by Karen Wood
KAREN WOOD
First published in 2011
Copyright © Karen Wood 2011
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 prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 1 74237 316 4
Cover photo by Bill Bachman / Wildlight
Cover and text design by Ruth Grüner
Set in 11.3 pt Apollo MT by Ruth Grüner
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
For Jack Bradley and Matty Glenn
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
Acknowledgements
About the Author
1
‘LAST ONE! ’yelled Tom, as he sent a bale of prime lucerne tumbling off the back of the semitrailer.
Luke let it fall to the ground end-first. It bounced, then toppled onto its side with a thud. He stabbed his hay hooks into it and with one last surge of energy heaved it up to the top of the stack, where Lawson was arranging the bales tightly in a crisscross pattern.
‘That it?’ yelled Lawson.
‘Yep,’ Luke shouted back, hanging the hooks onto the beam that ran along the wall of the shed. He was dripping with sweat, itchy from the tiny stalks and dust, and his muscles ached, but he felt great. ‘That oughta keep their bellies full for a while,’ he said, looking up at the mountain of hay.
Lawson scrambled down the side of the stack like a mountain goat and brushed the loose green leaves from the front of his shirt. ‘Eight hundred bales. I’m knackered!’
‘Chuck us the water bottle, Luke.’ Tom let himself down onto the edge of the empty trailer and sat with his legs hanging over.
Luke tossed a bottle to him, and looked around for a broom. He swept the loose hay into a pile, then leaned on the rake while he looked around the hay shed.
It had taken the three of them all weekend to empty it out for the hay. There’d been stacks of old tyres, drums of diesel, old snigging chains and the skeletal remains of a vintage car. Beneath that they’d found rags, dead mice and mounds of composted God-only-knew-what. They’d salvaged anything worthy, taken the rest to the tip, shovelled up the rotting remains and pressure-hosed the concrete floor. In its place stood the proud castle of leafy green lucerne, enough to last the winter.
Luke got back to sweeping. The sooner he could get this cleaned up, the sooner he could go and find Harry. The old man had been looking brighter this morning. He might even come and do the afternoon feeds. There was a tonne of things Luke wanted Harry to look at down the paddock. He wanted to show him that filly’s leg and ask what he wanted done with the western fence.
‘Hey, Luke!’ Tom’s yell from outside stopped him in his tracks. ‘Luke, quick! The stallion’s out!’
Luke dropped the broom and ran around the side of the truck. He’d been the last person to go into Biyanga’s yard, but couldn’t have left the gate unlatched; he was meticulous about that sort of thing. He stopped and glanced around quickly for Harry’s good stallion.
Everything was at peace. The mares were grazing, Grunter the pig snuffled at a leaky water trough and chooks pecked busily beneath feed bins. All seemed to be as it should at Harry’s place.
Luke looked up towards the stables and a blast of water hit him with so much force it nearly knocked him over. His arms flew up to shield his face and he stumbled backwards, coughing and spluttering while the jets of water hammered him all over.
Tom screamed with laughter and kept blasting him.
‘You’re dead, Tommo!’ Luke spluttered, rushing at his friend and groping for the hose.
Tom had been playing jokes on him all weekend: dead mice in his workboots, a broken chair leg strategically concealed. It was about time Luke got his own back.
He fought Tom for the hose, knocking him to the ground and shoving his fingers up into his armpits so hard that Tom squealed like a girl and let go. The hose snaked wildly, twisting in the air and sending arcs of water from one end of the yard to the other. A jet slashed across Lawson’s chest as he walked out of the shed to see what the commotion was. A look of thunder crossed his face.
‘Now you’ve done it.’ Luke pinned Tom’s arms down into the mud. ‘Lawson’s gonna get you bad.’ He let go of Tom and stepped aside as Lawson, bigger than the two of them put together, stormed towards them.
‘He’s all yours,’ grinned Luke. Tom squirmed in a pool of mud and looked sheepishly at Lawson.
‘Get that hose turned off and stop wasting water, Tom. You oughta know better than that.’
‘Sorry, Lawson,’ said Tom, struggling to keep a straight face.
Luke grabbed for the wayward hose and kinked it while Tom pulled himself up and walked towards the tap. Luke followed, and as soon as it was tightly shut off he made a grab for the designer undies peeping out the top of Tom’s jeans and gave his mate the biggest, hardest wedgie he could. ‘Take that back to boarding school with you,’ he laughed, and bolted for the stables, leaving Tom cursing and clutching the back of his jeans.
Harry was in the stable aisle. Luke stopped in his tracks, dripping wet, and stared at him. Harry: the big charismatic man with the twinkling blue eyes, wheezy cough and leathery skin. He looked so frail and colourless.
‘Hi, Harry,’ Luke said, shaking his arms off.
‘How’d you go with the hay?’ The old man fumbled in his pockets and brought out a pouch of tobacco.
‘All stacked,’ said Luke.
‘Any good?’
‘Nice and fresh, leafy. It’s good.’
‘Find that loose stallion?’
Luke startled. ‘I thought . . .’ He looked over Harry’s shoulder. Biyanga stood in his stable, chewing on a mouthful of hay.
Harry chuckled. ‘Tom got you a beauty.’
Luke watched Tom walk into the building, still pulling at his backside. ‘I got him better.’
‘You nearly cut me in half,’ grumbled Tom, as he walked to the feedroom. ‘Feeding up?’
Luke pulled the ute keys out of his pocket and jangled them. ‘Sunday, they all get hay!’ He looked hopefully at the old man, who stood there hand-rolling a ciggie. ‘Gonna come, Harry?’
Harry slowly ran his tongue along the edge of the cigarette paper and then rolled it shut between his fingers and thumbs. He shrugged. ‘Yeah, Annie’ll kill me if she sees me smoking this thing.’
>
Luke’s heart leapt. Harry hadn’t been down to the paddock for over a week. He must be feeling a lot better. Luke walked over to the old man and took him gently by the arm.
Harry shook him off. ‘No need for that,’ he grumbled and shuffled towards the ute, taking big, laboured breaths. ‘You drive.’
Luke ran to yank the door open for him, then jumped into the driver’s seat. ‘You’re in the back, Tom!’
Tom came out of the feedroom looking sharp in a fresh change of city clothes. ‘Can’t,’ he said, slinging a pack over his shoulder. ‘Dad’s here.’ A horn honked out the front of the property. ‘See you in a few weeks, okay?’
Luke slumped. It had been good having Tom around for the weekend. ‘Thanks for the help with the hay,’ he said, closing the door and winding the window down.
‘Look after my horse for me!’ Tom ran to the gate.
Luke waved out the window and then glanced at Harry, who was lighting up – unbelievable. Luke crunched the ute into gear, pumped the accelerator, then hung his head and half his body out the window while reversing to the top of the laneway. After opening the gate, he kept reversing, all the way down.
At the bottom he pulled his head back into the cabin. Harry stared at him with a puzzled expression.
‘Something with the crankshaft,’ shrugged Luke. ‘Lawson’s gonna look at it this week.’ He yanked on the handbrake.
Harry raised an eyebrow, then dragged in a lungful of smoke, wheezing and spluttering as he exhaled.
Luke tried not to listen to it. How a man with lung cancer could keep sucking on those things was beyond him. ‘I tightened up all those fences, replaced two of the posts,’ he said, pointing to the other side of the mares’ paddock. ‘They came up real good. And I fixed the ball–cock in the trough. It runs heaps better now.’
Harry kept coughing. Luke walked to the back of the ute and grabbed a whole bale of hay. He’d show Harry the cut on that filly’s leg once he got them all fed. It wasn’t healing right. Out in the paddock, he spread the bale out between the horses, then headed back for another one.
Harry was slumped over in the front of the ute with his eyes closed.
‘Oh no, Harry.’ Luke broke into a run, leapt the fence in a bound and yanked the door open. In the front seat, Harry took long squeaky pulls for air. The ciggie smouldered quietly, burning into his trousers. Luke grabbed it and flicked it out of the car. ‘You okay, Harry?’
Harry didn’t respond.
Luke gave him a gentle shake. ‘Harry?’
The old man squeezed his eyes shut and sucked harder for air.
Luke slammed the door and ran to the driver’s side. He crunched and crunched at the gears, but couldn’t get it into first. ‘Hang in there, Harry.’ He pressed the horn on the steering wheel and a limp whine came out. Leaping out and dragging the gate open, he yelled ‘Lawson!’ as loudly as he could. ‘Hold on, Harry!’
Luke reversed at full speed into the mares’ paddock, scattering the horses, then hit the brakes and sent the ute into a one-eighty. He reversed back out, not bothering with the gate and flew backwards straight up the laneway, bumping and banging the whole way. Harry slumped onto the dashboard, fighting for breath.
He yelled for Lawson again as he entered the stable yard. Lawson came running. He opened Harry’s door and immediately reached into his pocket for his phone.
‘He can’t breathe!’ said Luke, as he leaned across and helped Harry to sit back. The old man’s eyes were wide open and his neck strained. ‘He’s not getting any air in at all!’
While Lawson gave the nearest crossroad to the triple-0 service, Annie ran up behind him. She pulled him out of the way and knelt down by Harry. ‘What’ve you done to yourself, love?’ she said gently, holding her husband up. She looked across at Luke. ‘Was he sneaking fags again?’
Luke froze. He didn’t want to dob on the old man.
‘Was he or not?’ snapped Annie.
Luke nodded.
Annie set her lips tight and shook her head. ‘You’ve got lung cancer, you old fool!’ She pulled a puffer from her pocket and tried to squirt it into Harry’s mouth. ‘Try to breathe in, love.’ She turned to Lawson. ‘How long till they get here?’
‘Twenty minutes.’
‘He won’t last twenty minutes!’ Annie began frantically squeezing the inhaler at Harry’s lips. ‘Come on, love, breathe.’
‘Help me sit him up,’ said Lawson. Luke reached across the ute and helped to hold the old man up.
‘Don’t you give up, Harry!’ said Lawson. ‘Keep trying. Get that air in.’
Harry lifted his head and sucked for air.
‘That’s it, relax your shoulders, stay calm,’ said Lawson. ‘Keep trying, the ambulance is coming, you just gotta keep sucking in what air you can, old man.’
2
WEEKS LATER, Luke lay in his bed with his arms over his face. Harry’s snore, jagged and erratic, vibrated along the hallway, reaching his room and rattling at the door. Luke hated the snoring. No matter how many times he told himself it was just Harry, that sound made the walls close in on him. Memories of other foster homes came crashing into his head. He rolled onto his side, pulling a thin cotton sheet over his bare shoulder. He covered his head with his arms again and tried to think of something better.
But it didn’t work. Another snore ripped through the night, choked and raspy.
Luke didn’t know what was going to happen once Harry’s old lungs finally gave out. All he knew was that there would be some big changes, but no one had talked about what those changes might be. To do so would be premature, disrespectful. Until now, everyone had carried on as usual. Harry had faded more and more into the background while Luke and Lawson had tried to keep the property running for him.
Everything will work out. Harry won’t let anything bad happen to me.
Luke closed his eyes and tried to sleep again, but his legs wouldn’t stay still. Eventually, he pushed the sheet off and sat up. It was a hot night and he wore only a pair of shorts. He peered out the window, then gently slid it open and swung his legs over the sill. Outside, crickets chirruped. A horse snorted softly down at the stables. Biyanga: he recognised the deep, throaty tone of a stallion.
On the mossy pavers of the courtyard lay a carpet of decomposing flowers from a big old jacaranda tree. Annie and Harry had afternoon tea under that tree in the summer months. It was their special place. Luke had seen them kissing on more than one occasion, just a bit of a peck, but it was still all lovey-dovey, which was kind of gross. They were so . . . old. Too old for that sort of carryon, anyway.
He heard one last snore as he closed the window and padded across the courtyard. He came to the back wall of the stables and slipped through the small door leading into the building.
The stable aisle was cool and dark. Biyanga sniffed at the air and gave a low rumbling greeting as Luke walked softly along the concrete towards Legsy’s stall. Other horses shuffled through the thick wood shavings, their joints clicking quietly. They peered over the stable doors with curious faces.
Luke held out his hand and found Legsy’s muzzle. It was cool and whiskery and nipped lazily at his empty hand. ‘Hey,’ he whispered and ran his hand over the colt’s warm, satiny neck. Legsy ran his muzzle up over Luke’s shoulder and sniffed at his hair. It gave him goosebumps and brought a smile to his face. Legsy was one of the first horses he had ever gentled; they were best of buddies. He wore a red rug, the prize they had won together at the last campdraft. ‘Did I wake you up?’ Luke mumbled. ‘Lucky fella, at least you can sleep.’
He walked to the feedroom, pulled the door across and slid into the blackness. Groping his way to the back wall, he found a pile of horse rugs in the corner. He pulled them up in armfuls, carried them out into the aisle and tossed them on the ground. Then he flopped down into them and breathed in the salty horse sweat, the earthy dried mud, the lucerne and pine. A tiny breeze ran along the cool concrete and over his bare shoulder. The steady munch
of a horse chewing hay, the shift of hooves over the soft wood shavings, the faint whistle of Legsy’s breathing rocked him gently into sleep.
A clatter of horseshoes on concrete jolted Luke into the new day. Biyanga called loud throaty whinnies and banged at his stable door with his front hoof. Legsy squealed excitedly. Luke pulled himself out of the pile of horse rugs and cursed himself for sleeping in. It was hot already and a pulsing headache thudded against his skull.
Grace Arnold, Harry’s thirteen-year-old niece, sat on a grey horse wearing old jeans, a singlet and black helmet. Although she was a slob, a tomboy, a loudmouth and general pain in the butt, she was about the bravest girl rider Luke had ever met. She would get on anything. The horse she sat on now looked young and gangly – probably a breaker, judging by the big old poley saddle she was sitting in, and the way it shifted about nervously, scraping its metal shoes over the slippery concrete.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘Did you sleep there?’
‘What does it look like?’ Luke got to his feet and began bundling up the rugs.
‘No need to be snappy,’ said Grace, slipping off the horse and tethering it.
Luke knew he shouldn’t be short with her, but his head was pounding. He carried the rugs into the feedroom. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, as he pushed past her, but not before he caught her eyes running over his broken, lumpy ribs. He usually kept them well hidden.
‘Why did you sleep down here?’ Grace asked again. ‘Is there a sick horse or something?’
‘Legs was a bit colicky,’ he lied. ‘Can you feed up?’ He stalked off to get some breakfast. It was Sunday – his day off.
Back at the house, he didn’t bother showering. Standing with the fridge door open, he skulled the last of the juice and chucked the empty carton in the bin. He scoffed ten honey-smothered Weet-Bix, two more than comfortably fit in his stomach, and went to his room to get changed. He could hear Harry wheezing from the end of the hallway as he pulled a T-shirt over his head. It didn’t sound as if the oxygen tank was doing him much good.