by Jane Carter
‘Hey, are you okay?’ Patrick was beside her again.
She couldn’t speak. Just shook her head. He took her elbow and led her gently out of the tent to the fence onto the track, away from the crowds.
All Diana could manage was a deep breath.
‘It’s such a beautiful day for the races,’ said Patrick. ‘When do they start, I wonder? There’s no horses down at the barrier. I guess it will be a while yet.’ He rattled on comfortably, not waiting for an answer. ‘I think I can see your children.’
She nodded. For the life of her she couldn’t say anything for the ache inside. She scanned the crowds for her kids. ‘Whereabouts?’ she managed.
He pointed to where they were all standing next to a ditch, looking at something. ‘They’re over there. Piece of luck for my nephews. They don’t know anyone else here. They certainly seemed to take to each other quickly.’
Diana held on to the rail tightly. ‘Thank you. I thought there for a minute I was going to lose it.’
‘No problem. It must be a very hard time for you.’
‘It’s just, I suddenly thought of Charlie, wished I could have brought him. He would love all this. He never saw Australia like this, our party side. He loved parties.’
‘Hello, darling,’ said Stella as she approached. ‘Everything all right? Is the first race about to start?’
When Diana turned back, Patrick was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Milo, Sam and Alex came into the tent—hot, dirty and dishevelled—to get themselves another soft drink.
‘How are you boys getting on?’ Diana asked.
‘Great, Mum, we think we’ve found a snake.’
‘In the middle of winter?’ She regarded them sceptically. Sam looked a little sheepish. ‘I think they might be having you on, Milo.’
‘We saw something move, didn’t we?’
‘Well, don’t touch it,’ Diana called after them. ‘Are you coming to watch the race? It’s on in ten minutes.’
They all stopped and looked back. ‘We’ll be back, Mum. Can we put a bet on it?’
‘No.’ Diana laughed. ‘I can, or Tommo, if you see a horse you like. They’re all going round the parade ring now. Come on, let’s go and look.’
She joined her father at the railing, the two girls beside him. The boys all climbed on the fence to get a better look at the beautiful horses, walking round and round the enclosure before the first race.
Sienna pulled Diana’s arm to get her attention. ‘They all wear such pretty shirts.’
‘The jockeys all wear the horse owner’s colours,’ Diana pointed out to her children.
‘We used to have our own colours,’ said Tom. ‘Black with red diamonds, I think. Wonder where on earth they’ve got to?’
‘When did we have a horse? Must have been before I was born,’ Diana said.
‘You forget your grandfather was right into race horses. Always had one or two floating about.’
‘The field is not huge,’ she commented to her father.
‘I think they’re lucky to get five or six for each race. It used to be horses you brought out of your own paddocks, but they all come properly trained these days.’
The first race was being announced on the crackly loudspeaker.
‘Come on, we’ll line up behind Mal’s bookie.’ Diana looked at Milo. ‘Which horse do you like?’
‘The black one over there, number four.’ Milo pointed.
‘He’s got a good eye, that son of yours.’ Mal grinned and turned around as they all lined up behind him.
Diana scanned the page of the first race. ‘Number four belongs to Patrick Morley.’
‘Aye, he owns a string of them, trains them in Canberra. Loves his horses, does Patrick,’ Tom said.
‘Ah, speak of the devil, here’s Patrick now. He’s the expert,’ said Mal. ‘Who do you think is going to win?’ He saluted Patrick as he joined the group.
‘Hello, Mal. Which horse do you think is going to win, Milo?’
‘Number four.’
‘I’ll go with that one too, then.’ Patrick smiled. ‘Let’s go and stand at the finishing line to watch.’
They finished placing their bets and threaded their way through the crowd to the edge of the track, holding the girls’ hands to keep everyone together. Milo raced after Sam, and Mal was caught up with someone wanting to talk.
Diana was being pressed closer to Patrick by the crowd at her back. She was distracted by his nearness.
‘I think number four will win this time, Mummy.’ Milo was back, squeezing in front of her.
‘I think they’re having trouble getting our horse in the barrier,’ Saskia said from her observation post high on Tom’s shoulders.
‘Don’t worry, Sassy, sometimes the last one in the barrier is the first one out,’ Tom reassured her.
‘They’re off!’ she squealed over Tom’s head.
‘Anything could be happening over there, it’s such a muddle. I can’t see what’s going on,’ Mal said.
The loudspeaker cackled and the caller went into race mode, drowning out any reasonable attempt at conversation. The horses came thundering up the straight beside them and number four flashed past on the outside to win.
‘Go, Monty, go boy, go,’ Patrick was shouting.
‘We won, we won! Mum, we won the money.’
‘And here’s the ticket.’ The euphoria of winning was infectious. Laughing, Diana kissed the ticket, gave Milo a hug and then straightened to meet Patrick’s eyes full on. Her stomach went on a spiral. This was ridiculous. She tried to take a step back.
‘Give it to me,’ he said, ‘and I’ll take Milo over to collect our winnings. Good choice, Milo.’
Diana dragged her eyes from Patrick’s wide smile to Milo’s excited face and handed him the ticket. Then she watched the two walk off together.
* * *
‘This is beautiful.’ Stella reached for a piece of the flat bread and dipped it into the dish of purple beetroot in front of her. ‘I’ve only eaten beetroot in a salad or on a hamburger before. What else is in it?
‘Some vinegar and yoghurt probably,’ Rosie replied absently as she watched Mal and Diana on the other side of the tent, deep in conversation with Sean and his wife.
‘What’s this one?’ Stella pointed to a pale green mash beside it.
‘Baba Ganoush.’
‘What’s that? It’s absolutely delicious.’ She dipped her bread again.
‘Eggplant. Honestly, Mum, where have you been living?’ Rosie frowned at her.
‘Obviously not in the right places. I’ve never seen anything like this before.’
Stella settled back and regarded the scene in front of her with some satisfaction. She put out her hand and touched Rosie lightly on her arm. ‘I hope you’re trying to help Diana through this time. It’s been pretty rough. I know it’s difficult to understand just what she’s thinking sometimes; she always puts on a good front but she must be hurting so badly.’
They both watched the conversation happening across the tent. Mal was bending down, talking earnestly with Diana. Funny how things turned out. Diana and Mal had been really good friends a long time ago. A very long time ago.
‘Mmm,’ Rosie said, frowning. ‘It’s my observation that she’s always been particularly good at landing on her feet.’ She sighed. ‘Yes, I know, Mum. I wouldn’t wish what she’d gone through on anybody. It must be terrible. It’s just that she always has someone to pick up the pieces.’
‘That’s what families are for. I wouldn’t like to be standing in her shoes, all the same.’
‘You’re right. I wouldn’t, either.’
Patrick joined the group. ‘Hmm, Patrick, that’s interesting,’ Stella observed.
Down the end of the table, Tom put his head back and laughed. A deep belly laugh. It had been so long since she’d seen her husband laugh like that.
She saw Rosie join the group over the other side and surreptitiously give Diana a
quick hug. They smiled at each other. Stella blinked away the sudden moisture. They were good girls, her daughters. Rosie might come up with the occasional cutting comment, but she was soft as butter underneath.
She settled back happily with Saskia on her lap. Sienna was standing beside Tom with an arm draped around his neck. The children were so much more comfortable with them. At last here they were surrounded by their family, so different from last Sunday.
Surely they’d stay.
More food kept appearing: platters of wonderful little pastries, dolmades and lovely plump olives in a shiny, citrusy marinade, heaped in dishes. Mouth-watering, all of it.
Working out what was going on with her eldest daughter was not easy, despite Rosie’s assertions. Diana used to be transparent, but now … Stella wasn’t so sure. There was a lot she wasn’t saying about Charlie, about England. Patrick was just sitting back not saying much, but he seemed to be quite focused on Diana. Was she aware of his interest?
‘It’s good to sit down.’ Tom drew up a spare deck chair and sat himself next to Stella.
‘What do you think is happening over there?’
Tom sat back and closed his eyes. ‘Speculation never did us much good before. She ran off from Mal when he was besotted, and turned up with Charlie, who I’d never pick for her in a million years.’
‘I can’t help thinking, wouldn’t it be a good thing …’
‘Stop it, now, Stella. She’s not ready. You know there’s something not right.’
‘She just might be needing a good reason to stay. There’s a good reason, right there, in front of us.’
‘Let it be, Stell, let it be.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Diana heaved the second can of drench into the back of the ute, with a little grunt of satisfaction. She was pleased with her plan to leave Tom visiting Granny, who he hadn’t seen since Mother’s Day, and had gone to pick up the drench alone. She’d managed to pay for it with her credit card. It was turning out to be quite a battle to pay for things without her dad finding out. At least he wouldn’t know until she’d gone back to England.
That made her frown. Strange, she hadn’t thought about England and her life there for a couple of days. Gospel Oak felt like it was a million miles away. The plan to move London, together with Charlie, out of her head just might be working.
A large black Toyota pulled up next to her. The window slid silently down and Patrick leaned out. ‘Hello, Diana. Feel like a drink?’
She looked at him curiously. Two weeks had passed since the races. ‘I’m with Dad. He’s visiting Granny.’
‘Would he like to come, too? How about we meet at the club when you’re ready?’
‘I’ll have to ask him. I think he’ll want to go home. But thanks.’
‘Well, if you can manage it, just give me a ring. I can meet you at the club.’
Diana nodded and watched Patrick get out and walk into the Spelling Stock and Station Office.
Tom did want to go home but he insisted dropping Diana off at the club.
‘Patrick can bring you back, it’s hardly out of his way,’ he said. ‘And don’t you worry about the kids. They’ll be okay. You need some time off.’
So that left Diana walking slowly into the club by herself. She should have put up more resistance, but her curiosity was killing her. She looked round but she couldn’t see Patrick. There was actually only one club in town now; the RSL and the golf club had combined their resources and moved into the bowling club premises. There were quite a few people sitting quietly having a drink after work. Two men sat at the bar, and a couple of women were playing the pokies.
This hadn’t been Diana’s watering hole when she was young. She remembered drinking down at the bottom pub. Couldn’t be any more different, either, from the Horse’s Head, where she’d worked when she first arrived in London. Wood had been the predominant feature there. They’d gone for a wood finish here, too, but it was fake. Lots of timber-grained laminex for the panelling and the tables, plastic chairs and a garish carpet on the floor. Honour boards, with their gilt lettering, lined the walls. They dated back to the 1920s. Diana liked the large plate-glass windows that looked out over the bowling greens, always brown at this time of year. So there was lots of light and space, and it was warm inside. She sat at one of the empty tables.
In London, the bar where she’d worked had been made of old, dark oak. She’d loved to run her fingers over the raised grain. It could easily have been a couple of hundred years old, and then there was the lovely, malty smell of the place. The hunting prints on the walls. Spindly wooden chairs tucked into small wooden tables. Dark booths upholstered in green leather. The only windows were the tiny, multi-paned bow windows at the front. But the best thing had been the sense of family, of belonging, the good-hearted repartee with the regulars. The pub was their home and she’d been welcomed into it. But God, she’d missed her family so much at the start.
She’d met Charlie while pulling pints at the Horse’s Head. He used to come in and sit for hours, just watching her. Chatting her up. Go away, Charlie.
A frisson of awareness. Diana looked up to find Patrick heading towards her. It was a little unnerving, as she hadn’t noticed him coming in.
‘Hello, Diana. Where’s Tom?’
‘He wouldn’t stay.’
Patrick nodded. ‘What would you like to drink?’
‘A beer would be lovely. I don’t know my local beers anymore, you choose.’ She watched him go up to the bar and then noticed that she wasn’t the only one watching him, either. The three other women were also looking. He was good to look at, she had to admit.
Patrick returned with two midis of a pale lager, a good inch of head on top, and placed one on the table in front of her.
Diana dipped her finger in the froth and sucked it. ‘Mmm, different. I guess you know your beers backwards. What’s this one?’
‘One of the new craft beers. What do you think?’
‘A bit sweet and syrupy.’
Patrick laughed. ‘I’ll get you another.’
‘No, no, I want to finish it. It’s different. You’re interested in these new craft beers?’
‘Yes, a bit of a passion at the moment. It’s why I want to grow hops and then I can make my own.’
‘Ah, so that’s the reason for the hops.’
Diana studied his face, like she’d study a subject before attempting a sculpture. The bone structure was defined. Not perfect—his nose was slightly hooked to the left and the jaw too square. Strong, yes, but it was more than that. She was aware of the scent of power emanating from him. Funny, how you could tell. But then he had a nicely shaped mouth that liked smiling. The blue eyes lazily roved over her in return, unsettling her. She held his gaze steadily. Unfortunately the hairs prickling on her arm were another matter. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.
‘Are you wanting a meal?’ a young waitress asked.
Patrick waited, so it was obviously up to her to decide.
‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’ Diana nodded and then picked her phone out of her bag. ‘I’d better ring Mum.’
The girl was soon back with menu folders. ‘Our new chef started this week and I recommend the lamb shanks. They’re delicious.’
* * *
Dinner was excellent, and Diana made Patrick laugh recounting the story about Saskia locking herself in the toilet on the plane.
‘I can assure you it wasn’t very funny at the time.’ Diana looked down, rather astonished, at her empty plate, and leant back in her chair. ‘How did you find Lost Valley, do you mind me asking?’
‘No, I like the way you say what you think. You’re very direct.’
Her directness often got her into trouble. ‘So why does an Irish pub owner buy a farm in the Australian bush?’
He grinned. ‘I’m not Irish, I’m Australian.’
‘Sorry. You’ve got an Irish accent.’
Patrick threw back his head and laughed. ‘It’s a long story.’<
br />
‘I’d like to hear it.’
‘My grandparents emigrated from Ireland when my father was still a child.’
‘Where were they from?’
‘Galway. Days of the ten-pound ticket immigration. They were keen to get out of Europe after the war. I went back there for a couple of years after school, and for some reason the accent simply stuck. It’s a curse, maybe from my ancestors.’
‘I don’t know about that. I like it.’
The waitress returned to the table then, with two cups of coffee. She picked up their plates and was off again.
‘Okay,’ Diana said. ‘So why pubs?’
He shrugged. ‘My dad owned a pub, down in the Rocks in Sydney. I worked pubs in Ireland, then came back to work with my dad. I grew up with them. They’re great places, or can be.’
‘I know what you mean, I worked in a pub in London. My extended pub family kind of saved me when I first went over to England. I don’t know where I would have been without them.’
Patrick smiled that gentle smile again. There was no doubt about it, he made her very comfortable.
‘You know, I think everyone should have a stint working behind the bar.’
‘Why?’ Patrick asked.
‘First of all, you get to see what drunks really look like.’ She bit her lip, wondering if she should have said that. But Patrick only laughed.
‘But the best thing,’ Diana went on, ‘is that you’re there to listen. You’re the dumping ground for people’s dreams, their failures, their passions.’ She glanced at Patrick uncertainly and was reassured by what she saw. ‘It’s important, somehow. And what gets said stays behind the bar.’
‘I know exactly what you mean.’
She decided to change the subject. ‘So then what?’
‘When my dad died, Sean and I took over. It was a plus for me that Australians love their liquor. But a pub doesn’t leave you much time for a personal life. Eventually I arrived at a time in my life where I needed,’ he paused, ‘something else. It all started with the horses. I bought into a couple and found they spent more time off the track than on it. I thought it would be good to have somewhere to spell them, so I looked around for some land. When I found Lost Valley, it was perfect. So here I am.’