Pony Jumpers 9- Nine Lives

by Kate Lattey

  Pony Jumpers

  #9

  NINE LIVES

  Kate Lattey

  1st Edition

  Copyright 2017 © by Kate Lattey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  Cover photo courtesy of Laura Kate Photography.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  * * *

  Don’t give up, don’t give in.

  There’s always an answer to everything.

  – Louis Zamperini

  * * *

  1

  CONVOS IN CARS WITH PIES

  “Ready to knock off for lunch?”

  I stood up and rolled my aching shoulders back, then rubbed loose soil off my hands onto my jeans.

  “More ready than I’ve ever been in my life,” I told my father as he threw his spade into the back of his work truck.

  He shook his head at me. “Bit of hard yakka never hurt anyone, you know.”

  “I know how to do hard work,” I reminded him. “I muck out Squib’s paddock every day, and ride him, which isn’t exactly a cake walk.”

  “Such a hard life you lead,” Dad teased, grabbing a woolsack full of weeds. “Water those new plants in for us, would you? There’s a hose on the side of the house.”

  I followed his instructions, letting the water soak into the parched soil. It was late summer, supposedly autumn but with no sign of cooler weather approaching, and my t-shirt was sticking to my back. Dad had started up his landscaping business seven years ago, when my youngest sibling had first started school and he was no longer required to be a stay-at-home dad. He didn’t make much money from it, but it kept him busy, and usually, during the school holidays, one of my two older brothers helped him out. But now Aidan had gone away to university down in Otago, and Anders’s leg had been smashed up in a car accident several weeks ago, leaving him unable to do any physical labour, so Dad had asked me, as his third-best option, whether I wanted some part-time work.

  I’d hesitated at first, because my best friend Katy and I had made plans that revolved around ponies, not gardens, but he was paying me for my time, and one thing I literally couldn’t afford to say no to was money. Ponies are expensive, even for people who get free grazing in exchange for helping out around the farm, which was the arrangement I had at Katy’s, and one that made me thank my lucky stars every single day. Before I’d met her, I’d been struggling to get my pony Squib to jump a simple course of low fences without bucking me off or bolting into the distance, but in the seven months since our paths had first crossed, she had helped me and Squib progress to competing successfully up to a metre-twenty. We were aiming for Pony Grand Prix next season, and with Katy’s help, and barring any further disasters or car accidents, we had a genuine shot at getting there. I still had to pinch myself sometimes that my dream was actually within reach, and I owed it all to Katy and her knowledgeable horsey mum Deb.

  My father’s boots crunched behind me on the dry Hawke’s Bay grass. “Almost done?”

  “Finished,” I told him, shutting off the hose and surveying the final result.

  When we’d arrived, the garden had been a shambles, full of scraggly weeds and overgrown shrubs. Between us, Dad and I had transformed it into a garden that looked like someone actually cared about it. It was a satisfying feeling.

  “This place looks a thousand times better, thanks to us,” I told him, raising my arms over my head and stretching my aching back. I was used to the physical side of looking after and riding horses, but the crouching and bending involved in gardening used a whole different set of muscles. I was going to be sore tonight, but the money would be worth it. That’s what I kept telling myself, anyway.

  “Couldn’t have done it without you,” Dad said, and clapped a hand onto my shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go grab some lunch.”

  I followed him back to the truck. “Can I drive?”

  Dad didn’t hesitate. “No.”

  “But I got my Learner’s license last week,” I reminded him. “You said once I got that, you’d start teaching me.”

  “Not in the truck,” Dad replied, climbing into the driver’s side. “You’re not learning to learn to drive in this thing.”

  I sighed as I scrambled into the small green truck, its tip tray full of weeds and branches. Every time I asked for a driving lesson, my parents came up with some kind of excuse not to let me get behind the wheel. I didn’t know if it was because of the car accident that Anders and I had been involved in, even though – as far as we knew, since neither of us remembered it – hadn’t actually been Anders’s fault. I wasn’t scared to try, but it seemed that my parents were terrified to let me.

  Dad backed the truck out, and I resisted the urge to nag him about it, instead pulling out my phone to check for messages. I punched in the security code, which was a recent measure I’d had to take after Anders had stolen my phone one day and changed the names of half my contacts, taken about 300 pictures of our dog, and adjusted the language setting to Cantonese before I’d caught him and wrestled it back.

  The first message was from Cool Bro, otherwise known as Anders himself, wanting me to tell Dad that we were almost out of milk and bacon at home. I relayed the information out loud to our father, then swiped to the next message.

  That one was from Katy. OMG so hot today! I took squibs rug off this morning, somehow he found the only mud in the paddock and rolled. Sorry, she’d written, then sent a photo of my grey pony, plastered with mud and looking extremely pleased with himself.

  You egg you know hes a dirt magnet! I texted back, wondering how much time I was going to have after work to ride if I had to scrub all that mud off him first. Maybe I’d just ride bareback and take him to the river for a swim. He’d like that.

  The third message on my phone was from my boyfriend Harry, who Anders had renamed Scud. That wasn’t an insult, it was his nickname. He played rugby with Anders in our school’s First XV – well, he’d used to. He still played, but Anders didn’t, on account of now only having one functioning knee.

  Hey weedkiller hope ur havin fun mum wants u to come over fr dinner on weds nite ru free mayb we can catch a movie after so let me know k x

  I read it twice, mentally inserting the punctuation Harry had left out.

  Sure count me in, I wrote back, then sent it as the truck jolted to a stop outside the local bakery. Dad’s phone rang as he pulled the handbrake, and he answered it while shutting off the diesel engine.

  “Hi Lexi. What’s up?” Dad reached into his back pocket for his wallet and threw it across the seat towards me. “Steak and cheese pie and a Coke,” he said before returning to his call. “Yes, I’m listening. Anders did what?”

  I jumped out of the truck and crossed the hot tarmac towards the bakery. My sister Lexi was on the autism spectrum, and while she was classified as ‘highly functional’, she didn’t cope well with change. Having Anders moping around the house all day was not something she was used to, especially since he’d been coping with his boredom by purposely driving her up the wall.

  The door to the bakery chimed as I pushed it open, and I inhaled the delicious smells of fresh bread and pastries with a smile. There were rows of cream donuts and custard squares and tightly wrapped chicken sandwiches behind the curved glass panels, and a little girl in front of me was leaving steamy breath on the glass as she gazed longingly at thick slabs of lolly cake.

  “Will that be
all?” the girl behind the counter asked when I finally made it to the front of the line.

  “Um…” I opened Dad’s wallet and discovered a wad of twenty dollar notes. Who carried that much cash around these days? “Actually, no. Can I have a couple of cream donuts as well?”

  Dad was just getting off the phone with Lexi when I got back to the truck, my hands full of paper bags.

  “Okay, good. See you later. Bye.” He hung up the phone and looked at me. “Your brother is a pain in the neck.”

  “That’s not news to me,” I said, passing him a pie as I tucked my Coke bottle between my knees and unscrewed the cap.

  Dad gingerly bit into his pie, then peered inside at the orange filling and pulled a face. “What is this travesty?”

  “Far too delicious to waste on you. Swap.” I held out the other pie to him and took back my butter chicken one.

  “I don’t know how you can eat that.”

  “I don’t know how you can resist,” I replied.

  “Don’t forget to blow on it,” Dad warned, watching steam billow out of my pie as I tore off some of the pastry crust with my teeth.

  “Dad, I’m sixteen years old,” I reminded him. “I know how to eat a pie.”

  He just shook his head. “Where does the time go, eh? Seems like only yesterday you were crawling around in nappies, putting anything and everything in your mouth.” He looked at my pie. “Some things never change.”

  “Don’t go getting all nostalgic on me,” I said. “Admit it, you can’t wait until we’ve all flown the nest and you and Mum can both retire.”

  He smiled at me but said nothing, and for the first time I wondered whether he had a retirement plan. Mum had always been the breadwinner in the family. Her career as a police detective meant that Dad was the one who’d been around most during my childhood, and I wondered idly if he’d ever had bigger ambitions. Distracted, I took a larger bite of pie than I should have, and promptly burnt my tongue.

  “Ow!”

  “What’d I just tell you?”

  I carefully finished my mouthful as he took a long swig of his drink. “Yeah, okay. You might have a bit of wisdom lodged up in that brain of yours.”

  Dad grinned. “Who needs a university education when you’ve got common sense?”

  “Not you,” I agreed, and he nodded.

  “I do appreciate you helping me out,” he told me. “I’m sure this wasn’t how you were planning to spend your holidays.”

  “It’s fine,” I assured him. “Just as long as we’re clear that I’m only here for the money.”

  “I’m under no illusions there,” Dad assured me with a smile. “So what’s Harry up to these days? I haven’t seen him for a while.”

  “He’s good. Busy helping his dad, too,” I told him.

  “Must be a bit of training involved in that job,” Dad commented, and I nodded.

  Harry’s father Rick was a farrier, and I’d first met Harry when he’d come along on a shoeing run to Katy’s place. Harry was a year older than me, tall and fit with reddish-brown hair, green eyes and a cheeky smile, and I’d liked him from the start, but had struggled to believe that he actually liked me back. He’d flirted, sure, but he’d flirted with everyone, including Lexi, so I hadn’t taken him seriously, not until he’d invited me along on an indoor rock climbing trip with him and some friends on New Year’s Day. Sure, Anders had gone as well, but Harry had stuck by my side like glue, insisting on belaying me the whole time, encouraging me to climb up the highest walls and cheering me on when I made it to the top. And when we were walking back to the car, he’d grabbed my hand and pulled me out of sight of the others, and then he’d kissed me.

  I’d been on cloud nine on the way home, until Anders had somehow crashed the car and I’d woken up in hospital with a broken collarbone and a bad concussion. Harry had come in to visit me there regularly, and we’d started officially dating just before school started again.

  “He’s a nice boy,” Dad said, breaking into my thoughts as he balled up his empty paper bag, tossing it onto the seat between us. “At least, he seems to be.”

  “Relax, Dad. He is,” I assured him. “I wouldn’t be going out with him otherwise.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Dad cleared his throat and picked up his donut. “But you know, even nice boys can make mistakes, or use bad judgement. If Harry ever puts you into a position you’re not comfortable with, you should know that –”

  “Woah,” I said quickly. “I know, Dad. I’ve got two big brothers, remember? And I’m no wilting flower. I can take care of myself.”

  Dad had gone red, but he persevered. “I know you think you can, but it’s easy for situations to get out of your control. I know you’ll stick up for yourself,” he continued with a small smile. “But remember, just because he’s your boyfriend, doesn’t mean you have to do what he wants you to. Ever. No means no, and he has to respect that. And just because you did something once, doesn’t mean you have to do it again if you don’t want to.”

  Awkward. I blew harder on my pie filling, staring at the dusty dashboard in front of me instead of looking at my dad. “Got it. Thanks.”

  Dad lifted his donut to his mouth, and I felt myself relax. Then he lowered it again, and looked at me. “You’d tell someone, wouldn’t you?” he asked. “If Harry did anything like that. If he ever forced you, or forced himself –”

  “Oh my god, Dad,” I said quickly, feeling the heat rise to my face. “Are you going to start telling me about the birds and the bees next? Because trust me, I already know all about that.” I caught his startled expression and laughed. “Not from experience, don’t worry. But I’m sixteen, and I have the internet. I know how the world works.”

  He frowned. “What you see on the internet probably isn’t –”

  “Not what I meant!” I said quickly, in case he thought I was watching porn or something. “But I get it. I do. I’m all read up on consent, and it’s all good. Really. Don’t let him do anything I don’t want him to do, and if he does, tell someone right away.” I reached over and wound the truck window down, letting a light breeze into the cab. “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”

  Dad laughed. He looked as embarrassed as I felt, and I appreciated that he’d made the effort, despite our mutual embarrassment.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured my father. “Anders has it under control. He’s always hanging around when Harry comes over, keeping an eye on us. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was jealous.”

  I’d expected Dad to laugh, but he didn’t. “Speaking of Anders, you got any idea how we can cheer your brother up?”

  “Give him a functioning knee?” I suggested lightly, glad to change the subject.

  “Aside from that.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think there’s anything we can do. Nothing’s going to change the fact that his rugby career is over.”

  Like many young boys in New Zealand, Anders had dreamed of playing professional rugby. The difference between him and most of those boys was that he’d actually had a real shot at it, what with his natural talent, solid work ethic and charismatic personality. He had been on a few different selectors’ radars, but the multiple knee surgeries he’d needed after the car crash meant that he was unlikely to ever walk without a limp, let alone run at high speed or sidestep the opposition like he used to. His rugby career was over before it had begun, and my brother was starting the painful process of redefining himself. So much of his identity had been wrapped up in his rugby aspirations, just like mine was wrapped up in my dreams for Squib’s future achievements, and it was hard for any of us to predict where Anders would go from here.

  Dad ate the rest of his cream donut in silence, then dusted the icing sugar off his hands. “Well, guess we’d better get moving. I told Mrs Cooper that we’d come by and start putting in her new trellis this arvo.”

  He started up the truck again as I balled up my empty pie bag and tossed it onto the seat next to me. My donut s
at there, its cream filling seeping into the brown paper and turning it soggy. In a fleeting moment of altruism, I wondered if I should save it and take it home for Anders, to try and cheer him up. But the hot sun was pouring in through the windscreen and heating the cab, and the cream donut wouldn’t be worth eating by the time it got to him. I picked it up and took a bite, my selflessness disappearing as quickly as it had arrived.

  The last thing Anders needed was my pity, anyway. He had more than enough of his own.

  2

  PRODIGAL SON

  “Hello pony, highlight of my day,” I greeted Squib a few hours later, flinging my arms around his solid grey neck.

  Squib nuzzled my dirty jeans, seeking out food but only finding a grubby pair of gardening gloves that I’d shoved in my back pocket. He pulled these out with his teeth and tossed them onto the grass, then gave me a plaintive look as if to ask where the treats were.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, buddy. But if you come for a ride, I’ll give you a feed afterwards,” I tempted him.

  Squib seemed to accept this compromise, allowing me to lead him by a handful of his short mane out of his paddock and across the yard into the stables. Well, we called them stables, but really they were individual looseboxes built under the corrugated iron canopy of the old tractor shed. The walls and doors were chest height and made of solid wood, and each box had rubber matting and a thin bed of shavings, since the ponies were rarely kept in overnight.

  I swung the nearest stable door open and let Squib walk in. He immediately went to check the feed bucket in the corner while I fetched his bridle. My pony had packed on so much muscle lately that his old Wintec saddle didn’t fit him too well anymore, so my friend Susannah had generously loaned me one of hers. It was a gorgeous imported Antares jumping saddle that fit Squib like a glove and was a dream to ride in, but I still held my breath every time I used it, for fear of scuffing it up or doing some kind of irreparable damage, knowing that it was worth far more than I could afford to replace.