On the Right Track

by Penelope Janu

  I shake my head.

  ‘I apologise,’ he says. ‘I frightened you. I shouldn’t have kissed you like I did. Not here.’

  I kick the exposed root of the tree. ‘You said you wanted to do it properly.’ My voice is raspy.

  He can’t take back the words, or the kiss. His beautiful face is set like stone, but his eyes are troubled. It would be cruel to say nothing. Grandpa is one thing. This is another.

  ‘You didn’t frighten me. Not in the way you think you did. This …’ I wave my sodden ball of tissues in the air, ‘has nothing to do with you. Don’t beat yourself up over it.’

  ‘What happened to you?’ he says.

  When we were in the bar and he told me he didn’t drink, he had the same bleak expression. He thinks I’ve been hurt in ways that I haven’t. This is awful.

  ‘I haven’t been assaulted, or abused, if that’s what you’re thinking. And I’m not virginal, or innocent, or anything like that.’

  ‘Why were you so upset?’

  I can’t think up a lie. Anyway, if I tell the truth he’ll leave me alone. I force the words out.

  ‘Sex. If I wanted to do it, I could. I can do it. I have. But my leg makes it difficult, for men and for me. When you said you wanted everything it … it dredged things up, unpleasant memories, that’s all.’

  ‘Men have hurt you?’

  I lift my chin, shrug as if it’s nothing. ‘Not deliberately.’

  The creases between his brows deepen and he turns away so I can’t see his face. He’s breathing deeply; I see it in the movement of his shoulders. After a while he meticulously traces one of the scribbly lines on the tree with his thumb. And then he traces another one. Finally he faces me again. His mask is back in place.

  ‘Let me take you home.’

  ‘No.’

  He doesn’t dare stop me as I walk away from the scribbly bark tree, the racecourse. And him.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Tor butted into my dreams all through Saturday evening. If he wasn’t kissing me, he was haranguing me about Marc. At five o’clock on Sunday morning I loaded Pepper into the horse float and we drove north for hours, stopping for the day at a horse-friendly beach at Port Stephens. Today it’s Thursday and I still haven’t recovered—from kissing Tor, or the gallop along the beach.

  Dr Makepeace is already in the hospital cafe when I arrive. He’s a psychiatrist and runs the adolescent mental health clinic at the hospital. His room is down the corridor from the speech pathology labs so we often bump into each other, but this is the first time I’ve asked him to join me for afternoon tea. The cafe is near the entrance to the hospital, next to the florist. He gets up from his chair and pulls out another.

  ‘Sit down, my dear,’ he says, ‘and take the weight off your leg. What happened?’

  I grasp the back of the chair before easing myself into it. ‘Pepper and I went to the beach on Sunday morning. I enjoyed it at the time but I’m still a little stiff.’

  ‘Did you swim to New Zealand and back again? Is that why you’re hobbling?’

  ‘We didn’t swim, we galloped on the shoreline. And I’m favouring my leg, not hobbling. What sort of a psychiatrist are you anyway, making me self-conscious about the way I walk?’

  He chuckles as he adjusts his half glasses on his nose. ‘You’re hardly a patient now, Golden. It’s years since I saw you in that capacity, not that you visited me often.’

  Eric persuaded Dr Makepeace to meet me on the footpath for my first appointment, a few months after my fall, because I refused to go any closer to his rooms than that. I’d been either angry or in tears for weeks, and thought seeing a psychiatrist would confirm I was crazy. Dr Makepeace took me to a teashop, which served tea in floral teacups. I remember staring into a milkshake while he spoke to the owner about bergamot. Then they talked about horses, even though neither of them knew anything. On the long drive back to Grasmere, I told Eric he’d wasted his money. But when Eric picked me up the following month, and in the months after that, I was happy to see Dr Makepeace. He talked when I wouldn’t. He ignored my angry outbursts. He acknowledged what I’d lost, while gently telling me that all was not lost.

  After he orders a pot of tea and I order coffee, he sits back and smiles. ‘Still avoiding tea leaves?’

  I smile too. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was ever hopeful of finding a herbal tea that suited,’ he says.

  ‘You had a lot to choose from in your waiting room, but hardly any of us ever drank them.’

  It made me feel better, the fact there were other girls like me who saw Dr Makepeace. A girl with curly brown hair worked out I liked horses, and gave me a hardback copy of Alan Marshall’s I Can Jump Puddles. I still have it. Harriet Scott sketched and always patted the chair next to her, inviting me to sit, even though she was famous. All I ever did was feel sorry for myself.

  After the drinks arrive, he makes a steeple with his fingers and considers me through it.

  ‘Did you want to talk about something in particular?’

  I shrug. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Tally-ho then.’

  I tell him about the giant sob and the floods of tears. ‘I haven’t cried like that since I was fifteen. After my fall, when Grandpa sent me to Eric.’

  ‘What prompted this episode?’

  I can hardly tell him the whole truth. ‘Someone suggested I do something I wasn’t able to, or shouldn’t even want to do, to be honest, not with the person who suggested it. It freaked me out.’

  ‘He wanted to take you out of your comfort zone?’

  ‘I didn’t say it was a man. But yes, he did.’ Tor said I want more from you. Everything.

  Dr Makepeace still has his fingers in a steeple. He rests his chin on the apex.

  ‘And there’s the rub,’ he says. ‘You’ve been riding on the racetrack for years. Plodding along, really. So it’s a surprise when an obstacle appears. Do you jump over it? Crash through it? Or go around it?’

  He always did this, talking in terms of horses and racetracks, thinking it would please me. I’m not sure I like the idea of plodding, but avoiding Tor by going around him is probably the only option I have. I don’t have the power to go over his head, or the strength to knock him over.

  ‘I’d better go for option three,’ I say, ‘and go around the obstacle.’

  He sighs and looks a little disappointed at first, but then he gives me a gentle smile. ‘If you’re only plodding, that would probably be for the best.’

  ‘Do you think I’m cowardly?’

  ‘Certainly not! But you are understandably cautious.’ He peers over his glasses. ‘How are your mother and stepfather, by the way?’

  ‘Same as usual.’

  ‘I see. It’s hardly surprising you find it difficult to trust people, Golden. You’ve been hurt.’

  ‘I could trust Grandpa.’

  ‘Of course. But in terms of new relationships, trust might take longer to blossom.’

  Dancing with Tor was risky, and I should have known better than to kiss him. But now I’ve cried all over him, and told him I have issues with sex. In the personal sphere at least, he’s likely to leave me alone.

  We leave the cafeteria arm in arm. Dr Makepeace’s hip has stiffened up and so has my ankle. I’m not sure which one of us needs the most support.

  ‘I trust your sister is well,’ he says.

  ‘It’s her birthday tomorrow. I’m kicking myself because I promised to go to her party.’

  He squeezes my arm. ‘Perhaps you will enjoy yourself once you get there.’

  Eric views parties as networking opportunities. Angelina doesn’t mind, because he pays for the catering. She told me Tor declined the invitation to her party because he’s still overseas, but Nate will be coming along later.

  ‘I doubt it,’ I say.

  It’s almost ten o’clock when Nate arrives. As Angelina introduces him to a group of her friends drinking cocktails and chatting by the pool, I make my excuses to one o
f Eric’s work people and escape to Eric’s study.

  Eric was presented with a book on the Spanish Riding School when he did a parliamentary tour to Vienna. He used to keep it on the top shelf of the bookcase until, when I was a child, he found me climbing up the lower shelves to reach for it. Ever since then, it’s been kept on the bottom shelf. I pick it up, take off my long navy boots and curl up in an armchair.

  I often ended up here when I visited Clovelly. I’d be waiting for Angelina to return from her ballet class or flute lesson, or for Grandpa to pick me up. Eric let me put my feet on the chairs and lay spreadeagled on the floor. Sometimes he sat at his desk and worked. It must have been annoying having me rifling through his books, fiddling with his ornaments and munching on whatever Grandpa had put into my lunchbox, but he rarely complained.

  The back of the chair faces the door so I don’t see who comes in when it opens and quietly closes again. But a few seconds later, Nate stands in front of me. He has his phone to his ear and is nodding. I don’t bother getting up.

  ‘What do you want, Nate?’

  ‘Hello, Golden. You look very pretty, like a sunbeam.’

  I’m dressed in navy tights and a short yellow dress. ‘Thanks. You look good too, except for the suit jacket. You and Eric are the only men wearing them.’

  He switches the phone to his other hand when he leans over and kisses my cheek. Maybe he thinks seeing me in my nightie the last time we met has made us friends? He’s about my age and very attractive, but … he may as well be my brother because there’s not a hint of tingling. His legs stretch out in front of him when he leans the backs of his thighs against Eric’s desk.

  ‘Eric thought you’d be hiding in here.’

  ‘I wish I’d hidden better.’

  He smiles as he holds out his phone. ‘Tor’s on the line. He’s in New York. Wants to talk to you.’

  I look at my hands in my lap in the hope of hiding whatever expression is on my face. Tor is thousands of kilometres away. Why does my heart start racing? I twist my fingers together.

  ‘Put him on speaker phone.’

  Nate looks like he wants to argue but after Tor says something he puts the phone on Eric’s desk and pulls out a chair. Then he sits next to me.

  ‘Can you hear us, Tor?’ he says.

  I hold my breath until Tor responds. He doesn’t bother greeting me, just fills me in, telling me that Nate and he are following up things after his discussions with Sol and Marc, and that he’s got information from others on my list as well.

  ‘It’s a small industry,’ he says. ‘People know you visited Solomon so your name comes up, as do your father’s and grandfather’s names.’

  ‘So … you won’t need me to be a spy for much longer? You didn’t get Nate to track me down to tell me that.’

  Tor doesn’t say anything.

  ‘What is it?’ I say.

  It’s Nate who responds. ‘Remember how, at the beginning of all this, we asked you to keep a low profile? Well, it’s even more important now. We’ve got a few leads. That’s why Tor’s in New York, to brief people before we go to Hong Kong and start asking questions there.’

  Grandpa and I were surprised when my father got the ride in the Hong Kong Cup because it’s one of the richest races in the world, and he hadn’t had a Group 1 ride in a while. We watched online as his horse stumbled and fell. Grandpa went to Hong Kong to bring his body home, leaving me with Sol. Eric did the right thing, keeping me away from Mum. It was unfair to expect her to grieve over a man she’d never cared about, who’d threatened the life she’d planned with Eric, but I didn’t understand that at the time. Soon after Grandpa got back, just before Christmas, he and I were sitting on the verandah eating breakfast. He suddenly jumped to his feet. ‘James would want the wind in his hair!’ he said. He made a few calls, and within an hour we were in Grandpa’s ute, and on our way to a nursery that stocked hard-to-get plants.

  Grandpa planted the ghost gum at the very top of the hill, in the paddock near the stables, and we scattered Dad’s ashes around the roots. Ghost gums aren’t native to New South Wales, so Grandpa went to a lot of trouble with the location, making sure the conditions were as good as they could be, and that the tree would catch the southerly breezes that blow in from the coast. It won’t be mature for years yet, but already it’s over ten metres tall. Slender green-grey leaves rustle in the wind and shimmer in the sunlight; the trunk and branches are iridescent on cloudless nights when the moon is high in the sky.

  ‘Golden?’ Tor says. ‘Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes.’ Even though I clear my throat, my voice isn’t as steady as I’d like it to be. ‘You said you don’t want my name associated with whatever it is you’re doing in New York and Hong Kong. You want me to keep a low profile.’

  ‘We’re still unsure what we’re up against,’ Nate says. ‘And our suspect has a hell of a lot to lose.’

  ‘I just wish you’d hurry up.’

  Tor mutters something indistinguishable. ‘Nate, maybe you should stay with her.’

  ‘No! I’ll keep a low profile. I said I would.’

  When I stand, Nate stands too. I address the phone again. ‘Have you got something on my father, Tor? Is that why Nate is here? To suck up to Eric? So he can threaten me if I step out of line?’

  Tor says nothing. Nate looks from me to the phone, and back again. Eventually he grimaces.

  ‘Have we upset you again? Sorry about that.’

  ‘It is my family you’re asking questions about, even though you won’t tell me what they are. And you’re wasting your breath saying sorry.’ I point to the phone. ‘I get enough of that from him.’

  ‘Golden?’ Tor’s voice is quiet, measured. ‘I’d like to talk to you privately. Nate, take me off speaker and give the phone to Golden.’

  When Nate holds out the phone I turn my back and push my feet into my boots. I zip them up, straighten and cross my arms over my chest. Nate looks like he’s not sure what to do. And as it turns out he doesn’t have to do anything because Angelina bursts into the room. She takes a couple of wobbly steps before carefully planting her stilettos on the rug.

  ‘Good,’ she says, grinning. ‘Excellent. Both here.’

  Nate smiles as he puts his phone in his pocket. I think he’s not only glad to see Angelina, but happy to get a reprieve from Tor and me. When Angelina sways he takes her arm and she leans against him. He looks apologetically at me as he leads her to the door.

  Angelina waves over her shoulder. ‘Gotta cut the cake. C’mon, Golden.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  I told Dr Makepeace I’d go around the obstacle that upset me. So why do I want to put my hand in Nate’s pocket and snatch the phone, to hold it to my ear? Why do I want so desperately to hear Tor’s voice again?

  CHAPTER

  17

  I’m wearing Angelina’s long black Christian Louboutin boots. They’re high-heeled and too big, so I step carefully off the train and onto the platform. Fifty metres ahead of us is the entrance to Rosehill Racecourse.

  I take Angelina’s arm. ‘Remind me why I’m here?’

  ‘Because this is what I want for my birthday. Golden Slipper Day was the one day of the year Dad left us on our own.’

  ‘Eric had no idea we were on our own. And I wish I’d given you a proper present, not this. I haven’t been to the races since Grandpa died.’

  ‘Liar. Nate told me you went to Randwick with Tor a couple of weeks ago. That’s what gave me this idea.’

  ‘Stay away from Nate.’

  Angelina squeezes my arm as we join the queue at the entrance to the Rosehill grounds.

  ‘Nate doesn’t talk about the secret stuff you’re doing with Tor,’ she says, ‘and Marc’s name has never come up. I like Nate. He’s cute.’ She pulls her arm free to adjust her fascinator, a ridiculous confection of bright saffron silk and a feather. ‘Try to enjoy yourself, Golden. Please.’

  When a past president of the Turf Club walks past I
turn my face away. ‘I don’t want to talk to people who’ll pretend they didn’t dump Grandpa.’

  ‘If I’ve done my job, they won’t recognise you.’

  My black dress is extremely short, and I refused to wear a hat so Angelina insisted on sweeping my hair into an elegant chignon. She left out a few wispy strands but most of it sits neatly at the nape of my neck.

  I raise my brows. ‘You haven’t changed my face.’

  She’s suddenly serious. ‘I’d never do that, or we wouldn’t look the same.’

  Angelina wasn’t allowed to come to Lilydale often, because Mum and Eric worried about her being trampled by a horse, or bitten by a snake, or drowned in the creek. Links with the Saunders were problematical in other ways too—because of Eric’s anti-gambling stance, and Mum’s hook-up with my father. But I’d phone Angelina every Sunday afternoon, and if I couldn’t get on to her at home, I’d call Eric and ask him where she was. She was eight years old when she was permitted to come to the races for the very first time. Eric and Mum couldn’t really say no because that year the Golden Slipper fell on Angelina’s actual birthday, and the only gift she wanted from her parents was to see my race. Eric and Angelina met Grandpa and me at the gate to Rosehill. I was only nine years old but I made promises just like Grandpa did, that Angelina would be well supervised at all times and returned to the gate at 5pm sharp.

  After we’d waved Eric off, Grandpa turned to me. ‘Gumnut, keep an eye on your sister.’ He winked at Angelina. ‘Sweetpea, keep an eye on your sister.’ He shouted over his shoulder as he walked away. ‘I’ll be with the nags if you need me.’

  Angelina and I played hide and seek in the horse trucks. We spied on people who drank too much and swayed when they walked. We followed Sol around and imitated him when he swore at the jockeys. When he got sick of us he picked us up and carried us, one under each arm, out of the stables. Before every race we lined up behind the other punters to place bets with Marc senior. He charged us an errand for every bet—fetching his hat, or sorting out his coins, or buying his coffee. He scrawled the details of the horses we favoured on slips of paper. When the horses placed, he paid out in hot chips and lemonade. I chose my horses on form, trainer and jockey. Angelina’s selection was based on the names of the horses and the colours of the silks the jockeys wore.