Paycheque (16 page)

‘That was the best meal I've ever had,' Jack McIntyre declared as he laid his knife and fork down on his plate later that same evening. Claire smiled.

‘Thanks Dad,' she said, getting up and clearing the plates. ‘Simple fare for simple folk,' she added, and was instantly struck by how like her late mother she sounded.

Jack had noticed it, too. His face clouded for a split second before opening up again. ‘Thank God for home-cooked meals. The food in that place was very, um…'

‘Healthy!' they cried in unison, and erupted into laughter.

It was a longstanding family joke. Jack's mother – Claire's Grandma Betty – had been a boiled cabbage and burned beef sort of cook. She had never liked cooking, and in almost twenty years of weekly dinners until her instalment into an aged care facility, she had rarely deviated from roast beef. In its shrivelled state it was barely recognisable, but while a variety of euphemisms were used to heartily describe the meal, there was always respect for the tradition and family values it represented.

‘You could teach those hospital cooks a thing or two. I'm sorry, but roast pork just isn't the same without crackling.'

‘No. It'd probably be soggy anyway by the time they got all those meals out.'

‘Don't get me started on soggy,' he said, rolling his eyes.

Suddenly his face clouded again and he looked down at the table cloth under his hands. It was one of the two her mother had made when things had been tough the first time around. He fingered a small hole gently.

When she couldn't afford a new cloth, Grace McIntyre had shortened all the curtains in the house to be level with the window sills, and then sewn the scraps together. She had used the fabric, interspersed with budget calico, to create a log-cabin style patchwork. She had been proud of her creations, and rightly so – everyone who visited marvelled at their beauty and intricacy. But no one knew the origins or reasons – Grace McIntyre had her pride.

They'd never hidden from Claire the fact that money was tight, including the two times the banks were threatening to foreclose: when she was nine and again when she was fifteen. One of the unique things about being an only child was that adults included you in conversations you probably wouldn't be privy to if you had a sibling to remind them you really were still just a kid. But it also meant she couldn't remain blissfully unaware, like other children, when adults had tough times to deal with.

She had understood enough to be worried, but not enough to be able to do anything about it. When it mattered, her parents pretended she was just an ordinary child and chose not to ask her opinion. And both times she'd had a solution to get them out of debt.

When she was nine it was a lemonade stand at the gate; when she was fifteen it was going off and becoming an apprentice jockey. But neither idea had even been aired; it was as if they could read her mind – or someone else could. First the lemon tree died for no apparent reason, and then she broke her arm two weeks before her sixteenth birthday, when she had planned to announce her intention to leave school. She hadn't given much credence to coincidence either time – she'd secretly been thankful for being saved.

Claire continued to stare at Jack's fingers. She knew it was corny, but it was as though the table cloths were the very fabric that had held everything together. Collectively they had been witness to every event – significant and insignificant, happy and sad – in the McIntyre household. While they existed she was always able to convince herself everything would be okay.

‘Ice-cream?' Claire asked, dragging herself away from her sadness and gathering the dishes.

‘No thanks, not getting enough exercise,' Jack said, patting a stomach that looked flatter than those of most men half his age. ‘But I could murder a cup of tea.'

‘Done,' Claire said.

‘Speaking of porky…'

Claire stiffened at the sink. Since Keith's death and everything else that had been happening, she was thinner than she'd ever been. Her reaction was merely another legacy of a life spent mainly with adults – listening first to her mother, and then to her friends' tales of constant dieting and calorie-counting. She'd been on guard for as long as she could remember.

‘…I'm going to need you to start riding Paycheque – little lard arse.'

‘Oh! But it's, I…'

‘I've been kidding myself. I'm too old for serious riding.'

God, Claire thought, he sounds almost cheerful. She'd spent years hinting he was getting too long in the tooth and always got the brush-off. Now that he was going quietly she wasn't sure how she felt. The dynamics had all changed. She blinked, and when she looked back at her father it was like he'd aged twenty years. He was an old man. She'd always managed to keep him young in her mind.

‘But I'm…' What she wanted to say was,
I'm too old for this shit
, which was laughable, of course, considering she was nearly half his age.

‘Don't worry, it'll all come back to you – it hasn't been that long.'

That night, Claire lay in bed wondering how her first ride of Paycheque would go.

The next morning, Claire stretched and lay listening for a few minutes to the sounds of activity coming from the kitchen. She smiled. Old habits die hard, but some never die at all.

Jack had resumed his ritual of coffee and porridge followed by soft-poached eggs. That was what it sounded like, anyway. Claire dragged her legs out of bed, hoping tradition had prevailed.

As a rule, two cups of coffee had served as breakfast for Claire, but she was now looking forward to fuelling up in preparation for dealing with Paycheque and any trouble he might give her.

‘Ah, there you are. I've made brekky.' The unspoken words, ‘just like the old days', hung in the air. ‘Might need your strength later,' he added with a wink.

‘I'd love some breakfast, thanks, but I don't think we have to worry about Paycheque – he's been a dream since he's been back. Even when we loaded him.' Claire added sugar to her coffee.

‘Well, like I always say…'

‘Expect the unexpected,' Claire said, finishing the sentence for him.

‘Exactly. Now, quickly, eat your porridge before your eggs go hard.

Claire sat at the table spooning the gluggy mixture into her mouth while Jack moved expertly around the kitchen. She was still surprised to find herself really enjoying sharing the house with him.

I could get used to this
, she thought, and began tucking into eggs, fried mushrooms and toast. She looked across at her father and was pleased to see him heartily eating also – he was definitely getting closer to being his old self.

‘Damn good, if I do say so myself,' Jack said, pushing his plate away and then his chair back from the table. ‘Ready to get to it?'

‘You go. I'm just going to put a few things away here and then I'll be over.'

‘I'll give him a decent brush while I wait for you.'

‘I won't be long – not going to bother with the dishes.'

A couple of minutes later, Claire made her way over to the stables. She paused at the empty dog compound and, hidden by the rusty fencing, stood to observe her father for a few moments. He was tying the horse to the rail. Claire smiled. He looked every bit the expert horseman he'd always been, and almost as nimble, she thought, as he bent down to retrieve a brush from the canvas grooming bag by the post.

Suddenly the horse reared up, pulled back hard against its rope, and
then broke free. In two strides Paycheque was at the far side of the outer yard, with his chest hard against the solid timber rail, darting from side to side looking for an escape route. The frayed remains of the lead-rope swayed under his chin.

‘Hey, hey. There, there. You're okay,' Jack called in a soothing tone. But he made no move towards the horse, he had to wait for the creature's fight or flight instinct to subside.

‘What happened?' Claire asked, now at the rail beside her father. Paycheque had his back to them a few metres away. His head, with eyes flashing and nostrils flared, was turned towards them – keeping an eye on the enemy. He was quivering from his mane to his hooves, sweat already breaking out on his sleek neck. His ears were back, twitching and rotating towards every sound, every movement.

‘I tied him up, bent down to pick up a brush and bang, he freaked,' Jack said, holding up his hands in despair.

‘Poor thing's terrified,' Claire said.

‘Yeah, looks like someone's given him a hard time.' Jack pretended to swipe at a fly but Claire saw the lone tear on his cheek before it was wiped away.

‘He didn't seem at all nervy the other day when Bernadette and I picked him up. Did you boy?' Claire called. ‘Come on, what's the problem?'

The horse turned a little more towards them and lowered his head slightly. Claire thought he looked perplexed, like he'd reacted too quickly and now regretted it.

‘It's okay,' she soothed, and took a step towards him.

‘Claire, don't. He might lash out,' Jack warned.

‘We've gotta do something. You're not going to kick are you? Good boy.' Claire's heart was racing as she took another step forward. She was now within kicking range. If he decided to double-barrel her she wouldn't stand a chance. The horse tensed. Claire paused and waited for a sign that he was relaxing. She couldn't hear herself think above the pounding of blood in her ears. She knew what she was doing was
dangerous, but she didn't have a choice. Here was a creature in distress that needed her reassurance, to be reminded that they weren't the enemy. If they didn't put a stop to this behaviour it would be three times as difficult next time. It was a very fine line to tread, and potentially disastrous.

‘Come on you big baby, you just got a fright.' She was now right alongside the half-tonne of horse, aware that if he chose to he could easily crush her against the solid timber railing. But she wasn't afraid: a little anxious, yes; but afraid, no.

Before she'd left for the bright lights of corporate life, she'd dealt with plenty of difficult horses. Many had been written off as dangerous, but Claire often found they were nothing more than misunderstood. Jack had said she had a special gift, but she'd just shrugged it off. She'd never understood all the hype around
The Horse Whisperer
, that's how she'd always dealt with horses.

Paycheque's head was still turned away so that both she and Jack were in his peripheral vision. His ears flickered like antennae. The next thing was to make contact, put out her hand and place it on his shoulder. But did she dare? It could well send him off again. Timing was everything. Claire was still contemplating her next move when the horse lowered its head and turned fully towards her. The remains of the lead-rope was a stretched reach away. But instead of grabbing it she patted the horse and rubbed his ears.

Claire breathed a deep sigh of relief as her heart rate steadied and her breathing returned to normal. She grasped the rope and applied some pressure. The horse didn't flinch – so far, so good.

‘It's okay. Come over here with me,' she urged, giving the rope a slight tug. Paycheque hesitated at first but then slowly followed her over to where Jack stood, arms folded over the top rail.