by Dave Warner
A murmur of excitement rippled through the girls. 'and I think it necessary you be ready to display the manners and grooming expected of an equestrienne. I will never forget my first experience of international competition ...'
A few of the girls yawned. Rebecca's eyes began to slowly shut. Strudworth, however, saw nothing but herself as a young woman with her future stretched ahead of her like so many gleaming hurdles.
'It was one of those autumn days that the south of England does so well. I was alone by the bay window, admiring the downs and nibbling on a cucumber sandwich – my goodness, they sliced them so exquisitely thin ...' Strudworth's face clouded over. 'Where was I?'
'By a bay filly?' offered somebody.
'A bay window,' corrected Strudworth, 'when the door opened and who should stride in but Her Royal Highness, Princess Anne.'
There was a heavy thud as Rebecca, who had fallen asleep, toppled from her saddle and hit the ground. Strudworth carried on, undaunted. '"I liked your seat", HRH commented to me. "Thank you, your Royal Highness", I replied, "I couldn't but appreciate your efforts over the hedge." She laughed. She had a braying raucous laugh. "You mean when I was dumped on my bottom!" We both slapped our thighs and a firm friendship was made.'
'And the point of this story is?'
Lucinda made sure Strudworth saw her check her watch. Strudworth's face set firmly. 'The point is, you are to pack an overnight bag before you go to sleep tonight. There will be no time tomorrow. You will spend the night at Charmsworth, returning the next day.'
'What about our horses?' asked Charlotte.
'I don't think they need deportment lessons,' cracked Emma. 'Although in your case it might be a better use of money.'
Leila listened to the wave of laughter. She felt sorry for Charlotte having to wear The Evil Three. But she felt more sorry for herself. Forty-eight hours being stuck with nothing but horses!
'Your horses will be looked after. Now off to stables and then dinner.'
'It's out of my hands. I'd rather be staying here. I know this hasn't been much fun for you.' Charlotte was giving Leila a quick brush before dinner.
'You're right there.'
'But look. It's only a couple of days and then it's out of the way.'
The stall door pushed open and Hannah stood there, puzzled.
'Were you talking to Leila again?'
'I do it all the time.'
'But it sounded like there was another voice?'
Charlotte covered.
'Sometimes I talk in a different voice.'
Hannah stared at her curiously.
'I must try that too. What about those evil cows making fun of you?'
'They don't bother me. All you need is one good friend to make the world a happy place.'
Leila felt suddenly guilty about giving the kid such a hard time. It hadn't been her fault they'd had no time together.
'I think exactly the same. Thanks, Charlotte.'
Leila bristled. Hannah thought Charlotte was talking about her! A horrific thought struck her – maybe she was?
Hannah continued.
'We better get going or we'll be late for dinner.'
'I guess so.' Charlotte kissed Leila on the muzzle. 'I'll try and see you later.'
But as it turned out there was no time to see Leila later. Strudworth made them all go straight to their rooms, pack their overnight bags and climb into bed. Charlotte was angry. What did deportment have to do with riding a horse? Okay, so you were representing your country but surely all that counted was getting over hurdles, not which knife you used to butter your bread.
'Do you miss home, Charlotte?'
Hannah was obviously not yet asleep either. Charlotte was annoyed that Hannah was so demanding of her. She couldn't get five minutes to herself even after lights out. But she tried to be polite.
'Of course. You?'
'I don't really have a place that's home. My father's a diplomat and we have to move all the time. The longest I've been anywhere was three years. But we left when I was four so I don't remember much about Dubai.'
'Where's Dubai?'
'It's in the Middle East. Near Arabia.'
Charlotte knew that a lot of horses traced their ancestry to Arabia but that and the fact that there was a lot of desert was all she knew about it.
'Is it exciting having a dad who is a diplomat?'
'Not especially. Although you get a driver and a nice car, which can be fun, and you don't have to pay parking fines and things like that. But you have to be careful too. If people have a grudge against a country, sometimes they take it out by blowing up their embassy.'
'Is that where diplomats live?'
'Sometimes you live at the embassy but mainly that's where Dad works. Mum has a job there too but she's not a diplomat. She organises functions and things. They're always having cocktail parties.'
'Must be fun.'
Charlotte had no idea what a cocktail party was but she had seen pretty dresses in a magazine called 'cocktail dresses'.
'Not all the time. In the Philippines our embassy was next to the French Embassy and somebody blew up a car parked by its gates. It shattered all the windows in our embassy.'
Charlotte had thought the flooded ravine in Snake Hills had been scary until she heard this.
'How horrible. Were you terrified?'
'I wasn't there. Luckily I was at school.'
'Was anybody hurt?'
'One of the guards at the French Embassy had to go to hospital.'
Charlotte was glad her father was a stockman, not a diplomat. Even more glad when Hannah revealed that some of the schools she'd been to had to have armed guards to protect the students.
'It's nice to be living in Melbourne,' she said.
'How long have you been in Melbourne?'
'Just a year. And Dad could get transferred at any time.'
Charlotte suddenly felt sad for Hannah. And guilty she had resented Hannah interrupting her thoughts.
'It must be hard to make friends.'
'It is. That's why I'm so grateful that you've been my friend. Usually I spend all my time with my horses but when we leave, they stay behind. I probably talk too much, sorry. It's just nice to have someone to talk to for a change. Good night, Charlotte.'
'Night, Hannah.'
It made Charlotte realise how lucky she was to have a real home. Snake Hills was in every part of her. She could close her eyes and smell the hot earth and the sweat of the cattle. Even more important, she had her father who loved her. And she had Leila. They would always be there for one another. Life without Leila would be too horrible to contemplate.
On the one and only occasion Charlotte had attended the Goondowi races she had been amused at the taped fanfare of bugles that played every time the runners entered the mounting enclosure. Now she heard that same fanfare played through the crackling P.A. of Thornton Downs. It was five a.m. and, true to her word, Strudworth was making sure they were all out of bed. Staggering around like zombies, Charlotte and Hannah showered quickly, dressed and made their way to the coach, hardly managing a word. Strudworth was already at the coach, dressed and alert. As each girl climbed aboard, Strudworth handed them a cheese sandwich, apple and orange that was to keep them going for the long trip. Chadwick watched carefully over her shoulder to make sure nobody received extra rations. Charlotte was upset there was no chance to say goodbye to Leila. She was going to miss her, even though it was only for a night.
In her stall, Leila listened sadly to the rumbling motor of the coach. As it engaged gears and slowly pulled away it might as well have been her heart scrunching under the tyres. She was going to really miss Charlotte. She hoped Charlotte would cope with The Evil Three on her own. Charlotte and a charm school didn't seem like the most natural of fits and, without Leila riding shotgun, giving her a few tricks of the trade she had picked up in Hollywood, the kid could be vulnerable. On the positive side she supposed that no riders meant an easy time back at the ranch, but she was
n't under any illusion about the feed. It would be strictly hay and chaff, which wasn't much worse than what Charlotte had been bringing in from the dining room anyway. Leila yawned. How to occupy herself? She saw the grey mare looking at her, also bored.
'You want to play ten questions?' she asked in horse.
The grey mare looked moderately interested.
'How do you play it?'
'You get ten questions to guess who I am.'
'I know who you are. You're Leila the ex-movie horse.'
Leila didn't like the way she said 'ex'. She gritted her teeth.
'That's who I am, yeah. But see, I think of somebody else and you guess who I am thinking I am.'
A brown gelding named Stan, who wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, leaned over from his stall.
'Why aren't you thinking you are who you are?'
The frustration bubbled up. 'It's a game! Like, I think I'm, say, Justin Timberlake ...'
'He's a boy,' interrupted Stan.
'Yeah, but we're pretending. You know pretend? Like you could pretend you had a brain.'
'No need to get personal,' muttered Stan.
'National Velvet,' snapped the grey mare.
'What?' said Leila, losing track with the madness around her.
'National Velvet, that's who I think you are.'
Leila said, 'I haven't had time to think who I am yet. Okay?'
A stallion's voice came from another side of the stable. 'She's Leila, that B-grade movie hack, she's not National Velvet.'
Leila sighed. Maybe a bit of hard exercise might be easier. This was going to be a very long two days.
After a little while on the road, watching gum trees whistle by at speed, Charlotte had come alive from her zombie state. Into the next hour Charlotte and Hannah squeezed an awful lot of talk: their likes and dislikes, their favourite colours, movies and food, their most exciting horse and pony stories. All talked out, they turned their attention to crosswords and Sudoku puzzles, ate their rations and took turns listening to Hannah's iPod. When it was Hannah's turn on the iPod, Charlotte was forced to listen to The Evil Three who sat on the opposite side of the aisle.
'The key to good clothes,' opined Emma, 'is parental ego. My stepfather complimented me on how nice I looked. I said I had my father to thank. He'd taken me shopping and bought the second best outfit in the shop.'
Lucinda guessed what had happened next.
'So then your stepfather took you shopping and bought you the best outfit, right?'
'Exactly.'
Lucinda was delighted with her chum's sly move. They high-fived.
Emma continued. 'And you know the best part? My father hadn't bought the first outfit at all. I'd actually bought it using my stepfather's credit card. He'd felt so guilty about grounding me for taking the handbrake off his golf-buggy so it rolled into the lake, he compensated by letting me go on a shopping binge.'
Rebecca was nodding.
'I used a similar tactic to get my Stella McCartney culottes. Mum absolutely adores our stupid poodle Patrice. I used a fork to punch holes in that horrid top grandma bought from Paris and blamed it on Patrice. I said I was going to make Patrice pay. Mum fell for it hook, line and sinker. She wouldn't dare punish Patrice so she bought me the Stella.'
And on and on they talked about their tricks to win new clothes and gadgets. By the time the coach turned up the narrow ivy-covered drive of Charmsworth Deportment College, Charlotte's energy had been sapped and she had slipped back into the lethargic state in which she had begun the journey. The coach stopped amid manicured gardens. A young woman, who looked like a doll with a permanent half-moon smile seemingly planted on her face, greeted them as they alighted from the coach.
'Good morning, ladies. I am Eve. Please follow me to the studio.'
She set off towards a large pink building with perfect white trimmings. At the door, she stopped and ushered them in. The smile remained fixed. As Charlotte shuffled past, Eve threw out her hand and stopped her.
'Shoulders back. Chin up. And no shuffling. A lady doesn't shuffle, she ... glides.'
Eve demonstrated. Charlotte was amazed. Eve really did glide, just like a hovercraft.
'Now, you try it. Chin up, eyes straight ahead, ready to look the world in the face.'
Charlotte attempted to follow instructions. Unfortunately, she was in unfamiliar territory and when she walked forward, she tripped over the door step and crumpled face down onto the floor.
The Evil Three cheered. Charlotte felt her face burn red. The next twenty-four hours were going to be horrible.
Chapter 4
Caroline Strudworth stared from her window over the grounds of her beloved Thornton Downs. Normally she would be exhilarated at the chirp of the sprinklers, the glistening white of the fence-posts, the neat geometry of her hedges. But today her heart was heavy as a mop in a flooded laundry. She had just received word that Laura, her sister, must go to hospital for an immediate operation. Gall bladder or something down in the squishy organs. It was not Laura's health that was the cause of Strudworth's melancholy though. Good Lord, Laura was as strong as an ox. No, the problem was that Mitchell, the townplanner husband, was overseas or interstate somewhere.
'It's no use, Zucchini. I'll have to nurse her myself.'
The stuffed horse, which occupied pride of place in Strudworth's office, stared back with glass eyes through a glass case.
'Why not send Chadwick, you might ask? Let me tell you, Zucchini, Chadwick is as useful as a broken girth strap when riding a bucking bronco.'
Strudworth had no intention of seeing her sister develop complications as a result of poor postoperative care – inevitable if that nitwit nephew was given any responsibility. Strudworth shuddered. It would mean leaving Chadwick here, unsupervised. Well, Bevans was a very able foreman with a sensible head on his shoulders. She would just have to get back as soon as she could, to limit the 'Chadwick effect'.
Mark O'Regan yawned and scratched his holey blue singlet with his dirty, stumpy fingers. The inside of his car was littered with old take-away chicken boxes and sandwich wrappers. The car hadn't been cleaned inside or out since he'd bought it two years ago. Mark O'Regan wasn't one for expending energy on anything, but particularly so cleaning. What was the point? Things only got dirty again. His twelve-year-old car reflected its owner. As it cruised through the pristine countryside towing its horse float, the exhaust belched thick black fumes.
O'Regan cursed his bad luck once more. The Salt Flat Fair this weekend was one of the biggest earners on his calendar and here he was without what he needed most: a horse. Life just wasn't fair, that horse getting sick like that. Bad luck had dogged him his whole life.
The truth, which O'Regan had failed to acknowledge over the forty-three years of his life to date, was that luck had nothing to do with it. Mark O'Regan was lazy. He would never do today what he could put off till tomorrow. He had left school early and tried a number of jobs, none of which he had stuck at. For the last three years he had made a living towing a horse around to small rural fairs. Kids could have their pictures taken on it, be led around on it, pat it. So long as their parents paid.
It was work that suited O'Regan because it wasn't really work at all. He could sleep in till after nine a.m., feed the horse, watch DVDs, put a couple of hours in with the horse, come back, watch DVDs, by which time it was time for bed again. O'Regan loved DVDs. He'd seen every DVD there ever had been, half a dozen times at least. It was an idyllic life.
The trouble was that the horse, Mahogany, had injured a hoof. Had O'Regan taken it to the vet right away, there wouldn't have been a problem but, naturally, he hadn't. Vets cost money and he needed all his money for DVDs. The hoof had become infected and Mahogany had been unable to walk. By the time he got to the vet it was too late. The vet said the horse wouldn't be able to work for a month. O'Regan refused to pay the vet's bill, giving him Mahogany instead. Which meant now he needed a horse for the Salt Flat Fair. As O'Regan looked out his
window he saw a large group of horses grazing on a hill. Perhaps luck was coming round? O'Regan swung off the highway and up the driveway that announced Thornton Downs.
Chaff, chaff and more chaff. Leila was disgusted. How would humans go if they had to eat porridge morn, noon and night? After the abysmal attempt to get ten questions off the ground to pass the time, Leila had tried her Michael Jackson moon-walking routine on the grey mare. Nothing. Not even a smile. That did it for her, she would just have to wait out the time like a prisoner on death row.
Bevans had put them out in the paddock. It was rather pleasant in the open air except when a cloud smothered up the sun and the chilly wind got hold of you. Back in L.A. Leila had a lovely pashmina but L.A. was a long way away. Ah, just the thought of those crowded freeways made Leila smile. It was funny – she could almost smell the smog. Her face lit up at the memory of that wonderful, shallow, hollow tinseltown. She closed her eyes. There was Feathers, her parrot pal, in her trailer again, her producer Mr Joel Gold shouting down the phone about cost blow-outs and threatening to have some assistant director's head on a platter, and Tommy Tempest, the director, tearing out his hair by the roots as Leila and Sarah-Jane outdid one another with tantrums, putting back the shoot by another week.
It felt so real. Especially the smog part. Leila coughed and spluttered. She could even taste the soot on her tongue. She opened her eyes. No wonder. It was smog. Or thick exhaust anyway. Some bomb of a car was chugging up the driveway towards the stables. Leila thought no more of it. The sun came out again and Leila turned her face towards it. What she needed right now was one of those reflector collars the wardrobe girl always had up her sleeve. Gave you a nice even tan.
O'Regan pulled up to the circular driveway, got out and wandered over towards the paddock where he'd seen the horses. This placed looked classy – in other words, too expensive for O'Regan. All he needed was some broken-down hack. These horses were all well fed and groomed. Nope, they'd be miles out of his price range. O'Regan was about to turn back to his car when the pack of horses in front of him spooked suddenly and split apart. He saw the reason. Some nerdy-looking guy riding a golf-buggy around. How dumb could this guy be? Didn't he know you didn't ride golf-buggys in between horses ...