Brumby's Run

by Jennifer Scoullar

  ‘Deal,’ she said, smiling. Why had she ever doubted him?

  ‘Let me take you out tonight,’ he said. ‘There’s a few parties on.’

  For a moment Sam was tempted. A night out with Drew was more than she’d hoped for. But then reality set in. ‘Do you really think that’s a good idea? Who would I go as? Myself, or Charlie? I might be able to fool the traders in town, but I’d never fool friends, people I’m supposed to know.’

  ‘Why are you pretending to be Charlie, anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t set out to,’ she said. ‘I just went along with everybody. It was so much easier than having to explain.’

  ‘In the short term, maybe. But not in the long run.’ Drew gave her a knowing sideways glance. ‘I think it’s more than that. I think you’re enjoying yourself.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Sam. ‘You think I enjoy having to watch every word? Enjoy not even being able to go out on New Year’s Eve, in case I give myself away?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Drew, with an infuriating smile. ‘Admit it. It’s exciting, isn’t it? Fooling everybody? There’s the thrill of not being found out, of living a double life. It’s like being undercover, or a spy or something. My guess is your old life was kind of tame.’

  Why did he always have to do that? Call her out, embarrass her just when things were going well? Still, she’d learned her lesson. No more hasty words this time. She wanted Drew to help muster the cattle out, didn’t she? So she mustn’t put him off. But a nagging internal voice challenged her to be honest with herself. Sam examined the dusty ground for answers. Who was she kidding? She wanted a lot more than that. Bushy appeared from around the corner, halters in hand. ‘Hey, Drew. You going to stand yakking to Charlie all day, or come help unload those horses?’

  ‘I’ll be over later with that generator,’ Drew said in a low voice. ‘We’ll see in the new year together, eh? I’ve got some ideas you might be interested in.’ She nodded, feeling her flesh goosebump in anticipation.

  ‘Come on, fella,’ called Bushy. ‘Any slower, you’d be in reverse.’

  Drew tipped his hat to her, a delightfully old-fashioned gesture. ‘Til tonight, m’lady.’

  Sam waved goodbye to Bushy. ‘See you next year,’ he said, and laughed at his own joke. For once, Sam was leaving work on time. All week she’d stayed long past knock-off. There was always plenty to do and see. She might give a nervous yearling some extra handling, or head over to watch the thoroughbreds on their evening gallops. Not tonight, though.

  As Sam reached the car her phone beeped. It was a message from Faith. She hadn’t forgiven her mother for Pharoah, not by a long shot. How could she? How could she ever pardon such a base betrayal? She’d sent Faith a brief text on Christmas Day, but that was all. By contrast, Faith had bombarded her with phone calls. When they went unanswered, Faith wrote text messages as long as her arm. These missives were full of apologies. Good, so they should be … but the apologies were weak and laden with excuses. Sam read her mother’s latest offering. I’m sorry, Samantha. It was wicked of me to sell Pharoah. Faith should have stopped right there. Sam could have almost accepted a simple, heartfelt admission of guilt. But you were always so busy with Charlene, she continued foolishly. So busy with Charlene, and that Mary woman. You certainly had no time for me. You had no time for Pharoah. You’d absolutely deserted us, Samantha. I honestly thought the horse would be better off with Wolf. Sam deleted the message.

  These sorts of stupid, selfish rationalisations had only served to harden Sam’s heart. ‘Get Pharoah back,’ Sam had said bluntly on the one and only occasion she’d answered Faith’s call. ‘Then we’ll talk.’ Faith responded with a message avalanche, detailing the extraordinary lengths she’d gone to, trying to do just that. But apparently Wolf wouldn’t budge. He’s set on a berth in the Olympic squad, and he thinks Pharoah is the horse to get him there. It’s such a compliment to your training, Samantha.

  That was true. A wonderful compliment with a poison arrow at its heart. So her family communications had been confined to Dad and Mamie. She’d spoken to her father a couple of times, and he’d been surprisingly supportive. He’d asked after Charlie, and had even been solicitous about Mary. He’d promised to give her a generous monthly allowance while she was in Currajong. But he still refused to discuss the adoption. That talk would have to wait until they stood face to face.

  Sam stopped for supplies at the little Currajong supermarket on the way home. It wasn’t a supermarket in the normal sense of the word at all. No endless gleaming aisles and self-checkout lanes. It was a traditional general store, doubling as the post office. Its old-world charm would have been more appealing if Sam didn’t have to always be so careful. Every time she went to town, every time somebody looked at her with recognition in their eyes … every time somebody called her Charlie, Sam’s heart was thumping in her throat.

  ‘What are you up to tonight, Charlie?’ asked Marjorie, the kindly middle-aged woman at the checkout. Sam had learned her name from the tag on her ample bosom.

  ‘Staying home,’ she said.

  ‘That doesn’t sound much like you. Is your mother back?’

  ‘Not yet. She’s still working in Melbourne.’ This was her new line. She hoped the idea of Mary working didn’t sound too preposterous, and it helped explain where the money had come from to pay off the bills. The money that had actually come from Sam’s own dwindling bank account.

  Sam wandered down one aisle and back up the other. She bought cheese, a jar of olives and another of sun-dried tomatoes. A tub of French-onion dip. Crackers. Some cherries and grapes. There wasn’t much vegetarian fare on offer, but a diet of barbecued meat had begun to pall. She walked out with her purchases and felt the first plop of fat summer rain. To the east, dark clouds boiled higher and higher, warning of an approaching storm. Looked like they’d be eating inside tonight. On an impulse, Sam dashed back inside. Braving Marjorie’s curious stare, she bought a box of tea-light candles, a pair of wine glasses and a bag of ice. Then she headed for home, nervous anticipation churning her stomach. Sam thought of her sister, still languishing at the hospital in Melbourne. She would have to call later in the evening to cheer Charlie up and wish her a happy new year.

  Everything was ready for Drew’s arrival. The formerly filthy kitchen smelt of lavender, and shone with shabby chic. Sam placed the last marigold into the jug-cum-vase that adorned the tiny table. An old sky-blue curtain, washed and line-dried, stood in for a regular table-cloth. The antipasto platter spilled over with sweet cherry tomatoes, and looked suitably festive. A jam jar of billy buttons and silver snow daisies sat on the sill. Sam peered past it to see Drew pull up and lift Bess from the tray of his ute. Finally! She dashed outside, heedless of the pouring rain, or of seeming too eager.

  ‘Hello.’ Sam raised her voice above the noise of rolling thunder. ‘Why do you always lift Bess down? She must weigh a tonne.’

  ‘She’s got a bung leg,’ he said. The massive dog ran over and buried her wet nose affectionately between Sam’s knees. Drew heaved something that looked like a motor off the tray. The power of him showed in his upper arms, as they strained with the load. Drew stashed it on the narrow verandah, then squatted down to make an adjustment. His sodden shirt was translucent, the colour of flesh. The crouch accentuated the length of his back and the strength of his thighs. Sam knelt down beside him, shivering. The motor thing must be the generator. Heat radiated through his wet clothes. He smelt of horses, earth and saddle leather. She moved closer until their bodies touched. Sam almost regretted that candlelight might not be the only light tonight.

  Drew dashed back to the cab and emerged with a white paper parcel and a bottle of wine. Fish and chips and champagne. Bess shook herself in a rainbow of spray. The pair ran inside laughing, leaving soggy Bess complaining on the porch.

  ‘It’s the cleanest I’ve ever seen this kitchen,’ Drew said, an expression of wonder on his face. Sam just smiled, suddenly shy. Drew looked her c
oolly up and down, and she felt her pulse quicken. ‘Will I set up the generator?’ he asked.

  ‘Let’s eat first.’ Dusk was gathering around them, reaching dark fingers through the window. Time for the candles. Her arm stretched for the matchbox on the table.

  ‘Allow me.’ Drew covered her hand with his own, and extracted the box from her curled palm. Round the kitchen he went, lighting the tea lights one by one, until the room was bathed in a soft, romantic glow. The act seemed imbued with special significance. It was a ritual, and he the high priest.

  Drew pursed his lips and blew out the match. Seconds ticked by. She waited with bated breath. Then his arms were round her, sure and hard. Drew lowered his mouth to hers, and she parted her lips to taste him. The kiss was so sensuous and slow that Sam wished it might never end. Was this love? This dizzy warmth, this flush of desire, this feeling that her body knew exactly what it was doing?

  Drew pulled away first. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘That was a bombshell kiss.’ He reached up to gently run his knuckles down her cheek. ‘You don’t know your own strength. Or was it beginner’s luck?’

  ‘All beginners need to practise,’ she said, and tugged him back to her, amazed by her own boldness.

  Bess ruined the mood. The dog’s determined scratching had finally paid off, and she burst into the kitchen through the flimsy screen door. Bess and Drew dived as one for the parcel of fish and chips on the table, and he rescued it just in time. The aroma of wet dog replaced the fragrance of lavender. ‘Bad dog!’ said Sam, but her tone was not scolding. She sank to her knees and hugged the happy hound.

  Drew laughed. ‘Yeah, that’s the way to tell her off.’ He reached for Bess’s collar.

  ‘Let her stay,’ said Sam. ‘It’s her New Year’s Eve too.’ Bess barked in approval.

  ‘I thought three was a crowd?’ said Drew, but Bess was already following Sam to the fridge, smiling and waving her whip-like tail.

  ‘Does she like bacon?’

  Bess whined in assent and swallowed two rashers in one gulp, before Drew’s withering stare sent her slinking into the corner. Bess squeezed behind a bucket designed to catch drips from the leaky roof. Then the giant dog curled up tight as if she hoped she might become invisible.

  ‘Come on. Let’s eat,’ said Drew, ‘before she cons you into feeding her our dinner as well as our breakfast.’ Sam gave him a searching look. Breakfast? Was that a statement of intent, a circuitous request? An offer?

  Drew didn’t appear to appreciate the significance of his remark. He went about dividing the portions of battered flake, the steamed dim sims. He made two mounds of lukewarm soggy chips. Sam poured the sparkling wine into the new glasses and proposed a toast to the new year. They each took a sip.

  ‘I’ve got another one,’ Drew said. ‘To us.’

  He leant across and kissed her again.

  The last thing she felt like doing now was eating. Nonetheless Sam tried a chip. It wasn’t until the food hit her palate that she realised how hungry she really was. Fresh air and hard work had piqued her appetite. The chip was warm and creamy on the inside. Salty. Yummy. The fish tasted even more delectable. A search of the pantry turned up a bottle of white vinegar and some soy sauce for the dim sims. It was quite simply the most delicious meal of her life.

  Drew topped up her glass. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘Plan?’ What exactly was he asking her? ‘For tomorrow? Is that what you mean?’

  ‘I meant your long-term plan. The big picture.’

  ‘I … don’t suppose I have one,’ she answered.

  ‘Are you staying on?’

  Did he want her to, was that it? Was he asking her to stay? ‘Maybe,’ she said, and didn’t mention the Commerce degree awaiting her in Melbourne.

  ‘When will Charlie be back?’

  This wasn’t what she’d expected, an inquisition. It caught her off guard. ‘A couple of months … when she’s well.’

  ‘So she’s sick?’ Damn, there was no denying it now. The implication of her words had been plain. Sam nodded miserably. Her first real slip. ‘Where’s the shame in that?’ asked Drew, sounding puzzled. ‘Why all the secrecy?’

  ‘Charlie doesn’t want people feeling sorry for her.’ Sam was just making it worse. The charm of the evening was fast evaporating. She was stuffing it all up. ‘I’m sorry. I’d rather not talk about my sister.’

  But Drew wasn’t about to let it drop. ‘That’s Charlie for you. Too much pride in one direction, not enough in another.’

  Sam experienced a tight twinge of envy. She hated to hear Drew talking about Charlie with such easy familiarity. Talking like he knew Charlie better than she did. Confirming all she’d missed, these past eighteen years. And she hated to think of Charlie, alone with Drew so many times. A sharp gust of wind blew out the tea lights on the table, and the marigolds had closed their bright petals. ‘Exactly how well do you know my sister?’ she asked.

  ‘Charlie and I go way, way back,’ said Drew. That was the wrong answer. A loud clap of thunder made Sam jump. Bess whined in fear and came to lay her head in Sam’s lap. ‘I’ve got an idea to run past you,’ said Drew. ‘A way to make a living from this place, until you can afford to restock.’ A business proposition, now? What was this evening really about? She poured herself the last of the wine. What she wanted most was a big tub of chocolate ice-cream and a spoon.

  ‘Trail rides,’ said Drew. She rewarded him with a blank look. ‘Trail rides,’ he repeated, as if she hadn’t heard him the first time. ‘There’s a string of ten horses and ponies going at Gidgee. The bloke’s been keen to sell them for a while, with no luck. He plans to put them through the Currajong horse sale. I’ll bet if you made him an offer, you’d get the lot for a song.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that, exactly?’ She half expected him to say trail rides for a third time.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Drew. He disappeared outside and returned with dripping hair and a sixpack of beer. The romantic mood was fast disappearing. ‘Want one?’ Sam shook her head. Clearly Drew did not intend for this to be a dry argument. ‘Your mum will be skint when she gets back, that’s a given,’ he said. Sam hesitated, then nodded. ‘She relies on Dad’s lease fees, and not much else. Without them, she’ll need some sort of replacement income.’

  ‘What about the cattle? Can’t she just sell some?’ asked Sam. ‘Isn’t that how it works?’

  Drew snorted and shook his head. ‘There’s maybe fifty head, all skin and bone. It’ll be six months before those calves are fit for sale, and you can’t put cows that poor straight back in calf.’ Drew stood up and began to pace around. ‘Want to know what I’d do?’ Perhaps she’d have that beer after all. ‘I’d cull the bulls and chopper cows. Wean the calves. Winter down any cows you want to keep. Then buy new bulls and restock slowly. Problem is, it all takes money. That’s where the trail rides come in.’

  ‘Chopper cows?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Old, sick, infertile. Bad mothers. Cows that have twins and can’t raise them both. Cows that don’t have a calf each year.’

  ‘And what? They’re killed?’

  A draught extinguished more candles, casting Drew into shadow. ‘Well … yes,’ he said. ‘There’s no retirement home for cows.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Bad mothers. There was no equivalent penalty for bad mothers in the human world. Absurdly, Sam imagined Mary and Faith as cows. Would they qualify as choppers? Forfeit their lives for terrible parenting? It was unfair to kill a cow because she couldn’t get pregnant. Faith couldn’t get pregnant. Mary couldn’t raise both twins. Sam’s head swam with conflicting emotions. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might be required to make decisions about the practical operation of Brumby’s Run.

  ‘I want to keep all the cows for the time being,’ she said. ‘Give them another chance.’

  Drew’s expression grew soft. ‘We’ve a way to go before we make a farmer out of you. Tell you what, you keep the cows. But you’ll have to cull the bulls. That
herd is inbred enough as it is.’

  ‘Deal,’ said Sam.

  Drew pulled her to him. ‘What is this?’ he asked, with the hint of a smile. ‘Feminism for cows?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She certainly didn’t have the heart to steal their calves away, and then send those poor, starved creatures to be slaughtered. Not yet, not after all they’d endured. She pictured the black cows wandering lush paddocks in spring, growing fat, new calves gambolling at their feet. ‘Maybe I’m just not cut out for the cattle business.’ The idea of running trail rides certainly seemed a far gentler way to earn a crust.

  ‘You’re a hypocrite, Sam. You know that, don’t you?’ said Drew. He threw an olive in the air and caught it in his mouth. ‘I didn’t see you turn your nose up at my steaks.’

  It was true, of course. ‘You’re right, I do eat meat. Only free-range though, no intensive pork or chicken. No grain-fed beef. It’s not the death of an animal that I object to, as long as it’s humane. We all have to die sometime. My problem is with a life of suffering.’ She cracked open the beer. ‘I don’t think I’d normally have a problem with selling cattle. Those ones of your dad’s – they looked completely content. Death isn’t so bad, is it? Not after a happy life.’ It mattered that he understood her. ‘Our cows have suffered so much,’ she said. ‘I want them to have some happiness.’

  Drew relit a candle. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, with a decisive nod. ‘We’ll have them knee-deep in clover, literally. Dad’s been saving your eastern flats for winter feed. All sown down to rye and clover. We’ll move the poorer cows in there and they’ll be happy as free-range pigs in mud,’ he said, ‘I guarantee it.’