“Don’t look so worried.” Francesca smiled. “It’s unlikely to bite.”
Squatting down in the driveway, Essie reached in and pulled out a blue check cotton horse rug. She knew immediately that it was one of Chet’s old ones. Next came a woollen check Chet had won at a comp, and lastly an old showerproof rug that had seen better days.
She looked up to see Francesca smiling down at her. “Looks like your dad has come around to the idea of this pony then.”
Reaching down into the bottom of the bag, Essie pulled out three brushes and a folded piece of paper. Opening it, she read out, “Dear Hope, I’ll organise to get your other stuff to you. Regards, Caroline.”
Essie kept her head down, passing the note to Francesca. She felt so overwhelmed by feelings of irritation, aggravation, grievance, that she couldn’t even speak.
“That’s nice of her,” said Francesca, reading the note.
Essie knew Francesca was waiting for her to agree, but Essie didn’t look up.
“Esperance?” asked Francesca, her tone questioning. “What’s the problem?”
Standing up and shoving her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie, Essie tried to work out how to explain why this irritated her so much, but the words wouldn’t come.
Finally, taking a deep breath and looking her mum straight in the eye, Essie said, “I want her to stay out of my stuff.” Essie was surprised at how hard and dry her voice sounded. “My horse stuff is stored in the float and it has nothing to do with her. I don’t even have a bedroom at Dad’s; I stay in the spare room. The float has my stuff in it, and she has no right to touch it. She can stay on her own damn side of the line.”
Francesca was looking at her hard, like she was trying to figure out where the words were coming from, and what to say.
“I can understand about your stuff, Essie, but what side of what line do you mean?” asked Francesca, not giving Essie a chance to duck out of the conversation.
“The Dad side of the line, that Sydney side of the line, the you-and-your-old-nag-are-a-joke, Dad side of the line.” Essie looked hard at Francesca close to tears, willing her to understand.
For a long moment Francesca said nothing, and then she smiled gently at Essie. “You’re only going to make it hard for yourself, Essie, if you think about things, and especially your family in terms of lines. You are part of your dad’s life, so is Caroline, for that matter, I’m part of your dad’s life and therefore Caroline is part of mine too, whatever that connection looks like.”
“What part of his life?” Essie wanted to demand. He was going away for six months, after all. But she didn’t. She just wanted to stop the conversation right there and pretend the last ten minutes hadn’t happened, but Francesca was onto her, and was determined to have this out.
“It’s like there’s no respect for my stuff,” said Essie. “Imagine if I went through Dad or Caroline’s stuff.”
Anger flared in Essie as she remembered her dad’s ridicule. She went on. “And Caroline doesn’t just get to join in because her aunty had horses. I’d never even heard her mention horses before. And Dad doesn’t get to judge everything and everyone all the time. He should learn that not everything can be bought and not everything can be replaced.” And then, feeling the painful part that she’d never admitted to anyone, Essie choked out, “He never, ever told me he was sorry – he never apologised. Not for leaving, not for Chet.”
“Ah,” said Francesca, lowering herself down onto the edge of the verandah and folding her arms against the cold. She gazed across the lawn for a moment or two.
“I can’t explain Caroline to you, Essie, I don’t know her. As for your dad and the choices he makes, I know you think it’s all about shiny things and winning for him, but you’re different and that’s all you need to know. I don’t know what made your dad think giving Chet the drugs was an okay thing to do. Maybe he just didn’t want you to miss out after all your hard work. And you’re right, he should have said sorry long before now, but then he’d have to admit he was wrong, so I wouldn’t hold my breath. Lots of people can’t do that.”
Looking down at the pile of rugs and brushes, Essie said, “It’s like they’re cleaning me out of there bit by bit, like I make things messy, and . . .”
“And what?” said Francesca. “Could it just be she sent these things because it’s a nice thing to do?” Her tone was even.
Essie had to look away from her mum’s steady gaze. Finally, turning back to her, she said, “That’s just it, it’s like they never do something just because it’s a nice thing to do.”
Francesca smiled gently at Essie and said, “You really don’t think this is just a thoughtful gesture?”
“No,” Essie said, shrugging. “I never understand why they do things, Caroline or Dad any more, but I’ll try really hard to believe she was thinking of the pony.” Essie pulled her hands from her pockets, aggravated, before rubbing her face with a sigh. Sagging, she asked, “And I suppose you’re going to make me thank her. Do you have her number?”
“Whose number?” Francesca smiled.
“Mum, do you have Caroline’s number?” asked Essie, trying hard to take the negative tone out of her voice.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure I do. Why is that, Essie?” Francesca said, teasing her and trying to lighten the mood.
“So I can text her and thank her for sending the rugs,” Essie said.
“What about a phone call?” suggested Francesca. Essie couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.
“What about when the pony is clean and has the rugs on, I send a photo?” Essie replied.
“Deal,” Francesca said, standing up. “Let’s call Pete and get that pony washed then.”
A cold breeze chased Essie and the pony into the shed where the others were already waiting.
“Whoa, this stuff stinks,” grimaced Pete, holding the bottle of lice solution away from his face. “I think I just burnt all the hairs out of my nose.”
“It’s good for something then,” laughed Doddsy, standing with Joshy who stood on his wobbly legs.
Essie looped the lead rope through the baling twine she’d tied to a wooden rail in the packing shed, just outside the old laundry room door. It was a beautiful old shed. A cobblestone laneway ran down the middle. On warm summer days the barn smelled like apple cider.
Connie and Percy could be heard arguing in the laundry about how to fit a hose to the old tap fitting.
Rocking back on his heels, Pete said to Essie, “We could have the job done with buckets before they stop arguing.” He called out, “Come on, you lot, we haven’t got all day.”
Francesca came in with the horse rugs. “Haven’t you started yet?” she asked, laying them over an old apple box, well out of the way.
“Waiting on the plumbing engineers.” Pete smiled, just as Percy appeared with the garden hose, bright orange nozzle in hand. “I don’t know how long it will hang on for,” he said, “but it’s working for the moment. Let’s just say we’re relying heavily on electrical tape.”
“Righto,” said Pete, “let’s get wet.”
Essie turned the hose on the little mare carefully, starting with her legs, not sure what to expect. She fidgeted a little, trying to turn and look at the hose, but that was soon forgotten once they started working the solution through her coat with hands and curry comb.
“That must feel good,” said Pete, laughing as the mare moved her rump around when he stepped away, asking him to groom her more. “Have we missed anywhere?” he questioned as he walked around her.
“Don’t think so,” puffed Essie, working the solution hard through the white mane, the mare leaning her neck into her. “How long does it stay on for?” Essie asked.
Connie lifted the bottle and held it away from her face to focus. “It says ten minutes.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll keep time,” she offered.
As the minutes ticked the pony started to get agitated from being so cold, pawing anxiously at the floor.
&nb
sp; “Stand up, girl,” said Essie, tapping her on the shoulder. For a moment she stopped, but as Essie moved away the pawing started up again, she threw her head up and down, jagging against the baling twine and the old halter, which looked like it wouldn’t hold together against too much pressure.
“What’s all that about then?” asked Connie, sounding cross.
“Not sure,” said Essie, looking at the pony and wondering what to do next. She was relieved to hear Connie call “Time’s up”, and Percy respond, “I’m turning the water on.”
As Essie worked the water through the long coat, rinsing the solution out, the pony jigged around even more. Essie wasn’t sure what to do, Chet had never carried on about anything. With no other option she just kept hosing, stepping out of the mare’s way as she swung around. Essie looked to Pete, but he either wasn’t bothered, or didn’t know what to do either. Essie ignored the voice that asked what her dad would do if he was here. Well, he isn’t, she told it, and he won’t be.
Thankfully the pony didn’t seem inclined to pull back, and with no shoes on her feet, at least she wasn’t making a racket on the floor.
“Hose off, thanks,” Essie called as the last of the suds ran down the narrow gutter. Picking up a rigid plastic container lid she’d grabbed from the recycling bin, she began scraping as much water as she could from the pony’s coat. As she reached up behind her ear the mare stepped back and threw her head, giving Essie a glancing blow on the forehead and narrowly missing treading on her toes.
Frustrated, and surprised by the pain, without thinking Essie smacked her on the shoulder with her free hand which glanced off the wet coat as she said loudly, “Aach, enough!” Wet yellow ears flicked back, listening and finally she stood quietly. She was still tense and had her ears back, but at least now Essie could scrape her off and get her rugs on.
“What’s upsetting her?” said Francesca to no one in particular, handing Essie the first rug.
“Don’t know,” said Pete. “Maybe the stuff stings a bit? It sure smells like it should. Or maybe she’s just freezing, or –” he paused, deciding whether to say what he really thought, “maybe she’s just feeling better?”
Essie held the first of Chet’s old rugs up. They were going to be a bit too small for her, falling short of her tail, but it was better than nothing. Hearing Pete, Essie replied, “Well, if this is her feeling better, I hope this isn’t a taste of what she’ll be like when she feels great.”
Turning to Percy, Essie asked, “Is it all right if I hold her out on the grass in the paddock, Percy? I don’t want to put her in the stable until she dries in case she tries to roll in there.”
“Of course,” Percy replied. “Something should eat the grass aside from the kangaroos. For now, I’m freezing and going inside to the fire,” he said, “but later, let’s check the paddock over. She can’t stay in the carport all the time. Maybe you could use the paddock for her?”
“Thanks, Percy, that would be great,” said Francesca. Another problem solved.
“Thanks, everyone,” said Essie as she untied the lead rope and went to take the mare out into the weak sunshine. “Same time in a fortnight?” she didn’t wait to hear their replies.
“We really need to get you a name, don’t we, girl?” said Essie, walking through the long winter grass while the pony strolled from one green patch to the next, as if it was all so good she just couldn’t choose. As her mane slowly dried, sections started to lift in the wind. Essie couldn’t believe it had come up so white. “Imagine how you’ll look with a proper shampoo and condition,” Essie said, doing a loose plait in the mane, which she let go as the mare moved off again.
Gazing out across the paddock, Essie thought it was almost perfect for a pony. Big enough, with a line of tall poplar trees that, while bare now, would make shade in the summer. Glancing back towards the gate, she looked for somewhere they could put in a water trough. She noticed a smaller yard to the side of the shed, which would be a good place to let her loose to start with.
She heard her name and saw Francesca singing out from the letterbox. Francesca began hurrying to them. “Oh my goodness, Essie, look at this!” She held up two sheets of paper.
Francesca held out the paperwork, an expectant look on her face.
“Here,” she said, handing them over, “this should answer at least one or two of your questions.” It took a second for Essie to understand what she was holding.
“They’ve come from the auctioneer,” said Francesca, watching the realisation dawn on Essie’s face.
“It’s – it’s the pony’s registration papers,” Essie stammered, delighted.
Francesca started talking fast. “According to the note, the auctioneer found them in the office. I don’t know if that means their office, or at Victoria, but regardless, they belong to the pony.”
Essie studied the paperwork, comprehension dawning. “A German riding pony, of all things. Dad didn’t need to go to Germany to look at them,” she said, looking up at Francesca, who simply raised an eyebrow. Looking closely at the markings on the horse diagram, there was no denying it was the same horse. There was the name of her dam and sire and, all the lineage behind them, and her age, eight years old. Also clearly marked, was her brand, a capital J next to a sideways M. And there was her name.
“Is that really her name?” Essie frowned, looking from all the long, complicated names of her relatives to her pony’s short, compact one. “I don’t even know what that means.”
Francesca laughed. “I think it’s a great name. It means, among other things, bravery, courage, fearless, heart, nerve, tenacity and pluck. And that,” she laughed, “is the biggest triple word score ever.”
“All those great qualities are captured in this one word?” asked Essie, incredulous. “I’ve never even heard of it.”
“Well, now you have and I think she is fantastically named, especially considering how we came by her and the condition she was in, not to mention how far she’s come already.” Francesca laughed.
Turning to the pony, who hadn’t lifted her head from the grass, and taking a deep breath, Essie said, “Moxie?” Golden ears flicked, and she paused from eating but didn’t lift her head. “Hey, is that you, Moxie?” Essie asked. The little mare lifted her head, looking straight at her, ears forward and gave a long, deep sigh.
“Yes, that’s right, darling,” Francesca said, reaching forwards to stroke her down the face. “We know who you are.”
“Moxie Cannan,” said Essie, smiling at Francesca. “What did you say – bravery, heart, tenacity?” Smiling at her mum, she said, “We couldn’t have named her better.”
So can you ride her?” Aido asked from behind the camera, mesmerised by the heavy dark clouds that were slowly marching their way in from the west.
“Don’t know,” Essie said. “The registration papers don’t tell you stuff like that.”
“Did you do an internet search?” Aido asked.
“I did a quick one on Mum’s phone, but I couldn’t see anything,” Essie replied as Moxie towed her down between the few remaining apple trees in the old orchard, picking at the rough winter grass.
“There’ll be something for sure,” Aiden said, “you just have to keep digging. You can find or learn anything on the internet.”
“It would be awesome to know if she was broken in.” Essie frowned, picking a leaf out of Moxie’s wispy mane.
“You can work that out, can’t you?” Aiden asked. “Get on, get bucked off, you can’t ride her. Don’t get bucked off, you can ride her.” He smiled.
Essie laughed. “Why didn’t I think of that? I’m so grateful you’ve volunteered to test her out. Let me know when you’re ready – I’ll hold the camera.”
“Yeah, well, I always thought if I wasn’t a photographer, I’d be a rodeo rider,” said Aiden, voice deadpan.
“My thoughts exactly.” Essie smiled, straightening Moxie’s rug.
Large raindrops began to fall, not a proper rain shower yet, but
a warning of what was coming.
“We’d better head back,” Aiden said, undoing his hoodie and tucking his camera inside before pulling the zip up high around his neck.
“Come on, Mox,” said Essie, lifting the mare’s head and turning her back towards the house.
As they weaved their way back through the long grass, Moxie started to pull on the halter and jog. “Steady girl,” said Essie, trying to check her with the halter, but the pressure fired her up even more. Suddenly Essie’s foot caught in a fallen branch that was hidden in the grass, tripping her. As she tried to regain her footing she bashed into Moxie. The pony spun on Essie, nearly pulling her off her feet. Flinging her head up and down, resenting the hold on her head, she started pulling back. Essie yelled out to Aiden “Watch out!” just as Moxie took off backwards towards the fence, dragging Essie, who held fast. Essie jumped away to the side as Moxie slammed into the fence, frightening herself and leaping forwards, landing right where Essie had been only a second before.
As if the bump from behind had snapped her out of her panic, Moxie stood, head thrown up, looking for danger before shaking her head and blowing out loudly. She pawed the ground and then dropped her head, the storm over.
“What was all that about?” Aido asked, wide-eyed, standing well back on the other side of the fence.
“Not sure,” said Essie. “Something must have spooked her.” She turned to the orchard, trying to see what might have set Moxie off, but there was nothing obvious.
Rob and Selena’s warning ran through Essie’s mind – that the quiet, easy pony she started with might be a different horse once they got her well. Another smattering of raindrops saw Aido looking longingly towards his front door.
“I’m right, you go,” said Essie, sounding more confident than she felt, not that there was anything he could do.
“Are you sure?” Aiden asked, eyeing Moxie as though she had suddenly turned into a fire-breathing dragon. She kept staring at the orchard, ears forward, but at least her feet were still.
“Yes of course, we’re fine, she just got a fright.” Essie tried to sound confident, even though she could feel the high energy from the mare running through the lead rope.
The Pony Question Page 8