‘Everything’s dandy, Alice.’ Paige was on her feet, waving one hand in Alice’s direction and beckoning Aiden with the other. ‘Aiden, please, I’m sorry. Alice, go back to bed. Aiden, wait!’
30
Paige flinched as the fluorescent kitchen light buzzed and clicked on, jolting the headache currently waging a war behind both temples. Alice put a glass of cold orange-coloured juice on the table and swiped the bottle of limoncello away, disgusted.
‘Try some of this.’
‘What is it?’ Paige asked jadedly.
‘Vitamin C—without the alcohol this time. Drink it all and get yourself to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.’
‘You’re right, Alice, coming out here hasn’t achieved anything, unless you call making things worse an achievement.’ Paige fingered the iPad, idle at the centre of the table, towards her. She flipped open the cover and tapped the photo file, opening the picture that had been partly behind this calamitous trip—the photo her six-year-old daughter had chosen for her project, the one of Nancy looking relaxed and competent, astride a tall mount. She was cradling a baby in one arm and holding the reins of the smaller horse, its blaze bearing distinctive marks. Paige paused, her finger hovering on the screen and the six speckled bean-like shapes accumulated on the smaller animal’s forehead. Focusing all this time on her mother and the signage board in the background, Paige had paid little attention to the other elements, including the man on the right, barely half of him in shot. At first glance she’d thought he had control of the small horse’s reins and was holding a horse blanket in the other arm. But as she looked closer, the zoom feature on the iPad helping a little, she saw poking out of the blanket, barely in frame, a crying baby’s buckled face.
‘Alice?’ she said, widening her thumb and index finger to further enlarge the grainy image. This photo was the only picture Paige had of Nancy as a young woman. The rest, according to Alice, had been lost the day the hot water heater in the cupboard of their flat ruptured. Once back home Paige intended asking Giles to recommend someone who might do a professional reprint of this one for posterity. Maybe she’d see if they could enlarge or enhance the photo to make things clearer. ‘I hadn’t taken much notice of this guy in the picture with Mum before now. Who do you reckon he is?’
Alice patted her chest where her glasses usually hung on a gold chain around her neck. ‘Goodness, without my glasses . . .’ she said, bending over Paige’s shoulder to examine the photo, the glance too brief, in Paige’s estimation, for the conclusive, ‘I’m afraid I’d have no idea who he is.’
‘I wish I’d brought the original photo with me. Maybe Matilda’s cropping has been a little over-zealous. Was there a date on the back? I can’t recall—’
‘I’m sorry, Paige,’ Alice interrupted. ‘I’m a little too frazzled to even contemplate remembering.’
‘What you said was that the baby Mum is holding isn’t me. What about the other baby? And who’s the guy holding it, I wonder?’
‘Paige, can we not do this tonight? It’s late. I’m going to bed. I suggest you do the same.’
Guilt consumed Paige. It hadn’t occurred to her that fixating on her mother’s picture and probing Nancy’s past might be upsetting for Alice—and all on top of the anniversary of Nancy’s passing. In Paige’s selfish attempt to distract herself from Aiden and her failing marriage she was reminding Alice of the heartbreaking loss of her partner and just how alone she was, and had been for years.
Poor Alice. There could be no second chances for her and Nancy. Cancer had done their choosing. It chose her mother, robbing Alice and Paige each of a piece of their hearts.
Alone in the kitchen but too wired to sleep, Paige stretched her legs by wandering from room to room through the museum-like areas ordinarily off-limits to little Liam. The moon—nearly full—lit the way. Furnishings were sparse but elaborate, with lots of dark wood and brown leather. She could picture the fireplace roaring in winter and the two winged armchairs pulled close, the property owner, whisky and cigarette in hand, enjoying quiet time with his adoring wife. What appeared to be a very large tapestry rug was rolled up and pushed against one wall to expose dark floorboards, scuffed and dulled over the years. Along another wall sat packing cartons, sagging from sitting for too long, as though someone had been planning to move out and didn’t. Rather than pictures, dusty outlines on mildew-speckled walls were in themselves oddly intriguing in the moonlight. Only one frame—with photograph—remained, taking pride of place above the mantelpiece. The small brass picture light fixed above the frame came to life when Paige flicked the switch, illuminating the intricate detail of a prize-winning horse draped in trophy ribbons.
‘A painted horse,’ she said aloud, peering closer at the small metal plague engraved with:
Rijol Pinto
Hall of Fame—National Paint Horse Association
Rijol pinto? Paige racked her brain. There was a blog post she’d written some time ago about, of all things, legumes. She flipped open the iPad still in her hands, launched her Half-Baked Blog website and typed the article’s title as search criteria. Not a hard title to remember: ‘Bean There, Done That’. The slow download of her post made for an agonising wait, but there it was, in her own words . . .
‘Rijol pinto is Spanish, meaning . . . speckled bean?’ She flicked back to the photo of her mother and tried to zoom in on the small pony, but the image was too grainy for the detail she sought. ‘A painted horse,’ she repeated aloud, her gaze flicking back and forth between the iPad and the hanging picture. The pattern and placement of markings were remarkably similar to each other, and to—an image flashed before her—the old horse in the paddock.
‘Hello!’
Paige jumped at the unexpected voice.
Sharni was propped in the doorway, one leg crossed over the other. ‘Bumped into Aiden just now at the pub. He looked set for a session, with no shortage of blokes happy to buy him a beer. Like he needed another drink—not.’
‘Oh?’ Paige shut the iPad cover.
‘Oh shit would be closer,’ Sharni said. ‘What the hell’s going on with Aiden? I knew Rory would get to him, but I didn’t expect this reaction.’
‘What do you mean—reaction?’
‘That man’s an exploding bloody volcano. And not far off blowing his top. I tried to find out, but he’s not talking.’
‘I’m not sure it’s about Rory.’
‘Who then?’
‘We kind of had a fight tonight.’
‘Ooh, lovers’ spat?’ Sharni seemed to relax a little. ‘Do tell. What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ Paige said, deciding to make Alice’s day tomorrow by agreeing to head home. ‘And everything.’ In fact, she would start packing their bags tonight. But first she needed an answer.
‘Can I ask you a question, Sharni? This has nothing to do with Aiden.’
‘Sure, fire away.’
‘Is it possible a horse can be around forty years of age and still be standing?’
‘It’s not im-possible. We’re all living longer; animals are no exception. With veterinary science, today’s domestic horses can easily live for up to twenty-five or thirty years, so it’s nowhere near as uncommon any more for a horse to make forty. Like all of us, it depends how they’re treated. I also think it can depend on how much they want to live. I remember reading something about the oldest horse ever recorded was somewhere around sixty-two when it died. Not much of an existence, I don’t reckon, but it must’ve had a reason to stick around. I recall the owner died not long before the horse. Maybe there was a connection. Why do you ask?’
‘The pinto horse in the paddock . . . That’s right, isn’t it? I’m referring to the old horse in the tartan coat.’
‘Yeah, she’s a pinto. A painted horse to some. What about it?’
‘You said it had always lived on this property. I was curious.’
‘Reckon Rory would be the best person to ask. The property used to have quite a few at one point
. This one was a real champion.’ Sharni moved closer and pointed to the framed photo. ‘Horses with a pale eye like that are often called wall-eyed, and the irregular blaze is something special. Anyway, I’m beat. I’ll pop in to check on Liam before I hit the hay. See you in the morning.’
‘Oh, okay, thanks. And I will ask Rory.’
No disturbing nightmares had been responsible for waking Paige; at 2 am she remained wide awake in her room. When her imaginary metronome failed her, and the sheep counting morphed into painted horses with blazes like a cluster of pinto beans, it was clear there was something she needed to do if she was to enjoy a skerrick of sleep. Dragging her arms through the sleeves of her white terry-towelling robe, Paige tiptoed down the hallway. She located the torch that sat at the back door to the kitchen. The battery must have been dying because the beam barely cut through the dark night. Luckily, the almost-full moon seemed more than adequate to safely traverse the well-worn path from the house to the top paddocks.
Two of the horses lifted their heads as the torchlight shone over their faces. Aiden’s big black stallion shied softly, as if he knew better than to make a ruckus and wake a sleeping household. Shame Paige didn’t know any better. The older horse, the one Paige wanted to see up close, hardly lifted its head to the flickering beam, despite various forms of quiet encouragement from Paige: clicking her mouth, snapping her fingers, whispering the words, ‘Come ’ere, girl.’
‘You won’t budge that one. Every step probably hurts at her age.’
Paige gasped, swinging the torchlight until it caught on a face with a bejewelled nose. Two hands, fingers splayed, attempt to block the beam of light.
‘Rory!’
‘Ah, yes! You wanna try shining that fucking light somewhere else?’
‘Sorry, y-you frightened me,’ Paige gushed in hushed tones. It might have taken her a few seconds to recognise the ghostly face—now without the pink hair, false eyelashes and makeup—but not the language, or the slight sibilance that exaggerated every es-word with a hissing noise.
‘I frightened you?’ Rory huffed. ‘You’re the one sneaking around in the dark at midnight shining torches in people’s faces.’
The moon reacted like ultra-violet light, brightening the woman’s floppy white canvas gardening hat that drooped low over one eye.
‘Yeah, sorry, I had a thought—about a horse.’
‘And it couldn’t wait until daylight?’
The sarcastic quip was enough to make Paige return with her own comment about wearing a hat when there was no sun. She refrained. ‘It was more a question than a thought.’
‘And you were planning on asking the horses? The only talking horse I know is Mr Ed on the telly. Oh, crap, why am I talking about crappy talking horses and black and white TV shows?’ She made to leave, stopping after a couple of paces to turn around. ‘As a matter of interest, what’s the question?’
‘I was wondering how old that horse is—the pinto. That is what the breed’s called?’
‘Yeah, she’s a pinto. You have some weird desire to know the age of my horse in the middle of the night?’
‘Your horse?’
‘She is now.’
Maybe it was the late hour, or the moonlight, but something had softened the brash woman Paige had wanted to duel with in the paddocks earlier today.
‘Where did you get her? Do you mind me asking?’
‘Guess you could say I inherited her. Cared for her and fed her all my life—until I left town, that is. So if anyone can claim her it would be me. Oh, and if you want her to move, try bread and peanut butter.’
Paige was only half listening, her head thumping from the million thoughts banging away at her brain. Yes, she was still suffering the cold shoulder from Alice and the unwelcome feeling from Rory this afternoon. The situation with Aiden still plagued her, and clearly she was not of a sound mind to come traipsing out here in the dark on a whim. Paige was about to ask Rory to come back to the house and look at the photo on the iPad when . . .
‘Well, I have to go back to bed. Gotta be in Saddleton early tomorrow.’
‘You’ll have to take the back road. Oh, and be careful at Drovers.’ Inside Paige groaned. The advice was hardly necessary for a local, and probably accounted for the part smile, part scowl expression on the woman’s face.
‘You know Drovers well?’
‘Aiden and I . . .’ Paige fumbled. ‘Well, we rescued a cow out that way.’
‘Ha! That guy’s always rescuing something.’
‘He said you were the one always doing the rescuing.’
Rory tilted her head curiously, then laughed. ‘Yeah, well, show me a fucking bloke who’ll admit to being a softy. He tried his knight in shining armour act on me a couple of times when we were kids, only I never needed rescuing. I needed saving; there’s a difference. Anyway, I don’t have to go via Drovers. I was at the pub tonight. As he was calling last drinks Banjo announced all roads open. As long as the rain stays light overnight, the highway will be good to go.’
Rory had been at the pub, too? Sharni hadn’t mentioned her, only that an upset Aiden had been there.
‘Well, I’m really sorry I woke you.’
‘You didn’t wake me. I don’t sleep too good. Never have. I have this alarm programmed inside me. Come 2 am I’m usually wide awake. That’s how come I saw your torchlight on the veranda. Only I’d say we’re not the only ones awake.’ Rory nodded at the gap in the curtains of Alice’s room. She seemed to hesitate, turning towards Paige. ‘Maybe we can talk more some time. I can answer horse questions. And we have something else in common we can talk about.’
‘We do? What?’
‘Aiden.’ Giving Paige no time to dismiss the assertion, Rory went on. ‘Has he told you about me? How I ran off and broke his heart? I did, you know.’
The last thing Paige wanted after the episode with Aiden was to get into a conversation about him with his ex, but curiosity won. Aiden had suggested she and Rory were somehow alike.
Not likely!
Paige saw no similarity between her and the foul-mouthed Rory. If anyone was alike it was Paige and Aiden: both betrayed, both biding their time in an out-of-the-way country town, both licking their wounds. For lots of reasons, Paige didn’t want to be compared to Rory. Mostly she didn’t want to remind the man of his first love. Why even hang on to a first love? Mall Man came to mind, briefly. At least he’d been honest with Paige and the security guard about his sad story.
As much as Paige didn’t want to judge a person she hardly knew, there was no missing the hostile aura that surrounded this woman. Sharni had alluded to Rory being frosty, and right now, standing in this dark paddock comparing Rory’s version of their relationship to Aiden’s, Paige had to agree she seemed quite hard. She also seemed to be getting ready to stake her claim on Aiden.
For every good reason to lie there’s a better reason to tell the truth
Bo Bennett
31
Alice
The picturesque view from Alice’s room by day was not what had Alice’s nose pressed against the glass at three in the morning. With the moon close to full, she could easily make out Paige’s white terry robe, with what she guessed were her pale blue pyjama pants poking out the bottom. The other woman wore dark clothes and a white hat with a ridiculously broad brim.
Alice peered through her bedroom window at the girl she’d wondered about all these years. Even when Paige had discovered the old photograph, igniting her curiosity about a place called Saddleton and prompting a road trip to the country, Alice hadn’t panicked—not really. She knew they’d be kilometres away from Nancy’s hometown, with little likelihood of them finding themselves in Coolabah Tree Gully. Tonight, trapped in this unloved house bursting with memories of Nancy, the perils and possibilities of the situation left Alice breathless, shaking, desperate.
Alice’s eyes stung, either from staring into the dark or from the snapshots of a young Nancy clicking through her mind. There’d been
no tapping of fingers on electronic devices to bring up photographs in Alice’s day. The old View-Master she remembered having as a child, its cardboard disk of transparencies snapping into place with the press of a trigger, had told a story one frame at a time. The imaginary View-Master in Alice’s mind right now was helping her be a witness to Nancy’s life in this house as a young woman and a new mother. When an image of the loft from Nancy’s story snapped into view, she faltered. Alice was certain, from the few times they’d talked, that Nancy had claimed Teresa responsible for devising their secret rendezvous place, for lighting the kerosene lamp as a code, and drawing Nancy out of the shadows and out of her shell; even arranging the early morning escape—to new lives, together forever.
Alice was now questioning everything she knew about Nancy, but as the imaginary slide show continued there was no mistaking one thing; Rory, Aiden’s childhood friend, was Nancy’s Aurora. Alice had needed no introduction. She didn’t need to see the girl’s face or hear the sibilance in her speech—the same impediment that had once plagued Paige. Either the stroke or the therapy that followed had somehow freed Paige’s tongue, working the annoying trait from her speech ninety-nine per cent of the time.
This girl was Aurora Dawn, born with a silver halo of hair, the dawn’s pure light, while Ebony Paige had arrived first, an hour earlier on a moonless night. Nancy had loved her horses and both Black Beauty and The Silver Brumby had been favourite stories. Finally Nancy had her own black-haired beauty and a silver-haired baby girl.
Her yin and yang.
‘Can you see that, Nancy? Your perfect union of opposites is right there,’ Alice muttered, never expecting to find herself this close to the truth, to the secret, and to the promise she’d made.
Sensing the women’s scrutiny in the dark, Alice pulled away to let the curtain fall back into place and closed her eyes.
An improbable set of circumstances.
An impossible situation.
How long could she hold on to the truth? Should she hold on?
Season of Shadow and Light Page 34