On the Right Track

by Penelope Janu

  Mum’s vowel sounds are so long they sometimes extend to seconds. Particularly when they’re close to the beginning of a word. Darling. Perfect. Finally. Lovely. Super.

  Breaststroke is the optimal stroke to exercise my ankle but it’s also the slowest. It wouldn’t be fair to keep Mum waiting when she’s got a dinner party to organise, so I swim freestyle to the deck.

  When I hoist myself out of the sea, she surreptitiously studies my leg, pretending not to be curious about my scars, how numerous and raised and red they are.

  I twist my hair into a roll and squeeze out the seawater. ‘If I kiss you, I’ll make you wet. Happy Birthday for last week.’

  She takes off her wide straw sunhat and blows kisses into the wind. ‘Thank you, Golden.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t make it for dinner. But you don’t mind, do you?’

  She pinches her index finger and thumb together, and opens them a centimetre. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’m a little disappointed, as is Eric, that you won’t be there.’

  ‘I have to get back home.’

  ‘That’s not what you said last week, when Eric invited you.’

  I rummage in my bag and find the small parcel. ‘I hope you like the present. It doesn’t look much, but Angelina said it’s your favourite brand.’

  Mum peels back the wrapping while I pull a singlet top and a long cotton skirt over my bikini. She shakes out the crimson and gold silk scarf and holds it in front of her.

  ‘Thank you, darling, I love it.’ She glances towards the house. ‘I’d better get back. The caterers, musicians and a thousand other things require my attention.’

  ‘Are you having a lot of people?

  ‘We were expecting forty.’ She looks pointedly at me. ‘Now we’re thirty-nine. I wish you’d reconsider. We see so little of you as it is.’

  When I came to Clovelly before my accident, it was generally to see Angelina. Afterwards, things were supposed to change. It was over ten years ago now because I was only fifteen, but I remember every word Grandpa said as he sat by my hospital bed. We were both crying. My jaw was wired; I couldn’t swallow easily, or talk. I had a cloth pressed to my face to mop up the saliva. My leg wasn’t even pinned yet, it was immobilised on the bed.

  ‘I’ve already lost your father, Gumnut,’ Grandpa said. ‘I’m not taking chances with you. When you get out of the hospital, you’re to go to your mum and stepdad. You’ll be safer with them, away from the horses, well looked after. You can visit me in the holidays.’

  I was in hospital for almost two months, and then I was sent to Clovelly. Mum had commissioned a designer to decorate a ground-floor bedroom. It had a wallpaper frieze of galloping ponies with grey-dappled rumps and silvery tails. For the six days I was there with a mother I barely knew, I refused to eat, speak or do my exercises. I wanted to go home. In exasperation, Eric sent me to his property at Grasmere. It was quiet there, and from every window I could see paddocks and trees.

  The housekeeper and farm manager—and the team of medical people Eric hired—kept me company. And after I’d finished my rehab, Eric paid for me to go to an expensive boarding school. I’d lie in bed early in the morning and pretend I was at home. I imagined dawn creeping through my open window, laughing families of kookaburras and the scent of eucalyptus. I was nineteen when I finished school and went back to Grandpa permanently.

  Mum and I walk in silence through the small park adjacent to the beach, and then step onto the footpath that leads to the house. We’re only twenty metres away when I see Tor, leaning against the bonnet of my car, his legs stretched out. He’s talking on his phone, but watches us approach. When I stop under the shade of a bottlebrush tree, Mum stands next to me.

  I do my best to speak calmly. ‘Did Eric tell you to find me, and request I stay for dinner?’

  ‘As I said, he would like you to be there.’

  ‘Do you know what’s going on with Tor?’

  ‘Only that he and Eric have a meeting before dinner. And Eric requested that you and Tor be seated together at dinner tonight. He was … insistent.’

  ‘I have to get home.’

  ‘To the house Eric owns?’

  A breeze comes off the water and blows through my hair. A chill moves up my spine. Mum rarely takes an interest in my arguments with Eric. Why would she involve herself in this one?

  ‘What has Eric been saying?’

  ‘I’m not sure he would have said anything if you hadn’t changed your mind about dinner. As it was, he was annoyed, and told me you were angry because of something to do with Lilydale. It’s childish, darling, failing to appreciate how upsetting it is for Eric and me, your obsession with that place.’

  Unlike Mum, Grandpa didn’t care who my father was. Just before he died, I found a sealed envelope containing his copy of the paternity tests. When I showed it to him he frowned. ‘Didn’t need a piece of paper to tell me what I already knew,’ he said. ‘You were my gumnut baby. You always will be.’

  Mum takes my arm, walking me towards Tor. ‘Let’s not argue.’ She waves and calls out. ‘Tor! Welcome!’

  When he holds out his hand she takes it in both of hers, and kisses each cheek. ‘How delightful to see you again,’ she says. ‘Eric is in his study, eagerly awaiting your arrival.’

  Tor smiles. ‘Thank you, Emily. Would you mind telling him I’ll be there shortly?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mum air kisses in my direction again. ‘Thank you so much for the scarf, darling.’

  I burrow in my bag for my keys as Mum walks away, then skirt around Tor. He watches silently as I climb onto the driver’s seat but as soon as I reach for the door he stands in front of it. He rests his forearm on the roof.

  ‘Why aren’t you attending the dinner?’ he says.

  ‘Because I choose not to.’

  He speaks slowly and deliberately when he’s annoyed. ‘Is it because I will be there?’

  ‘That would be cowardly of me, very un-spy like.’

  When he takes my keys out of the ignition, I freeze. I’m aware of his hand near my thigh, his freshly shaven face. And his scent. The hairs on my arms and legs stand on end. I grasp the top of the steering wheel. He stares at my profile.

  ‘Stay, Golden,’ he finally says. ‘This is childish.’

  Mum called me childish as well. She also said I was obsessed with Lilydale. Uneasiness washes over me again. Eric has been complaining about me, but that’s nothing new. Why would Mum—who always leaves me to Eric and is unlikely to know anything about what’s going on between Eric, Tor and me—get involved? When I shake my head, wet strands of hair stick to my face. Two damp triangles of bikini top show through my singlet, and there are salty trails over my shoulders and down my arms. I shiver.

  ‘I’m cold,’ I say.

  He frowns. ‘You’re upset.’

  I hold out my hand. ‘Give me my keys.’

  He hands them over silently.

  ‘Nate said you wanted to talk to Solomon Bain,’ I say. ‘Is tomorrow week all right? That’s the day before a race day so I know he’ll be around.’

  ‘Let me know the time.’

  He watches as I pull out from the curb, his legs slightly apart and his arms crossed over his chest.

  CHAPTER

  11

  It’s four fifteen on Friday morning, eight days after I saw Tor at Clovelly, and I’m sitting in my car, rubbing my hands together to keep them warm. Rain runs in rivulets down the windscreen. Finally, a car indicates left behind me and pulls into the kerb. It’s the big black BMW and Tor is driving. I check that all the press-studs on my oilskin coat are fastened before I step out of the car and run to the footpath. Water running wide of the gutter splashes onto my boots. Already my hair and face are wet: I forgot to attach the hood to my coat before I left home.

  I don’t want Tor to see any hint of admiration in my glance. He’s wearing dark jeans and a fitted linen shirt that emphasises his broad shoulders and narrow hips. He stands in front of me and shelters me unde
r his umbrella.

  ‘Morning, Golden.’

  ‘Are you always late? Shouldn’t you be lurking in the shadows, waiting for me to arrive?’

  His eyes are black like slate. ‘You’re wet again.’

  I swallow. ‘Your umbrella might spook the horses. Have you got a coat?’

  He walks away and throws his umbrella into the boot. When he gets back he looks down at me and shrugs.

  ‘I have a number of coats in New York. A couple at my lodge in Norefjell, probably one in Brussels too. None here.’

  His smile is disarming. Suddenly I’m nervous about what he wants me to do. What if Solomon won’t let me in? Last night I calculated everything he’d achieved in racing in the past few years: two Cox Plates and over forty Group 1 wins. Even a Melbourne Cup. Within the racing fraternity everyone knows him, outside of it many know of him.

  My fingers dig into Tor’s forearm. ‘I’m not a spy. I don’t know what to say.’

  When he dips his head, I feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. He’s as serious as I’ve ever seen him.

  ‘Be yourself,’ he says. ‘There is no other way. I discussed it with Nate this morning. You’re so …’ He looks to my left and I watch the way he searches for words. ‘You’re so transparent, readable. And you grew up with these people; they’ll know if you’re lying. So stick to the truth as much as you can. Your father and grandfather will naturally come into the conversation, just because you are here.’

  By the time we get to the entrance to the stables my hair is plastered to my head. His hair is wet too, as is his shirt. I can’t stop talking.

  ‘Sol won’t risk injury to his horses in this weather. He’ll go to the track later, after it clears. If it doesn’t, maybe he’ll swim them. He’s got a pool at the stables, and an indoor arena, though that’s not used for exercise as such, more for warming horses up or cooling them down.’

  Tor stops at the locked gate and faces me. He squeezes my arm and smiles again, which is when I grasp why he did it the first time. He’s not going to get what he wants from me unless I’m reassured, set at ease. I pull my arm free and tear my gaze away, angry that I didn’t see it earlier.

  ‘Gumnut?’ A man scurries out of the shadows and unlocks the gate.

  When I was a child I thought Marty Garret was ancient. I’m twenty-six now and nothing has changed. Wrinkles are etched deeply into his face and he shuffles when he walks. He had hip replacements when I was a teenager. How long do they last? Is he eighty by now? Ninety? As an ex-jockey he was never very tall but he’s even shorter now, hardly taller than me. He chortles as he takes me into a bear hug and lifts me a couple of centimetres off the ground.

  ‘Hey, Marty,’ I say. ‘Nice to see you too.’

  When I turn to Tor, he looks at my mouth. He’s surprised about something. My smile? His fringe drips into his eyes.

  ‘Tor, this is Martin Garret. He’s Sol’s assistant trainer. Marty, this is Tor Amundsen.’

  Marty looks from me to Tor. He doesn’t offer Tor his hand so Tor keeps his by his side as well. He nods respectfully though. I tighten my collar but that doesn’t stop drips running inside the back of my coat.

  ‘It’d be good to get out of the rain, Marty,’ I say. ‘We’ve come to see Solomon.’

  Marty blusters. ‘It’s Friday, Gumnut. Sol doesn’t like strangers coming in before race day.’ He jerks his head in Tor’s direction. ‘His name’s familiar. Who is he exactly?’

  ‘He’s a friend of my stepdad, Eric. I told Eric I’d show him the nice side of the racing industry.’ I poke Marty in the chest. ‘Not you and Solomon, but the horses. Can you ask Sol if we can say hello? Today might be a good day, he can’t do anything in this weather anyway.’

  ‘It won’t hurt to ask, I suppose,’ Marty says. ‘And it’d be nice to see you and Sol patch things up.’

  As Marty waves us through the gate, Tor looks at me curiously, but I don’t see a need to fill him in. He’ll find out about Solomon and me soon enough.

  Two rows of twelve stables stretch out for fifty metres either side of a paved courtyard. A stablehand pushes a wheelbarrow of manure out of an empty stable; another hoists a bale of fresh straw onto his shoulder. Pots of geraniums, red and pink, hang to the side of each stable door. To the rear of the stable yard is the indoor arena. Around the corner, presuming things haven’t changed in the past few years, are an old prefab schoolroom that serves as office space, the swimming pool, a hosing yard, and feed and tack rooms.

  There are thoroughbred horses everywhere. Peering over stable doors, eating from troughs, being led around by strappers. If they’re not being groomed they have rugs on, many have hoods on too. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. When I open them again Tor is staring. His lip lifts at the corner. He’s laughing at me but I don’t care. I’ve missed the sights and smells and sounds of a working stable.

  I pull out my ponytail elastic and run my fingers through the wet strands of hair. Tor runs his fingers through his hair too. We’re both still wet, but by the time Sol arrives we’re tidier. Sol is as I remembered him—solid and muscular, gruff and grumpy. We were all a little afraid of him as children. Seeing him again makes me think of Grandpa. Sol befriended him and used him, then he let him down.

  Sol ignores Tor and stands in front of me with his hands on his hips. ‘So you’ve finally turned up?’ he says.

  ‘I’m doing a favour for Eric. That’s the only reason I’m here.’

  ‘John Saunders trusted me to keep an eye on you. How could I respect his wishes when you’d have nothing to do with me?’

  ‘If you’d really cared about Grandpa’s wishes you would’ve come to his funeral.’

  ‘You little …’

  ‘Termagant?’ I say. ‘Ragamuffin? Brumby?’

  Sol grunts. ‘Pig-headed donkey,’ he says. ‘I refuse to apologise for the decisions I made five years ago. Particularly as I’d make the same decisions today.’

  ‘Even if you did apologise, I wouldn’t accept it.’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘How’s the leg?’

  ‘Mine, or Peppercorn’s?’

  A few people have gathered around. The old hands recognise me. Some of them smile, others shake their heads.

  ‘So you’ve still got that mare?’ Sol says, the shadow of a smile on his face. ‘I’ve got a topnotch stallion you can put her to.’

  ‘As if I’d accept something from you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be. I’d have a share in the foal.’

  ‘And race it as a two year old? Risk ruining it like Pepper?’

  He snorts. ‘I didn’t train her. Get off your high horse, Gumnut. It’s good to see you. Welcome back.’

  ‘I’m not back. Like I told Marty, I’m doing a favour for Eric.’ I glance at Tor. ‘This is a friend of Eric’s, Tor Amundsen. He wants to talk to you about racing.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Sol holds out his hand and Tor takes it. ‘Heard you were doing the rounds. What’s up, then?’

  Tor and Sol chat politely, and after a few minutes, Sol offers to take us to his office.

  ‘Can I stay out here?’ I ask.

  Harlequin, the horse that won the Melbourne Cup for Sol, is poking his head over his stable door and looking straight at me. I’m walking towards him with my hand extended as Sol replies.

  ‘Stay off my horses, Gumnut. No time for your tomfoolery this morning.’

  When I don’t respond one way or the other he harrumphs, then turns his back and leaves with Tor. I wander from stall to stall, talking to the horses and reminiscing about how passionately, up until the year before Grandpa died, I loved this place.

  Tor and Sol are together for over an hour. By the time Marty walks us to the other side of the gate the sun is coming up and the rain has eased to a drizzle. I open the press-studs of my coat as Tor and I walk towards our cars.

  ‘Well?’ I say. ‘Did you get your information?’

  ‘Thanks for the introduction.’

  ‘But I should
n’t expect you to tell me anything? Right?’

  He gives me a sidelong glance. ‘What I can tell you is that Sol has some affection for you. So does Eric and your mother. Why do you push them away?’

  ‘How I behave isn’t your concern.’

  ‘Maybe it is. Eric let Angelina know, in a general sense, that you’re helping Nate and me out. She told me she’d be happy to come to social events but you’d never allow it.’

  Angelina is worried that Tor will find out about the money she gave to Marc Ferguson. She thinks if she stays close to Tor she might be able to convince him to keep quiet about it. Knowing Angelina, she’ll confess to Tor and get herself into trouble with Eric, even though she may not have to. I’m trying to protect her from herself.

  ‘Keep your hands off my sister. And pass that on to Nate as well.’

  I’ve barely finished speaking when Tor steps in front of me. I try to walk around him but he holds out his arm, blocking my path. He’s not touching me but I’m corralled between him and my car.

  I’m flustered. ‘What now?’

  ‘You’re being unpleasant again,’ he says. ‘I have no interest in your sister. She’s off limits to me just as much as you are.’

  ‘At the bar, you said we could pretend to be together.’

  He hesitates. ‘It wouldn’t have worked.’

  ‘Because no one would believe it?’

  ‘They’d believe it,’ he says.

  I’ve got a warm aching feeling deep in my stomach. Is it reflected in my eyes? I tear my gaze away.

  ‘I was dressed up when we danced at Parliament House,’ I say.

  He slowly shakes his head like he’s genuinely perplexed. Then he picks up my hand, tentatively, just holding the ends of my fingers. I’m not sure why I don’t object. Maybe because he’s handling me respectfully, like I’m a highly-strung filly. His voice is quiet. His tone is even.

  ‘When I saw you for the first time, you were wearing jodhpurs and a T-shirt. I noticed your hands while you were still on your horse. You have delicate fingers.’