She was beginning to lose all perspective.

Chapter Six

The next morning Claire bounded into work full of purpose and energy, her leave form already filled out and awaiting Derek’s signature. If she got all her work done, she might even take the last few hours off – get an early start to her break.

After dumping her handbag and laptop, Claire made her way down the corridor to Derek’s plush corner office. He had his back to the door, and was hunched over something on his desk. Something about his tight, uneasy posture – one hand holding the side of his head in contemplation – stopped Claire at the open door. Her eyes darted across his desk, which was scattered with papers. To his left was a takeaway cardboard coffee cup, the remains of cappuccino froth lining its upper edge, and a half-eaten toasted sandwich lying on a white paper bag. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Claire shook the uneasy feeling free, she was just being paranoid. She knocked tentatively on the frosted glass sliding door.

Derek looked up and turned in his chair, startled. His face was clouded in confusion for a split second before reddening. It was as though he’d been caught stuffing company stationery into his briefcase.

He glanced down at a small pile of business-sized envelopes in front of him before roughly shoving them out of sight under some papers. Definitely caught doing personal business on company time, Claire thought smugly.

‘Claire, please,’ he said, sweeping an arm toward a vacant chair.

‘Thanks.’ Claire went in and sat down at the small round low table, part of the new ‘touchy feely’ concept in working environments at Rockford.

‘Did you enjoy your time off? Successful week away with the gee-gees?’

‘Um, yes, not bad. Something I can help you with, Claire? I’m rather snowed under…’

Claire was annoyed. It was all right for him to stand at her desk fiddling with her bits and pieces, but now when the tables were turned she was getting the royal hurry on. Bloody typical.

But she wasn’t going to let it get to her – she was on the cusp of two glorious weeks away. Nothing could ruin that now, not even Derek and his double standards. Claire smiled sweetly at him, got up, flapped her leave form theatrically and laid it on the desk in front of him.

‘What’s this?’

‘Leave form, Derek.’

‘Yes, I can see that, but you said…’ He ran a hand through his hair.

‘I decided you were absolutely right – I need a break. So as of this afternoon, if you agree, of course, you’re rid of me for two whole weeks.’

‘Great,’ Derek groaned, and closed his eyes.

‘I’m touched by your concern, Derek, but don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it.’

‘What a mess,’ he murmured, barely audible.

‘I don’t know what your problem is, it was your idea.’

‘This,’ he said, reaching over to the small pile of envelopes he’d hidden moments before. He removed the top one and handed it to her.

Claire stared at her full name in bold black type: ‘Claire McIntyre’.

‘What’s this? Party invite?’ she laughed. She looked back up at Derek, whose face was now an ashy shade of salmon. His lips were in a grim line. He nodded to the envelope in her hands and she looked back down at it: the words ‘Private and Confidential’ were in large uppercase print and underlined twice, at the top left. How could she have missed it? Claire had seen similar envelopes before, but had never been handed one with her own name on it. She knew what it was but just couldn’t seem to grasp it.

‘What is it?’ she asked, brow knitted in genuine confusion.

‘You’d better open it,’ Derek said with a sigh.

Claire knew if she did her life would never be the same again, just like the night she’d opened the door to the police. She didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to know.

‘No, I don’t want to,’ Claire said, sounding almost child-like. Her hands were already beginning to sweat, her vision blurring.

‘Come on, you have to some time.’

No I don’t, Claire thought. What are you going to do? Hold me down, jack my eyelids open with toothpicks, have me arrested for not opening a letter?

‘It might not be so bad,’ Derek offered.

But Claire disagreed. In her experience, good news came in person or by phone and bad news came by mail. Except, she found herself correcting, when it came to really bad news – like the phone call about Jack’s accident. Or really really bad news – like the police knocking on her door at one o’clock in the morning to tell her that her husband was dead. There were exceptions to everything.

‘You can’t fire me, I haven’t had any warnings, and my performance…’

‘Claire, just open the damn envelope.’

He was right: she was just delaying the inevitable. There was no way it could be the worst news she’d received that year. Claire carefully prised the seal apart and pulled out the folded sheet of Rockford letterhead. She held her breath as she straightened it.

She sighed at seeing ‘Redundancy Offer’. Okay, she thought with relief, it’s an offer. She tried to scan the following text but her eyes refused to focus. After a few moments pretending to read, she passed the sheet across to Derek and sat back with arms folded.

‘Sorry, no deal.’

‘Claire, this is not a game – you don’t have a choice.’

‘Why not?’ Suddenly all Claire’s experience of middle management had left her and she was just like any other bewildered employee trying to hold on to her job.

‘Claire, you know why not.’ Derek was rubbing his face, clearly exasperated.

‘No, it says there “redundancy offer”. And I think you’ll find the dictionary meaning of “offer” is “to present for acceptance or rejection”.’

Derek blinked twice while he processed what she’d said, and then glared at her.

‘Don’t be a smart arse, Claire. It doesn’t suit you. And being difficult is really not going to help the situation.’

‘Difficult, Derek? I’ll be as difficult as I bloody well like. I’m about to lose my job, my final shred of security. Kick me while I’m down, why don’t you?’

‘I know and I’m sorry, I really am.’ Derek stared at his fingers in his lap.

‘Not sorry enough to stop this.’ She jabbed a finger at the piece of paper.

‘Please, Claire, don’t shoot the messenger,’ he said wearily.

‘You could have stopped this. I don’t know how, but you could have.’ Claire’s eyes flashed at him.

Derek looked back down at his desk. ‘Claire, for the record, I did actually try. If you’d been on leave like I suggested, you couldn’t have been made redundant.’

‘Oh, so it’s my fault now.’

‘And if you look at the figures, you’ll find the offer is well above…’

‘This is not about the money, Derek.’

‘Of course it is, Claire. It’s not personal. The new CEO is just making his mark by changing the organisational structure – it’s not about you.’

Claire shot him an indignant glare.

‘Just sign the bloody letter, take your time off, and then worry about it. You’ll have no trouble finding another job – I’ll do all I can to help.’

‘And if I don’t sign it?’

‘You will be fired. So that’s your choice – twelve months pay or two weeks.’

‘Fine!’ Claire snatched the piece of paper back, grabbed a pen from Derek’s holder, and roughly scrawled her signature. She got up, threw both pen and paper at Derek, and stalked towards the door.

‘Um, Claire?’

She wanted to keep walking and complete her grand exit, but something in Derek’s tone made her stop and turn. He was focussed on the desk in front of him.

‘I have to inform management and then you are to be escorted from the building. You have about forty minutes. Go back to your desk and pack your things,’ he said, unable to look her in the eye.

Claire sat in her car, panting from the exertion of holding her dignity together while being walked past her colleagues and underlings’ workstations flanked by two overweight, middle-aged security men who couldn’t have outrun a headless chicken if their jobs depended on it. She hated being the highlight of their day – possibly year – and especially despised the grim, authoritarian expressions that did little to hide their smugness.

Claire barely remembered the faces which had uttered vague messages of hope before bobbing back down, the acceptable length of time between curiosity and nosiness having expired. As she tramped down the hall, forced to keep the slow pace of the kitchener bun boys beside her, Claire just wished she could disappear.

On the passenger seat beside her was a box of personal items from her desk: clock, phone charger, photo frames, Keith’s snow dome. The security staff hadn’t stopped her throwing in the stress ball with the company logo – probably figured she’d be needing that.

She knew something major had happened but she didn’t understand how. She’d gone into Derek’s office to get her leave form signed. She was supposed to be excited about her freedom for the next two weeks, not jobless and terrified of her entire future. Jesus, how was she going to tell her father? Part of her was almost glad he was still unconscious and couldn’t say ‘I told you so’. He’d told her so many times that these sorts of people couldn’t be trusted, that she was just a means to an end, a way to make them more money. They didn’t care about her as a person. And as it turned out, he was right.

Claire left the car park for the last time with a sick sensation of going out into the big scary world. All those management texts said to look at redundancy as an opportunity, the potential start of an exciting new chapter – what a crock of shit! Claire felt a little guilty about the times she’d said these same words, and for those who had left her office looking brighter for them.

At the second set of traffic lights, her attention was caught by a billboard advertising an upcoming reality show: ‘SMILE, YOU’RE ON CANDID CAMERA!’

‘If only,’ she moaned.

Claire dropped her box on the kitchen bench, kicked her shoes off and threw herself on the sofa. Now what? She looked around for answers and spied the cordless phone on the tinted glass coffee table.

‘Hi Bernie, it’s me, Claire. Look, sorry to disturb you at work but…’ Claire’s voice cracked.

‘What! What’s happened? Are you okay?’

‘Um, actually no. I’ve just lost my job and…’ The lump in Claire’s throat exploded and the tears began to flow. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she sobbed. ‘I feel so lost… I was wondering if… well, if…’

‘Don’t be silly. Come straight up. Are you okay to drive?’

‘I think so.’

‘Come to the house, I’ll shut the shop.’

‘I don’t want to be a burden – I’m happy to wait. It’s just…’

‘I know, and don’t be ridiculous. What are friends for? Just throw together some clothes and toiletries and get in the car.’

‘Thanks, Bern.’

‘No worries. And Claire?’

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing is ever as bad as it first seems. I’ll see you soon – drive carefully.’

‘Thanks, I will.’

Claire had been on the phone less than a minute, but just hearing her friend’s voice was a big relief. She didn’t feel so alone, so out of control. She smiled ever so slightly through her drying tears. Trust Bernadette to take charge. At least now she had a plan for the next forty minutes: she was driving up the freeway to the Adelaide Hills.

Chapter Seven

By the time Claire arrived at Bernie’s house she was exhausted and dishevelled, as if she’d been physically fighting the goings-on in her head – the war the left and right hemispheres of her brain had been waging the whole way. She was still no more certain. Was the redundancy a good thing, a chance to take a breath and get her life back into order? Or was it the catastrophe she’d initially thought it was?

Bernadette ran down the steps, burgundy curls flying out like a cape behind her. Claire was quietly relieved at the prospect of shedding half her burden. She got out of the car, returned her best friend’s hug, and burst into tears.

After letting Claire cling to her for a few minutes, sobbing, Bernadette gently turned her to the house. ‘Come on in,’ she said.

Claire allowed herself to be helped like an invalid up the verandah steps and inside.

Bernie deposited her on the lounge and went out to boil the kettle. Claire listened to her friend pottering about in the kitchen and thought to offer help, but felt fused to her plush surroundings. Her head was fuzzy.

Bernadette brought in a tray with some mugs, a teapot, sugar, milk and a plate of homemade Anzac biscuits, and put it down on the coffee table.

Claire frowned. She could see but wasn’t really seeing; she could hear but it was a muffle somewhere in the depths of her brain. Distantly she realised Bernadette was pushing at her arm, almost hitting her. Claire shook her head, trying to shake the cotton wool from her ears and milky film from her eyes. She fought the urge to curl up and go to sleep, pretend this day hadn’t happened.

‘Here, drink this. I’ve put some sugar in it to help with the shock.’

Yes, that was what was going on. Shock. How could she have forgotten? Not so long ago she’d been in a similar state after news of Keith, and then, not quite so bad of course, her father.

‘Thanks,’ she said, accepting the mug. She wrapped her hands around it to try to draw its warmth into her. She took a tentative sip and ran the hot, sweet, milky liquid around her tongue before swallowing. She instantly felt comforted. No wonder tea was the first thing to come out in a crisis. Claire sighed and let herself relax slightly.

Bernadette, who had been watching and waiting for the right moment, spoke. ‘Now, starting from the beginning, tell me everything.’

Claire looked down into her cup, searching for the logical order of the day’s events.

‘Remember how I told you I’d finally decided to take some time off? Well I went into Derek’s office to get the form signed and instead I got handed my notice.’

‘He fired you, just like that?’

Claire took a sip of her tea. ‘Not fired, exactly: made redundant.’

‘Oh, well, that’s a whole different thing.’ Bernadette sighed and took a sip from her mug.

‘No, it’s not. Either way I’m out of a job with a big fat mortgage to pay. I can’t believe the bastard…’

‘Derek’s not the CEO, is he? Orders are bound to have come from higher up. I doubt Derek’s really to blame, as much as you want him to be.’

‘Jesus, Bernadette. Whose side are you on?’

‘Yours, of course. But Claire, you really need to get things into perspective. If you’ve been made redundant, that means you get a payout – and you’ve been there for ages.’

‘Twelve years, eight months, two weeks and three days to be precise – that’s what the “offer” says. What’s the point of calling it an offer if you don’t have a choice? Derek said I’d be fired if I didn’t take it. “Twelve months pay or two weeks, your choice.” The smug prick.’

‘I hope you took it,’ Bernadette said, eyeing Claire suspiciously.

‘Of course I bloody took it – I haven’t lost all my marbles.’

Bernadette visibly relaxed, sank back into the couch and put her feet on the coffee table. ‘Well, I don’t know what you’re so worked up about, except of course the initial shock.’

‘For a start, I’m jobless, Bernadette, with a mortgage I was having trouble paying alone in the first place. “It’s not personal,” he says. I could lose the roof over my head. How much more personal can you get?’

‘Claire, you haven’t lost your house.’

‘I might.’

‘You could always sell, move up here.’

‘And move into my parents’ house? Great, then I really will end up the old spinster with the house full of cats.’

‘You don’t have any cats.’

‘I’ll get some. But seriously, how humiliating.’

‘Why? Who would care anyway? Claire, people don’t waste as much time thinking about other people as we like to think. And Derek’s right, it’s not personal. Some bigwigs over in Sydney probably decided to do a shift and shuffle – people you probably haven’t even met.’

‘Are you sure you haven’t been speaking to him?’

‘Just because I’m not chained to a desk, doesn’t mean I don’t remember how these things work. Personally I’d be taking their dough, saying “thank you very much” and looking forward to the opportunities that are about to come your way.’

‘What if there are no opportunities?’

‘There always are. In a matter of months you’ll remember this conversation – actually, you probably won’t but don’t worry, I’ll remind you – and you’ll laugh at how paranoid you were because everything will have worked out for the best, it always does.’

‘I feel so lost.’

‘You just need a plan – a logical way forward.’

‘You’re right. Do you have Saturday’s career section still?’

‘Claire!’

‘What?’

‘Have you not listened to anything I’ve said?’

‘You said I need a plan, and my plan is to find another job so I can pay my mortgage.’

‘Would you shut up about your bloody mortgage?! With all the things that have happened to you this year, I would have thought you’d have learnt something.’

‘I have: that life could be over in a split second.’

‘Well thank Christ you’ve learnt that much.’

‘Which is why I’m going to live comfortably.’

‘Claire, forget the fucking money! Life is not just about money.’

‘There’s no need to swear at me. Just because you decided…’

‘This is not about me – I’m not the one who’s freaking out because she’s lost her job and can’t pay the mortgage.’

‘I’m not freaking out.’

‘Oh really?’ Bernadette looked at Claire with raised eyebrows.

Claire paused for a moment and rewound their conversation in her head. She took a deep breath and pushed some loose strands of hair from her face.

‘Sorry, you’re right, I am freaking out. But what else am I meant to do?’

‘Stop, regroup, have faith in yourself. Let the chips fall where they may.’

Bernadette grabbed a pen and lined pad from the pile of books on the coffee table. ‘Now, I’m going to make some notes for you to refer to whenever you start getting freaked. You mentioned twelve months pay, right?’

‘Yeah, about that. Why?’

Bernadette wrote as she continued. ‘So, in theory, you are actually gainfully employed for the next twelve months.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

‘No, because you were too busy freaking out.’

‘I guess so,’ Claire said, looking sheepish.

Bernadette ripped the top sheet from the pad and handed it over.

‘What’s this?’ Claire said, accepting it with a puzzled frown.

‘Read it.’

She opened it and couldn’t keep the grin from spreading across her face. In Bernadette’s large neat script were the words, I, Claire McIntyre, agree to take twelve months paid leave to recuperate from an extremely shitty year. Beginning today, October 7.

‘Do you agree to take said leave, and promise not to look for another office job for at least twelve months?’

‘Oh, well, um…’

‘Do you agree?’

‘Yes, all right. I agree.’ Claire laughed.

‘Right, now sign there at the bottom.’ Bernadette handed Claire the pen.

Claire signed the piece of paper and handed back the pen.

‘Now, keep that with you at all times.’

Claire nodded and reread the note before folding it and tucking it in the front pocket of her jeans.

‘Now I don’t have any jelly beans but I can, however, offer another cup of tea.’

Despite being exhausted and dropping off in front of the television, Bernadette and Claire remained in the lounge room until after midnight. Bernie didn’t want to leave her friend alone lest she fall back into being terrified of the future. Claire didn’t want to break the spell of feeling that things might just turn out okay after all. Without it being said, both knew this was one of those few occasions when it wasn’t safe to ‘sleep on it’. So they huddled at their respective ends of the three-seater sofa, pretending the movie was enthralling.

Their silent trance was shattered by the phone. Instinctively, the first thing they did was check their watches. Claire’s hand went to her pounding chest. Jesus, no! Not more bad news; not today, not tomorrow, not this year. Bernie’s eyes were wide as she untangled her legs and went to get the handset from the small hallstand.

Claire watched her friend’s back as she picked up the phone and answered, feeling guilty for bringing her bad karma to Bernadette’s home. She felt a strange sense of relief when she heard her say, ‘Yes, I’ll just get her for you.’ Maybe she hadn’t cursed her after all.

‘It’s for you, the hospital. Your mobile must be turned off,’ Bernadette said, handing her the phone. Claire’s stomach knotted in dreaded anticipation.

‘Hello, this is Claire McIntyre.’

‘Claire, my name’s Abby Lawson. I’m calling from the hospital. It’s about your father…’

Claire held her breath and crossed her fingers harder than she ever had before.

‘We thought you’d want to know straight away…’

‘Yes?’ Claire silently begged her to get it over with.

‘He’s woken up, just a few minutes ago.’

For a moment, Claire thought her bowels might let go. She took a gasping breath.

‘Ms McIntyre? Claire, are you there?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m here. Sorry. Oh, that’s great. Thank you so much for calling. What happened? Is he okay? What has he said? Should I come in?’

Nurse Lawson waited until Claire’s torrent ended. She’d obviously done this before. ‘He’s fine, calm, lucid. None the worse for wear as far as we can see. Of course, the doctor will have to confirm that in the morning. He seems to know who and where he is, and what year it is. But there was something odd – one of the first things he said after waking. Something about a paycheque. It might be something that’s come up from his past. But he was quite adamant that someone needed to find this lost paycheque. Does that make any sense to you?’

‘Yes,’ Claire sighed, smiling now. ‘Paycheque was one of his racehorses.’

‘Oh, right, well I guess that makes sense then. Look, I’d better get back to my other patients. I just wanted you to know.’

‘Thanks so much for calling.’

‘It’s my pleasure – nice to finally have some good news. Sorry for calling so late.’

‘No problem, it was worth it.’ Claire was about to hang up when she thought of something. ‘Nurse?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could you please tell him I’ll be in to see him in the morning?’

‘Doctor will be doing his rounds until about ten, so if you come after that we’ll know more.’

‘Okay.’

‘Goodbye then.’

‘Goodbye, and thanks again.’

Claire put the phone down and looked at Bernadette. They stared at each other in wonder for nearly a full minute before grabbing at each other and whooping with delight like they used to do at the end of exams.

They slumped back onto the lounge, and almost immediately began yawning. Five minutes later they had cleaned their teeth and were saying goodnight and turning off lights.

Claire lay in bed staring into the blackness above, wide awake. But it wasn’t her father’s waking that kept her mind ticking over, nor thoughts of the day’s events, but Paycheque.

The time was coming when she’d have to tell Jack what she’d done. She couldn’t check on the horse and just leave it at that. Not now. No, she had to get him back, give her father something real to come back for. But what if someone had discovered his potential, or perhaps worse, realised his sentimental value? She couldn’t afford to pay big bucks for him, but couldn’t afford not to. For all she knew she might even be too late. If things had gone as badly at Morphettville as Derek had said, he might have already been sent to the knackers. God, she couldn’t bear to think about that.

As the grey light of the new day began to peep under the blind, Claire decided she’d start by ringing Al Jacobs. And with that thought, she finally drifted off.

Chapter Eight

Claire woke to the sound of water rushing through pipes and beating on the bathroom wall next door. She smiled at Bernadette’s off-key rendition of ‘It Must Be Love’. She lay there until she heard her friend in the kitchen, not wanting to upset her morning ritual and risk her being late opening the shop.

When she thought about the day before, a shiver ran the length of her spine. Twelve months out of work. What if she’d forgotten everything she knew by then?

Claire reached for the folded piece of paper from the bedside cupboard. There it was in black and white: she was having a year off. End of story. Nothing to worry about for ages. She read the note twice more to further convince herself. Anyway, for the next two weeks she was really on holidays – well that’s what she’d keep telling herself. And of course her father.

Claire climbed out of bed and dragged on the worn blue robe that always hung on the back of the guest room door. She breathed in its comforting fresh floral scent. They used the same laundry products – regularly comparing notes on such things – but somehow Bernadette’s linen always smelled sweeter, fresher. She pulled on long purple socks and padded out to the kitchen where Bernie was pouring milk into two mugs.

‘Ah, there you are. Good morning,’ Bernadette said.

‘Morning.’

‘Here you go,’ she said, passing Claire one of the mugs.

‘Thanks.’ Claire took a deep whiff of the bitter, earthy aroma of instant coffee, psyching herself up before taking a sip.

‘Toast?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘So, other than going down to see Jack, what are your plans for the day?’

‘Well I’m going to wait until after ten when they think the doctor will have finished his rounds. Are you at the shop?’

‘Only until noon. I couldn’t find anyone else to cover for me until then – I tried before you arrived yesterday. Otherwise I would have liked to go with you to see Jack.’

‘Well I can hold off a few hours – it’s been two months, another few hours won’t matter. Bill and Daphne will most likely be there anyway. No doubt she’ll be frantically stitching the jumper together now she knows he’ll be able to wear it soon.’

‘Haven’t they been amazing?’

‘Hmm. It’s been so good to know they were there all the times I got caught up at the office. I’m going to have to get them something to thank them for everything they’ve done. Any ideas?’

‘They really wouldn’t expect you to. Just knowing Jack is okay would be enough for them.’

‘I know. But their support really has meant a lot.’

‘I’ll give it some thought.’ Bernie glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better get going. You’re sure you’re happy to wait until I finish at the shop?’

‘Absolutely. It’s always better visiting with company. And he’d love to see you. Anyway, I’ve got some phone calls to make that will fill in the time.’

‘Right. To let people know he’s woken up.’

‘No, I’m going to wait until I know more before I start doing that.’

‘What other calls then?’ Bernadette eyed Claire suspiciously.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not looking for a job. I’m going to try and track down Paycheque. Remember him? Apparently Dad was asking for him when he woke up. Sign of a true horseman when he asks for a horse before his daughter,’ she added, rolling her eyes.

‘Well, at least it means his memory’s relatively recent.’

‘Yeah. So I need to find out where the horse is so I’ve got something to tell him.’

‘Well, the phone’s all yours. Cheaper for local calls than your mobile.’

‘Bernie?’

‘Yes?’

‘Thanks for everything.’

‘You’d do the same for me – I know that.’ Bernie hugged her. ‘Well I’d better skedaddle. Remember, the shop’s on speed dial two if you need me.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Right, I’ll see you later. Good luck finding your horse.’

‘Hello, Al Jacobs’s stables.’

‘Hello, I was wondering if Al is available to speak with?’

‘Sorry, he’s at Morphettville today.’

‘Oh, right.’ Claire could have kicked herself.

‘Is there something I can help you with?’

‘Maybe.’ The girl seemed friendly enough. ‘Do you have a horse registered under the name Paycheque there – dark bay colour, on the small side?’

‘I think I know the one you’re talking about. He was here, but only for a 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, with advice that was about so much more than simply gardening. So what did she have that Claire lacked, apart from a green thumb?

Passion. Bernadette had passion. Like she’d said only recently, she felt blessed that she could earn money doing what she loved. Claire looked around at the mishmash of her friend’s décor – mostly from op shops. Claire had lived the peasant life – as a kid with her parents – and there was no way she could go back to that.

From somewhere in the depths of her memory she heard the big Texan drawl of Dr Phil. ‘And how’s it working for you?’ Even from the few shows she’d seen over the years, Claire knew there was no pulling the wool over Dr Phil – he was like the air, nowhere but everywhere. She squirmed inside. Her life had taken less than a year to unravel, and she’d have to face up to a few things if she was going to stop the fraying. Claire wasn’t yet sure what she had to do, but wondered if just knowing was a start.

Chapter Nine

Claire felt less confined in her compact Corolla than Bernadette’s lounge room. Sitting behind the wheel she felt more in control. She paused at the end of the driveway with the motor running. She had a choice: left out towards her father’s farm at Mount Pleasant, or right towards the regional township of Angaston.

Three days too late. If only she hadn’t been so damn stubborn, had taken time off when Derek had suggested it. Bloody Jack – if he’d woken a few days earlier… Claire banged her hand on the steering wheel. There’d be other horses to get her father back on track – there had to be. There was nothing more she could do. He’d have to believe her.

But in the back of Claire’s mind she wondered how – when she didn’t believe it herself, when she felt so desolate, devoid of hope. It’s only a horse, she told herself, and began saying it over and over in her head. It didn’t help, and she gave up. She couldn’t face the farm knowing she’d failed Paycheque, failed her father.

‘Retail therapy,’ she muttered, putting her right indicator on, then drove carefully out onto the open highway.

Claire had a plan: she’d go shopping in the quaint old town of Tanunda instead of the larger Angaston, buy Bernadette a thankyou gift and some gourmet food for lunch. Then they’d head to the hospital to see Jack. She couldn’t wait to see him. Then she could get on with her life, get back to normal – well her new jobless normal anyway. And she’d forget about Paycheque; enough experts had said he wasn’t worth pursuing anyway. Yes, it was probably all for the best. It would save Jack the humiliation and money. There was probably a better opportunity just around the corner. Claire smiled wryly; she was beginning to think like Bernadette. Maybe the redundancy wasn’t all bad after all. Maybe a year off was a good idea.

Claire realised just as the big green sign whizzed past that she’d missed the turn-off to Tanunda. Oh well, she’d take the longer way, via Williamstown. She hadn’t been that way for years and it was, after all, the season for change. Claire turned up the radio and began singing along to an ABBA song, hair flying about in the wind through the partially open window.

She was almost past when she noticed the sign with ‘PACKERS PTY LTD ABATTOIR’ in large plain black letters. She’d completely forgotten it was on this road. Claire checked her rear vision mirror and pulled onto the gravel edge of the road. With the car idling, she frowned and began tapping nervously on the steering wheel. She turned off the key and wound her window down for more air.

The only sounds were squawking crows and the occasional whoosh of a passing car. When a gust of wind brought the faint aroma of death through her window, Claire wrinkled her nose and almost gagged – the unmistakeable sourness of fresh draining blood.

She started the car again. It’s a business just like any other, she told herself, putting the car in gear. She eased forward slowly along the gravel, but didn’t pull out onto the bitumen, even though the road was clear.

Claire felt weird, like she was on autopilot. She was fully aware of everything around her, but without telling herself to do it, she’d flipped her indicator on, checked her mirrors and was doing a u-turn. She crossed the cattle grid next to the looming sign feeling numb – not sad, hopeful, anxious or even nervous – just a weird sort of numbness.

Around her were a series of small paddocks. Each had a set of high steel yards in the corner closest to the wide white rubble driveway. One paddock held sheep, another held black cattle that Claire decided must be Angus, and in a third, large sleek pink pigs snuffled about. The furthest held about a dozen horses of varying sizes and colours: some shiny and full of life and others with sunken backs and starry coats – obviously at the end of long lives.

Claire looked at the sheep, cattle and pigs. She felt nothing – could imagine them sliced up on black trays wrapped in cling film stacked on supermarket shelves. Looking back at the horses, she tried to think of their meat packed in cans for pet food, hooves boiled down for glue. Tears pricked at her eyes. A couple of horses looked up from their grazing, clearly unaware of the fate that awaited them behind the big corrugated iron door less than two hundred metres away. She sighed deeply. It was part of the cycle. She’d heard it said so many times.

She imagined Paycheque in the paddock in front of her, then closed her eyes and shook her head, not wanting to think about him like these horses, munching their way unawares down the raceway and into the shed. Worse was the thought that he would have put up a fight. He would never have gone willingly into the steel crush that was like the racing barriers but so much darker, more terrifying. He might even have been injured, in agony when the powerful bolt that was supposed to mean instant death connected with his head.

Jesus, why had she come? Why was she putting herself through this? She opened her eyes and looked back at the horses. Four chestnuts, two greys, an appaloosa, a buckskin and four bays stared back at her. The darkest of the bays reminded her of Paycheque – a small but well-proportioned thoroughbred.

Startled by a tap on her window, Claire turned to find a lad in faded blue overalls and cap. Beside him was a ute with a few bales of hay on the back. Claire wound down her window and attempted a smile.

‘Something I can help you with?’

She took in his deep brown eyes and kind features. The lad seemed friendly, not at all the brusque, insensitive type she imagined one would have to be to work in an abattoir.

‘Um, no, not really,’ she said.

‘Well I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.’ He sounded genuinely apologetic. ‘The boss doesn’t like people hanging around.’

‘Okay, I understand,’ Claire said, and looked back to the horses.

‘Nice looking some of them – shame to end up here,’ he said, dragging one of the bales off the back of the ute and dropping it on the ground.

‘Yeah,’ Claire said wistfully. ‘Why the hay if they’re…?’

The lad shuffled awkwardly. We’ve had a breakdown inside – waiting for parts to come from overseas. Just didn’t want them being hungry, you know, for their last…’

Claire looked away, not wanting to think about it.

‘My dad runs a feed lot – flogged a couple of bales. I’ll been in heaps of shit if he finds out.’

‘I won’t tell him. It’s nice of you to think of the horses.’

The lad shrugged and checked his watch. ‘Shit, smoko’s nearly over. I’ve gotta get this out before I get the sack. Hey, wouldn’t give me a hand to throw it over the fence, would you?’

‘Sure, no worries.’ Claire got out of the car.

Side by side they threw hay. Claire was silent while the lad commented on each of the horses that came over. Claire tried to pretend she was feeding ordinary animals – not horses on death row. As she tossed hay, the lad’s cheery comments were a dull murmur somewhere in her head.

‘This one’s my favourite,’ he said. ‘Come on, you big guts.’

She looked up, already smiling at his affection. The furthest horse, the dark bay she’d been admiring earlier, wandered over. He looked nice and healthy so she figured he must have had some kind of accident to be here. He certainly didn’t look lame. Maybe he had a nasty streak or was too dangerous to ride.

When the horse turned its back to the others to protect his pile of hay, Claire noticed a brand in the soft flesh above his near foreleg. She squinted, trying to decipher the scar. Not all horses were branded – this one must have meant something to someone once. What had gone wrong for him?

On closer inspection, it didn’t look unlike Jack’s brand. How many people put letters inside a triangle? Probably heaps. Jack McIntyre used a scaled-down version of his grandfather’s sheep brand. Claire found herself wondering if there was a tiny white star under the thick forelock. But she was being ridiculous – Paycheque was long gone.

When the horse pawed the ground for a few beats with one front hoof and then changed to the other, Claire began to feel faint. She must be seeing things. She looked away, convinced she was conjuring images with her guilt.

‘Funny, isn’t he?’ the lad said next to her. ‘Does it all the time when he eats.’

‘Yeah, it’s like the puddling some cats do if they are taken away from their mother too early.’ She stared at the bay. In all her years spent around horses the only one she’d seen regularly do it like this was Paycheque. But it couldn’t be.

‘Hey mate, what’s your story?’ she called to the horse.

The horse looked up, twisting his head as if contemplating the question. His forelock shifted to reveal a small white star with a jagged scar underneath. Paycheque had one similar from when he’d fallen and got caught under the bottom rail of the cattle crush as a youngster. It was the reason he was so afraid of racing barriers and why Jack had been so careful with him.

Claire’s legs felt weak and she grabbed the nearest stable thing – the arm of the lad next to her.

‘Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I think I have,’ Claire murmured, and let herself be helped to the side step of the Land Cruiser to sit down. She put her head between her knees. Had she seen what she thought she’d seen? Had it been coincidence or had she imagined the whole thing?

‘You know that horse, don’t you?’ the lad said, becoming excited. ‘I thought he was too good to be here – branded and all.’

Claire nodded. ‘I think so,’ she said, having trouble breathing.

‘Hey, don’t get upset.’ The lad had his arm around her shoulder. It felt nice. It had been so long since she’d had comfort from anyone other than Bernadette. ‘You’ve found him. That’s good, right?’

Claire nodded. And slowly it dawned on her that he was right. She’d done it, she’d actually found Paycheque. The relief was so overwhelming she began to hyperventilate.

‘You have to breathe – in and out slowly,’ the lad coaxed.

Claire tried to focus on controlling her breathing, and after a few moments noticed another pair of human legs standing in front of her. She looked up and took in an older man in an orange safety vest and khakis.

‘What the hell’s going on here?’

‘I was just feeding the horses during…’

‘Well your smoko’s over now. Get back to work. May as well bring this lot with you – part’s arrived, we’ll be ready for them in an hour.’

Claire’s breath caught. She looked at the lad through sodden lashes.

‘She wants that bay there – right, miss?’ he said, pointing at the horse.

Claire nodded, unable to speak.

‘Well she can’t have him.’

Her head snapped up, her eyes wide in question.

‘Why not?’ the lad asked on her behalf.

‘I paid good money for him. He’s mine now. Not my fault if some horsey chick’s got the guilts and changed her mind.’

‘But…’ Claire stammered.

‘You chicks are all the same. It’s just a bloody horse that’s about to be dog food. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an abattoir to run.’

‘I’ll pay you double what you paid,’ Claire blurted.

Claire signed the cheque for six hundred and fifty dollars and handed it over. The man was almost salivating at the thought of such easy money. She knew she should have bargained and got the price down a bit – she really couldn’t afford to be throwing away good money. And Bernie was going to love the irony of her last paycheque being used to buy a horse of the same name. A strange mix of relief and dread swept through Claire.

The lad with the hay offered her a doubled over piece of twine, and she led the bewildered horse to the holding yard in the corner of the small paddock. She felt ridiculous dressed in a white linen shirt and dressy three-quarter pants, up on tiptoes so as not to ruin her two-hundred-dollar kitten heels, stepping between the piles of horse poo. She’d wanted to look nice for Jack. If only she’d waited until after lunch to get changed.

The smirk across the face of the bloke with the cheque in his hand suggested he now thought she was one of those totally un-horsey women with too much money, on a crusade because the shops were shut and there was nothing better to do. That horse would end up on her less than one-quarter-acre block for sure – that was if she managed to find someone to transport it at such short notice. He shook his head and wandered off.

Claire waited in her car until the other horses had disappeared into the shed, and then another couple of minutes. Part of her wanted to make sure the rest of the horses had gone. Another wasn’t really ready to face the contents of the can of worms she was about to open. She savoured the peace before peeling back the lid.

Chapter Ten

Speeding along the highway, Claire’s head was awash with all she had to do and the short time she had in which to do it. She had to get to the farm, swap the car for the ute – fingers crossed she could get it started – hook on the float, and get back to the abattoir. All in an hour and a half – that’s when the nice lad finished his shift.

Her hands were tight on the wheel, knuckles white, palms aching. Her eyes darted across to the clock on the radio every few seconds. The needle was nudging 100, but the trip still seemed to be taking forever. Damn the speed limit, she cursed. There were hardly any cars on the road. She’d probably get away with speeding. But she continued to check the speedo at regular intervals and ease her accelerator foot.

Two tail-gating Commodores rushed past in a roar of V8 aggression and testosterone.

‘Bloody idiots!’ The vehicles were now taking up both lanes ahead of her. Her heart was racing a little. She took a deep breath and sighed, trying to steady the hammering in her eardrums.

Claire was tempted to pick up her own speed – the cops would be too busy with those two if they were out and about. But deep down she knew it wasn’t worth it; cops weren’t the real problem, death was.

She shook her head at the splotches of colour already disappearing around a bend a few hundred metres ahead. She really hoped they wouldn’t crash – though they deserved to. Nothing too major; just ding up their precious toys and scare a lesson into them.

She really didn’t have time to stop. Bernie would be wondering where the hell she was. What would Jack think about her not being at the hospital yet? And the nurses – Jesus, they’d think she was the worst daughter in the world. She really should have rung when they had decided to wait until after lunch.

Claire didn’t trust the bloke she’d given the cheque to. There’d been no receipt, no paperwork at all to say she now owned the horse. And he’d insisted the cheque be written out to cash. There was probably nothing to stop him selling the horse to someone else who came along. He certainly hadn’t seemed that hung up on morals. If she was late, he’d probably have no qualms about processing the horse anyway. And once Paycheque was gone there’d be no proof, nothing she could do about it. Panic gripped Claire. She had to hurry up.

A few kilometres on, Claire came around a sweeping bend and noticed a large object on the road up ahead. As she got closer she frowned, easing back her speed and trying to decipher what she was really seeing. She was almost at a stop when she realised what was blocking one side of the road. Two cars – one red, one white – fused into a mass of colour against a large gum tree like a child’s roughly formed lump of plasticine.

Claire turned the engine off and put her hazard lights on while she tried to figure out where the doors were – where she’d go to attempt to offer some kind of assistance.

She took a deep breath and walked towards the wreckage on jelly legs. A big part of her already wished she hadn’t stopped, had continued on her way. But you couldn’t, could you? It just wouldn’t be right. She stood close enough to the cars to feel their heat, smell the toxic odour of scorched plastic and paint. The stench of burnt rubber hung in the air. Claire coughed and pulled a tissue from her pocket to protect her nose and mouth. The radiators were hissing. Twisted metal groaned and sighed as it settled into its new form. Crows and galahs squawked and flapped away overhead, oblivious.

Claire wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t touch anything – it looked too bad for anyone to have made it. She wasn’t sure she could cope with blood and guts and death. Somewhere in the depths of the wreckage she heard the faint electronic tone of a mobile phone. Snapping to attention she raced back to her car. Everything was a blur around her – in slow motion – as she grabbed her own mobile from her handbag. Shit, what was the mobile emergency number? She was about to dial triple zero when she realised there were no bars indicating reception.

‘Damn it,’ she cursed. She must be in a dead spot. Maybe if she climbed on top of her car she’d get a signal. Just as she was taking off her shoes, another vehicle came around the bend. She leapt on to the road and started waving her arms, the sharp bitumen cutting into the delicate skin of her bare feet.

An older style four-wheel drive stopped on the edge of the road behind her car. Claire hoped the middle-aged couple inside were locals.

‘There’s been an accident,’ she said through their open window. ‘Do you have a mobile? I can’t get a signal with mine.’

They both got out of the vehicle.

‘Bloody hell,’ said the bloke, looking ahead at the pile of wreckage. ‘Is anyone alive?’

‘I… I don’t know. I just arrived,’ Claire said.

‘Shit!’ he said, and bolted up the road towards the carnage.

The woman punched numbers into a mobile phone and then calmly told whoever answered that there had been an accident. She proceeded to give precise directions and local road names.

Claire felt helpless, left out, and almost miffed because she’d seen it first and here they were taking over.

Short of anything better to do, she made her way to the mangled cars. The man was circling the wreckage, calling to the occupants, trying to pull on what must be handles on doors but didn’t look like anything to her.

Claire realised she could smell fuel. Then she noticed a darker patch of gravel. The bitumen was stained and glistening. She remembered hearing somewhere how the battery had to be disconnected to stop sparks igniting spilt fuel. Claire stared at the fused cars, walked around looking for the front ends. She frowned, trying to decipher the mess. Then suddenly, as if she’d adjusted the focus on a camera, the bonnet of the red car became apparent. She walked over, aware of the other Good Samaritan leaning into one window and talking, urging the victim to hold on, telling him that help was on its way. The bonnet was folded back in three, the engine still hissing steam.

Claire didn’t want to put her hand in but knew she didn’t have a choice. The battery was lying there with fluid of some sort dripping onto it. The car’s wiring had already had the plastic coating scorched off. Any second the unprotected wires could short. For all she knew, the scorching had already worked its way through the dashboard and into the cabin. She pulled at the terminals with her only protection: the small wad of tissues she’d been using to shield her nose. They were both stuck fast – she needed a screwdriver. There wasn’t one in her own car and she couldn’t disturb the man who seemed to be getting some response from someone in the car.

Claire was relieved to hear a siren and, when she looked up, see a white CFS truck and police car pulling over, and uniformed people jumping out and running towards her. They pushed past, literally shoving her aside in their haste. Claire didn’t mind at all – she was just glad to be off the hook.

‘I couldn’t get the battery out,’ she said, raising a helpless arm in the general direction.

‘It’s okay, we’re here now.’ A young male police officer was beside her. He ushered her back to her own car.

She put her hand on the door handle.

‘I’m afraid I’ll need a statement before I can let you go,’ he said, taking a notebook from his top pocket.

Claire checked her watch. ‘I really need to get going. I…’

‘It’ll only take a few moments.’

I don’t have a few moments, Claire wanted to tell him. ‘I really don’t think I’ll be much help,’ she said, quickly, hoping her tone would hurry him up.

‘How about you let me be the judge of that?’ he said.

‘I don’t mean to be rude but there’s somewhere I really need to be. Could I just call into a police station later? Or maybe phone you in a couple of hours?’

‘I’m afraid not – it’s important to get the facts down as quickly as possible.’

Claire took a deep breath and tried to keep her exasperation at bay. But her eyes kept going to the watch on her wrist.

‘Right. Full name and address please.’ The pencil he held was poised above a small notepad.

Claire rattled off the details.

‘Now, what exactly did you see, Ms McIntyre?’

‘Well I was just driving along – on the speed limit – and they roared past me – definitely speeding. When I came around this bend they were just there, like that,’ she said, indicating towards the wreckage.

‘You say they were speeding – any idea how fast?’

‘No, not really.’

‘Significantly faster than you or just a bit?’

‘I have no idea. It all happened very fast.’

‘But they were definitely speeding?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you can be sure because…’

‘Because I was doing the speed limit – 100 – and they both went past me. That means they were speeding, right? Look, I really don’t have time for this.’

‘And you say you came around the bend and there they were?’

‘Yes.’

‘And then what did you do?’

‘I was trying to call emergency but my phone didn’t have a signal. And then the couple in the four-wheel drive turned up.’

‘So they were the ones who called the emergency services?’

‘Yes – the woman did.’

‘So their phone had service then?’

‘I guess it must have done,’ she said, a sarcastic tone creeping into her voice. She half expected him to tell her to change her carrier to someone more reliable.

‘Right. And then what did you do?’

‘Well I was trying to figure out how to disconnect the batteries. That’s what I was doing when the CFS – and you – turned up. Please, can I go now?’ She willed herself not to look at her watch.

‘If you’re sure you’ve got nothing more to add.’

‘Yes, I’m sure. That’s all I know.’

‘Right, thank you. Yes, you can go. But we might need to contact you at a later date.’

‘Fine.’

The police officer opened Claire’s door and she got in. ‘You okay to drive?’ the policeman asked. But it sounded more like a statement than a genuine enquiry.

‘Yes, fine, thanks,’ she said, nodding. But Claire didn’t feel fine at all. She felt shaken and traumatised, not at all like she should be driving. But she had to sort out Paycheque, and time was running out.

She started her car and looked down the road. She began to feel queasy at the thought of having to drive past the wreckage. Suddenly Keith was in one of those cars, fighting for his life, in immense pain but only able to offer groans as his body failed. She had to get out of here.

‘You sure you’re okay? You look a bit pale. Maybe you should hang around for a bit longer.’

‘I’m fine, really,’ she lied. She checked her mirrors, put the car in gear, and pulled carefully onto the road. After she’d passed the wreckage she noticed in her rear vision mirror that the CFS crew were beginning to block the road with witches’ hats.

As she drove, Claire debated whether to call in and see if Bernadette was available to lend a hand. She felt wrecked. It had already been a long, difficult day and it was far from over. Claire pulled a sticky hand from the wheel, ran it across her forehead and let out a deep sigh. She’d gone off to clear her head with a bit of shopping before visiting Jack. If only she’d gone for a walk instead.

Claire pulled into the rough driveway and tried to ignore the depressing emptiness that was the absence of horses mooching about in paddocks. She consoled herself that all that was about to change. But would it? She wondered. One horse was a start, but it would hardly bring the old place back to life. Horses were social animals – what if Paycheque was miserable here on his own? She brightened – people were always trying to find homes for unwanted horses and ponies. Bernadette was bound to know someone who knew someone. That was one of the great things about country life.

Claire was so focussed on summoning the energy to go into the house she almost didn’t see Bernadette’s car by the front verandah. Her best friend was grinning cheekily at her from the back steps. Claire leapt out of the car and threw her arms around her.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Little bird told me you might need a hand picking up a horse.’

Claire’s eyes were wide. ‘How the hell…? This place is far too small,’ she said, and laughed.

‘I’ll tell you on the way,’ she said, clapping her hands. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

‘The ute keys are inside,’ Claire said. She retrieved the house key from her glove box and then stood in front of the door. She wanted to be strong and just open the door and walk in. But she couldn’t. She felt a complete fool – it was so damn childish.

In a split second Bernadette had grabbed the key.

‘Pathetic, huh?’

‘Not at all. But I say we deal with it another day – we’ve got a horse to get.’

‘Keys are on the shelf above the kettle, just inside the kitchen.’

‘Thanks. Now you organise a halter and fill a hay net. I’ll meet you at the float.’

Rarely did Claire McIntyre enjoy being told what to do, even by her best friend. But right now she was relieved to have someone else giving the orders.

Twenty minutes later they were heading off.

‘I can’t believe the ute started first time,’ Claire said.

‘Obviously I had my tongue held right.’ Bernadette grinned and patted the steering wheel, cooing, ‘Who’s a good girl, then?’

Claire hadn’t objected when Bernadette had climbed back into the driver’s seat after hooking on the float. Now the adrenaline was starting to subside, she didn’t think she’d be able to drive anyway. She stretched her legs out and noticed a pair of work boots on the floor at her feet. She picked them up and turned them over wondering what they were doing there.

Bernadette noticed her quizzical expression. ‘I grabbed the smallest from the laundry – I assumed they must be yours.’

‘Yes, thanks, but I can’t possibly wear them.’

‘Why not?’

Claire indicated her attire with raised eyebrows.

‘I don’t care how you look – safety first. I’m not having a cantankerous horse and you with a broken foot to deal with alone. Anyway, Jack would kill me. Remember the day he caught us without boots and helmets at the quarry?’

‘God, yes. And we were doing so well impressing those boys until he turned up. How embarrassing.’

‘Yeah, but don’t worry, no one will see you today.’

They were bound to bump into the whole damn town if her current track record was anything to go by, but Claire was too tired to argue. She just hoped Paycheque would behave himself. At least they had safety in numbers, if not strength. She and Bernadette had always been a great team – highly competitive at times, but a great team when it counted.

After a few moments, Claire snapped to attention. ‘Oh my God! I still haven’t rung the hospital,’ she blurted. ‘Jack’ll be wondering where I am.’

‘It’s okay – I rang them and explained. Well sort of. They said they’d make up some innocuous story. They’re still keeping things simple with him until he’s stronger. So don’t worry, it’s all under control.’

‘I can’t thank you enough, Bernie – you’re the best…’

‘I know, I know. Don’t go getting all carried away,’ Bernadette said quickly. ‘We’ve a mission to complete.’

Claire sat upright. ‘So how did you find out about all this anyway?’

‘About third hand I think – you know how the bush telegraph works. Daryl Hannaford came into the shop – you remember him, has the cherry orchard out on Grey’s Road. Anyway, he was at the post office and overheard one of the guys from the abattoir telling someone else the hilarious story of some crazy, dolled-up city chick by the name of McIntyre turning up and paying double to save a horse from the knackery.

‘Oh great,’ Claire groaned, ‘I’m now my very own urban myth.’

‘Country actually,’ Bernadette corrected with a grin.

‘But I didn’t tell anyone my name.’

‘It’s stamped on your cheque, silly.’

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