Australian Dreams. Fiona McCallum

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      Tears prickled behind Claire’s eyes. Her throat was jammed and her stomach a ball of knotted dread.

      ‘Look, I’d better go,’ she croaked. ‘Thanks for your help.’

      ‘No worries, cheers then. And remember, bring your daughter up sometime.’

      Claire hung up without another word, sat down on the couch and pulled a cushion to her. The poor little horse. What he must have gone through. She had one last phone call but didn’t want to make it, didn’t want to know any more. What would she tell Jack? Could bad news send him back into a coma?

      With trembling fingers, Claire thumbed through the phone book. She stared at the entry: ‘Tom Bailey – pick up all unwanted horses anywhere, anytime’. No different from the ads for antique furniture or bric-a-brac.

      Claire pressed each number slowly and waited, holding her breath, while the phone connected and started to ring. She let it ring three times, four times… There, she’d tried. She was about to hang up when it was answered.

      ‘Tom Bailey.’ He sounded almost cheery. Claire felt the anger welling up inside her.

      ‘Yes, hello.’

      ‘Got an unwanted horse for me, luv?’

      ‘Uh, no… Actually I’m looking for one you picked up three days ago from Todd Newman’s.’

      ‘Hey lady, if you sent the wrong horse it’s got nothing to do with me – I only take what’s handed to me.’

      Claire swallowed hard, building up the courage to say the words. ‘You took the right horse – it was someone else’s mistake.’

      ‘Well nothing to do with me,’ he said, sounding relieved. ‘Anyway, we’re way too efficient for people to go changing their minds.’

      ‘Do you remember where he went? Which, uh, facility?’

      ‘There’s only one, love: Packers, just outside Williamstown. But you’d be wasting your time. If he went three days ago he’ll be long gone – in cans on his way to a supermarket by now.’

      ‘Right, okay, thanks for your help.’

      ‘Bloody women,’ he muttered before hanging up.

      Claire fought the urge to call him back and give him a piece of her mind. She looked around her friend’s cluttered home, searching for some other way to vent her anger and frustration. But nothing would bring Paycheque back. She’d have to find a way to come clean to her father.

      Claire buried her head in her hands and began to weep – for Paycheque, for Keith, her mother, her father. But after a few moments, with a force she didn’t know she had, she stopped. She couldn’t drown in self-pity now. No, she had to do something, get her mind off it. But the distraction that had been there all the other times was gone – her job, her never-ending list of emails.

      Maybe Bernadette had been right – maybe she had been using the corporate world as a smokescreen, as one big fat excuse for everything that had gone wrong – and right – in her life. What had she been doing for the past twelve years? What had she achieved, other than a healthier bank balance and an only slightly smaller mortgage? Claire’s tears dried.

      At least Bernadette brought joy to people’s lives – she’d seen customers arrive at the shop, daunted by the work ahead, only to leave brimming with excitement at improving their surroundings. Bernadette genuinely made a difference, with advice that was about so much more than simply gardening. So what did she have that Claire lacked, apart from a green thumb?

      Passion. Bernadette had passion. Like she’d said only recently, she felt blessed that she could earn money doing what she loved. Claire looked around at the mishmash of her friend’s décor – mostly from op shops. Claire had lived the peasant life – as a kid with her parents – and there was no way she could go back to that.

      From somewhere in the depths of her memory she heard the big Texan drawl of Dr Phil. ‘And how’s it working for you?’ Even from the few shows she’d seen over the years, Claire knew there was no pulling the wool over Dr Phil – he was like the air, nowhere but everywhere. She squirmed inside. Her life had taken less than a year to unravel, and she’d have to face up to a few things if she was going to stop the fraying. Claire wasn’t yet sure what she had to do, but wondered if just knowing was a start.

       Chapter Nine

      Claire felt less confined in her compact Corolla than Bernadette’s lounge room. Sitting behind the wheel she felt more in control. She paused at the end of the driveway with the motor running. She had a choice: left out towards her father’s farm at Mount Pleasant, or right towards the regional township of Angaston.

      Three days too late. If only she hadn’t been so damn stubborn, had taken time off when Derek had suggested it. Bloody Jack – if he’d woken a few days earlier… Claire banged her hand on the steering wheel. There’d be other horses to get her father back on track – there had to be. There was nothing more she could do. He’d have to believe her.

      But in the back of Claire’s mind she wondered how – when she didn’t believe it herself, when she felt so desolate, devoid of hope. It’s only a horse, she told herself, and began saying it over and over in her head. It didn’t help, and she gave up. She couldn’t face the farm knowing she’d failed Paycheque, failed her father.

      ‘Retail therapy,’ she muttered, putting her right indicator on, then drove carefully out onto the open highway.

      Claire had a plan: she’d go shopping in the quaint old town of Tanunda instead of the larger Angaston, buy Bernadette a thankyou gift and some gourmet food for lunch. Then they’d head to the hospital to see Jack. She couldn’t wait to see him. Then she could get on with her life, get back to normal – well her new jobless normal anyway. And she’d forget about Paycheque; enough experts had said he wasn’t worth pursuing anyway. Yes, it was probably all for the best. It would save Jack the humiliation and money. There was probably a better opportunity just around the corner. Claire smiled wryly; she was beginning to think like Bernadette. Maybe the redundancy wasn’t all bad after all. Maybe a year off was a good idea.

      Claire realised just as the big green sign whizzed past that she’d missed the turn-off to Tanunda. Oh well, she’d take the longer way, via Williamstown. She hadn’t been that way for years and it was, after all, the season for change. Claire turned up the radio and began singing along to an ABBA song, hair flying about in the wind through the partially open window.

      She was almost past when she noticed the sign with ‘PACKERS PTY LTD ABATTOIR’ in large plain black letters. She’d completely forgotten it was on this road. Claire checked her rear vision mirror and pulled onto the gravel edge of the road. With the car idling, she frowned and began tapping nervously on the steering wheel. She turned off the key and wound her window down for more air.

      The only sounds were squawking crows and the occasional whoosh of a passing car. When a gust of wind brought the faint aroma of death through her window, Claire wrinkled her nose and almost gagged – the unmistakeable sourness of fresh draining blood.

      She started the car again. It’s a business just like any other, she told herself, putting the car in gear. She eased forward slowly along the gravel, but didn’t pull out onto the bitumen, even СКАЧАТЬ