Australian Dreams. Fiona McCallum

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      Claire lay in bed staring into the blackness above, wide awake. But it wasn’t her father’s waking that kept her mind ticking over, nor thoughts of the day’s events, but Paycheque.

      The time was coming when she’d have to tell Jack what she’d done. She couldn’t check on the horse and just leave it at that. Not now. No, she had to get him back, give her father something real to come back for. But what if someone had discovered his potential, or perhaps worse, realised his sentimental value? She couldn’t afford to pay big bucks for him, but couldn’t afford not to. For all she knew she might even be too late. If things had gone as badly at Morphettville as Derek had said, he might have already been sent to the knackers. God, she couldn’t bear to think about that.

      As the grey light of the new day began to peep under the blind, Claire decided she’d start by ringing Al Jacobs. And with that thought, she finally drifted off.

       Chapter Eight

      Claire woke to the sound of water rushing through pipes and beating on the bathroom wall next door. She smiled at Bernadette’s off-key rendition of ‘It Must Be Love’. She lay there until she heard her friend in the kitchen, not wanting to upset her morning ritual and risk her being late opening the shop.

      When she thought about the day before, a shiver ran the length of her spine. Twelve months out of work. What if she’d forgotten everything she knew by then?

      Claire reached for the folded piece of paper from the bedside cupboard. There it was in black and white: she was having a year off. End of story. Nothing to worry about for ages. She read the note twice more to further convince herself. Anyway, for the next two weeks she was really on holidays – well that’s what she’d keep telling herself. And of course her father.

      Claire climbed out of bed and dragged on the worn blue robe that always hung on the back of the guest room door. She breathed in its comforting fresh floral scent. They used the same laundry products – regularly comparing notes on such things – but somehow Bernadette’s linen always smelled sweeter, fresher. She pulled on long purple socks and padded out to the kitchen where Bernie was pouring milk into two mugs.

      ‘Ah, there you are. Good morning,’ Bernadette said.

      ‘Morning.’

      ‘Here you go,’ she said, passing Claire one of the mugs.

      ‘Thanks.’ Claire took a deep whiff of the bitter, earthy aroma of instant coffee, psyching herself up before taking a sip.

      ‘Toast?’

      ‘Yes, thanks.’

      ‘So, other than going down to see Jack, what are your plans for the day?’

      ‘Well I’m going to wait until after ten when they think the doctor will have finished his rounds. Are you at the shop?’

      ‘Only until noon. I couldn’t find anyone else to cover for me until then – I tried before you arrived yesterday. Otherwise I would have liked to go with you to see Jack.’

      ‘Well I can hold off a few hours – it’s been two months, another few hours won’t matter. Bill and Daphne will most likely be there anyway. No doubt she’ll be frantically stitching the jumper together now she knows he’ll be able to wear it soon.’