Peripheral Vision

by Paddy O'Reilly

  ‘Maybe it’s time we put the bridle on Bobby, see how he takes the bit,’ the grandfather says. ‘Bring him back in here.’

  Holly unlatches the gate. Joe catches Bobby’s eye then walks away with the rope slung loosely from his left hand. Bobby follows him into the ring.

  ‘He’s not going to like it,’ the grandfather says. He has unclipped the lead rope from the Arab’s halter but she stays beside him, alert, watching Joe and Bobby approach. He nods at Holly to latch the gate behind them.

  ‘Can I call her Princess?’ the girl asks.

  ‘She already has a name, darling. She’s Redling Dana, remember?’ It’s Joe who answers, although she could have been asking either of them. She doesn’t call him Dad because he’s not the dad she knew for the first six years of her life. She doesn’t call him Joe because when he first moved in it didn’t seem right. It went on like that for so long, her not knowing what to call him, that it became natural for her not to call him anything. When she wants his attention she goes to him, touches his arm or gets right up to his face to speak.

  ‘Can I call her Princess Redling Dana?’

  Neither of the men answers. The grandfather has fetched the bridle from the bucket of horse tack sitting outside the round-yard rail. He turns his back to Bobby and Joe as he untangles the leather straps.

  ‘I’m going to put the bridle on him,’ he tells Joe, hiding it behind him as he approaches Bobby. ‘Hold the pony steady, there, high on the rope. And pat him, reassure him.’

  Joe takes hold of the pony’s halter under its chin while the grandfather drapes his arm across the pony’s poll. Bobby is tense. They wait, Joe stroking his flank, the grandfather resting his arm over the poll. After a couple of minutes, Bobby relaxes. His head drops. The grandfather eases the bit between his lips and against his big yellow teeth and pushes his thumb into Bobby’s mouth. Bobby won’t open.

  ‘He doesn’t like it,’ Holly calls from the top rail where she has climbed up again to watch. She shades her eyes. The sun has come out again, although it is chilly, and the breeze cuts into their cotton clothes. Thin clouds are flowing across the sky like spills of pale milk.

  ‘No, he doesn’t like it much. We’ll be patient.’ The grandfather is breathing heavily as he wiggles his thumb into Bobby’s mouth to persuade Bobby to open. ‘Keep him steady, Joe, I don’t want to lose my thumb.’

  After a minute Bobby can’t sustain his resistance. His teeth part. The grandfather slips the bit into Bobby’s mouth, over his meaty tongue, eases the bridle up over his ears and the deed is done. Bobby doesn’t like it but he can’t get it out. He chews at the bit and rolls his tongue up over the metal pieces and then under them. The bit clanks against his teeth.

  ‘It’s too loose,’ the grandfather says as he slides the halter out from under the bridle. ‘We’ll tighten it tomorrow. He’ll be used to it in no time.’

  ‘So should I try riding him?’ Joe asks. He is tired too. He’s resting the weight on his strong leg, but he can keep going until the dark comes. They’re making good progress.

  ‘Why not?’ The grandfather backs up against the rail to give Joe more room. The filly is beside him, nosing the pocket of his jacket.

  Joe knows from watching other people working horses at the agistment property over the last four days that he has to mount quickly and not let Bobby take control.

  ‘Do you think you should do it?’ he asks the grandfather, who shakes his head and smiles. If he got up on a horse he wouldn’t be able to walk tomorrow.

  Holly is watching closely. Joe gives her the thumbs up and hauls himself onto the pony. Bobby is so surprised that for a moment he stands still. Then he takes off at a fast trot, heading to the rail to try to dislodge his rider.

  ‘Pull the right rein hard,’ the grandfather calls, ‘hard! Hold it up against your belly. Push your weight to the ground!’

  Joe drags at Bobby’s mouth to force him away from the rail. Already he’s sliding on the horse’s back. As Bobby turns and his jerky trotting eases, Joe slips sideways and backward until, in an unplanned manoeuvre, he lets go of the reins, pushes off Bobby and miraculously lands on his feet behind the pony. Bobby trots to the opposite end of the round yard and stretches his head through the rails, straining for the grass growing on the other side.

  ‘That might be enough for Bobby for today,’ the grandfather says. ‘Unless you want to try again?’

  ‘Not really.’ Joe laughs. He doesn’t look at Holly, who has her legs wrapped around the rail and is hanging sideways to pat Bobby’s haunch. His hip is aching now. He looks at the sky, sees with relief the luminescence of the clouds fading to a sheety grey.

  The grandfather turns his attention back to the Arab.

  ‘Let’s get you moving, beautiful lady.’

  After Joe has caught Bobby’s reins and led him to the outer enclosure, the grandfather steps away from the filly and claps his hands twice. She kicks up and canters the length of the rail. He walks in a tight circle in the middle of the ring, staying just behind her direct line of vision so that she keeps moving. When she has been lunging for a couple of minutes, he stops and turns away from her. She slackens her pace and finally comes to rest, watching him. He moves to her, slowly, lifts his hand and strokes her long narrow nose.

  ‘You’re a good girl. You’re settling down now, aren’t you? You’re going to be just fine.’

  ‘I had a thought,’ Joe says from the outer enclosure where he and Bobby have been idling. ‘Jumping on didn’t work, so what if I put some weight on Bobby, like we saw that woman do yesterday with the wild pony?’

  ‘You could try it.’ The grandfather looks at his watch. Half an hour of daylight left.

  Holly has climbed down off the rail and is rummaging through the pile of horse blankets next to the bucket of gear. She chooses one to draw over her shoulders.

  ‘Look, I’m a horse.’ She mock canters around the outside of the rail, the checked blanket flaring behind her. ‘What are we having for tea tonight?’

  In the far corner of the yard, Joe stretches his arms and then his torso cautiously across where the saddle would sit on Bobby’s back. He gradually lowers his weight onto the pony. His feet are on the ground, but the rest of him is hanging over the horse like a corpse. Bobby starts moving and Joe tiptoes alongside to keep his balance, still draped over Bobby’s back.

  ‘This seems to be working,’ Joe calls, his voice muffled from speaking upside down into the pony’s flank.

  ‘Can we have fish and chips?’ Holly asks.

  Bobby doesn’t seem to notice as Joe pushes himself further and further across the horse’s back until he can swing his leg over and they are once again horse and rider. Joe’s long legs hang either side of Bobby’s round belly. He holds the reins loosely. They walk the perimeter of the square yard and when they reach their original starting point Joe slides off and pats Bobby on the shoulder.

  ‘We might get Chinese takeaway. Something with vegetables.’

  ‘So is he okay to ride now?’ Holly asks. Even though she is still wearing the horse rug, she’s shivering. She drags her feet as she walks backward around the ring, shoes making furrows in the sand.

  A mist is beginning to form on the fields, blurring the edges of fences and trees in the distance.

  ‘He’ll be ready soon,’ Joe says. ‘He’s a good pony. He knows what he has to do.’

  The grandfather opens the gate of the round yard and urges the Arab out into the larger enclosure. She can sense freedom. Her tail is high as she trots around, tossing her head and kicking up her heels. She calls out to the other horses and a couple answer.

  ‘We’ll collect the gear and take the ponies back to their paddock now, I think. It’s been a good day.’

  The darkness is coming fast. Joe collects the rugs and drapes them over the rail, ready to clip onto the horses for the cold night ahead.
He loops Bobby’s reins around the middle rail. The grandfather sorts the tack. They’ll take off the bridle and halter after they’ve led the ponies through the three gates to their own paddock.

  ‘Holly, do you want to help me put the rug on Bobby?’ Joe asks.

  ‘Oh,’ Holly says, ‘I thought …’

  Her tone of voice makes them both turn in time to see the Arab trot through the gate Holly has opened into the paddock beyond. When the filly sees the open space in front of her, she breaks into a gallop. Two other horses in the paddock catch her excitement. The two men and the girl watch in the thickening mist as the three horses race away in a wide arc. They disappear from view, with only the sound of their hooves on the earth giving any hint of their existence, and then they reappear on the opposite side of the long paddock, dancing and snorting hot steam.

  ‘Oh God, we’ll never get her back.’ Joe covers his eyes with his hand. Holly takes his other hand in hers.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’

  As if she has heard, the Arab trots across the paddock toward them.

  ‘Come on, girl, come to me, come on.’ The grandfather’s voice is calm, steady. He holds the lead rope ready to clip to her halter. It seems as though the Arab is listening. She moves hesitantly in their direction, dipping her head, until at the last moment she hears the whinny of another horse and she is gone, galloping the length of the paddock.

  ‘I’m sorry, Granddad.’ Holly’s voice wavers. Joe puts his arm around her and murmurs consolingly.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. It’s okay. I guess we can leave her in this paddock tonight and explain to the people tomorrow when we come back and move her.’

  The grandfather knows they can’t leave her there overnight. A stallion and a gelding agist in the paddock. A new filly will upset the dynamic, create a dangerous situation. A fight could break out. Valuable horses could be injured. He pats Holly on the head.

  ‘It’ll be all right. She’ll come to me. She’ll come back.’

  Joe doesn’t believe him. He goes back to fixing the rug on Bobby, encouraging Holly to duck under the pony’s neck and buckle the front strap against his big chest. He thinks about buying beef and vegetables in black bean sauce for tea, or sweet and sour fish. Or maybe a chicken and a salad. He tries to keep his mind off the mother who still emails him, although he’d never tell Holly or the grandfather. She addresses him as Dear Crip, and accuses him of stealing her family. Her rambling emails taunt him for being soft and a loser and she demands he send her money, but he’s stopped doing that.

  Bobby waits at the rail, ready to be led to his paddock. Holly leans in close to feel his warmth.

  The grandfather, exhausted, walks away into the misty green paddock filled with the shapes of horses, the lead rope trailing behind him like a slow-burning fuse.

  Territory

  Friday evenings we gathered before dark in the cafe. In March the twilight came at about seven thirty, with the heat from meats and pasta and sauces already steaming up the cafe windows. The dusky neon and streetlights made the glass light up like cinema screens. People passing by could have been actors, extras in a movie, seen through a mist, a window in Paris, the curtain of a noodle bar in a futuristic Los Angeles.

  It had been two months already. Emma and Shannon and I were the only ones who never missed a Friday, and we were always the first to arrive. I ordered a martini, ‘Because I like a bit of spirit.’ That was the line, the ritual to set the mood. I would sit on that martini till nine, when we set out. Emma and Shannon preferred wine. They were served by a new waiter who smiled shyly, glancing at Shannon as he poured her twice the normal amount.

  ‘What about me?’ Emma complained. The waiter blushed and topped up her glass before hurrying back to the kitchen.

  The cafe was kitted out in rough-hewn wooden chairs and tables and the floor was polished concrete, which meant the wine was twelve dollars a glass instead of seven. Moisture condensing on the windows formed tiny rivulets that had seeped into the timber sill and caused the varnish to blister and crack. I found myself picking at the crisp flakes of varnish as we waited, the same way I used to pick at sunburn and scabs, feeling the creepy satisfaction of the dead parts of my body peeling away and leaving that pink baby skin, all soft and new and yet scarred at the same time.

  Each time someone entered the cafe, their presence was announced by the squeak or rap of shoes on that concrete and the shift in the air: everything in the cafe was brittle and there was nothing to absorb sound or sensation except our human bodies. Perhaps that added to the jittery excitement that built as we sipped our drinks, waiting to see who would arrive, and what they would be wearing. At nine o’clock, six of us were sitting together, ready.

  By the time we stepped outside, the night had sharpened into hard-edged shadows under a full moon and a clear sky. Emma hugged herself.

  ‘I should have brought a coat.’

  She wore the dress we had seen in the Dangerfield window. It was a sack, shapeless and khaki-coloured with massive pockets sewn on the outside and a ragged hem. Urban guerilla girl chic, the shop assistant called it. ‘You should wear bright stripy tights or knee socks with it,’ she said. ‘And platform shoes. Maybe even a bow in your hair, Alice in Wonderland style.’ That’s exactly what Emma had done. She looked crazy, dangerous, fun.

  Shannon was in pink. She played demure better than the rest of us. Pressed jeans, a relaxed pink T-shirt, darker pink cardigan. Her auburn hair brushed straight, thick and soft over her shoulders. A clean face with a hint of blusher. Bree had gone moody and Goth with black clothes and dark wine lipstick, and Ozlem was the opposite, all frothy in light-coloured flounces and ribbons. Lu had chosen the shiny disco look. I wore my usual: black skirt above the knees, tight fluffy blue jumper cropped at the waist, black leggings, low heels, hair in a bun.

  That was the only thing you might question about us. Other girls who went out in a group looked more alike. Arty types with arty types; girls who knew how to pick up wearing the uniform of short hip-hugging skirt, skyscraper heels, mascara and lipstick; anxious country girls in a giggly bunch trying too hard with their top buttons undone but their jeans too loose and complexions that sang of fresh air and cream. We were a mixed-up crowd, sometimes mistaken as a hens’ night or a victorious hockey club, out on one of those occasions when different kinds of girls come together to celebrate.

  ‘Did you hear Suze got into medicine?’ Shannon asked as we linked arms in the street. ‘They gave her a supplementary exam.’

  ‘I always knew she would.’

  In our final year of high school Suze and I sat beside each other in biology. I’d lean over and copy whatever she was writing because she understood it in a way no one else in class did, as if she were a witchdoctor reading entrails. On a diagram where I’d see blue and pink splotches and dense topographic maps, she would see the anterior vena cava, an aberrant squamous cell, the deep mysterious structure of living things. The shimmying fishtails under the microscope spoke to her in ways I couldn’t fathom, even with the study notes at my elbow. I knew she would end up studying the human body.

  Emma had said she’d like to try the Kale Bar, so we tripped along the footpath talking about our studies and jobs, parting like a flock of birds to allow other pedestrians through and re-forming to take up other conversations, other chatter. When we reached the roped entrance to Kale, the bouncer smiled as if we’d arrived solely to cheer him up.

  ‘Ladies, you are very welcome tonight,’ he said. ‘Too many men inside. You’ll balance out the room nicely.’ He unhooked the tatty velvet rope from its brass stand and waved us through, bowing as if he were a gentleman escort instead of a huge bull of a man who could move and punch at terrifying speed. ‘Here, on the house for you lovely ladies.’ He handed me a wad of drink tickets. Once we were inside I shared them out among the girls and we fanned out through the room carrying our fancy c
oloured cocktails.

  One wall of the bar had railway booths with sliding doors and benches either side of a fixed table. Heavy iron lamps, slung just above head height, gave out a dim yellow light. I slid onto a bench in one of the booths. Shannon moved toward the opposite bench but I asked her to sit beside me. Bree and Ozlem perched on stools at the bar, and Emma and Lu had chosen a round table on the far side of the room. In the gloom, the only way I could recognise our girls at the distant table was Lu’s silver sequinned top catching the faint light and rippling like a fish flank in dark water.

  You never know who will come up and talk to you at these places, or why. Sometimes they pick demure Shannon, sometimes they’re drawn to the party girls like Lu, sometimes a guy will even turn to me, maybe because I look somewhere in between, the underconfident one, the one who might be grateful.

  I couldn’t sense the necessary hard urgency in the first boys who came to chat us up. They were anxious, skittish, too conscious of their looks and unsure of what to talk about. I could read where things would go because I knew the opening lines so well, the angles they used, the uncomfortable way they leaned on the doorway and kicked restlessly at the baseboard of the booth. Shannon looked pointedly at her phone a couple of times until they took the hint and drifted away.

  The next two boys who sidled up to our booth loitered at the carriage door for a few seconds before offering to buy us drinks. We invited them to sit down. They edged in and shifted around until their bodies settled into an awkward stasis. The boy opposite me, tall and skinny, had twisted so far over his drink that he had to look at me with one eye, like a bird, and even then it was through a flop of clean private-school hair. His friend was jiggling his left leg so hard the whole booth shuddered along with it.

  At eleven, after we’d got rid of those two and had a drink with a lone boy who quickly lost interest in our conversation and wandered back to his friends at the bar, we decided to leave.

  ‘I parked in the station carpark,’ Shannon said. We hurried along the street, heels clattering on the empty footpath, shivering in the cold that had descended in a chill mist while we were inside. My new shoes were rubbing my small toe. I could feel moisture there, perhaps a broken blister or a smear of blood from the chafing, and I thought again of Suze passing the entrance exam for medicine.