Paycheque

by Fiona McCallum

  ‘Of course, quite right,’ Jack said, adopting a formal tone. They both laughed.

  Suddenly feeling sentimental, Claire put her hand over her father’s. ‘Dad, I was worried sick. I’m so glad you’re okay.’

  ‘I know – gave myself a bit of a fright, too. Truth be told, if I hadn’t heard your voice so much I might have just given up,’ he said, staring into his cup.

  ‘So you heard me?’

  ‘Of course – every last word. Bill was here reading the paper, wasn’t he? I had no idea what that bloody clicking was until Daphne showed me the jumper. It’s really quite something,’ he said, looking down his front.

  Claire blushed, and drained her cup in an attempt to hide it.

  ‘Yes, and so many times I just wanted to tell you all to just bloody well shut up.’ He laughed. ‘Especially when you took to singing.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ Claire said, dipping her head. ‘But I’d run out of things to tell you, and then I read about this Dr Burrows and his theories – blame him!’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you did because I think it worked. Though next time, read a book instead of singing. There’s a good girl.’

  Claire slapped his arm. ‘There’d better not be a next time.’

  Jack put down his empty cup. ‘So,’ he said, wringing his hands, ‘when can I get out of here?’

  ‘Whenever you’re ready and the doctor gives the nod. Are you getting about okay?’

  ‘Yep, walked all the way down to the nurse’s station and back yesterday. And lucky I did – they were making their picks for the Caulfield Cup. Needed to be set right.’

  Claire was relieved to hear him mention the horses. He hadn’t said anything about them since waking and asking after Paycheque. At least now she could stop worrying about whether she’d done the wrong thing finding the horse.

  ‘Speaking of which,’ he continued, ‘how is the little lad?’

  Claire’s confused look was genuine. ‘Who?’

  ‘Paycheque, of course.’

  ‘Er, he’s good.’ Claire blushed slightly and looked away.

  ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s fine. Eating enough for two like he always did. He may be a little lonely on his own, but he’s fine.’

  ‘Lonely? What about the others?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘What, Claire?’

  ‘I sold them,’ she blurted. ‘All of them. Even Paycheque.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘I’m really sorry. I didn’t see what else I could do… I didn’t know if you were going to wake up, and I had so much to do at work, and I just couldn’t take care of them as well. It was all too much. But I acted too hastily. I know that now. I should have…’

  ‘No point worrying about “should haves”. It’s okay, Claire, I’m sure you thought you were doing the right thing at the time.’

  ‘But at least I got Paycheque back.’

  ‘Well, that’s the main thing. If I’m honest, he was the only really serious bet anyway. So who ended up with him then – Mark Leonard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jason Llewelyn?’

  ‘No, no one you know.’

  ‘Oh, I was sure he’d have been snapped up by one of the establishment – got a lot of potential for a little horse. Probably couldn’t see past his size, idiots. Yes, that would be it,’ he mused.

  Claire was silently inspecting her nails, unable to look her father in the eye.

  ‘Claire, what else aren’t you telling me? And don’t give me that “nothing” crap again. I want the full version and I want it now, in all its gruesome detail, if that’s the way it is.’

  ‘Okay,’ Claire sighed, defeated. She proceeded to tell Jack the whole story, including how Derek had seen the horse at Morphettville. She watched her father redden with anger, and was relieved at no longer having to keep the secret. When she spoke of how Paycheque had ended up at the abattoir and what a close call it had been, Jack McIntyre’s chin took on a determined jut and his eyes a steely glint that Claire knew was a signal of his desire to get even.

  But she was unconcerned. Jack had never been confrontational or violent. He chose to hit back in an even more powerful way – by beating people at their own game, and usually as the underdog. Paycheque would be a success. She had no doubt now that Jack was back in charge. It might take a year, maybe more, but that little horse would return to Morphettville and not only pass his barrier trial, but also reign victorious over every trainer who’d dismissed him.

  ‘I’m going to need your help, Claire – I’m not as nimble as I used to be.’

  Claire dipped her head again.

  ‘What? What else aren’t you telling me?’

  Claire took a deep breath. ‘That’s the other thing. I am, was… I was made redundant. I’ve got all the time in the world at the moment,’ she said with a grim smile.

  ‘Well of course I’m sorry about you losing you job, but I can’t help being happy to have you around full-time. Those bastards didn’t appreciate you anyway. Don’t worry, we’ll be a success in no time and you won’t need their lousy job.’

  The phrases ‘famous last words’ and ‘if only’ ran through Claire’s head. As far as she knew, Jack McIntyre had only ever made enough to keep one step ahead of the bank – just. Oh well, she had a year to see how things panned out. Though the lows in the horseracing game tended to last a lot longer – impatience was a dangerous trait in a trainer.

  ‘Well, come on Claire Bear. Get me out of here,’ Jack suddenly said, throwing the covers back and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes, now. We’ve got work to do. Go and find a doctor to give me permission to leave, will you?’

  ‘As long as you’re okay,’ Claire said, eyeing him warily.

  ‘Absolutely. Now off you go,’ he said, making shooing gestures at her.

  When they got back to him, Jack McIntyre was already dressed and sitting back on the bed, pulling on his R.M. Williams dress boots.

  The doctor was almost as surprised as Claire. Only two days before they’d had to cajole him into getting out of bed for some exercise.

  ‘Hi doc. Here to give me the all-clear, I hope.’ He beamed.

  ‘Doesn’t look like I have a choice.’ He laughed. ‘I do have one condition, though.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘You call me the instant anything untoward occurs – the slightest twinge, dizziness, anything at all.’ He looked from Jack to Claire and back again. ‘Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ Claire and Jack said in unison. They laughed.

  ‘Well then, if you just sign this discharge form you can be on your way.’

  Their forty-minute journey back up into the Adelaide Hills was made mostly in silence, Jack staring intently out the window, as if seeing everything they passed for the first time. Claire was still a little dazed by the apparent speed at which he’d come back to health.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jack was like a teenager home from school for the holidays. He was barely in the house long enough to appear polite and offer thanks for all the work Claire and Bernadette had put in. Claire, wary of tiring him out, insisted they sit for a cup of tea before heading out to see Paycheque.

  Jack was like a tightly-wound spring: gulping his tea, then sitting with eyes darting about, fingers fidgeting, while he waited for Claire to finish. After ten minutes, Claire gave up stalling and pushed her cup aside. Jack leapt up from the table with the energy of a man half his age and was at the back door pulling his boots on before Claire was halfway across the kitchen.

  Claire followed as he trooped along the worn track between the old pepper trees, past the almond beside the disused chook shed. Every now and then he slowed, struggling in the sand that had come to the surface through years of journeys back and forth to rug, feed and exercise horses. From behind, Claire noticed his shoulders taking on a different shape as he went. He was like a s
nake shedding its skin – shrugging off the tag of convalescing patient and becoming a proud horse-trainer once again.

  He seemed to pause for a beat when he rounded the abandoned dog compound and saw his uptight, undersized racehorse standing in the yard like another overwound spring. There was instant recognition: the horse neighed and Jack called, ‘There you are,’ in a voice that threatened to crack.

  Claire’s throat tightened. She stopped, stayed back a few steps so as not to intrude. The reunion was like something out of The Horse Whisperer.

  ‘G’day there,’ he said, leaning on the rail and putting a hand out for Paycheque to sniff.

  Claire moved to the railing and leant on it.

  ‘Bit of a butterball, don’t you think?’ Jack said, scratching the horse behind the ears.

  Annoyed at the reprimand, Claire scowled under her Akubra and behind her sunglasses.

  ‘Claire, he’s meant to be a sleek racehorse, not a heavy hunter.’ Jack laughed.

  ‘I decided he needed some pampering after his ordeal,’ Claire shot back. Nonetheless, she coloured with shame; Jack was right, she had completely forgotten he was meant to be smooth and lean.

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to get you out of here and into some exercise,’ Jack said, slapping the horse on the neck.

  Claire relaxed, telling herself to lighten up, her father had always teased her in this manner. She thought she’d developed a thicker skin being a number on someone’s payroll.

  ‘Sorry I let you down, little mate,’ Jack said quietly. He cleared his throat. ‘Right, tea time. Come on, we’ll start fresh in the morning.’

  Jack strode off towards the house. Claire followed silently, already starting to formulate a fitness regime for the horse in her mind.

  ‘That was the best meal I’ve ever had,’ Jack McIntyre declared as he laid his knife and fork down on his plate later that same evening. Claire smiled.

  ‘Thanks Dad,’ she said, getting up and clearing the plates. ‘Simple fare for simple folk,’ she added, and was instantly struck by how like her late mother she sounded.

  Jack had noticed it, too. His face clouded for a split second before opening up again. ‘Thank God for home-cooked meals. The food in that place was very, um…’

  ‘Healthy!’ they cried in unison, and erupted into laughter.

  It was a longstanding family joke. Jack’s mother – Claire’s Grandma Betty – had been a boiled cabbage and burned beef sort of cook. She had never liked cooking, and in almost twenty years of weekly dinners until her instalment into an aged care facility, she had rarely deviated from roast beef. In its shrivelled state it was barely recognisable, but while a variety of euphemisms were used to heartily describe the meal, there was always respect for the tradition and family values it represented.

  ‘You could teach those hospital cooks a thing or two. I’m sorry, but roast pork just isn’t the same without crackling.’

  ‘No. It’d probably be soggy anyway by the time they got all those meals out.’

  ‘Don’t get me started on soggy,’ he said, rolling his eyes.

  Suddenly his face clouded again and he looked down at the table cloth under his hands. It was one of the two her mother had made when things had been tough the first time around. He fingered a small hole gently.

  When she couldn’t afford a new cloth, Grace McIntyre had shortened all the curtains in the house to be level with the window sills, and then sewn the scraps together. She had used the fabric, interspersed with budget calico, to create a log-cabin style patchwork. She had been proud of her creations, and rightly so – everyone who visited marvelled at their beauty and intricacy. But no one knew the origins or reasons – Grace McIntyre had her pride.

  They’d never hidden from Claire the fact that money was tight, including the two times the banks were threatening to foreclose: when she was nine and again when she was fifteen. One of the unique things about being an only child was that adults included you in conversations you probably wouldn’t be privy to if you had a sibling to remind them you really were still just a kid. But it also meant she couldn’t remain blissfully unaware, like other children, when adults had tough times to deal with.

  She had understood enough to be worried, but not enough to be able to do anything about it. When it mattered, her parents pretended she was just an ordinary child and chose not to ask her opinion. And both times she’d had a solution to get them out of debt.

  When she was nine it was a lemonade stand at the gate; when she was fifteen it was going off and becoming an apprentice jockey. But neither idea had even been aired; it was as if they could read her mind – or someone else could. First the lemon tree died for no apparent reason, and then she broke her arm two weeks before her sixteenth birthday, when she had planned to announce her intention to leave school. She hadn’t given much credence to coincidence either time – she’d secretly been thankful for being saved.

  Claire continued to stare at Jack’s fingers. She knew it was corny, but it was as though the table cloths were the very fabric that had held everything together. Collectively they had been witness to every event – significant and insignificant, happy and sad – in the McIntyre household. While they existed she was always able to convince herself everything would be okay.

  ‘Ice-cream?’ Claire asked, dragging herself away from her sadness and gathering the dishes.

  ‘No thanks, not getting enough exercise,’ Jack said, patting a stomach that looked flatter than those of most men half his age. ‘But I could murder a cup of tea.’

  ‘Done,’ Claire said.

  ‘Speaking of porky…’

  Claire stiffened at the sink. Since Keith’s death and everything else that had been happening, she was thinner than she’d ever been. Her reaction was merely another legacy of a life spent mainly with adults – listening first to her mother, and then to her friends’ tales of constant dieting and calorie-counting. She’d been on guard for as long as she could remember.

  ‘…I’m going to need you to start riding Paycheque – little lard arse.’

  ‘Oh! But it’s, I…’

  ‘I’ve been kidding myself. I’m too old for serious riding.’

  God, Claire thought, he sounds almost cheerful. She’d spent years hinting he was getting too long in the tooth and always got the brush-off. Now that he was going quietly she wasn’t sure how she felt. The dynamics had all changed. She blinked, and when she looked back at her father it was like he’d aged twenty years. He was an old man. She’d always managed to keep him young in her mind.

  ‘But I’m…’ What she wanted to say was, I’m too old for this shit, which was laughable, of course, considering she was nearly half his age.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll all come back to you – it hasn’t been that long.’

  That night, Claire lay in bed wondering how her first ride of Paycheque would go.

  The next morning, Claire stretched and lay listening for a few minutes to the sounds of activity coming from the kitchen. She smiled. Old habits die hard, but some never die at all.

  Jack had resumed his ritual of coffee and porridge followed by soft-poached eggs. That was what it sounded like, anyway. Claire dragged her legs out of bed, hoping tradition had prevailed.

  As a rule, two cups of coffee had served as breakfast for Claire, but she was now looking forward to fuelling up in preparation for dealing with Paycheque and any trouble he might give her.

  ‘Ah, there you are. I’ve made brekky.’ The unspoken words, ‘just like the old days’, hung in the air. ‘Might need your strength later,’ he added with a wink.

  ‘I’d love some breakfast, thanks, but I don’t think we have to worry about Paycheque – he’s been a dream since he’s been back. Even when we loaded him.’ Claire added sugar to her coffee.

  ‘Well, like I always say…’

  ‘Expect the unexpected,’ Claire said, finishing the sentence for him.

  ‘Exactly. Now, quickly, eat your porridge before your eggs go ha
rd.

  Claire sat at the table spooning the gluggy mixture into her mouth while Jack moved expertly around the kitchen. She was still surprised to find herself really enjoying sharing the house with him.

  I could get used to this, she thought, and began tucking into eggs, fried mushrooms and toast. She looked across at her father and was pleased to see him heartily eating also – he was definitely getting closer to being his old self.

  ‘Damn good, if I do say so myself,’ Jack said, pushing his plate away and then his chair back from the table. ‘Ready to get to it?’

  ‘You go. I’m just going to put a few things away here and then I’ll be over.’

  ‘I’ll give him a decent brush while I wait for you.’

  ‘I won’t be long – not going to bother with the dishes.’

  A couple of minutes later, Claire made her way over to the stables. She paused at the empty dog compound and, hidden by the rusty fencing, stood to observe her father for a few moments. He was tying the horse to the rail. Claire smiled. He looked every bit the expert horseman he’d always been, and almost as nimble, she thought, as he bent down to retrieve a brush from the canvas grooming bag by the post.

  Suddenly the horse reared up, pulled back hard against its rope, and then broke free. In two strides Paycheque was at the far side of the outer yard, with his chest hard against the solid timber rail, darting from side to side looking for an escape route. The frayed remains of the lead-rope swayed under his chin.

  ‘Hey, hey. There, there. You’re okay,’ Jack called in a soothing tone. But he made no move towards the horse, he had to wait for the creature’s fight or flight instinct to subside.

  ‘What happened?’ Claire asked, now at the rail beside her father. Paycheque had his back to them a few metres away. His head, with eyes flashing and nostrils flared, was turned towards them – keeping an eye on the enemy. He was quivering from his mane to his hooves, sweat already breaking out on his sleek neck. His ears were back, twitching and rotating towards every sound, every movement.